Christietown

by Susan Kandel

  “Of course, it could be because he knows I’m a mystery buff,” she said. “And Agatha Christie, well, she is my absolute favorite. The thing I love best is the tea! Imagine, a perfect world where people have tea all afternoon and chat. People like Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot.” She tapped her forehead. “I love that he solved crimes using nothing but his little gray cells. When you come down to it, I should’ve married him, though I think he was probably a homosexual.” She blushed, then threw up her hands. “I wouldn’t have cared, to tell you the truth. We could’ve cultivated marrow roots together, traveled the world, nabbed evildoers. Anyway, I’ve been rereading Christie’s autobiography—in anticipation of meeting you, Cece.” She smiled. “And after I’m done with that, I’m rereading the whole kit and kaboodle. Even the romances.”

  Agatha Christie wrote six semi-autobiographical romances under the name Mary Westmacott, which she tried—unsuccessfully—to prevent from being traced back to her.

  “How do you find the time?” I asked.

  “I was an executive secretary for thirty-one years but I retired last year.” Dot rinsed off her hands and adjusted the jacket of her nubby pink-and-white-tweed pantsuit. “These days, I have too much time. That’s why it’s so nice to have Jackie and Richard here for a visit. Three whole weeks! Gives me a chance to fuss over them. I love having people to fuss over, I truly do. Oh, is this your cat?” she asked, spying Mimi, who’d come out of hiding. “She’s absolutely beautiful.”

  Richard did not deserve a mother-in-law like this. My mother, he’d deserved.

  Back in the living room, the happy couple was seated on the sofa, poring over some glossy hotel brochures. I caught a glimpse of palm trees and crystal chandeliers.

  “We’re getting married right here in Los Angeles next June,” explained Jackie, curling her long legs up under her. She looked like a white-chocolate pretzel, which Richard also loved. Dot caught me staring.

  “Double-jointed,” Dot whispered. “I had a hip replacement last year. I can barely look at her.”

  Jackie heaved a sigh. “It may be silly, but this wedding is all I can think about. Falling in love is magical, don’t you think?” Bet she believed in fairies, too. “Richard and I met in Chicago, but I grew up here, in Glendale. Mom’s getting ready to sell the house, but I wanted Richard to see it. The room I grew up in.” She hugged herself at the very thought.

  “Unchanged,” said Dot. “All her medals are still there, the trophies, certificates, banners.”

  Jackie looked at me, smiling expectantly. No. I refused to ask. No way. Then I looked at her mother and sucked it up.

  “What was your sport, Jackie?” I asked.

  “Cheerleading.”

  Of course it was. “So it’s going to be some big shindig, this wedding?”

  “We’re thinking the Beverly Hilton,” said Jackie. “And I hear you’re getting married, too.”

  “Yes, we’re thinking Buckingham Palace.”

  Richard glared at me.

  “Kidding! I’m kidding!” I said.

  “This is exactly what I’m talking about,” Richard said to Jackie. Then, turning to me, he said, “The shower is a wonderful occasion, to be sure, but not the sole reason we’re here.” He smiled at Jackie. “There’s the wedding to plan, of course.” Jackie looked pleased. “But,” he said, turning back to me, “we also thought it extremely important to spend some quality time with Annie. This is a difficult moment for her. After all, she and Vincent just won custody of Vincent’s son, little Alexander, now she’s having a baby of her own, and both her parents are remarrying, to boot. She’s going to need some extra emotional support. We thought we could model healthy coping behaviors for her.”

  The doorbell rang just as I was about to gag.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the group, yanking my hostess gown into place.

  It was Detectives McAllister and Mariposa, who let themselves right in.

  “You can’t do that,” I said. “Not unless you have a warrant. I’m entertaining.”

  Dot looked excited. “A warrant! Are you cops?”

  “I can’t believe this,” Jackie whispered to Richard. “You were so right.”

  “We see you’ve got company,” Mariposa began, “but this is urgent business.” He circled around the living room, like he was sniffing for bombs.

  “What exactly is so urgent, Detective Mariposa?”

  “Liz Berman.”

