Mayhem at the Orient Express

by Kylie Logan

  “I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t know. I mean . . .” The blubbering didn’t help Amanda’s explanation.

  It was time to regroup. I signaled the ladies to back up and give Amanda some room to breathe, then closed in on my own. Literally speaking, of course.

  “We found out what was going on, Amanda,” I told her. “You signed the lease for the Orient Express. Ted told us. Is that why you’ve been trying to avoid him?”

  Amanda threw her hands in the air. “But that’s just it, don’t you see? The last person I expected to see here on the island was Ted. I know what happened back in Cleveland all those years ago. With Peter and the restaurant he had there. I knew if Ted ever saw me again he’d think I had something to do with Peter skipping out on his rent even though I didn’t, and then Ted would be furious.”

  My mind working a mile a minute, I tried to make sense of the scenario. “If Ted knew you on sight, why did he lease the Orient Express to you?”

  Amanda sniffed, and I found myself thinking that it was a good thing the sun was out and the air was warming bit by bit. Otherwise, her tears would have frozen to her cheeks. “Back then,” she said, sniffling, “he didn’t know me as Amanda Gallagher. Back then, I was using my married name, Amanda Chan.”

  I was the first who snapped out of stunned silence and voiced the question I was sure we were all thinking. “You were married to Peter?”

  She shook her head. Not like I was wrong. Like just thinking about it disgusted her. “Biggest mistake I ever made in my life,” she said. “And the best thing I ever did was divorce him. The man was a creep.”

  It was the same word Ted had used to describe Peter. And it didn’t explain . . .

  “But if you hated your ex—” I fought to make sense of everything she told us. “Then why did you lease the building for him?”

  “Don’t you get it?” Amanda’s voice brimmed with tears. “I didn’t lease the building. Peter forged my name on the lease. My maiden name. That’s why Ted didn’t recognize it. A few weeks ago, I ran one of those free credit checks. That’s when I found out. That’s why I came to the island. To have it out with Peter. The son-of-a-bitch didn’t even let me have that much satisfaction. He died before I ever had the chance.”

  “Then you . . .” I took a step back, astounded by where my own deductions took me. “You didn’t receive a threatening note like the one Peter got. You wrote those notes!”

  She didn’t look embarrassed. “As soon as I saw the building lease on my credit report, I knew Peter was behind it. That’s when I sent the first letter. I thought I’d scare him, you know? Just to get even. And to let him know he wasn’t going to get away with it. Then I sent another one, and another one. And then I came to the island. I figured by then, he’d be shaking in his shoes. He should have been, the lowlife. How dare he do something like that? It’s got to be illegal. I mean, it’s identity theft, right? Leave it to Peter.” Her laugh contained exactly zero amusement. “If there was a sneaky way around a law or a quick way to make a buck—honest or not—Peter was the one to do it. To tell you the truth, that’s actually why I came here today. I wanted to see the place where Peter died. You know, just to mark the occasion with a little happy dance.”

  “What Peter did was illegal, sure.” I did my best to make sure I didn’t sound like I was accusing her of anything. Not yet. “But so is murder.”

  Amanda’s mouth fell open and color raced into her porcelain cheeks. “You don’t think . . .” She lifted her chin. “I sure didn’t kill Peter,” she said, her teeth snapping out the words. “As much as I would have liked to, I hate to admit it, but I just didn’t have the nerve.”

  14

  We waited until Amanda walked away, and then we waited some more, just to be sure she didn’t double back and try to break into the Orient Express again.

  Guests with police records are bad for business.

  Then again, having a guest who was a murderer wouldn’t do much for the reputation of Bea & Bees, either.

  “Ted and Amanda both have reasons to hate Peter.” I thought the words were just playing around inside my head, but apparently, I spoke them out loud, because there outside the front door of the restaurant, Kate, Luella, and Chandra turned to me. I explained as simply as I could.

  “They both have motives. I wonder about opportunity.”

  Chandra looked genuinely confused. “You mean . . .”

