Mayhem at the Orient Express (8 page)

“Hiya! Hiya! Hiya!”

The strange sound was halfway between a song and a chant. When it floated into the
kitchen, Luella swallowed her words and we exchanged glances.

“Hiya! Hiya! Hiya!”

“Kate . . .” She was sitting at the countertop, her laptop open in front of her, furiously
typing, and I looked that way. “That wasn’t you, was it? Are you watching a movie
on the Internet or something?”

Kate glanced up from her work. “I didn’t hear—”

“Hiya! Hiya! Hiya!”

This time, she did hear, and she jumped off the stool and moved to the back door.
“It sounds like it’s coming from outside,” Kate said. “But that’s impossible. Nobody
in their right mind would be out there on a morning like this.”

Exactly what I was thinking, which, truth be told, was why I wasn’t surprised when
I looked out the back window and saw Chandra on the porch. She was wearing a long
purple coat, tall, sturdy boots that were covered with snow, and a knitted hat pulled
down around her ears. That in and of itself wasn’t weird considering the weather.
What was a little weird was the fact that she was pacing the length of the porch and
that she had a bundle of some kind of greenery in her left hand. Whatever it was,
it was smoldering, and the musty perfume of the burning weeds snaked inside and tickled
my nose.

“Hiya! Hiya! Hiya!” Chandra shook the bundle of greens and the smoke billowed and
was blown away on the next gust of wind. “Hiya! Hiya! Hiya!”

“Isn’t that just what I was saying to Alvin in court the other day?” Kate’s mouth
pulled into an I-told-you-so smirk. “The woman needs to be committed.”

“She does if she’s planning on spending the morning out in this storm,” I agreed.
“I wondered why Chandra didn’t come down to breakfast. I figured she was a late sleeper.”

“What you should have figured is that the woman is as nutty as a fruitcake.” Kate
must have known what I was going to do, because she backed away from the door. That
gave me a chance to go out into the little mudroom just off the porch and pull open
the back door.

“Chandra!” The name whistled away on the wind. I tried again. “Chandra, what on earth
are you doing?”

She waved the bundle and a puff of smoke stung my eyes.

“I’m working to repair the island’s aura, of course,” she called out.

We weren’t going to do that by screaming at each other.

I waved her inside.

Chandra must have been cold. She obliged.

She stepped into the mudroom, and maybe she was doing me a favor and getting rid of
any snow before she walked into the kitchen, or maybe she was trying to get her circulation
going again. Either way, she stomped her feet and handed me the smoldering bunch of
greens so she could pull off her hat.

“I’m sure the murder has seriously damaged it,” she said.

Luella and Kate were standing just inside the door, and Luella leaned forward. “Damaged
what? Your thinking? Because I’ll tell you what, honey, you’re nuts to be out there
in this weather.”

“But we’ve got to do something, don’t you see?” Another couple stomps, and Chandra
stepped into the kitchen. When it comes to cleaning, I’m not obsessive/compulsive,
but I know a disaster waiting to happen when I see one. I got a couple kitchen towels
out of a drawer and dropped them on the floor so Chandra could stand on them and drip.

“Anytime something like a murder happens, well . . .” Chandra shivered, either from
the cold or from thinking about Peter. Maybe both. “We’ve got to do something to get
the island’s aura back in line. Right now, it’s pretty darned dark, and that isn’t
good for anybody. The way I see it, we needed to start with a cleansing. That’s what . . .”
She reached over and plucked the smoking bundle out of my hands so that she could
wave it around. “That’s what I figured I needed to do first.”

“First.” I’m not sure any of the others picked up on this, but trust me, I didn’t
miss it. The fact that Chandra apparently had a plan was something of a surprise.
I only hoped that whatever she was planning wasn’t so out there as to add any more
odd smells or smoke—I waved one hand in front of my face—to the house.

When I opened the back door, a burst of cold air had come into the kitchen, and since
it still lingered like the hand of some unseen specter (see, I was telling the truth
about having an imagination!), Kate and Luella went to sit at the counter, farther
from the door. Chandra peeled out of her coat and kicked off her boots. There was
still coffee in the pot, so I filled four mugs and passed them around.

