The Christie Curse

by Victoria Abbott

  “And you saw her, um, Karen Smith?”

  “No. I thought she’d left the room to go to the ladies’ room or something. The cash box was also on the table. And stacks of credit card slips.”

  “Was there cash in the box?”

  “I don’t know. It was closed. I imagine she would have had a float at least. The box got knocked over when I tripped. That’s when I found her.”

  “You tripped?”

  “I fell over that overturned chair and I went flying.” I stood up to demonstrate, showing him where the table had been in relation to the chair. “And I crashed into the back table. As I was getting up, I saw Karen’s leg sticking out from under.”

  “What did you think?”

  That was just annoying. “I didn’t know what to think. Have you ever had anything like that happen to you? It was bizarre and frightening. Then I saw the blood from her head wound and started to make sense of it. Not that it makes sense. I got down to check if she was…all right. I called 911. The rest you know. Oh, wait a minute. When did you get the call?”

  “It didn’t take me long to get here. I was at the edge of town, so maybe ten minutes. I must have taken the call ten minutes before I arrived.”

  My eyes widened. “But I would have already been here.”

  “Yes.”

  “So someone called you over in Harrison Falls to come here and find me kneeling in Karen’s blood. Does that not strike you as strange?”

  It struck him as something. I could tell by the look on his cute pink face.

  I saw his eyes flick behind me to a man looming in the doorway. This guy could only be a detective. There was a granite edge to his features, and my guess was that would be reflected in a hard, edgy personality. The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach was because I knew I’d be giving him my statement next. Even from a distance, I could tell he lacked Officer Smiley’s apparently sincere and pleasant nature.

  One thing I was glad of, I could give the Van Alst mansion as my address, rather than the digs I recently shared with my uncles, who would be, as they say, known to the police. It would be a good time to be a Bingham rather than a Kelly.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IF YOU FIND yourself in an interrogation room, you will probably do better if you have not spent a bit of time kneeling on a blood-soaked carpet. And it would be especially good if you didn’t have any of that blood smeared on your clothing and your hands. I’m just saying. A word to the wise.

  Detective Fenton Zinger had brought me a bottle of water. This seemed like an act of kindness, but I knew better. I’d been coached by my uncles, that should I ever find myself being interrogated, I should not accept an offer of water, as the police were just trying to get my prints and DNA. They advised if I was too thirsty to refuse, to make sure I took the bottle or paper cup with me. Leaving it behind made it fair game for the fuzz—Uncle Mick’s words, not mine.

  I felt my insistence that I’d had nothing to do with Karen Smith’s attack, or maybe that would be her murder by this point, was not having the right impact on Detective Fenton Zinger.

  “Tell me again,” he said. “Start from the beginning. You got the call…”

  “Yes. I got the call.”

  “You didn’t know what it was about.”

  “I did know what it was about. She had found something she thought I would be interested in. I just didn’t know what that item was.”

  “Maybe it was her cash box?”

  “What?”

  “The thing she keeps her money in?”

  As Uncle Mick likes to say, everyone’s a comedian. I said, “I know what a cash box is. I’m pretty sure the call wasn’t about that.”

  “But she had one.”

  “Yes. I saw it on the table when I came in.”

  “Any idea where her cash went?”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “Wasn’t it there?”

  He couldn’t hold back that sneer.

  I said, “The cash box got knocked over when I hit the table. If there was a roll of bills, maybe it rolled under the table. Her cash was probably in a pouch or something like that. Did it fall into one of the boxes?”

  “Nope.”

  I shrugged. “I imagine she kept it separate from the credit card receipts, along with her float. I hope it went to a safe place. Her home? Her shop? Her car?”

  “And why would you think that?”

  “Because she was a smart lady and there was no reason for her to keep her cash at the hall. The security wasn’t that great. The credit card receipts were different. And anyway who is going to walk in off the street to a church hall thinking there was even anything to steal?” Of course, some of my relatives could make hay with credit card receipts, but I didn’t plan to mention that.

