The Christie Curse (8 page)

“Van Alst.” I slowly pointed my iPhone around the room to let Tiff get a peek at my
digs.

“Sweet mercy, Jordan! It looks like Laura Ashley and
Antiques Roadshow
were massacred over there!” All the way from northern Alberta, Tiffany’s laugh filled
my apartment. I missed her gentle southern teasing.

“Well, you won’t hear me complain.”

Tiffany panned down to her concrete floor with a single teal chair. “You’ll see that
we too have some items of note in our décor, my friend. For example, this chair is
early nineties dental waiting room and still retains its original mock Naugahyde upholstery.
It’s sure to fetch tens of thousands of cents on the open market.”

“Well, tens of cents anyway. Hey, I’ve got to get back to reading about Agatha Christie
now, but I wanted you to see my new place. I love it.”

“Ah, research on the dead mystery writer. Sure beats what I have planned.”

I happened to know that she was headed to a bar for pipeliners that would have a ratio
of one woman to every thirteen men. Tiffany practically cackled in glee.

“Cackling is not attractive in a woman, Tiff. Same with gloating. But have fun, be
safe. Text me the name of the bar
and
let me know when you get back.”

“Will do, sister.”

*    *    *

I AWOKE FROM a nightmare in which Hercule Poirot was expressing his outrage as I had
apparently sat on his hat. “Of course, you didn’t see it, mademoiselle. You are as
oblivious to my chapeau as you are to what you seek. You need to look where it will
be.”

As my eyes refocused, I noted the sunshine streaming through the windows. I blinked
at the black-clad figure staring down at me and screamed. Leaping to my feet, I was
nearly tripped by a cat circling my ankles, but I’d already used my scream on Signora
Panetone.

“Why you scream, Jordan? Bad for you! Eat. Eat. You eat enough, you don’t need to
scream.”

No arguing with that logic. Anyway, my heart was still thumping. I am not used to
having people invade my space. That goes double for cats. My uncles always had a healthy
fear of a teenage girl’s room when I was growing up. They never came closer than the
bottom of the stairs.

Never mind. There was no way I would complain about the aromatic caffe latte and the
china plate of sugary pastries, fresh-cut Granny Smith apples and chunk of cheddar
on the silver tray. It had all been delivered by Signora Panetone, as unexpected and
boundary free as she was.

“I thought we took breakfast in the conservatory at eight,” I said. “Isn’t Miss Van
Alst waiting for me?”

“No Vera today. Vera not well. Read notes.”

Notes?

Signora Panetone pointed to the next room. Presumably, sometime during the night a
note had materialized and I had been expected to read it in my sleep. This place was
going to take some getting used to. Installing the lock had moved way up the list
of priorities.

The tray of food was enough for a family of four, but it wasn’t the only unusual element.
I never thought I’d be greeting the second day of my new job with breakfast in my
feather bed surrounded by cabbage roses on the wall and Agatha Christie novels and
reference books piled around me, but life has a way of bringing little surprises.
Signora Panetone was just one of them. The cat was another. This morning it was playful
and purring, wanting a scratch behind its ears.

As I worked my way through my breakfast, I tried to get Hercule Poirot out of my mind
until I realized, he was right. I did need to look where it would be, “it” being the
play that might or might not exist.

But where would that be?

I didn’t know, but thanks to Lance and my research, I had an idea where to find out.

A
T ANY GIVEN time, I keep five outfits that can be used to bend all occasions to my
favor. They have a vintage vibe, and they fall under the headings “classy,” “brainy,”
“don’t mess with me,” “sexy” and “clueless.” I was going for classy on this day, channeling
my inner Jackie Kennedy. Everything but the pillbox hat.

The classy bit took a hit in the endless hallway as I collided with a tall woman who
came around the corner as I tried to dodge the cat that had shot out at me from nowhere.
Alarmed by the collision, the cat scurried back toward the front foyer.

The woman squeaked in surprise. I squeaked back.

She must have been six feet, with broad shoulders, big hands and a close-cropped salt-and-pepper
haircut in an old-fashioned pageboy. She didn’t seem at all pleased to see me.

“Watch out,” I said, “the feline has a fondness for ankles.”

Someone has to take the high road.

The cat made a liar out of me by returning and attempting
to rub up against her while purring like an outboard motor. She stood stock still.
Cat phobia, perhaps. I saw no sign of friendliness, and I was in a hurry. But once
I was out of her sight, I wondered not just about that totally bipolar cat, but about
the woman. I assumed she’d come from the elevator that led to Vera’s private quarters
on the second floor. Or had she been in the library? Whatever, it was very peculiar.
By the time I got to the front door, there was no sign of her.

I attempted to hunt down Signora Panetone and find out, but that proved fruitless
too.

*    *    *

THE ANTIQUARIAN BOOK and Paper Fair was a new experience for me. I wasn’t sure what
to expect. So, M. Poirot, I thought, let’s see what we can turn up. I anted up for
my ten-dollar ticket and made my way through the double doors into a room where everyone
spoke in hushed tones. Maybe some of the sound was absorbed by the thick floral-patterned
carpeting, but I thought there was more to it than that. Even the scent of the room
was soothing: old paper, old ink and Old Spice.

At first glance there were about thirty booths, mostly U-shaped arrangements of tables.
The tables all seemed to be discreetly covered in royal blue cloths and skirts that
probably hid empty boxes, extra material, handbags, backpacks and other miscellaneous
and unsightly gear. From the door all the booths looked pretty much alike, but as
I began my rounds, I could see that each one had some kind of specialty. I would have
liked to remain and finger every historic map and faded print, but I needed to stay
on task. Three booths down, I was distracted by a display of children’s books. I already
was lusting after a first edition of
Where the Wild Things Are
, a book I had loved as a child. Even with the slightly faded cover and a tiny tear,
it was still nearly five hundred dollars. I couldn’t afford it, but I wanted
it. I was beginning to understand how intoxicating this game could be. If it was behind
glass, that just made it worse.

