by Susan Kandel
Inside was the latest in high-tech sales paraphernalia: wallto-wall plasma-screen monitors showing the happy denizens of Christietown taking sunset walks on the nine miles of nature trails; three offices separated by acrylic walls which provided natural light without reducing privacy; and two separate conference rooms with state-of-the-art video-conferencing facilities so people around the world could watch Ian Christie perspire in situ.
Ian’s assistant wasn’t there yet, so I made the executive decision to commandeer his office. It was the first one you saw, on the right. Unfortunately, the door was locked. The door to the next office was unlocked, so I let myself in, but it looked like it’d been set up to hot-box prospective buyers, with a framed black-and-white photo of Agatha Christie on the wall, a tin of butter cookies on the side table, and a sheaf of Christietown high-gloss brochures on the console. The third door was the charm. It was empty, or so I thought until I sat down at the desk practically on top of somebody’s half-eaten bagel and cream cheese. It seemed an odd place to stow your breakfast. I found a Ralph’s grocery bag under the desk. Inside was the offending tub of cream cheese, two plastic knives, and a Tropicana juice box, along with the fleecy white minidress from Holly’s Harp, crumpled into a ball.
I shook the dress out and hung it on the hook behind the door. Wren had obviously arrived. Good. The whole thing went bust without my psychic eleven-year-old.
Just then, my cell phone rang. It was Lael. She’d arrived half an hour earlier and stationed herself in the Blue Boar Pub. She said the plasterboard facade of Gossington Hall had been set up in the dining area and that she’d seen Lou, who’d gone outside to stretch his legs. Wren was with him. She was doing a trial run with the smoke device. The caterers were heating up the food, which smelled wonderful, and the edible teapot centerpiece had been unveiled to gasps all around. Javier, my gardener, was rolling around in his uncle’s wheelchair, which he refused to get out of because he was a method actor. He and Lael were about to run through their lines. That was Lael’s delicate way of letting me know they’d be making out in the corner.
Sir Pilkington (Javier) and the vicar’s wife (Lael) were having a torrid love affair. Sir Pilkington I’d invented. Lael’s character I’d based on Reverend Leonard Clement’s young wife, Griselda, from Murder at the Vicarage. Griselda had chosen her middle-aged husband over a cabinet minister, a baronet, three subalterns, and a ne’er-do-well with attractive manners, but I sensed in her a latent lust for power. Thus the allure of Sir Pilkington.
I checked my watch. Still an hour to go, and no Bridget in sight. And Liz—where was Liz? I needed my star. I grabbed her costume and Wren’s and closed the door behind me just in time to run into Ian, who was salivating like a fox with two bunnies on his radar.
Lois and Marlene, my errant showgirls.
“Hello,” Marlene said.
I opened my mouth to respond, but Ian interrupted. “Things have settled down. And can you imagine? After bidding adieu to my new friend Joseph I found these two lovely ladies wandering around the parking lot.”
Lois looked down demurely.
“We’ve become quite well acquainted,” he said.
Marlene beamed.
“And I have learned something very important. Like so many of us, they have wearied of city life. They are seeking something more idyllic, something with personality and charm and, most of all, the company of other like-minded souls.”
“Oh, Ian,” Marlene cooed.
Ian tapped his temple and nodded, as if he’d just solved the riddle of the Sphinx. “I am suggesting our Sittaford Two residences.”
With three bedrooms, two and a half baths, two-car garages, and approximately 1,784 square feet, the Sittaford 2 residences were priced at just over $300,000, meaning Lois and Marlene were only about $300,000 short.
“So, if you’ll excuse us, Cece, I’ll just escort Lois and Marlene into our beautifully appointed office here”—Ian pushed past me toward door number 2—“where we can go over the numbers in privacy.”
“Ladies,” I began.
“Oh, do you know these charming creatures?” asked a wide-eyed Ian.
“I certainly do,” I said, narrowing my lids.
“We’ve known Cece for years and years,” said Marlene. “She’s had some very bad haircuts in the past, but she’s looking lovely today.”
