And Then They Were Doomed

by Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli

  “I’ve been thinking about maybe going away. Taking some personal days at the law firm.”

  Neither woman said a word.

  She gave up and nodded toward the envelope. “So, what is that thing? Black around the edges. What’s that mean?” She reached out and picked up the envelope, turning it back and forth in her hands.

  “Looks like a wedding invitation—except for all that black.” She turned the envelope again. “Who do you know up in Calumet, Zoe? And how come you didn’t open it?”

  She raised her eyebrows at Zoe.

  “Came yesterday.”

  “And you haven’t opened it? Aren’t you curious?”

  Zoe shook her head.

  “Is this like a death notice? Is that what the black trim means?”

  Zoe made a face.

  Jenny turned the envelope in her hands again, picked at the sealed flap with one chipped fingernail, then tore the envelope open before Zoe could stop her. She pulled out the card and read it to herself.

  Jenny pulled her dark hair away from her eyes, holding it back with one hand as she read the enclosed card again. She frowned across the table at Zoe.

  “Want to know what it says?”

  Zoe shook her head.

  “I do.” Dora said.

  “It’s an invitation.”

  Zoe made a face. “To what? A funeral?”

  “Something about Agatha Christie. Hmm. This place. Netherworld Lodge. It’s in the Upper Peninsula. The Northern Michigan Agatha Christie Society.” She looked at Zoe, astonished. “They’re planning a meeting of Christie experts. Important webinar where you’ll all discuss her work. No wonder they want you. You’re writing a book on Christie. How does word get out?”

  By now she was frowning. “I mean, well, Christie must still be important.”

  “Let me see that.” Zoe snapped the card away from Jenny. “I’ve done webinars before. I don’t mind doing them. People watch you on their devices and get to ask questions. There’s a charge, like any seminar, but they don’t get to catch you in a corner and demand answers. The audience can be anywhere in the world they can access the internet.”

  An invitation to take part in an important work of Agatha Christie. But why the black edging?

  Zoe didn’t believe for a minute her envelope was nothing more than this, an invitation to an Agatha Christie event.

  When she looked up, her cheeks were burning. “Scam. I don’t believe it.”

  She read the invitation again, then waved it at Dora.

  “Listen to this. Two weeks! It’s in two weeks! It says a group of American experts. I’d like to know …”

  She stopped talking to bite at her lower lip and wave the invitation in front of her face over and over.

  “Imagine. It’s from an Emily Brent.” Zoe leaned back, her eyes huge. “You know who Emily Brent is?”

  Both women said no.

  “She’s a character in a Christie book. I should know. I’m reading all of them for the third time. Terrible character. Sanctimonious. Judgmental—led to the death of a poor woman pregnant out of wedlock.”

  Leaning back in her chair, she held her breath.

  “It’s aimed at me. Because my mother was—” She stopped herself.

  Zoe looked hard at her friends. She told them about the pious relatives who had tortured Evelyn Jokela Zola.

  “Whatever ‘wedlock’is,”Zoe finished while the two women sat quietly, listening to the story of a cruel exile for a young woman and her pint-sized baby.

  Chapter 6

  Tony was waiting in Dora’s kitchen when they got back. He slapped a sheaf of legal papers on the table when they walked in; his rugged face was all smiles. “There,” he said. “It’s all set. All you have to do is sign.”

  He grinned up at Jenny as he pushed the papers across the table toward her. She stood with her arms crossed, leaning on the sink for support, her eyes fixed on him.

  “We’re in this together, Jen. Right? A whole new adventure. Time to get married, I’d say. What do you think? This fall? Like I said, mum time. Right, Dora?”

  “Mums smell bad.” Dora kept her back turned. “You don’t want pots of them, especially indoors.”

  Tony waited while Dora finished wiping off the counter that had been wiped earlier. He watched her and then turned back to Jenny, who stood with her head down, not saying anything.

  Dora gave a long sigh. “Maybe I should leave the two of you alone to talk about this.”

  She put down the sponge she’d grabbed to have something to do while the tension settled in the room.

