The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [81]
“He was such a gentle man. And always ready to help out a friend. Give you the shirt off his back.” Victoria Shaw’s neighbor was excited to be talking to a real live New York reporter (aka Max Darling to his intimates). “Seemed happy all the time. Until those publishers stopped buying his books. That’s when he stopped smiling. One day Bryan was fine, the next he looked like death. And old. Overnight, almost.” The voice dipped confidentially. “It was cancer. Came on him about six months after his last book didn’t sell.” Her voice had dropped so low that Max could scarcely hear her. “When people get real upset, sometimes that’s when they get cancer. And they say whether you ever get well depends a lot on how hard you fight.”
At least a half-dozen florists’ bouquets were scattered around Fleur Calloway’s suite. Annie admired the lovely flowers as she waited beside the door. Obviously, Fleur was an author still beloved of her fans even though she had no new books to offer. Annie had time to study the bouquets in detail, time enough to observe every nuance of this suite’s mural, a languid lagoon scene: the dark snout of an alligator barely discernible in the murky water, a white ibis with bright red bill and legs, a beautifully plumed Louisiana heron—the bird Audubon called the Lady of the Waters—a diamond-back terrapin, and a sleek brown river otter. Time enough to wonder whether the author had changed her mind. Annie would understand. The offer had surprised her. Annie was reaching for the doorknob when Fleur came out of the bedroom, a faded, tattered cloth book in one hand, a framed portrait in the other. She held out the picture. Annie took it and looked into a smiling face. Such a young, unlined, yet-to-be-marked-by-time face, wide-set cheerful brown eyes, rosy cheeks, thick chestnut hair. Dead-and-gone Jaime Calloway smiled out of the frame. “It was made the week before we left for England.” Fleur’s voice was brittle.
Annie knew she wrestled with long-unanswered, long-unanswerable laments, the if-onlys that always bedevil survivors. If only Fleur had turned down the trip … If only she had responded to Neil, absorbed his desire … If only she had been able to find Jaime in time …
“She looks very nice,” Annie said lamely as she returned the picture. But what could she say that would be better? Nothing that she offered could ease a mother’s grief.
Fleur wasn’t listening. The author smoothed the worn cover of the book. “I’ve never shared this with anyone. But I will now.” She handed it to Annie, then turned away, but not before Annie saw her eyes, eyes burning with unquenched, unquenchable hatred. Her head was bent, her back rigid, her words oddly muffled. “When you finish with it, you may leave it at the desk for me.”
Annie blinked back tears as she turned to go.
Just a tiny discrepancy. Derek Davis began college in 1982, received his bachelor’s degree in 1987. It wasn’t too unusual for students to take five years to complete an undergraduate course. Perhaps a change in majors. Perhaps a five-year program. Max checked his fact sheet. An English major. So, not a five-year program. It was a tiny blip in what looked to be an altogether unremarkable, to this point, chronology. Max marked down a question. From tiny blips, enormously interesting personal facts could emerge.
• • •
Laurel was firm. “Of course, I understand your reticence, Miss Edwards. But certain accusations were made about Ms. Wright’s conduct as an agent, and it would be a shame if she missed receiving the Outstanding Agent Award of the Year on the basis of incorrect information….”
Annie felt like the smile on her face was pasted there as she darted from one panel to another, making sure the panel ists gathered and got underway. She moved with a brisk efficiency