  I held my breath for a second, then asked, “What about her?”

  McAllister pulled a Baggie out of his pocket. There was a small bottle in it, with a handful of dark capsules inside. “This was found at the scene. The lab did a rush job.”

  “Stop beating around the bush, Pretty Boy,” said Mariposa. He got right up in my face, so close I could see every pore. “Liz Berman didn’t die of natural causes. Liz Berman was poisoned.”

  CHAPTER 10

  t was evening by the time Agatha’s taxicab pulled up in front

  of the hotel.

  The Harrogate Hydropathic.

  Last stop for widows, hypochondriacs, and foreign dignitaries.

  Such an interesting name, the Hydropathic.

  For most, one imagined, it conjured up visions of healing. But not for Agatha. For her, it conjured up psychopaths and sociopaths and pathologies.

  Not pathos, however.

  She’d wearied of emotion.

  She was learning to appreciate logic.

  The valet led her up to her room. It was clean and simply furnished. The chambermaid, a dark-haired young woman with an overbite, introduced herself as Rosie and commenced an endless narration.

  Queen Mary often visited her daughter, the princess, and her son-in-law, Viscount Lascelles, at nearby Goldsborough Hall. She enjoyed browsing through the Harrogate antiques shops with her comely ladies-in-waiting.

  The Russian royal family often appeared in late fall. They liked to travel incognito, which was hardly a problem as everyone who worked at the Hydro employed the utmost in discretion when it came to the hotel’s guests.

  On and on Rosie the chambermaid went, stopping only long enough to gape at Agatha’s black handbag, which boasted the latest fashion accessory, a zipper (Rosie had only seen handbags with zippers in the magazines), and to frown at Agatha’s lone traveling case, which perturbed her until she was assured that more luggage would be arriving shortly. Only violent yawning deterred the girl from her apparent goal of chattering nonstop until daybreak.

  Once she’d gone, Agatha lay down on her bed and thought about the mistakes she’d made.

  That note she’d left for the servants to give her secretary, Charlotte. She’d asked Charlotte to cancel rooms that had been booked in Beverley for the weekend. My head is bursting, she’d written, I can’t stay in this house.

  Dreadful.

  At least she could count on Charlotte for discretion. Agatha was certain of Charlotte’s loyalty.

  But the note Agatha had left on the hall table for Archie—no, she couldn’t think of that anymore. She leapt up from the bed in a panic and stood in front of the mirror.

  She turned this way and that. She looked a wreck. She’d brought no evening clothes. But she could certainly go downstairs and have a refreshment. There was no harm in that. Archie was always after her to watch her weight, but he wasn’t here to slap her hand away.

  The Happy Hydro Boys played nightly in the Winter Garden Ballroom. There was a colorful poster in the lobby vitrine: “Enjoy the inimitable Harry Codd on violin, Frank Brown and Bob Tap-pin on drums, Reg Schofield on piano, Bob Leeming on saxophone, and Albert Whiteley on the banjo.” A Miss Corbett accompanied the Hydro Boys as a singer.

  The ballroom was half-filled. Agatha took a small banquette in the corner and picked up a newspaper crossword someone had left behind.

  Two across: synonym for “discerning,” nine letters.

  Oracular? No, that was eight letters.

  Sibylline?

  A perfect fit.

>   In Roman mythology, Sibyl was the prophetess who dwelt near Cumae, in southern Italy. She became immortal, but after refusing Apollo’s advances, was condemned to endless old age. Oh yes, thought Agatha, I could write a story about that.

  She watched the couples on the dance floor over the top of her Herald. Enough wallowing. She’d loved dancing ever since she was a girl taking lessons at the Athenaeum Rooms, over the confectioner’s shop. Now the band began to play, “Yes, We Have No Bananas.” What fun! She put down the paper and found herself among so many others, all dancing the Charleston.

  It was a lovely evening.

  The loveliest evening she’d had in so long.

  Back in her room, she undressed and arranged her things.

  A comb.

  A hot-water bottle.

  A small photograph of her little girl.

  And a bottle of laudanum, which bore the label of a Torquay chemist and a picture of a skull and crossbones.

