The Christie Curse (20 page)

I WAS SO happy to flop onto my own bed, I didn’t even care if there was someone (or
some cat) lurking behind the door. If I hadn’t been in such a zombie-like state, I
would have had the presence of mind to let my buzzing iPhone go to voice mail.

“Oh good, you’re home!” Tiff chirped before I’d even said hello.

“Barely. I feel like I’m still dragging some parts of me up the stairs.” I propped
myself against the feather pillows as Tiffany began to vent. My job was to listen.
That’s what friends are for. I did that. Despite my wonderful dinner, I was far too
exhausted by the day’s extraordinary and confusing events to rehash them and reassure
Tiff that I was in no grave danger. This was something I had yet to convince myself.
Better she didn’t know.

Instead, I zoned out on my room, letting my eyes trace the cabbage roses and curlicues
on the wallpaper while Tiff went off about the boom operator and how she loathed him.
“He’s reckless! We’re out here in the middle of
nowhere
and he’s injuring people.” I wasn’t even sure what a boom operator did, or even what
a boom was, so I allowed my weary mind to saunter around the room once more. I paused
to contemplate the alcove where the patterns didn’t match up. Like a big knife had
sliced all the beautiful roses in half. I didn’t remember it being like that earlier.

“People could be killed!”

“What?”

“Listen, if this guy doesn’t smarten up and stop partying his paychecks away, someone
is going to lose their life. These pipes weigh about a ton each segment, and this
hungover guy is swinging them around on his boom like they are Lincoln Logs.”

“Oh, well, yes, that sounds dangerous. Someone should tell his foreman.”

“He
is
the foreman.” As Tiff launched into another tirade, I was beginning to think I wasn’t
the only one finding my new employment stressful. Tiff was always consumed with the
well-being of others and considered herself a “safety inspector to the world.” Yet
another reason to hold my tongue about all the creepiness on my end. It would only
worry an already overloaded woman. Worse still, it would create more work for me.

Something fluttered in the alcove, and I pulled myself out of bed to shut the window.
It was getting chilly now that the sun had set. Looking down beside my Saab, I could
see a figure, dark clad. My arm hair stood at attention.

Behind me something rustled, and this time I did shriek.

“You okay?” Tiff stopped counting the flaws of her least favorite coworker.

“Yes,” I said shakily. I’d spotted the source of the noise: a cat curling itself into
a ball on my library books. “That stupid cat keeps getting into my apartment.” I have
been known to have an overactive imagination. Was this just another one of those times?

My mouth went dry. “Tiff, I need to catch this cat. Can I call you in the afternoon
tomorrow?”

“Sure, sweetie, sorry for all the dumping.”

“No worries. Talk soon.” If I’d dropped one hint of what I’d seen, Tiff would have
been on me to get out of there. It wasn’t like she could have done much except worry
herself sick up there in northern Alberta. I didn’t want that. So I was on my own.
When I turned back to the window, the lurker was now crouched almost out of sight
behind some
boxwoods. But he was definitely getting closer to the house. It wasn’t Eddie. Too
big. I strained to see. Did he have a limp? I couldn’t be sure. Was he even real?

I opened the window and yelled, “Hey, get out of here. The police have been alerted
and they’ll be watching.” I couldn’t believe I’d said anything so ridiculous. The
police were hardly likely to hang around watching Vera’s place on the strength of
one phone call. But it did the trick.

I figured an innocent man would have looked up in confusion. This one bolted. Of course,
he could always wait and come back.

I double-checked the lock on the foyer door. Back upstairs again, I pushed the rolltop
desk against my apartment entrance. I wasn’t even going to bother to show the cat
out. Felines were the least of my worries now.

*    *    *

I DIDN’T HAVE the best night’s sleep. It was full of limping strangers, cats with
keys, postmen wearing fright wigs and Miss Jane Marple hanging upside down like a
bat. The signora pursued me with plates full of food, and all my vintage clothes were
now too small. Nightmare alley.

When morning came, there was no sign of Vera in the conservatory. No sign of Eddie
and for once, no sound of the lawn tractor or the busy-bee gardener. On the other
hand, the signora was fresh as a daisy and in a mood to dish out food. Why not?

