The Christie Curse

by Victoria Abbott

  The platter had lovely homemade fettuccine and what looked like mushroom sauce. “Porcini,” she said mysteriously, “from friend.”

  I nodded, but made a point of not looking too interested in case that would set Vera off. I said, as the signora was heaping, and I do mean heaping, the fettuccine on my plate, “I did meet some potentially productive contacts at the Antiquarian Book and Paper Fair over in Grandville.” I tried to make my efforts sound more successful than they actually had been.

  Vera raised an eyebrow.

  I said, “I met George Beckwith at Nevermore—”

  Vera said, “A sniveling sycophant in a suit.”

  I blinked. Her characterization didn’t sound much like the handsome silver-haired man with the buttery British voice. Snooty, maybe. “I think he wants to connect me with something. I heard him asking around.”

  Vera inhaled dramatically. “You didn’t tell him about the play, did you?”

  “Of course not. I let him think that I have money to spend, I know my stuff and I am looking for something different. I think he’ll act on it.”

  “Humph.”

  I took a measured breath. “I also met Karen Smith from the Cozy Corpse.”

  Vera snorted. “Small-time operation. She can’t be that good a contact.”

  “Nevertheless, she seemed interested.” There was no point in telling Vera that Karen seemed very nice and helpful and had a great sense of humor, plus all that dramatic red hair and the wonderful smile. Vera would probably hold those things against her.

  “Interested?”

  “Yes. I bought a nice book of Christie plays from her and said I was looking for something special. Unusual.”

  “Did you say you were working for me?”

  “Not a word. I didn’t say anything I didn’t have to. I think I’ll get further being aloof. I did let it slip that I am a collector, like my daddy.”

  Vera frowned. “Is your daddy a collector?”

  “No,” I said, “he’s dead.”

  That nipped the topic in the bud, as it was intended to.

  “Be careful not to overplay your hand,” Vera said. “Every single person you meet will just want to separate you from your money.”

  I was pretty sure in her case that would be true, with the exception of Signora Panetone, who was unaccountably devoted. For sure, I was there because it was a job, not because of an emotional bond. And in fact, I couldn’t imagine any kind of bond developing.

  I took that moment to work on my fettuccine.

  Just as I was finishing, the door to the kitchen swung open and Signora Panetone teetered in with the next platter. Sole in parsley and lemon sauce, served with fluffy Italian rice. Nice.

  The door was behind Vera, and I thought I spotted movement in the kitchen. Was it the cat? A tail waving? No, not the cat, something man sized. I squinted as the door closed again. Was it my imagination? The dining room was long and dim. Easy to make a mistake.

  As the serving and “eat, eat, yes, yes” routine continued, I waited.

  Vera grudgingly accepted about a tablespoon of food. I didn’t hold back in any way. I did keep my eye on the door as Signora Panetone swung through it again. A pale, thin man, but a man. Sure enough. Leaning against the table, stood the unassuming postal carrier, looking quite at home. What was his name? Eddie? Yes. Eddie McRae, a pastel and reedy man. What was he doing in the kitchen on a Saturday night? Did Vera know he was there? She certainly didn’t seem to. Should she be made aware of it? It wasn’t any of my business. She was a lot of things and stupid wasn’t one of them. When the door opened yet again for the arrival of dessert, something Signora Panetone called zuppa inglese, there was no sign of the pale postman. I knew that zuppa inglese meant English soup, an alarming name for a dessert, but it turned out to be a wonderful combination of ladyfingers, custard, chocolate and liqueur. It was very distracting. I didn’t give the mysterious Eddie another thought.

  * * *

  SATURDAY NIGHTS USED to be for parties. Now they were for finding out what made Agatha Christie tick. They were also for fishing out my girly pink tool kit and installing that slide lock. I figured I was far enough away from Vera that she’d never hear the whine of the adorable pink drill. Of course, a cat had managed to materialize before that job was finished. How did that happen? I reminded myself that I should be more vigilant as I didn’t want to end up like my predecessor. For all I knew, a Siamese cat had pushed him in front of that train and blamed the homeless dude. I stared at the cat nervously, wondering if it was planning to slash my legs as soon as I relaxed. But, despite my efforts to escort it from the room, it only wanted to purr and stick close to me. If the stakes weren’t my legs, I could have relaxed and enjoyed it. But this cat’s mood swings were doing my head in.

