And Then They Were Doomed

by Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli

  And then there were none.

  * * *

  “She left last night, I think.”

  Emily Brent stood at the head of the lunch table, hands together in front of her. “I have no idea why—or how she did it. Her note said she felt she had to go. Someone was waiting for her. She’d almost forgotten her promise to meet him. That’s what she said, but I don’t believe a word of it.”

  “Bella said she was sick. That she was in her room?”

  Zoe was ignored.

  “Awful.” Anthony heaped hash on his plate. “You said there was no way out of here until , , , what? … The Army Corps of Engineers or somebody fixes that bridge?”

  “Or National Guard, I would imagine. They’ll be here when they can.” Emily’s cool eyes turned to him.

  Zoe watched them. She’d never known this before—being in a place where everyone lied. Nothing normal here. She felt she was living in a novel—everyone with their role. A cruel novel. Maybe a Christie novel. She couldn’t be sure who was real and who wasn’t. Maybe no one. And no truth anywhere.

  “I imagine we’ll hear, Zoe. Maybe when Mary gets home,” Emily said.

  “Will she call us?” Zoe couldn’t help the sarcasm.

  “Now, Miss Zola, you know our phones are out or I’d be calling her.”

  “And so, we don’t give a flying—” She stopped herself. “So, we don’t try to get to the police or ask for help. A woman leaves. Maybe floating far away by now … What’s really going on? And don’t worry, I don’t expect a truthful answer.”

  “What are you talking about?” Emily demanded. “Really, Miz Zola, I wish you’d—”

  Zoe turned to the others. “I’ve been in Mary’s room. I don’t believe she ever stayed here. The room hasn’t been used.”

  “Nonsense,” Gewel said. “I’ve seen her myself. Many times, going in and out.”

  “Dust and cobwebs. She didn’t stay there.”

  Zoe stared at Gewel Sharp, who looked back with her nose in the air, challenging Zoe to something.

  “And you”—Zoe went for her—“are you Gewel Sharp or Ruby Keene? I didn’t realize the little joke until very recently. Probably neither one of them. I’ve been with you for four days, and I still don’t know your real name.”

  Gewel looked surprised. “I never thought about it! You’re right. My goodness.”

  Zoe felt sick to her stomach as she turned to the others. “What games will we play tonight, in our Murder Games? There has to be something special, doesn’t there? Something driving this whole thing? Who are we supposed to be when we play our games?”

  “Oh, Zoe.” Gewel waved a hand at her. “You’re so distrustful.”

  Distrustful. That’s what the woman had said: “You’re so distrustful.” The words ran on fat little feet, circling in Zoe’s brain. Distrustful. Dis-rust-ful. Dust. Rust. Lust. A many-faceted word.

  Emily’s hand was on Zoe’s shoulder after the others left the room. “You’ll still do your job, won’t you?” Her voice cracked. “Are your remarks ready?”

  “Not until after Aaron Kennedy speaks today.”

  Emily shook her head a few times. “But you’ll stay until tomorrow, won’t you?”

  “Describe my choices.”

  Emily gave her a direct but blank look. She clucked her tongue. “What I meant was, we’ll all be so disappointed if you get angry and leave. You can even tell us about your own work. The Agatha Christie book, if you’d like to. That would be fascinating.”

  “Hmm.” Zoe tipped her head sidewise, thinking. I can’t swim. I don’t have a boat. Can’t fly. Looks as if I’ll be here until we all leave. If we do leave. Guess I can talk about my book.

  Zoe knew she should have brought up the people at the cabin. But that fact was hers.

  * * *

  Upstairs, she looked at the roof in the woods. Two people there. Maybe three by now. Zoe stared at the wild, wet forest, in all directions. They were between a river and a creek. Was this damned place an island?

  She’d seen the overflowing creek, gotten through it—maybe she could again. The river—no way out.

  North—was she facing north? Or was it west? Which way? Which way was Oz? Where were the flying monkeys? The Wicked Witch of the West. Which way?

  She covered her eyes so she didn’t have to look at endless miles of nothing. If she couldn’t get away, she had to outsmart them.

