The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [86]
“And Pamela Gerrard?”
Margo’s eyes darkened. “Pamela was ripe for the plucking. Just divorced. You know what happens when women divorce. They lose twenty-five pounds. Their makeup is perfect. And they are as brittle as those gorgeous, dying leaves in the fall. Showy and colorful and breakable. She’d just made the bestseller list for the first time. But all that does is terrify an author. Most of them, at least. This was just before Bob kicked me out. Pamela was in town and I was going to take her to lunch. Neil dropped by my office and somehow without my knowing quite how it happened, he came to lunch with us. It was like leading a lamb to slaughter. He came on to Pam like nothing I’ve ever seen. I might as well have been invisible. Neil is,” she said reluctantly, “a sexy bastard.”
Annie made no effort to deny it Bad and mean and dangerous, but sensually, lustfully, magnificently male.
“They flew to Reno three weeks later and got married. Poor Pam. So beautiful, so gifted. So foolish.”
Money was often difficult to trace. But this particular documentation had all the earmarks of fakery. Max finally wormed behind the facade of Allied Everest Company in Dallas, Texas, which had paid Neil Bledsoe more than a half million dollars for “consulting” in 1974. Obviously, this sum was the source for Bledsoe’s investment in Have Gun, Will Travel. Interestingly enough, the short-lived company had no books that could be traced. Checks with other businesses at that address uncovered no memory that Allied Everest had ever rented there. Max traced ownership of the building to a world famous tough-guy writer whose suicide had shocked the publishing world in 1975.
A tête-à-tête with Lady Gwendolyn reminded Annie of the thrill of riding a roller coaster, the sudden, heart-stopping plunge, the racketing climb to another peak, and the wind-whistling descent It engendered enormous excitement, although intellectual rather than physical.
“Brava,” the old author said, as Annie finished her recounting of her interviews. “Quick, now. Who’s most likely?”
“Margo Wright.” Annie was surprised at her own answer. In answer to the unspoken question, she added, “Margo holds a grudge. And somehow”—Annie hated saying it—“I can see her tipping that vase, pushing down on the crow bar, and feeling it move … and enjoying it!”
“Very interesting.” Lady Gwendolyn snagged a spidery handful of Spanish moss, dangling from a live oak, as they walked deeper into the wildlife preserve. On the dike to their left, a wide smudge marked an alligator crossing. A cotton rat darted beneath a clump of saw palmetto. “I’ve been thinking about our suspects today, and I certainly understand the basis for your conclusion.” She reached out, gripped Annie’s arm, and pointed toward the half-submerged log in the plant-choked pond.
A pine-cone crackled beneath Annie’s foot, but she, too, glimpsed the fat, muddy brown cottonmouth just before it slithered into the green-scummed water.
As the ripples faded away, Lady Gwendolyn continued, her voice faintly regretful, “But I’m sorry to say I can’t help thinking Fleur Calloway is the likeliest.”
Annie hated to hear that, hated it because she liked Fleur Calloway very much and hated it because she had a deep respect for this old lady.
Eyes that had seen much of life and found it both glorious and dreadful focused briskly on Annie. “But the picture is still murky. And I keep having a sense that someone is playing with us … and that worries me most of all.”
Victoria Shaw followed Annie to one of the poolside tables. Annie chose one with an umbrella to escape the late-afternoon heat. The author’s widow was aglow with happiness. As they settled in the shade, she twittered, “Mrs. Darling, I can’t ever thank you enough for writing and inviting me personally.” She leaned forward to confide, “I almost didn’t come, you