The Christie Curse (14 page)

I said, “The cash box got knocked over when I hit the table. If there was a roll of
bills, maybe it rolled under the table. Her cash was probably in a pouch or something
like that. Did it fall into one of the boxes?”

“Nope.”

I shrugged. “I imagine she kept it separate from the credit card receipts, along with
her float. I hope it went to a safe place. Her home? Her shop? Her car?”

“And why would you think that?”

“Because she was a smart lady and there was no reason for her to keep her cash at
the hall. The security wasn’t that great. The credit card receipts were different.
And anyway who is going to walk in off the street to a church hall thinking there
was even anything to steal?” Of course, some of my relatives could make hay with credit
card receipts, but I didn’t plan to mention that.

He said, “But this was more than a casual thief off the street.”

“Have you searched her van? What about her—?”

“Let’s review a bit. Who asks the questions here?”

“I take it that’s a no.” I paused to consider. Had Karen Smith been attacked by an
opportunistic thief? A kid who couldn’t resist? A loser needing drug money? It would
be a relief to know it was not connected with me or Agatha Christie or Vera Van Alst’s
quest in any way. But I just didn’t buy it. Karen Smith was pleasant and gentle, but
I’d gotten the feeling she was an astute businessperson. She wouldn’t have taken a
foolish risk like carting her cash around practically begging someone to steal it.
She’d been in and out of the hall loading her van. No. It was out of the question.
She would have put her cash in a safe place.

“Was she worried about anything?”

“Why are you asking me? I just met her yesterday at the book fair. I didn’t know her
personally.”

“And yet you went back to the hall at nine o’clock to see her. And you keep referring
to her as your friend.”

“Haven’t I explained this already? She was warm and friendly and had found something
for me. And no, I don’t know exactly what it was, but I’m pretty sure it had to do
with Agatha Christie.”

“Are you being funny?”

“No. When I’m funny, I’m a lot funnier than this. I was looking for an artifact, and
she had a line on one. She sounded upbeat. She didn’t sound worried about anything.
Then I left her a message and—”

“And?”

“Oh my God.”

He rolled his eyes. “And?”

“
And
where’s her phone?”

“You tell me.”

I heard my voice go up. My uncles have always urged me to remain calm should I find
myself being interrogated. But it’s one thing to hear it and another thing to manage
it. I was new to interrogations. “How would I know? I never saw it.
I don’t even know what type of phone she had. I only know that she didn’t answer it
at around quarter to nine.”

He opened his mouth, no doubt to make some remark that would put me in my place.

I got in first. “Did you find one in her clothing? Pockets? Handbag?”

“One more time, we ask the questions. Just so you’re clear about that.”

“Well, I sure hope you asked yourself who might have taken her phone. I called her
after dinner. It kept ringing until it went to message. She might already have been
injured. So someone must have taken her phone. But why would anyone do that?”

“People will steal anything. Cash boxes. Phones.”

“I guess. But hitting her in the head was a serious crime. Most casual thieves wouldn’t
do that. She was badly injured. Don’t the police have ways of tracking down cell phones?
You could get the phone records and use that to—”

He leaned forward. “Next time you’re looking for a new position, you could come on
board with the department and give us workshops on how to do our jobs.”

“Oh. I suppose you already know that.”

“That’s right. And you and every other citizen who is smart enough to power up the
television think that watching an episode of
CSI
makes them an expert.”

“I don’t actually watch
CSI
. I prefer…” I quit while I was ahead. Detective Fenton Zinger might have had a point.

We went around and around the questions, and the interview never really got any better.
It must have been eleven o’clock when I was finally released.

Officer Smiley offered to drive me home. Or drive me to my car and then follow me
home, whichever I preferred. I didn’t want to admit that once again I was glad to
see him. It had been a rough night, but there was no way a half-Kelly could give up
her mother’s car to the cops.

“If you drive me back to my car at Saint Sebastian’s Hall, I’ll get myself home.”

Detective Zinger stuck his head out the door and called to me as we headed out the
door. “Oh, and don’t leave the area. That means Harrison Falls, Grandville and the
region. We’ll need to ask you questions.”

