The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [82]
When the last panels of the morning were successfully underway—The Orient Express and Other Journeys with Agatha; Society Laid Bare by Christie, from the 1920s to the 1960s; Dorothy L. Sayers and Lord Peter—she would feel free to steal away and read the last entries in Jaime’s diary.
“Doctors Berry, Aarons, and Wallis.”
Max was brisk. “Federal Aqua Shield Health and Independent Physicians’ Reporting Service here. Agent Terence Hopgood from Washington, D.C.” It would certainly make his life more difficult if those number-calling machines came into wide circulation. As of now, he could assert that his call was originating anywhere from Bangor, Maine, to Canberra, Australia.
“Yes, Mr. Hopgood?”
“Let me see here. Ah yes. I see from our records that Bryan Shaw was a patient of Dr. Wallis’s. We’re checking on the length of some of these hospital stays. A question of whether they were in excess of Medicare guidelines.” Max picked up his coffee cup, realized it was empty, and poked his secretary’s buzzer.
“Please hold for just a moment, Mr. Hopgood. I’ll connect you with our hospital administrator, Mrs. Beverly.”
• • •
With the wind fresh on her face, Annie walked until the hotel was long out of sight. She settled on a huge log, driftwood from far away, and pulled Jaime’s diary from her purse.
The late morning sun bathed her in warmth but couldn’t dispel the cold horror evoked by the brief entries:
SEPTEMBER 19—If I weren’t so stupid, Neil wouldn’t hurt me. I know I’m not good enough for him. I’m so big …
SEPTEMBER 24—I tried to call Mother, but he found me at the phone. I hurt all over. I want to talk to Mother.
OCTOBER 3—I can’t go to the doctor. He’ll want to know how I got these bruises. I think my wrist is broken.
OCTOBER 9—Oh, God, I must be pregnant. I must be.
OCTOBER 10—He laughed when I asked if he would marry me.
OCTOBER 17—The moonlight is shining on the water. It doesn’t look so far down. I wonder what it will feel like when I jump? They say water is like concrete when it is so far away. Then it will all be over.
That was the last entry. There was an envelope tucked in the back of the diary. The direction on it was written in an almost indecipherable scrawl: Please give this to my mother.
Annie smoothed the crumpled envelope. She didn’t open it.
She couldn’t.
Dear God, if ever there was motive for murder …
AGATHA CHRISTIE TITLE CLUE
Mr. Shaitana thumbed his nose,
And his life drew to a close.
Annie, maybe you shouldn’t try to talk to those people.” Henny’s expressive face was worried. “I’ll do it.”
Annie was startled. “Why ever not?”
Henny looked around, but they stood in a deserted area between Meeting Rooms A and B. Behind the closed doors came the hum of low conversation punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter. The eleven o’clock panels were still in session.
The greatest mystery reader on the island avoided her eyes. “The conference. You’ve got so much to see to. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to—”
“Henny.”
Her favorite customer reluctantly met her inquiring gaze. “It’s not safe. Listen,” she pulled Annie behind a pillar and said grimly, “you run a wonderful bookstore. You are intelligent, organized, determined—and just about as subtle as Brother Verber in Malice in Maggody.”
Annie’s eyebrows rose.
“Don’t take it personally,” Henny said quickly. “I wasn’t worried when you agreed to talk to the suspects, to see if you could pick up on unsavory aspects of Bledsoe’s past. But that was before the murder. We were just talking a broken window and a smashed vase. This murder changes everything. Nobody with any brains is going to believe that you’re really trying to save Christie’s reputation. They’re going to think—especially the murderer—that you’re investigating, not just trying to derail Bledsoe’s attack on Agatha. And you may blunder along—”
“Blunder?” Annie interjected icily.
“—and scare