And Then They Were Doomed

by Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli

  The introductions went on.

  “Emily Brent. I’m your hostess. We’ve spoken many times.” She was a little short with the odd young woman. “I’ll see you to your room after dinner.”

  “Oh, no, don’t bother. If you’ll just tell—”

  Emily cut her off. “After dinner.”

  Gewel was next. She gave her name and mentioned her recent graduation and her hope to write mysteries. “I’m mostly an onlooker among these famous critics.” She was close to gushing but closed her mouth to sit grinning a self-conscious grin.

  When it was Leon Armstrong’s turn, he bit his lip as if unable to remember his name—drained his wine glass, and frowned, slipping down in his chair.

  Betty nodded and ticked off another finger anyway. She was keeping count.

  Aaron Kennedy seemed put out by the whole thing and gave his name as if it were one word, adding nothing.

  “I’m excited to meet you all,” Betty said. “I would have done anything to make it here on time. One of the worst moments of my life was when they said my plane was canceled.”

  “And why the anxiety, Miss Bertram?” Professor Pileser leaned forward, hands folding slowly in front of his plate as his curious eyes focused hard on her.

  “Oh, maybe because Agatha Christie knew people as hardly anyone has ever known them. I mean right off. Soon as she met them and then, ya know, she used their characteristics and personalities together, so her characters were never boring. Never old hat, I guess you would say.”

  Professor Pileser leaned far back in his chair. Zoe thought, at first, she saw what might pass for pity on the man’s face. But more likely it was relish at how easy this woman was going to be swallowed whole.

  “You’ve got to be kidding, my dear,” Kennedy said. “You truly thought Christie that perceptive? But then how do you explain the Tommy and Tuppence novels? Seems to me that pair together are the silliest two not only in mystery but in any literary genre. Why, if you ask me—”

  To the gratitude of all, Emily stood, rapped her knuckles on the table and welcomed her guests to Netherworld Lodge and the first Agatha Christie Webinar. She described what they would be doing together this week and touted the area around the lodge as perfect for thought and reflection.

  She ended her brief talk with a reminder that Dr. Pileser would be leading their first webinar the next afternoon.

  Bella Webb began the dinner quietly, carrying in a tureen of leek soup and filling each of the bowls. Except for desultory laughter between Anthony and Gewel, most of them were quiet, talking in near whispers to the people closest, except for a moment when Nigel burst out with a “Damn wrong!” to Betty Bertram. Her face turned red and she mumbled, “Sorry” to everyone around her. After that she said nothing through the meat and vegetable, then salad, and dessert course, as others praised the stuffed quail with grilled asparagus, the tomato and mozzarella salad, and then a perfect gateau of cherries, whipped cream, and chocolate icing.

  The rain was the greatest topic of dinner conversation, as it had been falling for the last hour and didn’t look as if it would let up any time soon.

  Zoe spoke little throughout the meal. She was tired. She was worried and emotionally drained. Her ankle throbbed. Nigel Pileser and Aaron Kennedy talked the most—loudly, and only to each other. The women nodded and smiled. Anthony leaned forward to take on Pileser, mocking something he’d said.

  That brought in Aaron, who took nobody’s side but argued anyway. Zoe barely paid attention, only watched their faces—the passion they brought to whatever it was they argued about.

  Because Emily recognized an uproar brewing between Anthony and Aaron, she stood again and asked if anyone had questions.

  “What about the lodge van?” Zoe called out. “Will it be going to town tomorrow? I need to look up some Christie books I didn’t know to bring with me.”

  Emily spread her hands and shrugged. “Not on Sunday. For the Monday trip you’ll have to talk to the heavens, my dear. A little prayer wouldn’t hurt. As for us, we’ll soldier on, won’t we? The students running the webinar assured me they’ve set up a failsafe internet connection and have already installed the equipment we will be needing. Not to worry about that part.”

  Even Nigel Pileser, his broad face red, his eyes sleepy, seemed satisfied as he thanked Emily for the very nice dinner.

