Authors: Susan Kandel
Christietown (8 page)
ichard,” I said to my ex-husband, trying—failing—tostay calm. “Richard, Richard, Richard!”
He looked at me as if I was crazy. Just like old times.
“Cece,” he replied. “Cece, Cece, Cece.”
Bastard. “It’s just that this is such a surprise. What a surprise to see you!”
“I don’t know why it should be a surprise,” he said impa
tiently. “You knew we were coming for Annie’s baby shower. She is my daughter, after all.”
“But you’re early. You weren’t supposed to be here for days.” The house was in a shambles. I had nothing to spread on crack
ers except Fancy Feast.
“We’re so sorry to spring ourselves on you like this,” said the younger of the two women, whose age I’d put somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. She was unnaturally dewy. I hated her. “I’ve heard so much about you,” the woman said, extending her hand. “It’s a thrill to meet you.”
Richard cleared his throat and adjusted the knot on his tie. It was striped, orange and black. Princeton colors. He threw
his arm around the woman’s delicate shoulders and said, “Cece Caruso, my fiancée, Jackie Dehovitz.”
A flush spread becomingly across Jackie’s milky white cheeks. I remembered that Richard had always loved straw
berry Quik.
“And I’m Jackie’s mom, Dot,” said the other woman, who’d positioned herself on her daughter’s other side, closing ranks so as to better confront the enemy.
“Aren’t you going to invite us in?” Richard asked.
“Well, of course. That’s what I’m doing,” I turned the key in the lock. “After you.”
Richard looked skeptical. “You sure it’s safe?”
“Watch out for falling objects,” I said with a laugh, which died in my throat as I glanced into the entry-hall mirror and caught sight of a wizened, lipstick-less, pomaded crone in tweed and orthopedic shoes, who turned out to be me. At least I’d taken off the wig.
“I don’t normally wear my hair like this,” I said, foolishly throwing myself on their mercy.
In perfect syncopation, Jackie and Dot stroked their match
ing bobs, whose brilliance rivaled the afternoon sun.
“And I’d never buy a baggy cardigan coat.” I ripped it off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor. “It doesn’t belong to me. It doesn’t even fit.”
Richard picked an imaginary speck of dust off Jackie’s cream-colored suit. “You were always eccentric about clothes.”
“Richard,” cautioned Jackie. “We talked about this.”
Oh, she didn’t know the half of it. He looked like Cary Grant, sure—even at twenty-two, he’d looked like Cary Grant, with those prematurely graying temples. But underneath, he was pure Chucky. Which made her Bride of Chucky, poor thing.
I picked up the cardigan and shoved it behind a pillow, tossed Buster off the couch, and grabbed a couple of empty Diet Coke cans from the coffee table. “I’ll be back in a flash. Please make yourselves at home.”
“I’m allergic to cats.” Richard was sniffing around the big easy chair under the window. “In case you’ve forgotten. But that cat must be dead by now.”
“Richard!” said Jackie.
I’d gotten Mimi immediately after the divorce. He’d always hated her.
“She’s alive and well and around here someplace,” I said, racing into the bedroom and slamming the door shut. I could do this. I could definitely do this. In a personal best, I emerged four minutes later in an improvised French twist, red hooker mules with poufs, and a sexy, floor-length silk wrap with kimono sleeves.
I went overboard. In retrospect, I can see that.
“Drinks, anyone?” I launched into my best hostess imita
tion, despite the fact that all I had to offer was half a bottle of cheap Chianti and tap water.
Nobody wanted alcohol except me. Desperately.
Dot won me over when she found a jar of pimiento-stuffed olives and a tray I didn’t even know I had somewhere in the recesses of my pantry.
“Richard can’t stop talking about your work,” she said, arranging the olives in the center of a plate.
“Oh?” I set the glasses down on a chipped Mexican wood tray, all ears.
“I must admit—but please don’t mention it—I haven’t read his book yet.”
His five-hundred-page analysis of the collected works of
James Fenimore Cooper, published by a third-tier academic
press? I couldn’t imagine why not.
“So he talks about my books?” I pressed her.
“Oh, yes, nonstop.”
“Hmm.”
Dot pulled the leaves from some lemons I had sitting in a bowl and placed them in a circle around the olives. Then she sliced the lemons into half-moons and placed them around the circle of leaves. The olive plate now looked like a Busby Berkeley act.
“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 fore
head. “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—unsuc
cessfully—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 won
derful 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 them
selves 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 poi
soned.”
t was evening by the time Agatha’s taxicab pulled up in frontof 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 lat
est 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, Char
lotte. 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 refus
ing 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 con
fectioner’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.