Mayhem at the Orient Express (4 page)

What to say to a proprietor who’s just had a knock-down-drag-out with a customer?

No worries. Like I said, I’m from New York. Though it wasn’t a daily occurrence, I’d
seen my share of confrontations back in the big city and, truth be told, I’d been
involved in a couple myself. I knew the drill. When in doubt about what’s politically
correct or morally right, pretend nothing happened at all.

At least if you’re smart.

But like I may have mentioned before . . . me and smart (at least that kind of smart) . . .
not two concepts that are usually included in the same sentence.

The moment I was inside the door, I asked Peter, “Are you all right?”

I actually thought he might throw the same question back at me. After all, I was the
one who’d nearly been flattened by the man in the trenchcoat, and Peter is usually
nothing if not chatty and concerned that his customers have just the right experience
at the Orient Express.

Except this time, I guess he was so upset by the incident I’d witnessed inside the
restaurant, he didn’t even notice my close encounter with the sidewalk.

He was standing right where I’d last seen him, his face screwed into an expression
I refused to call inscrutable, his hands balled into fists, and his mind clearly a
million miles away. In fact, I walked all the way to the front counter before he even
noticed I was there.

Peter had a narrow face with even, pleasant features. At least when it wasn’t flushed
and his teeth weren’t gritted. He shook himself back to reality. “Bea! What can I
get you?”

No small talk? There usually was.

No asking what was happening back at the B and B? He always had before.

I excused the lapse in customer service because I figured he was upset, and placed
my order for orange/peanut chicken.

No laugh along with the line that if I wasn’t careful, I was going to get addicted?

Nope. Though Peter had always teased me before about my inability to try anything
new now that I’d found the dinner dish of my dreams, this time he merely scratched
my request onto an order pad.

“Sorry to be so disorganized today,” he said when he was finished getting out a bag
and tossing a few of those plastic pouches of soy sauce in it along with a complimentary
fortune cookie. He touched a hand to the surgical mask around his neck. “Been doing
some remodeling up in the apartment,” he said, and he glanced up at the ceiling of
the restaurant. I knew that Peter had just moved from the mainland and that he lived
above the Orient Express, so it made sense. “It’ll be just a couple minutes,” he said.

End of small talk.

He disappeared into the back of the restaurant and shut the kitchen door behind him
so quickly, a stream of air shot up front and made the piece of paper I’d seen him
wave toward his disgruntled customer float to the floor.

It would have been rude of me not to stoop to retrieve the paper.

As for reading it . . . come on, it’s not like anybody could blame me.

It was plain computer paper. No big deal there. But the words on it were plenty funky.
Each letter was cut from a magazine or newspaper, a hodgepodge of both upper-and lowercase,
some bold and dark against the white paper, others outlined in black, like a ransom
note in a mystery novel.

You won’t get away with this,
it said.
I won’t ever forget. I swear, I’ll make you pay.

Strange. And shocking.

I was staring at the note, wondering what it meant and if it had anything to do with
the fight Peter had with the man in the raincoat, when the door to the restaurant
opened and shut behind me.

Startled, I jumped—and smacked the paper back on the counter where it came from.

When I turned to greet whoever had walked into the Orient Express, I looked (I hoped)
as casual as if nothing unusual had happened.

That was made just a little easier when I saw that the next customer in line was Luella
Zak.

“Hey, nice to see you.” She moved quickly and efficiently, as only a person can who
is completely at ease with her own body and satisfied with her place in the world.
Luella stuck out one calloused hand and I shook it. “Finish the book?” she asked.

There were a couple other things I’d learned in New York. One was that when reluctant
to admit the truth, it is perfectly acceptable to sidestep it.

“Not quite,” I replied. “I’ve been kind of busy.”

Luella grabbed a to-go menu and quickly read it over. “Meg tells me your place is
really shaping up. Can’t wait to see it.”

“You’ll have to stop by sometime.” It was the polite response, and besides, I didn’t
have anything against Luella. Unlike the other members of my book discussion group,
she seemed like a reasonable and reasonably nice lady. “I’ve already got one guest,”
I added, tooting my own horn.

“Bully for you!” Luella emphasized her point by poking a fist in the air. “Innkeeping’s
not an easy business, but I can tell, you’ve got what it takes. You care about the
kind of experience your guests are going to have. You must, otherwise you wouldn’t
have hired the best baker on the island! Speaking of customer service . . .” She looked
across the counter at the closed kitchen door. “Where’s our friend Peter today?”