  After finishing the lock installation, I set up my pile of reading, planning once again to alternate reading stories and biographical material. I was most interested in the period in 1926 when Agatha went missing. That had to be the center of this whole mystery. Eleven days. What had happened? And why?

  I settled in and decided to focus on the story behind her disappearance. I knew what it meant to have a man decide you didn’t matter to him. In my case, the creep maxed out my credit cards at the same time he was shredding my heart. In Agatha’s, her husband made sure she knew he didn’t love her. Here was a woman who had captured the attention of the world with her clever and entertaining mysteries. Yet, she was all alone when it came to her love life. It seemed that Archie Christie had treated her with contempt and considered her writing as nothing more than frivolity. I sneered at the pages as I read about his flagrant affair and his coldness to Agatha. There were theories about her disappearance. Had she tried to make him look like a murderer? He had certainly fallen under suspicion by the police. I liked that idea. Some specialists suggested that Agatha had been in a fugue state, whatever that was. I’d never heard of it. A bit more research told me that a fugue state is a rare psychiatric disorder characterized by reversible amnesia. It usually only lasts a few days.

  Eleven, maybe?

  According to my sources, it also involves unplanned travel or wandering, and can be accompanied by the establishment of a new identity. Of course, if you were a noted mystery writer with a husband who’d announced he was leaving you for another woman, you might be plunged into a mental state like that. Or you might be prepared to fake it. What had it been for Agatha Christie?

  If she’d been in a so-called fugue state, could she have written a play and left it somewhere? Tucked under a loose floorboard in her hotel? Hidden behind a bookcase? She might have had some form of amnesia, but she wouldn’t necessarily have been without her formidable skill at putting together a mysterious drama. Perhaps she’d written a play in which Archie Christie got what was coming to him. I chuckled at that idea. Slow-acting poison? A favorite. Perhaps that was wishful thinking on my part. I felt lucky that I’d been able to hang out with my best friends, drinking red wine, eating chocolate and throwing darts at pictures of my ex. Tiff had been thoughtful enough to give me a voodoo doll with some pins strategically placed for maximum effect. That’s a true friend. Agatha could have done with a Tiff in her life.

  By midnight, I had decided that Agatha could have written the play. In fact, I was counting on it. I got myself a glass of water and decided to hit the pillow.

  The evening air was still warm, and it was an ideal night for an open window. I figured the garret would be like an oven in the summer, but now, it was perfect.

  As I stared out at the garden, I saw movement. Someone was slinking along the path toward the wrought-iron gate. I leaned forward. A thin, stooped figure. Eddie? I was pretty sure it was. Whatever he was doing here at this time of the night, he sure wasn’t delivering the mail.

  * * *

  I WOKE UP on Sunday morning prepared to face my biggest fear. No, not the cat that was hissing at me from the end of the bed. What happened to all that purring and cuddling up? This was Psycho K
itty. I bolted for the door, unlocked it and let the ferocious feline escape, but not before it made another one of its slashes at my bare legs. For a minute, it took my mind off what I had to face. Today, I needed to find out what had happened to Alex Fine’s research material. I had checked every inch of my small garret, but it sure wasn’t in my quarters. I already had tons of notes, but I was sure Alex would have had his own. Wherever they were, they would be incredibly useful to me. Vera hadn’t been forthcoming about them.

  * * *

  BREAKFAST WAS AT eight in the conservatory. I smiled at Vera as I arrived with one minute to spare.

  She lifted her gaze from the New York Times and raised an eyebrow as if my smile had about the same appeal as a slap in the face.

  “It was a beautiful night last night,” I said to no one in particular as the signora hovered with pastries and coffee.