I made the rounds once, doing reconnaissance, something I’d learned from my uncles
as a child, and discovered that two of the dealers dealt solely in mysteries. Without
looking too keen on anything, I drifted back the second time. Looking too enthusiastic
is the worst thing you can ever do to yourself, short of emptying your wallet down
a sewer grate. I stopped at a booth called Nevermore Mysteries. Poe would have approved.

The silver-haired middle-aged dealer, with his reading glasses perched at the end
of his nose, looked up at me with mild interest and then turned his attention to an
alarmingly tall man in a floor-length trench coat. Or was that possibly two smaller
men in that trench coat? Where would you even find one of those coats if you needed
such a thing? The dealer watched with narrowed eyes as Tall Trench Coat reached down
for one of the pricier items on the top shelf.

I picked up a mass-market Dell issue of
Red Harvest
, by Dashiell Hammett. Of course, I liked the sixties retro cover of the reprint.
It was in moderately good shape with protective plastic on its faded cover and reasonably
priced, probably because of the fading. My guess was there were still plenty of these
to be had, but I knew it was a classic and decided I wanted to own it for the cover
as well. I thought that I’d seen a red morocco-bound copy of an omnibus of Hammett’s
work in Vera Van Alst’s library. I couldn’t imagine how much that would have set her
back. I reminded myself that my interest was in Agatha Christie’s possible play, and
not in one of the billion or so inexpensive Christie paperbacks that were still easily
found, many of them stacked on my coffee table and beside my bed. I reached for a
hardcover first edition of
The Body in the Library
. It seemed appropriate. The dust jacket looked to be in nearly perfect condition.
A hand appeared over my shoulder and
whisked
The Body in the Library
from my grasp. The dealer appeared to be able to teleport himself. With a tight smile
and an upper-class British accent he said, “Maybe I can help you find something in
your price range?”

The smile didn’t reach all the way to the eyes behind the reading glasses.

“Why? How much is this?” I resisted the urge to remove his condescending head from
his shoulders, knowing that he was just sniffing out weakness and enjoying the superior
feeling. I made sure that feeling was brief.

“Fifteen hundred. It’s a first edition in mint condition. And, of course, it’s a bargain
at that,” he said in a voice like melting British butter.

I managed to look unimpressed, but really I was doing the math. Was this the price
range that Vera paid for the thousands of books on her treasured shelves?

I said, “Nice. Of course, I have one at home without a trace of foxing and a brighter
dust jacket. I couldn’t resist a comparison.” As if I would ever go on a scouting
mission without picking up some lingo. That would have been a rookie mistake. My uncles
would have been disappointed if I’d made such a slip.

He managed to keep his face from falling too far, but I’d scored my point.

He held out his hand and said, “I should have introduced myself. George Beckwith.”

I had his attention now.

I added, “It has sentimental value. I bought it on a trip to London, from Ash Rare
Books. Always quality, of course.” My research was starting to come in handy, but
I reminded myself that I had also been taught to keep the lies simple. Too much detail
will always trip you up.

“In that case, you may be interested in some better quality Hammetts.”

“No, I’ll stick with this one. I put my money on the British authors.”

He cleared his throat. “I have a lovely copy of
The Nine Tailors
, first edition, second impression only. Very little wear on the jacket. It’s a bargain
at five hundred dollars.” He reached for and held out a book, reverently. The words
“immensely successful” appeared on the yellow jacket in red. I loved it. There’s nothing
like confidence.

Even so, I waved it away and managed to look bored. That was on the outside. Inside
I was screaming, “That’s a lot of loot!” It wouldn’t take many books like that to
fund the next stage of my education. But I had to keep my mind on task. “I don’t know.
I’m in the mood for something different.”

“Like what?”

“Not sure. My daddy has a lot of these, so they might as well be mine. I’m looking
for something more unusual, something different. I can’t describe it, but I’m in the
mood for something…theatrical. A statement piece, perhaps.”

“And your price range?”

“I want something that appeals to me. It’s not about money, really, is it?” And it
definitely wasn’t about
my
money, not that I had any. I needed to make an impact. I knew for sure that these
people talk. They whisper. They gossip. They deal in innuendo and rumor. In fact,
I was beginning to suspect that Vera and poor dead Alex had fallen for this very trap.

I wanted to get some tongues wagging. And my uncles had taught me to always walk away
leaving them wanting more.

“Money’s not an issue. I might be back,” I said, drifting toward the aisle, trying
not to smile at the forlorn-puppy look that had settled on his old-dog face.

He followed. “Is there a way to reach you if I find something of interest?”

“I suppose,” I said, with just the hint of a yawn.

He said, “You never know when I might find something worthy of your collection.”

I sighed and pulled out my newly minted business cards. Works of art if I do say so
myself. It’s amazing what you can do if your relatives have the right equipment. I
left him staring at it, pondering the gilt-embossed seal on the top center of the
card. An Uncle Mick special. Gorgeous and devoid of any useful information except
for my name and cell phone number.

I resumed my drifting about, knowing that I had his interest. So many delicious objects,
so close, so tantalizing. This research was fun, and I was getting paid.

At each booth I tried a variation on my patter, dropping hints about something different
and perhaps dramatic. I wanted to get some talk going in this community, and nothing
gets people talking more than money and misinformation. I made sure that no one knew
that Vera Van Alst was puppet master.