Christietown

by Susan Kandel

  She worked hard on the story of poor, dead Ackroyd. Her new publisher, Sir Godfrey Collins, was delighted with the public reception of the book, though it was indeed a pity he hadn’t had the foresight to print more than five thousand copies, which promptly sold out. She’d expected the critics to find the ending audacious, but the News Chronicle went further, complaining that the book was a “tasteless and unfortunate let-down by a writer we had grown to admire.” She’d hardly anticipated that her little story would generate such an impassioned debate about what constitutes fair play in the mystery novel.

  Agatha was, of course, a member and strict adherent of the rules of the Detection Club, forbidding the use by an author of Divine Revelation, Acts of God, or Feminine Intuition as a means for the detection of crime. She placed every clue before the reader. She eschewed tricks. She espoused the principle of fair play.

  While she was hard at work on Roger Ackroyd, Archie embarked upon his affair with Nancy, who was young, vivacious, and, like Archie, cared little about other people’s secrets. She had too many of her own.

  Agatha spent her days writing.

  They spent their days planning a future that didn’t include her.

  So who exactly wasn’t playing fair?

  CHAPTER 38

  t wasn’t fair. I tried everything—a bath, warm milk (with cocoa powder, which probably defeated the purpose), Us Weekly, skin care infomercials.

  I couldn’t sleep.

  So I trudged out to my office, spread my manuscript out in front of me, and sat there for the rest of the night, hoping that by some miracle, inspiration would strike.

  In the meantime, I sorted papers into meaningless piles, like Lou.

  And reread the e-mail from my editor.

  And chewed on my pencil.

  And made a small detour to Wikipedia where I learned that pencils are composed of graphite, not lead, so no need to worry about loss of brain function.

  There went that excuse.

  Again:

  It is the night of December 3, 1926. Agatha Christie leaves her house on the border of Surrey and Berkshire and vanishes into thin air. Eleven days later, she is found. The official explanation is amnesia. But things don’t add up.

  Why does Agatha check into the Harrogate Hydropathic under the last name of her husband’s mistress, Nancy Neele?

  Is it a coincidence that the Harrogate is not two miles from where Archie and Nancy are having their romantic rendezvous?

  Why does no one recognize Agatha, given that her picture is plastered all over the papers?

  Why does she not recognize herself?

  I suddenly remembered myself in the hall mirror, old and haggard in my Miss Marple costume.

  Perhaps Agatha didn’t recognize herself because the woman in the mirror was a stranger.

  Agatha was striking as a girl, with long, wavy locks and almond-shaped eyes. Her youthful beauty gave her the confidence to draw others to her, even after that beauty faded. Still it pained her that the Agatha Christie the public came to know was, in her own words, “thirteen stone of solid flesh and what could only be described as a ‘kind face.’”

  I thought of the soft pink lights in Silvana’s living room, the magic mirror in her bathroom.

  Silvana wasn’t going to let a stranger take over her life.

  Maybe it was less vanity than self-preservation.

  Maybe the rest of us are just masochists.

  I mulled that one over for a while. Then I opened the top drawer of my desk and pulled out two photographs of Agatha I’d come across during my research.

  Two photographs of two different Agathas.

  I laid them side by side.

  In the first, Agatha is wearing a knee-length skirt and mannish sweater. She is heavyset and humpbacked. She holds her tiny purse out in front of her, as if she isn’t quite convinced it belongs to her. She seems embarrassed by the photographer’s attention, a deer caught in headlights.

  Interesting that this was the photograph Archie chose for the “Missing” poster circulated by the Berkshire Constabulary. It was plastered everywhere, seen by everyone. A small bit of revenge against the woman who refused to set him free.

  The second photograph appeared on the front page of the Daily Mirror under the headline “Mrs. Christie’s Dramatic Dash to Seclusion!” It was shot the morning Agatha and Archie departed the Harrogate Hydropathic, where Agatha had been taking the waters for the previous eleven days.