  Vera grunted.

  I guessed a beautiful night is really in the eye of the beholder.

  “I was wondering if Alex Fine left any information here that I might build on. I am surprised I haven’t found anything.”

  Signora Panetone leaned in close and whispered, “Eat.”

  Vera said, “He did not. You’ll have to find out for yourself. Unless you are really less competent than you suggested in your interview. Other people wanted this job, you know.”

  I smiled again. “Did they?” I doubted that too many people who were capable of doing the job would be happy to put up with Vera and her surly ways. “You know, I am asking myself if Agatha Christie didn’t write that play while she was in a so-called fugue state, and put it somewhere that she didn’t remember afterward. That would account for the fact that no one has found it until now.”

  Vera glowered, but I knew she was interested.

  “It might have been hidden or given to someone who didn’t realize its connection to her. Perhaps someone found it in their grandmother’s attic and it went out with a box of old books or papers.”

  She shrugged.

  I said, “And Christie herself might not have been aware. If she’d been in this fugue state.”

  Vera nodded, trying to look totally unenthusiastic, but not quite pulling it off.

  I said, “Did the person offering it for sale give you a title?”

  “Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear earlier. There is no ‘person offering it for sale.’ There is only a rumor that the play exists. No name. Just that it was never performed. No other original copies exist. And no real details. That is, if you remember, why I am paying you and providing you with comfortable accommodation.”

  So much for my attempt to squeeze a bit more information out of her pursed lips.

  “Very comfortable accommodation,” I said as I spotted a tail and tucked my legs in out of harm’s way. “Excellent food too.”

  I grinned at Signora Panetone.

  “You eat. More? More. Yes, yes. Coffee. Yes.”

  Vera managed to escape with barely a mouthful.

  Breakfast came and went without any new information. But it was delicious. And the coffee just kept on coming. Bliss.

  What were these little games with Vera all about? Was she testing me? Why? Was there really a play? I couldn’t see what she was getting out of any of it. Aside from the obsessive desire to own something that no one else could have, what was driving her?

  I had more reading to do and wanted to see my uncles’ mischievous faces, but I also had to make a plan to find out what my predecessor, the very dead Alexander Fine, had learned before his death.

  I had two friends on Facebook: Uncle Lucky and Tiffany. Tiff was outgoing and loved to socialize, making friends with everyone who crossed her path. People clamored to be her friend, write on her wall and get her to join their groups. I occasionally received FarmVille and FishVille requests from Lucky. But I loved to watch Tiff bubble online. Still, I had felt it necessary to join this social network under a forbidden “assumed name” of Kelly Jordan.

  I commented on some photos from her night out. At this moment I doubted my decision not to join her in Canada. I could be swimming in cash and pursued by hard-bodied lads too. Except for the ever-flirtatious Lance, the only attention I seemed to attract lately was that of local law enforcement and I had mistakenly mentioned both sightings of Officer Smiley to Tiff on the phone. Now, a late-night inbox message from Tiffany referred to him as “Officer Hottie” and included this helpful suggestion: Get your fine overeducated butt down to the police station and ask for a date.

  Call me when you sober up;) was my reply.

  * * *

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON JUST after two, I walked up the path to the neat, white Cape Cod–style house. The short drive to the village of Darby had been pleasant and uneventful. I figured I might be on a winning streak. I knocked on the faded red door. As I glanced around, I realized that the grass was growing over the hose. There were hangers for flower baskets, but no baskets hanging from them, and the planter boxes were sitting empty. I hoped the lump in my throat went away before I had to ask my questions.

  Alexander Fine’s parents looked older than they probably were. That was no surprise after the death of their son. It was a house soaked in sadness and loss, and I remembered the feeling well.

  To my surprise, they were pleased to talk about their son and his work. They didn’t even ask what I wanted. I’d barely said my name when I found myself welcomed into their home. No elaborate cover story needed, it seemed.

  “I am so sorry for your loss,” I said again, when Mr. Fine ushered me into their home.

