A week later Alicia’s excitement about her new club had turned to bitter disappointment. Not a soul had been in touch. Despite Lynette’s digital suggestions, Alicia had decided to advertise for members the old-fashioned way, the way Agatha Christie would have done it, and placed an ad in the classifieds section of her local newspaper.
It read: “Agatha Christie lovers unite. If you want to join Sydney’s inaugural Agatha Christie Book Club, send me an email with your favourite book title and the reasons why. To meet every second Sunday from 2pm.”
For the sake of expediency, Alicia had placed the ad online so that it could make the following day’s edition, and was about to hurl it off into cyberspace when she paused, then quickly changed the word ‘email’ to ‘letter’ and added her name and home address. She paused again.
What if some crazed nutter tracked her down? What if he started stalking her? Broke into her house and rummaged through her lingerie drawer...
Alicia had shaken the thought off and paid the requisite fee, but now wondered why she’d bothered. Was she living in a retro bubble that had long burst? Was there anyone outside of her family who actually gave a toss about Agatha Christie anymore? Had they really all moved on to Stieg Larsson and blogs?
Finally, on the eighth day she got her answer.
It was late Friday evening after a gruelling day at work. Alicia’s thoughts were far from the world of Agatha Christie as she made the final, exhausting stretch towards her home in the low-lying former docklands area of Woolloomooloo. Tacked on to Sydney Harbour, Woolloomooloo is an eclectic suburb merging boisterous pubs and low-rent council flats with luxurious warehouse apartments and five-star restaurants frequented by celebrities and billionaires alike. Alicia lived on the low-rent side so always walked with a quick in her step.
Despite being the proud owner of a bone-coloured 1972 Holden Torana, she rarely drove to work, instead preferring to catch the bus. It was easier than stressing through the traffic, gave her a chance to catch up on her reading and, because the relevant bus stop was a good kilometre from her house, provided an excellent opportunity for some daily exercise.
This evening, however, she was not in the mood. As she walked, Alicia’s mind began playing its usual tricks on her. She envisaged the van that was driving perfectly normally down the road suddenly swerve for no good reason—perhaps the driver had a heart attack or was just plain loony—then alight the footpath and take her out. She shrugged the image away and kept walking. A crunching noise caught her attention and she glanced to the side to see an elderly man placing garbage in his bin. He looked at her, smiled then looked away. What was behind that smile, she wondered? What if he suddenly decided to creep up behind her, knock her over the head and toss her in the bin? No one would ever know. She quickly crossed the road, and continued walking.
A few meters from her gate something in the letterbox caught Alicia’s eye. She picked up her pace and threw herself upon it, screeching it open to reveal a bundle of letters clumped together with a thick, red elastic band. The top one read in smudged blue scrawl: The Agatha Christie Club.
Delighted and a little relieved, Alicia thrust the bundle under one arm, foraged through her handbag for her house keys and let herself in. Max was already slouched on the sofa and didn’t bother more than a pathetic tail wag to greet her home. He had clearly already been fed.
“Hello to you, too, Maxy!” Alicia called out to him and then strode through to the kitchen where, sure enough, Lynette was hard at it.
“Prawn and vermicelli salad in a chilli ginger sauce,” she announced, holding up a half-shelled crustacean.
Alicia held up her own bounty: “A bunch of letters, all addressed to The Agatha Christie Book Club!”
Lynette squealed with delight. “Okay then, you win! What do they say?”
“Dunno, haven’t opened them yet. You didn’t notice them in the letterbox on your way in?”
“Letterbox?”
“You know, rusty white thing on one side of the gate. Designed to put letters in.”
“Oh, is that what that thing’s for?” Lynette smiled. “Come on, then, crack ’em open, let’s see what you’ve got.”
“No, no, I need a glass of something for this.”
She crossed to the cupboard, pulled out two red and gold Moroccan tea glasses and reached for the bottle of merlot beside the microwave. Lynette intercepted her.
