by Kylie Logan
He glanced around the kitchen. “You don’t look upset. None of you.”
“Pish tush!” Luella brushed him off with the flick of one hand. “That’s for us to judge. Just like it’s for us to decide how we can best handle how upset we are. Being with friends . . .” She glanced around at us. “Well, if you ask me, that’s the best way any of us can handle the kind of trauma we’ve been through tonight.”
Were we friends?
This didn’t seem the moment to debate it.
Done with the coffee, I got out mugs and offered one to the cop, who declined with the tip of his head.
“Speaking of the murder, there are a couple interesting things we noticed,” I began.
“Yeah, like how it’s just like the one in Murder on the Orient Express.” Her cheeks flushed, Chandra cut me off. “That’s what we’re reading, for your information. You know, for our book discussion group at the library.”
Was that a smile I saw on the cop’s pug-ugly face?
I must have been imagining it, because the next second, his mouth thinned.
“Don’t give me that bull, Chandra,” he said. “You haven’t read a book in thirty years. Not unless it was some book about tarot cards or how to make that stinky incense you cook up in the basement.”
“You’re wrong,” she shot back and not one of us disputed this. For one thing, this was not the time to quibble about the differences between reading a book and watching a movie based on that book. For another, I wasn’t sure I liked this cop’s attitude.
“We found a clue,” Chandra said and yes, she was stretching the truth. Well, just a little bit, anyway. Again, I didn’t bother to interrupt. See above about attitude. “When we walked into the Orient Express tonight, before we realized what had happened to Peter, we saw a woman’s glove on the floor.”
The cop simply stared.
Chandra stepped closer, leaned in, and tapped her forehead with one finger. “Hello! Don’t you get it? A woman’s glove on the floor? That’s got to mean something. Like that Peter was murdered by a woman.”
All this time, the cop had stayed near the door that led out onto the little porch and from there, to the backyard. Now, he took a couple steps farther into the kitchen. He scrubbed one finger under his nose. “Or it could mean that the Orient Express is a public establishment. You know . . .” He leaned toward her and tapped his forehead with one finger. “Like lots of people come and go in the place. A woman’s glove!” He chuckled. “That doesn’t mean any more than the pack of chewing tobacco we found behind the counter.”
“Well, Peter wasn’t a chewer.” Me. I had no intention of getting in the middle of whatever was going on between Chandra and the cop, but it was a legitimate comment, and we were in my kitchen, after all. “At least I’d never smelled tobacco on him. So that could mean—”
“That the murderer was a man!” The cop’s eyes flew open in mock surprise. “Or that the murderer was a woman who likes a good chew now and then. Or that the Orient Express is a public establishment.” He pronounced these last two words slow and loud, like we hadn’t heard him the first time he’d pointed this out. “You four, you’re playing games, and murder isn’t about games. Leave the investigating to the professionals.”
“We’re not investigating.” Chandra crossed her arms over her chest. “We’re observing. And what we’re observing is that the whole thing, it’s a lot like Murder on the Orient Express. I mean, come on.” She glanced around to where we were lined up on the opposite side of the kitchen from the cop. “Did you take a look at the chick who just came to the front door? It’s like she just stepped out of the book. Like that Princess . . . Princess . . .” Her memory came up empty, and Chandra screeched her frustration. “You know who I mean.”
“Princess Dragomiroff.”
When I supplied the name, Chandra nodded. She stood tall and pulled back her shoulders, trying for a British accent that fell way short, but was as funny as hell. “Oh, so proper. And so regal.”
“And so well dressed,” I added, because the other women hadn’t gotten a really up close look at Mariah.
“And then there’s the note.” Kate licked her spoon before she put it in the kitchen sink. “The one Bea saw on Peter’s front counter yesterday.”
“And the fight Peter had with . . .” Luella pointed to the ceiling, indicating Suite #2 and Ted Brooks.