“What are you planning, Chandra?” I asked her.

“You mean after I finish this?” She grabbed a piece of coffee cake and wolfed it down,
and I realized I was being a lousy hostess. I pulled out dishes and flatware so everyone
could grab a piece.

“The way I figure it . . .” Smiling her approval, Chandra pointed to the coffee cake
with her fork. She swallowed. “The way I figure it, we’ve got to find out what happened
to Peter, or the island’s karma is going to be completely destroyed.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Kate rolled her eyes.

“No, wait.” Luella put a hand on Kate’s arm. “Let her finish. Chandra might be onto
something.”

“Thank you.” Chandra sat up and pulled back her shoulders. “What I was thinking is
that there are so many people here on the island who depend on the tourist season
for their livelihoods. I do tarot card readings for plenty of tourists, and chakra
realignments and crystal healings. And you depend on tourists, too, Luella. Bea, so
do you. And Kate, whether you want to admit it or not, I know you can’t possibly survive
on the sales of the wine you ship to the mainland. You need the tourists who come
and tour Wilder Winery and buy wine to take home.”

“Yes, of course.” Kate had a bite of coffee cake on her fork and she stopped with
it halfway to her mouth. “But what does that have to do with—”

“If people are afraid to come here for vacations, none of us is going to survive,”
Chandra said. “That’s why we have to figure out who murdered Peter before the ferry
starts running again and the killer gets off the island.”

Kate’s laugh was sharp. “Isn’t that what the police are for?”

Chandra had put plenty of sugar in her coffee; she shouldn’t have looked quite so
sour. “You heard Hank last night. We offered him some darned good theories, about
the woman’s glove and the fight Peter had with . . .” She leaned back on the stool
and peered at the dining room door, though since it was closed, she couldn’t see Ted
and he couldn’t see us. “The fight with Ted, and the threatening note, and the Princess.”

Blank stares all around.

Chandra gave us a hard look. “The Princess. The one who came to the door last night.
You know, like the princess in the book.”

“Mariah!” I laughed. She did remind me of Princess Dragomiroff in the Christie classic:
haughty, well-dressed, aristocratic.

“Hank’s not listening to any of it,” Chandra continued. “And believe me, if there’s
one thing I know about Hank, it’s that he can be as stubborn as a rusty old lock.
We’ve got to show him. We’ve got to be detectives. You know, like that Parrot guy
in the book.”

I don’t know why I bothered, but I corrected her. “Poirot.”

“Yeah, him.” Chandra warmed to her idea. “I read the book last night,” she said, beaming
with pride. “Cover to cover. And I’m telling you, if the weird little guy in the book
can do it, so can we. Besides, we’ve got to do something or everybody’s feng shui
is going to be out of whack.”

“Hmm . . .” Luella drummed her fingers against the granite countertop. “It would be
an interesting exercise. And I’d bet it would make Alvin plenty happy to know you
three are working together.”

“Yes, but—”

My protest was interrupted by Kate. “I liked Peter. He was a nice man, and he knew
a thing or two about wine. He didn’t live on the island that long, but he’d already
ordered a few bottles from me.”

“I liked Peter, too,” I admitted. “But . . .”

They were staring at me. Every single one of them.

And all I could think about was the way we’d found Peter the night before. That, and
how as a newcomer in the close-knit community, I understood something about how he
must have felt when he came here to start a new business.

“Where do we begin?” I asked.

Leave it to Chandra to have the answer. She popped off the stool and threw an arm
into the air. “We’ll use our little gray cells,” she announced in an accent that could
only have come straight out of the movie she’d watched before she read the book. “Just
like that Hercules guy!”

8

W
as I worried about Chandra and her crazy idea that we could be detectives?

You bet’cha!

Which is precisely why I made sure to keep her busy and as far away from my guests
as possible. No easy thing considering we were getting to the point of being wedged
in like kippers in a tin.

Thank goodness it is a big house.

When I saw Ted go into the parlor to turn on the TV, I made sure to send Chandra up
to Suite #6 to help Meg and the kids get settled, and when she did that a little too
quickly and barreled down the stairs with a sort of gleam in her eye that I remembered
Albert Finney having when he played Poirot in the movie version of
Orient Express
, I intercepted her and assigned her to Luella’s sloppy joe team.