“Back away from the red. It’s seafood tonight. You need the chilled Chablis in the fridge.”
“Oh, right, sure.”
She placed the red back, retrieved the white from the fridge and poured them both a glass. Then she settled herself on a kitchen stool and turned her attention to the mail, wondering as she did so why her generation had been so eager to forfeit snail mail for email and SMS. There could be no substitution for the sheer joy you received when spotting a genuine, thick, woody smelling envelope in the letterbox, when holding it in your hands, trying to decipher the writing, wondering who could it be from. Then turning it over, getting your first clue, ripping it open, unfolding the pages...
“Oh get on with it!” Lynette said rolling her eyes as Alicia held the first letter to her nose.
She ignored her sister, retrieved a knife from a drawer and carefully sliced the crushed envelope open. Inside was a piece of lined paper that had clearly been ripped straight out of an exercise book. It was folded several times, so she straightened it out and began to read aloud:
Dear Agatha Clubber. Way 2 go! I luv that Christie chick. Best AC: Death on the Nile– Bette Davis, what a classic! Pity that Parrott bloke is such a fag. Anyway, I’d love to crash your group. Got nothing else going on right now and the last group I belonged to kicked me out (LOL) Can’t do Sundays but anytime during the week works for me. Just after midday. Do we BYO or you gonna supply?
Taneal
PS: Got an email address?
Alicia dropped the letter on the bench and stared at her sister, stunned, before they both burst into laughter.
“Unbelievable,” Alicia said, regaining control.
She took a large swig of her wine, pulled out the next letter and studied at it. The handwriting seemed normal enough and was done with a neat, black ink, but she hesitated before reading it quickly to herself.
Hello. I’d love to join your group. My all time favourite Agatha novel is Pride and Prejudice. That Darcy, eh? Most smouldering hero of all time!
The letter then launched into a long essay on the sexual tension between Darcy and Elizabeth, and was eventually signed Jane (not Miss Bennett) Zantilopous.
Alicia groaned, then scrunched it up and threw it across the kitchen.
“Not another loser, surely?” Lynette said, looking up from the sink.
“Don’t ask,” Alicia replied, reluctantly returning to the pile.
The next two letters were both fans, surprisingly, of They Do It With Mirrors and managed to get most of their Christie facts correct. But they were lacking in genuine passion and Alicia’s own passion was beginning to waver, until she pulled out the fifth and final letter.
This one brought the smile back to her lips.
It was written in an elegant hand, the envelope decorated with bluebells and the soft scent of perfume emanating from inside. She unfolded the crisp paper, also adorned with bluebells, crossed her fingers and began to read aloud:
Dear Alicia,
You cannot imagine my delight at seeing your advertisement yesterday. An Agatha Christie Book Club! All my dreams have come true. I adore all of Agatha’s works but if pressed I’d have to say Evil Under the Sun is my favourite. The suspense! The drama! The red herrings! I think she could teach some modern writers a thing or two. I especially love the lack of gore and the glamorous frocks.
Would love to find out more about your club. I run a vintage clothing store on Victoria Street so feel free to drop in and say hello. Otherwise my details are enclosed.
Thanking you in advance (and high anticipation),
Claire Hargreave
s
PS: Sunday afternoons work beautifully for me. High tea anyone?
Alicia beamed from ear to ear. “She’s perfect,” she said. “Just perfect. Now all we need is five more...”
Chapter 4
By the following Thursday, Alicia had received 16 letters—some hilarious, some slightly nutty, and some just plain boring. But there were four that held real promise. Apart from the vintage clothing storekeeper Claire, there was an intriguing letter from a doctor who confessed to adoring any Christie novel with poisons involved.
“I have a little knowledge on the subject myself,” he wrote, “so am always ready to catch her out on the facts, although she rarely gets it wrong. My favourite book, then, has to be Sparkling Cyanide. Surely this poison has become synonymous with Christie herself?”
It was signed Dr Anders Bright and went straight to the Yes pile.
