The Christie Curse

by Victoria Abbott

  “Come on, Tiff. How could I leave Vera and Fiammetta alone if I thought it was too dangerous to stay here? They’re a lot more vulnerable than I am.”

  I ignored the crazy-making full moon. The wind picked up outside; a spooky low moan pushed past the window sills, rustling papers at my bedside. Notes fluttered around the apartment like small paper ghosts, upping the heebie-jeebie factor considerably.

  “You are not safe. And your crazy boss is doing nothing to help. Get someone to ride shotgun, but get the hell out of there.”

  I put on a brave face, even if she couldn’t see it. “Tiff, I feel a lot safer here behind locked doors in a house with a first-rate security system. Anyway, Mick and Lucky and Walter are in Albany tonight, so they wouldn’t be much help, and the others are guarding Karen. I just want to decompress, and I need you to tell me it’s all going to turn out fine in the end. Can you do that without relocating me?”

  Tiff laughed. “Of course. I was just being my usual safety inspector to the world. But I do wonder about this job, Jordan. Maybe it’s not worth all the stress. To be honest, I’m not quite sure what you are being employed to do, other than eat and find injured people.”

  “Don’t forget being belittled by the boss and pestering the recently bereaved.”

  “Wait, what was that last one?”

  Something caught my eye in the far corner. Was the wallpaper flapping at that uneven seam? Ignoring Tiff as she threw questions at me, I gingerly got out of my safe bed. The wallpaper rustled above the small walnut dresser, drawing me into the dim corner. The pattern was not only mismatched in that spot, but something about the beige curly stem of that rose was off. Why hadn’t I found a lamp for that dresser? Using my iPhone screen to light the way, I inched forward. The curlicue in question slipped away into the wall. For a split second terror raised my hair at the roots.

  Then I realized what was actually going on.

  “Tiff, I’m going to have to let you go. I think I’ve finally figured out how that cat keeps getting into my place.” That cat made a murp of protest. Before Tiff could say another word, I hung up. The walnut dresser was stuffed with my belongings and had been heavy enough empty. I struggled to move it out of the way. Next I reached to pull at the paper. Beneath the heavyweight cabbage rose paper I found a space. I made tracks to the sitting area and repositioned my reading lamp to get a better look. Not good enough. I pulled the lamp closer and angled it so I could see. Then I stuck my head into the space. What the heck? I figured the space must have been a closet at one time. But why would anyone paper over a closet door? It wasn’t like there was any storage in this apartment. Of course, there was probably tons of storage throughout the rest of the third floor, so it wasn’t really an issue. I peered into the dim interior. What kind of closet had ropes and a pulley? It finally dawned on me that I was staring at the platform of an old dumbwaiter. With a Siamese cat hunkered on it. But, hang on a minute, wasn’t the cat on the bed?

  The next sensation—following astonishment—was pain. This cat reached out and raked my nose with its claws. I yelped and sat back, holding my nose as the mean scratchy cat stalked toward the bed and its sweetly purring twin leapt down and headed over to me. It sashayed into the dumbwaiter and disappeared to somewhere. But where? The dumbwaiter hadn’t moved. The cat was gone. I leaned forward, worried about setting the mechanism going and plunging into the bowels of the building. No one would ever find my body.

  I clung to the back leg of the dresser as I checked up and down. My eyes were getting used to the darn cat-free space. I could make out a dark shape in the farthest reaches. A cardboard box. I reached over and pulled it out.

  “How very Nancy Drew,” I said out loud. I peered back into the dumbwaiter space. I saw the swish of a tail as the cat made its way to the other side and out. What was over there? Just attic storage, I figured, easily accessible to felines who deigned to go anywhere they wanted and especially where they weren’t wanted.

  I carted the box back to the Lucite coffee table. The cat (Mr. Hyde) followed, looking dangerous. It hopped up on the club chair. “Stay away,” I said. “I will defend myself.” Once you start talking out loud to small mean animals, there’s no turning back. I grabbed a tissue to dab at my nose, which was bleeding freely. I checked the mirror. I didn’t have a bandage, but a ragged bit of tissue seemed to stem the bleeding. Not my best look, for sure, but the least of my problems.

