Mayhem at the Orient Express

by Kylie Logan

  Hero.

  I’d been called a hero—by the media, by the bloggers, by the cops—when I stood up to George Mattingly. When I testified against him in court.

  “What do you . . .” My mouth was filled with sand; the words wouldn’t come out. I cleared my throat and tried again. “What do you know about it?” I asked.

  Levi had already gone back to the eggs. I’m not much of a cook, but even I knew there wasn’t an egg on earth that needed to be beaten that hard. “What do I know about what?” he asked.

  I couldn’t play games. Not when it came to this. I laid a hand over Levi’s and he froze. “You said again. You said I was trying to be a hero again.”

  “Did I?” As if it was the most normal thing in the world, he slipped away from me so he could grab a dish towel and wipe his hands. He leaned his back against the sink and shrugged.

  “I guess I meant you were a hero for taking us all in when we didn’t have anyplace else to stay. Is there something wrong with that?”

  “No.” The word came out along with the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My heartbeat ratcheted back. “I just thought—”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I whizzed past him, determined to get dishes from the cupboard before he could notice that my hands were trembling. I would have made it if he hadn’t grabbed my arm, holding me in place at the same time he spun me to face him.

  “Bea—”

  My gaze went from where he held on to me to his face. “What?”

  He didn’t answer. Not right away, anyway. Not until our gazes locked, and my breath caught again. Not until he dropped his hand as if my arm were on fire. He backed away. “Just tell me when you want me to start cooking.”

  • • •

  When breakfast was finally on the table, I found I wasn’t very hungry, so I retreated into my private suite and took care of some paperwork. It would have been easier to concentrate if I could knock the conversation with Levi out of my head. The way it was, the words played round and round. It’s no wonder that by lunchtime, my stomach growled and my nerves were frayed.

  “We’re out of milk.” I banged the carton—the carton someone had emptied, then put back in the fridge—on the counter. “Why didn’t someone tell me we were out of milk?”

  “It’s not like it would have mattered.” Chandra said this so matter-of-factly, I knew she was the guilty party. “The grocery store hasn’t opened back up yet. We couldn’t run out and get more milk, anyway.”

  “That’s a great excuse for not throwing the carton away.” I did just that.

  “You’re a tad cranky.” Kate was at the desk in the kitchen, checking her text messages, and she glanced over her shoulder at me. “That doesn’t have anything to do with a certain handsome bartender, does it?”

  I gritted my teeth. “The certain handsome bartender—”

  “Always has his eyes on you.” Kate got up and went over to the cupboard. I’d put her in charge of finding something that would go along with the chili we’d be serving for lunch, and she rooted around until she found a box of crackers. “Every time I look at him—”

  “Oh, come on!” I was so not in the mood to hear this kind of hogwash. Not when Levi and I were always at odds with each other. Not when he’d made that off-the-cuff hero remark that still had my stomach tied in knots. “Why on earth would you notice what Levi is up to?” I asked Kate. “You never pay attention to anything but that phone of yours. Sorry. I just can’t believe you get that many messages. Nobody’s that important.”

  “Maybe she’s just pretending to check her messages.” Chandra slid by, a bag of grated cheese in one hand, a bottle of hot sauce in the other, and a sly smile on her face “So she doesn’t have to notice that Jayce Martin can’t take his eyes off her.”

  “Please!” Kate pursed her lips. “You can’t possibly think—”

  “That he’s not good enough for you?” Chandra snorted. “Is that what you’re saying, Kate? Jayce is a fine man. And he comes from a good family. But then, I guess the rest of us common folk here on the island just can’t measure up to the great Wilders.”

  Kate dumped crackers into a bowl. “Common being the operative word.”

  Chandra made a face. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah.” Kate propped her fists on her hips. “As a matter of fact, if you weren’t so busy bonking your ex, you might notice—”

  “Girls!” Luella walked into the kitchen after calling everyone down for lunch. She aimed a laser look on each of us. “What the heck is wrong with you? It’s just like the old days, you three sniping at each other like there’s no tomorrow.”

