I accepted some anyway. I didn’t want to bite the hand that had fed me for so many years. My purpose was to make the best use of the top-of-the-line printers owned by Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques to run off some attractive business cards. It is great to be connected. And we all need the right credentials. But first, I had to spend a little time with family. Uncle Mick was in a chatty mood, not unusual. Lucky was playing his cards close to his chest. Nothing new there.
Mick couldn’t wait to talk about Agatha Christie. I guessed he’d been doing his own bit of research.
“Right, my girl. You know Agatha Christie wrote The Mousetrap.”
I was aware of that. “That’s the longest-running play in history.”
I knew that my uncles would have images of cash dancing in their heads. I added, “In her heyday, she had a string of hits in London’s West End.”
Of course, Uncle Mick had to ask the question that had been bothering me. “I know that too. So what are the chances that nobody knew about this so-called play, then?” Mick did the asking, but Lucky raised his eyebrows.
“That’s bothering me too. The woman was under a microscope. I’ve been reading all about her. I don’t know how she survived all that attention.”
“So why wouldn’t this play have been produced? Problems finding a backer?”
“I doubt it. I don’t really know how her productions were funded, but investors would have been falling over themselves.”
“Maybe she wrote it up and it was no damn good. And she threw it away and some joker found it.”
“That’s possible. But I get the impression from my research that she didn’t throw things away. She kept all her notes and notebooks. She just reworked ideas and plots until they suited her. Sometimes it took years. And she knew what people liked.”
Uncle Mick topped up my Kraft Dinner. I didn’t protest. I have a fast metabolism.
“But she didn’t keep rewriting this one?”
“I have no idea. I haven’t come across anything that references it. And I haven’t been told the story behind it by my employer.” Best to keep the Van Alst name unspoken in Uncle Mick’s kitchen.
Uncle Mick and Uncle Lucky exchanged meaningful glances.
I said, “It will take a while for her to really trust me and confide in me, but it will happen.” I could tell that they liked the sound of wearing the mark down. “So if there is a seller and if there is a manuscript, it will have some background. There has to be a tale behind the play or no one in their right mind would buy it. Once we’ve heard that, we can make some kind of decision.”
Mick said, “What if it just turned up in her old papers? That happens all the time. You should see the stuff that people bring in here. Some things that look like crap turn out to be worth a lot. Letters, documents. If a play turned up, I might not know it was worth something. How would I? Maybe some dealer got hold of it with a pile of whatever and just happened to decide to check it out.”
“Mmm. Not too likely in this case. She had only one daughter, and the daughter had one son. So there weren’t dozens of family members rooting through things, and the close family knew all about her writing business. Plus Agatha Christie’s papers were kept together. Researchers have gone through everything, recently even her notebooks with little jottings. Dozens and dozens.”
“No sign of a play?”
“Well, like I said, she was always reworking things, playing around until they suited her. So there are plays that turned into stories and stories that turned into plays, but I haven’t come across anything that indicates that there was a play like we’re looking for: complete and unproduced. I find it hard to believe it was among her papers or in her home.”
Mick wasn’t one to give up. “Maybe it was somewhere else.”
Well, that went without saying. If it existed, logically it had to be either among her papers in her home, or somewhere else. But where and why would it be somewhere else when there seemed to be a tight lid on the Christie output? Never mind, I respected my lovable and larcenous relative too much to make a sarcastic remark at his expense.
I said, “You may be right.”
Actually, I hoped he was.
After lunch, I made myself some nifty business cards on a classy heavy cream stock, with a lovely italic font. My name, Jordan K. Bingham, and my cell phone number. No more than anyone needs to know. Uncle Mick always says leave them wanting more. That made sense. Before I left, Uncle Mick accompanied me to the boxes of used books kept at the back of his shop. Someone was always turning in the contents of their late parents’ bookshelves. It was a good day.
“Jackpot,” he said. “Look at these, not a whiff of mildew in any of them. They’re yours.” I left carrying a Neiman Marcus bag with two dozen Agatha Christie titles to take home.
I also picked up my basic tool kit that had been stored with my uncles. Pink-handled tools in a matching tote. That kit was worth its weight in gold for a girl on her own. Next I stopped on Main Street at the A1 LockMaster to get a sliding lock for my bedroom door.
I headed home to my garret to check out the background materials on book collectors’ gatherings that had now been added to my mountain of Christie reading. There was a note on the demilune table. The note was on deckle-edge paper, the kind Emily Post would have recommended to a young woman forty years earlier. I figured that Vera Van Alst probably had a lifetime supply of it as it would cost the earth these days. The sight of the note reminded me not to delay in getting that lock installed.
