And Then They Were Doomed Read online

  “Did what happen?”

  “I heard … oh, well … guess not. Never mind.”

  Her face flushed, the girl turned her back and called out to a man in the kitchen, ignoring Zoe.

  * * *

  Because there was internet, Zoe searched again for ‘Ulysses Bookstore, Houghton, Michigan.’ They were pushing Agatha Christie books, but no mention of the webinar series nor that the owner would take part. A line near the bottom of the listing named Mary and Harley Lamb as owners. No Mary Reid mentioned.

  She looked up events at Netherworld Lodge. The history was there, and the photo she’d already seen. Nothing about an Agatha Christie event. When she looked up conferences and webinars on Christie, she found there was one in Exeter, one in Cambridge, and one planned for September at the Newberry Library in Chicago. Nothing in Calumet, Michigan.

  She wasn’t surprised at what she’d learned but was still disappointed. All along, somewhere inside, she’d been hoping that it was real, all planned somehow by people who wanted to meet her, some maybe related to her. Or at least planned by people who wanted to make amends for the way they’d treated Evelyn. Or they wanted her dead once and for all.

  She took out her copy of the schedule, the introductions to everyone, along with their credits. She pulled up what she knew of Dr. Louise Joiner and dialed the number listed for the English Department.

  A woman answered.

  Zoe asked if Professor Joiner was available. She was told that Dr. Joiner was in class and couldn’t be disturbed.

  “I’ll be happy to take a message and see that Dr. Joiner gets it,” the woman said.

  “Tell her that Zoe Zola called, from Netherworld. Z-O-L-A. I’m just calling to see how her daughter is.”

  There was silence.

  “And let her know I hope we’ll see each other at another literary event.”

  “I’m sorry, miss.” The voice was chilly. “Dr. Joiner doesn’t have a daughter. Is this a crank call? What is Netherworld?”

  “Eh, she was just here, at Netherworld Lodge in Upper Michigan. We were doing a webinar on Agatha Christie.”

  “Dr. Joiner’s been teaching a summer class. She hasn’t been gone as much as a day. If this is a joke—”

  Zoe hung up. Doesn’t have a daughter. But back at school on Monday.

  * * *

  When she returned to the corner where they’d been dropped off, she was the only one there. No benches to sit on, so she sat on the ground and went over what she’d learned. She picked a leaf of grass, straightened it between her fingers, and blew into it, hoping to make a mighty noise the way she had when she was a kid. She blew again, getting a weak little sound, as she thought about reality and perception.

  The headache she thought she’d beaten was back, moved down now into her eyes. Cluster. Cluster. Cluster. She’d had them before.

  When the phone in her shoulder bag rang, she jumped at the chime, then thought how smart she’d been to keep the useless thing charged. Lisa’s name came up in the caller window.

  “I didn’t know if I would get you or not.” Lisa broke into talking. “I’ve got Jenny here, right beside me.”

  Lisa asked how she was and if she’d learned anything more.

  “Shuttle bus got out today, though the roads are still pretty bad. I’m in Calumet.”

  Jenny came on the phone. “Listen, I found out who Angela Lamb is. A woman named Marya, with Lisa’s group, told me.”

  Zoe caught her breath. “With Lisa’s group? The Finnish women? But how would she know to … It’s like everybody who lives here knows something’s going to happen. Okay, tell me. Who is she? Another relative?”

  “No. Well, maybe yes. A young girl from up here was murdered in Ann Arbor maybe three years ago. Terrible crime. Went to the University of Michigan.”

  “Murdered? But what has she got to do with—”

  “Her name was Angela Lamb. They never found the murderer.”

  “Angela Lamb? So, related to Mary and Leon? But what does that have to do with me? Am I related to her too?”

  “Probably. Looks like you’ve got a big family all of a sudden. Remember next time: be careful what you wish for.”

  “I never wished for any of them.”

  “Anyway, do you want to get out of there? We’re both worried. Especially now. We could reach you in a couple of hours. We could skip dinner with Lisa’s women. And I talked to Tony. He gave me what he had.”

