The Christie Curse

by Victoria Abbott

  I was sure the cat wasn’t really smirking. It just seemed that way. I kept out of its reach as I hurried to get ready for breakfast on time.

  Despite the bright day, the tall windows, the exuberant plants and the cheerfully faded floral coverings on the furniture, that morning breakfast in the conservatory was a gloomy affair. I decided this was because Vera could suck the sunny morning out of any space. The mood was warmed only slightly by Signora Panetone’s frantic cries. “Eat! Eat! Now!” Followed by, “You! Coffee!”

  I was very glad to get that first cup of espresso. Like a peevish child, Vera kept her eyes on the New York Times and pushed away her plate of breakfast pastries without even glancing at it. I hardly felt like eating a thing. Karen Smith’s white face kept popping into my head.

  I found myself staring at Vera, a shapeless mass of beige as usual. How much had she failed to tell me about what was going on? If I’d known the real story, whatever that was, would it have prevented what happened to Karen? Only one way to find that out.

  “So,” I said as Signora Panetone plopped a warm sweet roll and some fresh cheese on my plate, “I suppose you’ve heard.”

  Vera shot me her best glower. “Heard what?”

  “Karen Smith was badly injured last night.”

  Signora Panetone stopped serving and made the sign of the cross.

  “Should I know who Karen Smith is?”

  “I think you should.” That earned me a raised eyebrow and an expression that said “I am the employer and you are the indentured serf. Don’t forget that.”

  But I had already made up my mind. As much as I loved my garret and needed this job, I needed a fair, respectful employer more. I needed to know that I wasn’t doing things that would get me or other innocent people killed. I needed Vera to be honest with me.

  “She’s the woman who owns the Cozy Corpse mystery bookstore over in Grandville. I’ve told you about her, although I’m sure you already knew.”

  Vera said nothing.

  I did, though. “She arranged to meet me to give me some information, possibly about the Christie play. When I got there, I found her with a serious head wound. They’re not sure if she’ll make it.”

  Vera pursed her lips and glowered a bit harder. She seemed to think it was the most effective of her five facial expressions (scowl, glower, sneer, utter boredom, and reverence, although reverence was reserved for books in her collection). The glower had stopped working on me, though. I doubt it had ever made a dent in the signora. But the news about Karen Smith had. Vera might be pursuing an “I know nothing” attitude, but she was the only one.

  “That means she might die. In case there was any lack of clarity on my part.”

  “None whatsoever. Did she tell you anything about the manuscript?”

  “No, she was too busy being clubbed.”

  Vera said without a blink, “I mean when she arranged to meet you.”

  “She did not. She left a message. But really, I think it’s time that you told me what you know about the manuscript. I do not want to be flying blind anymore.” I stopped and sipped my espresso while I observed the impact.

  Vera’s nostrils flared. I had hit a nerve. “Miss Bingham—”

  I held up my hand. “Miss Van Alst. People are being hurt. One person has already died. I do not intend to die, and I do not intend to put anyone else in danger. You must accept that, and if you want me to continue, you will have to be open with me. What do you know about who might have this manuscript, and who would be willing to prevent you or me or the late Alex Fine from finding it?”

  Vera added a new expression to her list. Ambivalence? From the tormented look on her face, I concluded that she knew something and didn’t want to share it with me.

  Signora Panetone leaned over and filled my espresso cup. “Drink,” she said with a hint of sympathy.

  I resisted the urge to say something and gave my attention to the coffee, which I polished off.

  Finally, with a massive sigh, Vera said, “I don’t know.”

  I kept quiet.

  “It is true, Miss Bingham. I do not know who is doing these things, and I would very much like to. You are correct. I have indeed met Karen Smith and purchased some excellent items from her. She did not deserve to have this happen. I have no idea what the connection is. That is the truth.”

  “But is it the whole truth?” She could scowl, sneer and glower all she wanted, I needed to know.

  “Most of it.”

  “How about the rest then? This would be a good time.” I held out my tiny espresso cup for a refill and probably earned Signora Panetone’s affection for the rest of my life.

