Free The Christie Caper by Carolyn G. Hart Page A

would be boarded over in a jiffy.
    Annie whipped through her task as fast as possible without appearing rude. She understood the point, of course. Anyone who had been inside Death on Demand when the shots were fired was automatically
not
a suspect.
    The corollary, of course, was equally apparent.
    Every person outside was, perforce, a possible marksman.
    That would include those who had earlier been at Death on Demand and who had departed before Bledsoe.
    Especially those who obviously knew and disliked him.
    Like Emma Clyde.
    “Scotch and soda?” Max held the syphon in his hand and looked inquiringly at their guests.
    Saulter declined. “Coke,” he said mournfully. Still on duty, of course.
    Seltzer sizzled cheerfully as Max prepared the drinks. Although it was almost midnight, neither Laurel nor Henny showed any signs of flagging, and they’d stuck closer to Annie and Max than Nora to Nick Charles, especially when it became clear that the chief had no intention of waiting until tomorrow before quizzing Annie about that evening’s events. For the first time, Annie regretted having rented one of the Carolina suites at the Palmetto House for the duration of the conference. Unfortunately, there was plenty of room for everybody. Annie was in a hurry to get this behind her. Tomorrow was the first day of The Christie Caper. She didn’t want an investigation ruining the fun. And she had a million details to check before the fête opened at three.
    Laurel slipped off three-inch green heels and tucked her size-five triple-A feet daintily beneath her on one couch. With her head tilted admiringly to one side, she smiled winsomely at the chief, looking like a fifties thriller heroine who had just sighted a ruggedly handsome man.
    Rarely, Annie thought sourly, had she met any male who was immune to Laurel’s charm. The chief was certainly noexception. There was nothing official about the smile he bestowed on her.
    Henny was, for her, unusually unobtrusive. Death on Demand’s most passionate customer sat in a far corner of the room. The light shining through the Tiffany shade on a nearby lamp created an interesting multicolored
effect
on her face and her white blouse. Annie’s eyes narrowed. Surely Henny’s placement wasn’t fortuitous. Nothing was ever likely to be fortuitous with Henny. She was obviously up to her old tricks, assuming the guise of a fictional detective when embroiled in a mystery. Be interesting to see how long Henny could be satisfied with the rather passive role Mr. Harley Quin played in the series of Christie short stories featuring Quin and Mr. Satterthwaite.
    Chief Saulter sipped his Coke and surveyed the Palmetto House suite. “Pretty fancy. Haven’t been inside since that lady decorator from Atlanta redid everything.”
    Max smiled happily. “Some wonderful improvements.”
    White wicker furniture gave the hotel suite an air of casual tropical elegance, which was enhanced by the Gauguin-bright cushions and lush potted ferns. The dramatic focus of the room was, of course, the full wall mural. Each suite boasted an original, one-of-a-kind island scene. In this one, a flat-bottomed wooden oyster boat lay abandoned, its bow jammed into a marsh hammock. Cordgrass rippled around the small tree island like a deck of cards in expert hands. Standing behind the forsaken boat, a black-masked raccoon watched as an elegant white ibis probed the murky water for crayfish. Not a cloud marred the soft blue of the summer sky.
    Saulter cleared his throat. “Okay, Annie, I want the low-down on the stuff at the bookstore tonight Why was everybody hacked at this Bledsoe guy?”
    “I don’t know about everybody,” Annie replied grimly, “but I know that Emma Clyde has it in for him. Do you know what she did this afternoon?”
    Max handed her a drink, and she scooted over to make room for him to sit on the love seat beside her.
    The chief put his glass down and flipped open his notebook. “I wanted to ask you about