The Christie Curse (6 page)

But first, I wanted to check out my predecessor, the country mouse. And now I had
enough information to do that.

It didn’t take long for Google to spit out a number of articles related to deaths
in the subway. My predecessor had been Alexander Fine, a twenty-eight-year-old recent
graduate of Ithaca College. He was from Darby, just ten miles away from Harrison Falls,
and his parents still lived there, so naturally our local paper had covered his death
thoroughly. I had missed the drama, being in the middle of end-of-term madness and
marking, studying and writing like a maniac.

In the article, my new employer was interviewed and showed her usual level of compassion.
She did manage not to make a joke, so I supposed that was to be commended in a limited
way:
When reached for comment, his employer, prominent Harrison Falls resident Vera Van
Alst, said, “It was a stupid thing to happen. A waste.”

And then I assumed she released the hounds on the reporter.

Witnesses said during a hostile encounter with a deranged homeless man, Mr. Fine was
pushed into the path of an oncoming train. His fiancée, Miss Ashley Snell, tried unsuccessfully
to save him and had to be held back. The homeless man had already fled the scene with
Mr. Fine’s laptop bag.

Another article featured a photo that showed the devastated fiancée, long dark hair
disheveled, her face distorted by grief, weeping, while emergency workers milled around.
What a powerful illustration of the tragedy. Of course, it wasn’t the best circumstance
for a flattering photo. It appeared that Ashley Snell was a donkey-faced girl with
unfortunately close-set eyes and more teeth than mouth, but I put that down to a nasty
photographer on some kind of a power trip. Some people are like that. The paper went
on to say that Miss Snell was still suffering from shock and was requesting that people
respect her privacy.

No kidding.

I couldn’t even imagine dealing with those vultures after you’d been coping with the
horrendous death of your fiancé. And what kind of unfeeling monster would use that
photo?

I didn’t know the victim, his parents or his fiancée, and I still felt bad for all
of them.

The picture of Alexander Fine showed a man in his late twenties with dark hair, a
receding hairline, large expressive eyes fringed with dark eyelashes and a slightly
feminine pointed chin. The dark circles under the expressive eyes added a few years
to his age. In his photo, he looked like he was about to apologize to the photographer.

I wondered what he’d been doing in Manhattan. Had he had a line on the Christie play?
If so, why hadn’t Vera mentioned that? She must have known if he’d been in the city
on business for her.

I reminded myself that it took only a few hours to drive to New York City. It could
have been a romantic outing for a young man and his fiancée that ended in tragedy.
But somehow I wasn’t buying that.

As I was the new Alexander Fine, it seemed a good idea to make sure I knew what had
really happened to him. Apparently the police didn’t. Later articles showed there
were no leads on the homeless man and the police had no suspects, although Alex’s
empty laptop bag had been discovered in a Dumpster the day after his death. Had it
been a random theft of a laptop for a quick buck, or was there something more going
on?

I wondered if it was too soon to run into Miss Ashley Snell, accidentally, of course,
while still respecting her privacy.

I bookmarked a couple of articles and got on to strategy number two.

Sal.

Flipping open my phone, I zipped off a quick text to Tiff.

Number 10 Bridge Street.

*    *    *

SALVATORE TASCONE’S NAME was nicely scripted in gilt on the door of Number 10 Bridge
Street. I opened the door and walked in. Like everything about Sal, it was discreet.
No indication, for instance, of what line of work he was in, if you know what I mean.
The reception desk was decorated with the Marilyn Monroe look-alike filing her red
nails. Sal appreciated that era. Once past the platinum-blond guardian at the desk,
I found myself in a room that was as far from an office as any I’ve ever seen. A pair
of tufted green leather club chairs faced each other. I tried not to drool at the
sight of them. A polished French occasional table held a crystal candy dish and Sal’s
highball glass, also crystal. Probably Waterford. Uncle Mick had mentioned that Sal
was partial to it.