  Vera sighed again. “Well, it’s not much, but I know there is someone involved.”

  I barely kept myself from screaming, “Out with it!”

  “In the collecting world, there is a shadowy figure known as Merlin. No one knows who he is, but he often is the broker in complex acquisitions.”

  “Ah,” I said, knowingly. I took complex acquisitions to mean stolen items.

  “That’s it.”

  “If that’s it, why did you choose to mention him?”

  “I believe he was involved.”

  Control, I whispered to myself. “In what way?”

  “Very well. He had been in touch with Alex Fine about the manuscript.”

  “In touch?”

  She shrugged. “Well, through an intermediary.”

  “Were you aware of who the intermediary was?”

  “In fact, I was not. Alex Fine played that close to his chest. But I believed him.”

  “And do you still believe this Merlin is somehow connected to the Christie play?”

  “I do.”

  I waited. And waited. Finally, I said, “And you think that Merlin might have been responsible for the attack on Karen Smith?”

  “That I don’t know. But she is very well connected in the world of collections, liked and respected, but I suspect not overly, shall we say, scrupulous about her business dealings.”

  “You mean that she might have been willing to take part in a less-than-honest transaction.”

  “I don’t know that for sure.”

  “So she may have been in touch with Merlin. Or with the intermediary.”

  “Exactly.”

  I suppose it had taken me a ridiculously long time to really question how Alex’s death might be connected to his work with Vera. I was used to con games, but I was a stranger to violence. Murder was a new situation all together. “I think it’s more than coincidence that Alex died working on this file and now Karen has been attacked.”

  She nodded. I’d expected a bit of an argument, but apparently I wasn’t the only one who had been thinking that.

  I said, “Stepping back a bit, do you think that Merlin might have been responsible for Alex Fine’s so-called accidental death?”

  Signora Panetone crossed herself three times in rapid succession. I thought I spotted tears in her eyes.

  “It would seem possible, Miss Bingham.”

  “And you have no way of knowing who Merlin is?”

  “Exactly. I don’t even know if he’s only one person. Or if he’s a group that uses the name to conduct its business under the radar, for a variety of reasons.”

  “Theft from other collections? Pillaging of museums? Is Merlin some kind of high-end fence?”

  “To repeat, I do not know and I don’t think many people do. He’s perhaps a construct, a foil, but Alex had made contact with him. Or so he said.”

  “He didn’t give you details?”

  “He claimed not to have any. But as I said, I believed him.”

  “Now Alex is dead, apparently after an encounter with a homeless man who stole his computer. And Karen was certainly left to die. Looks like someone wants to prevent you from getting that manuscript.”

  “Perhaps. I truly have no idea why. I am willing to pay whatever Merlin wants to possess the play.” I thought about the bare spots on the walls
, the missing artifacts and the need for repairs in the house. But even so, Vera would spare no expense to have this play. That said less about the play than about Vera.

  I said, “Why not just sell it to you? You’d keep quiet even if the provenance wasn’t, um, clear.”

  “I’m afraid that is so.”

  “There’s a real viciousness at work. I saw the damage to Karen Smith. It was very disturbing. Seemed personal somehow.”

  I heard the signora gasp.

  Vera said nothing, but behind her latest scowl, I thought I caught the flicker of genuine emotion, the first I’d ever seen in her.

  “So who wants to keep you from the manuscript?”

  She shrugged. “That comes under your job description, Miss Bingham.”

  “How do I know that whoever is trying to prevent you from getting the manuscript won’t come after me? Am I the sitting duck in this case?”

  “I trust you will take good care to keep yourself safe.”

  Thanks a lot.

  I shot back, “And I trust you will do the same.”

  Vera flinched. She was worried. Now I could see that.

  “I am never really alone, and I don’t leave this house, as you know.”

  “Let’s hope that works out for you. Tell me, have you found anything of Alex’s research? That would have to help.”

