The Christie Curse (4 page)

“Not Stephenie Meyer or you would have known about it, but Agatha Christie did. She
went completely MIA, and then she was found in a hotel at a famous spa. Poof. There
was never any satisfactory explanation for what had happened. Remember this was before
spin doctors and TMZ. People used to get their news from this thing called a newspaper.
This story was splashed over front pages around the world.”

“I am familiar with newspapers, Lance, but thank you for the teaching moment. So it
was a big story?”

“Huge. Some people thought her husband had killed her. He had a mistress he wanted
to marry, so he was pressuring Dame Agatha for a divorce at the time and she wasn’t
so keen on it. The whole world followed her disappearance.”

“Eleven days.”

Could a person write a play in eleven days? Sometimes it takes me two weeks to compose
a text message.

“You want to know about it? We’ve got every book on the topic. Want me to select some
for you?”

One thing you could say about Harrison Falls Public Library, the service was good.
And easy on the eyes.

Five minutes later I staggered out to my car with far more than I’d ever wanted to
know about the late great Agatha Christie. It was going to be a long night. Still,
I was in a good mood because Lance had that effect on me. Always.

I noticed a police cruiser up ahead as I drove along Bird Street and as usual when
that happens, I made a sharp, and unplanned, left turn to take a different route.
Five blocks and three turns later, there he was again. I recognized the
officer in the patrol car. I’d seen him around since I’d come home, and he seemed
like a friendly and even harmless type, but in my family, we never want to attract
the attention of the cops. Especially the type who can anticipate your left turns.
Was I losing it or did Officer Whozit just smile and wave? That was more unnerving
than spotting flashing roof lights in the rearview mirror.

I shivered and drove off, taking a few more unexpected turns as I went.

*    *    *

OVER FRANKS AND beans in my uncle Mick’s kitchen, in back of his “antiques” shop,
I defended my job choice. The early evening sunlight glinted off the gold chain nestled
in Uncle Mick’s ginger chest hair. It complemented the green apron that said “Kiss
the Blarney Stone,” with a downward-pointing arrow under the text. I feel safe to
say that the besotted customers of Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques would never see the
real Mick Kelly, and that was probably a good thing.

“You’re a disgrace to the family, my girl,” Uncle Mick said, plopping a second helping
on my plate.

I shrugged. I love franks and beans. It is Uncle Mick’s specialty (the secret ingredient
is ketchup), and I didn’t want to ruin dinner. “I need the money, and it’s not like
I’m becoming a cop or anything.”

Uncle Mick turned pale. His freckles stood out in sharp relief against his white skin.
His franks-and-beans spoon shook. “Becoming a cop? What are you trying to do, kill
me? Don’t even joke about something like that.”

Across the crowded kitchen table, Uncle Lucky shook his head, which I usually interpret
to mean “just ignore your Uncle Mick.” Uncle Lucky is always on my side, but he’s
not the biggest talker.

“Those Van Alsts brought the whole town down and nearly ruined this family to boot
and you’re going to be
taking money from them? Thank the good lord your mother never lived to see that.”

“Even better that she missed out on knowing that your last Russian bride walked off
with Grandma Kelly’s rings.”

“What do you mean, ‘last’? There was only ever the one, and it’s just a matter of
time before Svetlana returns them. She’s a decent girl at heart.”

I hoped that Uncle Lucky didn’t choke on that frank. I needed him alive and on my
side.

“Look,” I said, “I realize that everyone in Harrison Falls hates the Van Alsts and
no doubt with good reason, but Vera must have been just a young woman when that factory
shut down. She couldn’t have been responsible. Anyway, she’s in a wheelchair now,
practically a senior citizen. And she is going to pay me well. This job means I can
go back to school.
That’s
what my mother would have wanted.”

Of course, I had no way of knowing what my mother would have wanted as I didn’t really
remember her, but I had to talk as though I did, because my uncles are not above using
her supposed wishes to discourage me from one course of action or another.

Don’t get me wrong. I was grateful to my uncles for raising me and making sure I got
an education up to the point where the money dried up in recent years, for a number
of reasons we won’t go into here. But they trained me to make unpopular decisions.
If you’re a Kelly in Harrison Falls, you need to be tough. And sometimes marginally
reckless.