  She looked up to see Nigel crossing the street toward her.

  “There are more Lambs in Houghton. Jokelas are all over up there. Mostly near Copper Harbor. You find anything else?” Jenny asked.

  “I went to the library. I’m waiting for the van back to the lodge now. So far, I’ve found out that the people around me aren’t who they say they are. Some of them are Christie characters or just a play on the names of Christie characters. I learned that nobody named Mary Reid owns the Ulysses Bookstore. People named Lamb do.”

  “Lamb again.”

  “Mary and Harley Lamb.”

  “And Angela?”

  “Who knows if they belong together? Who knows anything about them? These people are devious. I wish I knew why.”

  Jenny was quiet for a very brief minute.

  “Dora said to tell you that Fida is depressed. Won’t eat much. Sits by the door and whines.”

  “That cheers me up. She misses me. I should never, ever, have left her. All because of that damned envelope.”

  It was agreed that they would find a way to talk Tuesday morning, even if Jenny had to come to the lodge.

  “Lisa’s got interviews. But I’ll be there. How’s the bridge?”

  “Van got out. I’m waiting for it now, to go back. But I’m early.”

  “Rain predicted tonight.”

  “Wouldn’t you know it? Whatever these people are doing or planning or scheming, I still can’t figure out how they make it rain.”

  * * *

  The rest returned, packages in their arms. The van pulled up, early, and they were on their way back to the lodge.

  No one seemed happy. Only tired.

  The words “Did it happen yet?” rang in Zoe’s head. And then the name again: Angela Lamb, a murdered girl, a ghost.

  Chapter 38

  The lodge was quiet when they got back. There was no Emily, her keen eye watching over the reception room. No Bella slowly pushing a dust mop across the splintered floors.

  All the people had to be sleeping or working or out on a destination of their own, except she had no idea where that could be in this isolated place.

  There was the smell of dinner—that was encouraging. Someone would be around soon. Zoe decided to confront Emily or Mary about what she’d found out. She couldn’t hold her questions and fears in any longer.

  “Did it happen yet?”

  Angela Lamb.

  Strange things were beginning to fall into place.

  The lodge was as it had been when she first got there on Saturday. Her third day. She didn’t belong here. She was in the middle of a nest of enemies. Except she had no idea why.

  Why Aaron Kennedy. Maybe he was there just as she was, unaware of what was really going on.

  Louise? She was gone. And didn’t really exist.

  And Leon Armstrong—for the same reason. He had another name; owned a bookstore with his wife, Mary Lamb; and was an attorney.

  But who among the others? More relatives who wished nothing good for Zoe?

  After a while, she gave up waiting for Emily Brent to show herself. Anyway, what was she going to say to her? Emily Brent was a Jokela. The Susan. Evelyn’s friend. Her cousin.

  “Did it happen yet?”

  What was it?

  And did the whole town know something she didn’t know? The librarian—strange how she had become so unfriendly.

  She yawned. More walking than she usually did in a whole week. And she still had her headache.

  If Emily came back, she didn’t know which to do
first: ask for two aspirins or accuse her of lying about this whole event.

  After waiting another a few minutes, she couldn’t sit still any longer. She went to the kitchen and pushed the door open. The room was dark despite a pot bubbling on the stove, the lid bouncing.

  She went to her room, telling herself that later, when Emily returned, maybe even while they sat at dinner, she would call her Aunt Susan, as if by mistake, and see what happened.

  Susan Jokela Winton. The name felt greasy in her mouth.

  She went to her room and kicked off her tennis shoes. She yawned, standing at the window, looking out on the familiar scene.

  At least a half an hour before cocktails. Time to take a nap and clear her head before facing the next part of someone’s grand plan. Maybe they had their own Mr. Owen here, the killer of And Then There Were None, among them.

  The sound of a raised voice from the floor below shocked her. Without bothering to change for cocktails, as they’d all been doing, she got her shoes back on and hurried downstairs.