  CHAPTER 11

  oisoned?” I sank down on the couch, bewildered. “How

  can that be? I don’t understand.”

  Mariposa chewed on the back of his pen. “Here’s the general scenario: perp gives bad juice to victim, bad juice kills ’em. That make it any clearer?”

  “For Pete’s sake!” McAllister shook his head in disgust, then turned to me. “There was foxglove in Liz Berman’s allergy pills.”

  Jackie’s milky face fell. “Richard, didn’t we talk to the florist about foxglove centerpieces?”

  Mariposa said, “Bad idea. The toxin’s located in the sap, flowers, seeds, and leaves.”

  Richard stood up abruptly. “We have to go now. Jackie?”

  She leapt to her feet like an obedient puppy.

  “Do you need us, Detective?” Dot asked hopefully.

  “I don’t think so, ma’am,” McAllister replied.

  I was actually sorry to see them go.

  “So where were we?” Mariposa asked. Now he was flipping his pen around like a majorette with a tiny baton.

  McAllister closed his eyes. “We were about to question Ms. Caruso about Mrs. Berman’s activities this morning.”

  “Please, sit down,” I said to them.

  They sat down, then McAllister prompted, “You were saying?”

  “Me?” I asked. “I wasn’t saying anything. I have nothing to say about Liz’s activities. I never even saw her this morning.”

  “But you were expecting her, is that correct?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “She was the star of my play. I was upset that she wasn’t there, like she was supposed to be, mostly because I was counting on her. It never dawned on me that something could be wrong.”

  McAllister cocked his head to the side. “Where was Lou all this time?”

  “He was at the Blue Boar. With the other members of the cast. By the time I got there, he was frantic.”

  “What time was that exactly?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t wearing a watch. Maybe ten?”

  “Go on,” he said, nodding.

  “He was shouting. He was upset.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think? Because his wife had disappeared!”

  “Why would he have thought that?”

  I got up and started pacing. “She’d left their house before he had, so she should’ve shown up at Christietown long before he arrived. But she hadn’t shown up. And she wasn’t picking up her phone. And he had her inhaler.” Just then something occurred to me. “I wonder why nobody thought to check the parking lot for her car.”

  McAllister and Mariposa exchanged glances.

  “That’s a good question, Ms. Caruso,” Mariposa said. “It was parked just in front of the Vicarage. You must’ve walked right past it when you arrived at”—he paused and flipped back through his notes—“eight thirty this morning.”

  “I have no idea what kind of car Liz drives,” I said. “Drove. Anyway, how was I supposed to recognize it? Lou’s the one who should’ve recognized it.” I stopped short.

  Mariposa stood up, a gleam in his eye. “Yes,” he said. “Exactly.”

  “That’s not what I meant to say,” I protested, turning to McAllister. But he wasn’t going to help me out of this one.

  Mariposa cut to the chase. “What can you tell us about Mrs. Berman’s relationship with her husband, Mr. Berman?”

  “I can’t believe this. Why would you be asking that?”

  Because the husband is guilty nine times out of ten.

  “Why do you think?” Mariposa asked, throwing my words back at me.

  “Now you listen,” I said. “Lou Berman was in love with his wife. He had nothing to do with this. My god, you saw what happened to him.”

  Mariposa started sucking on his pen, then pulled it out of his mouth with an obscene thwack. “People can put on a good show when they need to.”

  McAllister changed the subject. “Ms. Caruso. Did Mrs. Berman have any enemies that you know of ?”

  “There were protesters there all morning,” I said. “They have some kind of ax to grind with Christietown. One of them could have been responsible.” But I didn’t believe that for a second.

  “Anyone with a more personal interest in Mrs. Berman?”

  “Look, I barely even knew the woman. I took dancing lessons from her husband. You never saw them dance. They were amazing together.” Tears pricked at my eyes. “Are we done yet?”

  McAllister was quiet for a moment, then he rose to his feet. “I think that’s all I need right now. You?” he asked Mariposa.

  Mariposa looked around, then patted his pockets to make sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. “I’m okay.”

