The Christie Caper - Carolyn Hart [3]
Kathryn hurried across the bricked floor of the den to the bookshelves filled with Christies. She reached up and touched the gilt letters on the black spines. Her brand-new set! Neil’s Christmas present to her. Sometimes, he could be thoughtful even though she was just a little bit cynical about his motives. Such a beautiful set. Of course, she’d kept her old ones. They were friends from the past. So many favorites. Remembered Death—how could anyone ever have thought Rosemary Barton would commit suicide! N or M?—look what happened when they tried to put Tuppence out to pasture. Christie loved to make the point that older women saw much and understood much, and the world should take heed of their wisdom.
Kathryn reached up and fluffed her soft white hair. Surprising how many people had commented on her resemblance to Jane Marple. Just because Kathryn, too, was tall and thin with snowy white hair, faded blue eyes, soft pink skin, and enjoyed knitting fleecy baby sweaters. So, of course, she took rather a proprietary interest in all of dear Jane’s titles. Especially the first, The Murder at the Vicarage.
She opened the brochure Neil had tucked in the envelope and held it close to her eyes. Oh, my goodness, what a wonderful program. And yes, there was a costume party. She would go as Miss Marple, of course. Her white brows crinkled. Too hot yet for tweeds. A summery frock would be perfect. Tea and panels and famous authors—a full week in the company of others who loved Agatha Christie and all her works—oh, it sounded like heaven!
Even if it meant being with Neil.
“Kathryn, I’m ashamed!” She was in the habit of addressing herself aloud. It happened to people who lived alone. “Poor Neil. He really can’t help being the way he is.” A sweet smile budded on her placid face. “Perhaps,” she murmured, “he’s changed.”
Kathryn did like to look on the bright side.
Though she’d always found that hard to do with Neil. She had always suspected that he’d deliberately left the gate ajar that spring day when Foster ran into the street and was hit by a car. But surely not even Neil was that horrid! It was just that he looked mean, with that scowling, ruddy face. It was certainly unfair of her to judge him by his appearance. Though Jane Marple would surely have done so. Kathryn sighed. Yes, she looked like Jane, but in her heart she knew she was much closer to Dolly Bantry, Jane’s closest friend in St. Mary Mead. Jane Marple appraised life in such a Victorian way—rather harsh really. Now, Dolly, she was too immersed in her garden to know as much about the dark side of human nature.
Kathryn’s mouth puckered. It had come as such a shock to her last year when that nice young man—really such a charming young man—sold her that counterfeit stamp. Neil had been furious, said she deserved to lose the money. Well, once burned…. This last time she’d insisted upon authentication.
She stood on tiptoe to squint at the stamps behind glass that filled the row above her Christie books. The lines and colors, without her magnifying glass, were smudged and indistinct. But there was her latest. She could see the rich violet background. Henry Clay—a premium quality never-hinged stamp. It was another jewel in her nineteenth-century American collection. She’d spent many a tranquil hour these past few weeks studying it through her glass.
Kathryn clapped her hands. How much happiness she enjoyed with her stamps and her books. They both afforded her so much pleasure. Then, her thoughts darting about like goldfish in a summer pond, she peered blearily at the bookcase. Reading wasn’t easy now, not even with her trifocals. But she smiled as she reached for Sleeping Murder.
AGATHA CHRISTIE
TITLE CLUE
Bess Sedgwick wanted to take the blame,
But Poirot wouldn’t play that game.
John Border Stone leaned close to the window as the plane circled the field. Palm trees. He’d never actually seen a palm tree before. He couldn’t believe his luck. A free trip, entrée to a world he’d only read about. God, it was wonderful. And it was