“No Vera today. Vera not well. Read notes.”
Notes?
Signora Panetone pointed to the next room. Presumably, sometime during the night a note had materialized and I had been expected to read it in my sleep. This place was going to take some getting used to. Installing the lock had moved way up the list of priorities.
The tray of food was enough for a family of four, but it wasn’t the only unusual element. I never thought I’d be greeting the second day of my new job with breakfast in my feather bed surrounded by cabbage roses on the wall and Agatha Christie novels and reference books piled around me, but life has a way of bringing little surprises. Signora Panetone was just one of them. The cat was another. This morning it was playful and purring, wanting a scratch behind its ears.
As I worked my way through my breakfast, I tried to get Hercule Poirot out of my mind until I realized, he was right. I did need to look where it would be, “it” being the play that might or might not exist.
But where would that be?
I didn’t know, but thanks to Lance and my research, I had an idea where to find out.
CHAPTER FIVE
AT ANY GIVEN time, I keep five outfits that can be used to bend all occasions to my favor. They have a vintage vibe, and they fall under the headings “classy,” “brainy,” “don’t mess with me,” “sexy” and “clueless.” I was going for classy on this day, channeling my inner Jackie Kennedy. Everything but the pillbox hat.
The classy bit took a hit in the endless hallway as I collided with a tall woman who came around the corner as I tried to dodge the cat that had shot out at me from nowhere. Alarmed by the collision, the cat scurried back toward the front foyer.
The woman squeaked in surprise. I squeaked back.
She must have been six feet, with broad shoulders, big hands and a close-cropped salt-and-pepper haircut in an old-fashioned pageboy. She didn’t seem at all pleased to see me.
“Watch out,” I said, “the feline has a fondness for ankles.”
Someone has to take the high road.
The cat made a liar out of me by returning and attempting to rub up against her while purring like an outboard motor. She stood stock still. Cat phobia, perhaps. I saw no sign of friendliness, and I was in a hurry. But once I was out of her sight, I wondered not just about that totally bipolar cat, but about the woman. I assumed she’d come from the elevator that led to Vera’s private quarters on the second floor. Or had she been in the library? Whatever, it was very peculiar. By the time I got to the front door, there was no sign of her.
I attempted to hunt down Signora Panetone and find out, but that proved fruitless too.
* * *
THE ANTIQUARIAN BOOK and Paper Fair was a new experience for me. I wasn’t sure what to expect. So, M. Poirot, I thought, let’s see what we can turn up. I anted up for my ten-dollar ticket and made my way through the double doors into a room where everyone spoke in hushed tones. Maybe some of the sound was absorbed by the thick floral-patterned carpeting, but I thought there was more to it than that. Even the scent of the room was soothing: old paper, old ink and Old Spice.
At first glance there were about thirty booths, mostly U-shaped arrangements of tables. The tables all seemed to be discreetly covered in royal blue cloths and skirts that probably hid empty boxes, extra material, handbags, backpacks and other miscellaneous and unsightly gear. From the door all the booths looked pretty much alike, but as I began my rounds, I could see that each one had some kind of specialty. I would have liked to remain and finger every historic map and faded print, but I needed to stay on task. Three booths down, I was distracted by a display of children’s books. I already was lusting after a first edition of Where the Wild Things Are, a book I had loved as a child. Even with the slightly faded cover and a tiny tear, it was still nearly five hundred dollars. I couldn’t afford it, but I wanted it. I was beginning to understand how intoxicating this game could be. If it was behind glass, that just made it worse.
I made the rounds once, doing reconnaissance, something I’d learned from my uncles as a child, and discovered that two of the dealers dealt solely in mysteries. Without looking too keen on anything, I drifted back the second time. Looking too enthusiastic is the worst thing you can ever do to yourself, short of emptying your wallet down a sewer grate. I stopped at a booth called Nevermore Mysteries. Poe would have approved.
The silver-haired middle-aged dealer, with his reading glasses perched at the end of his nose, looked up at me with mild interest and then turned his attention to an alarmingly tall man in a floor-length trench coat. Or was that possibly two smaller men in that trench coat? Where would you even find one of those coats if you needed such a thing? The dealer watched with narrowed eyes as Tall Trench Coat reached down for one of the pricier items on the top shelf.
