The Christie Curse (3 page)

It had been years since the Van Alst Shoe Factory closed. The rumor was that the Van
Alst funds were pretty well gone, which might explain the fact that the only newish
items I’d spotted were the security system panels. Even the phone in the library was
a black rotary number.

On the other hand, this massive house and the manicured acreage must cost a bomb to
run. The other tale around town was that Vera had received an insurance payoff after
she’d been badly injured in a car accident and that kept her going. Was it true? Harrison
Falls is a boiling cauldron of gossip at the best of times, and gossip as we all know
can’t be confused with fact. Was Vera selling off assets to keep going? No way to
know. Yet.

I decided that as long as she had the money to pay me, all was well, because apparently,
I was already on the job, whatever that would turn out to mean. Unlike the rest of
the sprawling house, which was well past its glory days, the library showed no sign
of neglect or decay. An additional security code was required to open the keypad that
controlled the door lock. Vera kept her back to me as she entered her code. Inside,
the room had its own climate control, and the temperature was cool compared to many
homes. Of course, it was actually warmer than the rest of this damp and chilly house.
Why was I not surprised?

Vera Van Alst wheeled abruptly in her chair. “I want to make it perfectly clear that
there is never any food or drink, and by ‘never any,’ I mean not a single crumb or
a drop of liquid in this environment. It doesn’t matter what blatant attempts Signora
Panetone makes to entice you; one violation of this policy and you are gone. Understood?”

“Absolutely.”

“She will try.”

“Noted. And I will resist. As I mentioned before, I have worked in a rare book room.
I understand the dangers that food and drink present. I am no fan of rodents. You
can count on me to respect your policy.” For once, I was telling the truth.

She nodded.

“I can see you take excellent care of your collection,” I said, determined to keep
the conversation going in a positive direction. I admired people who looked after
whatever it was they collected. I understood and appreciated that there were soft
cotton gloves to be worn when handling books, although some would argue about this.
“Is the climate control just for the library?”

“Fluctuations in temperature are very bad for books.” She scowled at the thought of
uncontrolled heat and cold inflicting damage.

“Of course.” I nodded knowingly.

“Insects,” she added darkly. “They can flourish if the temperature fluctuates.”

Insects? My shiver was genuine. She spotted that and seemed to approve. I was mining
my brain for what I remembered from the rare book room in my college library and the
fears that haunted its guardians. “Acidity too,” I said.

Vera Van Alst inhaled. “We are very careful.”

“And I see you have no natural light here.”

“Of course not,” she said as if I had suggested hosing down the collection. “Think
of the damage all that ultraviolet could do.”

“Indeed. And I am sure that you needed the space those old windows would have chewed
up.”

Vera’s forehead furrowed. “There’s never enough space.”

“Did you insulate when you closed them off?”

“Naturally. Although from the outside, it looks as though they are normal windows
with drawn drapes.”

I smiled approvingly. I might even get to like this job.

“We keep the relative humidity at fifty percent,” Vera said, pointing in the direction
of the dehumidifier.

I thought I appreciated books, but this was an altar to the book gods. It was hard
not to be impressed. I didn’t know what had the most impact: the rosewood shelving,
the rolling library ladders, the mezzanine floor with the ornate spiral wrought-iron
staircases at each end, the carved moldings, the scent of well-loved books, or the
silky Aubusson rugs in a soft faded palette of rose, sage and aqua. More to the point,
there must have been twenty thousand books there, each one obviously cherished by
the collector. This place was Disney World for the book lover. I inhaled the intoxicating
scent of old paper, polished leather and money well spent.

A small bronze statue of a naked man reading a book in a chair also caught my eye.
I have always liked bronzes, perhaps because so many have passed through my uncle
Mick’s “antiques” shop.

I figured the rest of the Van Alst house could crumble around the pointed Van Alst
ears and Vera would only retreat to the library. I was starting to understand how
she felt. I hated to leave the room and the collection. It would have been a perfect
experience if the cat hadn’t orchestrated a sneak attack and raked its claws across
my ankle.

*    *    *

MY OWN APARTMENT-TO-BE was part of the old servants’ quarters, located on the highest
level of the central part of the house. Signora Panetone led the way up the two flights
of a dark narrow back staircase to the third floor. The staircase started between
the kitchen and a rear door to the building. This was a far cry from the broad gleaming
curved stairs in the front foyer. No question that this staircase led to the servants’
quarters.

I was to use this entrance and park in the rear of the
building. I’d been given a key and my own security code for front and back entrances,
plus a separate one for the library.

“Yes, yes, yes, no,” the signora muttered, teetering slightly whenever she spoke.
Nothing she said seemed to require a response.

I would be getting a very good workout hiking up and down those stairs. I might need
to invest in some sensible shoes, although that would have been an extreme solution
for me.

The attic apartment would never make a magazine cover, but it only took a minute to
fall in love with the slanted walls and the sense of lives lived. As a bonus, the
rooms were spotlessly clean, no doubt made so by Signora Panetone. The windows looked
out on the manicured grounds. The ancient cabbage rose wallpaper was artfully faded.
Needless to say, there was no keypad or security code needed to access my new digs.