Dear Miss Bingham,
I customarily dine at eight in the formal dining room.
As a rule, you will be expected to join me and bring me up to date on your progress. Should you be unable to attend at any time, please inform Signora Panetone the day before.
Sincerely,
Vera Van Alst
* * *
DINNER AT THE Chateau Van Alst was no porkandbeanpalooza. I assumed that I was expected to dress for dinner. And dress I did. It gave me a chance to wear my mother’s black silk sheath dress and her favorite black Alaska diamond cocktail ring. Simple, chic and the price was right. My mother would have been proud of me. The look was ruined somewhat by the goose bumps rising on my bare arms. It may have been a gorgeous and warm spring day, but the heat hadn’t reached this part of the massive Van Alst stone dwelling. The dining room was freezing, and I should have worn a wrap. I’d definitely know better the next time.
Even though treasures were obviously vanishing from the house, the dining room was still intact. With its acres of Sheraton furniture, it could have been on display in an exclusive museum. I couldn’t begin to put a price on that black oak sideboard with the dragon’s head knobs, or the sterling silver serving pieces that sat on it. I tried not to stare at the pair of Chinese dogs, museum quality again, I was sure. Boy, what Uncle Mick could do with those. Molded? Reproduced as fast as you could say “Ming Dynasty” or whatever they were, authenticity guaranteed.
Vera Van Alst and I sat at opposite ends of a table that was longer than the first floor of the average family home. Although maybe it just gave that impression. Vera’s wheelchair was parked by the side, and she actually sat in the chair at the head of the table. She kept her back to the swinging door that led to the mysterious and magical kitchen regions inhabited by Signora Panetone. I stared down the damask-covered table at Vera. I was glad I didn’t have to iron that cloth, even happier that I didn’t have to polish the Francis I sterling flatware and thrilled I still had good vision, otherwise I would have missed Vera’s latest exercise in beige. I wondered how many beige sweaters with holes in the elbows she owned. Nobody appreciates vintage more than I do, but Vera’s wardrobe had never been enviable. Where would she have even found those sweaters? And why?
This was a table for sixteen in a room where captain-of-industry grandpa Van Alst would have hosted governors and senators and other creaky robber barons. Of course, now it was dim with only wall sconces to light the room. The elaborate silver can
delabras remained unlit. I guessed we were conserving candles. But I had a full place setting of sterling silver, three crystal glasses and Royal Crown Derby china. I didn’t need to turn it over to know what it was. Thank Uncle Mick for that.
“Lovely,” I said, “reminds me of home.”
I didn’t mention the absence of Kraft Dinner, cigar smoke or whiskey.
I also didn’t refer to the presence of the dangerous-looking Siamese cat that suddenly landed in the middle of the table. Vera hadn’t appeared to notice, but then as she so rarely ate anything, she wasn’t too concerned with germs. I fought down thoughts of toxoplasmosis and worked out a plan to keep my plate safe. The cat leapt gracefully from the table and disappeared seconds before the swinging door swung and Signora Panetone descended with a tureen of aromatic soup.
Fine sense of self-preservation, cat, I thought.
“Eat. Eat. Eat. You eat.”
“Okay.” I could hardly wait. The soup turned out to be a broth with some kind of small dumplings.
Signora Panetone turned to Vera Van Alst. “Yes. Yes. Vera. You eat too.”
Vera said to me, “I am eager to hear what you have discovered to date, Miss Bingham.”
Discovered? Wasn’t this day one of the job? I had barely unpacked my bag. “Not much so far. It is a bit like chasing a ghost.”
“Really? I understood you were up to the task.”
“I am up to the task. First I need to find out if I am looking for something that really exists first.”
Was that a flash from Vera’s eyes? Scary. Things got so quiet at both ends of the table that I thought I could hear the gilt peeling off the antique mirrors. Of course, I may have imagined that.
“I like results, and that’s what I pay for.”
Signora Panetone said, “No, no business. Eat soup. Soup is good. Vera, you must eat. Yes.”
I was grateful for the distraction. And the soup was good. As Signora Panetone swung through the doors yet again to scoop up my empty soup bowl and Vera’s full one, I decided that I wouldn’t be joining Vera Van Alst again without something more concrete. Even if I had to pour that concrete myself.
Minutes later the door swung open again. Signora Panetone swooped in with a platter of pasta. Spinach and cheese and, unless I was mistaken, just the right amount of basil.