  They thanked me. McAllister gave me his card and asked if I had any questions before they left.

  I could think of only one.

  I wanted to know if Liz had been in pain.

  “No pain,” said McAllister, looking straight at his partner. “The heart rate increases, and brings on heart failure. It happens very fast.”

  He was a nice man, and a liar.

  After they left, I changed into a pair of old jeans and a sweatshirt and went out into my garden. It was early April. The spring flowers were blooming. Narcissus, hyacinths, a pair of tall sunflowers. Last summer, I’d watched, riveted, as the stalks moved in thrall to the sun. There were dandelions, too. Some people thought they were weeds, but that wasn’t true. Dandelions provided nectar for the bees after the fruit trees were tapped out.

  I stopped in front of a terra-cotta pot at the edge of the garden. It was bursting with tall spikes of bell-like flowers in pink, mauve, and blue. The dark spots inside looked like they’d been drawn on with Magic Marker.

  Foxglove.

  Also known as ladies’ thimble, fairy finger, lion’s mouth, and throatwort.

  Last winter, Javier had wanted to toss the seeds into the same bed as the potatoes and turnips. He’d explained that foxglove helps root vegetables grow. But I’d been adamant about the pot. The first year, the plant had produced only leaves, finely toothed and furry. When the flowers first appeared a few weeks ago, Javier instructed me to cover them in cheesecloth for a while. They needed special care. They’d grow to four feet, maybe more, if I didn’t cut them first.

  But I wasn’t going to cut them.

  I got down on my knees.

  No, I was going to yank the poisonous things out by their roots, one by one, until they were gone.

  CHAPTER 12

  t was close to seven by the time I was done. The sun hadn’t gone down yet. It was too busy turning the clouds all sorts of crazy colors: cherry red, purple, tangerine. I watched, transfixed, as the colors vanished into the darkening sky.

  Afterward, I took a long, hot shower—as long and hot as my plumbing would allow. After drying off and wrapping myself in my white terry-cloth robe, I took to my bed with an Agatha Christie novel.

  Appointment with Death.

  Hercule Poirot goes to Jerusalem for a much-needed vacatio
n. It’s the little Belgian detective’s first night in the holy city. It’s hot, so he’s left the shutters open. The words drift into his room, out of the still desert air. The voice is male, nervous: “You see, don’t you, that she’s got to be killed?”

  I closed the book. This wasn’t working. I wanted an escape from real life, not a reminder of it. Then I opened the book again because I had to know who did it.

  A family terrorized by a cruel and selfish mother. A schizoid daughter tearing her napkins to shreds. A romance. And a trip to Petra, capital city of the ancient Nabataeans, to see the ruins surrounded by sandstone cliffs. There, in her tent, the evil mother meets up with a hypodermic syringe containing a fatal dose of digitoxin, derived from Digitalis purpurea.

  Foxglove.

  I sat up with a sudden realization.

  I had notes on this.

  Twenty minutes later, I was seated at my desk with my poison file.

  In more than half of Agatha Christie’s sixty-six novels, the corpse is a victim of poison. This was no accident. During World War I, Christie worked as a dispenser at the Red Cross hospital in her hometown of Torquay, where she learned everything there was to know about the chemistry of murder.

  Foxglove was one of her old standbys. It appeared in her writings in the form of digitalis, digitoxin, digitalin, and the closely related strophanthin. Cyanide, strychnine, and arsenic were other favorites, but not nearly as accommodating. The digitalis family of drugs has been used for the treatment of heart disease for centuries. If you want to kill an elderly heart patient, it’s the way to go.

  Christie occasionally took liberties, like putting a packet of strophanthin in the victim’s gin and having said victim perish within minutes. Generally speaking, however, it is only when given by injection that foxglove-derived poisons work that quickly. When administered by mouth, death tends to occur more slowly. Symptoms—which include convulsions and vomiting—appear from one to twenty-four hours after ingestion, with death delayed for up to one to two weeks. But to give Christie her due, the margin of predictability when it comes to digitalis is extremely low. Anything can happen if the murderer

  mixes up a strong enough cocktail.