And Then They Were Doomed Read online

  Jenny shook her head. “Maybe this afternoon.”

  “And their names are both the same?”

  Jenny nodded. “Two are Lambs: Mary and Harley.”

  “Mary Lamp? Doesn’t even sound like a real name.”

  “Mary Lamb. Lamb. You know, like the ones being led to the slaughter.”

  “Or the other way around,” Lisa said. “We’ve got to get to Netherworld, tell Zoe about all of this.”

  “She said we couldn’t come until the webinar was over. After four thirty.”

  Chapter 26

  Jenny went out to her Jeep to clean it. Nothing to do for hours.

  The Jeep was loaded with dirty fast-food cups and candy wrappers from their trip. She liked to keep it clean—this first car of her own and not an old one passed on from Lisa, and not a car she was warned to keep clean by her ex-husband.

  Hers alone. Not new, but only two years old. And blue. She loved blue but would never have dared to hope for such a blue, blue car if someone gave it to her.

  A whisk broom and a dust pan were all she needed.

  She began in the front, noticing first that Zoe had spilled something on the seat. That required a wet rag, a trip back to the house, a little elbow grease, and a few angry words at Zoe.

  And then the backseat and the discovery of Zoe’s box of black-rimmed letters. Like holding a terrible curse in her hands. Jenny took the box and carried it carefully into the trailer to show Lisa.

  * * *

  “These are what started it all?” Lisa poked the pile of letters on the table.

  Jenny could’ve sworn she saw heat rise. Maybe letters from hell were like these. A pile of letters, sent with meanness and hatred—as if a single pregnancy hurt any of them.

  “Why would they do this?” Lisa looked up.

  Jenny shrugged. “Hubris. Because they could, and afterward felt proud of their high standards. Snickering among themselves at how God would surely reward them.”

  Lisa took one of the letters between her hands, holding it carefully.

  She turned the letter over. The name was smeared, but there was an address. This one in Cheboygan, Michigan.

  She picked up another and turned it over. The same. Another. This time from Alpena, Michigan.

  Lisa looked up at Jenny. “If she wanted us to, we could find their names with a reverse lookup in the White Pages.”

  “Most go back awhile.”

  “I don’t think Zoe ever wanted to know who they were. But maybe now. Names of people here at the event. Wouldn’t that help?” Lisa looked at Jenny, who bit at her lip.

  “Do you think we could do it? I mean, go someplace where I could use my computer?”

  “I know a place. Sometimes I have to go there when I can’t get any signal here.”

  “Today?”

  “You mean before we go to Netherworld?”

  She nodded.

  “We could try.” Lisa sounded hopeful. “Then we can give her the names of people in her family, and if there are any at Netherworld she can face them down and leave with us.”

  “Sounds so simple.”

  “Like I said: worth a try.”

  Chapter 27

  Sunday breakfast: clean underwear, white pants, a crimson top, white sandals over her elastic bandage, and she was out of her room, without washing or brushing her teeth—the dull rumble of voices hurrying her across the empty reception room.

  A few seats other than hers were empty. Relief. She smiled, greeting those around the table, then hurrying to her chair, climbing up, unfolding her silverware from the very large, bright white napkin, and explaining to anyone who would listen how she’d overslept.

  First she turned to Mary, who didn’t seem to hear her “Good Morning.” Her eyes were fixed on Emily.

  Next she smiled across the table at Anna, who frowned absently and looked down at her plate.

  When she asked for the dish of scrambled eggs set on the other end of the table, no one heard her. She got down, walked around the chairs, reached in between the whispering Anthony and Gewel, and grabbed the dish, figuring if they were all punishing her for being late, too bad for them. She dished up her eggs, went back for a plate of toast and then a platter of fried potatoes, and sat down to eat, minding her own business. And the hell with the entire rude group. Half an hour late!

