The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [83]
“Henny, slow down. All I’m doing is talking to people—in broad daylight, in safe places. What worries me more is our own wonderful Circuit Solicitor Brice Willard Posey, God’s gift to the bar of South Carolina Did you know he—”
“I know, I know. As if that little old lady could possibly bash anyone’s head in. Although it amazes me someone hasn’t bashed her sometime in the last seventy years!” Henny tossed her head defiantly.
“Why, Henny!” Annie admonished.
The bookstore’s best customer did look embarrassed, her cheeks reddening. “Well, I swear, Annie, she just thinks she knows everything!”
Annie thought of Agatha, her gorgeous bookstore feline, and Agatha’s fury and heartbreak when a new kitten, Dorothy L., temporarily invaded Death on Demand. Oh, dear. Henny was jealous of Lady Gwendolyn’s pre-eminence as a mystery authority.
“But Posey’s having second thoughts, painful as that is for him,” Henny said dryly. “I mean, he really doesn’t like Lady Gwendolyn, but he can’t ignore Stone’s tennis shoes.”
Annie stared at her blankly.
The murdered man’s tennis shoes?
Annie’s obvious lack of comprehension vaulted Henny back into a good humor.
“A competent investigator always has contacts within the police infrastructure,” she said complacently.
“C’mon, Henny,” Annie said briefly. “Give.”
Henny’s voice dropped conspiratorially, though, of course, every syllable was perfectly enunciated. “In his room was a pair of tennis shoes, and the bottoms of those tennis shoes have bits of gravel and tar from the roof of the Palmetto House.” Henny’s dark eyes glittered with intelligence. She savored the moment of revelation. “What does that tell us?”
Annie did not go to the head of the class.
Henny was as confident as Lord Peter Wimsey building a case. “The vase that missed Bledsoe—just barely missea him—was pushed from the roof parapet. What are the odds, Annie, that Stone was on the roof at the wrong time for the person who knocked that vase down? And what are the odds Stone tried a spot of blackmail?”
It was a familiar story to any mystery reader. The murder necessitated by an injudicious use of too much knowledge. A Caribbean Mystery popped immediately into Annie’s mind. What would the person who shoved the vase do if Stone threatened to go to the police? “I saw you …”
When threatened, a killer reacted swiftly, with deadly finality.
Annie saw her own unease mirrored in Henny’s eyes.
Henny said slowly, with no histrionics, “Annie, I’ve got a feeling something bad’s going to happen.” She glared defiantly at Annie. Henny was a pragmatist, not given to indulging in feelings.
And neither was Annie. But darned if she didn’t have a tiny prickle down her spine. However, she had no intention of admitting it. After all, she wasn’t a beleaguered Caroline Llewellyn heroine. Of course, that accomplished author’s protagonists would always be well advised to think twice before plunging into peril.
The prospect of lurking danger seemed absurd in the hotel’s elegantly appointed dining room. The curtains were dramatically draped from shiny gilt poles, replicas of those from the Greek Revival period. The deeply beveled mauve gray walls afforded a wonderful setting for the salmon pink hangings.
The dining room was a fit setting, too, for Margo Wright’s dramatic beauty. Beneath the glitter of the crystal chandelier, her smooth black hair had the sheen of a midnight sea and her pale face the richness of creamy porcelain.
Annie chattered, and realized she was chattering, about some recent mysteries she’d enjoyed (Adjusted to Death by Jaqueline Girdner, The Chartreuse Clue by William Love, and Good Night, Mr. Holmes by Carole Nelson Douglas) and knew she must come to the point. Their lunch had been excellent, Dover sole, potatoes with truffles and goose liver, and, for dessert, a delectable gooseberry fool, with whipped cream so rich it glistened. As they drank coffee and talked desultorily, Annie still couldn’t decide how to begin.
Margo added sugar to her coffee. “It’s always interesting to know which books the booksellers