Mayhem at the Orient Express (7 page)

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.

“Or me,” Chandra said.

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

T
he 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. “What’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.

She shouted over the noise of the storm. “I hate to ask.”

Before she could, I motioned her inside and closed the door.

It wasn’t very far from Kate’s house to mine, but Kate had been fighting the storm
all the way; she was breathing hard. Her boots were caked with snow, and she slipped
them off and put them on the area rug I’d set out near the door. “I don’t mean to
be a bother,” she began.

“But your electricity is off, and so is your heat.”

Her come-and-go smile told me she was glad I’d said it so she didn’t have to. “I’d
go to the winery. There’s a generator there. But . . .” There were tall, thin windows
on either side of the front door and she looked that way and at the snow that slammed
into the front of the house. “No way the roads are passable, and I could never walk
all the way over there. It was hard enough getting here.”

I felt as awkward offering help as she did asking for it. After all, there was that
letter she’d written to the township board about how she was sure the B and B would
be nothing but a nuisance in the neighborhood. Nuisance, huh? Looked like this was
one nuisance that had literally turned into a warm port in a very bad storm.

And now was not the time to mention it.

I took the overnight bag out of Kate’s hand and set it down on the steps. “Suite #5
is open,” I told her. “And breakfast is in the dining room.”

Kate shook her head. “I had yogurt at home. But I’ll gladly grab a cup of coffee,
and I saw a computer in your kitchen last night. If your Wi-Fi is working . . .” Computer
bag in hand, she was already padding into the kitchen to settle herself on one of
the high stools at the countertop.

While I watched Kate, Luella started down the steps. “She’s got a cold, poor thing,”
she said with a look over her shoulder at Amanda’s room. “I told her I’d bring up
tea with plenty of honey and lemon. You do have honey and lemon, right?”

I thought I did. Maybe. I went into the kitchen to look, and Luella followed me.

“By the way . . .”

Luella sounded pained, and though I didn’t know her well, I was pretty sure she wasn’t
the type of woman who was easily intimidated. By anything. My head already in the
pantry, I stood up and turned around.

Luella looked at the ceiling. She glanced at the floor, fingering the cell phone she
carried in one hand. “Meg called while I was upstairs with Amanda.”

Was that all that was bothering Luella? I brushed off her uneasiness. “If Meg is worried
about getting fresh breakfast pastries over here for tomorrow’s breakfast, tell her
to forget it! No way I want her to come out in this storm. We’ll get by. Even if it
means we’ll be serving Cheerios.”

Luella nodded. “That’s nice of you, really, but that’s not why she called. Seems her
heat is out and . . . I hope you don’t mind, Bea. I know it wasn’t my place and it’s
not my business and . . . but . . . well, I told her to bring the girls and come over
here.”

While I was still processing this, Luella jumped back in. “I’m sorry. I should have
asked you first, it’s just that I was thinking of poor Meg there alone . . . you know
her husband, John, he’s with the National Guard and stationed overseas, and she’s
got little Isabelle and Mila, and I was thinking of them there at home in the dark
and the cold and they’ve got a big old Hummer and they’re right down the street, so
I’m pretty sure they can make it this far safely, but—”

“Luella.” I stopped her before she could get any further. “I already know Meg is the
best baker on the island. Tell me, is she any good at any other kind of cooking?”

Luella didn’t see where this was headed so all she did was give me a tentative nod.

“These folks are going to want lunch,” I told her. “And I’m pretty sure my cooking
isn’t going to earn any five-star ratings. Of course Meg and the girls are welcome
to stay here. I don’t mind at all, and we can use the extra help. They can have Suite
#6 and you can stay up there with them if you’d like.”

Relief swept over her expression at the same time Luella caught sight of a jar of
honey and reached around me to retrieve it. “I saw some ground beef in your freezer
last night when Kate was rooting around in there for the ice cream,” she said, and
while she was at it, she grabbed a couple cans of diced tomatoes out of the pantry.
“With the meat and these tomatoes, I can make sloppy joes for lunch. I’ll get right
on it as soon as I make tea for Amanda.” Her arms loaded, she deposited the items
on the table, but not before she gave me a wink. “I make pretty mean sloppy joes,
and it’s the least I can do to thank you. We can serve the sandwiches along with pickles,
and if you’ve got potatoes, I can make—”