  “I was not sniping,” I pointed out, because it was the truth, and because this was my house to begin with and I shouldn’t have to defend myself. “If Kate wasn’t so busy—”

  “Oh, no!” Kate threw a hand in the air. “Don’t pin this on me. You were fine until I mentioned Levi. Then you got all prickly and all hell broke loose.”

  I stepped up to her. “You haven’t seen hell yet. And if you don’t mind your own business—”

  “Kate Wilder? Mind her own business?” Chandra cackled. “If she could do that, we never would have met in the first place. If she didn’t keep dragging me into court—”

  Kate swung around to face her. “If you didn’t keep burning those stinky fires.”

  “And playing that stupid opera.”

  “And has anyone mentioned the cat?”

  “Oh, no!” For a woman in her seventies, Luella could move pretty darned fast. In the blink of an eye, she was standing in the center of our little showdown. Her face screwed up and one eye narrowed, she glanced from Kate to Chandra to me. “I’m not going to let this happen,” she said.

  I knew what she was talking about. That didn’t keep me from getting defensive. “What?”

  “You know what.” Since I asked the question, I deserved the full brunt of her anger, and I got it. “You three.” She pointed at each of us in turn. “You three were finally getting along. And now you’re going to start again. On account of what? Because we’ve been cooped up together too long? Because we can’t get to the bottom of what happened to Peter? Those aren’t good excuses. I will not have you acting like toddlers who need a time-out. Not again.”

  Chandra grunted. “I don’t see how you can stop it,” she grumbled. “If Kate would just—”

  “Oh, no.” Kate backed away, distancing herself not from the argument, but from any criticism Chandra might level. “Don’t you blame me, Sandy.”

  Oh yeah, she emphasized the name. Just to twist the knife a little.

  “Stop right now.” Luella stomped one sneaker-clad foot. “We’ve come too far to backslide,” she said. “And maybe the three of you don’t care, but I’ll tell you what; I sure do. Lord knows how much longer we’re going to be stuck here together, but I’m certainly not going to spend my time with the bunch of you going at each other. We’ve got to get back to the way things were. You know, when we were all working together. When we were friends.”

  Were we?

  Friends?

  Right about then, I was too angry to debate her use of the word.

  My guess was that Kate and Chandra were, too. They were both breathing hard, their jaws as stiff as mine.

  I forced my muscles to relax, but I couldn’t keep myself from sticking out my chin when, like the naughty toddler Luella had accused me of impersonating, I asked, “What are you going to do about it?”

  Luella’s slim shoulder shot back. “Do about it? I’m going to . . . I’m going to . . .” She glanced around the room and her gaze landed on my library copy of Murder on the Orient Express, still on the countertop where I’d tossed it. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I was just reading an old newspaper article about some group on the mainland that puts on mystery parties. You know, for fun. I’m going to go in there right now . . .” She stabbed one finger toward the dining room. “And I’m going to tell your guests that tonight, you thr
ee are hosting a murder mystery dinner.”

  “But—” I shouldn’t have bothered trying to object. Luella was already on her way out of the room, and if there was one thing I knew about Luella, it was that she was as tough and unforgiving as the lake waters she navigated so expertly. “But it’s already noon, and you’re not giving us much time.”

  “Noon. Yeah.” I was surprised the look Luella shot at the clock didn’t stop its hands. “Then you three better get crackin’.”

  16

  “This is good. Really good.” Luella looked up from the dashed-off-at-the-speed-of-light-and-off-the-top-of-my-head script I’d handed her. “You should be a writer.”

  “No.” I shooed the thought away with the wave of one hand and what I hoped was a convincing smile. “That’s one thing I know for sure I don’t want to be.”

  “But, isn’t it good?” Luella looked to Kate and Chandra to support her position. Since Kate was staring at the pages in front of her, chewing her lower lip, and Chandra stood near the kitchen door with her back to us and her arms folded over her chest, I was pretty sure they weren’t in the mood for Luella’s not-so-subtle attempt at stirring up some kind of literary camaraderie.