The third letter was stranger still but in a very different way. It was from a woman called Barbara Parlour, a self-proclaimed “boring, middle-aged housewife” who wrote that Agatha’s works and words kept her sane during “life’s many sad and tragic moments”.
What sad and tragic moments? Alicia wondered, wanting to know more. Lynette was less convinced.
“She sounds a bit pathetic to me,” she said. “Is she going to sob the whole time?”
“Sounds like she needs a lift, that’s all. The club could be good for her.”
“But would she be good for the club? It’s not a suicide prevention centre.”
“Now you’re being melodramatic, Lynette, the woman is probably just talking generally.”
“Hey, she started it, not me.”
In the end, Alicia found Barbara’s words too intriguing to ignore and added her to the yes pile. She wanted to know more about this sad woman who clearly turned to Agatha Christie for respite.
The final letter was actually a black and white postcard with the silhouette of a hangman’s noose on the front. On the back, incredibly neat handwriting declared:
Agatha is the Queen of Crime. I am the Queen of Surry Hills—not quite as famous, I know, but equally as enthralling I can assure you. Give me any book featuring Hercule Poirot, and I will show you crime perfection. Call me. Pretty please. Perry. xo
Alicia laughed out loud. This guy sounded like fun and the antithesis of Barbara. It would be an interesting mix. She ticked him off and then went through her list one more time. There were now six potential members, including Lynette and herself. That was enough to kick-start the club, so she sat down that night after dinner and compiled each one a brief, hand-written reply on her finest stationery. In each letter she thanked them for their interest and suggested they come along to an afternoon tea at her place the following Sunday to discuss how the club would work.
She had already decided on a few loose rules and placed a copy of these in each envelope. While she had hated the rigidity of the Monday Night Book Club, she wasn’t so naïve as to think that a few basic parameters weren’t necessary to make the group run smoothly. Without them, it only took one domineering character to start steering the club in the direction they chose. There would be no bossy Kirsten-types in this group!
Alicia read over the ACBC guidelines and smiled:
#1: A maximum of eight members, male or female, all ages welcome. All have to be fans of AC and/or keen to read more of her work. (Any more than eight, Alicia thought, and no one would get a word in.)
#2: Each member to take turns choosing the book to be read and hosting the event. (Never simultaneously. That would be too much like hard work.)
#3: The person who chooses the book should prepare questions or a few loose talking points to encourage discussion. They can choose their favourite AC or simply one they’d like to explore further.
#4: The person hosting the event will hold it at their house or a venue of their choosing, and is responsible for the nibblies. Members can bring their own drinks if they like. (Alcohol preferred!)
#5: Members of the club may eat and drink whenever they like during the discussion. No restrictions.
#6: Have fun! (And lots of it, she thought, reading over the guidelines one final time with a shiver of delight.)
The following morning, Alicia dropped the letters into the post-box on her corner then made a beeline to her nearest library. She knew this detour would mean getting into work late, but she couldn’t help herself. While the Finlay sisters had a pretty good collection of Christie’s books at home, there were plenty missing and Alicia wanted to see what treats the library held for future reference.
Alicia’s local library was a grand old building with the elegant columns and intricate stonework of the early 1900s, yet updated with modern conveniences like automatic doors, air-conditioning and a rather complicated after-hours book-return chute on an external wall that required you to scan your library card in first, leaving most elderly patrons flustered. The library was just a few blocks from the house and while Lynette found the place antiquated, constantly arguing the case for eBooks, iPads and Amazon, Alicia cherished it. Nothing, she decided, would ever replace the old-fashioned paperback.
Despite this, she still wandered in feeling guilty. It had been many months since she’d found time to explore the library’s hallowed halls and seemingly bottomless book collection. A little overwhelmed now, she headed straight for the front desk where a short, plump woman in her mid-20s with luridly bright copper hair into which black and white zebra printed spectacles had been wedged turned to greet her.
“Hello! Were you after something, possum?”
Alicia placed her handbag on the desk. “Yes, I want to look up everything you have on Agatha Christie.”