  The box contained three black notebooks, and several volumes that looked like they might be first editions from Vera’s private collection. There was also a small lunch box. I opened that to find Ulysses S. Grant gazing up at me. Well, more than one Ulysses S. Grant. Hundreds of him. In stacks. My guess was this was Vera’s substantial amount of money. What else would explain it? Alex must have hidden it in the dumbwaiter.

  I didn’t count the money. I didn’t even touch it. I got another tissue to wipe any trace of my fingerprints from the top of the box and the sides of the dumbwaiter.

  “I was really not expecting that,” I said to the cat. Sweat prickled the back of my neck.

  The cat said nothing.

  That stack of notes was supposed to be missing. Vera thought her money was gone, perhaps carried off by a deranged man in a subway station. I stared at them. There was more than enough to fund my education. No one would ever know that Alex had hidden that cash here, and if anyone did, it would be impossible to prove. I had no doubt that I would get away with using this money for my quite worthy plans. My uncles would be proud of me.

  The cat watched.

  I shook my head. I had decided when I first went off to college that I wouldn’t follow in the family footsteps. Here was the test of that commitment.

  I turned to the cat and said, “So close and yet so far away. But life’s like that.”

  Because it felt good to be sharing this decision with another creature, even one that had raked my nose. I added, “And here’s a bit more treasure. I bet these little beauties are Alex’s notebooks.”

  There was a small fortune and several very rare books, but to me the notebooks were the real gold. I just wanted some information, and for reasons I cannot divulge, this was not the first time I’d been in the room when bags of cash were dumped from a sack.

  Notebooks one and two were brimming with research, and tucked between the pages were many folded, terse notes from Vera wanting updates on Alex’s progress. In small neat script, Alex had written to-do lists and info in the margins. These were what I’d hoped to find in Alex’s belongings at his parents’. No wonder they hadn’t found them. If it wasn’t for the cat, no one would ever have found them. I read Alex’s notes to himself about contacting auction houses and following up on leads.

  The third notebook looked almost untouched but also had random folded pieces of paper poking out from its blank pages. I swear it felt like Agatha herself was beside me, whispering a million questions in my burning ear.

  I unfolded the first crisp white paper.

  Dear Mr. Fine,

  It has come to my attention that you are looking for a previously unpublished Agatha Christie manuscript, on behalf of Vera Van Alst. I may have an item that may pique your employer’s interest.

  Sincerely,

  M. Merlin

  Merlin Rare Books and Collections

  New York, New York

  “Holy pay dirt, Batman,” I whispered.

  The cat merely swished his tale.

  My mind swam in a hundred directions, and my thumbs were already tapping M. Merlin Rare Books and Collections in New York into my iPhone. I turned up some Merlins in the world of collections, but not the one I was hoping for. Alex had circled Vera’s name on the paper, and he had written, How could he know this? Possible fraud? Does “Merlin” have an accomplice?

  It seemed to me that Alex was suspicious right from the get-go. The following notes were about meeting in NYC to make what Alex wrote as the “exchange.” It seemed likely from his notes that he was worried the meeting w
as a scam. But why had he gone ahead with his trip? If Alex had gone to NYC to meet with Merlin, why was the money still in my apartment?

  Maybe he’d decided to leave the money at home in case Merlin tried to trick him out of it. At least, I hoped that was the reason. The only other possibility I could think of was that Alex himself had decided to steal the money. I hated that idea.

  The last note was dated the day before his death. Alex had scribbled Bonnelly’s, the name of a boutique hotel, and surprise Ashley, complete with little hearts. I’d never known a man to use little hearts in a note.

  Poor guy. Ashley had been surprised all right, but in a horrible, life-destroying way.

  I could imagine Alex, excited to complete his task for Vera by revealing the scam, and eager to whisk his fiancée off for a romantic celebration away from their small town. It made my heart hurt. Little did he know he’d be thrown in front of a speeding train.

