The Christie Curse (12 page)

Signora Panetone set down a steaming soup plate (Spode, I thought) in front of Vera.
How many sets of antique dishes did Vera own? Vera scowled and attempted to bat her
away without success.

“No, no, no. You eat. Must eat.”

I didn’t plan to push the signora away. She settled a plate of delicious-smelling
broth with tiny pasta stars in front of me and plunked down a small bowl of what looked
like freshly grated Parmesan cheese. “Parmigiano-Reggiano,” she muttered. “Yes, yes,
eat.”

I couldn’t wait to eat. But instead I gazed at Vera expectantly. “I wondered if they
might be tucked away somewhere.”

She shot me a look that might have turned me to a block of ice, but, of course, I
had that wonderful soup to keep me warm. I took the first spoonful while I waited
for her.

Nothing.

I said, “Perhaps they were packed up when Alexander’s things were cleared out of his
rooms here.”

Signora Panetone, who had been attempting to pile some
cheese onto Vera’s soup plate, stopped and glanced from Vera to me and back again.

Vera said nothing.

Signora Panetone threatened, “Eat cheese,” before she vanished through the swinging
kitchen door.

Perhaps the look had nothing to do with Alex or papers.

I said, “Or if not, they could be with his family. I may drop over and express my
condolences. I can ask them while I’m there. I’ll find a nice way to do it.”

I left that hanging in the air and got busy with the soup. It was fabulous.

Vera glowered. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll have a look and see what there is left
here. Probably a box somewhere.”

“Excellent.”

As I waited for Signora Panetone to come bursting through the door again with yet
another taste sensation, I had to wonder what Vera was hiding. And why.

In the meantime, I said, “I look forward to that.”

As the main course arrived (turkey cutlets with lemon and wine sauce, orzo and fresh
beans), I felt my iPhone vibrate. I’d made sure it was on vibrate as I knew instinctively
that there would be a Van Alst aversion to the technology and an unspoken rule against
having one on your person in the dining room. But who would be calling me? My uncles
were much too savvy. They knew where I was and with whom. Tiffany might text, but
we kept our talks for later in the evening. Who then?

Signora Panetone staggered around with the giant platter, managing to get the bare
minimum onto Vera’s plate and a man-sized portion onto mine. I got to my feet and
said, “Please, let me help you with that. It looks very heavy and…” I fully expected
Vera to order me to sit down again, but I moved fast.

“You eat!” Signora protested, but I had wrestled the plate from her in a preemptive
strike and hustled through the door of the kitchen, leaving them both with astonished
expressions.
As the door swung closed behind me, I put the platter on the counter and whipped out
the phone.

The Cozy Corpse
showed up in my call history. That was good news, but most likely not an emergency
at eight thirty on a Sunday night. I figured Karen Smith must have finished packing
up after the Antiquarian Book and Paper Fair closed and decided to call me with a
bit of news. It could wait until after I finished dinner and tried to pump Vera. I
slipped the phone back into my pocket just as Signora Panetone had puffed through
the door after me. “Go eat. No one in the kitchen!”

That wasn’t entirely true, I knew, as I clearly remembered Eddie being there the night
before.

I raised my hands in surrender and returned to my cutlets.

Vera said as I settled in, “Signora Panetone doesn’t care for anyone in her kitchen.
I thought I made that clear before.”

“My apologies. I thought she looked like she was struggling. Some of those old ironstone
platters weigh a ton. She’s not a young woman.”

“She’s strong as an ox and twice as stubborn. You’d do well not to get on her bad
side.”

I knew that my healthy appetite meant that wouldn’t happen. But I said, “I’ll be careful.

Vera grunted.

I tried something different. “And I’ll be really glad if you find any of Alex’s papers
around. That would certainly save you time and money. If I don’t have to follow any
false leads, that would be great. And maybe he’d actually uncovered a line on the
play. I do have to ask myself why he would scamper off to the city with his fiancée
when he was in the middle of this project, unless he was on to something.”

I ate the rest of my dinner in the shadow of her long glower. Didn’t bother me. I
paused every now and then to make a comment about the food, the weather and the china.
There were many more challenges at dinner when I was growing up with my uncles, including
the police at the door every so often.

