The Christie Curse (2 page)

The inscription on my master’s degree was barely dry, much like the red ink on my
student loans. My former mooching boyfriend had maxed out my credit card before I’d
managed to catch on and dump him. The only thing healthy was my run of bad luck. I
could feel my PhD possibilities receding. There wasn’t much call in our area for an
enthusiastic graduate in English with a minor in languages and a fondness for Jane
Austen and the Brontës. I had all the qualifications, and my family is nothing if
not discreet, for reasons that are nobody’s business but our own. Plus my references
were solid. I was already back in Harrison Falls, and I figured I could always fake
the cat thing. There was no clue as to who was offering this position, but I figured
I had nowhere to go but up.

*    *    *

I MUST HAVE made the right impression because I was instructed to present myself for
an interview with Miss Vera Van Alst at three in the afternoon, Thursday, May 17,
a mere two days after I’d sent my application to the PO box address. Apparently, everyone
in Harrison Falls knew exactly who Vera Van Alst was. My own relatives were very happy
to fill me in about the Van Alst Shoe Company, now sadly defunct, and the devastating
impact of the failed business on the community. The general opinion was that if there’d
been awards for arrogance and ineptitude, the Van Alsts would have won them hands
down.

Now Vera Van Alst was the only one left.

I pasted on my best interview smile, adjusted my posture and headed for the imposing
house from which she and the Van Alst family had lorded it over the town of Harrison
Falls for a hundred years. I already knew it wasn’t going to be easy.

The massive dark granite building had umpteen white-trimmed
bay windows, a conservatory, crenellations and faux turrets. It gave new meaning to
“imposing.” As I approached, I was struck by the scent of fresh-cut grass, possibly
my favorite aroma in the world. A middle-aged man with a straw hat was riding a tractor
along the front lawn of the house. I smiled and waved. I got a curt nod in response.
Oh well, I figured he would be kept busy keeping that vast property groomed.

The reception didn’t get any better.

When the paneled oak door swung open, a gray-haired, pointy woman in a wheelchair
looked up and eyed me as if I was something brown and gooey that had attached itself
to one of her wheels. She hadn’t bothered to introduce herself, but I knew from my
research that she was Vera, the last of the Van Alst family, and possibly the most
hated woman in Harrison Falls.

Once again, my smile had been a waste of energy, and by now it was starting to hurt
my face.

“I was expecting a man.” Beside the wheelchair a conceited-looking blue point Siamese
cat glanced over its shoulder and licked its fur in disdain.

I kept my cool. “Understandable mistake.”

Vera Van Alst showed her teeth and enunciated in a peculiar voice. “Jordan. That’s
a man’s name.”

How would I describe that voice? Like crunching gravel? A cascade of pebbles? It would
take some getting used to, as would her attitude.

I said, “A man’s name? Not in my family. I’m named after my mother.” I didn’t mention
that my mother had been Jordan Kelly, as the Kelly name was probably enough to get
me booted out the front door. As they say, you can choose your friends but you can’t
pick your relatives.

“Jordan Bingham? I don’t know any Binghams. Humph, with that black Irish coloring,
I would have figured you for a Brennan or a Ryan. But it doesn’t matter because you
are not at all what I had in mind.”

My coloring? I figured there was nothing wrong with having pale skin, dark hair and
blue eyes. I decided to ignore any ethnic slurs about my appearance, because I was
exactly
what she had in mind, and if she didn’t know that, I did. You don’t need testosterone
to read Latin. Time to steer the conversation away from my heritage.

“My, what a beautiful cat,” I lied.

Vera Van Alst seemed to soften slightly, and I took that opportunity to step further
into the house. I noticed that there was a serious security system by the entrance.
My potential employer did a one-eighty in her wheelchair and headed across the grand
foyer. I had nothing to lose. I followed her as we turned left and rumbled down a
long dim corridor, past looming portraits of what must have been dead and disapproving
ancestors. There would be no possible esthetic reason for displaying them otherwise.
Apparently, the cat also disapproved, judging by the flick of its tail as it preceded
us down the hall.