  Mary Reid finally leaned toward her, bracing herself against an empty chair. “We just heard as you walked in that they had to take Professor Armstrong to the hospital in Houghton last night. A form of allergy, they said, but bad. He’s being flown home today. Poor man. Now we need someone to take over his webinar. I was saying it should be one of our fine guests here. Like Anthony, but Aaron thought perhaps one of you could double up.”

  Zoe looked to Louise. “You’re on tomorrow, aren’t you? Couldn’t you do yours today, leave time for one of the others to prepare?”

  Louise shivered. “I don’t like to change plans. It always signals trouble. I mean, I have everything ready. But … I suppose. Or maybe Anna could.”

  Louise looked around the table toward the frowning woman, who shook her head. “I’m afraid not,” she said. “I put a lot of work into any presentation I give. I would need so much more time.”

  Louise and Zoe sighed in unison.

  “Oh, for God’s sake.” Louise threw her hands in the air. “I’ll do mine today.”

  “And I’ll do Leon’s tomorrow,’ Anthony said. “Now can somebody pass the eggs before our fine Zoe Zola finishes them off entirely?”

  Zoe ignored him. He was a tease, but not mean like Aaron and Nigel. Her mind was on the blue flowers and the platter beneath. She didn’t want to look but couldn’t stop herself .

  She got off her chair and made a trip around the table. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine …

  Nine little figures. The little boy with his hands at his throat was gone.

  She didn’t say a word to the others. If they didn’t notice, they probably didn’t want to.

  Chapter 28

  After breakfast Zoe locked herself in her room. She wished Lisa and Jenny would come soon. She wished she hadn’t told them after four thirty. She was lonely, depressed, angry, and longed to talk to friends. She lay on the bed, reliving the night before. Voices. People pointing out her room. She’d closed and locked her window before leaving that morning, but what could anyone want that she had?

  She got up to stare out at the vast, boring woods. Where had Leon Armstrong really gone? No way to find out where they’d taken him, who he’d really been, or why he was gone so soon. It could be another connection. Maybe a family name or some way linked to Christie.

  She thought there might be a name on one of the funeral cards. Only a few were nearly legible. For most there were addresses.

  She’d brought the box with her from home but couldn’t remember carrying it into the lodge.

  She checked each drawer of the dresser. No box.

  Maybe that couple from last night … how? She’d locked her door too.

  She looked under the bed. Nothing.

  The box had to be in Jenny’s car, but the bridge could be completely gone. The river might have overflowed its banks and was headed toward them right then. She might not see them for days.

  The closet—yes. She pulled in a deep breath and checked the closet, knowing there would be nothing in there but the small box she’d seen when she first got here. A box—ordinary cardboard. One foot by one foot.

  She took it to the desk and lifted the top.

  Photographs. Loose. At least fifty, maybe more. No order to the pictures. The first she took out was of a baby sitting in a stroller. The child was lovely, soft features, large eyes. She was smiling and clapping her hands for the camera. Other photos were of the same girl—she was sure of it, the eyes were memorable—but in her teens. The rest were taken at varying times during this girl’s life—maybe twenty, then about five years old, ten, eighteen. When she turned the pictures over, the same
name was written on each—sometimes in black ink, sometimes in blue.

  Angela Lamb.

  A letdown. No name Zoe’d ever heard Evelyn say.

  Lamb. Lamb. Nothing like her family name: Jokela.

  She went through the girl’s pictures, hoping to find something special here. Only one in the box had the girl, probably then in her teens, standing with someone else. She brought the photo close. A man with red hair. A red mustache. A younger Leon Armstrong, the professor from New York. Connected now to Netherworld Lodge.

  How did his photos get into her room if they were Leon’s? And why would anyone want to break in to get them?

  * * *

  It was time for Louise’s rehearsal. No time to deal with new problems. She hurried down to the Michigan Room and took her place among the others at an oval table lined with folded name cards and headsets.

  After Mary gave the floor to Louise, there was a moment of flurry as Louise hunted through her briefcase for her notes and then, flustered, spread them on the table in front of her. “I told you I would get nervous. I don’t like when things get upset.”

