The Christie Caper (8 page)

It was like seeing the sun burst through clouds and where there had been fog and dreariness there was now a verdant, glowing landscape. Victoria’s face glowed. Her eyes glistened; twin spots of pink touched her gaunt cheeks. “Did you read
Chimera?”
she asked eagerly. “That was his favorite of his own books.”

“Oh, of course,” Annie rejoined eagerly. “Everything hinged on what the dentist
didn’t
see. And his characterizations were superb—the banker, the housewife, the sheriff’s daughter.”

“Ohh.” It was a little cry of sheer happiness. “You really did read Bryan…. Bryan was my husband.”

There was such pride, such devotion in that quiet declaration. Sudden tears stung Annie’s eyes. She gave Victoria Shaw a quick hug. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mrs. Shaw. I want to give you this book”—Annie touched the faded brown cover “—and I hope you’ll be willing to speak at the panel Thursday. Your husband’s fans will be so excited to learn more about him. He must have been a very fine man.”

Over Victoria’s shoulder, Annie caught the flash of Bledsoe’s
sardonic grin. He started to open his mouth. Annie gave a sharp nod at Frank Saulter.

“If you can’t stand the heat—” Bledsoe began.

Victoria Shaw’s face crumpled.

Saulter jerked his head toward the door. “Time for you to go see a man about a dog, mister. Outside.”

The bell above the door jangled. It swung in, and at long last, there was the man in Annie’s life, beaming at her and gallantly shepherding the famous Fleur Calloway into Death on Demand.

Despite her sudden sense of dismay, Annie couldn’t help being proud of Max. Not even David Niven as Raffles could match Max in a white dinner jacket. He was so damned
nice-
looking, thick, short blond hair, blue eyes as dark as a Norwegian fjord, strong, firm nose and chin.

His companion was laughing up at him.

Oh, God. Earlier, when the party was at its height, before Neil Bledsoe arrived, Annie would have been delighted: Fleur Calloway at Death on Demand!

Now she desperately wondered how to avoid disaster. There was a clot of people near the cash desk: Victoria Shaw, who was edging behind Annie toward the door; Neil Bledsoe and Frank Saulter, Bledsoe glaring at the chief, Frank undeterred; Annie, and now Max and Fleur Calloway.

Annie, her hands outstretched, surged toward the author. “Mrs. Calloway, this is so exciting, so wonderful.”

From the back of the bookstore Emma Clyde boomed, “Fleur. Fleur!”

Annie took slender hands, cool and soft to the touch. “You have so many readers here on the island, Mrs. Calloway. I sell some of your books every week. Everyone is delighted that you are our guest of honor.”

“Fleur.” Louder and closer. Emma was struggling through the crowds toward the front.

And Annie, looking into jade green eyes, had an inkling why Emma, whom Annie had always found so intimidating and, frankly, so self-absorbed, was moved to protect the woman now standing by the front door of Death on Demand. Although Annie had seen pictures of Fleur Calloway, none of them did the writer justice. The photographs recorded the flowing tawny hair, the exquisite bone structure, the
deep-set eyes, the slender neck, but they conveyed nothing of her warmth of manner, the intensity of her gaze, the crinkling laughter lines at her eyes and lips, the sense of rapport that was almost physical.

“How could I refuse,” the author said in a light, sweet voice, “when you wrote me such glowing letters.”

“Sure she wrote glowing letters.”

Annie froze at the sound of Bledsoe’s voice.

“Your books still sell, Fleur. Though God knows why. The kind of drivel that soothes weak minds, I suppose.”

Fleur Calloway’s eyes—a clear green as light and delicate as the first spring shoots of cordgrass in the marsh—sought the speaker, sought him just for an instant, then her gaze moved past as if no one stood there, as if the words had never been spoken. She looked again at Annie. The warmth was there, but in it, unspoken, lurked a question.

“He’s just leaving,” Annie said tightly. “He seems to have come to the wrong place.”

“And so have you, Fleur.” Emma Clyde pushed roughly past Bledsoe. “Let’s give this conference a miss. I’ve already ordered my crew out to
Marigold’s Pleasure.
Made the arrangements this afternoon. We can sail for Tortola tonight.”

