The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [84]
“If only we had time to read more,” Annie said, echoing the plaint of all bookstore owners.
The agent stirred her coffee, took a sip, then eyed Annie keenly. “I’ve enjoyed our lunch, Mrs. Darling. Now, what can I do for you?” Her tone was amused.
So much for subtlety. But, if Margo Wright wanted up-front, up-front she would get. “I intend to do everything I can to prevent Neil Bledsoe from publishing that scurrilous biography of Agatha Christie.”
Margo’s flamingo bright lips curved into a curious half-smile. “I doubt very much, Mrs. Darling, that Agatha Christie needs any assistance from you.”
The waiter refilled their coffee cups.
Margo Wright lifted hers in a mock salute. “Good hunting.”
“Hunting?” Annie repeated.
“For the murderer. That’s your real objective, isn’t it?” She sipped at her coffee but her eyes never left Annie’s face.
One up to Henny.
Annie picked her words carefully. “Actually, I’m not hunting for that person. If I discover his—or her—identity, I’ll tell the police. I’m interested solely in Neil Bledsoe. Look,” she desperately hoped she didn’t sound like a snake oil salesman, “I want to know all the dirt about Neil Bledsoe so I can discredit him. Maybe Christie doesn’t need any help, but I can’t stand by and see her slandered without trying to stop it. Besides, Bledsoe’s a louse, and it’s time somebody thwarted him.”
“I would like that.” For the first time, passion resonated in Margo’s deep voice. “I would like that very much.” Carmine-tipped fingers drummed on the table. “A louse? Oh, yes, my dear, Neil is certainly a louse. But he’s managed, one way or another, to become a very powerful force in the mystery field. Longevity, maybe. He knocked from house to house in the early seventies, editing pulp novels. If you can call that editing. Then he came out with that slimy mercenary rag.” Her eyes narrowed. “I always wondered where he got the money to start it. Magazines don’t come cheap, you know. Not even ten years ago. Anyway, he started it and hit it big. Lots of weirdos out there in the hinterland get their jollies reading about plastic explosives, survival tactics, and how to blow up a train. The next thing I knew, he was out on the street. Maybe he just fronted for somebody all that time. Anyway, he was back to working for a living, like the rest of us.”
“And he got a job at the agency where you worked,” Annie encouraged.
“How did you know that?” Margo inquired quietly.
Annie widened her eyes ingenuously. “Somebody in the bar.”
“Talking about me?” Her voice was even quieter.
“No. About Neil.”
“Who was it?”
Since the chatty creature didn’t exist, it wasn’t difficult for Annie to profess ignorance. A shrug. “No one I know. I just overheard—”
“Eavesdropping?” The skeptical eyes bored into Annie’s.
“I’m trying to find out everything I can about Neil Bledsoe.” Annie’s tone was crisp.
A long, thoughtful pause, then a tiny nod. “I went to work for Bob Masters as a receptionist right out of school. I read manuscripts at night, for a reader’s fee. Bob thought I had promise. I worked my heart out. Four years later, he made me a full partner. That was in 1978.” The rapid monotone came to a full halt.
“Yes?” Annie encouraged.
“The most exciting days of my life. Beginnings are always wonderful.” A tiny smile touched her face, just for an instant, then her somber look returned. “I was too young to know that every beginning leads to an end. But for a while, it was glorious. I discovered Pamela Gerrard. Pamela …” Margo fingered the spoon beside her coffee cup. “In 1981, Bob hired Neil. I was against it from the first, but Bob thought he would be a draw for hard-boiled writers.” She absently stirred her coffee. “I suppose Neil knew I didn’t want him hired. Then I overheard him on the phone, making a date with a young writer who’d sent in her manuscript to see if we’d take her on. Bob was out of town. I really unloaded on Neil.” A mirthless laugh. “I thought I’d taken care of it. Funny thing is, it never occurred to me to run to Bob. About a month later, I came to work and there