There was exactly zero humor in the cop’s laugh. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. All that is just like in the book, too.”
“Well, yeah.” As strange as it sounded, it was the truth, so I wasn’t embarrassed to admit it.
“And you’re the one . . .” He looked my way. “You’re the one who had both these experiences? You saw the fight? And read the note?”
Why did he make it sound like a bad thing?
I nodded.
“And that was after you read the book, right?”
“No, it was before, but—”
The cop’s grin was sharp enough to cut me off. “Somebody”—since he was looking at me when he said this, I had a pretty good idea who that somebody was—“has an overactive imagination.”
It was not the first time in my life I’d had that said about me, but this time, it sounded less like a compliment, and more like an accusation.
My shoulders shot back. “I’m not making any of this up. Why would I?”
The cop pursed his lips. “Sometimes when people get a little taste of the spotlight . . .”
“That’s what you think’s going on here?” My pink bunnies preceding me by a couple inches, I marched across the kitchen to face him. “You think because we were unfortunate enough to stumble across a body that all of a sudden, we’re trying to get our names in the papers? Or our faces on the news?”
“As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I came over here to talk to you about. Glad I found you all together. Saves me from making a stop at each of your places.” He glanced around from Luella (looking like she really didn’t give a rat’s ass), to Kate (who’d lost patience with the whole thing and had out gotten another pint of ice cream and was digging into it), to Chandra, who, I swear, looked like her head was going to pop off at any moment, to me.
“We’d appreciate it,” the cop said, “if you ladies didn’t talk to the press. No interviews.”
“Like anybody could get to the island tonight to interview us anyway,” Kate reminded him.
“Well, no phone calls, either. We’d like to keep the details of the murder under wraps until we’re a little further along in our investigation.”
“No one’s called. Not any of us.” The other ladies’ nods confirmed my statement.
“That doesn’t mean they won’t.” The cop had been holding his hat in one hand, and he plopped it on his head and back-stepped toward the door. “As near as we can figure, Peter died somewhere between seven and eight this evening. That means folks have had a couple hours to call their friends and neighbors over on the mainland and tell them what’s going on. Sooner or later, the press is going to get wind of the whole thing. You know when my guys arrived on scene to talk to you, folks were watching from that new bar across the street. I’m sure they knew who you four were. They’re talking about you. And when they call those friends on the mainland, they’re sure mention your names.”
This was something I hadn’t even considered when I made the original call to the police. Not that thinking about it would have stopped me from fulfilling my civic duty. I consoled myself with the fact that because I was a newcomer, those folks over at the bar might not know who I was, and that made me feel better.
At least until my phone rang.
I checked caller ID. “WNWO.”
“That’s the NBC affiliate TV station in Toledo,” Kate said.
My hands in the air, I backed away from the phone. “See?” I looked at the officer. “Not answering it. I have nothing to say.”
“Me, either,” Luella chimed in.
“Or me,” Kate added.
When the cop walked out the door, he was laughing. Only not like it was funny. “That,” he said, “would be a first.”
It wasn’t until the door banged shut behind him that I felt some of the tension inside me ease. I’d already poured myself a cup of coffee, but there was still an inch of margarita left in my glass and I reached for it and wrapped my fingers tight around the green cactus that served as the stem. “What’s that guy’s problem?” I asked no one in particular.
Chandra’s laugh sounded like air escaping from a balloon. “Sorry.” She laughed some more and washed it down with a slug of beer before she was able to talk. “We forgot to introduce you. That was Hank.”
My mouth fell open. “Hank—”
“Yep.” Chandra grinned. “My ex number two. Cranky son-of-a-bitch, isn’t he? Hank, he has this funny way of losing his cool whenever he has to deal with a situation that involves me. And me? I just love it when I can get under his skin like that. Makes life worthwhile.”
Luella spooned sugar into her coffee and stirred, her expression thoughtful. “I’d say we all handled him just fine.”