  “No! We’re all in this together.” Tony turned from Dora back to Jenny. “Just need the papers signed, and we’re in business. I’ve got new designs. Wait until you see the boxes I drew up. Think you’ll be pleased.”

  He grew quiet, looking hard at the women, who didn’t look at him.

  Dora left the kitchen.

  “You’re happy, aren’t you, Jen?” He laid one hand on the papers in front of him. “All you have to do is sign these damn things, and we’re in business. Remember? You said it was a great idea.”

  Jenny nodded. “I did. But I didn’t know you expected everything to change like this. I mean, so fast.”

  He shook his head, leaned back, and let out a deep breath. “So, what’s wrong? What’s going to change?”

  “You never asked me. You told me I had to leave my job. A job, by the way, I had to fight to get. I’m making pretty good money. I’ve been … free … for the first time.”

  “Free? You mean free of me?”

  She shook her head. “No, not at all. Maybe ‘independent’ is a better word.”

  He rubbed his hands together. “So, this is about your job?”

  When he looked at her, his eyes narrowed. There was an old darkness there.

  “I just need time to learn to breathe again.”

  “You’ve been divorced a couple of years. That guy’s out of your life. We’re engaged, remember? Usually, that means we get married. Is that off too?”

  Jenny rubbed at her forehead. “Nothing’s off, Tony. Nothing. I want to help you in your business.”

  “Our business.”

  “But not right now. I can do your books at night.”

  “What about the phones? What about meetings? What about dealing with customers? And the wedding? Not right now?”

  She didn’t answer.

  Tony Ralenti got up, taking time to rub at the leg where he’d been shot, back when he was a detective on the Detroit Police Department, back when he thought nothing could be harder than being a cop. Until now.

  That was all before he’d found Bear Falls, a quiet small town near the top of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula, and he no longer carried a gun. He made things with his scarred hands and took pleasure in new shapes and angles and colors instead of dead bodies and the ugliest parts of human beings.

  He wasn’t usually a man of many words and didn’t find any now.

  He gathered the papers from the table and took a long time rolling them into a cylinder. He stuck the cylinder under his arm and went to the door, his limp a little worse than usual.

  “Maybe I should wait until you call me, okay?” He turned back from the open door. “I’m going ahead with this.”

  He pointed to the papers. “And I’ll find somebody for the office. Don’t worry about that part. I just need to know … if you love me or not.”

  His dark eyes were wet when he glanced up at her, then quickly away. “I need to know that, Jenny.”

  When he closed the door behind him, Jenny felt empty. She sat down at the table and put her hands to her head, not thinking about what had just happened, only feeling things she couldn’t put a name to.

  * * *

  Dora was back when she heard the door shut behind Tony. What she’d like to do was follow him through the door, assure him that her daughter was complicated, that the divorce from Ronald Korman had hurt her a lot, that she was still fragile.


  She didn’t. A mother had to stay out of such things and keep her mouth shut. This was Jenny’s life to fix or mess up.

  And people did mess up their lives.

  Poor Zoe and what her family did to her and to her mother. Zoe’d gotten smaller as she told the story of those relatives who took pleasure in punishing a woman who didn’t deserve punishment of any kind, only maybe a little love.

  Death by a thousand cuts.

  Better for her to keep her nose out of everybody’s business.

  If she could.

  She hadn’t done too well with Zoe.

  “Terrible for both of you.” Dora had tried to make things better after Zoe’s bitter confession.

  Jenny had only shaken her head.

  Zoe’s bottom lip had begun to bleed from where she’d bitten down on it.

  She’d looked from Dora to Jenny, round eyes fixed into blue marbles.

  A decision had been made right at that moment, but only Zoe knew. She was going to this writer’s event at Netherworld Lodge, in the wild Upper Peninsula, outside a city called Calumet, because she knew it wasn’t a writer’s event at all. It came from Jokela country, where those people lived. She felt it in her soul. The bastards were coming after her. They wanted to put an end, once and for all, to Evelyn’s little mistake.

