Read Online The Christie Curse by Victoria Abbott - Free Book Online
Authors: Victoria Abbott
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to my surprise,
enjoying the sly wit of the author. I put that book down and went back to the nonfiction.
Sure, it was good to get to know Agatha Christie, her tricks and her trade, but I
needed facts to help me find out about this play.
As I read through the reference materials, I decided one thing: Agatha Christie’s
life was at least as exotic and mysteriousas anything she wrote. I made notes as I read late into the night. Perhaps I should
have stopped long enough to install my new slide lock.
* * *
“CLEAR AS A bell!” Tiffany’s grinning face shone through my screen.
She tilted her laptop to and fro trying to show me her new quarters. “These are the
bunks, just me and two other girls.”
“Stop moving, Tiff! It’s worse than
The
Blair Witch Project
on my end.” I eyed the now still room. “It looks like a cold storage unit, only not
as cozy.”
Tiffany’s face popped into view. “Oh, she thinks she’s funny, does she? Well, we can’t
all be living in the Van La-Tee-Da Mansion, missy.”
“Van Alst.” I slowly pointed my iPhone around the room to let Tiff get a peek at my
digs.
“Sweet mercy, Jordan! It looks like Laura Ashley and
Antiques Roadshow
were massacred over there!” All the way from northern Alberta, Tiffany’s laugh filled
my apartment. I missed her gentle southern teasing.
“Well, you won’t hear me complain.”
Tiffany panned down to her concrete floor with a single teal chair. “You’ll see that
we too have some items of note in our décor, my friend. For example, this chair is
early nineties dental waiting room and still retains its original mock Naugahyde upholstery.
It’s sure to fetch tens of thousands of cents on the open market.”
“Well, tens of cents anyway. Hey, I’ve got to get back to reading about Agatha Christie
now, but I wanted you to see my new place. I love it.”
“Ah, research on the dead mystery writer. Sure beats what I have planned.”
I happened to know that she was headed to a bar for pipeliners that would have a ratio
of one woman to every thirteen men. Tiffany practically cackled in glee.
“Cackling is not attractive in a woman, Tiff. Same with gloating. But have fun, be
safe. Text me the name of the bar
and
let me know when you get back.”
“Will do, sister.”
* * *
I AWOKE FROM a nightmare in which Hercule Poirot was expressing his outrage as I had
apparently sat on his hat. “Of course, you didn’t see it, mademoiselle. You are as
oblivious to my chapeau as you are to what you seek. You need to look where it will
be.”
As my eyes refocused, I noted the sunshine streaming through the windows. I blinked
at the black-clad figure staring down at me and screamed. Leaping to my feet, I was
nearly tripped by a cat circling my ankles, but I’d already used my scream on Signora
Panetone.
“Why you scream, Jordan? Bad for you! Eat. Eat. You eat enough, you don’t need to
scream.”
No arguing with that logic. Anyway, my heart was still thumping. I am not used to
having people invade my space. That goes double for cats. My uncles always had a healthy
fear of a teenage girl’s room when I was growing up. They never came closer than the
bottom of the stairs.
Never mind. There was no way I would complain about the aromatic caffe latte and the
china plate of sugary pastries, fresh-cut Granny Smith apples and chunk of cheddar
on the silver tray. It had all been delivered by Signora Panetone, as unexpected and
boundary free as she was.
“I thought we took breakfast in the conservatory at eight,” I said. “Isn’t Miss Van
Alst waiting for me?”
“No Vera today. Vera not well. Read notes.”
Notes?
Signora Panetone pointed to the next room. Presumably, sometime during the night a
note had materialized and I had been expected to read it in my sleep. This place wasgoing to take some getting used to. Installing the lock had moved way up the
enjoying the sly wit of the author. I put that book down and went back to the nonfiction.
Sure, it was good to get to know Agatha Christie, her tricks and her trade, but I
needed facts to help me find out about this play.
As I read through the reference materials, I decided one thing: Agatha Christie’s
life was at least as exotic and mysteriousas anything she wrote. I made notes as I read late into the night. Perhaps I should
have stopped long enough to install my new slide lock.
* * *
“CLEAR AS A bell!” Tiffany’s grinning face shone through my screen.
She tilted her laptop to and fro trying to show me her new quarters. “These are the
bunks, just me and two other girls.”
“Stop moving, Tiff! It’s worse than
The
Blair Witch Project
on my end.” I eyed the now still room. “It looks like a cold storage unit, only not
as cozy.”
Tiffany’s face popped into view. “Oh, she thinks she’s funny, does she? Well, we can’t
all be living in the Van La-Tee-Da Mansion, missy.”
“Van Alst.” I slowly pointed my iPhone around the room to let Tiff get a peek at my
digs.
“Sweet mercy, Jordan! It looks like Laura Ashley and
Antiques Roadshow
were massacred over there!” All the way from northern Alberta, Tiffany’s laugh filled
my apartment. I missed her gentle southern teasing.
“Well, you won’t hear me complain.”
Tiffany panned down to her concrete floor with a single teal chair. “You’ll see that
we too have some items of note in our décor, my friend. For example, this chair is
early nineties dental waiting room and still retains its original mock Naugahyde upholstery.
It’s sure to fetch tens of thousands of cents on the open market.”
“Well, tens of cents anyway. Hey, I’ve got to get back to reading about Agatha Christie
now, but I wanted you to see my new place. I love it.”
“Ah, research on the dead mystery writer. Sure beats what I have planned.”
I happened to know that she was headed to a bar for pipeliners that would have a ratio
of one woman to every thirteen men. Tiffany practically cackled in glee.
“Cackling is not attractive in a woman, Tiff. Same with gloating. But have fun, be
safe. Text me the name of the bar
and
let me know when you get back.”
“Will do, sister.”
* * *
I AWOKE FROM a nightmare in which Hercule Poirot was expressing his outrage as I had
apparently sat on his hat. “Of course, you didn’t see it, mademoiselle. You are as
oblivious to my chapeau as you are to what you seek. You need to look where it will
be.”
As my eyes refocused, I noted the sunshine streaming through the windows. I blinked
at the black-clad figure staring down at me and screamed. Leaping to my feet, I was
nearly tripped by a cat circling my ankles, but I’d already used my scream on Signora
Panetone.
“Why you scream, Jordan? Bad for you! Eat. Eat. You eat enough, you don’t need to
scream.”
No arguing with that logic. Anyway, my heart was still thumping. I am not used to
having people invade my space. That goes double for cats. My uncles always had a healthy
fear of a teenage girl’s room when I was growing up. They never came closer than the
bottom of the stairs.
Never mind. There was no way I would complain about the aromatic caffe latte and the
china plate of sugary pastries, fresh-cut Granny Smith apples and chunk of cheddar
on the silver tray. It had all been delivered by Signora Panetone, as unexpected and
boundary free as she was.
“I thought we took breakfast in the conservatory at eight,” I said. “Isn’t Miss Van
Alst waiting for me?”
“No Vera today. Vera not well. Read notes.”
Notes?
Signora Panetone pointed to the next room. Presumably, sometime during the night a
note had materialized and I had been expected to read it in my sleep. This place wasgoing to take some getting used to. Installing the lock had moved way up the
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