Free Christietown by Susan Kandel Page B

if I could act, too. Liz was in the same class. I never really noticed her. She was shy, never said much, not all that good-looking, not the kind you’d pick out of a crowd. One day we had to roll around on the floor and be animals. I was a lion—king of the jungle!—because I’m that kind of idiot.”
    I laughed.
    “Liz was a tabby cat. And she blew everyone away. She purred, she stretched, she licked her paws with her little pink tongue. Every guy in the room wanted her. But she picked me. I’m the one who taught her to dance. She wasn’t much technically, to be honest with you, but she knew how to throw herself into it. It was a gift, you know? When she waltzed, she was a Viennese princess. When she tangoed, she was a Latin spitfire.” He stopped and stood up. The cat hit the floor with a thump. “What the hell. It’s a good story, isn’t it?”
    I nodded.
    “Except for the ending. Good story, bad ending.” The cat shot out of the room, its nails skittering across the bare wooden floor.
    “I wish it could’ve been different,” I whispered.
    Lou finally lit the cigarette he’d been holding. He sucked hungrily, then blew out a ribbon of smoke. “I was okay last night. I read the paper, I watched some TV. I was fine until I saw this.”
    He picked a piece of paper off the coffee table and handed it to me.
    “From the desk of Liz,” it said at the top.
    “It was a to-do list,” he said. “It was in the glove compart ment of the car. All the things she meant to get done this week.” He stubbed out his cigarette, put his head in his hands. “Listen”—his voice was muffled—“could you just go now?”
    I didn’t want to leave him like that, but he insisted.
    On the way out, I ran into Wren, who was getting out of a white VW convertible. She was carrying two Ralph’s grocery bags and a pink bakery box dangling from a pretty ribbon.
    How thoughtful she was. How big and sad her eyes were.
    We said hello, then I got in my car and pulled away from the curb. I couldn’t find a good song on the radio, so I drove home in silence.
    I spent the rest of the day in the kitchen, doing dishes, reor ganizing the cupboards, and baking Gambino a conciliatory apple pie.
    C HAPTER 1 3
    he water was boiling. Agatha had always felt that anything important one person had to say to another could be said in less time than it takes to make a pot of tea.
    I love you, for example.
    Or: I hate you.
    Entire universes of meaning in a few short words. She admired such economy.
    Not Rosie the ubiquitous chambermaid. Rosie didn’t under stand economy.
    This afternoon’s conversation came just as Agatha was attempting to relax with a piece of the hotel’s good apple pie. It revolved around Rosie’s family woes, which were legion: a wayward cousin, a father with gout, an unwieldy tax bill, a cuckolded brother. After what seemed a decent interval, Agatha shooed the girl away. She was eager to settle down with the books she’d borrowed from the Messrs. W.H. Smith library in Parliament Street the day before. Among them were several adventure thrillers, a selection of myste rie, and a book of romantic poetry by Charles Caverley entitled Fly Leaves . Not half an hour later, however, the latter volume slipped from her fingers as sleep overtook her.
    She dreamed of the icicles on the front porch at Ashfield. When she was a small girl, she’d beg the gardener to break them off so she could pretend they were spears and she was a mighty warrior. She’d do battle until her spears melted and she was just Agatha again.
    Upon waking, she bathed and dressed quickly, then made her way to the offices of the Times , which were almost ready to close for the day. She wanted to take out an advertisement. She inquired as to rates, then spent some time on the wording.
    The clerk behind the desk peered at her shamelessly, finally commenting upon her resemblance to the missing novelist, Agatha Christie.
    Paying him his fifteen shillings, she informed