The Christie Curse

by Victoria Abbott

  I shivered and drove off, taking a few more unexpected turns as I went.

  * * *

  OVER FRANKS AND beans in my uncle Mick’s kitchen, in back of his “antiques” shop, I defended my job choice. The early evening sunlight glinted off the gold chain nestled in Uncle Mick’s ginger chest hair. It complemented the green apron that said “Kiss the Blarney Stone,” with a downward-pointing arrow under the text. I feel safe to say that the besotted customers of Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques would never see the real Mick Kelly, and that was probably a good thing.

  “You’re a disgrace to the family, my girl,” Uncle Mick said, plopping a second helping on my plate.

  I shrugged. I love franks and beans. It is Uncle Mick’s specialty (the secret ingredient is ketchup), and I didn’t want to ruin dinner. “I need the money, and it’s not like I’m becoming a cop or anything.”

  Uncle Mick turned pale. His freckles stood out in sharp relief against his white skin. His franks-and-beans spoon shook. “Becoming a cop? What are you trying to do, kill me? Don’t even joke about something like that.”

  Across the crowded kitchen table, Uncle Lucky shook his head, which I usually interpret to mean “just ignore your Uncle Mick.” Uncle Lucky is always on my side, but he’s not the biggest talker.

  “Those Van Alsts brought the whole town down and nearly ruined this family to boot and you’re going to be taking money from them? Thank the good lord your mother never lived to see that.”

  “Even better that she missed out on knowing that your last Russian bride walked off with Grandma Kelly’s rings.”

  “What do you mean, ‘last’? There was only ever the one, and it’s just a matter of time before Svetlana returns them. She’s a decent girl at heart.”

  I hoped that Uncle Lucky didn’t choke on that frank. I needed him alive and on my side.

  “Look,” I said, “I realize that everyone in Harrison Falls hates the Van Alsts and no doubt with good reason, but Vera must have been just a young woman when that factory shut down. She couldn’t have been responsible. Anyway, she’s in a wheelchair now, practically a senior citizen. And she is going to pay me well. This job means I can go back to school. That’s what my mother would have wanted.”

  Of course, I had no way of knowing what my mother would have wanted as I didn’t really remember her, but I had to talk as though I did, because my uncles are not above using her supposed wishes to discourage me from one course of action or another.

  Don’t get me wrong. I was grateful to my uncles for raising me and making sure I got an education up to the point where the money dried up in recent years, for a number of reasons we won’t go into here. But they trained me to make unpopular decisions. If you’re a Kelly in Harrison Falls, you need to be tough. And sometimes marginally reckless.

  Uncle Mick opened the pantry door and reached for one of the bottles of Jameson eighteen-year-old whiskey. I wondered what truck they’d fallen off. But what I don’t know won’t hurt me.

  “What’s the job?”

  “I’m supposed to find an unknown and unproduced Agatha Christie play. Any ideas where to start?”

  Mick said, “Who owns it?”

  “No idea.”

  “Who’s selling it?”

  “We’re a bit light on details. It might be just a rumor.”

  Uncle Lucky raised his thick eyebrows. A distinguishing feature shared by all the uncles, the eyebrows were ginger and practically had personalities of their own. Lucky nodded toward Mick. I’d grown up listening to all my uncles trash the Van Alst family. I knew they’d have trouble with my choice, but they’d just have to get used to it.

  I said, “She’s an obsessed collector and she wants it. She has the money to pay for it and to pay me, so what’s the problem? She’s not taking advantage of me. Think of it as me taking advantage of her.”

  I wasn’t actually planning to take advantage of Vera Van Alst, but this notion played well to my uncles.

  Mick is always one to find a silver lining, particularly if the silver belongs to someone else. “I suppose it never hurts to have a man on the inside.”

  Lucky smiled.

  “That’s me,” I said. “Our man on the inside.”

  Mick said, “I thought Agatha Christie wrote books. I get boxes of them in the shop when people clear out their bookcases.”

  “She’s most famous for those, but she was a successful playwright too. To tell the truth, I have a lot of research to do. There are people who make a career out of her work.”