“This you eat,” she said to Vera. “Yes. Yes. Tonight you must eat.”
She didn’t have to ask me twice.
I realized as the last of the pasta disappeared that Vera Van Alst was still waiting for something of interest from me. Her own plate showed no signs of having lost as much as a forkful of pasta. A tragedy if you ask me.
By the time Signora Panetone whisked the plates (one full, one empty) off the table and vanished behind the swinging door yet again, I was in an excellent mood as I’d been well fed and perhaps had even overdone it just a bit. I decided to drop a few tidbits from my day to foster some type of conversation. “I have been making inquiries.”
Even down the length of that ridiculous table I could see the Van Alst nostrils flare.
“I trust you were discreet.”
You could be nothing but discreet with Sal. And Lance could be trusted with your life. Librarians are like that.
The cat reappeared out of nowhere and landed on the priceless sideboard. I felt a flicker of fear for the Chinese dogs. The cat shot me a contemptuous glare and licked at its fur. I knew I imagined the whispered threat in its glance. Vera paid no attention to it.
“One thing you can count on, I am always discreet.”
“Yet to be proven.”
The cat leapt from the sideboard and vanished into the corridor just as the swinging doors swung open again. That vanishing trick was a good one. I decided I could learn a bit from the feline.
Meanwhile, Signora Panetone was bearing down on us with her tray, containing a gorgeous antique platter—Limoges, unless I was mistaken—laden, and I mean laden, with some kind of cutlets, a serving dish with steaming rice and another with green beans.
She was somewhat dwarfed by the vast quantity of food. Delivery number three might I add. I jumped to my feet as she teetered closer. “Shouldn’t I help you with this? I mean it’s—”
Vera Van Alst waved her boney hand dismissively. “Save your breath.”
I almost said, “What?” But I knew that wasn’t the sort of thing one said to Miss Van Alst.
I did say, “But I think she must need help with that heavy—”
“No, no, sit, sit, sit. You eat, now. Sit, Jordan.” Signora Panetone managed the whole platter as if by magic. I sat. I was surprised that she’d learned my name.
“You eat,” she said menacingly to Vera.
Vera shrugged.
I felt I was sitting in the midst of some surreal movie. Postwar Italian perhaps, only with more food and less sex.
Aside from fending off Signora Panetone’s attempts to put food on my plate, I spent the rest of the surreal movie scene trying to get some more information from Vera Van Alst about the possible play (as I still thought of it). She was nothing if not elusive.
By the time the three dessert choices arrived, I had begun to wonder if my predecessor might not have flung himself in front of the oncoming train out of absolute frustration with his employer. But I am not only a Bingham, I am also half Kelly, and if there’s one thing we love, it’s a challenge.
* * *
AT LEAST MY garret was warm and cat free. I sifted through the stack of promotional material for antiquarian book fairs and settled on the Antiquarian Book and Paper Fair, twenty minutes away in Grandville, at Saint Sebastian’s Hall. It seemed to be a large enough fair, and I was betting that there would be lots of good stuff there. I leafed through a few of the Christie paperbacks that I’d picked up from Uncle Mick’s shelves. I knew better than to try to actually read any of Vera Van Alst’s treasures. I began with The Mysterious Affair at Styles, the book that started a mystery empire. I already knew that Agatha Christie had tried to have it published for a couple of years without success. Who would have guessed that this little book would kick off her career? I expected to be bored by it, but in fact, found myself drawn into the world of the upper-crust English for whom entertaining an endless parade of pretentious visitors seemed to be a way of life. There was something appealing about M. Hercule Poirot. I was caught up in the mystery and, to my surprise, enjoying the sly wit of the author. I put that book down and went back to the nonfiction. Sure, it was good to get to know Agatha Christie, her tricks and her trade, but I needed facts to help me find out about this play.
As I read through the reference materials, I decided one thing: Agatha Christie’s life was at least as exotic and mysterious as anything she wrote. I made notes as I read late into the night. Perhaps I should have stopped long enough to install my new slide lock.
* * *
“CLEAR AS A bell!” Tiffany’s grinning face shone through my screen.
She tilted her laptop to and fro trying to show me her new quarters. “These are the bunks, just me and two other girls.”
“Stop moving, Tiff! It’s worse than The Blair Witch Project on my end.” I eyed the now still room. “It looks like a cold storage unit, only not as cozy.”
Tiffany’s face popped into view. “Oh, she thinks she’s funny, does she? Well, we can’t all be living in the Van La-Tee-Da Mansion, missy.”
“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?”
The Christie Curse Page 5