  Here, Agatha stands straight and tall, the barest hint of a smile playing across her lips. She is wearing a fashionable two-piece outfit (the article states it was pink) with a wide collar; a striped cloche hat; a coat trimmed with fur around the collar, cuffs, and hem; a double strand of pearls around her neck; black gloves; champagne-colored stockings; and sleek black shoes. On the day she was found after the mysterious absence that riveted a nation—her future uncertain, her marriage in a shambles, a victim of amnesia—she looked beautiful, invincible, as if she’d gotten exactly what she’d wanted.

  By the dawn’s early light, it came to me.

  The woman in the first picture—the stranger in the mirror—stole Agatha’s life.

  The woman in the second picture reclaimed it.

  But what does it mean to get what you want?

  What if you’ve made a mistake?

  CHAPTER 39

  uniformed guard escorted Wren into the dingy conference room where I was waiting. Visits were strictly against the rules, but lucky for me, I had friends in high places.

  She looked like a wayward troll doll, the standard-issue orange jumpsuit hanging on her, her red hair floating like a nimbus cloud.

  “Ten minutes,” said the guard, who went to stand by the door.

  Wren walked over to the long table where I was seated, her pants legs trailing behind her, catching the bits of dust and strands of hair collecting on the cracked gray linoleum. She sat down. Someone had scratched “Life sucks” into the Formica. Tracing a finger over the words, she smiled. There was something green between her front teeth.

  “Hi,” I said. “How’ve you been?”

  “Fine,” she said brightly. “And you?”

  “Fine. But I’m not in jail.”

  She looked up at me. “Are you sure you know where you are?”

  “No,” I said, taken aback.

  She laughed. “Bet you don’t even know who you are anymore.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Relax. I was just thinking about how good you were as Miss Marple.”

  Not half as good as she was as the kid who could speak to the dead. I wished I’d brought the smoke device. Maybe she could contact Liz and clear up a few things.

  “Look, you don’t have to worry about me,” Wren said. “It’s not so bad here. The TV in the common area has basic cable. A bunch of us watched a good movie last night. Woman kills the man who seduced her teenage daughter. Dinner was turkey, mashed potatoes, and Kool-Aid.”

  Her wide green eyes were opaque. She could’ve been happy. She could’ve been sad. Most people don’t enjoy spending time in a jail cell, but Wren wasn’t most people.

  “You have something . . .” I pointed to my teeth.

  She picked it out and rubbed her finger on her jumpsuit. “No mirrors. Somebody could hurt themselves on the sharp edges.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say. I’m sorry? For what? I hadn’t done anything. The guilty party is supposed to be sorry. But who exactly was that?

  Her voice broke into my thoughts. “You’re here to plumb the depths of my soul, right? Find out what I’m capable of?”

  That was cutting to the chase. “I suppose so.”

  “I’m capable of anything,” she said.

  I still couldn’t read her eyes. “I doubt that’s true.”

  “You see?” She shook her head. “You underestimate me, like everybody else. Take my job at the dance studio. I could’ve helped them. With the important stuff, I mean. But no. Not Wren. Not the important s
tuff. Instead, they had me dealing with garbage all day long.” She started counting on her fingers. “I’m the one who took the brochure down to the print shop when we were running low on copies. I ordered the toilet paper and the toilet-seat covers and the paper towels. I cleaned out the refrigerator once a week. I fixed the CD player when it got broken. I arranged for ads in the Santa Monica Breeze. I swept the floor and wiped down the mirrors and took out the trash and ordered the lunches. Anything that popped into her head Liz wrote down for me on her ‘From the Desk of Liz’ pad. Whatever it was, I did it.”

  At the mention of Liz, Wren’s small voice got bigger.

  “Did you know it costs the state a hundred and seven dollars a day to maintain each prisoner?” she asked. “That’s a lot of money. I didn’t make a hundred and seven a day at the dance studio. Not even close. No benefits. And my weeks were six days long. Six days long!”

  “You should’ve quit,” I said.

  “I couldn’t. Things got complicated.”

  “How so?”

  She looked away.