  With her computer open on the bed in front of her, Zoe made a list of the people here:

  Bella Webb. She didn’t have a big part to play but was named for Bella Webb in The Pale Horse. Maybe only there to play the medium.

  Emily Brent—already established—a character from And Then There Were None. Related to the dead girl.

  Gewel Sharp—Ruby Keene. A silly play on words.

  That’s as far as she knew.

  Dr. Aaron Kennedy—A Kennedy from an Agatha Christie novel? She remembered at least one Kennedy, but what was the use? None of it meant anything.

  Ten little soldier boys went out to dine;

  One choked his little self and then there were nine.

  And a figure gone from the table, exactly as in And Then There Were None.

  Nine little soldier boys sat up very late;

  One overslept himself and then there were eight.

  A figure missing from the table. Louise Trainer gone.

  Eight little soldier boys travelling in Devon;

  One said he’d stay there and then there were seven.

  Mary Reid gone. But could be Gwenda Halliday Reed in Sleeping Murder.

  Anna Tow—another trick name? Tow. Tow. Tow. Tow … maybe Carry? There was a Frances Cary in The Third Girl. She killed … somebody … pushed her out a window. Louise Charpentier— the woman she murdered. Louise Charpentier—the word in French meant “joiner.”

  Louise Joiner and Anna Tow, connected.

  Leon Armstrong. The first to disappear. Dr. James Armstrong in And Then There Were None. In the novel, Armstrong killed a girl. He operated on her while he was drunk. Leon Armstrong had been a drunk.

  Anthony Gliese. There were Anthonys in Christie, surely, but she couldn’t remember any that fit except Anthony Marsden from And Then There Were None.

  Professor Nigel Pileser. Too distinctive a name to ever forget. Christie’s cat: Tiglath Pileser. The vicarage cat. What a joke on her.

  She looked at the names. No hidden message. She couldn’t get the lineup of letters to make a sentence that made sense. She added her own name but nothing with two Z’s meant anything.

  She wrote down their twenty-two initials, with Bella and Emily, and tried to make them spell words: gasbag, lamp, lag, plat, rags … It went on and on.

  Staring at the letters in front of her, she sounded out any word she thought could be among them: lap, lamp, beg, jar.

  She divided the letters—first initials from last: LLAMBAGANBE.

  Ball. lam, bang, nag, gall …

  A useless effort.

  Still, she tried with the second row: A J G R B K S T P W B—bag, gap, stag. Only one vowel to work with: Tag. Jag. Rat.…

  Names. Names. Names. What else could they mean? And who were they, if not who they claimed to be?

  A knock at her door brought her flying off her bed and yelling out to whoever was there to come on in.

  Aaron Kennedy stuck his head in. He stood in the doorway, eyes wide. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Zoe. I’m going to start my webinar in a few minutes. I … er … wanted to ask you if you’ve noticed anything strange about this place.”

  The professor was dressed as she imagined he dressed most of the time: the sweater with patches, the baggy pants, the pipe in his hand, though she knew he didn’t smoke—or hadn’t the whole time he’d been here.

  He stood straight, head back. He prepared to look directly down his nose at her.

  “Strange?”

  “All of the names straight out of Christie. I’d say that’s a little strange. Three people have disap
peared. I thought maybe, when I’ve given my talk tomorrow afternoon, I might leave immediately. Have you been told if the bridge is all right to use? And I’ll need a means of transportation. Are those two girls coming back for you? If so, I’d like to tag along. I want to see the end of this place as quickly as possible.”

  “I know how you feel. Nothing’s normal or right. But I don’t know yet about leaving because there’s still no internet. No phone to call my friends. I don’t have my own car.”

  “Really. Must be intermittent, the internet. I was online this morning, seeing if I could get a car here, but the site said there was flooding in the area.”

  “Oh, dear. But I’m sure my friends wouldn’t leave me.”

  “Let me know, if you don’t mind? I really want to leave as soon as possible.”

  He flapped a sheath of papers at her. “‘The Aging of Christie’s Fiction.’ Want to hear it? You can pull quotes.”

