The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [9]
Finally, with a satisfied murmur, Laurel placed in front of the intrusive objects a sign lovingly executed in calligraphy (Annie didn’t even want to know when her mother-in-law had mastered this art):
In the Beginning
“Oh, no,” Annie moaned.
Laurel gazed at her daughter-in-law fondly. “My sweet, it is only fitting. As our dear Arthur Conan Doyle said, ‘Edgar Allan Poe was the father of the detective tale.’”
“So he did,” Annie agreed. “Doyle also went on to say, ‘I fail to see how any of his followers can find any fresh ground which they can confidently call their own.’ And that’s what Christie did. No one has ever devised plots as ingenious as hers. Besides, Poe was an absolutely, dreadfully boring writer. As T. S. Eliot observed so aptly, ‘That Poe had a powerful intellect is undeniable; but it seems to me the intellect of a highly gifted young person before puberty.’”
Laurel gasped and clasped a hand to her bosom in shock. Her magnolia-soft skin paled.
Annie stepped briskly toward the table.
Dark blue eyes gleaming with unyielding determination, Laurel gracefully interposed herself between Annie and the altered exhibit.
Annie glowered. She couldn’t manhandle her mother-in-law. Perhaps she could subtly deflect Laurel.
Annie managed a stiff smile.
“Uh, Laurel, don’t you suppose Howard would take great pleasure in adding your Poe materials to his collections?”
Laurel’s latest romantic conquest, a multimillionaire shipowner on the island, Howard Cahill, had an enormously varied art gallery in his mansion.
Laurel nodded appreciatively at the change in tactics and shifted her feet so that she was directly in front of the table.
“Annie, how sweet of you to think of Howard. Actually, he and I are working together to build an important collection on Poe. Howard’s attending an auction in New York this very week, and Annie,” Laurel’s husky voice eased into a throaty whisper, “I wouldn’t tell a soul other than you, but there’s a rumor …” She finished her sentence in a whisper, close to Annie’s ear.
The scent of lilac swept Annie, and Laurel’s breath tickled her ear.
“Oh, Laurel,” Annie said gently, “there’s always a rumor that someone’s found a copy of ‘Tamer—’”
“Shhh,” Laurel warned, looking about as if competing Poe collectors might be present in the shadows of the silent bookstore.
Annie fought down an urge to bellow, “‘Tamerlane and Other Poems,’” at the top of her lungs. Instead, she took a deep breath, ignored Laurel’s encouraging smile, and tried a different tack.
“Don’t you think it would be better, Laurel, more fitting, if we planned a symposium on Poe? For next year? You can be in charge—”
A thunderous knocking rattled the front door of Death on Demand.
Some summonses unmistakably herald disaster.
Nobody knocks like that merely for admittance.
Annie catapulted toward the door. Oh, God, had the Palmetto House burned down? Was the banquet speaker marooned in Morocco? Were the airlines on strike, stranding travelers across the country?
Annie yanked open the door.
Emma Clyde, the creator of that septuagenarian sleuth Marigold Rembrandt and the nearest equivalent to an American version of Agatha Christie, glared at Annie as if she were a cross between a child abuser and a drug pusher, and growled icily, “What the hell are you up to, Annie Laurance Darling? What kind of little game are you playing?”
The prize author of Broward’s Rock Island was imposing even when exuding charm. Emma was emphatically not dealing in charm this afternoon. Her squarish face looked as if it had been hewn out of granite by a broad ax. Bulky and broad-shouldered,