  I felt desperate to find out more. I shook the blank notebook frantically, and a last straggler floated out. The email note to Alex from Karen Smith was also dated the day before his death. For some reason he had chosen to print it out and tuck it into his notebook.

  From: Karen@thecozycorpse.com

  To: Alex Fine

  It was great to see you at the Cozy Corpse the other day and talk shop, LOL, pardon the pun! I just thought I would let you know that I’ve been contacted by a customer wanting to sell a Nero Wolfe first edition of Black Orchids, British printing with original cover and in mint condition. I’m 99% sure it’s the one you purchased on behalf of Miss Van Alst 6 months ago. I guess I was just surprised that she would part with it after all the work she had you go through to get it. That being said, I’d certainly appreciate if you kept me in mind when selling future titles. I can only imagine the gems that collection contains.

  Happy treasure hunting, hope to see you soon.

  Karen Smith

  www.TheCozyCorpse.com

  Clearly Alex and Karen had a friendly rapport. They knew and liked each other and had even had business dealings. but this note had huge red question marks on it and a list of names under the heading: Access to Library.

  Vera?

  Eddie?

  S Panetone?

  Me

  Brian U?

  All the names were crossed off but one: Brian U.

  Brian? Could that be our Brian, the gardener? I couldn’t seem to recall his last name. I looked over my shoulder at my imaginary Agatha Christie; she shrugged. If she had spoken, I was sure she would have said, “I told you so.”

  Look for connections.

  I hadn’t even had Brian on my radar, and why not? My pulse was banging at my temples now. What had I missed? By this time I was pacing. I found myself at the window, staring out in puzzlement.

  The sun had set by now and the stunning full moon shone down, illuminating the wide lawn, lush and well mown. The scent of the grass that had been cut that morning still lingered. Usually that was a very soothing and satisfying aroma. But that was before I’d seen the two words: Brian U. The large familiar figure on the ride-on tractor. Brian. Could he have been the man with the limp? Of course not, he didn’t limp. But wait, I’d only seen him bent over the flower beds or on the lawn tractor. I didn’t know whether he limped or not.

  Why had I wasted time trying to implicate the innocent physio? The answer had been right in front of me all along.

  It made sense. The gardener would have known all about Alex. Not only that, but as a staff member in the Van Alst household, he also could easily have been aware of what Alex was looking for. He would have keys to the house and his own code. He was a familiar sight in the house, doing minor repairs as well as caring for the grounds. How hard would it be for him to get the access code to the library? Not very, in my opinion. Vera’s security system was designed to circumvent outsiders, not staff.

  There was so much to think about. Was Brian the connection with Karen Smith? Had he been selling off collectible books to the Cozy Corpse? Had Alex figured it out? Had Alex then spoken to Karen? Perhaps he’d found other items from Vera’s collection in Karen’s shop or on her online catalog. Good-bye Alex. And later, almost good-bye Karen. It was all falling into place. Brian must have been the person who had picked up the box from Alex’s parents. He could have faked the call from Vera to the Fines and the Van Alst number would have shown up on thier phone. He might even have a red truck, although I’d only noticed a battered old Dodge sedan. But what to do now that I had this information? I figured if I knocked on Vera’s door again, that would be the last straw for my position here. At any rate, I realized I needed more.

  First I had to confirm whether he had a limp. Vera and the signora had both reacted strangely when I’d mentioned that limp. They would have a lot of trouble believing that a long-term, trusted employee was a violent criminal. I had already made an unfair and wrong accusation against Miss Orsini, the physio, and Eddie too, of course.

  I would have to get my facts straight before I approached anyone about this. I wasn’t likely to get proof at this time of night.

  I decided to let my practical side rule. I stuck the stack of Grants and the notebooks back where I’d found them. I took a hard look at the dumbwaiter.

  No one knew the money and notebooks were there. They’d be safe for another few hours. And anyway, there’d been no sign of anyone even attempting to get into my garret, if you didn’t count that cat. Even the signora had been kept out by the sliding lock.

