Mayhem at the Orient Express

by Kylie Logan

  Talk of murder or not, Ted had just taken a chomp out of his sandwich, and he held up a finger to signal that he couldn’t answer me while he chewed, his jaw working up and down like pistons in an engine. He swallowed, washed down the mouthful with a glug of coffee, and pounded his chest.

  “Name doesn’t sound familiar. I don’t think I knew him at all.”

  Far be it from me to pretend I was a detective, but the way Chandra was squirming in her seat, I envisioned her losing control at any moment, pointing a finger, and screaming out j’accuse with all the French outrage she could muster.

  I couldn’t let that happen, and the reasons should be fairly clear:

  1. I couldn’t offend Ted if he wasn’t our murderer. Hospitality and all that, and besides, he was a paying guest.

  2. If Ted had killed Peter, we couldn’t afford to tip our hand. He might be desperate, dangerous—and I was responsible for the welfare of the people under my roof.

  In an effort to throw him off his guard, I stammered. Just for the record, I am a lousy stammerer. “I’m so sorry. I could have sworn it was you.” I pretended to think it over. “It’s funny, isn’t it, how our memories can play tricks on us? When I stopped at the Orient Express on Sunday—”

  “Oh, the restaurant?” Ted grabbed a napkin and wiped a dribble of tomato sauce from the corner of his mouth. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Really? The Orient Express? That building is one of the properties I own here on the island!”

  “So you must have known Peter Chan. He was one of your tenants.”

  Ted glanced toward Kate, who’d made this pronouncement. “Chan! Is that what you said?” He looked back at me. “Peter Chan? I thought you said Jan. Peter Jan.”

  Yeah. And I just fell off a turnip truck.

  “Not only was he your tenant, but you were there.” Me again. Hoping I came off as merely interested, not burning with curiosity. “Sunday afternoon. You were walking out of the Orient Express as I was walking in.”

  Ted’s face crumpled with the effort of remembering, then cleared when he snapped his fingers. “Yeah. Of course. You bumped into me as I was leaving.”

  My smile was angelic. After all, I was the hostess. “You bumped into me,” I reminded him ever so gently, though plowed into me was a more accurate way to describe it. “But then, I can see how you might not remember. You and Peter were having something of a knock-down-drag-out argument when I arrived.”

  “Were we?” Ted was to acting what I was to stammering. He refused to meet my eyes. “I wouldn’t exactly call it that. I was—”

  “Angry.”

  “Upset,” he insisted.

  “It looked a little more personal than that.”

  “Well . . .” There was a bowl of sloppy joe meat and more sandwich buns on the buffet, and he got up for seconds. Don’t think I didn’t notice how much time he took to arrange the food just so on his plate, then again when he sat back down and squirted a ketchup design on his fries.

  “You were having a business disagreement,” I suggested.

  He dredged a fry through ketchup and chomped it down. “No, no, nothing like that.”

  “But from what Bea says . . .” Kate sat back, regarding Ted with a look so perceptive, it made me certain that Wilder Winery was in capable hands. “Bea says it was a pretty heated discussion. Come on, Ted, you’re a man of business. You and I both know there’s nothing that can press your buttons like some dispute over rent, or utilities, or upkeep on a property. Believe me, been there, done that. I know my temper’s gotten out of control a time or two when it comes to that sort of thing. That’s why I understand.”

  Slick. Oh yes, I had to give Kate credit for that. She was as poised under the pressure of this impromptu interrogation as Chandra was dramatic and transparent.

  Cool as a cucumber and as icy as the wind from Canada that battered the house.

  I told myself not to forget it, just in case Kate ever decided to write another letter about me to the township board.

  Ted was about to bite into another fry and he changed his mind and set it back on the plate. “In light of the fact that Peter Chan is dead, I can understand that you’re curious. And I know it’s only human to jump to conclusions. I mean, about a landlord and a tenant and a dispute. But honestly, that’s not what happened at all. You see, I called ahead to the Orient Express before I stopped in. To order lunch.” His head was bent, and he raised his small round eyes and looked across the table at me. “It’s going to sound silly.”

