The Christie Curse (16 page)

I climbed into the Saab and headed south. I sure hoped that some neighbor with a key
had taken pity on that poor dog. If the dog really existed. I hear that morphine can
make you spin quite a tale.

I felt a bit of guilt about the project. Vera Van Alst was paying me to work for her,
not to walk dogs. But the connection with Karen was a lead to the coveted manuscript,
so I could rationalize the dog walking. Maybe a visit to Karen’s home would also help
connect some of the dots.

I
CASUALLY DROPPED in to my uncles’, even if it was out of the way, as I’d decided
to use some of my surplus clothing. I changed into an old pair of cropped jeans, a
pair of classic Keds in hot pink and a black T-shirt that could be tossed afterward
if need be. I wasn’t sure what I’d find at Karen’s or what I’d have to do to find
it. Be prepared, that’s what my uncles always taught me, although they’re no Boy Scouts.
They’d also trained me in self-defense, evasive driving and the age-old art of getting
past locked doors. I grabbed my lock picks, a gift for my sixteenth birthday. Until
now, I’d never used any of the pieces except to practice.

Not willing to miss an information opportunity, I asked if there was any word on the
street about the attack on a woman at Saint Sebastian’s Hall the night before.

Lucky shook his head sadly.

Mick sputtered, “What’s the world coming to, my girl?”

I took that as a no, which was, I supposed, a good thing.

*    *    *

I PULLED UP in front of the tiny shop on the first floor of a narrow Victorian-era
redbrick house. The short street was just one block over from a trendy shopping area
full of flower shops, gift shops, small bistros and decorators. It was too cute for
words with all that brick and gingerbread. The sign said “The Cozy Corpse: Used and
collectible crime fiction,” and underneath it added, “By appointment and by chance.”
In the window, a skeleton in a jaunty red cap reclined in a comfy garden chair. A
great afterlife.

No one else was in sight, but I wasn’t going to take a chance. I drove around the
corner and parked the Saab well away from prying eyes.

I returned to the shop and pressed my nose to the glass in the door. Not sure why,
as I was well aware that the owner was in hospital a good drive away. The store was
done up in Victorian style: velvet wingback chairs, polished round tables, swag lamps.
Too cute for words and I wanted desperately to get in. Maybe I’d find some Christie
material that I hadn’t seen yet.

I glanced around, but this street was mainly residential and quiet. It was just about
eleven. I decided to canvas the neighbors until I could find someone who knew Karen
and better yet, knew where she lived. I was just about to set out when I thought I
heard a strange faraway gurgle. I stopped. Listened. There it was again. I banged
on the door and the gurgle echoed. A dog? I wasn’t sure. Was it drowning?

Maybe Karen lived above the shop. That would make sense. There was no vehicle in the
narrow driveway, but there wouldn’t be, would there? The Cozy Corpse van was probably
considered evidence by this point.

I stepped around the side and didn’t find a doorway. If Karen did live upstairs, how
would she get in? A fragrant row of French lilacs hid a chain-link fence around a
small
grassy yard in the rear of the building. I tried to look like I belonged there as
I opened the gate, stepped in and spotted the back entrance to the house. It’s all
in the training.

A dog bowl filled with water sat near the steps. Was Walter in the house?

The row of lilac trees kept me from being too visible to neighbors, or so I hoped.
I didn’t see anything that resembled a security camera. Again I pressed my nose to
the glass window in the door. Boxes, shelves, papers. What else? Was that a staircase?
Hard to tell.

I tried the door. Locked. Of course, it would be. I banged and banged and listened
to the forlorn gurgle yet again. Time to fish or cut bait, as the uncles said. They’d
taught me how to pick a lock when I was sixteen years old because you never know.
Another Kelly motto. I’d learned quickly when Mick and Lucky started locking the treat
pantry during Uncle Danny’s failed foray into Weight Watchers. Danny was always worth
ten bucks a pop.

I pushed my pick carefully into the keyhole and raked at the pins in the lock. I found
the pin with the most tension and wedged in my other pick, searching for the bottom
pin, while still keeping the others from slipping. Sweat started beading on my upper
lip. This part is the kicker. If you mess up and turn the lock in the wrong direction,
you have to start from scratch, and I was at least five minutes into this operation,
regretting it more with each stinging drop of water accumulating on my face. I increased
the torque and held my breath long enough to hear the sweet click of the lock. I wiped
my face on my T-shirt. Certainly I was leaving more than a little DNA on the scene.
I scooted in, closing the door behind me. No security pad was flashing. Looked like
I was good to go. The stairs ran up from the cluttered back office. I followed saying,
“Don’t worry, doggie. You’ll be all right.” What should I expect from this Walter?
Would it be grateful to be let out, or would it try to protect its turf?

The door at the top of the stairs wasn’t locked. “Hey, boy,” I called as I opened
it. Maybe that should have been “Hey, Walter.”

The gurgle turned into a series of snorts and snuffles.

The racket stopped midsnuffle and two jet-black bulging eyes peered at me from a flat
wrinkled face. Walter the Pug whimpered and wagged his strange curly nub of a tail
at me. The pooch didn’t know whether to hide or seek. “Poor thing,” I said, glancing
around for a leash. “Let’s get you outside.”

I was quite lucky that I didn’t get knocked down the narrow stairs as the pooch squirmed
past me. I galloped after, panicked that the poor creature would escape down the street.
But Walter just wanted his patch of grass after having been shut up for nearly fourteen
hours. Now that’s control. I was impressed.