As soon as dessert was finished (an excellent cheese plate), I dashed to my garret
to see what message Karen Smith had left. I reminded myself to keep an eye on what
was happening at foot level on the steep stairs.

I locked the door behind me, then turned around to see that the Siamese had managed
to get in first. I kept my distance as the last scratch was still throbbing. But now,
apparently, all was forgiven and the sneaky creature just wanted to be friends. As
I plunked myself on the bed to check the message, the cat jumped up to join me and
rubbed its head against my arm.

Karen Smith’s message was intriguing. “Hello, Jordan. I have some information that
will interest you. I’m quite worried and I think you will be too. It will be of concern
to your employer. Can you meet me at Saint Sebastian’s? I had to leave early to check
something out. I’m here now finishing packing up my booth. The front door of the hall
is locked, but if you come to the loading area on the far side of the building and
ring the bell, I’ll let you in. I should be here until about nine thirty. Otherwise,
call me and we’ll make it another time.”

Wait for another time when I’d been without any leads whatsoever so far? Not a chance.

Bring it, I thought. It was nearly nine and about a twenty-minute drive. Would she
be gone already? I called her back to let her know I was on my way, but it went straight
to message. Just to be on the safe side, I left a message saying that I hoped to be
there soon. I had a mountain of reading to do, but I knew that Agatha and her mysterious
story would still be waiting in my garret when I got back.

*    *    *

I WRAPPED MYSELF in a lightweight camel-colored cashmere cardigan, yet another flea
market treasure, then topped it off with a punchy Pucci scarf from the sixties.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot at Saint
Sebastian’s and drove around to the back. The chain-link fence had been camouflaged
by rows of lilacs, all in bloom. I loved this time of year.

I hurried toward the door. A van with “The Cozy Corpse” painted on it and a cute waving
skeleton was parked close by. I could see that it was half full of boxes of books.
Karen had left the back door to the hall propped open with a strategically placed
carton. I popped in rather than ring the bell. She was probably busy packing. I could
give her a hand. She was a nice person, and I appreciated her getting back to me so
quickly. I didn’t think it was just business on her part, but as the uncles like to
point out, sometimes I can be a patsy.

The hall was empty. The booths had all been dismantled except for the three tables
forming the last unit at the end: the Cozy Corpse location. I noticed I didn’t make
a sound moving forward on the soft, thick carpet. I didn’t want to give Karen a shock,
so I called out to let her know I was coming.

“Hi! It’s me. Jordan.”

No answer.

I figured she probably had her head in a box of books. I ambled in, amazed at how
the room had lost its old-fashioned charm now that the dealers were gone.

“Karen?”

Again, no answer. But a little flutter in my gut set me on edge. The smell of lilacs
clashed with the dank odor of the empty hall.

She couldn’t be far. Her van was still here. Two boxes of books had been stacked on
the small blue metal dolly, ready for the truck. Maybe I could do something to help
while I waited. Next to the red cash box, the credit card receipts were neatly stacked
in two piles, as though she’d been working on them. She couldn’t have gone far. She
was probably in the ladies’ room. As I stepped around the far table, thinking it would
be fun to check out some of the still-unpacked books, I tripped over an upturned chair
and careened out
of control. I was stopped by the farthest table and swore as I slammed into it. The
cash box and credit card receipts went flying. What the hell? I’d never thought to
look for overturned chairs. But nothing prepared me for what I saw next: a leg and
foot sticking out from under the blue-skirted table.

I screamed. At the top of my lungs.

Of course, I was alone with the leg and foot.

Get a grip, I told myself. It must be Karen. I snapped out of screaming gear and into
Good Samaritan mode. What could have happened to her? Perhaps she’d hit her head and
crawled under the table? That didn’t make sense, but this wasn’t the best situation
for thinking clearly, or at all. I forced myself to bend down and flip the table skirt
back so I could see.