  A leftover blast of wind raced down the street, and though the sun was quickly warming the air, the breeze blew across the piled-up snow and created instant air-conditioning. I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my parka. “I mean do either one of them have an alibi?”

  Kate’s mouth thinned. “Well, they were both on the island that night. We know that because Amanda checked into your place on Sunday and Ted showed up Monday evening. By then the ferry wasn’t running. So they both had to be on the island at the time Peter was killed.”

  “And Ted arrived late, remember.” Luella started back toward the van. “That means he could have been anywhere before he came to your place.”

  “He said he was checking his properties.” Chandra jumped behind the wheel. “But maybe that was just a story.”

  “And maybe . . .” Another memory from that night jumped up and slapped me like the leftover icy wind that blew off the lake. I climbed into the van and put on my seat belt. “Remember when Amanda came down and asked for tea the night of the murder? She was wearing boots. That means she must have gone out sometime that night.”

  “She said she forgot her slippers,” Kate reminded me.

  “Completely possible,” I conceded. “But if you forgot your slippers, wouldn’t you just walk around in your socks? Why boots? And why—?”

  It was the mention of socks that knocked another memory out from where it had been lodged in the deepest recesses of my brain. The night of the murder, after we came back to the B and B and built a fire, we left our boots by the door and padded around in our stocking feet. After Amanda went back upstairs—

  “There was a wet patch on the carpet!” I was so upended by this dim memory, I grabbed the sleeve of Kate’s jacket and gave her a shake. “Remember, Kate, you stepped in it. After Amanda came down, the floor was wet.”

  Chandra was backing out of the parking space, and in the rearview mirror, I saw her flash me a look. “Which means—?”

  “That her boots were wet, of course. She had been out.” I shot a look down the street in the direction Amanda had gone, and saw her in the distance, plodding on toward the B and B. “Funny, she didn’t mention that when she told us what a creep Peter was.”

  “So Ted and Amanda both have motive. And opportunity.” Luella was sitting up front, and she turned in her seat. “What are the chances somebody else on the island did, too?”

  I answered her with a question of my own. “What are the chances Marianne might be at the library today?”

  Nobody bothered to ask why I was interested.

  We drove straight to the library.

  • • •

  As it turned out, Marianne was at her post at the library’s main desk that morning. She was surprised when we knocked and asked to be let in, but she didn’t question it. Instead, she told us that she had stopped in to make sure nothing in the library had gotten damaged and was relieved, now that the electricity was coming back to the island bit by bit, that the library’s lights were on and the heat was pumping.

  “And with all this peace and quiet . . .” Marianne glanced around the library, which was smaller than the library room in my condo back in New York. She sighed with the contentment of a real book lover. “Before we officially reopen for business and our patrons return, I can do some serious shelving without being interrupted.”

  For our part (okay, truth be told, my part, because I was doing the talking for the group so I was the one who made up the story on the fly), we said that while we waited out the storm back at the B and B, we’d been discussing Murder on the Orient Express and
wondering what it would be like to be real detectives. With Poirot’s incomparable skills in mind, we’d given ourselves a challenge.

  “We’re going to put our own little gray cells to work.” I was afraid I sparkled a little too much when I said this and that it might give us away, so I toned down my smile and opted for at least part of the truth. “We’d like to see how much we can find out about Peter Chan.”

  “Internet?” Marianne suggested with a gesture toward one of the library’s computers.

  I put Kate and Chandra on it.

  But I had other ideas. “Microfilm,” I said. “Cleveland newspapers.”

  Humming with the excitement of helping us explore the classic book in this new and different way, Marianne led the way to the library’s one and only microfilm reader.

  Luella poked me in the ribs. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you actually had some experience being a detective.”

  “Oh, or a secret past!” From over by the computer, Chandra practically swooned. She had just slipped out of her coat, and she clutched her hands to her heart. “Leave it to Bea to have some great, exciting double identity.”

  When everyone else laughed, I joined in. Not exactly as easy as it sounds when the emotion felt so hollow. “Actually,” I said, skirting the subject as cleanly as I was able, “I’ve had some experience doing research. Newspapers are always a great place to start.”