I picked up a mass-market Dell issue of Red Harvest, by Dashiell Hammett. Of course, I liked the sixties retro cover of the reprint. It was in moderately good shape with protective plastic on its faded cover and reasonably priced, probably because of the fading. My guess was there were still plenty of these to be had, but I knew it was a classic and decided I wanted to own it for the cover as well. I thought that I’d seen a red morocco-bound copy of an omnibus of Hammett’s work in Vera Van Alst’s library. I couldn’t imagine how much that would have set her back. I reminded myself that my interest was in Agatha Christie’s possible play, and not in one of the billion or so inexpensive Christie paperbacks that were still easily found, many of them stacked on my coffee table and beside my bed. I reached for a hardcover first edition of The Body in the Library. It seemed appropriate. The dust jacket looked to be in nearly perfect condition. A hand appeared over my shoulder and whisked The Body in the Library from my grasp. The dealer appeared to be able to teleport himself. With a tight smile and an upper-class British accent he said, “Maybe I can help you find something in your price range?”
The smile didn’t reach all the way to the eyes behind the reading glasses.
“Why? How much is this?” I resisted the urge to remove his condescending head from his shoulders, knowing that he was just sniffing out weakness and enjoying the superior feeling. I made sure that feeling was brief.
“Fifteen hundred. It’s a first edition in mint condition. And, of course, it’s a bargain at that,” he said in a voice like melting British butter.
I managed to look unimpressed, but really I was doing the math. Was this the price range that Vera paid for the thousands of books on her treasured shelves?
I said, “Nice. Of course, I have one at home without a trace of foxing and a brighter dust jacket. I couldn’t resist a comparison.” As if I would ever go on a scouting mission without picking up some lingo. That would have been a rookie mistake. My uncles would have been disappointed if I’d made such a slip.
He managed to keep his face from falling too far, but I’d scored my point.
He held out his hand and said, “I should have introduced myself. George Beckwith.”
I had his attention now.
I added, “It has sentimental value. I bought it on a trip to London, from Ash Rare Books. Always quality, of course.” My research was starting to come in handy, but I reminded myself that I had also been taught to keep the lies simple. Too much detail will always trip you up.
“In that case, you may be interested in some better quality Hammetts.”
“No, I’ll stick with this one. I put my money on the British authors.”
He cleared his throat. “I have a lovely copy of The Nine Tailors, first edition, second impression only. Very little wear on the jacket. It’s a bargain at five hundred dollars.” He reached for and held out a book, reverently. The words “immensely successful” appeared on the yellow jacket in red. I loved it. There’s nothing like confidence.
Even so, I waved it away and managed to look bored. That was on the outside. Inside I was screaming, “That’s a lot of loot!” It wouldn’t take many books like that to fund the next stage
of my education. But I had to keep my mind on task. “I don’t know. I’m in the mood for something different.”
“Like what?”
“Not sure. My daddy has a lot of these, so they might as well be mine. I’m looking for something more unusual, something different. I can’t describe it, but I’m in the mood for something…theatrical. A statement piece, perhaps.”
“And your price range?”
“I want something that appeals to me. It’s not about money, really, is it?” And it definitely wasn’t about my money, not that I had any. I needed to make an impact. I knew for sure that these people talk. They whisper. They gossip. They deal in innuendo and rumor. In fact, I was beginning to suspect that Vera and poor dead Alex had fallen for this very trap.
I wanted to get some tongues wagging. And my uncles had taught me to always walk away leaving them wanting more.
“Money’s not an issue. I might be back,” I said, drifting toward the aisle, trying not to smile at the forlorn-puppy look that had settled on his old-dog face.
He followed. “Is there a way to reach you if I find something of interest?”
“I suppose,” I said, with just the hint of a yawn.
He said, “You never know when I might find something worthy of your collection.”
I sighed and pulled out my newly minted business cards. Works of art if I do say so myself. It’s amazing what you can do if your relatives have the right equipment. I left him staring at it, pondering the gilt-embossed seal on the top center of the card. An Uncle Mick special. Gorgeous and devoid of any useful information except for my name and cell phone number.
I resumed my drifting about, knowing that I had his interest. So many delicious objects, so close, so tantalizing. This research was fun, and I was getting paid.
At each booth I tried a variation on my patter, dropping hints about something different and perhaps dramatic. I wanted to get some talk going in this community, and nothing gets people talking more than money and misinformation. I made sure that no one knew that Vera Van Alst was puppet master.
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 o
f 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.
CHAPTER SIX
ONCE 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 Christie Curse Page 6