Sal looked good in his green chair. He stood up as I entered and kissed me on both
cheeks. He was six feet tall, slender, elegant in his custom-tailored suits, a gentleman
transplanted from 1959. Seventy, looking fifty, you’d swear he just stepped out of
Ocean’s Eleven
, the original. He has always looked exactly the same: silver waves, thin face, sharp
cheekbones and jaw, perfect but subtle manicure,
black pencil-thin mustache, French cuffs, this time sporting Art Deco green tourmaline
cuff links, a thousand bucks if they were a penny. Sal was a handsome man and one
you knew you should be wary of. Forget the handmade leather shoes. Concentrate on
the tight lips and the expressionless eyes. I managed not to shiver, but only barely.
Sal is the go-to guy for coins, stamps, Georgian silver and anything missing from
museums pretty much anywhere on the planet, despite his cozy setup in plain-vanilla
Harrison Falls. In fact, Sal’s face was the first thing that came to my mind when
I heard
The Scream
had been stolen.

He never says much. Long pauses are a specialty. Most people start to sweat as soon
as they get over their shivers.

“I hear you’re looking for something, Jordan.”

“Oh, you spoke to Uncle Mick.”

“Not recently.” He indicated the guest chair with a courtly wave, sat elegantly back
in his own chair and smoothed the immaculate creases in his trouser legs.

I got the message. He already knew what I was looking for without hearing it from
me or my uncle. I sat down too. “I am looking for something, but I don’t know if it
exists.”

Sal liked that approach. He raised his eyebrows in interest, and I continued. “A matter
of an unknown play by Agatha Christie.”

His eyes narrowed. Sal’s intense stares and long pauses tended to give me verbal diarrhea,
never a good thing.

“Never produced,” I said, fighting the urge to blurt.

Sal permitted himself an almost imperceptible nod.

“Maybe the only copy in the world.”

He fingered his tourmaline cuff links.

“Could even be in Agatha Christie’s own handwriting.” Now where the hell had that
come from? I wasn’t even sure that Christie had written her novels and short stories
longhand. Perhaps she’d typed them. Or dictated them. I reminded myself that I still
had a long way to go researching what I was supposed to know.

Sal flicked an imaginary speck of dust from his snowy white French cuff.

I said, “What do you hear about it?”

Sal unbent elegantly from the chair and said, “I’ll let you know.”

I recognize when I’ve been dismissed.

*    *    *

I FROZE WHEN I spotted the cop idling across the street from Sal’s office. Was he
following me? Plenty of reasons for the cops to keep an eye on Sal, although wearing
a Harrison Falls Police uniform and sitting in a marked car was a bit too obvious.
But why was he smiling? Why was he getting out of his squad car? Instinctively, I
flattened myself against the wall in case I’d blundered into the middle of a takedown.
Caught between a cop and a bad place. But if I was trapped, then so were the three
blue-haired ladies with walkers who had just emerged from the bingo hall. They clustered
around Officer Smiley, looking like they were about to pinch his flushed cheeks or
ruffle his wavy blond hair. He was over six feet, so they’d have to stretch to manage
that. I think they were won over by his twinkly bright blue eyes. Beware, ladies,
I thought.

He disengaged himself from his new fans and crossed the street. His admirers hurried
to catch up. He reached out his hand toward me, and I froze in slow-motion horror
as he took my hand and shook it.

Now the old ladies clustered around and turned to me. I swear they giggled. “Is this
your girlfriend? Oh, she’s beautiful! Childbearing hips.”

“No!” I gasped, but my protest was drowned by the rattle of the walkers as they headed
down the street.

Why the hell was he still holding my hand?

“Tyler Dekker,” he said. The tips of his ears were glowing red. He had the kind of
fair skin that was born to blush. The small chip in his left incisor just added to
the charm of his smile.

