The Christie Curse (9 page)

A half hour later, I had checked out a number of published plays. One of the dealers
had a nice line of Samuel French publications.

I let myself be enchanted by some Beatrix Potter, including
The Tale of Jemima Puddle-Duck
, at eight hundred dollars, and some vintage
Rolling Stone
magazines. There was a treasure trove of
Life
magazines. I loved the stuff from the fifties and sixties, like the moon landing
and Beatlemania and above all, the fashions.

Toward the end of the second row of booths, I came across the Cozy Corpse, the second
mystery specialty dealer. There was no sign of the seller. Given the level of book
lust in the room, it seemed unwise to leave all those delicious collectibles just
screaming “steal me.” I picked up a pristine copy of Minette Walters’s
The Ice House
. I wondered if Vera owned a copy. I didn’t remember seeing any Walters in the collection,
but with twenty thousand books, it was too huge to check out with a quick visit, and
I hadn’t really spent much time on the mezzanine. She certainly had a lot of Sayers
and the Cozy Corpse had some lovely versions,
although nothing as grand as
The Nine Tailors
first back at Nevermore. There was, however, a fairly new copy of
The Mousetrap and Other Plays
. I decided I did need that. It would be a great way to get a sense of how the plays
read. In short, a big help. If I could buy it. I glanced around again, but still no
dealer. I decided to come back for a chat in a few minutes.

The best maps in the place were in the booth directly behind Nevermore, and I made
a point of concealing my interest in the mystery bookseller, who was in a lively phone
conversation. George Beckwith seemed to be groveling for all he was worth. I examined
a wonderful print of “downtown” Harrison Falls in 1848 while keeping my ears open
and straining to hear. He was following up. I like to stir the pot. Beckwith’s buttery
voice rose. “I assure you. This is the real thing. Nothing like the last time.” A
long silence followed and then he said, “Shall I…no really, I’m sure there’s money
to be had here. I can smell it.”

I put down the print and picked up another one, smiling at the proprietor of the booth.
Things were starting to get interesting.

It’s thirsty work checking out gorgeous books. I headed over to Yummers, the concession
stand directly across from The Cozy Corpse booth, to get a cup of coffee and a spectacularly
overpriced Danish. When I bit into the Danish, I was immediately offended by the product.
Maybe it had been freeze-dried? The girl at the cash register had a long, sad face.
Her black-and-white uniform wasn’t doing her any favors and emphasized her small,
red-rimmed eyes. Her shoulder-length hair was in need of a trim. I guessed she’d noticed
the look on my face because she said, “I know. Those are, like, really disgusting.”

“And yet you sell them.”

“Yeah. We do. And people buy them. I’d like to find better suppliers, but it’s not
easy around here. So what can you do?”

I tried not to be irritated and take it out on her. She was working at the concession
stand, not making the decisions. I’ve had jobs like that too. And I didn’t want to
interfere with any potential source of information. There was something familiar about
her. I was pretty sure I’d seen her before. Oh well. I didn’t have time to keep track
of everyone who might get on my nerves. Life’s too short and busy. I figured she had
her own troubles if those red-rimmed eyes were anything to go by.

I said, “I suppose we’re a captive audience.”

“Well, that’s it. Where else are you going to go? I’m here all the time and believe
me, there’s nothing.
Boring
.”

I tossed the Danish into the nearest trash and sat down at one of the round tables
with my coffee. I checked out the brochure of the event and tried not to listen to
the girl on her cell phone. “I told you, people are complaining about the food. I
think we should…What?” She lowered her voice, but I could tell her attempt at increasing
customer satisfaction hadn’t gone well. She had my sympathy. Times are tough in this
part of upstate New York. Jobs are scarce. I could have ended up behind a counter
getting an earful from customers about stuff that I had no control over instead of
playing happily at a book fair. I drank my coffee and reminded myself of how lucky
I was. Vera Van Alst might be difficult, but the rest of the gig was a dream.

