The Christie Curse

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rows of Christies with covers
     I’d never seen before. British? Most of them were quite inexpensive. I had plenty
     of Christies still piled on my bed to be read, so I decided to look around before
     buying the plays.
    She bubbled, “The Evanoviches and Hayters are all signed firsts, if that’s your thing.”
    “Not really. I am looking for something a bit unusual.”
    “Unusual?”
    “Mmm. Surprising.”
    “Well, I was really surprised when I realized that my fine first of
A Is for Alibi
was apparently signed by Dick Cheney.”
    I said, “So now
A Is for Absurd
?”
    “Absurd and absolutely no chance of resale. I often wonder how it happened. I’d like
     to catch the prankster who did it. Sometimes people are light-fingered, but this isn’t
     the kind of crowd that’s inclined toward vandalism.” She stopped, frowned and stared
     at the ridiculously tall man in the floor-length trench who had sidled up a bit closer
     to her booth. He must have felt her stare, because he sidled off in the opposite direction.
     For sure, there were some unusual types around there. When I had her attention again,
     I said, “I bet there’s a market for something like that. In fact, I’m looking for
     an unusual piece myself.”
    She leaned forward, her smile growing wider. “Like what?”
    “I’m not even sure. I love my rare books, but lately I’m thinking maybe a manuscript.
     A colleague is bragging about getting his hands on the original script of a play,
     handwritten.I was jealous when I heard that. I have a nice little collection of movie scripts,
     but who doesn’t? I like the idea that other people wouldn’t own a copy of the same
     item.”
    “One of a kind. I get that.”
    “Something that the author would have touched personally.”
    “Hmm.”
    “I don’t suppose you’ve got any inside scoop on that type of artifact.”
    “Not so far, but I’ll sure have fun checking it out.”
    I liked her big smile and wild red hair so much, that I let my guard down. She passed
     me her slightly crumpled card.
    Karen Smith. A nice name for a nice lady. I purchased the copy of
The Mousetrap and Other Plays
for ten dollars and watched Karen pop the money into a red metal cash box. I handed
     over my snazzy business card and said, “In case you come across anything that might
     make me happy, please call me.”
    In retrospect, that might have been my first big mistake.

CHAPTER SIX

    O NCE AGAIN, I stared down the length of the Sheraton table at Vera Van Alst as Signora
     Panetone hovered behind her with yet another heaping platter of mouthwatering food.
     Vera waved her away. But I was really hoping she wouldn’t leave the room. She rumbled
     toward me, muttering, “Eat, eat, yes, yes.” I knew that Vera was the target for that.
     I fully intended to eat. I’d been smart enough to wear a cashmere sweater and my boots
     this time. I enjoy my food more when my teeth are not chattering and there are no
     new scratches on my ankles.
    The platter had lovely homemade fettuccine and what looked like mushroom sauce. “Porcini,”
     she said mysteriously, “from friend.”
    I nodded, but made a point of not looking too interested in case that would set Vera
     off. I said, as the signora was heaping, and I do mean heaping, the fettuccine on
     my plate, “I did meet some potentially productive contacts at the Antiquarian Book
     and Paper Fair over in Grandville.” I tried to make my efforts sound more successful
     than they actually had been.
    Vera raised an eyebrow.
    I said, “I met George Beckwith at Nevermore—”
    Vera said, “A sniveling sycophant in a suit.”
    I blinked. Her characterization didn’t sound much like the handsome silver-haired
     man with the buttery British voice. Snooty, maybe. “I think he wants to connect me
     with something. I heard him asking around.”
    Vera inhaled dramatically. “You didn’t tell him about the play, did you?”
    “Of course not. I let him think that I have money to

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