The Christie Curse (21 page)

The registration desk had an irritable-looking fortyish woman staring at a broken
nail and guarding a few unclaimed name tags. Apparently true potential hadn’t been
handed out to the hired help. Through the one open door, I could see rows of chairs,
arranged classroom style, and rows of nodding heads swallowing the words of a woman
with a shiny yellow helmet of hair, a jacket with serious shoulders and a smile that
made me want to reach for sunglasses again. More to the point, I could also see that
the concession stand was set up in the corner.

“I’ve been looking forward to this,” I said, reaching for the name tag of Nikki Renouf.

“It’s almost over. The networking party starts soon.”

“Ah yes, that’s the part I like best,” I said, picking up a binder of materials and
waltzing through the door.

I took a seat in the empty last row as close as I could get to the concession stand.
Only after I claimed a chair did I realize I was sitting close to where Karen Smith
had been found. My stomach constricted at the thought, and I forced myself to keep
from staring at the patterned carpet where a dark stain hadn’t been completely eliminated.
I was surprised it was no longer a crime scene.

The woman, Nancilee Cardiff, I assumed, was reasonably diverting, with her exaggerated
eyebrows and blinding teeth. The uncles would think this was a good gig. Nancilee
had taken a few buzzwords from popular psychology and motivational pitches and was
giving them a workout. She’d found an appreciative audience. I nodded and clapped
along with the folks who’d just been separated from their hard-earned cash. From time
to time I glanced toward the concession stand. Sooner or later, someone would have
to show up.

I was rewarded for my patience—not to mention my nodding, clapping and sneaking in—when
a familiar face appeared. I recognized the long dark hair. It was the same girl who’d
been there on the weekend. From her draggy
posture as she shuffled into the stand, I could tell she wasn’t any more in love with
the job than she had been the last time I’d seen her. If anything, she was in a real
slump. Never mind. She didn’t have to love that job. She just needed to answer my
questions; she could search for her true potential later.

The minute she headed through a side door into another room, I whipped after her and
closed that door behind us. As I should have expected, it was a claustrophobic storage
room with towering stacks of supplies. She was reaching for a new batch of paper cups
when I made my appearance. She whirled and gasped. I gasped too—at her two black eyes,
one of them swollen. I had no idea what she was gasping at until it dawned on me that
she was very, very afraid.

Of me.

She held her arms in front of her, classic defense position. And no wonder. Someone
had really worked her over. “What do you want?” Her split lip quivered as she faced
me down. She had guts to show up for work looking like that. I admired her backbone.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m Jordan Bingham. I was here the other day and bought a
Danish.”

Her voice wobbled. “Your name tag says ‘Nikki Renouf.’ Oh my God, don’t hurt me. I
don’t know anything. I swear! Please. Get away from me.”

Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, she started to cry.

“What happened to you?” I blurted.

“I don’t know anything,” she wailed. “Why are you pretending to be Nikki Renouf?”

“To get in without paying hundreds of dollars.”

“Oh.” She got that. I knew she would.

“But you must know what happened to you,” I said reasonably.

But reason wasn’t going to cut it. “I told you. I don’t know anything.” Her voice
rose even higher. Could they hear her
in the next room? I was praying she wouldn’t scream. I held my own hands up to show
how harmless I was. “Okay. Okay. I am so sorry. I don’t want to upset you. A friend
of mine was attacked here, and I thought you might know something about who she’d
been talking to.”

She stared at me. “Why does everybody think I know things? What things?”

“Who is ‘everybody’?”

Her jaw dropped. I figured that had to hurt. “I don’t know. I told you I don’t know
anything.”

I reached out and gave her a soothing little pat, hoping I was touching a part of
her body that didn’t ache.

She snuffled. “My world is falling apart.”

I managed not to say, “Imagine how Karen Smith feels.” I reached for one of the folding
chairs that were stacked in the corner and set one up for her. “Sit down. Take a deep
breath. Please.”

I opened up a chair for myself and sat down too. “Can I get you something? A glass
of water?”

It took a while for her to compose herself.