  Mick said, “You can only get so far reading.”

  We didn’t always agree on that point.

  I said, “I also have to talk to people in the know. People who might be aware of a manuscript like that if indeed it was for sale.”

  Lucky drummed his fingers on the checkered tablecloth.

  I knew what he meant. Get to the point. I added, “If this play is for sale and it’s just being whispered about, there must be a reason and one big one comes to mind.”

  Mick said, “Make that two.”

  Lucky nodded gravely.

  “Right,” I said. “Either someone’s running a con or the thing is hot.”

  Uncle Mick poured himself two fingers of Jameson and said, “Lucky’s right. Guess you should go see Sal.”

  I glanced at Lucky, who had said nothing of the kind.

  Lucky shrugged. He’s used to Mick pretending to read his mind.

  Sal, I thought.

  Oh no.

  Although I’ve heard plenty about Salvatore Tascone, I hadn’t actually seen Sal since my First Communion, but I knew he’d welcome me with open arms. Uncle Mick was right. There wasn’t much going on in this part of the state that Sal didn’t get wind of.

  “Okay, I’ll go see Sal. Does he have an office in town?”

  Lucky nodded.

  Uncle Mick lit a Cuban cigar and said, “I’ll make the call. He owes me a favor. But you be careful, Jordan. You don’t want to be in Sal’s debt.”

  * * *

  HOME IS WHERE the heart is. In my case, although I loved my uncles dearly, my heart was not in the bachelor apartment above Uncle Mick’s garage, to the left of Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques and to the right of Uncle Lucky’s digs. Sure, it was simple, clean and the price was right. No one would ever dare break in. All positives. Of course, no date would ever make it successfully past the uncle patrol, and I was young, single and still had hopes of a normal life. All to say, I was looking forward to getting out.

  Even so, I knew my small space would be waiting for me if I ever needed it again. My uncles are nothing if not loyal, but I wanted to get moved into my new digs as soon as possible and get down to work.

  Vera Van Alst wanted this elusive and possibly imaginary play now. Sure. But she was a collector. She’d want something else the minute she had it in her hands. And she was in no position to get out hunting for it herself. I had a chance to get on my feet without the collective Kelly breath on the back of my neck. I packed up my belongings quickly and efficiently, keeping in mind the two dark and narrow flights of stairs. Uncle Lucky helped me lug my books, computer and suitcase, and a small midcentury Lucite coffee table I had borrowed from the “antiques” shop.

  After a cold and rainy spring, we finally had one of those perfect May evenings. I felt energized by the sun streaming in through the dormer windows. I’m not usually one to care about the view, but the glimpse of the spring garden was spectacular. The man in the straw hat was now kneeling on a pad and dead-heading the spring bulbs that had already bloomed, and carefully spreading what looked like cedar mulch around the beds. The scent of lilacs drifted on the air. I was in an excellent mood. I had that “summer is coming and anything is possible” feeling. By the time I wrestled my clothes, still on hangers, up the stairs, Uncle Lucky was hoofing it to his car. Vera Van Alst would have to be pretty sharp before she caught sight of him.

  I found myself humming as I finished hanging my mostly vintage clothing in my
old-fashioned armoire and settling the rest in the small walnut dresser in the alcove against the far wall. I was having fun already.

  I settled half the Agatha Christie reference books by the bed and the rest on the Lucite table. I love the look of that table and the way it blends into any environment, including my new late-Victorian garret. I tried not to speculate as to how the perfect table had fallen into Mick’s hands. The less I knew about its provenance the better.

  Agatha’s possible play? That was another story.

  Next I curled up on the feather bed and got to work. Agatha Christie. Her name was synonymous with mystery. To tell the truth, my own tastes were contemporary and I wasn’t sure I’d actually ever read an Agatha Christie book, although I felt I knew about them. My impressions were probably based on Miss Marple or Hercule Poirot movies or television programs on flickering VCR bootleg tapes from PBS, watched while I was a child. My uncles had loved the British vibe. Uncle Mick always leaned forward with a gleam in his eye. Probably gave them a good sense of authenticity for the “antiques” business. Of course, Hercule Poirot or Miss Maple might have been onto their tricks in a flash in real life. But I needed to know much more.