  He said, “But this was more than a casual thief off the street.”

  “Have you searched her van? What about her—?”

  “Let’s review a bit. Who asks the questions here?”

  “I take it that’s a no.” I paused to consider. Had Karen Smith been attacked by an opportunistic thief? A kid who couldn’t resist? A loser needing drug money? It would be a relief to know it was not connected with me or Agatha Christie or Vera Van Alst’s quest in any way. But I just didn’t buy it. Karen Smith was pleasant and gentle, but I’d gotten the feeling she was an astute businessperson. She wouldn’t have taken a foolish risk like carting her cash around practically begging someone to steal it. She’d been in and out of the hall loading her van. No. It was out of the question. She would have put her cash in a safe place.

  “Was she worried about anything?”

  “Why are you asking me? I just met her yesterday at the book fair. I didn’t know her personally.”

  “And yet you went back to the hall at nine o’clock to see her. And you keep referring to her as your friend.”

  “Haven’t I explained this already? She was warm and friendly and had found something for me. And no, I don’t know exactly what it was, but I’m pretty sure it had to do with Agatha Christie.”

  “Are you being funny?”

  “No. When I’m funny, I’m a lot funnier than this. I was looking for an artifact, and she had a line on one. She sounded upbeat. She didn’t sound worried about anything. Then I left her a message and—”

  “And?”

  “Oh my God.”

  He rolled his eyes. “And?”

  “And where’s her phone?”

  “You tell me.”

  I heard my voice go up. My uncles have always urged me to remain calm should I find myself being interrogated. But it’s one thing to hear it and another thing to manage it. I was new to interrogations. “How would I know? I never saw it. I don’t even know what type of phone she had. I only know that she didn’t answer it at around quarter to nine.”

  He opened his mouth, no doubt to make some remark that would put me in my place.

  I got in first. “Did you find one in her clothing? Pockets? Handbag?”

  “One more time, we ask the questions. Just so you’re clear about that.”

  “Well, I sure hope you asked yourself who might have taken her phone. I called her after dinner. It kept ringing until it went to message. She might already have been injured. So someone must have taken her phone. But why would anyone do that?”

  “People will steal anything. Cash boxes. Phones.”

  “I guess. But hitting her in the head was a serious crime. Most casual thieves wouldn’t do that. She was badly injured. Don’t the police have ways of tracking down cell phones? You could get the phone records and use that to—”

  He leaned forward. “Next time you’re looking for a new position, you could come on board with the department and give us workshops on how to do our jobs.”

  “Oh. I suppose you already know that.”

  “That’s right. And you and every other citizen who is smart enough to power up the television think that watching an episode of CSI makes them an expert.”

  “I don
’t actually watch CSI. I prefer…” I quit while I was ahead. Detective Fenton Zinger might have had a point.

  We went around and around the questions, and the interview never really got any better. It must have been eleven o’clock when I was finally released.

  Officer Smiley offered to drive me home. Or drive me to my car and then follow me home, whichever I preferred. I didn’t want to admit that once again I was glad to see him. It had been a rough night, but there was no way a half-Kelly could give up her mother’s car to the cops.

  “If you drive me back to my car at Saint Sebastian’s Hall, I’ll get myself home.”

  Detective Zinger stuck his head out the door and called to me as we headed out the door. “Oh, and don’t leave the area. That means Harrison Falls, Grandville and the region. We’ll need to ask you questions.”

  Was he kidding? I didn’t plan to leave my bed for at least two days.

  * * *

  “SO, OFFICER. WHAT’S the news on Karen?” I asked Officer Smiley when we finally escaped the Grandville Police Station.

  “My name is Tyler,” he said. “I wish you’d call me that.”

  “Sure,” I said, not really meaning it. “What have you heard about Karen Smith?”