Lois bobbed her addled head up and down.
“How did you get out here?” I asked.
“We took a taxi,” said Marlene. “We didn’t want to disappoint you.”
“Here you go,” said Lois, handing me a receipt from Yellow Cab in the amount of $179.00. “You can reimburse us later.”
“We hope you don’t mind,” said Marlene. “He was such a nice young man we left him a twenty-five percent tip.”
I explained the mix-up to Ian, who looked stricken until his assistant arrived, accompanied by some actual prospective buyers, a couple in their sixties who’d seen the ad in the Antelope Valley News and were very interested in the new homes in the vicinity of the High Street. Ian whisked them away, while Lois and Marlene followed me out the door.
People seemed to be arriving in droves. The parking lot was almost full. The valets were at their station, ready to take overflow cars to an empty field just over the hill.
“Ian told us all about Agatha Christie,” said Lois, struggling to keep up. One of her heels was held together with Scotch tape. “Her play, The Mousetrap, holds the record for the longest run ever in London. Since 1952.”
“That was a good year,” said Marlene, sighing. “I was in the full flower of my youth then.”
“Agatha had a picture-perfect Edwardian childhood,” Lois continued. “She was from Devon, home of mariners like Sir Francis Drake and Sir Walter Raleigh.”
“The sea, the sea,” said Marlene.
They could go on like this forever. I’d seen it.
“Sea air promotes the regeneration of brain cells,” said Marlene. “Maybe that’s how she had the energy to write over eighty novels and plays. Living inland, I don’t believe I’ve had the energy to even read eighty.”
“You have,” said her sister. “You adore the Harlequin romances, remember?”
“Oh, yes,” Marlene said, smiling. “I do prefer love to murder. What about you, Cece?”
At that moment, I stepped into a mud puddle. So much for my white pants. I bent down to assess the damage.
“Cece—” Lois said.
“Not now,” her sister interrupted. “Cece knows the rule about white after Labor Day. But she’s under a lot of pressure today.”
“You’re so forgiving, Marlene,” I said.
Lansham Road was a riot of testosterone: men in hard hats carrying piles of lumber; men in green coveralls planting trees; men with walkie-talkies; men with sandbags. The ladies could barely contain themselves. A pickup truck filled with freshly painted street signs kicked up some dirt as it rolled past us. After giving the driver a wave, Marlene stopped to flirt with some muscular specimens unspooling a bolt of wire-mesh fencing. That ended when she spied a short man with a shock of black hair getting out of a dark green Lamborghini and swooned.
Lois asked, “Are you all right, Marlene?”
“Who is that?” Marlene was gasping for air. “He looks exactly like Omar Sharif.”
Lois made exasperated noises. “Omar Sharif, Omar Sharif ! I ask you, will it never stop?”
Marlene had a faraway look in her eyes. “We met backstage at the Flamingo in Vegas. I was married at the time. It was tragic.”
The Omar Sharif look-alike was Dov Pick, known in the business section of the Los Angeles Times as the Icepick. I wasn’t surprised he was here today. He was one of the two principal investors in Christietown. Dov hopped around to the passenger side to open the door for a voluptuous brunette, in an oversize sweater and short shorts, who resembled Gina Lollabrigida. Most men would look happy to have a girl like that on their arm. But Dov didn’t look happy. He looked miserable.
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Which must have been how I looked when I walked into the kitchen of the Blue Boar a few minutes later, only to be ambushed by Lou, who cried, “Where is Liz? She’s disappeared!”
CHAPTER 6
ridget’s disappeared, too,” Lael said calmly. “But if we keep stuffing people’s faces with scones and clotted cream, they won’t know the difference. Are you familiar with carbohydrate-induced cognitive impairment?”
“I’d love a scone,” said Lois to Marlene. “Wouldn’t you?”
“Quiet!” I said, pointing them to the dressing area. “Now is the time to get dressed.”