Uncle Mick opened the pantry door and reached for one of the bottles of Jameson eighteen-year-old
whiskey. I wondered what truck they’d fallen off. But what I don’t know won’t hurt
me.

“What’s the job?”

“I’m supposed to find an unknown and unproduced Agatha Christie play. Any ideas where
to start?”

Mick said, “Who owns it?”

“No idea.”

“Who’s selling it?”

“We’re a bit light on details. It might be just a rumor.”

Uncle Lucky raised his thick eyebrows. A distinguishing feature shared by all the
uncles, the eyebrows were ginger and practically had personalities of their own. Lucky
nodded toward Mick. I’d grown up listening to all my uncles trash the Van Alst family.
I knew they’d have trouble with my choice, but they’d just have to get used to it.

I said, “She’s an obsessed collector and she wants it. She has the money to pay for
it and to pay me, so what’s the problem? She’s not taking advantage of me. Think of
it as me taking advantage of
her
.”

I wasn’t actually planning to take advantage of Vera Van Alst, but this notion played
well to my uncles.

Mick is always one to find a silver lining, particularly if the silver belongs to
someone else. “I suppose it never hurts to have a man on the inside.”

Lucky smiled.

“That’s me,” I said. “Our man on the inside.”

Mick said, “I thought Agatha Christie wrote books. I get boxes of them in the shop
when people clear out their bookcases.”

“She’s most famous for those, but she was a successful playwright too. To tell the
truth, I have a lot of research to do. There are people who make a career out of her
work.”

Mick said, “You can only get so far reading.”

We didn’t always agree on that point.

I said, “I also have to talk to people in the know. People who might be aware of a
manuscript like that if indeed it was for sale.”

Lucky drummed his fingers on the checkered tablecloth.

I knew what he meant. Get to the point. I added, “If this play is for sale and it’s
just being whispered about, there must be a reason and one big one comes to mind.”

Mick said, “Make that two.”

Lucky nodded gravely.

“Right,” I said. “Either someone’s running a con or the thing is hot.”

Uncle Mick poured himself two fingers of Jameson and said, “Lucky’s right. Guess you
should go see Sal.”

I glanced at Lucky, who had said nothing of the kind.

Lucky shrugged. He’s used to Mick pretending to read his mind.

Sal, I thought.

Oh no.

Although I’ve heard plenty about Salvatore Tascone, I hadn’t actually seen Sal since
my First Communion, but I knew he’d welcome me with open arms. Uncle Mick was right.
There wasn’t much going on in this part of the state that Sal didn’t get wind of.

“Okay, I’ll go see Sal. Does he have an office in town?”

Lucky nodded.

Uncle Mick lit a Cuban cigar and said, “I’ll make the call. He owes me a favor. But
you be careful, Jordan. You don’t want to be in Sal’s debt.”

*    *    *

HOME IS WHERE the heart is. In my case, although I loved my uncles dearly, my heart
was not in the bachelor apartment above Uncle Mick’s garage, to the left of Michael
Kelly’s Fine Antiques and to the right of Uncle Lucky’s digs. Sure, it was simple,
clean and the price was right. No one would ever dare break in. All positives. Of
course, no date would ever make it successfully past the uncle patrol, and I was young,
single and still had hopes of a normal life. All to say, I was looking forward to
getting out.

Even so, I knew my small space would be waiting for me if I ever needed it again.
My uncles are nothing if not loyal, but I wanted to get moved into my new digs as
soon as possible and get down to work.

Vera Van Alst wanted this elusive and possibly imaginary play
now.
Sure. But she was a collector. She’d want something
else the minute she had it in her hands. And she was in no position to get out hunting
for it herself. I had a chance to get on my feet without the collective Kelly breath
on the back of my neck. I packed up my belongings quickly and efficiently, keeping
in mind the two dark and narrow flights of stairs. Uncle Lucky helped me lug my books,
computer and suitcase, and a small midcentury Lucite coffee table I had borrowed from
the “antiques” shop.