  Then again, I wasn’t sure I was, either.

  Frosty.

  I guess that’s the best way to describe the mood in the kitchen that late afternoon. I hadn’t left the house all day, and something told me it was probably colder in there than it was outside. Just the way it had been since right before lunch.

  Truth is, I wasn’t exactly feeling warm and fuzzy, either. Not that I held a grudge or anything. I’d gotten rid of most of my anger at having it out with Kate and Chandra earlier with an hour of frantic writing at the computer.

  But that didn’t mean I was ready to forgive or to forget.

  In fact, I’d only gone along with Luella’s crazy idea about a murder mystery dinner as a way to thank her for all the help she’d provided over the last days. It wasn’t Luella’s fault that the two most difficult neighbors in the world just so happened to be stuck in the house—and the book discussion group—with us.

  “I guess it’s okay.” A copy of the script was on the table in front of Kate, and with thumb and index finger, she nudged it aside, convinced—I was sure—that keeping it too close would be nonverbal confirmation of the fact that I was not as big a nuisance to the neighborhood as she’d always said.

  Fine by me.

  I was a nuisance?

  Well, she was a stick-in-the-mud. And a self-important snob, to boot.

  She was also, as it turned out, willing to give credit where credit was due. Even when it was obviously painful. Until that moment—until I watched Kate’s spine stiffen and the muscles in her shoulders tighten so much, just seeing them made mine ache—I don’t think I’d ever completely understood all the nuances of the word begrudging.

  Kate made them roaringly clear. “You’ve taken the entire story of Murder on the Orient Express and distilled it down to its essence.” Was this a compliment I heard forming on her lips? I braced myself, wondering, if that were the case, if I could be gracious.

  “It’s just enough to get people interested,” Kate went on, her voice thawing just a tad. “Just enough to get them involved. But not so much that it’s going to drag out forever and everybody’s going to end up bored.”

  Okay, so not exactly a compliment. Not an effusive one, anyway. And not exactly groveling, either.

  I took what I could get. This was as close to an apology as a woman like Kate was ever likely to give.

  Or maybe not.

  The next second, she sat up as if she’d touched an electrical line and a smile eased the obstinate set of her chin. “Hey!” She turned in her chair to look at me. “What if we did mystery dinners at the winery this summer? The tourists would love it, and we could do it in conjunction with wine tastings. With you writing the scripts—”

  I didn’t know of any other way to say no than just to say it, even if it meant getting on her bad side—again. I never had a chance. Chandra, who was apparently not the fastest reader in the world, had just gotten to what I knew would be the most significant aspect of the script, at least for her.

  “Bea!” When she spun around, her eyes were bright with what I was afraid were tears of thanks. “After all those terrible things I said. You still . . .” She cleared her throat, and when she spoke, her accent was as heavy as that fat lady who’s said to end the opera. “It is I! I who am playing the great Hercule Poirot!”

  “But of course.” I slipped into the accent without even thinking, gave myself a mental slap, and dropped it pronto. “I knew you’d want to be Poirot,” I told Chandra. Then, because I couldn’t stand the fact that it looked like she was about to cry, I turned to Luella.

  “And it only makes sense that you’re playing Mrs. Hubbard,” I told her. “She was a dear friend of the mother of the murder victim, and she’s the lynchpin of the piece.”

  “And me?” Kate did another quick read through. “I’m the countess and the count is . . .” Her mouth thinned, but he cheeks flushed. “Jayce? Really? He’s not exactly the count type.”

  “Why not? Because he’s not good enough for you?” Chandra stepped forward, but I placed one hand on her arm and gently urged her to stay put.

  I could be sweet when I wanted to be (which wasn’t often), so I pasted on a smile. “Come on, Kate,” I said. “Think of poor Jayce. Because that’s what I was thinking when I gave him the part. His business has really suffered with the ferry being shut down. He’s been cooped up here, and every time I see him, he’s either got his nose buried in some fishing magazine or he’s staring at you. Cut the guy some slack. Besides . . .” I had more pages waiting on the computer printer and I went and got them. “Maybe if you two actually got to know each other, you’d decide Jayce isn’t so bad after all.”