“I hope you can help me. I am very stressed about my friend, Karen Smith. She was
working right in front of your concession stand on the weekend at the book fair. She
owns the Cozy Corpse. I thought you may have overheard a conversation she had on Sunday
afternoon, late.”

“Karen Smith? She’s that red-haired lady who was right across from me. She was nearly
killed. I heard it on the radio.”

“Yes.”

“But I didn’t see that happen. I didn’t!”

“I’m not suggesting you saw it. I’m just asking if you saw her talking to anyone late
in the afternoon.”

“I was having my own problems that night.”

“I can see that. Did you have a car accident?”

“No. Somebody came up behind me and threw me to the ground and beat the hell out of
me.” She started to cry in
earnest now. “Don’t ask me why. I don’t know
why
. It just happened. The cop said it must have been just a random crazy person.”

“Where were you? Here? Because maybe it was the same person who attacked Karen.”

Her forehead puckered. “How could it be the same person? It wasn’t anywhere near Saint
Sebastian’s. It was in my driveway. I live in Harrison Falls. I don’t see how it could
be connected.”

Play from your strengths, my uncles always say. “Tell me, was it your boyfriend?”
I thought she was going to lose it. She shook her head so violently that it must have
hurt. She made a gargling noise. “No. No! I don’t have a boyfriend. And I don’t know
who did this, and I don’t know why.”

The door behind me was wrenched open, and Nancilee Cardiff thrust her bright golden
head in. No sign of the high-wattage smile.

“I’m delivering a session here, and you are supposed to be setting up for our networking
party, not shrieking your silly head off. You are going to be out of a job if you
don’t pull yourself together.”

“Really?” I said. “That’s how you follow your dreams? You bully innocent women who
have been attacked and who probably should be in the hospital? Let me at the microphone
and I’ll give you some comments they won’t forget in a hurry.” I stood up, knocking
over a tower of paper cups.

The bright head snapped back. “Just keep it down and make sure we’re ready for our
reception.” The door closed behind her.

The girl sniffed. “Bitch. Thank you for standing up for me. I deal with plenty of
weirdos, but she’s been, like, totally impossible to work with.”

“Don’t worry. I can speak to your boss if you want. Explain.” Explain what, I wasn’t
sure.

She gave a sad smile. “It’s my own concession. I own
Yummers. It’s not easy trying to source decent products and dealing with horrible
people, but I’m still not likely to fire myself.”

I felt a bit guilty over my comments about the Danish on my last visit, but I couldn’t
resist a grin. “At least there’s that.”

“I guess so. But if she complains to the parish administration, I might lose the concession
for the hall. It’s a big part of my business. Then I’d really be out of luck.”

“I hate to keep coming back to it, but I think someone came by to talk to Karen Sunday
afternoon, and you may have seen that person. I believe he is connected with her attack.
Do you remember anybody who looked out of place? Suspicious?”

“I see a lot of people. I don’t pay much attention anymore. No point asking me.”

“Think about it. What are the chances that you and Karen, two women who were at the
same book fair on the same afternoon, would both be assaulted on the same night. The
two attacks have to be connected.”

“It sounds horrible, but I’d be glad if they were connected because then it might
make a bit of sense.”

“Somebody must think you saw something.”

“But I didn’t see anything. I keep telling everyone.” Her voice rose an octave.

“More likely you saw something that didn’t seem important and you wouldn’t imagine
was important. Close your eyes. Try to remember people coming and going from the Cozy
Corpse.”

She closed her eyes, although that looked like it might hurt. She kept them closed
for a couple of minutes while I waited patiently. Finally she said, “I didn’t see
anyone unusual. No one who looked dangerous. It was a book fair. Everyone is a little
bit, you know, peculiar. They’re oddballs and they’re nerdy and tweedy, but they’re
not going to attack
someone. They just spend all their money on old books, and some of them walk around
wearing clothes that look like they came from a Dumpster. It’s stupid, but harmless.”

I resisted standing up for the eccentric and Dumpster-dressed regulars. This description
was, after all, quite true of Vera Van Alst. I couldn’t imagine her bashing anyone
over the head, although she could certainly savage a person’s feelings.

“So, no one struck you as suspicious or unusual? No bad vibes from anybody?”