After a cold and rainy spring, we finally had one of those perfect May evenings. I
felt energized by the sun streaming in through the dormer windows. I’m not usually
one to care about the view, but the glimpse of the spring garden was spectacular.
The man in the straw hat was now kneeling on a pad and dead-heading the spring bulbs
that had already bloomed, and carefully spreading what looked like cedar mulch around
the beds. The scent of lilacs drifted on the air. I was in an excellent mood. I had
that “summer is coming and anything is possible” feeling. By the time I wrestled my
clothes, still on hangers, up the stairs, Uncle Lucky was hoofing it to his car. Vera
Van Alst would have to be pretty sharp before she caught sight of him.

I found myself humming as I finished hanging my mostly vintage clothing in my old-fashioned
armoire and settling the rest in the small walnut dresser in the alcove against the
far wall. I was having fun already.

I settled half the Agatha Christie reference books by the bed and the rest on the
Lucite table. I love the look of that table and the way it blends into any environment,
including my new late-Victorian garret. I tried not to speculate as to how the perfect
table had fallen into Mick’s hands. The less I knew about its provenance the better.

Agatha’s possible play? That was another story.

Next I curled up on the feather bed and got to work. Agatha Christie. Her name was
synonymous with mystery. To tell the truth, my own tastes were contemporary and I
wasn’t sure I’d actually ever read an Agatha Christie book,
although I felt I knew about them. My impressions were probably based on Miss Marple
or Hercule Poirot movies or television programs on flickering VCR bootleg tapes from
PBS, watched while I was a child. My uncles had loved the British vibe. Uncle Mick
always leaned forward with a gleam in his eye. Probably gave them a good sense of
authenticity for the “antiques” business. Of course, Hercule Poirot or Miss Maple
might have been onto their tricks in a flash in real life. But I needed to know much
more.

I dove into my project asking myself what was there about Agatha Christie that would
lead a stranger to want to collect her unpublished work. Secretly, of course. Because
it was obvious to me that Vera Van Alst was off the deep end over this play.

By midnight I had a stiff neck from reading in one position. That was a small price
to pay because I now knew about the mysterious eleven days that had gripped the attention
of the world, about Christie’s stay at a spa in Harrogate, Yorkshire, under an assumed
name, which was oddly enough the name of her husband’s mistress. I liked that. I’d
laughed out loud at the thought of Agatha Christie’s fellow guests staring at her
photo in the papers and discussing the disappearance as she sat right in front of
them, dressed to the nines. I had to hand it to her. Nicely done. But, it had been
only eleven days, and she’d spent a good part of that dining and playing cards. Had
there really been enough time to write a play?

Although, so far, there had been nothing about a play being written during this time
period, the books were very intriguing, which I had been happy to discover. Bless
our good buddy Lance and his knowledge of the topic. Fairly recently, an admiring
author had uncovered a treasure trove of notebooks while researching in Greenway,
Agatha Christie’s home in Devon. Lance had handed me the admiring author’s book, which
described what was in those notebooks and how the contents related to Agatha Christie’s
life.
Agatha Christie’s Secret Notebooks
sounded like a piece of fiction itself, although it was very real. I was fascinated
to see how her famous novels had developed and something of the process she used.
Better yet, while exploring the treasure trove of notebooks, the author had come across
two unpublished short stories. Vera had alluded to those. I was glad to know how they
had come to light. No one had even guessed they existed. But as one famous guy once
said, the play’s the thing. Of course, that hadn’t ended well. So far there was nothing
to confirm or even suggest a new play, although it now seemed more possible. So why
had it taken over eighty years for this particular, and still hypothetical, play to
show up? Where had it been? Why had it surfaced now? What were the chances that this
wasn’t someone trying to con Vera Van Alst out of what was left of her inherited stash?
That seemed more likely to me. God knows I’d seen enough of that kind of thing. On
the other hand, I’d been hired to find the stupid thing, not disprove its existence.

If I were a con artist, I’d sure be targeting obsessive collectors like her. Planting
a rumor is an honored part of the con tradition. I knew all about collectors’ lust
from my visits to Uncle Mick’s “antiques” shop. Vera Van Alst was a committed collector
with deep pockets. Was she also a mark?