The Christie Curse (5 page)

From what I’d seen, she was shrewd and tough. Time would tell. As I went back to the
books, I was growing more and more curious about my predecessor. The postal carrier
had said an accident. What kind of accident? Maybe he’d been eaten alive. I’d have
to check that out.

In the meantime, I decided to celebrate my new digs with a bath in that amazing tub.
The pipes clanged and rattled as I filled it. As least hot water was not in short
supply in the Van Alst household. That was excellent. I was really glad that I’d brought
my vanilla and amber bath salts. I let myself soak in the tub until I relaxed and
the tight muscles in my neck recovered.

Later, I spotted a note on the small demilune table by my entrance door as I padded,
yawning, through my tiny living room heading for bed. I hadn’t heard anyone knock.
But someone had clearly entered the apartment while I was luxuriating in the tub.
For one thing, a Siamese was watching me from the club chair. I opened the door and
peered out. The narrow staircase leading to my charming staircase was in utter darkness.
Even when I flicked on the overhead light, there was barely enough illumination to
see. I was pleased when the cat skittered past me, through the entrance and down the
stairs. Had Signora Panetone teetered up the two flights of stairs again? Did she
have any comprehension of privacy?

*    *    *

I WAS JERKED awake by the phone near the bed. That was too bad because I’d been just
about to marry Jake Gyllenhaal.

“Breakfast is at eight. Did I not mention that?” Vera Van Alst said in a tone that
no one would argue with.

I glanced at the clock. Seven forty-five. “I’ll be there.”

In my experience, no one gets a master’s degree without being able to shoot from bed
to class in less than twenty minutes.

She said, “Good. I’m looking forward to hearing your strategies.”

My strategies? What
were
my strategies? And why was there a cat in my bed? I had shown the cat the door. Had
the signora stuck her head in this morning while I was sleeping? The Siamese seemed
less than pleased to see me up and about and skittered toward the door, growling loudly.
I dodged it, barely managing to avoid a slash of claws.

One of my early strategies would be getting a slide lock for my entry.

S
IGNORA PANETONE DEPOSITED three perfectly poached eggs in front of me. Bacon, lightly
fried homemade bread, thick slices of tomato that must have been fresh from some unseen
hydroponic garden, all appeared like magic. Steam rose from the
cafetiera
as the signora topped up my cup with fragrant espresso. I inhaled the rich aroma.

Maybe my predecessor had died of clogged arteries and caffeine intoxication.

I glanced over at my new boss. She was wearing another ratty ensemble from her yak-herder
beige collection. The soft sunlight in the conservatory wasn’t doing her any favors,
and she obviously didn’t feel like talking. In case I had been tempted to start up
some idle pleasantries, the fact that her pointed nose was stuck in the
New York Times
would have been a clue not to. It’s hard to compete with the crossword.

Well, never mind that. The conservatory with its view of the gorgeous east side garden
of the Van Alst house more than made up for Vera’s lack of social skills. I liked
the ceramic floors, the three walls of windows that started at
knee length and the French doors with their own security pads. I admired the large
potted lemon trees, thriving. And was that a fig tree? I figured the signora cared
for the trees, as well as the rows of some kind of seedlings on the wide, low window
ledges. I felt like I was in heaven, even if Vera didn’t share my opinion.

From my seat, I got a glimpse at a peculiar group of low structures in a sheltered
spot near what I took to be the kitchen door. It was the only less-than-perfect aspect
of the Van Alst garden. Of course, we Kellys do not garden, so what do I know.

Every now and then, I glanced at Vera. While I had wolfed my breakfast, not a crumb
seemed to have moved on Vera’s plate. The
NYT
seemed to hold her attention. It took me by surprise when she finally spoke.

“What are your findings thus far?” Vera’s gravelly voice seemed set on permanent growl.
It suited her.