  They weren’t angry voices. Anthony was laughing as Gewel twittered behind him. Even Nigel’s voice was amused instead of complaining. He was asking someone if they’d seen the shrimp platter. And then it was Aaron, accusing Anna of hiding it from them. Anna’s voice was aggrieved as usual, but not hysterical. The others laughed.

  At the bottom of the stairs Zoe hesitated, watching them as they partied easily together. She raised a hand only to have Anthony wave her down, calling out, “Hey, here’s our little one. Let’s see what she thinks of our plan for the rest of the evening.”

  A rather drunk Gewel, who giggled again and again behind her hand, forced a gin and tonic in a smudged glass on Zoe. Gewel leaned forward, holding on to Anthony’s arm, then smiling up at him.

  “Anthony just found out that I’m a singer. And a dancer. That’s how I put myself through college.”

  “She’s going to sing and dance for us as soon as Bella finds a couple of CDs. Oh, and a CD player. Can’t stream anything in this place.”

  Which he found very funny.

  “Maybe jazz—right, Gewel?” He bent close to her. His mouth brushed her cheek.

  Zoe thought she’d accepted what this thirty-something jerk was doing. She thought she’d agreed with herself to butt out, keep her nose in her own business, but now thought, Poor kid. Looks like a kitten with a damned vulture hanging over her.

  “And, while we wait, let me tell you what Gewel and I have come up with for tonight. No movie. We’ve seen all of them anyway. We agreed that—except for people turning up missing around us—things have gotten a little boring.”

  He nodded to the men.

  “And since we can’t drink twenty-four hours every day.”—Anthony looked very pleased with himself—“why not?”

  Gewel took the floor. “There are now eight of us, and we are trapped here—not on Soldier Island, as in And Then There Were None, but here, in our lovely Netherworld Lodge.” She glanced over at Emily, who ignored her.

  “We can accuse each other of crimes. Offer evidence. Maybe put on short mini-trials. Announce verdicts—especially death sentences.” Anthony was thinking hard.

  “Well, not real things. I mean, nothing too terrible.”

  Gewel’s sunny smile was gone. “Let’s keep it to crimes we’ve heard of though murder seems to be the most interesting.”

  “Doesn’t that sound like fun?” Anthony smiled around at everyone. “Maybe we can do an article together afterward, announcing our results.”

  Bella was back, unloading a CD player into Anthony’s hands.

  She gave Gewel a small stack of CDs, making her squeal, “Ooh! Ella Fitzgerald.”

  The CD went in, Gewel turned on the player, and the voice of Ella spilled into the room. Everyone moved back to the walls, giving Gewel room as she shed her shoes and closed her eyes, lifted her head, threw her blonde hair back from her face, and began to move to the voice filling the room with blue notes.

  She didn’t sing. As they all watched, she danced—one sinuous movement after another. One low bend and a slow rise. And another. Little Gewel Sharp was transformed into woman with a capital W. Not what Zoe’d expected from the young woman who gave off the feeling of being vulnerable.

  Her dance was different. She was different.

  Another one masquerading as someone she wasn’t.

  There was loud clapping when the music ended, and Gewel sank to the floor in one flowing movement.

  Mary Reid, who so far had kept her distance from Gewel, was one of the first to hug her and thank her for the really outstanding dance. “You have so many talents,” she complimented her, making the girl blush.

  * * *

  Later at dinner, the talk was of Gewel’s success and how she should think of turning professional. “You’re that good, you know,” Mary Reid gushed again and again as Anthony proudly nodded. “I told you so.”

  With only the eight of them and Emily, the talk was more intimate and relaxed than it had been before. A leaf had been removed from the table. All sat closer to one another.

  Even Nigel was heard to laugh a time or two and proposed a toast to both Emily for her gracious hospitality and Bella for her fine cooking as he shoved a fourth dumpling into his mouth in proof of his admiration. He then combed his dark mustache with his fingers and eyed the dumpling bowl again.

  They were a riotous group later, trooping into the Michigan Room.

  Betty Bertram had her hand on Nigel’s stiff arm. She happily sang to her own tune:

  Ten little soldier boys went out to dine;

  One choked his little self and then there were nine.