The librarian giggled. “Got a month? We have a huuuge selection! She wrote dozens and dozens of books, of course, but then you probably know that if you’re a fan. Was there anything specific you were after?”
“I just want to see what you’ve got that I haven’t read.”
“Next question, then, darls, are you into her crime novels exclusively or open to other material? She wrote other fiction, too, you know, under the penname Mary Westmacott? Most people don’t know that. It’s kind of romance, I suppose you could call it, and was reviewed better than her crime back in the old days. Her plays were also well received. Still nothing’s ever sold as well as her whodunits.” She paused, blinked, scrunched up her lips. “Or maybe you were after general reference? There’s Agatha’s autobiography, of course, a total gem, although not quite as revealing as Thompson’s biography on the author. Biographies are often more interesting, aren’t they? Probably because you can say stuff in there the author doesn’t want you to know. Ha! We love those juicy details! Now that’s a mammoth book but, oh, such a top read, simply riveting!”
She paused again so Alicia quickly said, “All of it I guess.”
The librarian giggled and pulled her glasses down onto her nose. “Fabulous! Follow me.”
Shoving some books to one side, she opened a small trapdoor and squeezed out of it into the main room. She was wearing a bright, floral dress with a full skirt and a purple waistband, and on her feet were matching purple slippers with spangly silver beads. She dashed away, across the room to a section at the front filled with hanging newspapers and glossy magazines on one side, and oversized reference books on the other.
“Now, for general reference, this is the place to be. Just go to the ‘biography’ section and look up ‘C’.”
She waved one arm along a row of books, then turned abruptly and headed back across the room to the fiction section, Alicia close behind. She stopped at the letter C and tapped short black nails across the spines.
“We don’t have every single Christie novel, obviously! And, of course, many of the ones we do have are out—which is to be expected, she’s one of our most popular reads but then I don’t have to tell you that.”
She giggled again, her red curly hair flopping about her face as she did so. She brushed it away, pushed her glasses back into
position and turned back to the shelves.
“You’ll find lots to keep you entertained here, possum. To look up her romance, just make your way to ‘W’, it’s right down the end.”
“Thanks so much,” Alicia said as the librarian waddled back to her desk.
As she began scanning the titles, Alicia had a thought. She stopped, turned back, and called out to the librarian, “Hey, just wondering—how do you feel about book clubs?”
The librarian turned around with a wide, girlish grin.
*****
Three days later, in a very different part of town, someone was reading through Alicia’s rules carefully, thrilled to be accepted and prickling with excitement, too.
It had been so easy! Alicia had fallen for the pretence, and the other book club members would, too. Now the first step was in place.
Just two more steps to the ultimate revenge.
Chapter 5
Sunday morning dawned bright and clear and, determined to get the club off to a good start, Alicia rose early, dressed in some old jeans and a T-shirt, and devoured some cereal quickly before pulling out the vacuum cleaner and giving the house a good going over. She wanted everything to be perfect.
As Lynette prepared cucumber and crème fraîche sandwiches and a batch of fresh scones with homemade strawberry jam and whipped cream, Alicia wiped down their rustic wooden dining table and covered it in a fresh checked tablecloth. Next, she pulled the dining chairs—all mismatched and brightly painted in blues and reds and yellows—to the side so the group could have easy access to Lynette’s delicious spread, but the main action would happen in the adjoining living area and that’s where she put her attention now.
Their lounge room was what you’d call ‘cosy bohemian’, an accidental mishmash of colours, textures and styles. A battered chocolate-brown leather armchair, Alicia’s favourite, sat in one corner with a lavender mohair throw across it, and a brown and white floral cushion wedged into the side. In the centre of the room was a deep blue three-seater sofa, bright cushions at random intervals and, in front of it, a metallic blue sea chest that served as coffee table/foot rest/dumping ground for every magazine, book, journal, coffee cup and gadget they had used in the past week.
The Agatha Christie Book Club Page 2