  Mrs. Fine said as I took a seat in the flowery living room, “We were proud of Alexander.”

  Mr. Fine said, “Very proud.”

  I could have figured that by the number of photos of the young Alexander that were clustered around the room. An only child, Alexander had clearly been the center of his parents’ world. This boy with olive skin, huge dark eyes and amazing eyelashes. He hadn’t been much of a smiler. He looked like a worried little boy. There were graduation photos, spelling bee photos, and some from what looked like a chess club. Alex had a faint air of anxiety in every one. It made me wonder if he’d had some kind of lifelong premonition that something very bad was going to happen to him.

  In the foyer, I’d passed the annual progression of school photos. Intricate model airplanes and finished puzzles decorated every surface in sight.

  “Something to eat?” Mrs. Fine said.

  “Oh, no thank you, I’m—”

  “We have cookies.” She nodded at her husband, who shot out of his chair and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.

  I said, “I love that you still have Alexander’s pictures up. He sure was a cute kid.” That got me off the conversational hook of saying he sure was an attractive man, as he really hadn’t been. He’d had, however, a quiet niceness about him, like his parents. They seemed like the type of people who would stop and help you change a tire on a dark night while they were wearing their best clothes, at the same time the rest of the world might ignore you and rush home to watch Dancing with the Stars.

  Mr. Fine arrived back with a plate of cookies. Pepperidge Farm Pirouette Rolled Wafers. I am very partial to them.

  Mrs. Fine smiled. “Did you go to school with our Alexander?”

  I felt so comfortable with these people, that I didn’t even feel the need to lie. Mistake, as it turned out.

  “No, actually, but I am…” I hesitated. I didn’t want to say his replacement. Nothing was going to replace Alexander with these gentle people. “I am now working as a researcher for Vera Van Alst.”

  The temperature in the room dropped by ten degrees. The soft, sweet pallid people seemed to develop sharp edges. They stared at me with narrowed eyes. Mr. Fine crossed his arms. Mrs. Fine moved the Pirouette Wafers out of my reach.

  “So you’re saying you didn’t go to school with Alex and you work for that horrible woman?” Mrs. Fine said.

  In my family, honesty is never the best policy, but I had
nothing to lose and I felt bad about bothering these grieving people. “No, I didn’t go to school with Alex, and I do work for the woman you clearly despise, but this is my job now and it’s a job I love and respect.” I decided against mentioning that I was sure Vera was keeping information from me for whatever bizarre reason. It might have been true, but I didn’t think it would help my case. “I am missing some information, and I was hoping that you might have some of his notes or—”

  They exchanged glances, and I figured the answer would be no.

  Mr. Fine said, “Well, I guess it takes integrity to be truthful.”

  Mrs. Fine said, “Not everyone is.” She pushed the cookies back toward me.

  I pulled something out of thin air. “I am sure that Alex wouldn’t want to leave his work unfinished. Did he love the job too?”

  That hit the spot. The mother gasped. I felt a frisson of guilt, but I fought it.

  I pressed my advantage. “Did he keep research materials? Books? Anything relevant? I didn’t find anything in the apartment, and I believe he was there before me. I was hoping that he might have left some things here with you.”

  Mr. Fine glanced at Mrs. and nodded. She said, “Most of it is gone, but what he had left is still in boxes in his room. We haven’t been able…” She stopped, choked up.

  Grief flooded both their faces.

  I felt like I’d dropped a bag of misery on the doorstep of these already stricken people. I said, “Don’t worry about it. I don’t want to cause you any more distress.”

  They exchanged another glance. Mrs. Fine nudged the cookies further toward me, and Mr. Fine said with a tremor in his voice, “Would we be putting you out too much to ask you to go through the boxes by yourself? It would be just too painful for us.”

  Mrs. Fine’s eyes filled. Mr. Fine reached over and squeezed her hand.

  I wondered if I was actually lower than dirt. Would there be a special place in hell for people who took advantage of bereaved families?