Was he kidding? I didn’t plan to leave my bed for at least two days.

*    *    *

“SO, OFFICER. WHAT’S the news on Karen?” I asked Officer Smiley when we finally escaped
the Grandville Police Station.

“My name is Tyler,” he said. “I wish you’d call me that.”

“Sure,” I said, not really meaning it. “What have you heard about Karen Smith?”

“I checked with some colleagues. They’ve taken her to the regional hospital here in
Grandville. Her condition is critical. She’ll be operated on tonight.” He bit his
lip. It might have been adorable if he hadn’t been a cop. But he was a cop, so it
was just plain weird.

“What?” I said.

He shook his head.

“Don’t just shake your head. Say what it is that you’re shaking your head about.”

“No need to yell,” he said, looking like a wounded teddy bear. “It’s just that…”

“They don’t think she’ll make it.”

“It doesn’t look good.”

I felt a wave of nausea. “I have to go home. Now.”

*    *    *

OFFICER SMILEY (“CALL me Tyler”) did his best to walk me right to my door. I insisted
that I was fine and made my way down the long, dimly lit driveway to the back door.
Vera definitely wasn’t squandering money on exterior lighting. The Van Alst house
looked like a fine setting for a ghost story at that time of the night. Lucky I’m
not superstitious, I reminded myself as the ancient back door opened with a creak.

The click of my heels echoed in the back hallway of the empty first floor. “Ridiculous,”
I said out loud. What? Was I channeling Vera Van Alst now? Vera was far away in her
own private second-floor wing, and Signora Panetone was, well, wherever she went after
running the kitchen and the house for eighteen hours or so.

I didn’t spot a cat and planned to keep my cool in case a tail brushed against the
back of my leg. After what seemed like a year, I reached the top of the two dark,
narrow flights of stairs, unlocked my door and practically tumbled into the safe cocoon
of my garret. It was a cat-free zone. I bolted the door and ran for the tub.

*    *    *

AFTER THE BATH, I settled in for a chat with Tiffany, planning to leave out key details.
She’d be instantly more alarmed than necessary, and I was too tired to recount my
evening from hell and reassure Tiff that all was well. I had violated our pact, by
not texting
Grandville Police Station
as my location earlier. Before I finished my “Hey, Tiff,” she interrupted. “What’s
wrong?” Dang. I really hate Tiff’s intuition.

“Just what is going on, Miss Jordan
Louise
Kelly Bingham?”

“You really don’t have to middle-name me, Tiff. I am trying to tell you what happened.”
My voice cracked a bit, thinking about poor Karen lying in her hospital bed.

Tiffany softened. “Are you okay?”

I started at the beginning.

When I finished, she said in her most reassuring health practitioner’s tone, “And
Officer Smiley just happened to be the cop who got this alleged anonymous phone tip?”

“Well, yes, he did, but I’m sure it’s a weird coincidence.”

“Hold on, aren’t you the one who doesn’t believe in coincidences?”

I sputtered, “But he was nice enough to escort me back here. I didn’t see anyone else
at the station offering to get a bloodstained woman home after she’d been grilled
for hours by a detective.” Hmm, maybe I should have left out that part.

“What?” Uh-oh. Tiffany’s voice was flat. “Did you say ‘detective’?”

“Um, yes I did.”

“It’s going to take me a moment or two to absorb all this information, Jordan.” A
long pause ended with a very deep and disappointed sigh on the other end of the line.

“You have had this ‘job’”—I could just see the sarcastic finger quotes—“for less than
a week. You’re being interviewed by detectives and narrowly escaping a bludgeoning,
to seek a possibly nonexistent pile of papers for a mean old bird in a wheelchair.
That right?”

“About sums it up.”

Tiff pressed on. “You know I don’t like that your boyfriend the cop was the first
one on the scene. He’s been ‘on the scene’ a little too often as far as I’m concerned.”

Now that my head was clearing a bit, and I was no longer consumed by the need to bathe,
I saw what Tiff meant. Officer Smiley had been bumping into me daily since I’d started
to work for Vera. My stomach knotted. Was that a gut warning? Or had it simply been
too long since Signora Panetone popped in with my bi-hourly snack?

