The Christie Curse (15 page)

I
OPENED MY eyes to find the May sun streaming through the window and a cat on my pillow.
How had I missed that the night before? I guessed it just showed how upset I was.
And it may have partly accounted for my miserable night’s sleep, although flashbacks
to Karen’s injuries were responsible for the rest.

I was sure the cat wasn’t really smirking. It just seemed that way. I kept out of
its reach as I hurried to get ready for breakfast on time.

Despite the bright day, the tall windows, the exuberant plants and the cheerfully
faded floral coverings on the furniture, that morning breakfast in the conservatory
was a gloomy affair. I decided this was because Vera could suck the sunny morning
out of any space. The mood was warmed only slightly by Signora Panetone’s frantic
cries. “Eat! Eat! Now!” Followed by, “You! Coffee!”

I was very glad to get that first cup of espresso. Like a peevish child, Vera kept
her eyes on the
New York Times
and pushed away her plate of breakfast pastries without even
glancing at it. I hardly felt like eating a thing. Karen Smith’s white face kept popping
into my head.

I found myself staring at Vera, a shapeless mass of beige as usual. How much had she
failed to tell me about what was going on? If I’d known the real story, whatever that
was, would it have prevented what happened to Karen? Only one way to find that out.

“So,” I said as Signora Panetone plopped a warm sweet roll and some fresh cheese on
my plate, “I suppose you’ve heard.”

Vera shot me her best glower. “Heard what?”

“Karen Smith was badly injured last night.”

Signora Panetone stopped serving and made the sign of the cross.

“Should I know who Karen Smith is?”

“I think you should.” That earned me a raised eyebrow and an expression that said
“I am the employer and you are the indentured serf. Don’t forget that.”

But I had already made up my mind. As much as I loved my garret and needed this job,
I needed a fair, respectful employer more. I needed to know that I wasn’t doing things
that would get me or other innocent people killed. I needed Vera to be honest with
me.

“She’s the woman who owns the Cozy Corpse mystery bookstore over in Grandville. I’ve
told you about her, although I’m sure you already knew.”

Vera said nothing.

I did, though. “She arranged to meet me to give me some information, possibly about
the Christie play. When I got there, I found her with a serious head wound. They’re
not sure if she’ll make it.”

Vera pursed her lips and glowered a bit harder. She seemed to think it was the most
effective of her five facial expressions (scowl, glower, sneer, utter boredom, and
reverence, although reverence was reserved for books in her collection).
The glower had stopped working on me, though. I doubt it had ever made a dent in the
signora. But the news about Karen Smith had. Vera might be pursuing an “I know nothing”
attitude, but she was the only one.

“That means she might die. In case there was any lack of clarity on my part.”

“None whatsoever. Did she tell you anything about the manuscript?”

“No, she was too busy being clubbed.”

Vera said without a blink, “I mean when she arranged to meet you.”

“She did not. She left a message. But really, I think it’s time that you told me what
you know about the manuscript. I do not want to be flying blind anymore.” I stopped
and sipped my espresso while I observed the impact.

Vera’s nostrils flared. I had hit a nerve. “Miss Bingham—”

I held up my hand. “Miss Van Alst. People are being hurt. One person has already died.
I do not intend to die, and I do not intend to put anyone else in danger. You must
accept that, and if you want me to continue, you will have to be open with me. What
do you know about who might have this manuscript, and who would be willing to prevent
you or me or the late Alex Fine from finding it?”

Vera added a new expression to her list. Ambivalence? From the tormented look on her
face, I concluded that she knew something and didn’t want to share it with me.

Signora Panetone leaned over and filled my espresso cup. “Drink,” she said with a
hint of sympathy.

I resisted the urge to say something and gave my attention to the coffee, which I
polished off.

Finally, with a massive sigh, Vera said, “I don’t know.”

I kept quiet.

“It is true, Miss Bingham. I do not know who is doing these things, and I would very
much like to. You are correct. I have indeed met Karen Smith and purchased some excellent
items from her. She did not deserve to have this happen. I have no idea what the connection
is. That is the truth.”

“But is it the whole truth?” She could scowl, sneer and glower all she wanted, I needed
to know.