“Getting my orange/peanut chicken.”

Luella laughed. “You, too? I swear, that stuff’s got some magic drug in it. I walk
in here and tell myself I’m going to have something else and when the time comes to
order, the words just sort of spill out of my mouth. Orange/peanut chicken.”

“Got it right here!” Peter came out of the kitchen holding the to-go container with
my lunch in it, stopped and gave Luella a look. “You, too?”

“Me, too!” She stepped up to the counter. “As a matter of fact, Peter, give me two.
It’s supposed to snow, you know, and that way if it does, I’ll have an extra in the
fridge for dinner one night this week.”

Peter wrote up Luella’s order while I counted out the money for mine.

“Don’t forget to finish your reading,” Luella called to me as I was leaving.

I told her I wouldn’t forget—which didn’t mean I’d get around to it—and headed outside
only to find that it was even colder than when I walked in a few minutes earlier.
But maybe that was a good thing, after all. Otherwise I might have stood outside watching
Peter, wondering what his beef had been with the man in the trenchcoat, and what it
had to do with the creepy, threatening note I found.

A blast of cold wind brought me to my senses, and I hauled the food bag up in my arms
and started toward home. Peter might have tried his best to act as if nothing was
wrong, but I knew better, and knowing it, a chill that had nothing to do with the
falling temperatures crept up my back. Something was up, and it was not something
good.

Good thing the street was deserted. That way, nobody gave me a weird look when I barked
out a laugh. But then, I’d just found myself thinking I could have used some of Chandra’s
mystical powers. Where’s a good crystal ball reader when you need one?

4

I
f I had any fantasies about a leisurely stroll into town for the next day’s book discussion
group meeting, they dissolved in a flash when I looked out the window.

Monday morning, there were snowflakes dancing in the air. By afternoon, that dance
had turned into a choreographed routine, and by the time I needed to leave for the
library, it was a full-fledged Busby Berkeley production number.

I hoped the folks I’d talked to at the grocery store were right about how the snow
wouldn’t hurt spring flowers, because by dinnertime, the poor daffodils in the front
beds were smothered. That was about the same time I discovered that my new roof had
a leak. In an ironic twist of fate that did not leave me laughing, just as I was putting
pails on the floor of the bathroom in Suite #6 to catch the drips, my sole guest,
Amanda Gallagher, announced that there was no way she could go out in the elements.

���I expect,” she said with a tilt to her chin that showed more chutzpah than I’d
expected from a woman who’d been as quiet as the proverbial mouse since she checked
in, “that you will be providing dinner.”

Side note here: I’m not morally opposed to cooking. In fact, I’d been known to do
it myself a time or two, mostly when I’m trying to impress some guy and figure he’ll
be blown away by my mother’s bolognese. But there is a reason they call it a bed-and-
breakfast
, after all, and remember, I’d hired Luella’s daughter Meg to take care of the breakfast
part.

Always the good sport (well, always when I’m so inclined), I opened a couple cans
of chicken soup and left it simmering on the stove, showed Amanda where to find crackers,
bread, and the blueberry muffins left over from breakfast, pretended I didn’t hear
her mumbled comment about how canned soup wasn’t exactly what she had in mind when
she mentioned dinner, and left the B and B.

Stepping through the three inches of slush that had accumulated in the driveway to
get to the garage and the four-wheel drive SUV I’d bought specifically so I could
easily pick up guests at the airport and the ferry, I did my best to distract myself
from all the above-mentioned aggravations by humming the music from one of those wintry
car commercials that feature sparkling snow and shiny, doughty vehicles that make
it over the river and through the woods without a hitch.

Yeah, the same commercials that never bother to mention how when the streets are coated
with a layer of ice, no vehicle—SUV or not—is going anywhere fast.

Halfway to the library, I felt the tires lose their grip. I slid to the right, overcompensated
(hey, I never even owned a car back in New York so I can’t be expected to drive like
a pro), and ended up on the side of the road in what looked like a week’s worth of
carnival snow cones.

