Free The Christie Curse by Victoria Abbott Page A

bookseller, who was in a lively phone
     conversation. George Beckwith seemed to be groveling for all he was worth. I examined
     a wonderful print of “downtown” Harrison Falls in 1848 while keeping my ears open
     and straining to hear. He was following up. I like to stir the pot. Beckwith’s buttery
     voice rose. “I assure you. This is the real thing. Nothing like the last time.” A
     long silence followed and then he said, “Shall I…no really, I’m sure there’s money
     to be had here. I can smell it.”
    I put down the print and picked up another one, smiling at the proprietor of the booth.
     Things were starting to get interesting.
    It’s thirsty work checking out gorgeous books. I headed over to Yummers, the concession
     stand directly across from The Cozy Corpse booth, to get a cup of coffee and a spectacularly
     overpriced Danish. When I bit into the Danish, I was immediately offended by the product.
     Maybe it had been freeze-dried? The girl at the cash register had a long, sad face.
     Her black-and-white uniform wasn’t doing her any favors and emphasized her small,
     red-rimmed eyes. Her shoulder-length hair was in need of a trim. I guessed she’d noticed
     the look on my face because she said, “I know. Those are, like, really disgusting.”
    “And yet you sell them.”
    “Yeah. We do. And people buy them. I’d like to find better suppliers, but it’s not
     easy around here. So what can you do?”
    I tried not to be irritated and take it out on her. She was working at the concession
     stand, not making the decisions. I’ve had jobs like that too. And I didn’t want to
     interfere with any potential source of information. There was something familiar about
     her. I was pretty sure I’d seen her before. Oh well. I didn’t have time to keep track
     of everyone who might get on my nerves. Life’s too short and busy. I figured she had
     her own troubles if those red-rimmed eyes were anything to go by.
    I said, “I suppose we’re a captive audience.”
    “Well, that’s it. Where else are you going to go? I’m here all the time and believe
     me, there’s nothing.
Boring
.”
    I tossed the Danish into the nearest trash and sat down at one of the round tables
     with my coffee. I checked out the brochure of the event and tried not to listen to
     the girl on her cell phone. “I told you, people are complaining about the food. I
     think we should…What?” She lowered her voice, but I could tell her attempt at increasing
     customer satisfaction hadn’t gone well. She had my sympathy. Times are tough in this
     part of upstate New York. Jobs are scarce. I could have ended up behind a counter
     getting an earful from customers about stuff that I had no control over instead of
     playing happily at a book fair. I drank my coffee and reminded myself of how lucky
     I was. Vera Van Alst might be difficult, but the rest of the gig was a dream.
    I decided to forget the coffee and give my ears a rest. I could hear the counter girl
     sobbing on the phone by now. Time to move on. I hoped she wasn’t sobbing because of
     anything I’d started, but I didn’t think there was much I could do for her. I indulged
     myself for the next twenty minutes checking out the postcards and Edward Gorey prints.
     They reminded me of nights watching
Mystery!
on PBS as Uncle Lucky read
I’m OK, You’re OK
, which really should have been titled
I’m OK and You Should Have Insured Your Jewelry
.
    This time I found a worried-looking woman inhabitingthe Cozy Corpse. She was squinting through gold-rimmed glasses as though she were
     expecting a cobra to pop out of an open box of books. But as I arrived at her booth,
     her face lit up and she tidied the flyaway strands of wildly curling red hair that
     had escaped from her loose clip. She had the widest smile in the place. You can never
     tell by first impressions. I, of all people, should know that. In addition to the
     Janet Evanovich and Sparkle Hayter books, there were