  I pushed the little walnut dresser back, blocking the access to the dumbwaiter. I headed for my small (and totally unnecessary) kitchen and collected all the pots.

  Next stop, my entrance. I pushed the rolltop desk in front of the door and placed my small collection of cooking pots on top of it. Someone might find a way to get in, but not without waking me up.

  I really needed to get some rest. I couldn’t cope with a second sleepless night. But first, I called Tiff back.

  “I’ve been chewing my nails,” she snapped.

  “You won’t believe this,” I said, filling her in on the cat, the dumbwaiter, the loot and the notes. “But the most important thing is that I think I might really know who is behind it.”

  “This is like one crazy action movie. Spill.”

  “If anything happens to me—”

  “Nothing better happen to you, because you better be calling the police.”

  “No police just yet.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “No, listen. If anything happens to me, and let me finish, the name to remember is Brian. Brian with the initial U for a last name. The gardener-handyman here is called Brian, and I believe he’s the man with the limp.”

  “Police. Is that so hard to understand?”

  “Here’s the thing. I don’t believe that Brian is acting alone, and I do know that Officer Smiley—”

  “Oh, right, Officer Stalker. I forgot about him.”

  “Exactly, so until we know for sure, I will rely on my uncles.”

  “Who are out of town?”

  “Just for tonight. And I won’t do anything until tomorrow. Then I’ll try to flush him out.”

  “With the uncles as backup?”

  “You got it.”

  “How do I know that you’ll be safe tonight?”

  “Because he or they can’t get in here. Because he or they don’t know about the money and notebooks. And because he or they don’t know I suspect him or them. Plus, I’ve got a dead bolt on the door and pots piled in front of it. I’m all right. In fact, I might be in more danger from the dual cat situation.”

  I left a message for my uncles suggesting they have a word with a Brian U if anything happened to me.

  And of course, I set the alarm clock.

  Tomorrow would be a busy day.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  BREAKFAST WAS WARM flaky croissants with a selection of homemade preserves and the usual very good espresso. I tried strawberry, raspberry and blueberry jams along
with my croissants. That’s right. Two croissants two of them. The signora fluttered around nervously, adding more pots of more jams and honey too. Her cries of “Eat, eat!” seemed a little more subdued today.

  Vera glowered at me from across the conservatory table.

  I smiled at her and raised my coffee cup.

  “Miss Bingham. I do not want a repeat of last night’s outrageous accusations against Miss Orsini. Nor will I tolerate you targeting other people. Get working to find the manuscript and discover what happened to my, um, resources, or find yourself a new position.”

  “My apologies,” I said falsely. “I didn’t sleep the night before, and I think I was not thinking at all clearly. I will keep my mind on my main task. It won’t happen again.”

  She grunted and returned to the New York Times crossword puzzle.

  I had to assume that was a good thing.

  The signora refilled my cup. I guess she agreed.

  “I have an idea what happened to your, um, resources and who has them,” I said.

  That got her attention.

  “I’ll be following up on it.” I grinned. “I think you will be very pleased. I’ll be off to the library right after breakfast to get my last few bits of information. Why, yes, signora. I think I will have another croissant.”

  The conservatory had great views of the east garden from three sides. I could see Brian working diligently putting collars on a cluster of droopy peonies near the front of the house.

  I waved to him, but he didn’t see me.

  * * *

  SHORTLY AFTERWARD, ALLEGEDLY on my way to the library, I took a stroll around the property. I first went along the endless corridor and out the front door and approached Brian from that side. Before he spotted me, I watched him move on to the next garden bed, where he stopped for a minute. There was no question now that this was the man with the limp. Too bad he picked that moment to turn around and spot me. Luckily, my relatives are accomplished liars and I’ve learned from the masters.

  “Brian,” I called out. He stared and stopped moving. I smiled and strolled casually toward him. “I’ve been admiring the peonies. They’re my favorite flower. Everyone in my family has a brown thumb. I hope that once I get settled, I can learn a bit about gardening from you.” Now where had that come from?