Signora Panetone said, “Yes, yes, yes, no, no. You must eat. American breakfast. Why
do you leave it there? Eat. Yes, yes.
Mangia. Mangia!
”

Vera swatted her away. “Findings, Miss Bingham?”

Playing fast and loose with the term “findings,” I said, “Well, my initial findings
are that this will require caution. We need to confirm the existence of the manuscript,
and then we will want to rule out forgery, fraud and other gimmicks.”

I saw a small flash from the dark eyes. “I’m glad to see you are not as naïve as you
look.”

“Well, thank you.” I admire a well-aimed left-handed compliment as much as the next
person and Vera Van Alst was obviously very skilled at lobbing them. I decided to
take advantage of the moment. “I meant to ask yesterday, if you have any other Christie
manuscripts or—”

“I do not.”

So much for that. I could tell by her tone that she wasn’t in the mood for small talk,
and I didn’t want to reveal how
little I really knew about the topic of Agatha Christie and her work.

Luckily, Signora Panetone had plopped down yet another small mountain of still-sizzling
fried bread. I reached for it.

Signora Panetone said, “Yes. Eat. Good.”

There was something else I needed to know, though.

“I’m curious about my predecessor. Was he naïve?”

“No, no, no, no talk,” Signora Panetone said. “More coffee?”

Vera scowled. “I don’t remember mentioning a predecessor.”

“More egg? Yes, yes.”

“No,” I said, to both. “You didn’t. But your mailman did.”

“Oh, that Eddie McRae. Never knows when to keep his mouth shut. None of anyone’s business.”

I couldn’t have agreed less. “So what did happen to my predecessor?”

Vera said, “As it turned out, he went out with a bang.”

I stared at her. That didn’t mesh with Eddie McRae’s comment.

“Coffee, yes, yes,” said Signora Panetone, filling my coffee cup.

Vera said, “In that he managed to get himself hit by a train.”

Signora Panetone stopped serving and made the sign of the cross. “Poor boy.”

Vera ignored all that.

“The country mouse wandered into the city, stumbled into the subway, was attacked
by a homeless person, lost his footing and plummeted onto the track in front of an
oncoming train. I trust you have no balance issues and a rudimentary understanding
of the laws of physics and how trains work.”

Wow, cold-blooded. “I’m quick on my feet and have no problem using the subway safely.
I’m good with planes too.” Something was not right there, for sure. If he’d been smart
enough to get the job, you’d think the poor doofus could take a subway without getting
killed. And what kind of employer would talk like that after a tragedy?

Signora Panetone crossed herself once more to be on the safe side. Was that because
of the death or merely Vera’s untouched plate? Hard to know.

Vera Van Alst showed no empathy about his passing, and I didn’t really appreciate
the black humor. It would have been a nasty way to go. But then, Vera had all the
warmth of a trout caught yesterday. Never mind, I didn’t have to like her; I just
had to cash her checks.

“And today’s strategy?”

A cat brushed against my leg. I jerked away before I got scratched, but all I heard
was a contented purr. A trick, no doubt. I wasn’t likely to fall for that.

“I’ll start with some online snooping and then begin to visit contacts. Shake things
up a little bit.”

She nodded.

“Do you have wireless Internet here?” I asked.

“No.”

“Do you have any Internet service? I should have checked yesterday.”

She shrugged. “Why would I? I don’t need a computer. I despise all this electronic
folderol.”

I bit my tongue so I didn’t blurt out, “Because you are not the only person in the
world.” Instead I said, “That ‘folderol’ will speed things up if I can do much of
my computer research here. That would give me flexibility.”

“You’ll have to find another way. That will be all, Fiammetta. Stop hovering.” She
wheeled back from the table. “Good day to you, Miss Bingham.”

Right.

*    *    *

AFTER GATHERING UP my materials for a day on the prowl, I headed out. I decided to
detour and take a walk
around the side grounds. I was curious about the structures I could see from the conservatory.

