By Susan Kandel
A brand new suspense-themed housing tract at the fringe of the Mojave wasteland is set to open, and who larger to aid advertise the Cotswold-cozy improvement than secret biographer extraordinaire Cece Caruso? For the grand starting weekend, Cece is staging a play that includes the liked sleuth pass over Marple. after all, every little thing is going mistaken, together with a number one woman who finally ends up useless. All isn't good in Christietown; its secrets and techniques are as complex because the fact in the back of Agatha Christie's real-life disappearance. The developer, an Englishman who claims to be Dame Agatha's descendent, has ruthless traders respiring down his neck. in the meantime, Cece's bought a marriage to devise, a toddler bathe to provide, and an ex-husband who indicates up on her doorstep together with his fiancée and destiny spouse's mother. And while one other physique surfaces, the intrepid novice sleuth is aware she needs to play the famed detective for real—or undergo an analogous mysterious destiny.
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Extra resources for Christietown: A Novel About Vintage Clothing, Romance, Mystery, and Agatha Christie
Sample text
Her mother was dead. All she could do was cry. —that he couldn’t bear unhappy people. Her hands clenched the leather-wrapped steering wheel. She looked at them in disbelief. Were they actually hers, the veins so blue and ropy and twisted? Yes, those were her hands, her blood, her veins. Odd that they pulsed so violently when she felt so dead inside. The road was deserted. It was ten at night. Darkness had fallen like a heavy, woolen blanket. The stockbrokers, the bankers, the gray-haired MPs and their dutiful wives and children were tucked between sheets that had been laundered and starched Christietown 23 and ironed by silent servants, gossiping family retainers, indigent third cousins.
On the walk back to the Vicarage, Ian hadn’t so much as blinked at the gazebo. There was a spring in his step, the rash had faded. I didn’t want to take full credit, but I did feel a warm glow inside. This morning, as I tore down the Antelope Valley freeway dressed like Lauren Hutton, I summoned that memory of yesterday: Ian Christie, beet-faced, yet serene; me, organized, efficient, glowing. Because I’d already screwed up. Twelve miles outside Palmdale, I realized that my backseat was empty. My backseat was not supposed to be empty.
44 SUSAN KANDEL “Miss Marple,” said Wren, twirling her pigtails dementedly. “You should sit down. You don’t look very good. ” She turned to face the audience. ” they cried in unison. ” “No tea,” I said. The room was spinning now. “Estella, bring Miss Marple some tea,” Wren said. Bridget ran back into the kitchen as Wren sat me down in an easy chair. Bridget came back out with a paper cup of water, which she practically poured down my throat. ” Bridget asked. “Yes,” I managed. ” Javier interrupted me.