I would have a small sitting room with well-worn and practical furniture: a striped
love seat, a leather club chair with a lived-in look and a few brass lamps. I was
pretty sure that Victorian rolltop secretary desk would be very collectible. I opened
a drawer and admired the dovetailing before I checked out everything else. There were
no books or personal effects anywhere and no coffee table either. I find a space without
books and beloved items to be somewhat eerie, but I was imagining my own books here.
If this situation worked out, I could bring in my bookcase. A bar fridge, microwave,
small sink and open shelves were tucked into one alcove. The bedroom was spacious
enough, with an oval braided rug covering the wide plank flooring, an ornate iron
bedstead and a pretty green sprigged pattern on the well-worn fabric of the bedspread
and curtains. Good thing the pattern was small and delicate, because the cabbage roses
on the ancient wallpaper could flatten any competition. The freestanding dark wooden
armoire could hold
my wardrobe if I played my cards right. The rest of it could be stashed in the walnut
dresser in the far corner.

The part I liked best was the bathroom. It must have been a bedroom originally because
it was as large as the other two rooms. I felt instant lust for the claw-foot tub
and the 1920s-style sink and mirror, even if the latter was slightly foggy. The plumbing
worked, more or less. I figured I could ignore the bell in the living room. This was
the twenty-first century after all. Servants didn’t have to dash downstairs at the
first ding to answer some ridiculous order regardless of the time of night. At least
I had a home again. Well, for as long as I could stand Vera Van Alst and her project.
And vice versa.

The Siamese purred past me, its tail sweeping against my leg just before it disappeared.
I edged away, and it shot me an insulted glance before it jumped on the bed. I didn’t
trust it not to rake its claws across some sensitive spot. Cats were new to me. I’d
never had a pet, although I’d cried and wailed for one as a child. The Kellys don’t
do pets. Doesn’t suit the lifestyle.

And I wasn’t planning to start with a furry creature that liked to leave scars.

Cat or no cat, I was thrilled and surprised at getting the job and amazed that I actually
wanted it after meeting my new employer. But I did want it. I adore a challenge. And
now I’d get paid for it. I found myself hoping that things would work out.

*    *    *

AS I STEPPED out the rear door, trying not to grin at thoughts of lounging in my very
own claw-foot tub, I bumped into the invisible man. Well, I suppose he wasn’t really
invisible, but he was so fair and so pale that he seemed almost translucent. I could
almost have sworn that the postal uniform was walking on its own.

“So, it’s you,” he said.

“Sorry?”

“The new one. You are the new one.”

I stared. “The new what, exactly?”

He blinked and raised his pigment-free eyebrows. “Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“About what?”

As he walked past me into the house, he said with a small, reassuring smile, “I’m
sure everything will be fine this time. That other thing might have been an accident
for sure.”

This time I stared at his back and watched as the dark old-fashioned door closed behind
him, leaving me more than a little creeped out. Our postman just drops off the mail.
He doesn’t walk right into the homes on his route.

I’ve never seen him attempt to reassure anyone.

Might have been an accident?

Why did everyone in the Van Alst vicinity speak in riddles?

And what kind of accident?

A
FAMILIAR BUZZ in my pocket indicated a text from Tiffany Tibeault, my closest friend.

How’s the job hunt?

I took the three seconds to answer. We always replied, no matter what, a steadfast
rule since college. Reply and make it snappy or Tiffany will send out a search party.

Fill you in tonight…how’s life in the Great White North?

Tiff had settled into a northern Alberta pipeline camp, making good use of her degree
in nursing. The girl had guts. She was always up for a challenge and never one to
wait and see what happens, Tiffany had leapt at an opportunity to erase her student
loans with a stint in the frozen wasteland. The wages were amazing, and there was
nothing, and I do mean nothing, to spend your money on. My shrewd friend would be
sitting pretty in under a year.

Stellar;) Chat tonight xo

When I’d entered my first day at college, I dreaded meeting Tiffany Tibeault. Since
mid-August when dorm assignments
arrived in the mail, I had been making myself miserable with one question: what kind
of a person has a name like Tiffany? She would probably be the high-maintenance type,
narcissistic, shallow and brimming with vapid conversation about nail polish. I was
determined to hate her, but Tiffany was nothing of the sort. Her firm grip paired
with her genuine smile put my month of fears to rest. A jeans-and-T-shirt girl studying
nursing, Tiffany was the most gracious person ever to come out of the state of North
Carolina, which is saying a whole lot. She also loved to brag that her Canadian roots
gave her an uncanny ability to chug beer and drive in snowstorms, although not at
the same time. We were thick as thieves before one box was even unpacked.

Life gave me a break and I spent my college years with this kindred spirit, who had
no issues with my eccentric family and my resulting crises. She folded me neatly into
her world, my first true “girl” friend. No doubt my social skills had been hindered
by my entirely male, but not entirely law-abiding, upbringing.

I knew we’d video chat tonight and laugh ourselves senseless at both of our nontraditional
work situations, and I knew she’d be incredibly jealous that
I
was getting to go to the Harrison Falls Public Library and with good reason.

Now, back to work. Of course, now that I had a job, I couldn’t continue to pretend
to know what I really had no idea about. You can fool some of the people some of the
time, but something told me you couldn’t fool Vera Van Alst for long.

First step: find out as much as possible about Agatha Christie before the next morning.
If my cards hadn’t been maxed out thanks to the ex, I might have blown a bundle at
the bookstore, but instead, on the way home I hit up the most well-read person I know,
the spectacularly hot librarian currently lighting up the Harrison Falls Public Library:
Lance DeWitt. Luckily Lance was on duty.

“Hey, yeah, Jordan, everyone knows about Agatha Christie’s disappearance.”

Everybody
so
does not.

“It was a big deal then.”

“Imagine if Stephenie Meyer vanished for eleven days.”

“Eleven days? Did she really do that?”