  Gewel took up the lyric:

  Nine little soldier boys sat up very late;

  One overslept himself and then there were eight.

  Anthony sang:

  Eight little soldier boys travelling in Devon;

  One said he’d stay there and then there were seven.

  The others hummed their way to the last line as they took chairs, ranging them into a circle.

  Gewel belted out the last line: “He went out and hanged himself, and then there were none.”

  Anthony put a hand around his neck and pretended to choke himself, falling out of his chair to the floor, his tongue hanging out.

  “Our Professor Armstrong choked himself on booze,” he said as he got up. “Does that count?”

  Betty put a finger into the air, announcing her turn to talk. “Where do you all think Dr. Joiner really went? Just wanted to get out of here? Or was she murdered, the way some of us are thinking?”

  No one answered. A few looked guilty. A few snickered and sank back in their chairs. Zoe, being the soberest in the group, rested for what she sensed was ahead.

  Anthony put his hands in the air. “Our challenge tonight is called ‘J’accuse!’ For our esteemed Bruxellois, Hercule Poirot.”

  He dimmed the lights.

  He kept his guttural voice.

  “Now the soldier boys have stopped their wandering ways.” Anthony scanned the room. “Though next we might expect the trip to Devon, where one of us will stay.”

  His dark eyes searched the faces around him. “I wonder who will be next?”

  “What silly business is this, Gliese?” Nigel, testy, called out.

  “Simple, dear doctor. We will accuse each other of crimes and hope to make it stick. Anyone may use the crimes Agatha thought up for the novels or come up with our own dastardly deed. Surely we’re aware, by now, of the ugly depths in every soul in this room.”

  Anthony raised his hand to stop the edgy laughter, then leaned close so Zoe could smell his breath. “I thought to accuse one of us of doing in our departed cohorts. But now I’ve spoiled my show. So tell us, Zoe Zola, what would you accuse me of, my pretty?”

  Zoe thought, but not too long. “Bad acting,” she said.

  The group laughed harder than her little joke deserved.

  Anthony turned to Gewel. “Then, Gewel, m
y dear, to reward you for your magnificent dance, why don’t you go first?”

  The room was almost dark. Anna sat hunched in her chair. Aaron stood by a window, looking at his reflection in the half-lighted glass. Betty moved to sit next to Zoe, leaning close. “Could I charge Kennedy with self-inflation?” she whispered.

  At another time Zoe might have laughed but couldn’t now. There was something deadly serious in the room with them. Maybe only the red faces and worked-up excitement, or something else.

  Gewel, quite the actor, swung slowly back and forth, looking from face to face as her own face straightened and took on a look of decision.

  “You, my pretty.” She pointed to Zoe. “Let me see. A mother. You had a mother, didn’t you?”

  Zoe didn’t let on she felt anything. She held herself tight, expecting cruelty to begin.

  “Ah, yes, a mother who …”

  Zoe got ready to move fast at Gewel.

  “Lived a blameless life. Loved you madly, I imagine.” Gewel stepped away, bowing and smirking at the room.

  Allowed to breathe, Zoe said nothing.

  “That was cheating,” Nigel complained. “I thought we were going to keep this at least mildly entertaining. Weren’t we supposed to talk about murders we’ve taken a look at? Maybe come up with something new?”

  “Then I’ll take you, Betty Bertram,” Aaron Kennedy said in a voice meant to be ghostly as he turned back from the window.

  Startled, Betty blinked and blinked.

  “Oh, Canada …” he sang, then let the anthem fade away as he drew close to Betty. “You’re from McGill. Montreal, Canada. And what is Canada known for? Hmm.” He put a finger on his chin and thought hard. “Maybe cold. Snow. And icy streets … And maybe murder, aye? Oh no … someone you knew was murdered.”

  He came in closer to her face.

  Betty blinked again and clutched the arms of her chair.

  “J’accuse.” He pointed a finger at her. “Wouldn’t go to the funeral, would you? Such a shame. Your only friend.”

  “You shut up!” Betty popped out of her chair, knocking into him, then running out the door.