Read Online The Christie Caper by Carolyn G. Hart - Free Book Online
Authors: Carolyn G. Hart
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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, thedeep-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,
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, thedeep-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,
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