The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [99]
AGATHA CHRISTIE TITLE CLUE
A wasp flew loose in the cabin,
But the fatal sting came from a thorn.
I must say,” Lady Gwendolyn continued serenely, “some extremely interesting information has been turned up by our investigators.” She favored each with a warm smile. Laurel looked as though she’d been awarded the Croix de Guerre. Max rubbed his ear reflectively. Henny gave an all-in-a-day’s-work shrug. “I know, of course, that it isn’t unusual for people in the mystery field to be acquainted. It is, after all, a very small world. However, I think it is quite remarkable that the murder victim was personally acquainted with Bledsoe, Wright, Hillman, and Davis. This gives us much food for thought.” With scarcely a pause for her listeners to digest this offering, she added dramatically, “Moreover, it behooves us to recall Poirot’s dictum, The seeds of death can be found in the victim’s life.
“John … Border … Stone.” The old author’s voice was as chilling as a footfall in a house thought to be empty.
Laurel gazed at Lady Gwendolyn adoringly.
Henny’s fox-sharp nose twitched in irritation.
Max listened with rapt attention.
No wonder that Lady Gwendolyn’s books sold so well, Annie thought grimly.
“His was a short life. It ended in violence.” Lady Gwendolyn spoke quietly, but there was, for an instant, a clear sense of her anger, anger at that kind of death, ever, for the young or the old. “Stone was born twenty-five years ago in Brooklyn, New York. Father, a real estate salesman; mother, a junior high-school English teacher. He was the youngest of four children. His older sister Mimi: ‘I told Johnnie he should stay away from mystery writers. What a bunch of weirdos—people who write and think about nothing but murder. He went to a banquet once and you know who the speaker was? This ex-medical examiner from LA and he showed the most awful slides of the latest serial killings out in California. Slides of the victims! I told Johnnie people who liked to talk when they’re eating dinner about semen stains and the way bodies swell in water had to be whacko. He wouldn’t listen to me. The last time I talked to him, two weeks ago, he was all excited. He told me about his trip to this meeting and how it was going to make such a big difference in his career. He kept saying that it was going to make it possible for him to sell his book. Oh, yes, he’d written a mystery. He showed me the first chapter once and it was awful, all about this man who gets his foot chopped off when he’s a teenager, some kind of silly dare about a train overpass and he didn’t run fast enough and so he blamed the other guys with him. There was the girl who was hot for his body, but she can’t stand deformity, so the romance is all off. He sets out to get revenge, and he plans how he’s going to kill them one by one and chop off a foot each time. I didn’t tell Johnnie what I thought, but honestly, the writing was awful.’
“His older brother Bud: ‘So I should be surprised, right? Tell you Johnnie was a great guy, something like this should never have happened to him, right? Wrong. Dead wrong. Johnnie had a real talent for palling around with lowlifes. Johnnie would’ve cheated his own mother at cards. Johnnie was a sneak, mister, a real sneak.’
“I’m sorry to say,” Lady Gwendolyn said gently, “that Bud’s conclusion comes as no surprise to me. Look at these.” Lady Gwendolyn held up two photographs.
Annie’s folder contained the pictures, one in cap and gown taken at Stone’s college commencement, the second a somewhat out-of-focus snapshot. The formal picture gave little sense of personality, curly brown hair bunched beneath the mortarboard, a pudgy, self-important face striving for dignity. But the snapshot—John Stone was leaning back in a wooden chair, holding a stein of beer, laughing boisterously. He looked cocky, self-absorbed, and a little cruel. It was the irresponsible cruelty of the obtuse.
Lady Gwendolyn tapped that photograph. “When you know how a man laughs, you know how