“Most of it.”

“How about the rest then? This would be a good time.” I held out my tiny espresso
cup for a refill and probably earned Signora Panetone’s affection for the rest of
my life.

Vera sighed again. “Well, it’s not much, but I know there is someone involved.”

I barely kept myself from screaming, “Out with it!”

“In the collecting world, there is a shadowy figure known as Merlin. No one knows
who he is, but he often is the broker in complex acquisitions.”

“Ah,” I said, knowingly. I took complex acquisitions to mean stolen items.

“That’s it.”

“If that’s it, why did you choose to mention him?”

“I believe he was involved.”

Control, I whispered to myself. “In what way?”

“Very well. He had been in touch with Alex Fine about the manuscript.”

“In touch?”

She shrugged. “Well, through an intermediary.”

“Were you aware of who the intermediary was?”

“In fact, I was not. Alex Fine played that close to his chest. But I believed him.”

“And do you still believe this Merlin is somehow connected to the Christie play?”

“I do.”

I waited. And waited. Finally, I said, “And you think that Merlin might have been
responsible for the attack on Karen Smith?”

“That I don’t know. But she is very well connected in the world of collections, liked
and respected, but I suspect not overly, shall we say, scrupulous about her business
dealings.”

“You mean that she might have been willing to take part in a less-than-honest transaction.”

“I don’t know that for sure.”

“So she may have been in touch with Merlin. Or with the intermediary.”

“Exactly.”

I suppose it had taken me a ridiculously long time to really question how Alex’s death
might be connected to his work with Vera. I was used to con games, but I was a stranger
to violence. Murder was a new situation all together. “I think it’s more than coincidence
that Alex died working on this file and now Karen has been attacked.”

She nodded. I’d expected a bit of an argument, but apparently I wasn’t the only one
who had been thinking that.

I said, “Stepping back a bit, do you think that Merlin might have been responsible
for Alex Fine’s so-called accidental death?”

Signora Panetone crossed herself three times in rapid succession. I thought I spotted
tears in her eyes.

“It would seem possible, Miss Bingham.”

“And you have no way of knowing who Merlin is?”

“Exactly. I don’t even know if he’s only one person. Or if he’s a group that uses
the name to conduct its business under the radar, for a variety of reasons.”

“Theft from other collections? Pillaging of museums? Is Merlin some kind of high-end
fence?”

“To repeat, I do
not
know and I don’t think many people do. He’s perhaps a construct, a foil, but Alex
had made contact with him. Or so he said.”

“He didn’t give you details?”

“He claimed not to have any. But as I said, I believed him.”

“Now Alex is dead, apparently after an encounter with a homeless man who stole his
computer. And Karen was certainly left to die. Looks like someone wants to prevent
you from getting that manuscript.”

“Perhaps. I truly have no idea why. I am willing to pay
whatever Merlin wants to possess the play.” I thought about the bare spots on the
walls, the missing artifacts and the need for repairs in the house. But even so, Vera
would spare no expense to have this play. That said less about the play than about
Vera.

I said, “Why not just sell it to you? You’d keep quiet even if the provenance wasn’t,
um, clear.”

“I’m afraid that is so.”

“There’s a real viciousness at work. I saw the damage to Karen Smith. It was very
disturbing. Seemed personal somehow.”

I heard the signora gasp.

Vera said nothing, but behind her latest scowl, I thought I caught the flicker of
genuine emotion, the first I’d ever seen in her.

“So who wants to keep you from the manuscript?”

She shrugged. “That comes under your job description, Miss Bingham.”

“How do I know that whoever is trying to prevent you from getting the manuscript won’t
come after me? Am I the sitting duck in this case?”

“I trust you will take good care to keep yourself safe.”

Thanks a lot.

I shot back, “And I trust you will do the same.”

Vera flinched. She was worried. Now I could see that.

“I am never really alone, and I don’t leave this house, as you know.”

“Let’s hope that works out for you. Tell me, have you found anything of Alex’s research?
That would have to help.”

She shook her head. “Nothing,”

“Would you tell me if you did?”

She paused, then nodded. “Yes. Now I would, but there is nothing.”