  “‘From Graham Green to P. D. James,’ he began, “the mystery is as much a part of the literary canon as what passes for literature today. But only the best last. Agatha Christie, having been a bestseller for all of these years, we would imagine she would be at the top of the pantheon of mystery litterateurs, at least the top female litterateurs. Unfortunately, we see the reign of our premiere writer now falling into competition with the likes of P. D. James, with Patricia Cornwell, Sue Grafton, and Louise Penny, and therefore a diminishing interest in Christie studies.”

  “Dr. Kennedy.” Gewel’s voice called from the stairs. “Please come down. It’s time.”

  He smiled at Zoe, bowed. “Maybe I waited a little too long to ask for help.”

  Everything he’d been before—brash, know-it-all, superior—seemed to be gone except for that little touch of condescension in his voice.

  In the doorway, he leaned down to Zoe. “I should just run like hell, I suppose. Swim across the creek, get into town, and as far away from here as possible.”

  Zoe smiled up at him. “Me too. Something very different from Christie’s work is going on. People are missing and—” She stopped herself from telling him about the cabin.

  Someone called again from downstairs and he left.

  Zoe soon followed. She had to get more notes for her talk tomorrow. She especially hoped that Arizona John would call. Out of the hundreds of questions they’d had so far, John’s were best, though that wasn’t saying much.

  Chapter 47

  Everyone was in the Michigan Room—as usual.

  Kennedy stood at the front, a little stooped for such an arrogant man.

  He settled his papers and played with his headphones, coughed a few times, then settled his papers again.

  “Everybody is just thrilled to hear you,” Anna called out, her smile unconvincing. “Though I’m not sure either Betty or I will agree. Still, it will be interesting to have another point of view on Agatha.” She almost simpered at him. “Not even you, dear Doctor, can disagree with success, can you? Agatha is still one of the bestselling mystery writers of all time. And I’m sure she will be here, somewhere, to straighten you out.”

  He laughed, an unexpected sound from a man who rarely laughed. “Because commercial success, in my estimation, doesn’t equal quality, Anna, I reserve the right to talk about my view of the work. Perhaps you don’t believe that is important in a critic, having one’s own point of view?”

  Betty and Anna nodded over and over, as if convincing themselves with a kind of Girl Scout pledge that they would be faithful and honest and true, no matter how this man insulted them nor how hard he tried to prove his great intellect.

  “And you two?” Aaron turned to Anthony and Gewel, meeting with surprised faces knowing they had no reason to be singled out.

  “Oh course, man,” Anthony said. “Happy to hear your ideas. Hope it’s scurrilous and libelous enough to keep me awake. Rough night.”

  Aaron chuckled and looked down his nose at Anthony. “I don’t write scurrilous and libelous material, Anthony. And I’m afraid I will stay away from knocking the poor woman, though a knock or two is in order. I’m ready to prove my point.”

  “Aren’t you afraid of what she’ll do to you?” Zoe asked.

  “What a joke. Have to get Bella Webb to do that one again. Entertaining.”

  Nigel clucked at him. “Not going to praise her, Kennedy? But she wrote a lot of books.”

  “I will give her that. I will extol her ability to keep her hand moving, to the heavens, if I have to. But, I repeat, a plethora of writing does not the best quality make. I won’t tell lies just because her books make millions every year, as Anna indicated. Ah, but now I’ll save everything for my talk.”

  “Hmm.” Betty made a noise under her breath.

  Aaron turned to give her one of the withering looks people always gave Betty.

  His eyebrows went up. “Why, Betty, I’m surprised that you’re here at all after some of your comments in the last few days.”

  Betty sent daggers his way.

  “Professor!” Zoe was livid. “I’m beginning to think it’s you who can’t discriminate. Betty is on her way to becoming an Agatha Christie expert. I’m in agreement with most everything she’s said. Now we’ll hear your thoughts and decide.”

  “Well, with your objections about to be drawn and quartered, and the lines of your ignorance clear, I will address you all in a few minutes.” He walked out of the room and down the hall to find a lozenge for his raw throat.

  Gewel muttered she would try to stay awake.

