Read Online The Christie Caper by Carolyn G. Hart - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Carolyn G. Hart
Ads: Link
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 thesouthwest 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. Customersspilled 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
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 thesouthwest 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. Customersspilled 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
Similar Books
