The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [98]
“However,” Laurel continued more cheerfully, “Hillman paid Derek’s tuition the next fall. Derek graduated in the spring and moved to New York. He attended the New York University Publishing Short Course, then started to work for Hillman House.” Laurel looked over her glasses and reminded her listeners. “They had published his mother’s books. Derek’s done very well, recently receiving a promotion and a raise. The last few months, he’s been very attentive to a rising young star at Hillman House, Natalie Marlow.” Laurel sighed. “Until this week and his encounters with Bledsoe, Derek had had no further drinking problems.”
Laurel took off her glasses, dropped them in an outsize khaki pocket “Now, to be the devil’s advocate. I helped Max tie up some loose ends on his report on Bledsoe. So I tracked down an old friend of Bledsoe’s—Taylor Graham.”
Annie sat up straight at that name. “Graham’s wonderful! The best private eye writer since Chandler. He’s done for El Paso what Loren D. Estleman did for Detroit and Les Roberts for Cleveland and Carl Hiaasen for Miami and Sara Paretsky for Chicago and George V. Higgins for Boston. He’s just superb.” She smiled with remembered pleasure. “And such a sweetheart He did a signing at Death on Demand, and everyone fell in love with him.” Her smile faded. “He’s a friend of Bledsoe’s?” Disbelief tinged the disappointment in her voice.
Laurel looked ever so slightly reproving. “We must give everyone a fair appraisal. Not even Neil Bledsoe is all bad.”
“So Hitler loved children and dogs. Aryan children, of course. So what?” Annie muttered.
A swift glance from the vivid blue eyes at the head of the table quelled her. But she was glad to see a brief thumbs-up gesture from Henny.
“Bledsoe was Graham’s agent at one point. Graham said, ‘Neil’s a funny guy. Go to hell and back for a friend. A bad enemy. A guy has to measure up, you know. No leeway. But he’s a hell of a lot of fun at poker. Takes you to the cleaners, of course. Goddam brave. Rode some rapids with him once that turn most people white-haired. He just laughed. Always felt sorry for him. First wife screwed around on him. Second wife a lush. He had a German shepherd that was his best buddy. He loved that goddammed dog. Used to see them jogging in Central Park. Neil jogged winter, summer. Never gave in to cold or heat. Always took Willie with him. Anyway, damn hot day. High nineties. High humidity. Willie dropped dead of a heat stroke. Neil picked him up, carried him off. Cried all the way. I never saw him at the park again.’”
“Too bad he couldn’t have shared a little of that love with people,” Henny observed acidly.
“That provides a fascinating glimpse of the man,” Lady Gwendolyn commented placidly. “But, we should all remember, there is a special relationship between a man and his dog. Perhaps that day in the park, Bledsoe grieved for himself, not the dog. Now, it’s time for a most essential, determinative inquiry, one which I am very surprised that no one else has, as yet, called for.” She looked inquiringly at each in turn, then gave a slight shake of her head (the braids quivered but held). Annie was afraid Lady Gwendolyn was disappointed in her staff. Was she thinking back to the good old days of World War II intelligence when she had better aid than a fey, Johnny-come-lately Christie enthusiast, a rather grumpy mystery expert even though the best customer at Death on Demand, a mystery bookseller, and a very low-key counselor. (Max avoided the use of the term “private eye.” South Carolina was very particular in its licensing laws of private investigators.)
Of course, as Lady Gwendolyn well knew, one had to make do with what fell to one’s hand.
“The victim,