“Dear Emma,” Fleur cried warmly. She embraced the imposing author. “I’m the world’s worst sailor, darling. Remember? I never poked a nose out of my stateroom on that mystery cruise to Hawaii. Such an embarrassment. It always made me feel better that Christie had such a time on ships, too. And so, of course, does dear old Hercule.” Fleur turned back to Annie and slipped an arm through hers. The delicate yet unmistakable scent of Diva touched Annie. The author looked eagerly down the central aisle. “I’ve heard so much about your wonderful store. I understand you have coffee mugs with mystery titles painted on them.” She shot a dazzling smile at Emma. “The conference will be fine, love. Don’t worry. I’m looking forward to it. And you and I shall stay up and talk until dawn, just as we used to do. But now, I
must
see all of this wonderful haven for mysteries.”

Annie found herself drawn down the central aisle toward the coffee bar, her arm lightly grasped by her famous guest. It was like walking unconcernedly up the beach with a tsunami on her heels. Annie glanced over her shoulder.

Emma, her face a sour mixture of disgust, anger, and defeat, glared at Annie, then turned on her heel and yanked open the door.

Bledsoe looked equally furious, but, of course, for an entirely different reason: Fleur Calloway had ignored the critic’s very existence. He turned toward his fluttery companion and gestured toward the door, which was closing behind Emma.

Max was frowning, obviously aware that all was not well at Death on Demand.

Annie flashed him a reassuring smile, then gave full attention to her conference’s guest of honor.

“… and I’m delighted to see that you have a romantic suspense section. That’s marvelous. Romantic suspense is so undervalued today, despite books like
Rebecca
and
Nine Coaches Waiting.
But you know how publishing is, this kind of book now, another kind next year. So difficult for authors. Most of us”—jade green eyes sought Annie’s opinion—“are best at a particular kind of book. We just can’t change our styles every other year like hem lengths.” Her laughter, though, was good humored, untroubled. “Perhaps that might be a good topic for my talk. I’m sure you’ve noticed the trends. Everything is a series now. Very few thrillers. Oh, the Tom Clancy techno-thrillers, of course, but what we need more of is the kind of novel Mary Higgins Clark is doing—the quiet, domestic suspense, the scraping sound outside the window in the middle of the night.”

They had reached the coffee bar. Admiring fans made way for them as they passed. Annie was reaching for the mug with the title of Calloway’s most famous book,
I Won’t Let You Die,
when the shots rang out.

N
ot that Annie immediately identified the faint pops as gunfire. The other sounds, which erupted almost simultaneously, seemed far more ominous:

The tinkling of broken glass.

A shrill, choked-off scream.

Deep-throated curses.

Saulter’s shouted commands.

But she knew instinctively that trouble—big trouble—had struck Death on Demand, and she was racing down the central aisle toward the front when Max grabbed her and shoved her behind the true-crime section.

Shielding her with his body, he hissed, “Stay down!” then rolled to his feet and moved in a crouch toward the open door.

Annie popped back to her feet, disconnected thoughts tumbling: outside? … of course … but it sounded like firecrackers … firecrackers wouldn’t shatter the window … oh God, shots!

It was some indication of the terrorist mentality of Americans that no one had questioned Saulter’s shouted commands to take cover. In a country where children can be mowed down in a schoolyard with an assault rifle and where American Rifle Association members defend the sanctity of AK 47s from prohibition, an armed attack on a resort island bookstore seemed reasonable enough.

Annie didn’t, of course, stay put.

Without even looking, Max waggled a hand peremptorily behind him.

She ignored that. Dammit, it was
her
bookstore.

And it was her south front window the bullets had shattered. Splintered glass glinted on the floor.

Bledsoe, swearing in a harsh monotone, unceremoniously shoved his elderly companion back inside Death on Demand. Once again his white suit was the worse for wear, stained now with sand from the much-scuffed wooden veranda that fronted the harbor shops.

“My goodness,” his companion exclaimed in quiet surprise, struggling to sit up, “I’m bleeding.” Crimson spurted from her right hand.

Annie darted up to join her, then looked frantically around for something to staunch the flow, but Fleur Calloway brushed past and set to work. “It’s all right,” the author soothed. “Surface cuts bleed profusely, but it’s not deep,” and she wrapped the wound in her soft white cashmere shawl.