I said, “Now let’s get you some food, buddy.” He wriggled past me up the stairs, and
I set about to find his dog food. Once he was eating, I thought, I’d search the place
to see if there was anything that linked Karen to whomever she’d been in touch with,
possibly even the sinister Merlin. I located some kibble in a large container and
dished out what looked like a reasonable amount. From the enthusiastic snorts and
snarffles I concluded that the dog was ravenous and thrilled to get extra. I put some
fresh water into his empty water dish. He seemed to have the capacity to inhale food
and water. Signora Panetone would have loved him. Maybe I could bring him home. No,
the cat would chew him up and spit him out.

As I made my way around Karen Smith’s apartment, the pooch followed me, wagging his
tail. I stopped and bent down and gave his tiny velvety ears a scratch and his belly
a rub.

“Gotta get to work,” I said. “I hope you understand.”

He seemed to accept that and sat watching me as I inspected Karen’s dim and jumbled
living room. It must have doubled as an extra office. Files and papers were piled
around, some tumbled over. Books were stacked and used as tables here and there. Karen
obviously lived for books, although her approach was a lot less obsessive than Vera
Van Alst’s climate-controlled library. Every flat surface in the room had something
on it. Mostly books, but also a surprisingly diverse collection of ceramic and china
jugs. Every piece of the soft furnishings had quilts or throws or cushions or afghans
or all of the above. It was quite dizzying. I didn’t find any useful notes along the
lines of “In case of my death, so and so did it.”

I would have settled for a phone message. Or a phone.

Karen’s cell phone wasn’t there.

I took my time and carefully checked every cluttered surface. I kept my eyes open
for anything to do with Agatha, of course. There were some sweet little Fontana reprints
of early Christies in a teetering stack on the dining table.
The Mirror Crack’d from Side to Side
was on the top. I hadn’t read that yet. I resisted it and kept going.

The compact kitchen was a bit neater. I was surprised to see the avocado green fridge
and stove still chugging along. As Uncle Mick says, they don’t make ’em like they
used to. You can’t get too vintage for me. I found no sign of cooking activities,
but a row of vintage cookbooks took pride of place.
The Joy of Cooking
,
The Moosewood Cookbook
,
The I Hate to Cook Book
and some well-worn, dog-eared
Martha Stewart Living
magazines.

A box of Peek Freans sat open on the counter.

I saw no dishes in the sink.

Ah. That reminded me of something. I returned to the living room and spotted a Spode
china teacup resting on top of a copy of Margery Allingham’s
The Crime at Black Dudley
beside the largest armchair. One single cup. It didn’t look like Karen had entertained
anyone before leaving to go back and meet me.

I glanced around again. The empty cradle of the portable phone caught my eye. Where
was the receiver? I checked
around the table, under the sofa and under the chairs. I lifted every large and small
piece of paper.

Then I headed into the bedroom. The ornate four-poster bedstead was made up with an
antique quilt with a dog-sized indentation in the middle and about a gazillion pillows.
Karen Smith liked being surrounded by stuff, I could tell that. Dozens of bright scarves
hung from the closet door. Purses were arranged like art on the walls. Shoes were
parked in tumbled pairs around the perimeter of the room.

Receiver, receiver. Where was the receiver? It wasn’t in the living room or the kitchen,
so the bedroom was the best bet.

The pooch came along and leapt up onto the bed and into the dent. I bent down and
peered under the bed. No receiver there. As I backed away, I tripped over a pair of
shoes discarded in the middle of the rug and barely kept from landing in a heap. How
had I missed those? And what were they doing there? Had Karen decided to change in
a hurry? Why? Someone must have contacted her. But who?

As I twirled around, surrounded by so many distractions, I thought I heard a noise
outside. What was it? Oh no. Not a siren. Yes. A
whoop
and the slam of a door. I peered through the ruffled curtains on the window. Cops
all right. I was toast. I watched as two officers marched up to the front door of
the shop. It was then that I spotted the receiver on the window ledge and picked it
up.

I suppose it was instinct. After all, I had been raised to be no friend of the law.
“Come on, Walter,” I said. “Time for a walk.”

I hoped I had enough time to make it before the cops came around the back of the building.
I tucked the receiver into my shoulder bag and pounded down the stairs with the dog
on my heels. We both scampered out the door and into the yard. My heart was thundering,
and I imagined the neighbors could hear my heavy breathing. The fence kept
the dog in, and as climbing it to flee would be a clear admission of guilt, it was
keeping me in too. I had just enough time to pull my lock picks out of my shoulder
bag and slide them under a large ornamental rock in the middle of a bed of peonies.
Just in case. It is always wise not to be found with breaking-and-entering tools in
one’s possession. I tucked the receiver there too, as it was nothing if not incriminating.
I picked up a Frisbee I’d spotted in the grass and tossed it to the waddling Walter.
He caught it in midair and raced around dropping it at the other end. I had just retrieved
it and tossed it again when the cops called out to me.

“Oh hello,” I said innocently.

“Ma’am,” one of them said.

“Officer,” I answered.

He cleared his throat. He looked even younger than I was.

“We got a report of a break-in at this address, ma’am.”

“A break-in?” I said, wide-eyed. “Really? When?”

“Now, ma’am.”

The cop stepped toward me, and Walter panted at him, with attitude, his hackles raised.

I bent down and said to the dog, “It’s okay. Friends.”

Walter seemed to accept that. If I said they were friends, that was good enough for
him. I guessed he didn’t see through my lie.

I straightened up and said, “Now? But I was in Karen’s apartment and I didn’t see
any sign of a break-in.”

As there was no threat from the cops, Walter barked to have the Frisbee tossed to
him again and I complied.

“The person matched your description, ma’am.”

“What?”

“Woman. Twenties. About five six. Dark hair. Wearing jeans and pink shoes.”

“That’s a weird coincidence,” I said.

The first officer stroked his chin speculatively. The other one gave me a dirty look.

“Well, don’t you think?” I said.

Walter returned with the Frisbee and dropped it at my feet. snorting bossily.