Grumbling, I slipped the car into reverse, then back into drive a couple times, gently
rocking it until the tires caught hold and I jerked forward. When I got stuck again
in the drive leading to the library parking lot and tried the same maneuver and it
didn’t work, I gave up with a groan, shoved the car into park, and left it right where
it was. Kate’s black BMW was the only car in the lot and, let’s face it, no library
patron was dumb enough to come out on a night like this. I wasn’t worried about Luella.
Though I barely knew the woman, I knew she was capable of taking on the elements—and
winning every time. As for Chandra . . . for all I knew, she’d just use some hocus-pocus
and poof into our midst.

Who would have guessed that a little white-knuckle driving would be the highlight
of my evening!

Well, honestly, I should have. I mean, right after I stepped into a puddle of mush
that lapped up over the tops of my ankle boots and soaked my feet.

I squished into the basement meeting room right on the heels of Kate’s well-shod heels
and watched her brush snow from her shoulders before she peeled off her wool coat
and hung it on a nearby chair. “Worst I’ve seen it in April,” she said.

“You’re not kidding.” Chandra slipped into the room right behind me. “And some idiot
parked right in the middle of the driveway.”

She knew what kind of car I drove and she was looking right at me when she said this.
Which was exactly why I didn’t dignify the comment with a reply.

“And just in case you haven’t heard . . .” Since she didn’t get a rise out of me,
Chandra plunked into the closest chair, unbuttoned her coat, and removed her knitted
hat and mittens. “The ferry isn’t running. I got that news straight from Jayce Martin.”
Briefly, her gaze flickered to Kate, but when she didn’t get whatever reaction she
hoped for, she looked back my way. “Jayce is the ferryboat captain. Stopped at the
grocery store on my way over here and saw him there. Not that he needed to tell me
about the ferry. One look at the way the wind is whipping up waves on the lake, and
I knew. The airport’s shut down, too. Whoever’s on the island is staying on the island.
At least for tonight. And whoever’s over on the mainland sure isn’t coming home.”

“Then we’re all one big, happy family.” Kate’s smile was tight and her voice was acid.
How she managed both while she was texting away, I couldn’t say. Nor did I need to.
That was because Luella arrived.

“Wow.” She unzipped her hooded jacket and stomped her feet. “Bad and getting worse.
I hear we could have a foot of snow by morning. Good thing we’re in here and not out
there.”

I was so not in the mood to think about it, and would have debated the issue if Kate
hadn’t beat me to the punch. “Better when it’s time to leave,” she grumbled.

“So . . .” Chafing her weatherbeaten hands together, Luella took the chair next to
where I sat down. “Saw Marianne upstairs and she says she’ll be a few minutes. She’s
closing things down before Alvin picks her up so all we’ll have to do is turn out
the lights and lock the back door behind us. She asked me to get things going. Who
wants to begin? You did all read the book, didn’t you?”

Kate studied her nail polish.

Chandra blushed a shade darker than the raspberry-colored sweater she was wearing
along with a filmy turquoise scarf and orange jeans.

I cleared my throat. “I did. I read the book.”

Eye roll from Kate. “Doesn’t it figure? Teacher’s pet. I should have known.”

“Really?” My spine stiff, I turned her way. “We’re going to be that juvenile about
the whole thing? Won’t that be fun for the next year!” I plopped back, my arms crossed
over the front of my black cardigan. “I just so happened to have a little downtime
yesterday evening,” I explained, though why in the world I thought I had to, I wasn’t
sure. “I started reading, and you know what? I couldn’t stop. It’s a good story. Even
though I knew how it ended, I kept reading. Seems to me that’s the highest compliment
you can give any author.”

Luella’s blue eyes gleamed. “This is exactly the kind of conversation I was hoping
we’d have in this group. How about you, Chandra?” She looked that way. “What did you
think of the book?”

Chandra dug into her denim bag and brought out the book along with a DVD. “I watched
the movie. That counts, doesn’t it?”

“At least I’ve got an excuse.” Kate’s phone vibrated, and she checked a message, then
deigned to turn her attention back to the rest of us. “We’ve been doing inventory
at the winery all week. Come on, Chandra, what kept you from reading? Wrong phase
of the moon?”

“Hard to concentrate,” Chandra said, “what with so many bad vibes rolling across the
street from your house. Speaking of which, you’re messing up the atmosphere in here,
Kate, what with all that texting. Electronic signals interfere with—”

“Please!” Kate turned the word into two syllables. “All this mumbo jumbo of yours
is what got us sent here in the first place. If you hadn’t proved to Alvin just how
off-kilter you are—”

“Me?” Chandra reached into her purse, brought out a little bottle, and spritzed the
air all around where she was sitting. “I’m not the one poisoning the atmosphere in
here.”

