Read Online The Christie Caper by Carolyn G. Hart - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carolyn G. Hart
Ads: Link
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.
AGATHA CHRISTIE
TITLE CLUE
Poor Wonky Pooh’s mistress never reached Scotland Yard;
Lavinia was Victim Number 4, how many more?
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
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.
AGATHA CHRISTIE
TITLE CLUE
Poor Wonky Pooh’s mistress never reached Scotland Yard;
Lavinia was Victim Number 4, how many more?
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
Similar Books