This time, I inhaled the scent of furniture wax and old roses. We passed what I took
to be a ballroom, a sitting room and a gallery of sorts before reaching what she called
“the study” on the left. Miss Van Alst wheeled into the large room. Uncomfortable
Victorian furniture hugged the twelve-foot-high walls. Much of the wall space held
clustered portraits of even more disapproving ancestors. What had caused those expressions?
Dental problems? Constipation? Whatever. In my humble opinion, that was one scary
gene pool. The cat, seemingly reading my mind, flicked its tail yet again and sneered
in agreement. It was a relief to glance at the tall Georgian windows, flanked by faded
silk drapes, which had possibly once been red. Outside, the vast green lawns looked
very appealing, but they were not why I was there.

“I have my references and other paperwork.” I reached into my deep-orange vintage
leather satchel.

Miss Van Alst replied, “Not that it will make the slightest difference to me. I am
looking for a man to do this job.”

I held out the documents in their crisp envelope. She waved them dismissively toward
a spectacular desk behind her. Unless I missed my guess, it was Edwardian. Carlton
House almost certainly. It would take at least fifteen grand to buy that baby today,
and from my preinterview research, I was pretty sure Vera Van Alst’s great-grandfather
had purchased it when he furnished this massive pile of stone back in the late nineteenth
century. I had inherited my uncle’s ability to appraise valuables upon first sight,
though I tended not to use this skill to the same ends. Someone in the family had
to go straight.

On the walls around the room were shadowboxed memorabilia from the Van Alst Shoe Company.
Old grainy photos of Van Alst men above tarnished brass plaques hinted about a proud
past and thriving business. My uncles would practically spit on the ground and swear
at the mention of the Van Alsts, but I really wasn’t sure how the family fortunes
had slipped. I thought better than to pry during my interview. Vera didn’t seem like
the type to swap family stories, so I snapped back to attention.

As I placed the envelope on the desk, the cat leapt up and settled on it, stretching
out a back leg and continuing with the cleanup. The perfect job was growing warts,
but it didn’t matter, because I was in no position to be picky. A mental image of
my future self in a paper hat cleaning a commercial deep fryer steeled my resolve
to win her over. She swiveled slowly in the wheelchair. Her beady eyes narrowed. She
said nothing. I was struck by the sharp contrast between her ratty appearance and
the gorgeous, priceless and, yes, dusty antiques that surrounded her. I knew from
experience that many people with the best minds care nothing for personal appearance.
However, Vera Van Alst seemed to be doing her best to look her worst. Her bland, worn
wardrobe aged
her by decades. The holey elbows and frayed cuffs of her dull beige sweater didn’t
help. Judging by the style of the shoulders, I figured she’d had it since the mideighties.
I waited. Nothing.

I decided to push my luck. “I think you’ll find that I will do a better job than a
man.”

“Better than a man? How so?”

I took a deep breath and rattled on. “I graduated summa cum laude. I minored in languages.
I worked in the rare book room at my college. I’ve held rare and wonderful writings
in my hands. Wearing white cotton gloves, of course.”

“Bah. You’ll have to do better than that.”

Of course, I couldn’t give her any of the real reasons why I was suited for the job.

“I am educated, well spoken and have had considerable responsibility in my life. I
have good instincts for finding things and information. And I want to work for you.”

I didn’t say it was because of the Carlton House desk or because I was desperately
broke or that there was no way I could live with my uncles on a permanent basis or
that I was terrified of yellow paper hats.

She stared at me without blinking. Finally, she broke the silence with, “You have
two weeks. Don’t disappoint me.”

I hoped she didn’t hear me exhale in relief. Clearly, she only respected strength.

“I’ll need to know what the job will involve.”

Vera Van Alst whipped around, and the creases surrounding her lips grew deeper. She
wheeled toward the desk and picked up a file. “You may as well sit down.” She pointed
to a Victorian fainting couch upholstered in amethyst velour. I figured the color
had started out as a regal purple.

I lowered myself carefully onto the faded fabric. The couch squeaked in protest. To
tell the truth, I’d felt more in control standing up. Which she knew, without a doubt.

“I’ve heard whisperings of a manuscript that—”

The door flew open with a bang, scattering dust particles. A small, round, doughy-faced
person pushed a tea cart into the room. She was dressed in black with a wide white
apron and, at a guess, she was somewhere on the high side of seventy. Her hair was
an unlikely shade of ebony and pulled back into a tight bun. Except for the bun, the
hair might have been painted on her head. She stopped and placed her hands on her
wide hips. “Tea is serve, signora.”