Please don’t be dead, please don’t be dead.
It took a second for my brain to sort it out. It was indeed Karen Smith lying motionless.
Her wild red curls had come loose and spilled behind her. The gold-rimmed glasses
lay twisted near her hand. Her cheeks were gray, and her fair skin now seemed nearly
transparent. I leaned forward and knelt. There was a red wound on her forehead. There
was a slowly spreading pool of blood, soaking into the plush carpet under the table.
I gasped. I was kneeling in it! I heard myself screaming again. I forced myself to
stop and pull out my phone from my handbag. With shaking hands, I dialed 911.

The dispatcher was calm, reassuring. This was to his credit as it must have sounded
strange to have someone yell, “A leg! I saw the leg under the table!” I did get myself
under control enough to say that I thought the woman I was meeting had been hurt.
“I’m sorry, I’m pretty rattled. You have to send help. There is a lot of blood. She’s
badly injured.”

“Keep calm, ma’am. We need your location, first of all.”

“Saint Sebastian’s Hall in Grandville,” I yelled. “The rear door’s open!”

“Help will be there soon.”

I lifted the table skirt again. I was only vaguely conscious
of the dispatcher’s disembodied voice. My heart was thundering. Was Karen dead? I
managed to keep my eyes open and peer under the table. Instead of the 911 dispatcher’s
calm and measured tones, I imagined my uncles’ voices, advising me to keep cool and
get out of there before the cops came. I knew that wasn’t the best advice, except
for the “keep cool” part.

“Ma’am? What is happening?” I suppose dispatchers are trained to keep level heads.
That was good. I needed that.

I touched Karen’s arm. She was still warm and breathing.

“Karen Smith has been injured, possibly attacked. She has a gash on her forehead,
and she’s bleeding.”

I bent closer to Karen and whispered, “Karen. I’m here. You’ll be okay. Help is coming.”
I swept some curls off her face and did my best to be soothing.

What had happened? She couldn’t have banged her head and then crawled under the table.
What then? I patted her hand and stroked her arm. Was I just fooling myself? She was
clammy but not cold. There was blood on her sleeve. I stared at my hands. They were
streaked with red. The blood had come from me. I had marked her arm with it. For some
reason, this seemed like the worst thing in the world. In the back of my mind, a rational
voice said, if she’s alive and badly injured, she’ll be in shock. Stay calm. Try to
staunch the bleeding. Keep her warm. It finally occurred to me that was the dispatcher.
How did Tiff deal with this stuff on a daily basis? I was getting freaked out from
the knowledge that Karen’s blood was getting all over me.

For the only time in my life, I wanted to hear a siren. I slipped out of my vintage
cashmere cardigan and placed it gently over her. I took my scarf and pressed it gently
to her head wound with one hand. I held her limp white hand with the other. Was it
too little too late?

“Karen,” I whispered. “Please stay with me. Help is coming.”

I sure hoped I was telling the truth.

I found myself blinking back tears at the first sound of a siren. It seemed they’d
gotten here very quick. Maybe Karen’s luck would hold, although she sure hadn’t been
lucky that day. Let it be paramedics, I thought.

I heard a voice calling.

“Over here at the end,” I shouted. “Hurry.”

But of course when I looked up, it wasn’t the paramedics. Officer Smiley’s round innocent
face had shock written across it. He stared at me and knelt down beside me to check
out Karen. He reached out for me and recoiled at the blood on my hands.

I managed to say, “Her name is Karen Smith. She’s still breathing. I’ve already called
911.”

He snapped into cop mode. “You’re going to be all right, Karen. The paramedics should
be here any minute.” His usually bright face was deadly serious. His voice dropped
and took on a tone that I might have melted for, under different circumstances. He
spoke soothingly, reassuring us that everything was under control now. I don’t know
if it was helping Karen, but it was really working on me.

The welcome scream of the ambulance cut through our conversation. Officer Smiley jumped
to his feet and raced to meet the paramedics at the door. I peered up over the table
and watched the emergency team rumble toward us. Were they moving in slow motion?
This was a life or death situation. “Hurry up!” I yelled. “She’s here.”

At least Officer Smiley was hustling. He ran toward the table, bent down again and
pried my hand from Karen’s. I protested as he pulled me to my feet. He put an arm
around my shoulder and gently led me out of the way. “They have to be able to reach
her,” he said.