  I dove into my project asking myself what was there about Agatha Christie that would lead a stranger to want to collect her unpublished work. Secretly, of course. Because it was obvious to me that Vera Van Alst was off the deep end over this play.

  By midnight I had a stiff neck from reading in one position. That was a small price to pay because I now knew about the mysterious eleven days that had gripped the attention of the world, about Christie’s stay at a spa in Harrogate, Yorkshire, under an assumed name, which was oddly enough the name of her husband’s mistress. I liked that. I’d laughed out loud at the thought of Agatha Christie’s fellow guests staring at her photo in the papers and discussing the disappearance as she sat right in front of them, dressed to the nines. I had to hand it to her. Nicely done. But, it had been only eleven days, and she’d spent a good part of that dining and playing cards. Had there really been enough time to write a play?

  Although, so far, there had been nothing about a play being written during this time period, the books were very intriguing, which I had been happy to discover. Bless our good buddy Lance and his knowledge of the topic. Fairly recently, an admiring author had uncovered a treasure trove of notebooks while researching in Greenway, Agatha Christie’s home in Devon. Lance had handed me the admiring author’s book, which described what was in those notebooks and how the contents related to Agatha Christie’s life. Agatha Christie’s Secret Notebooks sounded like a piece of fiction itself, although it was very real. I was fascinated to see how her famous novels had developed and something of the process she used. Better yet, while exploring the treasure trove of notebooks, the author had come across two unpublished short stories. Vera had alluded to those. I was glad to know how they had come to light. No one had even guessed they existed. But as one famous guy once said, the play’s the thing. Of course, that hadn’t ended well. So far there was nothing to confirm or even suggest a new play, although it now seemed more possible. So why had it taken over eighty years for this particular, and still hypothetical, play to show up? Where had it been? Why had it surfaced now? What were the chances that this wasn’t someone trying to con Vera Van Alst out of what was left of her inherited stash? That seemed more likely to me. God knows I’d seen enough of that kind of thing. On the other hand, I’d been hired to find the stupid thing, not disprove its existence.

  If I were a con artist, I’d sure be targeting obsessive collectors like her. Planting a rumor is an honored part of the con tradition. I knew all about collectors’ lust from my visits to Uncle Mick’s “antiques” shop. Vera Van Alst was a committed collector with deep pockets. Was she also a mark?

  From what I’d seen, she was shrewd and tough. Time would tell. As I went back to the books, I was growing more and more curious about my predecessor. The postal carrier had said an accident. What kind of accident? Maybe he’d been eaten alive. I’d have to check that out.

  In the meantime, I decided to celebrate my new digs with a bath in that amazing tub. The pipes clanged and rattled as I filled it. As least hot water was not in short supply in the Van Alst household. That was excellent. I was really glad that I’d brought my vanilla and amber bath salts. I let myself soak in the tub until I relaxed and the tight muscles in my neck recovered.

  Later, I spotted a note on the small demilune table by my entrance door as I padded, yawning, through my tiny living room heading for bed. I hadn’t heard anyone knock. But someone had clearly entered the apartment while I was luxuriating in the tub. For one thing, a Siamese was watching me from the club chair. I opened the door and peered out. The narrow staircase leading to my charming staircase was in utter darkness. Even when I flicked on the overhead light, there was barely enough illumination to see. I was pleased when the cat skittered past me, through the entrance and down the stairs. Had Signora Panetone teetered up the two flights of stairs again? Did she have any comprehension of privacy?

  Thursday, May 17

  Dear Miss Bingham,

  I breakfast at eight in the conservatory and you will be expected to join me. We shall use the opportunity to go over your plans and strategies for the day.

  Should you be unable to attend breakfast, please let Signora Panetone know the evening before.