  “I never underestimated you,” I said. “Maybe they did, but I didn’t. I knew you were good. I could tell right away. But you aren’t onstage now. You can cut the act.”

  “What act?”

  “Lou is worried about you, Wren.”

  Her cheeks blazed at the mention of his name. “I’m sorry about that. He should be worrying about other things than me. I told you I’m fine.” She turned to the guard. “Time’s almost up, right?”

  The guard looked at her watch and said, “Six minutes.”

  “He wanted to get you out of here,” I continued, “but you wouldn’t let him put up the bail money. You wouldn’t let him hire a lawyer. He doesn’t understand why, or why you won’t say anything to anyone. Lou told them about your affair. That’s all out in the open now. You don’t have to stay quiet about it. The truth isn’t going to hurt anyone.”

  “Since when are you Lou’s spokesperson?” Wren asked, not looking at me. She was pinching the soft underside of her arm, studying the flesh, waiting for the red marks to come up. “Anyway, I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  I reached across the table and put my finger under her chin.

  “No contact,” said the guard, eagle-eyed.

  “Sorry.” I put my hand in my lap, chastened. “You know what I’m talking about. And the person who killed Liz is still out there. He’s not going to be found if you keep on like this.”

  Now she was chewing the inside of her cheek like it was gum.

  “That must be time,” she said.

  “Nope,” said the guard. “Three to go.”

  “I understand,” I said softly. “You think that as long as you’re silent, the case will be closed. If you’re responsible for Liz’s death, the police don’t have to look at Lou.”

  “No.”

  “You don’t want them to look at Lou because you think he did it.”

  “No!” she said.

  “Because you know you didn’t do it, and if you didn’t do it, then who did?”

  “Time,” said the guard.

  Wren leapt to her feet. “Good-bye, Cece. Thanks for the visit. I enjoyed working with you. Maybe we can do it again sometime.”

  “Wait,” I said.

  “She can’t,” the guard said, propelling her toward the door.

  “Please, Wren, stop!”

  She hesitated for a moment and I thought I had her, but then she bowed her troll-doll head low and shuffled through the metal door, the guard following silently behind her.

  CHAPTER 40

  got back from the detention center before ten, which was a good thing because Annie’s baby shower was scheduled for three in the afternoon and I was completely unprepared. I called out his name, but Gambino was already gone. As I was leaving earlier this morning, I’d told him he’d have to make himself scarce for the day, expecting at least a token protest.

  Instead, he’d jumped at the chance to get away from me.

  I’d fix it tonight.

  Right now, I had to think about Annie. This was her day. I wanted it to be perfect.

  Two hours later, even my toilet was aglow. The floors were beautiful. The kitchen counters, a triumph. I’d arranged flowers from the garden in vases. I’d vacuumed up the pet hairs. I could see myself in my dining room table, proving that the makers of Lemon Pledge don’t lie, number one; and number two, that I look a fright with my hair in a bandanna.

  Lael and Bridget showed up just before noon—Lael lugging the cake, the finger sandwiches, and the tiny antique cradle she was passing down to Annie; Bridget lugging nothing, as is her wont. The two of them accompanied me down to the basement, where we found my silver punch bowl and cups, a gift from my ex-mother-in-law when she still had hope that I could rise above my lowly origins. We polished the silver. We made punch. Bridget went to the market for ice. We moved the big velvet chairs against the wall to make room for the folding chairs Lael had dragged over in her van. We put on classical music. We ate tuna and crackers. Buster hoovered up the crumbs.

  Dot bustled in at around two, her arms full. I could make out a metal tube and a wicker sewing basket. Jackie followed close on her heels, a baby doll under each arm: one boy, one girl, remarkably lifelike.

  “Hello, everyone!” Dot said. “I’m really looking forward to today!” Richard’s accusation about my having put her in harm’s way had cut close to the bone. I felt guilty just looking at her. She put her things down on the dining room table, took the dolls from Jackie, pulled a sack of Hershey’s Kisses and several jars of baby food out of a brown paper bag from the market, and then marched into the kitchen.