Signora Panetone stuck her face in front of mine. She gestured toward a platter of
fluffy scrambled eggs.
“Eat now.” She patted my shoulder in what I thought was supposed to be a kind of reassuring
gesture. “You, eat, eat.”

For some reason, I just couldn’t.

*    *    *

I BREEZED INTO the hospital at eleven o’clock, as soon as visitors were allowed. I
did my best to look distraught. That wasn’t hard.

I inquired about Karen Smith at Information.

“Are you a relative?” the pleasant volunteer with the frizzy yellow hair asked.

I didn’t hesitate. “She’s my aunt. We’re all so terribly worried.” I considered saying
that I’d driven all night to get there, but my uncles had always warned me to keep
my stories simple. Less chance of tripping up that way. “Can she have flowers? I’d
like to get some.”

She squinted at the screen. “I think so. She’s postoperative, but there’s nothing
to say she can’t. Room 503.”

I hustled to the gift shop where a small refrigerator held arrangements in vases.
I picked out one that I thought Karen might like: small, bright iris and baby’s breath.
Five minutes later I stepped out of the elevator and headed for room 503.

There was no police guard outside her room. I guessed the police were still sticking
to their crime-of-opportunity theory.

Karen lay there on the bed, wan, bandaged and swollen. I whispered her name. Was this
a good idea? What if she was shocked to see me? What if…? Get a grip. You need to
know what happened, I told myself.

“Karen?”

Her eyelids flickered.

“It’s Jordan.”

I whirled at a sound behind me. A nurse’s aide had entered the room. I nodded and
turned back to Karen. “Aunt Karen? It’s me, Jordan.”

Her eyes opened. It took them a few minutes to focus.

“I am so sorry you were hurt. I brought you some flowers.” I showed her the bouquet
and watched it register.

“Glad you like them,” I said with a grin. “You don’t have to force yourself to talk.
I just wanted to see that you were all right.” I put the flowers on the window ledge
and returned to her bedside. I squeezed her hand while the nurse’s aide fiddled with
the IV drip. Karen managed to squeeze back.

The aide flashed us a gap-toothed smile. “A good sign,” she said.

Karen whispered, “Dog.”

“Sorry, what?”

“Dog.”

“Your dog?”

Another squeeze.

“You want me to walk the pooch?”

“Feed.”

Feed? “Of course. I’ll go right away. I didn’t realize that no one had done that.
The poor thing.”

A look of relief crossed her damaged face.

“Aunt Karen,” I said, “who did this to you?”

Her forehead puckered.

I tried again. “Who hurt you?”

The barest of whispers. “Don’t know.”

Oh great. I knew better than to badger her in her fragile state.

“Please. Feed Walter. Walk.”

“Leave it to me,” I said.

I glanced at the aide. “I’ll need her keys. Do you know if they’ll be in the drawer?”

“Patients are not supposed to keep any valuables here. There’s all sorts of lowlife
roaming around pretending to be something they’re not. Someone gets your keys and
they know your name, guess what happens next?”

“That’s really terrible,” I said, opening the drawer in the bedside table. No keys.
Not for the van. Not for the house.
Wherever that was. Not for the store either. Where could they be? I remembered seeing
Karen’s handbag on the floor in the hall. Had the police taken it? Did they have the
keys? Would they have been there? Would they have called animal control about the
poor dog?

I said. “You rest. I’ll be back after I’ve checked on the pooch.”

The big problem was that I didn’t know where Karen lived, and I could hardly ask when
the aide was standing there, as I was supposed to be her niece. Luck was with me and
with Karen and presumably Walter the dog. The aide straightened Karen’s pillow and
tapped at the various fluids and machines beside the bed, then, apparently satisfied,
headed briskly out the door.

“Where is, um, Walter?” I whispered.

“Home.”

“Where’s home?”

But Karen seemed to have slipped back to sleep.

I stopped in the lobby to check the phone book by the pay phone. No luck. No Karen
Smith listed. Of course, she could live anywhere in our patchwork of tiny communities.
I tried my iPhone. No luck there either. The Cozy Corpse did show up with a street
address in Grandville.