  She shook her head. “Nothing,”

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  She paused, then nodded. “Yes. Now I would, but there is nothing.”

  Signora Panetone stuck her face in front of mine. She gestured toward a platter of fluffy scrambled eggs. “Eat now.” She patted my shoulder in what I thought was supposed to be a kind of reassuring gesture. “You, eat, eat.”

  For some reason, I just couldn’t.

  * * *

  I BREEZED INTO the hospital at eleven o’clock, as soon as visitors were allowed. I did my best to look distraught. That wasn’t hard.

  I inquired about Karen Smith at Information.

  “Are you a relative?” the pleasant volunteer with the frizzy yellow hair asked.

  I didn’t hesitate. “She’s my aunt. We’re all so terribly worried.” I considered saying that I’d driven all night to get there, but my uncles had always warned me to keep my stories simple. Less chance of tripping up that way. “Can she have flowers? I’d like to get some.”

  She squinted at the screen. “I think so. She’s postoperative, but there’s nothing to say she can’t. Room 503.”

  I hustled to the gift shop where a small refrigerator held arrangements in vases. I picked out one that I thought Karen might like: small, bright iris and baby’s breath. Five minutes later I stepped out of the elevator and headed for room 503.

  There was no police guard outside her room. I guessed the police were still sticking to their crime-of-opportunity theory.

  Karen lay there on the bed, wan, bandaged and swollen. I whispered her name. Was this a good idea? What if she was shocked to see me? What if…? Get a grip. You need to know what happened, I told myself.

  “Karen?”

  Her eyelids flickered.

  “It’s Jordan.”

  I whirled at a sound behind me. A nurse’s aide had entered the room. I nodded and turned back to Karen. “Aunt Karen? It’s me, Jordan.”

  Her eyes opened. It took them a few minutes to focus.

  “I am so sorry you were hurt. I brought you some flowers.” I showed her the bouquet and watched it register.

  “Glad you like them,” I said with a grin. “You don’t have to force yourself to talk. I just wanted to see that you were all right.” I put the flowers on the window ledge and returned to her bedside. I squeezed her hand while the nurse’s aide fiddled with the IV drip. Karen managed to squeeze back.

  The aide flashed us a gap-toothed smile. “A good sign,” she said.

  Karen whispered, “Dog.”

  “Sorry, what?”

  “Dog.”

  “Your dog?”

  Another squeeze.

  “You want me to walk the pooch?”

  “Feed.”

  Feed? “Of course. I’ll go right away. I didn’t realize that no one had done that. The poor thing.”

  A look of relief crossed her damaged face.

  “Aunt Karen,” I said, “who did this to you?”

  Her forehead puckered.

  I tried again. “Who hurt you?”

  The barest of whispers. “Don’t know.”

  Oh great. I knew better than to badger her in her fragile state.

  “Please. Feed Walter. Walk.”

  “Leave it to me,” I said.

  I glanced at the aide. “I’ll need her keys. Do you know if they’ll be in the drawer?”

  “Patients are not supposed to keep any valuables here. There’s all sorts of lowlife roaming around pretending to be something they’re not. Someone gets your keys and they know your name, guess what happens next?”

  “That’s really terrible,” I said, opening the drawer in the bedside table. No keys. Not for the van. Not for the house. Wherever that was. Not for the store either. Where could they be? I remembered seeing Karen’s handbag on the floor in the hall. Had the police taken it? Did they have the keys? Would they have been there? Would they have called animal control about the poor dog?

  I said. “You rest. I’ll be back after I’ve checked on the pooch.”

  The big problem was that I didn’t know where Karen lived, and I could hardly ask when the aide was standing there, as I was supposed to be her niece. Luck was with me and with Karen and presumably Walter the dog. The aide straightened Karen’s pillow and tapped at the various fluids and machines beside the bed, then, apparently satisfied, headed briskly out the door.

  “Where is, um, Walter?” I whispered.

  “Home.”

  “Where’s home?”

  But Karen seemed to have slipped back to sleep.

