by Sandra Balzo
‘Yes.’ She plopped back down in her seat and added miserably, ‘They wouldn’t let us go otherwise.’
‘With good reason, Missy,’ Markus said, not unkindly. ‘The conductor is the person in charge.’
‘Really?’ I asked. ‘I always thought they just took tickets.’
‘Uh-uh.’ Markus was shaking his head. ‘My mother worked at Amtrak’s headquarters in Washington, and my brother Kevin is an engineer. The engineer runs the locomotive and reports to the conductor, who communicates with dispatchers and oversees the train and its passengers.’
And our ‘conductor’ was a kid whose real name was Brandon and worked at an Olive Garden. Lovely.
‘Then you’re it, MacQueen,’ I said to Markus, gesturing for him to go ahead of me.
As we entered the dining car, Pavlik looked up from his notepad and stuck out his hand. ‘Thanks for your help out there. And for keeping the particulars of the situation to yourself.’
Markus shook and slid in on the opposite side of the semicircular booth. ‘Not a problem. Zoe came to almost as soon as Missy and I began helping her back to the train. None of us was eager to spend more time out there with that Jules Verne creature split open on the opposite bank.’
Pavlik shifted over so I could sit next to him and passed the smart phone to me. ‘Do you mind if Maggy tapes us? It’ll help the investigators if we can get everyone’s initial impression.’
‘Not at all,’ Markus said, his open face curious. ‘Are you going to read me my rights?’
‘You’re not a suspect.’ Pavlik gave him a friendly smile. ‘At least, so far as I know.’
I raised the phone and through it, saw Markus’s gaze waver. ‘Well, no. Of course not. But I’m happy to answer any questions you might have. Not that I necessarily can.’
Pavlik raised his hands. ‘Understood. First off, could you state your full name and home address for me?’
Markus complied, giving an address in Washington, D.C.
‘Just for the record,’ Pavlik continued, ‘could you detail your movements after you boarded the train?’
‘Let me think.’ Markus picked up the glass of water in front of him, then set it down again. ‘I saw Maggy here,’ he nodded at the camera/phone, ‘when I was in line for a drink. From there I made my way back through the train, stopping to talk to people here and there until I reached the passenger car.’
Pavlik, who had been studying his notes, looked up. ‘We do know that Mr Potter was in the dining car until Zoe Scarlett welcomed everyone over the speaker system. Would you know about what time that was?’
Markus pulled out a handkerchief – not the dainty square of initialed cambric in Murder on the Orient Express, but a big honkin’ one – and mopped his brow. ‘I remember thinking it was later than I’d expected. When Missy asked me to speak after Zoe welcomed everyone, I assumed it would be right after we left the station, which was just past eight, as you’ll recall.’
This last was directed to me and I nodded encouragement.
‘I remember checking the time at nearly nine and thinking they thought it best to let people chat and get liquored up before they had to sit and listen to me talk.’ A self-deprecating smile.
‘From what I recall from the previous time I was at this conference,’ Pavlik said, ‘people come from all over and may not have seen each other for quite a while during the interim.’
‘Exactly.’ Markus was nodding. ‘Everyone wants to catch up. Find out who got published. Who found an agent. Or even was lottery-blessed by receiving a film option.’
‘So you looked at the time and it was nearly nine, you said. What time exactly?’
‘Eight fifty-five, maybe?’
‘What did you do then?’ Pavlik asked.
‘It suddenly hit me that perhaps the sound system could only be heard in the dining car and, for all I knew, the program had begun and they were looking for me.’
‘Not true, though.’
‘Correct. As I went forward to check, I heard Zoe greet the gathering.’
‘Did you see Laurence Potter?’ I asked from behind the phone/camera.
‘Come to think of it, we did cross paths in the dining car. He was going toward the back of the train as I was moving to the front.’
‘Did you pass him before the cake?’ I asked.
Finally, a roll of the eyes from Pavlik. Unfortunately directed at me.
Markus looked confused. ‘Are you asking if I saw Larry before I went past the table with the cake on it?’
I glanced at Pavlik. When there was no response, I nodded at Markus.