Lou, already in his butler costume, was frantic. “Liz can be so difficult. She said she wanted to drive out herself. She wanted time to get into character without being distracted. I thought it was crazy, but you don’t argue with Liz. So okay. I came out with Wren. But we left an hour after she did, and there’s been no sign of her. And look!” He pushed his Velcro rip-away tails out of the way and grabbed something from his pocket.
Liz’s inhaler.
“She lost hers a couple days ago. I picked this one up for her at the pharmacy on the way over. What if she needs it? What then?” He ran his long fingers through his shoe-blacked hair.
I collapsed into a chair.
After a moment, Javier said quietly, “Bridget did not disappear. She went to fix her hair.”
“Bridget’s hair is cut into a tight Afro,” I said. “There’s nothing to fix.”
“He means the Estella Raven wig,” said Lael. “Bridget’s been in the bathroom for half an hour. That’s all I was trying to say before.”
“Maybe she’s fallen in the toilet,” said Marlene.
“A person can drown in two inches of water,” her sister added.
“Change! Now!” I commanded them.
“Temper,” cautioned Lois.
“Did you try Liz’s cell phone?” I asked Lou.
“I just get voice mail. She’s either been on the phone, or it’s out of juice.”
“I’m sure she’s stuck in traffic, that’s all.”
Unconvinced, Lou took a seat next to Wren, who was too busy chewing on her nails to offer much in the way of comfort. I handed her the dress she’d crumpled up and sent her to the dressing area, along with Lois and Marlene.
“The freeway is a nightmare,” I added, mostly for my own benefit. “I know Liz is going to be here any second.” She had to be. The play was supposed to start in fifteen minutes.
“Ta-dah!”
We all turned around. There was Bridget in a long blond wig and some sort of sheer, gray-tinted garment that clung to her every curve like a second skin.
“I know. It’s fabulous,” she said, running her hands over her hips. “A Vionnet dress from the twenties. It’s one of the rarest things I’ve ever had in the store. Some poor schlub in Port Saint Lucie, Florida, didn’t realize what kind of wardrobe his mother had. The thing is, it probably looked like nothing on the hanger. No darts, no decoration, no nothing. Like an old rag. But when you put it on, the body and the dress are one. As Madame Vionnet said, ‘When a woman smiles, her dress must smile with her.’ Do you think my nipples are too prominent?”
“You are supposed to be a governess,” I cried. “What part of that do you not get? A proper, British governess!”
“Those types can be very kinky,” she replied breezily. “FYI, the shoes are by René Mancini. Cobbler to the couturiers. Jackie Kennedy used to order twelve pairs of pumps from him every three months.”
“Make way!” The caterer came through the swinging doors with an empty tray in each hand, tossed them in the sink, grabbed two full ones. “They’re eating Cornish pasties like there’s no tomorrow. And the sherry was gone twenty minutes ago. These people are animals. By the way, you’re on, dude. Anybody ever tell you you look like George Hamilton?” She directed her last comments to Lou, who grabbed one of the trays, which I grabbed back, saying, “He’s not a waiter.”
“I’m a butler,” said Lou.
“That’s right,” I said, looking at the motley crew I’d assembled. “And you will take your cues from me. All of you. Do you understand?”
Only Javier nodded.
Five minutes now.
Lois and Marlene came out in matching red swimsuits and fringed caps.
“We put the rhinestones on ourselves,” said Lois.
“There’s a gun you use,” Marlene said. “We got it at a garage sale last year. And look,” she added, “Isadora Duncan scarves.”
Lois did a twirl with hers and stumbled, landing directly in
Javier’s lap.
Two minutes.
The caterer bustled back in.
“They’re all seated. Am I supposed to keep feeding them? I’m down to the rejects.” She held up a tray of misshapen pasties.
At that point, I had no choice.
I ran into the bathroom, tore out of my Lauren Hutton outfit, unzipped the gray garment bag, and put on a faded tweed skirt, a wool sweater, a baggy cardigan coat, a felt hat, thick stockings, well-worn brogues, and a steel-gray wig.
“Oh, Miss Marple,” said Javier, wheeling himself to my side. “Thank goodness you’ve arrived. We’ve all been so distraught since the untimely demise of my father, the duke of Chislebury, late last night. Maybe you can help us find the culprit.” He grinned in delight. It was his longest speech in the play.