“You think?” The scent of lavender wafted through the room, and Kate wrinkled her
nose. “If it wasn’t for you, Chandra—”

“If it wasn’t for you, Kate—”

“If it wasn’t for all of us. So why don’t we just get down to business, because I’ll
tell you what, there’s sure no way in hell I’m going to spend the next year coming
here every Monday just so I can listen to this sort of bullshit.”

Honestly, I didn’t mean to hop to my feet at the end of my little speech, it just
sort of happened. No worries. Since I was already standing, I was able to push my
glasses down to the tip of my nose and glare at Kate over the frames. My cold, damp
socks added a chill to my voice.

“Let’s drop the attitude,” I told her. “And you, Chandra . . .” I swung that way and
repeated the glare. “We get the message, all right? We know you’re”—I added air quotes
here for emphasis—“‘one with the Universe.’ So stop knocking us over the head with
your Earth Mother routine. It’s getting us nowhere, and it’s only making a bad situation
worse. And, yes, ladies, in case you need the reminder, this is a bad situation.

“We have to be here. You don’t like it. I don’t like it. Nobody likes it but Luella,
but then, Luella . . .” With my blood boiling and my temper so near snapping I waited
to hear the
thwang
, I somehow managed a lopsided look that someone who didn’t know me well might have
mistaken for a smile. Those who did know me? They knew that when I brought out the
sarcasm guns, it was time to back off. At least if they were smart.

“Luella, you weren’t condemned to the seventh circle of book discussion hell like
the rest of us. Okay, all right. I get that we’re all annoyed and we’d rather be home
doing something else. Heck, I’d like to be in front of a roaring fire with a glass
of really good pinot noir. But we’re not. We can’t be. And it isn’t just because of
Kate and her opera or because of Chandra and that damned cat, and it sure as hell
isn’t just because of whatever you think it is I’ve been doing to make the ol’ neighborhood
go to hell in a handbasket. It’s because we’ve all . . .” Another look at Luella to
be sure she understood she wasn’t included in my scathing assessment.

“We’ve all been acting like horses’ patooties,” I reminded them, “and it needs to
stop. At least while we’re here every Monday evening. Let’s suck it up, ladies, and
make the best of it. And if we have to make the best of it, we might as well make
it quick. So let’s stop wasting time.” I dug in the pocket of my coat where I’d tucked
my copy of
Murder on the Orient Express
to keep it dry on my way from the car to the library and slapped the paperback on
the table. “Let’s just talk about the damn book.”

Ignoring their slack-jawed stares, I plunked back down in my chair just in time to
hear Luella croon, “Way to go, New York, it’s about time you started acting like a
big girl.”

Not everyone shared her sentiments.

Kate’s head was so high, her arms so tight to her sides, I was pretty sure she was
going to keel right over.

Chandra sniffled and grabbed for a lace-edged hanky.

“So . . .” I might have spoken my piece, but I was in no way done. Still hopping mad—at
them for being the reason I was here and at myself for giving in to the anger that
pounded through me like the waves against the island that night—I shot a laser look
back and forth between them. “Who’s going first? Nobody? Then I will.”

In an attempt to curb my runaway temper that didn’t work, I clutched my hands together
on the table in front of me and flipped like mad through my mental Rolodex, reminding
myself of all the things that had occurred to me as I read through
Murder on the Orient Express
the evening before. Heck, it wasn’t like anyone was listening to me, and it sure wasn’t
like anybody cared. The way I figured it, I might as well say what was on my mind.

“One of the things that struck me as interesting,” I said, “was the pacing of the
story. The book was written when, in 1934? It seems a little . . . I don’t want to
say dry. It’s a classic, and it deserves to be. But obviously, the world was a slower
place then, and the pacing of the story reflects that, don’t you think? As I was reading,
I couldn’t help but wonder, what if the book was written today? And what if Agatha
Christie was just some wannabe writer who no one ever heard of? The pacing is deadly,
the characters are stereotypes, and often insulting stereotypes, and the dialogue
doesn’t exactly sparkle. These days, would the book ever make it out of the slush
pile of unsolicited manuscripts on an editor’s desk and get published?”