‘We were coming from opposite directions,’ the librarian said, ‘but as I recall we crossed paths about halfway through the dining car.’
‘So you’d already passed the cake, but he hadn’t reached it yet,’ I summarized.
‘Correct.’
‘Did you notice the cake as you went by?’ Pavlik followed up.
‘I did.’
My turn. ‘Was the knife still in it?’
This time I got a glare before Pavlik turned to Markus. ‘Can you describe the cake?’
It was only then I remembered that Pavlik had been seated on the banquette at the front of the dining car for most of our ride. Except for going to the club car – the opposite direction – to get my second espresso martini, he hadn’t left the table and therefore hadn’t seen the cake before it was hacked apart. Nor the knife, until we discovered it in Potter’s body.
‘Umm,’ Markus glanced nervously at me and then back at Pavlik before answering. ‘I don’t know … shaped like a sleeping man? Blanket pulled up to the neck. Covered with icing, of course.’
‘Of course.’ This time Pavlik seemed to purposely not look my way. ‘And did you see the knife?’
‘Sure. Stuck in his chest.’
Pavlik did a double-take. ‘You saw the knife in Potter’s chest?’
Markus’s eyes grew wide. ‘Oh, no. No, no. It was in the cake’s – I mean the “man” depicted in the cake’s – chest.’ He looked back and forth between us. ‘You saw it, right?’
I turned to Pavlik. ‘The cake knife was stuck in the frosted body’s chest.’
‘Explains the white goo,’ Pavlik said to himself. ‘Any idea where Potter was headed when he passed you?’
Markus shook his head. ‘Since the bar was the other way, I assumed he was going to the bathroom or to see someone in the passenger car. Tell you the truth, I didn’t even realize the sleeping car was there.’
‘You’ve told us you knew you were to speak next. Did you also know Potter was about to be introduced?’
‘Are you asking why I didn’t stop him?’ Markus asked. ‘Believe me, Potter did pretty much whatever he wanted and no one had the nerve to mess with him. Or they’d pay.’
Pavlik’s eyes rose. ‘First-hand experience?’
‘Me?’
‘You’re a writer, aren’t you?’
‘Markus writes—’ I started, and slapped my mouth shut. ‘Sorry. Go ahead.’
‘I write non-fiction,’ Markus supplied. ‘Books on classics, mystery compendiums, readers’ guides, like that.’
‘So you’ve never had the pleasure of being reviewed by Potter?’
‘No. Well, yes. Once.’ Markus looked miserable. ‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe?’
‘Umm, well, he did review a … well, sort of an encyclopedia I did of crime writers.’
‘Sounds impressive,’ Pavlik said. ‘Did Potter like it?’
‘Not exactly,’ Markus directed the words toward his clasped hands on the table.
‘Excuse me?’
‘I said,’ the man looked up, ‘that while he praised the “effort,” Potter found a bit of fault with it. Not at all unusual in a work of this length.’
‘How long was it?’
‘Three volumes.’
‘And how many errors did Potter find?’
‘One …’ Markus, just murmuring, stammered anyway. ‘One hundred
and forty-eight.’
I remembered the interchange between the two men on the bus. I’d known something wasn’t quite right there. Potter had seemed to take great pleasure spreading salt into that wound.
I said, ‘It would take forever to read all three volumes cover-to-cover and fact check each page.’ Being a lover of old movies, I had a couple of reference books on that subject that sounded like what Markus was talking about. Listing upon listing upon listing.
‘It’s what PotShots does,’ Markus said simply.
‘Apparently.’ Pavlik made a note. ‘Do reviews like the one Potter gave you affect sales?’
A throaty laugh. ‘Any review is better than no review.’
Like any publicity is good publicity, but I wasn’t buying it. ‘Assuming libraries and schools use your books as reference material, wouldn’t the inaccuracies present a real problem for them?’
This time it was Markus directing annoyed looks my way. ‘Maybe sales weren’t what they could have been, but this happened more than a year ago. I certainly wouldn’t murder a man over it, if that’s what you’re implying.’
‘Good to know,’ Pavlik said as he tapped me on the shoulder so he could stand. ‘Could you send in whoever it is who’s playing the next person on the list …’
‘Ratchett’s valet, Masterman,’ I supplied. ‘If there is one.’