  “We won’t know until you tell us,” I replied.

  He played with a fry on his plate, trailing it back and forth through the sea of ketchup. “Well,” he said with a sigh, “it was all because when I called, I told the man who answered the phone—Peter, I know that now and didn’t then—that I was hungry and willing to try just about anything. He decided to make up a dish of something he called orange chicken.”

  It wasn’t my imagination; a sigh went ’round the table.

  “When I placed my order, I said I didn’t care what I ate, but I had one stipulation. I said I was allergic to peanuts. Peter said not to worry. And when I got there, well, good thing I checked before I walked out, because if I’d taken even one bite, it wouldn’t have been pretty. There were definitely peanuts in that orange chicken.”

  Another sigh, and yes, I was just as guilty as the other ladies. I thought about the perfect blend of ingredients, the sweetness of the orange juice, the crunchy peanuts, and my mouth watered.

  Right before I told myself to get a grip.

  “So you and Peter were arguing about peanuts?”

  Ted’s brow folded into a dozen creases. “I’m sorry to hear the poor guy’s dead, and I wish I could tell you more, but really, things just kind of got out of control, what with me telling him the peanuts could have killed me and him telling me that I’d never told him I was allergic. I did tell him. Of course I did. But honestly, there wasn’t anything else for us to fight about. I never saw the guy before that afternoon.”

  “You rented him space and never saw him before?” A plain and simple question from Luella, and she folded her hands on the table in front of her, waiting for Ted to answer.

  “All done via email. And the contracts were sent through regular mail.” His explanation was short and sweet. Then again, his sloppy joe was getting cold. He dug into it, and I wondered if he was telling the truth. If Peter and Ted didn’t know each other, why had Peter waved that note under Ted’s nose?

  In an effort to look casual, I picked up a pickle spear. “Then what,” I said, and bit into the pickle to emphasize my point, “about the threatening note?”

  Ted’s doughy face blanched. “How do you know anything about a threatening note?” he asked.

  Which wasn’t at all the same as answering my question.

  Before I could point that out, Mariah’s fork clattered against her plate. “The whole thing is perfectly dreadful,” she said, touching her napkin to the corners of her mouth. “I thought . . . That is, I was hoping island life would be less . . . eventful. You see, I was hoping to settle down here.”

  This was news, and eager to turn the conversation away from threatening notes, frightening arguments, and murder, I glommed right on to it. Maybe a little time-out would put Ted at ease. And make him more likely to tell the truth.

  “As a newcomer to the island, I might be able to answer any questions about relocating here,” I said.

  “And we can certainly help out when it comes to where to live and things like that,” Kate offered.

  Yeah, I thought, as long as where you decide to live doesn’t bring too much traffic past Kate’s house.

  I wiped the notion from my mind along with the bitter little smile that threatened to give away my thoughts, and gave Mariah my full attention.

  “What are your plans?” I asked her.

  “Well . . .” Her cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink. “I was hoping to bring a little style to the island. A little
class. I was thinking of opening an exclusive women’s boutique.”

  Kate nodded her approval. “That would save me a lot of trips to the mainland,” she admitted.

  “And it would attract the tourists, that’s for sure,” Luella added without bothering to mention that she was probably the last person on the island who would ever shop anywhere that called itself a boutique.

  “Clothing?” Chandra asked, and I was grateful. Apparently, shopping was a subject nearer and dearer to her heart even than murder. “And jewelry, too?”

  “Clothing, jewelry, shoes, purses.” Mariah laughed. “It’s not that I’m saying those of you who live here don’t have style . . .” She took us all in with one regal glance. “But let’s face it, ladies, when it comes to fashion, enough is never enough. I know I should have started looking for retail space last fall, but . . . well, it’s complicated and I won’t bore you with the details. Let’s just say that I didn’t have the financing then, and I do now. That’s why I came to the island so early in the spring, to see if I could find an available storefront. Speaking of which . . .” She turned her full attention and a simmering smile on Ted. “That space will become available, won’t it? The place that was the Orient Express? Renting it quickly would surely be advantageous for you, and it’s an ideal spot. I remember seeing it as I walked around downtown the other day. I bet there’s plenty of foot traffic that passes there on busy summer weekends.”

