The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [92]
Annie started toward him, but Max reached out and stopped her. “He’d love it, Annie.”
Max was right. If she tried to evict Bledsoe from the Christie Trivia Quiz, it would only give him another opportunity for public notice.
She realized, too late, that she should have found a replacement for Fleur. Bledsoe had no intention of easing his pressure on her. But Annie had to admire the author’s élan as she bent her head to listen attentively to the bookstore owner as if this were the loveliest of evenings and the most perfect of audiences.
Lady Gwendolyn hadn’t missed that byplay either. The old author’s shrewd eyes studied Bledsoe with undisguised contempt. As she settled into a seat next to Annie in the first row, just a few seats away from Bledsoe, she commented in her aristocratic, carrying voice, “Bad manners spring from a corrupt heart.”
Bledsoe continued to spread blight wherever he went. Margo Wright sat at the far end of the ballroom, her attention resolutely focused on the platform. But she knew Bledsoe was there. It was so apparent in the impassivity of her face, the tension in her slim shoulders.
Victoria Shaw was a few rows behind Bledsoe. She glared at the critic angrily. God, she hated that man.
And Nathan Hillman and Fleur Calloway, sitting on the platform, so carefully did not look at the front row.
Annie scanned the audience. She didn’t see Derek Davis. One plus for the evening. The publicist couldn’t possibly have sobered up yet. Talk about trouble waiting to happen….
Almost all the seats were taken now. Annie glanced back at the platform. Yes, the contestants were there for the amateurs. Oh Lordy, the sixty-five-year-old twins from Minneapolis, Ursula and Selina Matheson! After her earlier encounter with them, Annie now regarded them with a healthy respect. The amateur trio was completed by Ivan Lungard, a librarian from Provo, Utah.
As the auditorium filled, Annie noticed absently that Bledsoe was waving inquirers away from the empty seat next to him. It was almost time to start when a young woman walked slowly up to him. Annie noted the peacock-blue silk noir slacks with a matching jewel-neck blouse, accented by a navy and red scarf over one shoulder and a dramatic silver shell belt.
“Seat taken,” Bledsoe grunted.
“Neil.” Even her voice was different, lower, a little breathy.
Realization struck Annie and Bledsoe at the same time.
Annie poked Max in the ribs. “Wow, look at Natalie!”
Bledsoe stared up at the transformed author. Her chestnut hair now clung to her head in chic sophistication. Artfully applied makeup emphasized her luminous dark eyes and high cheekbones.
She waited for his response, a shy, eager pride in her eyes.
His face hardened, his lips turned down in a furious scowl. “Who tarted you up? That little prick, Derek?”
Beside him, Kathryn Honeycutt gasped, then pressed a hand against her lips.
Natalie’s face flushed, then paled. Her eyes changed as Annie watched, the softness consumed by white-hot anger.
Annie was on her feet. She rushed to Natalie’s side. “You look lovely,” Annie said furiously. “Absolutely lovely,” but the author turned away. Head down, she strode toward the exit, eyes blinded by tears of rage.
Annie had had enough. “You’re the most despicable man I’ve ever met. Murder’s much too good for you.” She realized that those sitting nearby, which included the redhead Annie had disenfranchised from the treasure hunt, were listening avidly while feigning indifference. She was too mad to care. “I wish one of those serial murderers you’re so crazy about would trap you in an attic and chop you into little pieces while recording the screams. Try that on for size, big boy.”
She wouldn’t have stopped at that. She had a few more choice bits in mind until she realized a discomfiting fact: Bledsoe was enjoying this scene. Getting a hell of a bang out of it, actually. His greedy eyes gleamed with satisfaction; his pouty lips curved in a half smile. Well, damned if she