  I stopped in the lobby to check the phone book by the pay phone. No luck. No Karen Smith listed. Of course, she could live anywhere in our patchwork of tiny communities. I tried my iPhone. No luck there either. The Cozy Corpse did show up with a street address in Grandville.

  I climbed into the Saab and headed south. I sure hoped that some neighbor with a key had taken pity on that poor dog. If the dog really existed. I hear that morphine can make you spin quite a tale.

  I felt a bit of guilt about the project. Vera Van Alst was paying me to work for her, not to walk dogs. But the connection with Karen was a lead to the coveted manuscript, so I could rationalize the dog walking. Maybe a visit to Karen’s home would also help connect some of the dots.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I CASUALLY DROPPED in to my uncles’, even if it was out of the way, as I’d decided to use some of my surplus clothing. I changed into an old pair of cropped jeans, a pair of classic Keds in hot pink and a black T-shirt that could be tossed afterward if need be. I wasn’t sure what I’d find at Karen’s or what I’d have to do to find it. Be prepared, that’s what my uncles always taught me, although they’re no Boy Scouts. They’d also trained me in self-defense, evasive driving and the age-old art of getting past locked doors. I grabbed my lock picks, a gift for my sixteenth birthday. Until now, I’d never used any of the pieces except to practice.

  Not willing to miss an information opportunity, I asked if there was any word on the street about the attack on a woman at Saint Sebastian’s Hall the night before.

  Lucky shook his head sadly.

  Mick sputtered, “What’s the world coming to, my girl?”

  I took that as a no, which was, I supposed, a good thing.

  * * *

  I PULLED UP in front of the tiny shop on the first floor of a narrow Victorian-era redbrick house. The short street was just one block over from a trendy shopping area full of flower shops, gift shops, small bistros and decorators. It was too cute for words with all that brick and gingerbread. The sign said “The Cozy Corpse: Used and collectible crime fiction,
” and underneath it added, “By appointment and by chance.” In the window, a skeleton in a jaunty red cap reclined in a comfy garden chair. A great afterlife.

  No one else was in sight, but I wasn’t going to take a chance. I drove around the corner and parked the Saab well away from prying eyes.

  I returned to the shop and pressed my nose to the glass in the door. Not sure why, as I was well aware that the owner was in hospital a good drive away. The store was done up in Victorian style: velvet wingback chairs, polished round tables, swag lamps. Too cute for words and I wanted desperately to get in. Maybe I’d find some Christie material that I hadn’t seen yet.

  I glanced around, but this street was mainly residential and quiet. It was just about eleven. I decided to canvas the neighbors until I could find someone who knew Karen and better yet, knew where she lived. I was just about to set out when I thought I heard a strange faraway gurgle. I stopped. Listened. There it was again. I banged on the door and the gurgle echoed. A dog? I wasn’t sure. Was it drowning?

  Maybe Karen lived above the shop. That would make sense. There was no vehicle in the narrow driveway, but there wouldn’t be, would there? The Cozy Corpse van was probably considered evidence by this point.

  I stepped around the side and didn’t find a doorway. If Karen did live upstairs, how would she get in? A fragrant row of French lilacs hid a chain-link fence around a small grassy yard in the rear of the building. I tried to look like I belonged there as I opened the gate, stepped in and spotted the back entrance to the house. It’s all in the training.

  A dog bowl filled with water sat near the steps. Was Walter in the house?

  The row of lilac trees kept me from being too visible to neighbors, or so I hoped. I didn’t see anything that resembled a security camera. Again I pressed my nose to the glass window in the door. Boxes, shelves, papers. What else? Was that a staircase? Hard to tell.

  I tried the door. Locked. Of course, it would be. I banged and banged and listened to the forlorn gurgle yet again. Time to fish or cut bait, as the uncles said. They’d taught me how to pick a lock when I was sixteen years old because you never know. Another Kelly motto. I’d learned quickly when Mick and Lucky started locking the treat pantry during Uncle Danny’s failed foray into Weight Watchers. Danny was always worth ten bucks a pop.