The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [93]
Promptly at eight o’clock, Henny stepped to the center microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the World’s Most Challenging Agatha Christie Trivia Quiz, the ultimate encounter between amateurs and professionals. Who knows the most about Agatha and her works? Tonight will determine the answer to that question.”
She introduced the Professionals (loud clapping) and the Amateurs (vigorous cheers, aided by shrill whistles from the Matheson sisters).
Henny explained the rules: the first contestant to punch his buzzer and provide the right answer would receive twenty-five points and a chance at a bonus question.
Annie tugged at Max’s sleeve. “Listen, if the jerk tries anything, we’ll give him the bum’s rush, right?”
“Right.”
Annie tried to relax. She was unwilling to meditate upon a mantra, Laurel’s solution to stress. And Max’s attempts to soothe were well meant but ineffectual. She was mad. And irritated with herself. She should have moved more quickly. Annie wished she’d been able to find Natalie Marlow. But, finally, she felt her face cool, and she was able to watch the proceedings with pleasure.
Ruling with an iron hand when disputes arose, Henny skillfully controlled the pace. Ingrid stood at the back of the stage, posting the scores on a blackboard. It was neck and neck between the Amateurs and the Pros until the amateurs bobbled a query on Ariadne Oliver. The Pros came through: Oliver had only one solo appearance without Poirot and that was in The Pale Horse.
Fleur took the bonus question: What was the origin of that title?
“From the sixth chapter, eighth verse of the Revelation of Saint John the Divine: ‘And I saw, and behold, a pale horse, and its rider’s name was Death, and Hades followed him …’” Fleur continued, “The Pale Horse was a wonderful book. Christie considered it one of her best.” A tiny smile. “Her sixty-seventh book. She put us all to shame, didn’t she?”
In the audience, fans applauded.
Bledsoe made a thumbs-down gesture and hissed.
Boos rocked the room.
Henny lifted her voice, ignoring the interruptions. “Who does George Barton consult when he receives two poison pen letters about the death of his wife, Rosemary?”
The Matheson sisters, Ursula and Selina, still in their Sherlock capes, smacked their buzzers at the same time. They spoke in unison, too. “Colonel Race!”
Ingrid marked the scores. It now stood at Amateurs—250, Pros—275.
The sisters answered the bonus question correctly: Parker Pyne was the Detective of the Heart who advertised his aid to the unhappy in the personals column of the Times. But the Pros scored on the next question, identifying Third Girl as the Christie title which explored the druggy, unkempt culture of the sixties.
The quiz ended on a note of high excitement.
Amateurs—325, Pros—325.
“A toss-up,” Henny challenged. “Whoever answers the next question first and correctly will be declared winner and all-around Agatha Christie Trivia Champion!
“For fifty points: What wealthy, crochety old man makes a posthumous—”
The Matheson sisters’ buzzers shrilled.
“Jason Rafiel in Nemesis!” they chorused.
“Correct.” Henny waved three envelopes above her head. “And each of our knowledgeable fan participants will receive a very special gift—a free tour of five Low Country houses which are reputed to be haunted.”
“Haunted houses.” Bledsoe’s sardonic drawl carried over the scrape of chairs and buzz of conversation. “Not so goddammed much fun when you live in one.”
That, of course, caught the attention of those nearby. One of the Matheson sisters hurried to the edge of the platform. “Is your house haunted? Tell us about it.”
“Sure is. Every Sunday night you can hear the scream. Real eerie.”
“Whose scream?” the other twin demanded excitedly.
Annie knew what was going to happen just an instant before he spoke. But it was too late. There was no way to stop