I stared at our entwined hands. This couldn’t be happening. And why was I feeling
the heat? I hadn’t done anything illegal, but there was that lifetime of conditioning.

“And you’re Miss Jordan Bingham.”

There was no point in denying it, but I couldn’t think of a thing to say. He could,
though. “Just visiting?”

“Just passing by, Officer,” I said curtly, hoping that Sal wasn’t watching this encounter.

I managed to be on my way fast enough that the most suspicious watcher couldn’t imagine
that anything like an actual conversation had taken place.

J
ORDAN BINGHAM, WHY am I being graced with your gorgeous presence so soon after the
last visit?”

I smiled.

That Lance DeWitt was so dreamy that if the Harrison Falls Public Library decided
to charge fifty bucks a reference question, they would probably have plenty of takers.
I kept my voice even and overlooked the small flutter in my chest. Other women in
the library glared at me. Maybe it was the double-cheek kiss. Even though there was
absolutely nothing between us, I still got a rush when my handsome friend worked his
flirtatious magic.

“Rare manuscripts and books, where would I find the people who know about them?”

“Still on Agatha, are we?”

“You know me, like a dog with a bone.”

“Well, you could go online, but for the real inside story, let me help. There are
some people you should stay away from. You think drug dealers and gangbangers can
be violent, try crossing a rabid collector for his first-edition Dylan Thomas.”

I knew my uncles had had a few close calls with obsessive collectors, but would that
hold true for book collectors? “Just books, Lance.”

“People get addicted to anything, dear Jordan, like I could get hooked staring into
your gorgeous eyes.”

I flushed foolishly. “Oh, come on, they’re—”

“Some collectors won’t part with their prizes unless you pry them from their cold,
dead hand. But they’d be happy to pry a desired object from yours. No matter what
the cost to them. Or you.”

“I find it hard to believe there’s much danger in this business.”

“Where there’s desire, there’s always a dark side. Just be careful, Jordan.”

Ten minutes later, I left the library with a fistful of brochures and a pair of trembling
knees.

Ridiculous really.

*    *    *

I TEXTED TIFF.
Back at Mick’s.

Uncle Mick was just about to serve up Kraft Dinner for lunch when I dropped in. KD
was the foundation of the food groups for the Kellys. I am a Bingham, but I’ve had
my share. Still, only day two in the Van Alst employ with Signora Panetone’s cooking
and I was already being ruined for my uncles’ cuisine.

I accepted some anyway. I didn’t want to bite the hand that had fed me for so many
years. My purpose was to make the best use of the top-of-the-line printers owned by
Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques to run off some attractive business cards. It is great
to be connected. And we all need the right credentials. But first, I had to spend
a little time with family. Uncle Mick was in a chatty mood, not unusual. Lucky was
playing his cards close to his chest. Nothing new there.

Mick couldn’t wait to talk about Agatha Christie. I guessed he’d been doing his own
bit of research.

“Right, my girl. You know Agatha Christie wrote
The Mousetrap
.”

I was aware of that. “That’s the longest-running play in history.”

I knew that my uncles would have images of cash dancing in their heads. I added, “In
her heyday, she had a string of hits in London’s West End.”

Of course, Uncle Mick had to ask the question that had been bothering me. “I know
that too. So what are the chances that nobody knew about this so-called play, then?”
Mick did the asking, but Lucky raised his eyebrows.

“That’s bothering me too. The woman was under a microscope. I’ve been reading all
about her. I don’t know how she survived all that attention.”

“So why wouldn’t this play have been produced? Problems finding a backer?”

“I doubt it. I don’t really know how her productions were funded, but investors would
have been falling over themselves.”

“Maybe she wrote it up and it was no damn good. And she threw it away and some joker
found it.”

“That’s possible. But I get the impression from my research that she didn’t throw
things away. She kept all her notes and notebooks. She just reworked ideas and plots
until they suited her. Sometimes it took years. And she knew what people liked.”