The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [91]
She turned.
Fleur Calloway stood in the door that Annie had left ajar. She looked past Annie at Derek’s beaten figure. “My daughter,” Fleur said brokenly, “Pamela’s son, and that young author, Natalie Marlow.” Her lovely face hardened. “It must stop.” And her face no longer looked lovely. It was as stern and cold and merciless as that of an avenging angel.
AGATHA CHRISTIE TITLE CLUE
Elinor Katharine Carlisle—
Innocent or guilty?
As she and Max slipped out of the hotel surreptitiously, Annie thought fleetingly of Selwyn Jepson’s Commodore Rupert Gill and his penchant for “imported” brandy. Yes, the illicit definitely had its charms. Annie knew she should be at the hotel, on call, for any or all emergencies, but she needed a respite. She had to be up for the Agatha Christie Trivia Quiz at eight o’clock. God, she said simply, only knew what some people might do.
It should have been a wonderfully relaxing evening. Conference-goers were free to explore the island’s restaurants before retarning to the hotel for the evening’s entertainment, the Trivia Quiz, in the main ballroom.
Truth to tell, Annie was delighted to be away from the hotel and even from her beloved conference for a while, and there wasn’t a single conference attendee in evidence at the Island Hills Golf and Country Club. She and Max sat on the terrace, and a gentle breeze swept over them with the heavy scent of honeysuckle as they studied their menus. Among the Wednesday-night specials was beef Wellington, Annie’s favorite entree. So pastry and beef were heavy on cholesterol. So who cared? Annie refused to be intimidated by the health police.
But she couldn’t leave her worries behind.
She poked at her beef Wellington and even the luscious gravy trickling down the sides of the pastry didn’t help.
“Max, what do you think’s going on? Did somebody kill John Border Stone because he was on the roof at the wrong time? But why was he registered as James Bentley? And every time I think how he was killed—with the murder weapon actually used in that novel, though not on Bentley—it gives me cold chills. Did it make somebody mad that he was registered as that particular Christie character? And why in God’s name did he register as that particular character?”
“Maybe he particularly identified with Bentley,” Max suggested. “Liked him and—”
“Honey, even James Bentley didn’t like James Bentley.” She shook her head impatiently and absently chewed, then said indistinctly, “I keep thinking it will all make sense.” She drank a sip of chablis. “A sugar cutter! Max, that’s crazy. And Lady Gwendolyn’s cape—that’s even crazier!”
“Or someone wants us to think the circumstances are crazy.” He squeezed more lemon on his red snapper. “After all, mystery nuts aren’t really nuts.”
Annie didn’t comment. The memory of the treasure hunt was too fresh and her forebodings about the trivia quiz too intense.
“The discouraging thing is, I talked to everybody—” she paused. Actually it had hardly been a conversation with Derek Davis. “I saw all of those people today, the ones who have reason to hate Bledsoe, and, Max, they all hate him so much, it is frightening.” She put down her fork, pushed away her plate.
That’s when the maître d’ interrupted. “Mrs. Darling, I have a message for you.”
Annie felt a painful constriction in her chest. The last time she received a message…. She ripped open the envelope:
“Dear Hearts,” she read aloud, “do enjoy your evening, for I fear we must gird for intense effort. I’ve scheduled a meeting in your suite Thursday morning. Breakfast is already ordered. Ciao, Lady Gwendolyn.”
Annie looked at her husband in utter astonishment. “How the hell did she find us?”
Nathan Hillman politely stood aside for Fleur Calloway and the bookstore owner from Honolulu, Sherry Wilson, to climb the steps to the platform. Fleur Calloway paused midway up the steps, hesitated for just a moment, then, chin up, walked on.
In the front row, Neil Bledsoe watched Fleur’s every move. His aunt, Kathryn Honeycutt, flashed him a sidelong glance, then gave a tiny sigh. She pushed