  Chapter 7

  Jenny said nothing when Dora came back into the kitchen, standing beside her, watching as Jenny slipped her engagement ring from her finger and set it on the counter.

  “You can give it to Tony. I think I’m … going away. Take a few personal days …”

  Dora watched her daughter’s engagement ring being pushed behind the sugar canister.

  “I’ve got to get back to Zoe’s,” she said, pretending she hadn’t heard Jenny. “I’ll bet she’s going to that thing. I’m afraid she’s making an awful mistake.”

  Dora busied herself with a platter that belonged on a top shelf and then with a drawer that wasn’t completely shut. When she turned to look at her daughter, she opened her mouth. She closed her mouth. This wasn’t a time for a mother to say a word—other than maybe put her arms around her child and tell her how sorry she was that things had gotten so bad … because the girl was stubborn and flighty and didn’t know what was good for her.

  A mother couldn’t say things like that to a daughter, even one as pig-headed … as determined to mess up her life all over again.

  Just like she did with that awful Ronald Korman.

  Dora said nothing out loud, just looked at Jenny directly.

  And I told her that time too. Don’t marry the man. He condescends to me every time he walks into my house. “Oh, Mrs. Weston, what a quaint little place. I have a decorator friend in Chicago who would just love to see this. And she says cottage style is out.”

  Never liked the man. Knew from the beginning it was going to end badly, but did she listen? No. And now this. A chance to be happy, and she dumps him.

  * * *

  Jenny knew there was a lot of chattering going on in Dora’s head, a lot of motherly advice not given because it would make Jenny mad.

  She frowned hard, willing Dora to keep still.

  Dora was the first to look away. “I better go,” she said. “You don’t have to come.”

  She walked to the door, her hand up to stop Jenny. “I won’t be home to make lunch. Guess you’ll have to do that for yourself. Guess you’ll have to get used to doing a lot of things for yourself.”

  She held on to her last sentence, watching Jenny—with her bare feet up on the chair, though she knew Dora didn’t like that. Bare feet sweaty footprints on her nicely polished chairs.

  Dora made a slight noise as she went out the door.

  On the back porch she stood still, holding her sides hard with her elbows. She got madder as she thought of the grandchildren she would never have—both her girls too wrapped up in themselves to think about that. Lisa, in the U.P. with a group of Finnish women doing a documentary on their lives. So devoted to her career. Hard to sell her work to Netflix or Showtime—or straight to TV—“but don’t worry, Mom.” Hard to make money—don’t worry, Mom. Just like Jim. He thought life wasn’t worth living if he wasn’t helping someone.

  Jenny, thirty-eight. Lisa, forty. Teetering on the edge of menopause. Well, close enough.

  Dora walked through the thick pines between the houses but turned back. The last thing she wanted was to bring Zoe—with troubles of her own—into this latest mess with Jenny. She headed instead down to the street and her car. Then over to Myrtle’s Restaurant to see who was there to take her mind off Zoe and Jenny. A dose of a quiet neighbor, or even Minnie Moon, who never kept a single thought too long in her head, would be a blessing right then.

  Chapter 8

  Demimonde, demiworld, half-world, underbelly, underworld.

  Synonyms for netherworld.

  Who would have named the place? A bunch of hunters? Really?

  Zoe searched the internet for Netherworld Lodge, Calumet, Michigan.

  The photo she found was of a long, dark building lost among young pine trees. Across the front was a covered porch, low windows, then a second story, more low windows. Not a cozy or welcoming sight—more utilitarian. Perfect for a tribe of hunters.

  Built in the 1930s, by the CCC, it read—Civilian Conservation Corps, organized to make work for people during the Depression.

  Probably smelled of mold.

  The lodge, the citation went on, was first used as a hunting lodge for the movers and shakers of Calumet. Converted to a denominational fellowship meeting hall in the 1970s. Recently used by local universities and literary groups for meetings, study sessions, and programs.