  “Relax, Louise. Just tell us about your paper. We’ll fill in from there.” Aaron Kennedy looked bored already.

  He managed to make her more nervous. She bowed her head and said nothing for at least two minutes.

  When she began again, she was composed, her high cheekbones giving her a classic look, her hazel eyes calm—even a small smile as she began to talk about the agonies of Agatha Christie, beginning with the early loss of her father; then to her cheating first husband, Archie Christie; and on to the coolness of her daughter and the inconstancy of her second husband, Max Mallowan. And then to what eased her pain—writing books and plays, losing herself every day in the worlds she could control.

  When she’d finished, the others made suggestions, complimented her, with Pileser and Kennedy finding a few holes, vying to be the expert’s expert; but on the whole the work was accepted as very deep and knowledgeable.

  For a half an hour more, the others mentioned ways they would add to Louise’s talk. And then came the projected questions they might get from the paying audience across the world, with ideas for answers.

  They worked surprisingly well together.

  “I might add that most of the equipment was brought by boat, by our techs, if you can imagine.” Emily Brent joined them. “The river is over its banks. The rain keeps falling, but we’re trying to keep to our schedule. Emails to our paying participants went out yesterday, reminding them that we begin today. I’ve sent another, explaining Professor Armstrong had to leave and that we’ll begin with Dr. Trainer.

  “Oh,” she added. “Remember, no cell phones in the room while a webinar is going on. They create interference, I’m told.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Anthony made fun of the idea of a phone working at Netherworld Lodge.

  * * *

  At three o’clock, Mary Reid began her introductions on the purpose of the webinar, went over the plans for the four days ahead, and explained that there had been a change in the schedule. Dr. Louise Trainer was taking over for the Dr. Armstrong, who was ill and had to leave.

  Louise took over swiftly, confident now, rarely referring to her notes. This was a different Louise Trainer, speaking for the first half hour, then being challenged by Aaron and Nigel, agreed with by Gewel and the others, but keeping her part of the webinar firmly in her hands.

  The presentation continued smoothly, with the exception of one snit over Christie’s second husband, started by Betty Bertram, which surprised Zoe, as the timid woman settled herself in, wobbled her head, and said a lot of what they were hearing today was pure bull.

  Mary hurried to cover the girl’s gaffe and then invited the others to ask their questions.

  Aaron Armstrong took up the rest of Louise’s time, and then it was the last half hour, and questions from the webinar audience.

  The first question was from a Gerald in Takoma. “To go back to Dr. Trainer”—his voice cracked, then settled down—“I’d like to know who holds the rights to Christie’s work now? Is it her daughter, Rosalind?”

  That question was answered easily: her grandson owned the rights.

  The talk was lively, only one sneering old man making fun of their research and touting a new book on Christie he’d just self-published.

  Zoe quieted him by asking which university he taught at.

  None, he was self-taught.

  And had he visited the Christie countryside?

  No. He’d picked up enough from his reading.

  And how long had he studied Christie?

  Over a year, as his book would show.

  Other questions popped in fast until their half hour was over, and Mary had to shut them down, saying goodbye to their audience and telling them they would begin again on Monday. Same time. The topic to be “The World of Agatha Christie,” as planned, by Dr. Leon Armstrong, now to be presented by Anthony Gliese, editor at Conway Books in New York.

  It was over. Successful, they all agreed, though they stumbled into one another to get out of the room.

  Chapter 29

  It was a little after four thirty by the time the techs ran their tests for the next day.

  Zoe hurried out to the reception room, but Jenny and Lisa weren’t there.

  Rain or not, she wanted to get into Calumet and do her research on names in Christie’s books at the library.

  It was these names, of people at the webinar, that bothered her most. She kept feeling she should know them but couldn’t pull them from the musty corners of her mind where they’d landed.

  There were books and short stories to check. How could anyone know them all by heart? And on top of that, she was certain only part of each name came from Christie.