  “Well, well, Miss Zola.” Nigel turned to her. “The professor’s talk fits right into this place, don’t you think?”

  She didn’t understand.

  “What I mean is, don’t you think there’s been a big buildup to something? Do you imagine this group has something to hide? There has to be more than we’ve seen so far, don’t you agree? Think it’s as big as the bombs Aaron plans to drop?”

  “No idea, Nigel. But since that can’t explain the disappearance of all ten of us, I doubt this whole business is little more than a press stunt.”

  “Ah, but then maybe you’re not quite as perceptive as I am, Miss Zola. Men often are, you know, more perceptive. More so than women is what I mean. For all the talk of women’s intuition, women give themselves too much credit.”

  She stuck her tongue out at him.

  Chapter 48

  “Ah, here we are.” Aaron sat at the table, headphones on, one of the tech kids motioning to him.

  He was slightly bowed over his notes.

  When he looked up, he was smiling. “I am here to blow up all your dreams about the famous lady.”

  He stopped to chuckle to himself. “I’ll begin where I began with Miss Zola, who was kind enough to listen to my intro.”

  There were no smiles on the faces around him, no forgiveness for past insults.

  “‘The Aging of Christie’s Fiction.’ I thought that the most appropriate title,” he began, then stopped to cough into his hand, a kind of affectation, and began again.

  “Can everyone out there hear me?” he was asking their audience, though he didn’t listen for answers.

  He began again. “From Graham Green to P. D. James, the mystery—now, and in some of its former forms—is as much a part of the literary canon as what passes for literature today. But only the best lasts.” His heavy-lidded eyes scanned the faces at the table in front of him. “Agatha Christie having lasted as a bestseller for all of these years, we would imagine she would be at the top of the pantheon of mystery writers. At least, the top female writer.

  “That’s where she deserves to be, but unfortunately we see the reign of our premiere now falling into competition with the likes of P. D. James, Patricia Cornwell, Sue Grafton, and Louise Penny, and therefore a diminishing interest in Christie studies.”

  “Pooh!” Anna interrupted out loud. “The new doesn’t wash away all of the old. She’ll always have her place, Agatha will. I say you’re arguing up an empty storm.”
/>   He eyed her but kept going.

  “Let’s take a look at falling sales.”

  Anna’s microphone was off, but her words came through clearly in the room. “Thought you said figures weren’t important, that it’s the quality. ’Cause if you’re going to argue that way, I’d say Agatha’s got most of them beat.”

  “Modern women are growing in influence, but —” he went on.

  “Ha, who is the most influential and who will always be?” Zoe lifted her voice behind Anna’s. “You’re going after straw women here.”

  “They are still far behind male writers such as—”

  “You’ve got a defect, dear Professor Kennedy. Shows right off.” Bella was standing near the back wall, calling out.

  “Yeah, you academics don’t know your ass from a machine gun. People are tired of those shoot-’em-ups. They want real people with real trouble. What’s going on now is like a romp in the sandbox,” Betty yelled at him. “We need more writers like Christie. Not fewer.”

  “Right, Betty,” Anna yelled. “There’s a gap in English literature, ya know. Nobody’s buying what’s supposed to be the best writers. Why? Maybe ’cause of people like you. Tellin’ them what they should like.”

  Aaron pulled off his headphones as one of the techs came running over. “Don’t, Professor. Can’t do that.”

  “Really?” he sneered at the kid. “I’m not speaking in front of a pack of idiots.”

  Soon the others joined in, voices rising.

  “You’re all nobodies. I should have been more careful. I only wanted a chance to get out the word, how Agatha Christie is falling in literary regard.”

  He laughed at first Zoe and then Nigel, then around the room until he’d insulted everyone to his satisfaction.

  “Better hurry up and explain what’s happening here, to your rather ignorant audience. Or they’ll all be demanding their money back. Which is what I’d hoped for all along.” He laughed as he gathered his papers, then, head high, headed for the door.

  “I’m leaving,” he shouted at all of them. “As soon as I can find a way out of this terrible place.”

  “Murder Games after dinner,” Gewel called after him.