  “He’s a mighty fine man.” This from Luella. “Reminds me of his father. Good man, Daniel Martin, honest and hard working. Good family man, too. You could do worse, Kate. Much worse.”

  “And that Jayce . . .” Chandra jiggled her shoulders. “He’s cute, too!”

  “All right, already!” Kate surrendered so quickly, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was the opportunity she’d been waiting for, an excuse to be thrown together (figuratively speaking, of course) with the strapping ferryboat captain. “Stop with the matchmaking.” I was more convinced than ever that she was keeping her real feelings for Jayce buried when she tapped the pages of the script into a too-neat pile and set them down precisely in front of her. “It’s not going to work, but that doesn’t mean I can’t get along with the man. I’ll play the countess to his count.”

  “That’s all we ask.” I gave three more sheets of paper to each of the ladies. “I found roles for every one of our guests. We’ll hand out the roles as they come down to dinner. I’ve tried to keep everything nice and simple, just what they’re supposed to say when Poirot interviews them.”

  “Meg is playing the cook. Brilliant!” Looking over her pages, Luella laughed. “And Hank is the bodyguard, a retired policeman. And Princess Dragomiroff—”

  “Let me guess!” Chandra edged up behind Luella so she could read over her shoulder and squealed with laughter when she saw her hunch was right. “Think she’ll get it?” she asked. “When we tell Mariah she’s playing the part of the Russian princess, do you think she’ll get it?”

  “I’m not trying to be mean,” I assured them. “And I’m certainly not poking fun at Mariah. I just figured she’s got the right wardrobe. Everybody else’s parts are pretty self-explanatory.”

  “Oh look, Levi’s playing the victim’s secretary. And Bea is the Swedish nurse.” Chandra’s wink was over-exaggerated. “Think they’ll have a scene together?”

  I ignored this comment because, let’s face it, Levi and I had already had a few scenes together, and none of them were what I’d call well written. Precisely why I’d made sure to cast us in roles that absolutely, positiv
ely did not interact.

  “Next . . .” The printer spit out another round of pages, and I handed them around. “Props,” I explained. “We’ll need to get it all collected before everyone comes down to dinner. Nothing should be hard to find.”

  “Blanket, coat, wineglasses, matchbook,” Chandra read under her breath. “Most of it should be easy enough. Do you care where we get it?”

  “Mi casa es su casa! Except if you’re going to use something that belongs to one of our guests. Then you should probably ask first.” I checked the clock. “We’ve got thirty minutes until dinner hits the table. As the guests come down, give them their roles and make sure they stick to the script or this could go on forever.”

  “So no ad-libbing.” Kate nodded her understanding and stood.

  “Like I said, short and sweet. I’ve pretty much limited everyone’s role to things like saying they didn’t know Ratchett, the victim. Or they had no motive for killing him,” I said.

  “Maybe unlike one of our dinner guests.” Leave it to Luella to be the thoughtful one.

  I crossed a finger over my heart. “I’m not thinking we can use this little play to somehow expose Peter’s killer,” I said. “Honest.”

  “But it would be terrific.” Kate gathered her papers. “If we play our cards right—”

  “I’m no Shakespeare and this isn’t Hamlet. What murderer in his right mind is just going to confess just because of some silly play?”

  I was right and they knew it. I mean, that’s the only possible reason no one argued with me, right? One by one, they filed out of the kitchen to get busy.

  “Good work.” When she went by, Luella patted me on the back.

  “Thanks.” I collected the pages of my own script and the list of props I needed to collect. “But you already said that. You said you liked my little play.”

  “I did.” Chandra and Kate had gone out into the hallway, and from the kitchen, we heard them talking and laughing. “But this time,” Luella grinned, “I wasn’t talking about the script.”