  An almost impossible task, she told herself as she stepped to the board, where the greeting had been replaced with a copy of the new schedule of talks.

  A note, tacked on top of the new schedule, warned that the water was rising everywhere in the area, and the van might be delayed until Tuesday.

  “Damn,” Zoe whispered.

  “Double damn,” a voice behind her said. “I forgot my deodorant, and if today is any hint at what’s ahead of us, it’s going to get hot in this place.”

  Zoe turned to smile at Gewel Sharp.

  “Interesting, don’t you think?” Gewel showed her very white teeth. “We’re captives. One man gone. May not be by sea, but there’s sure a lot of water coming down out there. Remind you of anything?”

  “Soldier Island,” Zoe said, then stepped closer to Gewel, saying in a lower voice, “And Then There Were None.”

  Gewel pointed to Leon’s name—crossed off the sheet. “Think he went out and choked himself? How many should we give ’em before we start running like hell?” Gewel giggled.

  Zoe wrinkled her nose. “Give ’em what?”

  “You know. More dead soldiers.”

  “Oh, I get it. You mean if somebody goes missing tonight—like ‘Nine little soldier boys sat up very late. One overslept himself and then there were eight’?”

  “Uh-huh. Just like that. But how do you die by oversleeping?”

  Zoe could come up with a dozen different ways to oversleep herself, but none of them were pleasant. “How about poison?”

  Gewel stuck a finger in the air. “One hypodermic in the arm so the person can think, but not talk or move—like a horse tranquilizer. That’s the worst, don’t you imagine? Or antifreeze in a Coke.”

  “Hmm.” Zoe thought. “Poison in a gift of wine.”

  “Other choices,” Gewel said. “Buried alive. I never really liked the idea of that one, but it doesn’t fit anyway.”

  “Strangulation.”

  Gewel got serious. “Or choke on a sleeping pill. Or on a false tooth.”

  Zoe gave her a narrow-eyed look. “Take a big glass of weed killer before you close your eyes.”

  Gewel shivered. “You are truly ghoulish, Zoe Zola.”

>   Zoe shook her head and put a finger to her cheek. “Or—if you live above your garage, just leave the car running. Carbon monoxide will get you.”

  Gewel turned to look behind her. “Did you notice the dancing children?” Gewel asked, her face serious. “Nobody even mentioned that one is gone.”

  “I saw it. The best I can come up with is Bella or Emily, setting the mood for Christie.”

  They gave nervous laughs and shivered as they agreed to meet for cocktails later.

  * * *

  Quarter after five, and no sign or sound from Jenny and Lisa. Most of the others had gone to their rooms. A quiet time. Only Anthony Gliese and Nigel Pileser stood in the hall, arguing about something that didn’t interest Zoe.

  She wrapped a sweater around her shoulders and went outside to check the parking area, and maybe the road coming up from the bridge.

  It was raining again, but lightly. Maybe the water at the bridge had time to recede, at least a little.

  She’d been inside the lodge too long, cooped up with people she didn’t like or trust, for the most part. She wished the next people she talked to would be Jenny and Lisa, and they wouldn’t once utter the name Agatha Christie.

  There was no way to know if they were coming or not. No phone calls. No message by carrier pigeon.

  Maybe the bridge was impassable instead of dry. Or the roads coming in were underwater. Or they’d had work to do and couldn’t make it. So many reasons they weren’t there yet, but they all hurt. She wanted to tell them about the voices under her window—how they were loud enough for her to hear, as if on purpose. She wanted to tell them about Leon Armstrong, that he’d disappeared. And about the one missing figure under the blue flowers. About names she’d tried to take apart because they felt so much like names she’d heard before.

  The door opened behind her. Of all people she wished she could stay away from forever, Aaron Kennedy was at the top of the list.

  “Ah, Zoe Zola. That was intense, wasn’t it, though you have to give Dr. Joiner credit. She did an adequate job on such short notice.”

  She walked off the porch, down to the parking area.