Up close the whole setup seemed to be made of leftover bits and bobs from other projects.
I spotted pieces of battered fencing, some old wire hangers and a pair of plastic
milk cartons, one red, one blue.

A middle-aged man in a straw hat was leaning against a shovel. I recognized him from
the ride-on mower, and I figured he was the same guy who’d been working in the tulip
beds.

“What is this?” I said.

This time he grinned at me. “It’s Fiammetta’s vegetable patch.”

Of course, it could only have been Signora Panetone’s garden; nobody else would have
had the nerve to carve out this untidy little patch amidst the immaculate Van Alst
gardens, let alone eat produce grown on the property of the most hated woman in Harrison
Falls. Even I knew that gardens were full of plants in neat rows. I’d seen pictures.
I said, “It’s not like other gardens.”

He nodded. “It’s a Fiammetta special. It’s like nothing else in the world. That’s
why it’s tucked out of sight, so that Vera can’t see it messing up the grounds.”

What was I missing? “It’s different. Why aren’t there any plants in it?”

“I guess you’re not a vegetable gardener.”

“That’s an understatement. In my family we believe that vegetables come from cans.
Fruit too, although some of it seems to grow in Jell-O and Pop Tarts.”

He chuckled. “Well, until this week, the weather’s been bad. It’s been too cold and
wet to plant much for most of the spring. Once we’re past Memorial Day, you just watch.
She’ll grow tomatoes like you’ve never tasted in your life.”

“I can’t wait.” I wasn’t sure I really believed it, but I was looking forward to being
proved wrong. “And I’m Jordan Bingham, by the way. I work here now on Miss Van Alst’s
collection.”

“And I am Brian Underwood. I take care of the grounds and the gardens, and I do repairs
and maintenance. Nice to meet you, Jordan. And good luck to you. You’ll need it.”

For all I knew Brian would go running back to Vera with whatever negative things I
said. I kept it neutral. “I’m enjoying it so far.”

“Well, look out. You never know when Vera’s got a black mood coming. Been like that
for the twenty-five years I’ve been working here. You just have to grow a thick skin.
And watch your back. She has a dangerous streak. Fiammetta, now, she’s thrilled to
have you. Says you’re a real good eater.”

*    *    *

I STROLLED BACK along the elegant driveway that wound around the Van Alst house from
the spectacular wrought-iron front gates to the rear entrance. I stopped at my vintage
blue Saab, as pretty today as when it first rolled off the line in 1960. It had been
passed from my grandfather to my mother and had been waiting for me the day I got
my license. My Uncle Paddy dabbles in classic cars and kept it purring like a kitten.
That car was the closest I’d ever come to having a pet.

Harrison Falls being what it is, I was back at Uncle Mick’s in fifteen minutes. I
kept my eyes on the road during the steep drive up the hill. It was a gorgeous spring
morning: the sun was bright, the sky blue, the air full of promise and the scent of
fresh green leaves and grass. Everywhere I looked, peonies were delivering their spectacular
blooms. Spring in upstate New York seems to take too long to arrive, but it never
disappoints when it finally does. By nine thirty that morning I was settled in Uncle
Mick’s cluttered back office, ready to start creeping around the Internet. I turned
down his offer to enjoy a double feature of Froot Loops and Count Chocula for breakfast.
Ditto the instant coffee. Despite their fondness for “antiques,” my uncles are early
adopters of every form of electronic communication, including
some that are less than legal, but never mind that. I figured I’d get one of them
to hook me up in the garret without Vera being any the wiser, but in the meantime,
I needed access and privacy.

I was eager to get to work. I did hope to ferret out some scraps of information about
this play. I needed some hint about its existence. There had been no inkling of a
previously unknown play, even in Agatha Christie’s own notebooks, as far as I could
tell. Of course, I hadn’t had time to make a real dent during my first evening of
burrowing through the pile of information I’d gathered. Still, the right search engines
can pull up information that is unofficial, unverified, as well as inaccurate and
downright dangerous. I looked forward to it.