  “I checked with some colleagues. They’ve taken her to the regional hospital here in Grandville. Her condition is critical. She’ll be operated on tonight.” He bit his lip. It might have been adorable if he hadn’t been a cop. But he was a cop, so it was just plain weird.

  “What?” I said.

  He shook his head.

  “Don’t just shake your head. Say what it is that you’re shaking your head about.”

  “No need to yell,” he said, looking like a wounded teddy bear. “It’s just that…”

  “They don’t think she’ll make it.”

  “It doesn’t look good.”

  I felt a wave of nausea. “I have to go home. Now.”

  * * *

  OFFICER SMILEY (“CALL me Tyler”) did his best to walk me right to my door. I insisted that I was fine and made my way down the long, dimly lit driveway to the back door. Vera definitely wasn’t squandering money on exterior lighting. The Van Alst house looked like a fine setting for a ghost story at that time of the night. Lucky I’m not superstitious, I reminded myself as the ancient back door opened with a creak.

  The click of my heels echoed in the back hallway of the empty first floor. “Ridiculous,” I said out loud. What? Was I channeling Vera Van Alst now? Vera was far away in her own private second-floor wing, and Signora Panetone was, well, wherever she went after running the kitchen and the house for eighteen hours or so.

  I didn’t spot a cat and planned to keep my cool in case a tail brushed against the back of my leg. After what seemed like a year, I reached the top of the two dark, narrow flights of stairs, unlocked my door and practically tumbled into the safe cocoon of my garret. It was a cat-free zone. I bolted the door and ran for the tub.

  * * *

  AFTER THE BATH, I settled in for a chat with Tiffany, planning to leave out key details. She’d be instantly more alarmed than necessary, and I was too tired to recount my evening from hell and reassure Tiff that all was well. I had violated our pact, by not texting Grandville Police Station as my location earlier. Before I finished my “Hey, Tiff,” she interrupted. “What’s wrong?” Dang. I really hate Tiff’s intuition.

  “Just what is going on, Miss Jordan Louise Kelly Bingham?”

  “You really don’t have to middle-name me, Tiff. I am trying to tell you what happened.” My voice cracked a bit, thinking about poor Karen lying in her hospital bed.

  Tiffany softened. “Are you okay?”

  I started at the beginning.

  When I finished, she said in her most reassuring health practitioner’s tone, “And Officer Smiley just happened to be the cop who got this alleged anonymous phone tip?”

  “Well, yes, he did, but I’m sure it’s a weird coincidence.”

  “Hold on, aren’t you the one who doesn’t believe in coincidences?”

  I sputtered, “But he was nice enough to escort me back here. I didn’t see anyone else at the station offering to get a bloodstained woman home after she’d been grilled for hours by a detective.” Hmm, maybe I should have left out that part.

  “What?” Uh-oh. Tiffany’s voice was flat. “Did you say ‘detective’?”

  “Um, yes I did.”

  “It’s going to take me a moment or two to absorb all this information, Jordan.” A long pause ended with a very deep and disappointed sigh on the other end of the line.

  “You have had this ‘job’”—I could just see the sarcastic finger quotes—“for less than a week. You’re being interviewed by detectives and narrowly escaping a bludgeoning, to seek a possibly nonexistent pile of papers for a mean old bird in a wheelchair. That right?”

  “About sums it up.”

  Tiff pressed on. “You know I don’t like that your boyfriend the cop was the first one on the scene. He’s been ‘on the scene’ a little too often as far as I’m concerned.”

  Now that my head was clearing a bit, and I was no longer consumed by the need to bathe, I saw what Tiff meant. Officer Smiley had been bumping into me daily since I’d started to work for Vera. My stomach knotted. Was that a gut warning? Or had it simply been too long since Signora Panetone popped in with my bi-hourly snack?

  “If you ask me, he’s gone from cute to creepy. It may be time to tell your uncle Mick that this guy has been sniffing around.”

  I laughed. “Oh yes, I’ll run right out and do that. Just let me check on my flying pigs first.” The uncles would not be inclined to feel pity for someone who has withheld information regarding the police. Family or not.

