The Christie Curse Read Online Free PDF Page A

agree on that point.
    I said, “I also have to talk to people in the know. People who might be aware of a
     manuscript like that if indeed it was for sale.”
    Lucky drummed his fingers on the checkered tablecloth.
    I knew what he meant. Get to the point. I added, “If this play is for sale and it’s
     just being whispered about, there must be a reason and one big one comes to mind.”
    Mick said, “Make that two.”
    Lucky nodded gravely.
    “Right,” I said. “Either someone’s running a con or the thing is hot.”
    Uncle Mick poured himself two fingers of Jameson and said, “Lucky’s right. Guess you
     should go see Sal.”
    I glanced at Lucky, who had said nothing of the kind.
    Lucky shrugged. He’s used to Mick pretending to read his mind.
    Sal, I thought.
    Oh no.
    Although I’ve heard plenty about Salvatore Tascone, I hadn’t actually seen Sal since
     my First Communion, but I knew he’d welcome me with open arms. Uncle Mick was right.
     There wasn’t much going on in this part of the state that Sal didn’t get wind of.
    “Okay, I’ll go see Sal. Does he have an office in town?”
    Lucky nodded.
    Uncle Mick lit a Cuban cigar and said, “I’ll make the call. He owes me a favor. But
     you be careful, Jordan. You don’t want to be in Sal’s debt.”
    *    *    *
    HOME IS WHERE the heart is. In my case, although I loved my uncles dearly, my heart
     was not in the bachelor apartment above Uncle Mick’s garage, to the left of Michael
     Kelly’s Fine Antiques and to the right of Uncle Lucky’s digs. Sure, it was simple,
     clean and the price was right. No one would ever dare break in. All positives. Of
     course, no date would ever make it successfully past the uncle patrol, and I was young,
     single and still had hopes of a normal life. All to say, I was looking forward to
     getting out.
    Even so, I knew my small space would be waiting for me if I ever needed it again.
     My uncles are nothing if not loyal, but I wanted to get moved into my new digs as
     soon as possible and get down to work.
    Vera Van Alst wanted this elusive and possibly imaginary play
now.
Sure. But she was a collector. She’d want somethingelse the minute she had it in her hands. And she was in no position to get out hunting
     for it herself. I had a chance to get on my feet without the collective Kelly breath
     on the back of my neck. I packed up my belongings quickly and efficiently, keeping
     in mind the two dark and narrow flights of stairs. Uncle Lucky helped me lug my books,
     computer and suitcase, and a small midcentury Lucite coffee table I had borrowed from
     the “antiques” shop.
    After a cold and rainy spring, we finally had one of those perfect May evenings. I
     felt energized by the sun streaming in through the dormer windows. I’m not usually
     one to care about the view, but the glimpse of the spring garden was spectacular.
     The man in the straw hat was now kneeling on a pad and dead-heading the spring bulbs
     that had already bloomed, and carefully spreading what looked like cedar mulch around
     the beds. The scent of lilacs drifted on the air. I was in an excellent mood. I had
     that “summer is coming and anything is possible” feeling. By the time I wrestled my
     clothes, still on hangers, up the stairs, Uncle Lucky was hoofing it to his car. Vera
     Van Alst would have to be pretty sharp before she caught sight of him.
    I found myself humming as I finished hanging my mostly vintage clothing in my old-fashioned
     armoire and settling the rest in the small walnut dresser in the alcove against the
     far wall. I was having fun already.
    I settled half the Agatha Christie reference books by the bed and the rest on the
     Lucite table. I love the look of that table and the way it blends into any environment,
     including my new late-Victorian garret. I tried not to speculate as to how the perfect
     table had fallen into Mick’s hands. The less I knew about its provenance the better.
    Agatha’s possible