“If you ask me, he’s gone from cute to creepy. It may be time to tell your uncle Mick
that this guy has been sniffing around.”

I laughed. “Oh yes, I’ll run right out and do
that
. Just let me check on my flying pigs first.” The uncles would not be inclined to
feel pity for someone who has withheld information regarding the police. Family or
not.

“Okay, I get that you’re between a rock and a hard place
with those guys. Better yet, just tell Lucky. Let him track down some online stuff.
It helped last time.”

Ah yes, last time. Uncle Lucky had been the one who found the proof needed to keep
me out of jail after my horrid slug of a boyfriend committed credit card fraud. Lucky
was brilliant with code if not words.

“And how many times have you seen Officer Stalker this week?”

“Maybe four, give or take.”

Suddenly Tiff’s volume rose. “
Four?
Jordan, how could you have let him take you home?” I thought I could hear her pacing
on the concrete floor of her bunker.

“I had no choice, Tiff. I really didn’t want to have to call Mick, and can you imagine
if I’d tried a cab? I may have traumatized someone.” I left out the part about not
being able to afford a cab at that exact moment.

“I know you must be exhausted. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to Mom you. I’m way the hell
up here. I can’t exactly get to Harrison Falls to get you out of any trouble. I am
worried about this, so take me seriously. I’m asking myself what kind of research
job this is. You should be asking yourself the same question. Remember that I’m your
friend and I love you.”

“Love you too.”

I sighed deeply after we hung up. Tiff’s question was a good one. What kind of research
job was this? At that moment, I spotted some dried blood under my nail, missed when
I scrubbed down earlier. Karen’s blood. What kind of job was it? A dangerous one,
apparently.

*    *    *

AFTER TALKING WITH Tiff and a long read of Agatha’s biography, I finally dozed off.
My eyes popped open at two. If the person who hurt Karen Smith had her phone, then
that person had gotten the message I’d left for Karen. I might be in danger from him.
I felt confident thinking it was a man.
Her attacker was far more likely to be male given the statistics on violence. Anyway,
the person who had called Officer Smiley had been male. He’d said “he.” Tiff’s voice
echoed in my head. If there’d really been a call. Despite Tiff’s meltdown and my family’s
predisposition against the law, I couldn’t really believe that this sweet, blushing
man had attacked Karen Smith. It didn’t make sense.

I wasn’t crazy about the idea that someone else had my telephone number and maybe
had accessed my message, and I was really glad I hadn’t thought of it when I was clattering
up those isolated stairs from the empty first floor of the Van Alst house. I’d been
jumpy enough. I tossed and turned, wondering if Karen had been attacked by an opportunistic
thief. Or did that attack have to do with the call to me? If it did, had the attacker
found my response to her and planned to have me take the rap for it? Take the rap?
For sure my uncles were still living in my head.

I lay on the pillow trying to distract myself and get to sleep. No joy there. What
would Agatha Christie do? I’d gotten sucked into her biography and had not expected
to find such a kindred spirit in a dead mystery writer, but her life was so much more.
She’d become like a new companion to me. Maybe I could count on her for some inspiration
about what to do next, as my shattered nerves would never let me sleep.

Agatha would certainly take action. I thought about her mysterious departure. Life
had served her lemons as her husband Archie consorted quite publicly with his mistress,
Teresa Neele. Had Agatha made lemonade with her disappearance, assuming Teresa Neele’s
name in her hotel while the world searched for her and looked suspiciously at Archie?
I knew from her notebooks that she kept poking at an idea, working and reworking until
it succeeded. It didn’t always come easily or quickly, but she didn’t give up. That’s
what I needed to keep in mind.

Agatha may have lost Archie (lucky her, in my opinion),
but she continued to be a huge international success, married again and had adventures
the rest of us could only dream of. Except for the huge international-success thing,
I felt like I was on the same path. I was still in the process of healing from my
humiliating breakup. I decided to start with my own notebook in the morning. It’s
always cathartic to put pen to paper.

But first I needed to find out what had happened to Karen.