  “Okay, I get that you’re between a rock and a hard place with those guys. Better yet, just tell Lucky. Let him track down some online stuff. It helped last time.”

  Ah yes, last time. Uncle Lucky had been the one who found the proof needed to keep me out of jail after my horrid slug of a boyfriend committed credit card fraud. Lucky was brilliant with code if not words.

  “And how many times have you seen Officer Stalker this week?”

  “Maybe four, give or take.”

  Suddenly Tiff’s volume rose. “Four? Jordan, how could you have let him take you home?” I thought I could hear her pacing on the concrete floor of her bunker.

  “I had no choice, Tiff. I really didn’t want to have to call Mick, and can you imagine if I’d tried a cab? I may have traumatized someone.” I left out the part about not being able to afford a cab at that exact moment.

  “I know you must be exhausted. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to Mom you. I’m way the hell up here. I can’t exactly get to Harrison Falls to get you out of any trouble. I am worried about this, so take me seriously. I’m asking myself what kind of research job this is. You should be asking yourself the same question. Remember that I’m your friend and I love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  I sighed deeply after we hung up. Tiff’s question was a good one. What kind of research job was this? At that moment, I spotted some dried blood under my nail, missed when I scrubbed down earlier. Karen’s blood. What kind of job was it? A dangerous one, apparently.

  * * *

  AFTER TALKING WITH Tiff and a long read of Agatha’s biography, I finally dozed off. My eyes popped open at two. If the person who hurt Karen Smith had her phone, then that person had gotten the message I’d left for Karen. I might be in danger from him. I felt confident thinking it was a man. Her attacker was far more likely to be male given the statistics on violence. Anyway, the person who had called Officer Smiley had been male. He’d said “he.” Tiff’s voice echoed in my head. If there’d really been a call. Despite Tiff’s meltdown and my family’s predisposition against the law, I couldn’t really believe that this sweet, blushing man had attacked Karen Smith. It didn’t make sense.

  I wasn’t crazy about the idea that someone else had my telephone number
and maybe had accessed my message, and I was really glad I hadn’t thought of it when I was clattering up those isolated stairs from the empty first floor of the Van Alst house. I’d been jumpy enough. I tossed and turned, wondering if Karen had been attacked by an opportunistic thief. Or did that attack have to do with the call to me? If it did, had the attacker found my response to her and planned to have me take the rap for it? Take the rap? For sure my uncles were still living in my head.

  I lay on the pillow trying to distract myself and get to sleep. No joy there. What would Agatha Christie do? I’d gotten sucked into her biography and had not expected to find such a kindred spirit in a dead mystery writer, but her life was so much more. She’d become like a new companion to me. Maybe I could count on her for some inspiration about what to do next, as my shattered nerves would never let me sleep.

  Agatha would certainly take action. I thought about her mysterious departure. Life had served her lemons as her husband Archie consorted quite publicly with his mistress, Teresa Neele. Had Agatha made lemonade with her disappearance, assuming Teresa Neele’s name in her hotel while the world searched for her and looked suspiciously at Archie? I knew from her notebooks that she kept poking at an idea, working and reworking until it succeeded. It didn’t always come easily or quickly, but she didn’t give up. That’s what I needed to keep in mind.

  Agatha may have lost Archie (lucky her, in my opinion), but she continued to be a huge international success, married again and had adventures the rest of us could only dream of. Except for the huge international-success thing, I felt like I was on the same path. I was still in the process of healing from my humiliating breakup. I decided to start with my own notebook in the morning. It’s always cathartic to put pen to paper.

  But first I needed to find out what had happened to Karen.

  CHAPTER NINE

  I OPENED MY eyes to find the May sun streaming through the window and a cat on my pillow. How had I missed that the night before? I guessed it just showed how upset I was. And it may have partly accounted for my miserable night’s sleep, although flashbacks to Karen’s injuries were responsible for the rest.