Swinging around, Bledsoe charged back toward the door. “Fucker shot at me!”

“Stop, you fool!” Saulter ordered.

If Bledsoe heard—and such was his rage, Annie doubted it—he ignored Saulter.

It took the police chief’s tackle and Max’s block to bring Bledsoe down. It also brought down pink-scarfed Edgar, the stuffed raven, and the hanging beads that separated the children’s corner from the bookstore proper.

By the time the three men stopped thumping about in the foyer, Annie had reached the door and was cautiously surveying the veranda, ignoring the stunned comments of those trapped behind her in the bookstore.

No bodies.

From behind posts, rocking chairs, and stubby palmettos, island residents and tourists peered out with equal caution.

“Stay back, Annie,” Saulter snapped irritably as he and Max brushed past her and slid through the open door. Max flapped that hand again.

Annie, of course, was right behind them, almost trodding on her husband’s heels.

The harbor front looked—except for the cautious heads poking from behind shelter—as it always did. Romantic, charming, inviting—and dimly lit. The harbor was on the
southwest end of the island, a natural curve facing west. The shops followed that curve, overlooking the marina and the boats moored there. Old-fashioned lampposts dotted the sidewalk that rimmed the harbor. They emitted a golden glow with scarcely enough wattage to attract even the most virile moths. As for the varicolored lights adorning the sea wall, they were strictly for show. Down in the marina, sharply bright, businesslike lights threw into stark relief the floating docks and the boats, which ranged from a multimillion-dollar yacht from Monte Carlo to a single-masted sailboat from Charleston. But this illumination only emphasized the calculated duskiness along the boardwalk.

A gaggle of boys wheeled their dirt bikes to a stop beside the steps leading up to the veranda. Youthful voices tumbled over each other as they yelled at Saulter.

“… saw somebody behind the bushes …”

“… he ran away …”

“… saw him throw the gun. I saw it …”

“… a splash. Wasn’t a fish …”

Red-faced from exertion, a pudgy young man trotted up to the boardwalk and announced importantly, “The shots came from
there,”
and he pointed at the huge mass of shrubbery, sweet-smelling white-flowered pittosporum, that had grown almost twelve feet tall on the bank at the end of the harbor. It marked the site of the island’s original playhouse, which had burned several years before. Behind the shrubbery rose tall, dark pines. The newcomer, gesturing in excitement, launched into a labored account of where he’d been when he heard the shots, what he did next, how he’d yelled for help. “Gosh, I never thought when I came to the island for a mystery conference that there’d really be a mystery!”

One of her conference-goers. Annie noted his name tag.
JAMES BENTLEY,
Brooklyn. She’d noticed him in the bookstore earlier, curly-haired and overweight, absorbed in the hard-boiled section. Annie didn’t like his present expression of avid pleasure. After all, someone—and she had a damn good idea who—had shot at her store, and she sure didn’t consider it part of the evening’s entertainment.

Pounding footsteps down the boardwalk stairs signaled Neil Bledsoe’s mad bull rush toward the site. Customers
spilled out the front door and gathered around Annie. Harbor visitors who had taken cover now gathered, talking excitedly, pointing toward Death on Demand and the bank of shrubbery.

“Oh, shit!” Saulter exclaimed, sprinting after Bledsoe. He yelled orders as he ran, “Annie, keep everyone inside the store. Get their names. Call Billy. Max, round up everyone who was in the harbor area!”

It took most of an hour to sort it all out. Billy Cameron, Saulter’s assistant, roared up to the harbor area on his motorcycle and took over from Max the task of collecting the names of those who had been walking leisurely on the boardwalk when the gunfire erupted. Annie dutifully herded her reception attendees back inside Death on Demand and as tactfully as possible obtained names, addresses, and phone numbers. Aside from a few island residents, most were registered at the Palmetto House for The Christie Caper. Laurel offered to help, but Annie felt that Laurel’s death’s-head fountain pen (ivory?) was perhaps not the most tactful means of transcribing the information. However, she smiled appreciatively at her mother-in-law and suggested that she man the coffee bar. “Free, of course.”