  The tips of Ted’s ears turned red. “We might be able to arrange something, sure. Now that Peter Chan is dead, I imagine that invalidates his lease agreement, and you’re right, getting another tenant in there fast would be ideal.”

  “You can’t do that!” Chandra’s hands flew to her cheeks. “Not without proper preparation.”

  Like the rest of us, Ted was at a loss. He cleared his throat. “Preparation? I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

  Chandra buzzed with excitement. Or maybe that was her aura getting all revved up. “A cleansing. You can’t expect to walk into a building where there’s been a murder and have life just go on as if nothing ever happened.”

  “Well, I suppose there will be some cleanup,” Ted admitted.

  Chandra was in her element now, and the center of attention, to boot, and she sat up tall, murder all but forgotten in the face of Mystical Matters. “I’m not talking about physically cleaning up the place,” she said, and thinking about it, she wrinkled her nose. “Though I suppose someone will need to do that. But what I’m talking about is a spiritual cleansing. You know, a ritual.”

  Ted hesitated. Like anyone could blame him?

  “It couldn’t hurt,” Luella said. “And who knows, it actually might help!”

  “Might?” One corner of Chandra’s mouth pulled into a cynical smile when she looked at Mariah. “If I were you, I wouldn’t want to take a chance with that building otherwise. Imagine all the bad energy that was unleashed in the instant of Peter’s murder.”

  Even I couldn’t argue with that.

  Call it karma. Call it vibes. Call it just plain spooky. Murder is an ugly business, and whether it actually helped or was purely symbolic, making an effort to dispel its shadows made sense to me.

  Apparently, it did to Ted, too.

  “It might not hurt to have somebody go in there and say a few prayers or something,” he admitted. “You know, to sort of—”

  “Cleanse the spiritual environment and readjust the feng shui. Of course!” Chandra hid her grin behind a expression that was supposed to be serene and oh-so spiritual. “I’d be happy to help. Of course, I suppose we’ll have to wait until the police are done with the building.”

  Honestly, could we have asked for a more perfect cue?

  No sooner had Chandra spoken the words than my doorbell rang.

  When I answered it, police chief Hank Florentine stepped into the house.

  “Exactly the man I need to talk to.” Chandra didn’t miss a trick. The moment she saw it was Hank, she sashayed into the entryway, her chin in the air. “I’ve been asked to do a cleansing,” she informed him. “Of the place where the recent Unfortunate Incident occurred. You will let me know when your people have vacated the premises.” This last bit was not a question, which was just as well, because Hank didn’t look especially inclined to answer it.

  In fact, cap in hand, he ignored Chandra completely and turned to me. “Any rooms?” he asked.

  “Here?” Of course he was talking about Bea & Bees. I just wasn’t used to being this much in demand.

  “We’ve got a generator at the station,” Hank went on to explain, “so there’s electricity there, and heat. But the other guys on the force have all brought their families in. The place is crawling with people, and I’ll tell you what, I don’t really like the thought of sharing the floor in my office with a bunch of twelve-year-olds. I thought if you had an extra room . . .”

  I did a quick mental tabulation. My guest rooms were full, but if Kate moved out of Suite #5 and into my suite with me, she could have the pull-out couch in my sitting room, and I could put Hank up in Kate’s former room. It was good PR, what with me being new to South Bass and Hank knowing everyone there was to know on the island. And besides, if the little tingle on the back of my neck was right and Ted Brooks did know more about Peter’s murder than he let on, it sure wouldn’t hurt to have a man in blue under my roof.

  Kate was still sitting at the dining room table, but she’d apparently done all the same calculations I had. She popped out of her chair. “I’ll move my stuff down to your suite,” she told me when she sauntered by.