  “But how do we know where to look?” By this time, I was sitting in front of the microfilm reader, and Luella was seated on my left. “It’s not like we know much about Peter.”

  “We know he lived in Cleveland twelve years ago,” I reminded her. “And we know he left suddenly. That means he might have had a very good reason to get out of town. A reason besides dodging his rent payments, that is.”

  With that in mind, we asked Marianne for the microfilm reels from the proper dates and got down to business.

  It was slow going, and by the time we were all the way through May, my head pounded and my eyes felt as if they were going to pop out of my head. We started in on June and I rotated my shoulders, getting rid of a cramp.

  “Baseball scores, hints of public corruption, oil prices, movie reviews.” I scanned page after page, providing Luella with a running commentary, just in case she didn’t read as fast as I did. “Recipes, letters to the editor, a lawsuit resulting from a death at a Chinese restaurant.”

  My own words echoed back at me and I sat up like a shot and pointed to the screen. “A lawsuit resulting from a death at a Chinese restaurant,” I repeated.

  I didn’t need to. Luella was already out of her chair, leaning over my shoulder and reading the article along with me.

  I skimmed, voicing the highlights. “Popular eatery . . . elderly woman . . . Anastasia Golubski . . . became ill immediately after eating there in early March . . . some question as to the cause of death . . . civil suit brought by family against owner . . .” I wasn’t surprised and I don’t think Luella was, either, when I read the man’s name. “Peter Chan.”

  While I reread the article and hit the proper button on the machine to make it print, she flopped back down in her chair.

  “What are the chances?” I asked.

  “You mean the chances someone might have a grudge against Peter because of the woman’s death?”

  “That.” I grabbed the article from the printer. “And what are the chances that person could be on the island?”

  • • •

  The most logical way back to the B and B from the library was down the road that ran parallel to the lake, but once we were on it, we realized village officials had called out the backhoes and dump trucks usually used for repairing roads and put them to work removing snow. The road was blocked, and rather than follow the trucks at a snail’s pace, we endured a couple harrowing minutes of Chandra inching the van forward, then slamming it into reverse to get us turned around. We went back the way we came, right past the Orient Express.

  “Hank,” Chandra said just as we approached the building, and I was just about to lecture her about her love him/hate him relationship when I saw what she was talking about. Hank’s patrol car was parked in front of the restaurant.

  When Chandra parked the van, I didn’t object. But then, I think my reasons for wanting to get another look at the Orient Express were different from Chandra’s. (Hint, hint: Chandra ran a comb through her hair and slapped on some lipstick before we went inside.)

  “Hey, Hank.” Her hips swaying just enough to distract Hank’s attention from the clipboard he was holding and the notes he was jotting, Chandra strolled into the restaurant as if she had every right to be there. And since she got away with it, the rest of us followed right along, sans hip swaying. “What are you doing here, big guy?”

  We exchanged glances, wondering what, exactly, the nickname referred to. Maybe Hank was thinking what we were thinking, because color raced up his neck and into his face. “Just looking things over again,” he said, ignoring her too-familiar greeting and setting down the clipboard on the front counter so he could run a hand through his buzzed hair. “I don’t know why, but this case is making me crazy. It just doesn’t make any sense. But then . . .” Hank’s glance skipped over Chandra to the three of us standing right behind her. “I’m probably boring you ladies to death with talk of police work.”

  “Actually . . .” I figured I might not ever get a chance like this again. Besides, Hank owed me. If it weren’t for Bea & Bees, he’d be sleeping on the couch at the station. And he would have missed out on his assignation with Chandra the night before. “We were here yesterday,” I said, and reminded him, “You said Ted could get back in and Chandra came over to—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I remember.” He waved a hand as if he could still smell the herbs Chandra had burned during her cleansing ceremony. “It’s up to the building’s owner, after all, who he lets in and what they do when they get here. And if mumbo jumbo makes Ted Brooks happy, I suppose that’s all that matters. But let’s face it, all that hocus-pocus is nothing more than horse hockey!”