Vera waved her away. “Not now, Fiammetta. We are right in the middle of something
important.”

“Yes, yes, yes. But now tea.”

That seemed oddly dismissive. I felt a swell of admiration for this pushy apple doll.

“Tea can wait.”

“No, no, no. Teatime. You must eat. Eat now.”

“Fine. Then will you leave us alone? Jordan, this is Signora Panetone. Do not allow
her to bully you.”

I could hardly stop myself from drooling at not only the fine Georgian tea service
and the antique tea trolley, but also the astounding contents. There were cucumber
sandwiches, shortbread cookies, fruit, a cheese plate and a chocolate layer cake.
I wondered who would be joining us. A committee of some sort? A football team? But
apparently no one.

The small, round woman turned to me and said, “
Mangia
. Eat.” She pointed a pudgy finger at me. “You. Eat!”

And she meant it.

Who was I to argue with authority? Of course, I was dying to know what manuscript
was being whispered about. However, that would have to wait.

Fifteen minutes later (and three return visits with extra food), we finished up. Miss
Van Alst had eaten like a bird. I had also eaten like a bird. A really big bird, say,
a turkey vulture.

“If you’re finished gorging yourself, perhaps we can get back to business.”

I didn’t fall into the trap of defending myself.

She said, “Take it away, Fiammetta. I never want to see food again.”

“Yes, yes, yes. Dinner at eight.”

“So,” I said, digging deep for my alleged Irish charm, “whisperings?”

Vera Van Alst’s face lit up. For the first time, her brown eyes sparkled. “There is
a rumor of something very special. Just a rumor, but I must know. If it is true, I
must have it. Hence you.”

“And it would be?”

She took her time, savoring every word.

“You
do
know Agatha Christie’s work, of course.”

“Oh yes,” I bluffed. Who on the planet hadn’t heard of Agatha Christie? But the last
mystery I’d read had been a Janet Evanovich. More my era. Good explosions.

“Naturally you recall her mysterious absence in December 1926.”

“Naturally.” Um.

Vera leaned forward and lowered her voice into a deeper layer of gravel. “She never
spoke of it, you know.”

“How intriguing. Although maybe not much of a stretch for a mystery writer.”

“Now it seems that she wrote something during that time.”

Postcard? “Oh really?”

“It has surfaced.”

“A book?”

“Of course not,” she barked. “Not enough time for a book. Only eleven days.”

“Short story?”

“No. But you do know that two previously unknown stories were found among her notebooks
not long ago at Greenway, her home, in Devon.”

I nodded to express “of course” without actually having to tell another whopper, although
whopper telling is in my DNA.

But Miss Van Alst wasn’t paying attention to me anyway.

She said, “I did my best to obtain those original manuscripts, but I was not successful.”
Her fists clenched and unclenched. Important, I guessed. “But I can’t allow this one
to get away.”

I had to ask. “I understand. But what is it?”

“A play. They are saying she wrote a play. I must have it. I must. Do you understand?
No matter what.” Vera looked as though she could spring up from her wheelchair and
perhaps float in the air.

I did understand. I know exactly how it is to want things that are just out of reach.

“What if it’s not for sale?”

“Everything’s for sale.”

I thought she might be right about that. “There will be competition.”

“Oh yes. Many people might kill for something like this.”

The hair on my neck stood up.

Kill? “Okay. And what do the whispers say about its location? Who owns it? Do you
have any leads?”

She raised her eyebrow and curled her lip, not a good look for her. “None at all.
That’s what I’m paying you for.”

Well, what do you know. I seemed to have passed some kind of test.

*    *    *

OUR NEXT STOP was the Van Alst library. Not the wonderful old brick main library in
downtown Harrison Falls that had been endowed by the Van Alst family in the early
nineteenth century, but the in-house version. It appeared to be about a half-mile
farther down that endless corridor in what was apparently called the east wing. I
hurried to keep up with Vera Van Alst, who was a speed demon in that wheelchair. The
cat could barely keep up. Even rushing after the speeding wheelchair, I couldn’t help
but notice more signs of disintegration of the house. A curling bit of wallpaper
here, a damaged bit of woodwork there and a faded rectangle every so often indicating
a painting had been removed. For repair? Or sale? For sure, no one in their right
mind would buy one of the framed Van Alst ancestors, no matter who had painted them,
but some of the oils in this wing looked well worth a second glance.