I decided to forget the coffee and give my ears a rest. I could hear the counter girl
sobbing on the phone by now. Time to move on. I hoped she wasn’t sobbing because of
anything I’d started, but I didn’t think there was much I could do for her. I indulged
myself for the next twenty minutes checking out the postcards and Edward Gorey prints.
They reminded me of nights watching
Mystery!
on PBS as Uncle Lucky read
I’m OK, You’re OK
, which really should have been titled
I’m OK and You Should Have Insured Your Jewelry
.

This time I found a worried-looking woman inhabiting
the Cozy Corpse. She was squinting through gold-rimmed glasses as though she were
expecting a cobra to pop out of an open box of books. But as I arrived at her booth,
her face lit up and she tidied the flyaway strands of wildly curling red hair that
had escaped from her loose clip. She had the widest smile in the place. You can never
tell by first impressions. I, of all people, should know that. In addition to the
Janet Evanovich and Sparkle Hayter books, there were rows of Christies with covers
I’d never seen before. British? Most of them were quite inexpensive. I had plenty
of Christies still piled on my bed to be read, so I decided to look around before
buying the plays.

She bubbled, “The Evanoviches and Hayters are all signed firsts, if that’s your thing.”

“Not really. I am looking for something a bit unusual.”

“Unusual?”

“Mmm. Surprising.”

“Well, I was really surprised when I realized that my fine first of
A Is for Alibi
was apparently signed by Dick Cheney.”

I said, “So now
A Is for Absurd
?”

“Absurd and absolutely no chance of resale. I often wonder how it happened. I’d like
to catch the prankster who did it. Sometimes people are light-fingered, but this isn’t
the kind of crowd that’s inclined toward vandalism.” She stopped, frowned and stared
at the ridiculously tall man in the floor-length trench who had sidled up a bit closer
to her booth. He must have felt her stare, because he sidled off in the opposite direction.
For sure, there were some unusual types around there. When I had her attention again,
I said, “I bet there’s a market for something like that. In fact, I’m looking for
an unusual piece myself.”

She leaned forward, her smile growing wider. “Like what?”

“I’m not even sure. I love my rare books, but lately I’m thinking maybe a manuscript.
A colleague is bragging about getting his hands on the original script of a play,
handwritten.
I was jealous when I heard that. I have a nice little collection of movie scripts,
but who doesn’t? I like the idea that other people wouldn’t own a copy of the same
item.”

“One of a kind. I get that.”

“Something that the author would have touched personally.”

“Hmm.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any inside scoop on that type of artifact.”

“Not so far, but I’ll sure have fun checking it out.”

I liked her big smile and wild red hair so much, that I let my guard down. She passed
me her slightly crumpled card.

Karen Smith. A nice name for a nice lady. I purchased the copy of
The Mousetrap and Other Plays
for ten dollars and watched Karen pop the money into a red metal cash box. I handed
over my snazzy business card and said, “In case you come across anything that might
make me happy, please call me.”

In retrospect, that might have been my first big mistake.

O
NCE AGAIN, I stared down the length of the Sheraton table at Vera Van Alst as Signora
Panetone hovered behind her with yet another heaping platter of mouthwatering food.
Vera waved her away. But I was really hoping she wouldn’t leave the room. She rumbled
toward me, muttering, “Eat, eat, yes, yes.” I knew that Vera was the target for that.
I fully intended to eat. I’d been smart enough to wear a cashmere sweater and my boots
this time. I enjoy my food more when my teeth are not chattering and there are no
new scratches on my ankles.

The platter had lovely homemade fettuccine and what looked like mushroom sauce. “Porcini,”
she said mysteriously, “from friend.”

I nodded, but made a point of not looking too interested in case that would set Vera
off. I said, as the signora was heaping, and I do mean heaping, the fettuccine on
my plate, “I did meet some potentially productive contacts at the Antiquarian Book
and Paper Fair over in Grandville.” I tried to make my efforts sound more successful
than they actually had been.