She scrunched up her face this time. I flinched just imagining how that must have
felt given those injuries. “There was one guy. I’ve never seen him
here
before. He was in a real intense conversation with her. But it didn’t look like he’d
hurt her or anything. Or I would have, like, stopped him.”

I almost held my breath. “What did he look like?”

She thought back. “Thin, very thin. Not tall. Pale with only a few bits of hair, you
know, combed over. Old.”

Old? “How old?”

“Really old. Fifty? At least. Maybe even more.” She shivered at the dual nightmare
of advanced age and comb-over.

“Do you know him?”

“Not his name. But I’ve seen him around.”

“Around here?”

“No. Not at the fair and not in Grandville. I’m pretty sure this guy lives in Harrison
Falls too, because I’ve seen him recently when I was visiting my dad’s place. I’ve
seen him all over town.”

“All over town?”

“Sure. He’s a mailman. He’s not my mailman, but I’ve seen him walking his route. I
don’t know his name, though.”

The door opened again and Nancilee gave us the stink eye. “Now would be good,” she
said with an unflattering snarl.

The girl flinched, but stood up to go.

“Wait,” I said as she squeezed past me, knocking over a package of serviettes. “I
need to know—”

Too late. She had hobbled out, and as I followed her, I noticed that people were pointing
in my direction. Nancilee began to advance toward me, menace in her every stiletto-heeled
step. I said, “How can I reach you. What’s your cell number?”

As she rattled off the number, I tapped it into my contact list, while Nancilee gave
the impression her hair was about to catch fire. I thrust my business card into the
girl’s hand.

“Please call me. I’m—”

“Sure. Everyone knows who you are,” she said. “You’re Jordan whatever, and you work
for
that
woman.”

The loathing for Vera was unmistakable. Was I the only person in the world, aside
from Signora Panetone, and possibly Eddie, who didn’t detest Vera Van Alst? For all
I knew, her doctor hated her.

I had no time to find out why the Yummers girl did. I dashed out the door one step
ahead of the vengeance of Nancilee. I raced across the grass and into the baking oven
that was the Saab. I rolled down the window and took off like a shot. I spotted Nancilee
glaring at me, hands on her designer hips, as I rocketed off the property.

Of course, I didn’t go far. There was still much to find out from the girl at Yummers.
I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten to ask her name. The sight of her facial injuries
must have zapped my brain. I’d make sure to find it out at the start of our next conversation,
as soon as that was possible. I just had to find somewhere cool to hide out until
the networking reception was over and Nancilee had gone back to Witch Central. I estimated
an hour and a half.

The Saab was hot in more ways than one. I used the time to whip back to Harrison Falls
with a plan to borrow one of my Uncle Lucky’s spare vehicles. The Saab was too much
of a statement. As I walked into Uncle Mick’s place, I tucked
my hair into a ponytail and snatched up a baseball cap, “Sid’s Moving and Storage”
this time. The Saab could cool off in the garage while I chilled in the air-conditioned
interior of Uncle Lucky’s car.

My uncles looked on with interest. Uncle Mick was setting the table and getting ready
for our family favorite for days when it’s too hot to open a tin: KFC with creamy
cole slaw
and
macaroni salad. Fries too, but that goes without saying.

Walter was eying his bowl on the floor and gazing at Uncle Lucky with what looked
like adoration. One less thing for me to worry about.

I said, “Does every single person in Harrison Falls hate Vera Van Alst?”

Lucky nodded gravely.

Mick said, “Not just Harrison Falls, my girl. Staying for dinner? There’s plenty.
Got to keep your strength up.”

Not to be deflected, I said, “But Vera Van Alst, why? Why this antagonism?”

“And she’s such a warm and friendly lady, you mean?”

Lucky snorted at Uncle Mick’s words, and scratched Walter’s cute and velvety ears.

“Fair enough,” I said, “she has all the warmth of a cobra. But she stays in her deteriorating
old home and doesn’t do anything to bother anyone, except me, perhaps. So why the
visceral reactions?”

“Watch it with the hoity-toity words at the table. You know that Lucky doesn’t care
for pretense.”