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Authors: Victoria Abbott
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of priorities.
The tray of food was enough for a family of four, but it wasn’t the only unusual element.
I never thought I’d be greeting the second day of my new job with breakfast in my
feather bed surrounded by cabbage roses on the wall and Agatha Christie novels and
reference books piled around me, but life has a way of bringing little surprises.
Signora Panetone was just one of them. The cat was another. This morning it was playful
and purring, wanting a scratch behind its ears.
As I worked my way through my breakfast, I tried to get Hercule Poirot out of my mind
until I realized, he was right. I did need to look where it would be, “it” being the
play that might or might not exist.
But where would that be?
I didn’t know, but thanks to Lance and my research, I had an idea where to find out.
CHAPTER FIVE
A T ANY GIVEN time, I keep five outfits that can be used to bend all occasions to my
favor. They have a vintage vibe, and they fall under the headings “classy,” “brainy,”
“don’t mess with me,” “sexy” and “clueless.” I was going for classy on this day, channeling
my inner Jackie Kennedy. Everything but the pillbox hat.
The classy bit took a hit in the endless hallway as I collided with a tall woman who
came around the corner as I tried to dodge the cat that had shot out at me from nowhere.
Alarmed by the collision, the cat scurried back toward the front foyer.
The woman squeaked in surprise. I squeaked back.
She must have been six feet, with broad shoulders, big hands and a close-cropped salt-and-pepper
haircut in an old-fashioned pageboy. She didn’t seem at all pleased to see me.
“Watch out,” I said, “the feline has a fondness for ankles.”
Someone has to take the high road.
The cat made a liar out of me by returning and attemptingto rub up against her while purring like an outboard motor. She stood stock still.
Cat phobia, perhaps. I saw no sign of friendliness, and I was in a hurry. But once
I was out of her sight, I wondered not just about that totally bipolar cat, but about
the woman. I assumed she’d come from the elevator that led to Vera’s private quarters
on the second floor. Or had she been in the library? Whatever, it was very peculiar.
By the time I got to the front door, there was no sign of her.
I attempted to hunt down Signora Panetone and find out, but that proved fruitless
too.
* * *
THE ANTIQUARIAN BOOK and Paper Fair was a new experience for me. I wasn’t sure what
to expect. So, M. Poirot, I thought, let’s see what we can turn up. I anted up for
my ten-dollar ticket and made my way through the double doors into a room where everyone
spoke in hushed tones. Maybe some of the sound was absorbed by the thick floral-patterned
carpeting, but I thought there was more to it than that. Even the scent of the room
was soothing: old paper, old ink and Old Spice.
At first glance there were about thirty booths, mostly U-shaped arrangements of tables.
The tables all seemed to be discreetly covered in royal blue cloths and skirts that
probably hid empty boxes, extra material, handbags, backpacks and other miscellaneous
and unsightly gear. From the door all the booths looked pretty much alike, but as
I began my rounds, I could see that each one had some kind of specialty. I would have
liked to remain and finger every historic map and faded print, but I needed to stay
on task. Three booths down, I was distracted by a display of children’s books. I already
was lusting after a first edition of
Where the Wild Things Are
, a book I had loved as a child. Even with the slightly faded cover and a tiny tear,
it was still nearly five hundred dollars. I couldn’t afford it, but I wantedit. I was beginning to understand how intoxicating this game could be. If it was behind
glass, that just made it worse.
I made the rounds once, doing reconnaissance, something I’d learned from my
of priorities.
The tray of food was enough for a family of four, but it wasn’t the only unusual element.
I never thought I’d be greeting the second day of my new job with breakfast in my
feather bed surrounded by cabbage roses on the wall and Agatha Christie novels and
reference books piled around me, but life has a way of bringing little surprises.
Signora Panetone was just one of them. The cat was another. This morning it was playful
and purring, wanting a scratch behind its ears.
As I worked my way through my breakfast, I tried to get Hercule Poirot out of my mind
until I realized, he was right. I did need to look where it would be, “it” being the
play that might or might not exist.
But where would that be?
I didn’t know, but thanks to Lance and my research, I had an idea where to find out.
CHAPTER FIVE
A T ANY GIVEN time, I keep five outfits that can be used to bend all occasions to my
favor. They have a vintage vibe, and they fall under the headings “classy,” “brainy,”
“don’t mess with me,” “sexy” and “clueless.” I was going for classy on this day, channeling
my inner Jackie Kennedy. Everything but the pillbox hat.
The classy bit took a hit in the endless hallway as I collided with a tall woman who
came around the corner as I tried to dodge the cat that had shot out at me from nowhere.
Alarmed by the collision, the cat scurried back toward the front foyer.
The woman squeaked in surprise. I squeaked back.
She must have been six feet, with broad shoulders, big hands and a close-cropped salt-and-pepper
haircut in an old-fashioned pageboy. She didn’t seem at all pleased to see me.
“Watch out,” I said, “the feline has a fondness for ankles.”
Someone has to take the high road.
The cat made a liar out of me by returning and attemptingto rub up against her while purring like an outboard motor. She stood stock still.
Cat phobia, perhaps. I saw no sign of friendliness, and I was in a hurry. But once
I was out of her sight, I wondered not just about that totally bipolar cat, but about
the woman. I assumed she’d come from the elevator that led to Vera’s private quarters
on the second floor. Or had she been in the library? Whatever, it was very peculiar.
By the time I got to the front door, there was no sign of her.
I attempted to hunt down Signora Panetone and find out, but that proved fruitless
too.
* * *
THE ANTIQUARIAN BOOK and Paper Fair was a new experience for me. I wasn’t sure what
to expect. So, M. Poirot, I thought, let’s see what we can turn up. I anted up for
my ten-dollar ticket and made my way through the double doors into a room where everyone
spoke in hushed tones. Maybe some of the sound was absorbed by the thick floral-patterned
carpeting, but I thought there was more to it than that. Even the scent of the room
was soothing: old paper, old ink and Old Spice.
At first glance there were about thirty booths, mostly U-shaped arrangements of tables.
The tables all seemed to be discreetly covered in royal blue cloths and skirts that
probably hid empty boxes, extra material, handbags, backpacks and other miscellaneous
and unsightly gear. From the door all the booths looked pretty much alike, but as
I began my rounds, I could see that each one had some kind of specialty. I would have
liked to remain and finger every historic map and faded print, but I needed to stay
on task. Three booths down, I was distracted by a display of children’s books. I already
was lusting after a first edition of
Where the Wild Things Are
, a book I had loved as a child. Even with the slightly faded cover and a tiny tear,
it was still nearly five hundred dollars. I couldn’t afford it, but I wantedit. I was beginning to understand how intoxicating this game could be. If it was behind
glass, that just made it worse.
I made the rounds once, doing reconnaissance, something I’d learned from my
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