  We heard the sounds of cupboard doors opening, the lids of vacuum-packed jars popping, and spoons clinking against china. Then Dot reappeared and picked up the metal tube. She wrestled with the top until it came off, sliding out a large poster.

  “Who’s going to help me take down the mirror?” she asked, pointing to the only French antique I’ve ever owned, which was hanging in the entryway, opposite the front door.

  Before I could utter a word of protest, Bridget—always happy to thwart me—volunteered to help.

  “What are we putting up?” she asked, lowering the mirror to the floor.

  “Careful!” I said, trying not to wince.

  Dot unrolled the poster, which dwarfed her. It must have measured eight by eight feet. “Pin the Binky on the Baby!”

  “Cute kid,” said Lael. The baby was lying naked on a bearskin rug. Its open mouth was larger than my head.

  “It’s me,” exclaimed Jackie.

  Perfect. The first thing the guests would see was a huge picture of my ex-husband’s bride-to-be with no clothes on.

  I excused myself to take a shower and emerged fifteen minutes later in a sea green shirtdress from the fifties with a twirly skirt and narrow, three-quarter-length sleeves. After careful reflection, I’d accessorized with an armful of pink and gold bangles from Little India and a pair of sky-high, peep-toed fuchsia suede pumps. June Cleaver meets Bollywood was the general idea.

  Annie and her best friend from work, Maureen, had arrived in the meantime. Annie was the set decorator on a long-running Star Trek clone called Testament. She was much admired for her way with sheet metal and spray paint. Maureen was the actress who played Halo, the alien wife of Commander Gow, who saved the world every episode in spite of his meddlesome in-laws. The aliens had zebra-striped hair, which Maureen maintained in real life.

  “How are you?” I got each of them a cup of punch and led them to prime spots on the sofa.

  “Good,” said Maureen. “I’m trying to convince Annie to name the baby Halo. It works for either sex.”

  “Don’t worry,” Annie said to me. “I’m naming the baby something very normal. John or Susan.”

  I plumped up the pillows behind her. “Where are the boys today?”

  “At the park shooting hoops,” she said. “They probably should’ve a
sked Gambino to go. What’s he up to?”

  “Work,” I lied. “Oh, there’s the bell.” Grateful for the escape, I went to open the door.

  Ladies in hats arrived for the next half hour. The house was filled with the sounds of tinkling glasses and high-pitched laughter. Buster, the sole representative of his gender, hid under the bed along with Mimi, who didn’t like a fuss unless she was making it. Bridget took the presents and put them on a folding table we’d set up in the corner of the living room. Poor thing had trouble surrendering a Tiffany’s bag one of Annie’s art school friends had brought. I gave her a supportive pat as I pried it from her fingers. Dot handed out white napkins folded into triangles, instructing the guests to put them in their purses until later. People ate and drank and oohed and aahed over Annie.

  “How’s Alexander doing?” Lael asked me as we restocked one of the trays with more watercress sandwiches and smoked salmon rounds from the refrigerator.

  “He’s looking forward to being a big brother,” I said.

  “That’s lovely,” she said, wiping her hands on her flowered sundress. She favored prints because they concealed stains. “I remember when I came home with Nina. Tommy told me to take her back to the store.”

  Dot came into the kitchen and pulled some yarn and a pair of scissors out of her sewing bag. “We’re guesstimating the size of Mommy’s tummy!”

  ”If anybody had tried to measure my tummy when I was pregnant,” I muttered under my breath, “I’d have decked them.”

  “You’re all bark and no bite,” said Lael, who prided herself on being no bark and all bite.

  Bridget, who’d come into the kitchen looking for more forks, added, “Doesn’t take Hercule Puree to see that.”

  “Poirot,” corrected Dot.

  Bridget said, “Everybody’s asking when we’re opening presents.”

  “Now?” I asked.

  “No, no,” said Dot, pushing us out of the kitchen. “We’re just about ready for Mommy Is a Juggler. Everybody!” she cried. “Gather round.” She turned to Lael. “You have four children, is that right, dear?”