*    *    *

I DECIDED TO give Lance a call to see if he had any helpful information. I needed
to keep digging about Christie and the unpublished play, but also I was troubled that
I really did not understand my client. The uncles have a saying: know your mark. I
suppose it’s not such a bad thing when it comes to employers too.

“Harrison Falls Public Library.”

“Hi, Lance. It’s Jordan.”

His tone switched from helpful public servant to flirtatious. “Miss Bingham, to what
do I owe this delicious surprise?”

I found myself blushing like a schoolgirl, despite the fact that Lance and I were
merely friends. He certainly had a way with the ladies, but I wasn’t ready for a romance,
let alone one that could mess up a friendship. “Suppose I was looking to find out
the history about the Van Alst Shoe Company.”

“Then you would have come to the right place.” He laughed in his warm and charming
way. I felt a little butterfly in my stomach.

“If I left that with you, do you think we could meet up for coffee, and I could get
all the nitty-gritty details?” I was nervous. I’d been badly burned in my relationship,
hadn’t dated in a year, and even a fact-finding mission with a platonic friend was
still too close for comfort.

“It would be my pleasure.” Damn that smoldering voice.

“Café Hudson for lunch? How long do you have?”

“For you I can take an hour. I’d like to catch up, hear about your time away.”

My lip was getting annoyingly sweaty. I hurried to get off the phone. “Sounds good,
buddy!” Everyone knows that calling someone your buddy is an immediate mood killer.

Lance just chuckled. We exchanged cell phone numbers in case plans changed.

I shot a text off to Tiff.
Meeting Lance for lunch at Café Hudson. Eat your heart out.

Tiff and I had loitered at that café an entire summer, when we weren’t “working” at
Kelly’s Fine Antiques. It was a miracle we’d had anything left for our college expenses.
Lance had been a waiter there, putting himself through library school at SUNY in Albany
part-time. He was like a bronze god with espresso. We were instantly smitten. But
life had other plans for us all, and a strong friendship blossomed instead. This didn’t
affect how much Lance flirted, though.

I could just imagine Tiff’s reaction. She would turn green. But she took the high
road:
Wish I was there! Take a pic plz!

The Café Hudson was still just run-down enough to be chic. Young, angry-for-no-reason,
heavily tattooed and pierced people enjoyed six-dollar coffees and checked their Facebook
accounts on their phones. The players had changed, but the place smelled the same.
It felt like coming home. Lance was waiting in “my” booth by the smeared picture window.
It was well outside the scope of his job as a reference librarian, but Lance wasn’t
one to be constrained.

For instance, I was unable to squirm out of a long hug. My relatives are not huggers,
unless someone has something in their pocket that needs to be liberated.

“Sit down, tell me everything.” Lance beamed at me.

“Actually, as much as I’d love to sit here and talk about myself for an hour, I really
need that info about the Van Alsts and maybe some guidance in finding out where to
sell very rare ephemera.” Lance squinted his amazing green eyes, sizing me up. He
could sense that I was all business. That sensitivity was one of his best traits.
He let the personal update slide.

“Let me give you all I’ve got, and there is a lot.” This was a man who loved to ferret
out information, loved to learn and loved to help. He was a born librarian, the Harrison
Falls Senior Women’s Book Club must have thought they’d died and went to heaven when
he walked in.

“The Van Alst Shoe Factory was founded by Herman Van Alst in the mid-1800s. Business
was solid, right from the beginning.”

“So, all the Van Alst money came from shoes?” Nothing too insidious there.

“From what I could gather, it was a very modest enterprise up until the end of the
nineteenth century when business began to boom.”

“That’s when the Van Alst house was built.”

“Then Van Alst was awarded a major military contract and his consumer business took
off as well. The Van Alst shoes had style. After that there are records of expansions
and upgrading to the factory.” Lance slid a printout toward me. It was a newspaper
ad from an Irish paper.

“They started advertising for staff in Europe near the turn of the century, mostly
Ireland and Italy. I guess they were expanding so fast, they just needed workers.”

“Wow, I wonder if the Kellys were among those who answered the call. I don’t know
much about my family’s early days here.” Maybe that’s what had brought Sal’s people
here too. The signora, though, she was a much more recent arrival.

