The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [88]
The cigarette smoke dissipated in the bright summer air. “That was in the seventies. A bad time for mysteries. No one else bought it. Bryan got cancer.” She looked at Annie steadily. “He died within six months. Because he didn’t want to live any longer. You see, he was too proud to keep on writing if no one wanted his books … and he couldn’t live without writing.”
Annie’s stride checked, but her eyes didn’t deceive. Laurel was entering the hotel beauty salon, certainly no surprise. Annie had once accompanied Laurel on a shopping trip through the cosmetic section of Lord and Taylor’s in New York. She was glad, for Max’s sake, that his mother was independently wealthy, both from her own family and five lucrative marriages. Not, of course, that Laurel would be so crass as to consider wealth a prerequisite for marriage. But she had told Annie once, “My dear, love and marriage are so much more successful when everyone is comfortably situated. Impecunious young men can be very charming, delightful companions on a rainy fall afternoon, but not suitable for a long-term commitment. Poverty is so tiring. And only for the young, one always hopes.” Annie had wondered to herself how any commitment from Laurel could be considered long-term, but had been wise enough not to comment aloud. So, it came as no surprise to see Laurel wafting into the expensive salon. It startled Annie considerably that she was accompanied by Natalie Marlow, who looked exceedingly scruffy in contrast to Laurel’s as ever elegant appearance. Annie couldn’t resist sidling closer. Laurel’s husky contralto was unmistakable: “… such a pleasure to spend time with such extraordinarily talented people. I do so admire your great gifts.”
Annie poked her head inside just long enough to see Laurel grip Natalie’s elbow firmly and sweep her into a carrel.
Annie paused irresolutely. It was none of her business. But what had possessed Laurel to try and improve Natalie’s looks? Annie, too, felt that the right styling and makeup could transform a very ugly duckling. But to what avail? To make her even more attractive to Neil Bledsoe? Annie shook her head in dismay and backed out of the salon. The author wasn’t her problem.
• • •
Max skimmed the entry in Twentieth-Century Crime and Mystery Writers:
SPENCE, BURKE EDWARD. America. Born in Richmond, Virginia, 9 March 1943. Graduate William and Mary. Served in the United States Army during Vietnam War. Honorable discharge, second lieutenant. Advertising copywriter, New York, 1967–70. Novelist, 1970 on. Died December 4, 1975. In the span of five years became the most successful hard-boiled novelist in the United States.
Max’s eyes dropped to the short list of books, a total of six. All published by Pomeroy Park Press. Max buzzed for his secretary. When Barb came on the intercom, he said briskly, “Barb, drop over to the bookstore. I need a list of senior editors at Pomeroy Park Press. Check Literary Market Place.”
Annie waited outside Conference Room B as the panel entitled Mysteries in the ’90s—Bigger, Better, or a Bust concluded to a burst of applause. Her practiced eye checked the crowd. Not too many here, mostly booksellers and unpublished authors. She noted the empty chair on the podium and checked her program. Hmm. Derek Davis had been a no-show, but the other two panelists were there, Nathan Hillman and Jane Casey, an editor at Millington Books. She waited until the last straggling questioners drifted out and approached Hillman.
“Mr. Hillman, may I speak to you privately for a moment?”
The chunky editor eyed her unenthusiastically. “About …?”
Annie gambled. Would bitterness win out over caution? “About Pamela Gerrard … and the ugly way Neil Bledsoe treated her.”
“Why?” Distaste flickered on his face.
“I’m going to publish the truth about Bledsoe. I’m going to tell the world what kind of man he is.”
They were alone in the conference room now. The last stragglers had wandered off, to the bar, to other panels, to the beach. They had the room to themselves.