  Not much else. But it looked legitimate, though she was still skeptical of anything calling itself “The Northern Michigan Agatha Christie Society.” Especially in the remote Upper Peninsula. She still couldn’t get her head around it. How convenient for them: The Northern Michigan Agatha Christie Society. The black trim on the invitation. Was that to add mystery to their event? Or was that what she was supposed to believe?

  Zoe closed her computer and picked up her cell. She called the number she’d jotted down for the Netherworld Lodge.

  Six rings before a voice answered.

  “Netherworld Lodge. Emily Brent speaking.”

  That the place and the name were real took Zoe’s breath away for a minute. She’d almost convinced herself none of it existed.

  “Who is this?” The woman was immediately impatient. “Netherworld Lodge. Can I help you? Hello?

  “This is Zoe Zola.”

  A long pause from the other end.

  “Oh, Miss Zola. Bless your heart. You’re calling about our planned event—the big Christie webinar with all you experts here at the same time. Me and Mary Reid are very excited and hope you’re coming. Especially since you are currently writing about our Agatha.”

  “The invitation was a little out of the blue. I hadn’t heard—”

  “A kind benefactor gave us the money after the idea was floated. Then we got more money from what’s called a crowdfunding site.”

  “May I have his name? This benefactor?”

  Pause. “He wants to remain anonymous. Afraid everyone will come to him with requests.”

  Another pause. “I hope the remuneration is ample. Five thousand. That’s a thousand dollars a day, you know. I’ve checked with other webinars, and that’s—”

  “No. No. That’s generous.”

  “And you will be our last speaker. That will be on Thursday morning. What we’d like is for you to sum up our five days together. A kind of wrap-up of the daily topics: the points you’ve all made, disagreements—if any, new findings. We already have hundreds of subscribers from all over the world. Very successful. Mary Reid was right: Agatha Christie sells.”

  “Actually, there’s nothing in here about what I’m to talk about.” Zoe held the invitation in front of her.

  “Now, that’s not true. I helped send out the invi
tations. I know for a fact Mary Reid included an information sheet in every one of the letters.”

  “Not in mine.”

  “Oh, dear. Well, sorry.”

  “Who else is coming?”

  “A wide array of Christie scholars. All from the United States. Let me see. Professor Leon Armstrong from Ralston College. Dr. Louise Joiner, Amherst College. Anthony Gliese—he’s an editor with Conway Books. Dr. Nigel Pileser, Colorado Reserve. Betty Bertram—she’s a graduate student from McGill. That’s Canada, you know.

  “Eh, we have Gewel Sharp, a recent graduate in the master’s program at Michigan State. Oh, here’s Mary Reid—she’s a member. Owns a very fine bookstore in Houghton. Anna Tow. Well, Anna’s got a small press. Only published her own book on Agatha so far—oh, and a book of Mary’s. Anna’s hoping to get something more from this event. Oh, and Professor Aaron Kennedy. Comes from California. That’s it. And you, of course.”

  Zoe scribbled down the names as the woman rambled.

  “May I ask about your name, Miss Brent?” She set the notepad aside.

  “My name? What about it?”

  “Emily Brent. Have you taken the name just for this event?”

  “What?” The woman sounded angry.

  “Emily Brent was a character in one of Christie’s books.”

  “You don’t say? Well, isn’t that a coincidence. Which book?”

  “And Then There Were None. A very religious woman responsible for the death of an unmarried, pregnant woman. She didn’t approve.”

  “Oh dear. Well, that’s nothing like me. Terrible. Guess I haven’t read that one yet.”

  “Oh, and the black edging.”

  “What black edging?”

  “The invitation was trimmed in black, like a funeral notice.”

  “Nothing of the kind. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She sounded incredulous.

  “But—”

  “I guess we’ll be seeing you on that Saturday, then,” Emily hurried on. “The others will be thrilled. This is going to be the biggest event we’ve ever given. God bless you, Miss Zola. Have a safe journey up here. You know it’s been raining for over a week now. The roads are wet. Oh, and we have a plank bridge on your way into the lodge. There’s water over the planks right now, but not to worry. Very safe. Very safe. And the rain’s due to stop any day now.”