“It’s possible, because Harrison Falls basically grew around Van Alst’s factory. This
town sprung out of all those new employees.”

“I guess I’ve always known Van Alst basically founded the town.”

“Herman’s grandson, Leo, took over in the early seventies. He sold the company but
it wasn’t worth much by then. Times had changed. The Atlanta Shoe Company acquired
the operation and turned the whole factory into a shipping warehouse.” Lance handed
me another stack of microfiche printouts, articles about the buyout. The headlines
were about the factory closing and jobs being lost. “Of course, nowadays, we know
that a lot of factory jobs are going offshore, but it was a shock back then.”

“Okay, so the factory fell on hard times and a lot of people lost their jobs, but
why is it that everyone hates Vera?”

Lance looked at me carefully. “Don’t tell me you have a soft spot for your evil employer.”

“Soft spot? Are you kidding? She’s about as cuddly as a cactus. That would be one
sore soft spot.”

Lance laughed, and women around the café swiveled in their chairs. Nothing had changed
with our Lance. He was still the Pied Piper of Harrison Falls.

He said, “I don’t know why they hate her. I know she’s the only one of the Van Alsts
left. Maybe because everyone in this town suffered and there she is still in that
huge house with her servants and her precious books. You’re right, you know. She’s
not all bad.”

I hadn’t actually said that. “How?”

“Well, I know she’s a major donor to Grandville General Hospital. She set up a small
foundation and supposedly sheltered some of the Van Alst money there. I’ve heard she’s
grateful for her treatment after the accident that put her in that wheelchair. Before
my time, of course.”

“Mine too, but interesting.”

“Give me a little more time. I’d like to check out some more sources and I’m still
vetting the stuff I found online. Oh, and I haven’t forgotten about the Agatha Christie
info you were chasing either. I’m really enjoying the challenge of hunting for something
unknown and possibly nonexistent.” His eyes twinkled. Lance reveled in research.

“I appreciate it.”

“The pleasure is mine. You know I always have fun getting embroiled in Jordan Bingham
adventures.” He squeezed my hand. “Anytime.”

I could feel every woman in the café shooting molten-eye daggers at me from the corners
of the room. I patted at Lance’s hand. “Thanks, buddy.”

He laughed. I grinned weakly.

*    *    *

DESPITE SPENDING A ridiculous amount of time sitting in my parked car outside the
café trying to reach the organizers of the Antiquarian Book and Paper Fair, I struck
out. I
didn’t give up, although once or twice I threatened to toss my iPhone out the car
window in frustration. I tried Saint Sebastian’s. Someone there would know how to
find whoever owned the concession stand, and they in turn could lead me to the girl
who worked there. She’d had a clear view of the Cozy Corpse’s booth. She was bored
and she was at the fair all the time. If anyone had seen Karen late in the day on
Sunday, it would most likely have been that girl. But Karen had said that she’d
seen
someone who’d given her the information she thought I’d find so interesting. Karen
must have met that person in the book fair. I had to assume that, like most of the
dealers, Karen would have stuck close to her booth all day. I hoped that this girl
had spotted someone noteworthy.

I kept getting the answering machine at Saint Sebastian’s. After repeated messages
and no call back, I was ready to try another approach.

I pulled into Saint Sebastian’s parking lot in the middle of the afternoon. Several
dozen cars were parked neatly on the shady side of the building. I pulled the Saab
into one of the few remaining places and got out. The bright afternoon sun had turned
the pavement into a cooking surface, and the scent of the now fading lilacs was heavy.
I would have preferred not to be returning to the place where I’d found Karen Smith.
Anywhere but. Still, Karen needed help and I sure needed information. I was betting
that someone here would have to know how to get in touch with the girl at the concession
stand. This time I walked around to the front entrance, sticking to the cool lawn,
ignoring the “Keep Off the Grass” sign. As usual, there was no one in the office.

The display by the entrance advertised a big payoff.

FIND YOUR TRUE POTENTIAL TODAY!!!

With
renowned
career coach Nancilee Cardiff
1–4 p.m.
Networking reception: 4–5 p.m
.