Vera raised an eyebrow.

I said, “I met George Beckwith at Nevermore—”

Vera said, “A sniveling sycophant in a suit.”

I blinked. Her characterization didn’t sound much like the handsome silver-haired
man with the buttery British voice. Snooty, maybe. “I think he wants to connect me
with something. I heard him asking around.”

Vera inhaled dramatically. “You didn’t tell him about the play, did you?”

“Of course not. I let him think that I have money to spend, I know my stuff and I
am looking for something different. I think he’ll act on it.”

“Humph.”

I took a measured breath. “I also met Karen Smith from the Cozy Corpse.”

Vera snorted. “Small-time operation. She can’t be that good a contact.”

“Nevertheless, she seemed interested.” There was no point in telling Vera that Karen
seemed very nice and helpful and had a great sense of humor, plus all that dramatic
red hair and the wonderful smile. Vera would probably hold those things against her.

“Interested?”

“Yes. I bought a nice book of Christie plays from her and said I was looking for something
special. Unusual.”

“Did you say you were working for me?”

“Not a word. I didn’t say anything I didn’t have to. I think I’ll get further being
aloof. I did let it slip that I am a collector, like my daddy.”

Vera frowned. “Is your daddy a collector?”

“No,” I said, “he’s dead.”

That nipped the topic in the bud, as it was intended to.

“Be careful not to overplay your hand,” Vera said. “Every single person you meet will
just want to separate you from your money.”

I was pretty sure in her case that would be true, with the exception of Signora Panetone,
who was unaccountably devoted. For sure, I was there because it was a job, not because
of an emotional bond. And in fact, I couldn’t imagine any kind of bond developing.

I took that moment to work on my fettuccine.

Just as I was finishing, the door to the kitchen swung open and Signora Panetone teetered
in with the next platter. Sole in parsley and lemon sauce, served with fluffy Italian
rice. Nice.

The door was behind Vera, and I thought I spotted movement in the kitchen. Was it
the cat? A tail waving? No, not the cat, something man sized. I squinted as the door
closed again. Was it my imagination? The dining room was long and dim. Easy to make
a mistake.

As the serving and “eat, eat, yes, yes” routine continued, I waited.

Vera grudgingly accepted about a tablespoon of food. I didn’t hold back in any way.
I did keep my eye on the door as Signora Panetone swung through it again. A pale,
thin man, but a man. Sure enough. Leaning against the table, stood the unassuming
postal carrier, looking quite at home. What was his name? Eddie? Yes. Eddie McRae,
a pastel and reedy man. What was he doing in the kitchen on a Saturday night? Did
Vera know he was there? She certainly didn’t seem to. Should she be made aware of
it? It wasn’t any of my business. She was a lot of things and stupid wasn’t one of
them. When the door opened yet again for the arrival of dessert, something Signora
Panetone called
zuppa inglese
, there was no sign of the pale postman. I knew that
zuppa inglese
meant English soup, an alarming name for a dessert, but it turned out to be a wonderful
combination of ladyfingers, custard, chocolate and liqueur. It was very distracting.
I didn’t give the mysterious Eddie another thought.

*    *    *

SATURDAY NIGHTS USED to be for parties. Now they were for finding out what made Agatha
Christie tick. They were also for fishing out my girly pink tool kit and installing
that slide lock. I figured I was far enough away from Vera that she’d never hear the
whine of the adorable pink drill. Of course, a cat had managed to materialize before
that job was finished. How did that happen? I reminded myself that I should be more
vigilant as I didn’t want to end up like my predecessor. For all I knew, a Siamese
cat had pushed him in front of that train and blamed the homeless dude. I stared at
the cat nervously, wondering if it was planning to slash my legs as soon as I relaxed.
But, despite my efforts to escort it from the room, it only wanted to purr and stick
close to me. If the stakes weren’t my legs, I could have relaxed and enjoyed it. But
this cat’s mood swings were doing my head in.