  Chandra crossed her arms over the front of her purple coat, and in a voice filled with so much patience, I was sure she’d lectured Hank about this a thousand times before, she said, “Just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

  “Right.” There was no doubt about how Hank felt about the subject, either. I mean, what with the way he split the word into two syllables. His chin came up. “How many times have I told you, if you’d get your fuzzy brain out of the clouds—”

  Patience gone in a flash, Chandra’s voice was sharp. “And if you’d try to see further than the end of your nose—”

  “You’d realize that you’re just kidding yourself.” Bad move to bring it up in the first place, and punctuating the statement with a laugh didn’t earn Hank any points. “Isn’t that what I’ve been telling you for years, Sandy?”

  “It’s Chandra.” Her jaw tightened. So did her fists. “And if you’d just take a little time to think less about yourself and more about the magical world around you . . .”

  I left them at it. The sometimes lovebirds were too busy fighting to notice when I slipped up the stairs and back into the apartment. A second later, Luella and Kate followed me into Peter’s kitchen.

  Kate glanced around. “We’ve already been here. What are you looking for, Bea? Nothing’s changed. Nothing’s different.”

  My hands on my hips, I glanced around the kitchen, too. Of course, it looked exactly the same. Same blue counter. Same white cabinets. Same blue and white floor. “Something’s still bugging me,” I admitted. “Something about Peter saying he was remodeling.”

  Kate’s smile was stiff. “You’re not still worried about that cabinet being pulled off the wall, are you?” She pointed that way. After all, Luella had not made the trip upstairs with us on our last visit to the Orient Express, and apparently, Kate thought she might miss the white cabinet propped next to the refrigerator. “Bea thinks it’s we
ird,” she whispered, but loud enough to make sure I could hear.

  My not-so-sweet smile told her I got her message. That didn’t stop me from taking another stroll through the apartment. As Kate was so quick to point out, nothing had changed, and honestly, I hadn’t expected that it would.

  Maybe that’s why I was so thrown for a loop when I realized there were two holes in the living room wall.

  Since Kate was standing next to me, hers was the arm I rapped. “Two.” I pointed, my finger vibrating with the excitement that coursed through me like the punch of a shot of Red Bull and vodka. “Two holes.”

  “Sloppy, but hardly telling,” Kate commented.

  Luella leaned between us, the better to see what we were talking about. “For such a neat man who took such pride in his cooking, you’d think Peter would have cleaned up after himself.”

  “That’s the whole point!” Now my whole body was feeling the crazy cascade of exhilaration. Unable to keep still, I closed in on the wall. And the holes. “There was only one hole in the wall yesterday,” I said.

  “Oh, yeah?” Hank’s question caromed through the tiny room. I hadn’t realized he’d come upstairs and was standing in the kitchen doorway. I spun that way, one hand clapped to my heart. “So yesterday when you said you were downstairs doing that goofy magic ceremony, you Nosey Norahs were really up here?”

  My smile came and went. “We weren’t all Nosey Norahs,” I confessed. “Chandra and Luella stayed downstairs. And it was a good thing Kate and I came up here,” I added, before he could start tossing around words like trespassing and breaking and entering, and before Kate could turn up the juice on the look she shot my way, the one that indicated that, clearly, I was a traitor. “Otherwise we wouldn’t have seen the hole in the wall. The one hole in the wall”—I held up a finger—“that was here when we were here yesterday.”

  “But today there are two.” Fingering the cleft in his chin, Hank nudged Luella and Kate aside and stepped closer to me and to the wall. Chandra had been in the kitchen, and with Hank out of the way, she moved into the living room, too. He studied the new hole, and when I made a move to get an even closer look, he held out an arm to stop me. “We need to get the crime scene guys in here to have a look around and see if there’s any evidence. Son of a gun.” As if some amazing thought had just occurred to him, he shook his head. “It’s not possible. It couldn’t be.”