“Yeah, except for him not believing what Bea said. About the note, and the fight.”
I appreciated Kate coming to my defense, but honestly, I didn’t need it. I sloughed off the whole thing with a lift of my shoulders and divided what was left of the margarita mix in the blender between my glass and Kate’s. “No worries. He’ll spend some time thinking about it, and then he’ll come around. I predict Hank will be back here tomorrow asking about the note. And the fight.”
“You’ve had experience with cops.” Luella didn’t say it as a question, so I didn’t feel obliged to answer.
In fact, I leaned against the counter, my head tipped to one side. “What Hank said . . . about the time of Peter’s murder . . .”
“He said between seven and eight,” Kate reminded me.
“Which was after the ferry stopped running.”
It took a couple seconds, but they all got the message. I knew this for a fact because suddenly, each of their complexions was the same color as the margarita in my glass. Something told me mine was, too.
“You mean . . .” Chandra latched on to my arm with both hands. “Are you saying . . .”
“I’m just saying what old Hank didn’t want to say,” I told them. “Nobody can get here. And the ferry’s not running to the mainland. That means the killer’s still on the island.”
7
The next morning, I woke to the sight of snow swirling outside my window, and the sounds of howling wind and pounding waves.
Or maybe that pounding was all in my head.
“Margaritas.” Standing in the kitchen watching wave after snowy wave hit the windows, I grumbled and scrubbed my hands over my face, reminding myself that I had a houseful of guests and I needed to get a grip. There was a time when I used to party hearty until the wee hours of the morning. These days? It looked like the laid-back island life was already getting to me. A couple margaritas, and I was ready to head back to the sack. Of course, there had been that champagne, too . . .
“Good morning.” The good news was that when she dragged into the kitchen, Luella didn’t look much more chipper than I felt. She’d stayed behind to help me clean up the night before and by the time she was ready to leave, the storm was worse than ever. I’d talked her into sleeping on the pull-out couch in my private suite. Now, she scraped her hands through her hair, shook her head to clear it, and reached for a coffee mug. “Need help with breakfast?”
She was the answer to my prayers, and I told her so. Together, Luella and I warmed a cinnamon and sour cream coffee cake and cut up fruit for a compote. In an attempt to thumb my nose at the weather, I set the cherry table in the dining room with a lace cloth and the yellow and white china I’d bought in London a couple years earlier. The dishes and chunky mugs were decorated with cute cartoon characters who offered advice like, “Start each day with a smile and get it over with.”
Take that, snowstorm!
By nine o’clock, we were ready, and at nine fifteen, I heard the first footsteps against the oak floors upstairs.
When he walked into the dining room, Ted Brooks scowled. “I can’t believe it’s still snowing.” As if he needed to reinforce what he’d no doubt already seen from the windows in his suite, he knelt on the dining room window seat and peered outside. If he was trying to make himself feel better about the weather, he’d picked the worst possible moment; the snow fell fast and hard, the wind blasted, and it looked like we were smack in the center of a snowglobe that had been given a good, hard shake.
“Terrible.” His brows veed over his small, dark eyes, Ted stopped at the buffet to pour coffee and grab some of the scrambled eggs Luella had insisted on making. “A good hot breakfast,” she’d said. “That will cheer folks up.”
If the frown on Ted’s face meant anything, her plan wasn’t exactly working.
Mariah showed up just a minute later. That morning, she was dressed in black pants, a teal turtleneck, and a black silk jacket lavished with teal and cream embroidery. I directed her to the buffet, but before I could attempt small talk, I heard a small voice call out from the top of the stairs.
“Miss Cartwright?”
Amanda Gallagher peered over the railing, the collar of her chenille robe pulled up around her ears and a scarf wrapped around her neck.