“The last anyone saw of the good duke was in bed,” said Bridget, turning to give the audience an optimal view of her assets. Several of the men hooted appreciatively.
“Good Mr. Griffiths”—Bridget continued, gesturing extravagantly toward Lou—“brought the good duke his sleeping draft. Normally, it’s a cup of chocolate at eleven, but the good duke had been having trouble sleeping these last few nights. So good Dr. Haycock prescribed something.”
What was with the “goods”? They weren’t in my script. I shot Bridget a warning glance.
“Perhaps if my father hadn’t started all this nonsense about changing his will, he would’ve slept better,” said Javier. He was cruising Lou’s way when his right-front wheel caught on the rug. “For Christ’s sake,” he burst out, immediately clapping his hand over his mouth.
Lois tiptoed over to the fireplace, cleared her throat, and started to weep. At least someone was taking this seriously.
“The duke and I were to have been married tomorrow!” she said, blowing her nose. Then she smiled questioningly at me, and when I made the mistake of nodding, wedged her hankie inside one nostril and dug away.
“Really?” drawled Bridget, who was, as I’d predicted, brilliant at being insolent. “How very amusing.”
“Not so, my dear woman! The vicar was to have presided. We fell in love, you see. He saw me onstage. The duke, not the vicar.” Lois did an attractive little two-step. “And he so desperately wanted an heir.”
I was counting on the audience not to notice that Lois was well past her childbearing years. Luckily, most of them were busy eating.
“Qué rico!” said a woman in the front row, stabbing her fork into a meat pie like she really meant it.
“The duke was such a dreamer,” said Marlene, striding toward center stage. Inspired by a Luis Buñuel film I’d seen on a bad date years ago, I’d cast both Lois and Marlene in the same role. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. “Ah, the patter of little feet on Aubusson rugs.”
“So what if I couldn’t produce an heir,” said Javier angrily. “It’s this disability. And I’m tired of hearing about it.”
With that, everyone turned to look at me. Of course they were looking at me. I was supposed to say something. What was it? I’d written the damn thing, but I had no idea. I felt my knees start to buckle.
“Miss Marple,” said Wren, twirling her pigtails dementedly. “You should sit down. You don’t look very good. Does she look good?” She turned to face the audience.
“No!” they cried in unison.
“Have you had your tea today?”
“No tea,” I said. The room was spinning now.
“Estella, bring Miss Marple some tea,” Wren said.
Bridget ran back into the kitchen as Wren sat me down in an easy chair.
Bridget came back out with a paper cup of water, which she practically poured down my throat.
“Feeling better, Miss Marple?” Bridget asked.
“Yes,” I managed.
Wren said, “Now that you’re refreshed, didn’t you have something you wanted to tell us?”
“It is true, of course,” I recited, “that I have lived what is called a very uneventful life, but I have had a lot of experience in solving different little problems that have arisen.”
Javier interrupted me. “That’s not it.”
“When I was a girl, nobody ever mentioned the word stomach.”
Bridget shook her head.
Finally I said, “It really is very dangerous to believe people,” at which point Marlene, ever supportive, cried out, “Yeah, baby!”
And that was only Act I.
Act II went more smoothly. Lael and Javier got carried away during their love scene. Lou, the closest thing we had to muscle, pried them apart. Wren’s device was a big hit. She detonated it just before informing her governess that Sir Guy Pilkington’s late wife, Lady Donata Pilkington, was attempting to contact her from the great beyond.
Coughing through the smoke Wren closed her eyes and said in a high, squeaky voice, “He is a . . . a . . . malevolent . . . force.”
“Who?” Bridget asked.
“He is . . . the . . . the . . . personification . . . of evil.” Wren pressed her fingers to her temples.
“Who?” Bridget insisted.
“Beware the false face!” Wren cried, then fell to the ground in a faint.
At that point Lou entered stage left and Bridget gasped (which she was not supposed to do).