  Sincerely,

  Vera Van Alst

  * * *

  I WAS JERKED awake by the phone near the bed. That was too bad because I’d been just about to marry Jake Gyllenhaal.

  “Breakfast is at eight. Did I not mention that?” Vera Van Alst said in a tone that no one would argue with.

  I glanced at the clock. Seven forty-five. “I’ll be there.”

  In my experience, no one gets a master’s degree without being able to shoot from bed to class in less than twenty minutes.

  She said, “Good. I’m looking forward to hearing your strategies.”

  My strategies? What were my strategies? And why was there a cat in my bed? I had shown the cat the door. Had the signora stuck her head in this morning while I was sleeping? The Siamese seemed less than pleased to see me up and about and skittered toward the door, growling loudly. I dodged it, barely managing to avoid a slash of claws.

  One of my early strategies would be getting a slide lock for my entry.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SIGNORA PANETONE DEPOSITED three perfectly poached eggs in front of me. Bacon, lightly fried homemade bread, thick slices of tomato that must have been fresh from some unseen hydroponic garden, all appeared like magic. Steam rose from the cafetiera as the signora topped up my cup with fragrant espresso. I inhaled the rich aroma.

  Maybe my predecessor had died of clogged arteries and caffeine intoxication.

  I glanced over at my new boss. She was wearing another ratty ensemble from her yak-herder beige collection. The soft sunlight in the conservatory wasn’t doing her any favors, and she obviously didn’t feel like talking. In case I had been tempted to start up some idle pleasantries, the fact that her pointed nose was stuck in the New York Times would have been a clue not to. It’s hard to compete with the crossword.

  Well, never mind that. The conservatory with its view of the gorgeous east side garden of the Van Alst house more than made up for Vera’s lack of social skills. I liked the ceramic floors, the three walls of windows that started at knee length and the French doors with their own security pads. I admired the large potted lemon trees, thriving. And was that a fig tree? I figured the signora cared for the trees, as well as the rows of some kind of seedlings on the wide, low window ledges. I felt like I was in heaven, even if Vera didn’t share my opinion.

  From my seat, I got a glimpse at a peculiar group of low structures in a sheltered spot near what I took to be the kitchen door. It was the only less-than-perfect aspect of the Van Alst garden. Of course, we Kellys do not garden, so what do I know.

  Every now and then, I gl
anced at Vera. While I had wolfed my breakfast, not a crumb seemed to have moved on Vera’s plate. The NYT seemed to hold her attention. It took me by surprise when she finally spoke.

  “What are your findings thus far?” Vera’s gravelly voice seemed set on permanent growl. It suited her.

  Signora Panetone said, “Yes, yes, yes, no, no. You must eat. American breakfast. Why do you leave it there? Eat. Yes, yes. Mangia. Mangia!”

  Vera swatted her away. “Findings, Miss Bingham?”

  Playing fast and loose with the term “findings,” I said, “Well, my initial findings are that this will require caution. We need to confirm the existence of the manuscript, and then we will want to rule out forgery, fraud and other gimmicks.”

  I saw a small flash from the dark eyes. “I’m glad to see you are not as naïve as you look.”

  “Well, thank you.” I admire a well-aimed left-handed compliment as much as the next person and Vera Van Alst was obviously very skilled at lobbing them. I decided to take advantage of the moment. “I meant to ask yesterday, if you have any other Christie manuscripts or—”

  “I do not.”

  So much for that. I could tell by her tone that she wasn’t in the mood for small talk, and I didn’t want to reveal how little I really knew about the topic of Agatha Christie and her work.

  Luckily, Signora Panetone had plopped down yet another small mountain of still-sizzling fried bread. I reached for it.

  Signora Panetone said, “Yes. Eat. Good.”

  There was something else I needed to know, though.

  “I’m curious about my predecessor. Was he naïve?”

  “No, no, no, no talk,” Signora Panetone said. “More coffee?”

  Vera scowled. “I don’t remember mentioning a predecessor.”

  “More egg? Yes, yes.”

  “No,” I said, to both. “You didn’t. But your mailman did.”