  The last of the wine was finished. They rose, one by one, and headed for the film room to watch—after all that wine and meat and a perfect sweet—Christie’s Evil Under the Sun, 1982. With Peter Ustinov as Poirot.

  Aaron Kennedy groused all the way that personally he would much prefer to see the banned version of Ordeal by Innocence, though no one paid any attention to him.

  Part 3

  Netherworld on Sunday

  Chapter 23

  Awake at midnight. The bad ankle throbbed. Then one o’clock. Not a minute’s restful sleep in between. Zoe’s mind wouldn’t stop going back and forth over their first day. Not a stellar opening for the event. What a menagerie of human beings. She didn’t envy Emily Brent herding them through the next five days.

  She was grateful the first evening was over. It was always the hardest to get through, especially with people who wobbled their elbows to take up more room; almost silent people who sat watching the others as if someone were there to eat them. And then, so quickly, alliances being formed—women finding safe women to talk to; men finding other loud men to argue with; and over-sexed men finding over-sexed (and willing to make a deal) women to spend a few nights with.

  She let her mind reel—back and forth. Were any of these people members of the Jokela family—Evelyn’s sisters, cousins, aunts, uncles? Any of them her own blood?

  The thing to do, she told herself, was to take it a day at a time, and if she smelled anything wrong, she would call Jenny and Lisa somehow and make a break for it. Or she’d strike off into the woods. Or, if she couldn’t get a hold of Jenny or Lisa, she would use her suitcase as a raft and paddle back across that creek.

  Almost too tired to think anymore, in too much pain to shut it out, and too confused to wonder what she’d gotten herself into, Zoe got out of bed and pushed the window as high as it would go. She lay back down and let a wet breeze bring on goose bumps. The smell of more rain was in the air—along with the cool, wet feeling that left her skin damp, her hair stuck to the side of her face.

  Far in the distance, she heard thunder, and then came a stark bolt of light, cutting the sky and outlining bloated, dark clouds. Tired almost to the point of not caring what these people were planning, she let her mind turn slowly to pictures of the faces around the dinner table and then tried to connect names to the faces. Odd that all had a familiar ring to them: Betty Bertram. Louise Joiner. Mary Reid. Gewel Sharp. Somehow connected. She had already gone through the sketchy Christie files she’d brought with her and found no connections.

  She drifted off to sleep, only to pop her eyes open a few minutes later. Anthony—the playboy in And Then There Were None, and Anthony Gliese—certainly a playboy, here to make a conquest.

  The line “Well, anyway it wasn’t my fault. Just an accident.” The character had hit two children with his car, killed them, and showed no remorse.

  She got a pad of paper and a pen from her computer bag and sat in front of the window, beginning a list of names:

  Gewel Sharp. She racked her brain. Nothing. She thought through the novels she knew best—no Gewel or Jewel. Young. Blonde. A fan. Target for Anthony Gliese.

  Mary Reid. A common name. Reid. Reid. Reid. Or Reed. Reed. Reed.

  Aaron Kennedy. Not a clue, but a terrible, rude man. Maybe from And Then There Were None. Have to find a copy of the book. One of the others might have it. Or the library.

  Betty Bertram. Oh, so familiar. A sad woman without the backbone to stand up for herself. She’d let Pileser knock her down with one sentence. He would have to be dealt with. The thing about being different—and Betty Bertram was different—was that you ha
d to learn to use it. You had to learn to narrow your eyes to warn people and, if they weren’t warned, to drop a devastating bomb on them. She’d learned, since Evelyn’s death, that everybody in the world was ultimately alone and responsible for his or her own life.

  Louise Joiner. Something here she couldn’t put her finger on. Joiner: carpenter.

  Anna Tow. Pull. Tug. Carry.

  Leon Armstrong—Edward George Armstrong. Harley Street doctor in And Then There Were None. The doctor was a drunk. He murdered a patient by operating while drunk. Bingo! Maybe she was right and there was a puzzle or a game going on here.

  So much more to discover.

  Nigel Pileser—silly name. Probably real or she would have remembered coming across this one before.