“I’m afraid . . .” She shifted from foot to foot and I saw that she was wearing a pair of those slipper socks I’d offered her the night before. “I’m not feeling well,” she said. “I think . . .” She sniffled loud enough for me to hear it at the bottom of the steps. “I think I’ve picked up a bug of some sort. I was wondering . . . If you wouldn’t mind . . . That is, I hoped you could bring some breakfast up to my room.”
Of course I said yes.
Of course I was grumbling about it when I went back into the kitchen.
“I didn’t exactly promise room service,” I told Luella, who was busy making another batch of toast, and looking more awake than she had just a few minutes earlier.
“No worries.” She put a friendly hand on my shoulder. “I’ll take it up to her. You butter the toast and get it out to the dining room.”
“But you shouldn’t have to—”
She was already walking into the dining room to grab a plate for Amanda. “Like I said, not a problem. It’s the least I can do to repay you for your hospitality.” A gust of wind rattled the windows, and Luella shivered. “Chances are if I’d started for home last night, I would have gotten stuck on the road somewhere. Believe me, I’m grateful to have your roof over my head. Nobody’s going anywhere. Not today.”
“Is it true?” When the door between the kitchen and the dining room swung open, I heard Mariah’s breathless question. “Mr. Brooks here tells me the ferry isn’t running.”
“I’m afraid he’s right.” While Luella filled a plate and took it up to Amanda, I refilled coffee cups. I weighed the wisdom of mentioning Peter’s murder to my guests and decided against it. Once the storm passed and Ted and Mariah were on their way back to the mainland, no doubt they’d hear plenty about the murder. For now . . . well, for now, there was no use giving the island a black eye. Or worrying anyone. Maybe the good thing about being snowed in was that no one could spread the word that there was a murderer loose somewhere on the island.
Unless the murderer happened to be staying in Suite #2 and already knew that.
I couldn’t help myself. As much as I tried, I couldn’t forget that argument I’d heard between Peter and Ted. No more than I could forget the way Peter looked when we found him there behind the front counter of the Orient Express.
“So . . .” Yes, that was me, doing my best to sound chipper while I offered my guests a sunny smile that didn’t match the sour feeling in my stomach. Hoping to drown it with some really good French roast, I grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down at the head of the table. “Wha
t’s everyone going to do today?”
Ted talked around a mouthful of eggs. “Wish I could go check on my properties.” He washed down the eggs with a big gulp of coffee. “But that doesn’t look like it’s going to happen. With the power off, I’ve got to think about broken pipes and flooded cottages, and with the way the snow’s still coming down and how heavy it is, I’m worried about roof problems, too.” He finished a piece of coffee cake in two bites. “Since I can’t get out and drive around, I suppose I’ll stay in my room and go through some contracts,” he said. “When it comes to being a landlord, there’s always paperwork to take care of.”
“And you?” I asked Mariah.
“Do?” Her laugh was throaty and her smile was as bright as my English breakfast china. “My nails, I think.” She popped out of her chair and took her coffee upstairs with her.
Ted’s gaze followed Mariah until she was out of the dining room door. “Must be nice to be so carefree,” he said. “I’ve got cottages to worry about. I don’t know, maybe I should take a chance and drive around for a bit.”
A confession here: my imagination has a tendency to run away with me. At times in my past, this was a definite asset. Not so when that imagination was running in the direction of wondering if Ted was running away from the law.
I shook away the thought. It was that, or risk tipping my hand. If Ted was as innocent as all that driven snow outside, it would be the worst innkeeping faux pas imaginable. If he was guilty . . .
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I said, and good thing the comment covered both what I was thinking and what Ted had been talking about, because I wasn’t sure which I was addressing. I shook away the thought and gulped down some coffee. “From what I’ve heard, everything on the island is at a standstill.”
Okay, so not everything. And apparently not everyone, either.
My doorbell rang.
I hurried out to the front entryway and opened the door to find Kate, who was struggling to keep on her feet because of the wind. She had a computer case in one hand and an overnight bag in the other, and she was coated, head to toe, with snow.