‘Will do.’ Markus slid out of the booth, too, but then stood his ground. ‘You have no doubt in your mind that Potter was murdered?’
‘If you can come up with another plausible explanation for the knife on this train winding up in his back, I’d be glad to entertain it,’ Pavlik said.
‘Now that you say it was the cake knife in his back, I’m at a loss. He sure didn’t jump off the train with it between his teeth to fight pythons.’
‘Agreed.’ Pavlik swept his hand toward the door.
Taking the hint, Markus moved to the door and slid it open. ‘Though that leaves us with what seems like an even more unlikely scenario.’
‘What’s that?’ I asked.
Markus stepped through into the vestibule. ‘That one of my friends is a murderer.’
The door slapped shut.
TWENTY-FOUR
‘Do you think whoever stabbed Larry Potter is a threat to kill again?’ I asked Pavlik as we waited for our next witness. While I’d been happy to point out to Zoe Scarlett that we were all murder suspects, I really hoped this crime was a one-off. So to speak.
‘We have to assume that anyone who crosses that line has the potential to cross it again.’ Spreading his fingers inside Markus’s glass to lift it without compromising the fingerprints on the outside, Pavlik leaned over to place it carefully on the table behind us.
‘But why?’ I asked. ‘This has to have been a personal attack against Potter. Someone followed him to the sleeping car.’
‘And grabbed a hunk of cake en route?’
‘Potter probably did that. Remember? He was complaining not only that he couldn’t smoke, but there was nothing to eat onboard except the cake. I wouldn’t put it past the man to take matters in his own hands and cut the cake.’ I had sublimated my own swipe at the frosting into relative irrelevance.
‘Potter certainly struck me as somebody who believed rules – of etiquette, in this instance – didn’t apply to him.’
‘So you think Potter was a … sociopath?’ I heard the far door of the vestibule open.
Pavlik was regarding me with a wry grin. ‘Honey, I’m not sure there isn’t a little sociopath in all of us – you and me, included.
‘What? I—’
Before I could inquire further, the near door slid open.
The man who’d been taking notes earlier entered. Harvey/Hardman’s checkered sports jacket might be loud, but his voice was even louder.
‘Hope you folks don’t mind,’ he said, every bit the blustering American of Christie’s novel. ‘But I have things to do and people to see. I took a poll and nobody minded that I went next.’
I minded. With a sigh, I skipped over Missy as Mrs Hubbard, Grace the Swedish Lady, Prudence the Russian Princess, Carson as Count Andrenyi and Danny as Col. Arbuthnot on my neat list and put a grudging checkmark next to Mr Hardman the American. Then I checked the time. Nearly 2:30 a.m.
‘Things to do and people to see at this hour, Mr …?’
‘Hardman.’ We all shook hands.
Before I could tell Pavlik that ‘Hardman’ was the man’s fictional identity, Harvey blustered on. ‘I know what you’re going to say. Maybe it’s people I should be doing and leave the seeing to others.’ Cue hardy laugh.
You had to give it to the man – he raised the bar of ‘Ugly American’ to new levels, stereotype-wise.
‘Have a seat. Maggy, would you mind getting Mr Hardman a glass of water?’
‘Not necessary,’ Harvey said, waving me to sit back down.
I ignored him, poured the water and handed it to him.
‘His name really is Harvey,’ I told Pavlik. ‘He’s just playing the part of Christie’s “Hardman.”’
Harvey accepted the glass, but set it down immediately. He glanced back toward the closed connecting door to make sure we couldn’t be heard, then leaned in anyway. ‘You do know the Hardman character is just a blind. I’m a private detective.’
‘And you do know,’ Pavlik said, ‘that you’re only a fictional character, right?’
Harvey sat back like Pavlik had punched him, a look of astonishment on his face. ‘But this is just part of the show, right? The whole crazy man-eating snake story?’
‘Take my word for it, Harvey,’ I said. ‘The python was real, Potter is dead and neither incident was in the script.’