  She put her pad and pen away and crawled back into bed. She needed the library in Calumet. Monday. After the webinar. No sense asking the others. She didn’t know who was in on whatever was going to happen. She didn’t know who was completely innocent. She would take the lodge bus right after their webinar. An hour and a half—long enough to find what she was looking for: the names and their Christie connections.

  If only the ankle would stop hurting.

  * * *

  She awoke sometime later in the night to voices whispering beneath her window.

  Someone said. “Ya sure? Dat’s her room?”

  Someone else, a woman’s voice, said only, “I’m pretty sure.”

  Zoe’s body stiffened: “Dat’s her room?”

  She couldn’t move.

  She listened as hard as she could, but the voices stopped. At some time she fell asleep, lying stiff, and awoke to rain being blown into her room and thunder echoing over the forest.

  When she was as damp as she could take, she scrambled to close the window and look at her watch: seven AM.

  Breakfast in an hour. She didn’t need another shower. All she could think about was Jenny coming with Lisa. It was all she had to cling to. In her damp bed, she leaned against her pillows and closed her eyes for only a minute.

  When she awoke next, it was eight thirty.

  Sunday. First full day and she was already a half-hour late for breakfast.

  Chapter 24

  Janne was back, knocking on Lisa’s door early. Jenny frowned as she answered. A man standing there, deep in the woods, wearing a red plaid shirt and jeans, long brown hair pulled back into a ponytail. He wore a broad, happy smile.

  He walked in without an invitation, held out his hand to take hers, and said, “Janne. And you’re Jenny. Nice to meet you. Your sister talks about you a lot.”

  “And I’ve heard a lot about you. All good, in your case.”

  * * *

  They were having coffee when Lisa crawled out from the bed at the back. She and Janne hugged, but as far as Jenny could see, it was the casual hug friends share, and she felt less happy. Lisa was her older sister. Time to be making a move in life, if she ever intended to.

  Janne had come for breakfast. He’d brought a homemade coffee cake with him. His mother had sent it, along with greetings to Lisa.

  “Outside?” Janne motioned toward the door. “Beautiful morning. Rain’s gone again.”

  So they ate under the trees, sitting around a white folding table Janne set up. Toast and fruit and yogurt and coffee cake. A good solid breakfast that would keep them going until sometime that night, after dark, when the women of the town might feed them again.

  After breakfast, Lisa said she had a piece of the documentary for Jenny to watch. Not edited yet, Lisa explained. But she could see what they had, and she wanted Jenny to see it.

  “It’s just Leena, sitting by the fire, telling her family’s story. We’ll go there tomorrow if it doesn’t rain,” Lisa said. “To the cemetery. So much of who they are is buried there.”

  Janne nodded. “They’re my people—all of them. I come from here. I only found out how special we are when I left. And more now, through Lisa’s eyes.”

  He smiled again. “I was happy she saw it when I brought her here to meet them. And then when she saw the possibility of this film.”

  Later, with breakfast finished, the table folded and put back under a tarp beside the trailer, they went inside to see the piece.

  It opened in the dark, with a circle of orange flame at the center of the shot. The flame grew until it was a glowing fire, and there were voices around it, though the woman talking was never shown—only the flames as they grew and then died.

  The older woman had a deep echo in her voice. The fire crackled. A bat buzzed the woman’s head. She swatted hard at it, but not too hard. Somehow Jenny knew that hand wasn’t raised to hurt.

  “It was winter when my mother’s twins died. The men, dey used shovels to clear away three feet o’ snow, and den dey used dem pick-axes to cut into da frozen ground. Two small graves. And my mother so weak dey had to carry her home. Dis land ain’t easy to anybody. It is, dat’s all. The rest is what the people make of it. And what we make is our own place. Dat’s why I stay. No place else could ever, not in a million years, be home. Where ya bury yer children is where ya live.”

  Jenny, moved by the woman in the stark film and the silence around the three of them, said she needed to walk for a while. She wanted to climb a hill and look around—at where she was. “Maybe I’ll get a signal and can make a call.”