  “And I’ll be back later this evening,” Hank said. He plopped his cap on his head and opened the door and a fierce blast of wind rattled the chandelier in the hallway. “Hard to believe it could possibly be getting worse,” he said, and he disappeared into the storm.

  I turned to find Chandra with her arms crossed over her chest, aiming a death look at the closed door. “I can’t believe you’d let that snake in the grass stay here with me.”

  “He’s not staying with you. He’s staying with us. And it might not hurt to have him around.”

  “Oh, you mean . . .” Chandra’s gaze wandered (not subtly, I might add) into the dining room where our guests were digging into the oatmeal cookies. She gave me a broad wink. “I get it. Protection.”

  “We’re not going to call it that.” I wound an arm through hers and piloted her into the kitchen. “We’re going to treat Hank just like any other guest.”

  “Guest?” Her tsk was one of epic proportions. “Just keep that son-of-a-bitch out of my way, or I’ll tell you what, there’s going to be another murder.”

  9

  By late afternoon, the lunch dishes were cleaned up and Luella and Meg had started in on making dinner. That’s not as easy as it sounds. I do, after all, technically live alone, and when there are other people in the house, they are people to whom I have promised only breakfast. I’m not at all sure how they managed, but after a great deal of digging through the freezer and poking through cupboards, the mother/daughter dynamic duo not only found the right ingredients for pizza for that Tuesday evening, but they put on a pot of beef vegetable soup to simmer the rest of the day so we could serve it for lunch on Wednesday.

  I left them at their work in the kitchen and had just stepped out into the hallway when Ted walked down the steps bundled in his trenchcoat and wearing his fedora and a heavy black wool scarf that was triple-wrapped around his neck.

  “You’re not going out?” Okay, so not exactly a polite question, considering I said it in a tone of voice I might have used if I asked if he’d decided to walk to the moon. Before he could answer, I pointed to the window. “It’s worse than ever out there. If you’re going for a walk, you could get lost, and if you’re planning on driving—”

  “I’ve got four-wheel drive on my SUV.” He sounded confident, but the look he gave the window and the weather beyond was anything but. “I can’t just sit here and do nothing. I’v
e got to check on my properties. They could be getting damaged.”

  “And there’s nothing you can do about it. Not until after the storm lets up.” Yes, I was the voice of reason.

  And Ted still moved toward the door. “I know you’re right.” He shivered and he wasn’t even outside yet. “But I can’t stand the thought that there might be something bad happening and I don’t know about it. If I get stranded someplace—”

  “You’ll need to call the police and hope for the best.” I couldn’t be any clearer. I might have turned into a full-service inn when it came to rooms and meals, but I was not the ski patrol. I wouldn’t risk my safety or the safety of any of my guests who might pitch in and try to help, not when Ted should have known better and stayed put.

  Unless the real reason he wanted to leave had nothing to do with his rental properties.

  I was going to say that the thought stopped me cold, but cold was something I didn’t want to think about, especially when the heavy oak front door rattled in the wind. I will say that considering the possibility brought me up short. And made me wonder if Ted had more on his mind than just checking out the condition of the buildings he owned.

  If he was fleeing from the long arm of the law, who was I to stop him? There was no way he was going to be able to leave the island, anyway, and honestly, I knew I’d rest a little easier if, until we knew who was who and what was what when it came to Peter’s murder, he wasn’t under my roof.

  I stepped away from the door. “Bon voyage,” I told him.

  Ted gulped down a breath for courage and headed outside.

  “Oh my, it is terrible out there.” No sooner had he left than Amanda came down the steps, still wrapped in her thick chenille robe and shivering in the blast of cold air that came in when Ted went out. “I’m so grateful you’re letting me stay here,” she said, glancing out the window. Together, we watched Ted retreat into the storm. Once he was down the front steps, we lost sight of him completely in the swirling snow. “It’s bad enough being in a strange place, but then to not feel well . . .”