Harvey cocked his head. ‘Listen, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not part of this group – just an actor. I’ve been playing these kinds of parts for years, and—’
‘For the last time,’ Pavlik said, honing an edge in his voice that made me fear for all mankind. ‘This is not a show. A man has been stabbed to death, more than half devoured by a snake the length of a fishing pier, and this train is stranded in the Everglades with no current means of communicating to the outside world.’
‘Oh.’ Harvey seemed to deflate beneath his flashy sports jacket. ‘Well, that’s not good.’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Pavlik. ‘Your real name, please, as well as your profession and address?’
Harvey wiped his forehead on a cocktail napkin and scribbled his answers on another.
‘Thank you,’ Pavlik said, after reviewing the details. ‘How many of the people on this train did you know prior to boarding?’
‘Know personally, you mean?’
‘Personally, or via telephone, telegraph, carrier pigeon, email, Facebook, Twitter.’ Pavlik was getting wound up. ‘I really don’t give a shit, Harvey. Just tell me if you know any of these people.’
‘And therefore have a motive, huh?’ Harvey leaned back. ‘Well, let’s see. Zoe Scarlett. And Missy Hudson, of course, was the one who invited me.’
‘Who else?’ asked Pavlik.
‘Well … no one,’ Harvey said, trying to smooth down the independent-minded lapels of his God-awful sports jacket. ‘I mean, not really.’
Even I could see that Harvey was prevaricating.
‘How about Potter, Harvey?’ the sheriff asked.
‘What about Potter?’
Pavlik’s eyes darkened. ‘Cut the crap. Did you know anything about Laurence Potter before you boarded the train?’
‘Well, well,’ Harvey said. ‘If you put it like that, of course I’d heard of Potter. What writer hasn’t?’
‘Then you’re a writer as well?’ I asked.
‘As well as what?’
‘As well as an actor.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Harvey dipped his head. ‘I’ve tried my hand at the occasional screenplay or two, here and there.’
‘And that’s how you knew Potter?’
I could tell that Pavlik wasn’t going t
o let go of his bone.
‘I didn’t say I knew him personally. A friend offered to show him one of my screenplays, but I ultimately decided against it.’
‘Why?’
‘A different friend warned me off. Said Potter had a reputation for …’
Pavlik growled, ‘Giving unkind reviews?’
‘Well, yes, that too, but my second friend was talking more about Potter stealing other people’s ideas.’
‘Like whose?’ I asked.
‘Rosemary Darlington, for one,’ Harvey said. ‘Word has it he was mentoring her a few years ago – professionally and personally, if you get my drift.’
I didn’t bother to correct him. I was too busy thinking about Rosemary’s slightly drunken suggestion that Danny was dogging Potter because the young man suspected the uber-reviewer had stolen his manuscript. Not to mention that I’d seen Danny whispering with Harvey on the bus.
‘And that kid, Danny,’ Harvey continued, like he’d read my mind. ‘He’s been pumping me for information on Pott—’
Two doors slid open in rapid succession and then Missy was standing there. ‘I think you’d better come. And quick.’
‘Why?’ Pavlik and I answered in duet.
‘Well, Audra has a gun and, oh, dear, she’s going to shoot Boyce.’
TWENTY-FIVE
‘I want to see my husband.’ Audra Edmonds was, indeed, pointing some kind of pistol at Boyce, not three feet in front of her, Danny the Sycophant just to her side.
Boyce didn’t look too worried. He was sitting on the stool we’d found for him, leaning against the door of the vestibule leading to the sleeping car, arms crossed. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Are you blind?’ She waggled the barrel to prove her point. ‘I have a gun.’
‘And a permit for it?’ Pavlik asked quietly from behind her.
Audra turned, startled, which is when Boyce stood and pushed down her wrist so the muzzle was pointing to the floor before he pried it from her hand.
‘Of course I have a permit,’ Audra said to the sheriff, rubbing her forearm and seeming dazed by his question. ‘This is South Florida. Santa and his reindeer can carry concealed weapons.’
‘Unfortunately, that’s true,’ Boyce said, handing Pavlik the gun, butt first. ‘It’s easier to get a CCW permit down here than a driver’s license.’