  “We’ll go see Zoe later,” Lisa said, her eyes on her sister. “Janne and I can work this morning. But watch yourself. You know there are animals everywhere.”

  Jenny nodded but didn’t feel afraid of anything.

  * * *

  She followed a trail cutting up a small hill, a narrow sand trail between thick trees. The air was fresh, from the rain, but what started out to be sunshine was already filming over, thin clouds coming in from the west.

  She climbed in sand, imagining the trek through deep snow. What she didn’t want to imagine was losing two babies at once and burying them under the snow.

  At the top of the hill, when she tried to call her mother, her phone signaled no service. Dead.

  She sat in the sand and thought about Dora: husband taken away from her; her own kind of acceptance of life without him. She let herself think about loss. People could pass out of one another’s lives, like those dead babies. So little time for memories when you buried children in the frozen earth.

  But, she thought, no one said she had to bury herself. No one said she had to become invisible. Give up everything and everyone. Tony’s never asked that. He had only asked her to share his new adventure. He’d only offered her a place with him.

  She’d come up here, to Lisa, to think, and she was thinking.

  She walked the path downward now, not realizing how steep the climb up had been. The sand was deep and hard to walk in.

  It was a different place, going back where she’d come from.

  When she fell, she began to slide and then to tumble. When she stopped falling, she sat up and felt the bump on her head and began to laugh. Something in her whole time out here mirrored her life so far—and her choices and her future, all bumps and bruises.

  If she could get a phone signal, she would call Tony right then. It was her bargain with fate.

  No signal.

  A sign not to let the emotions she was feeling—being here with these women from a different time—take over her brain.

  A sign she still had a lot of thinking to do.

  Chapter 25

  From the pile of papers and brochures and newspapers in front of her, Lisa pulled one out and slapped it. “Remember, you told me about seeing the opera house in Calumet? I was there. Janne got tickets the first week we were up here. The Mouse Trap. Isn’t that odd? An Agatha Christie play. It’s closed. Too bad.”

  “I’ve seen it before. In Chicago. Love that we’re not supposed to tell who the murderer is when the play’s over. I can’t imagine there is one person left in the world who doesn’t know.”

  Jenny looked down at the shiny brochure Lisa pushed h
er way. The playbill for The Mousetrap. She scanned the cover: the cast taking a bow. She looked closer. One woman, middle-aged, maybe sixty, smiled as she held the hands of the other cast members.

  She knew her. Different in the photo. Not as old, but still definitely Emily Brent, the brusque woman of Netherworld Lodge.

  Jenny opened the brochure and quickly reviewed the list of actors, but Emily Brent’s name wasn’t listed.

  “But I know her.” Jenny said to Lisa, pointing to the cover.

  “From where?”

  “From Netherworld Lodge.”

  “A critic?”

  She shook her head. “She’s Emily Brent, one of the planners of the event.”

  “Odd. But I suppose anybody interested enough to belong to the Northern Michigan Agatha Christie Society would be interested enough to play a part in The Mouse Trap,” Lisa said.

  “I recognize the role she’s playing—Mrs. Boyle, a kind of nasty old lady.”

  “Check the cast names?”

  “I did. A woman named Susan Jokela Wintor played the role. Emily Brent is lying to all of us.”

  Jenny made a face. Something was ringing a faraway bell inside her head.

  “Why would the woman lie?”

  “Look at this other one: Mollie Ralston, the role of the woman who owned Monkswell Manor with her husband, Giles. Her name is Mary Lamb. Odd name.”

  Jenny bent over the playbill. “Here’s another. Detective Sergeant Trotter. His bio says he’s a lawyer right here in Calumet. Harley Lamb.”

  “And the bios of the two women?”

  “Nothing. All it says here is that they’ve both played these same roles before. In Chicago and Boston.”

  Jenny drew in a quick breath. “I might have seen them. I could have recognized them both if they’re at Netherworld.”

  “You wouldn’t, would you? Stage makeup and all?”

  “This other one. The Mollie Ralston character. She could be there, somewhere at Netherworld.”

  “You said you haven’t met the others yet.”