Luella was also in charge of the french fries, and in no way was I worried about her.
Luella (poor delusional thing) thought the idea of us working together to figure out
what happened to Peter was a good one. That meant she wouldn’t go rushing headlong
into anything silly. Or solo. And Kate? As much as I hated to admit it, it was admirable
that Kate wanted to see justice done in Peter’s name. Surprise, surprise, the woman
had a heart. But I knew she also had a brain. She’d never try to corner my guests
to interrogate them. Not in an obvious way, at least. And never in a phony Belgian
accent.

By lunchtime when we set the table, we had those sloppy joes ready along with a nice
variety of pickles that Kate had arranged artistically on one of my Depression-era
glass platters, Luella’s kick-ass french fries (she was a wizard with seasoned salt),
and a batch of chocolate and oatmeal no-bake cookies Meg had pulled out of her freezer
and brought along as a way of thanking me for my hospitality.

It was the perfect lunch for a snowy day.

Now if only Chandra didn’t open her mouth and say something she shouldn’t to someone
she shouldn’t say it to.

The thought burned in my brain as I directed Ted and Mariah to the buffet. Amanda,
it should be noted, was still feeling too punky to come down, so while Luella made
up a plate for her, I informed my guests that the other ladies and I would leave them
in peace and take our lunches into the kitchen.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Of course this was Mariah, ever gracious and acting like the
lady of the manor even in my house. The dining room table seats twelve, and she waved
at all the empty chairs, expertly showing off the nails that had been mauve at breakfast
and were now candy apple red. “It makes no sense at all for you to be crammed in the
kitchen when we’ve got so much room here. Besides, I’m just dying to hear more about
each of you, and about the island.”

It was exactly what I had been dreading, and exactly what Chandra had been waiting
for. I hoped the look I shot her reminded her to be careful and to take it easy. When
her eyes flashed like the island lighthouse, I knew I was in trouble. Too bad I’d
just taken a bite of sloppy joe, otherwise I might have been able to say something
before she scraped her chair closer to the table and pinned first Ted then Mariah
with what I think was supposed to be a clever, detective-like look that came off more
like the desperate, eager expectation of a dog waiting for a scrap to fall from the
table. That was, of course, right before she blurted out, “Have you two heard about
the murder?”

I was seated directly across from Ted, so I couldn’t fail to notice that he blanched.
It was Mariah, though, who spoke first. She was the type—no big surprise—who eats
a sloppy joe with knife and fork, and she paused, the flatware poised over the sandwich
on her plate.

“Not a murder here on South Bass, surely.” She dismissed the very thought with a twitch
of her very red lips. “You’re talking about something you saw on the news this morning
that happened somewhere else. Or perhaps something that happened here ages ago?”

“Yeah, if last night counts as ages ago.” Chandra again, her eyebrows rising and falling
with the excitement of sharing the lurid secret.

This time, I was ready for her.

Sort of.

Before she could add anything to what she thought was the piercing look she darted
between Ted to her right and Mariah on her left, I cleared my throat to deflect their
attention.

“I’m afraid it’s true, and I figured you hadn’t heard since we’ve all been stuck inside
since last night. It’s a terrible thing.”

“And not something that usually happens here, that’s for sure,” Luella added, defending
the honor of the island.

“But a murder? Really?” Mariah set down her silverware, her hands fluttering above
her plate like anxious butterflies before she pressed them to her ample bosom. “How
awful!”

“It was. It is.” I saw Chandra open her mouth and knew if I didn’t speak fast, she
was going to say something about the game being afoot. “Ted . . .” I did my best to
make this sound like nothing more than a simple statement of fact, no guilt intended.
“I believe you knew the victim. It was Peter Chan.”

Talk of murder or not, Ted had just taken a chomp out of his sandwich, and he held
up a finger to signal that he couldn’t answer me while he chewed, his jaw working
up and down like pistons in an engine. He swallowed, washed down the mouthful with
a glug of coffee, and pounded his chest.

“Name doesn’t sound familiar. I don’t think I knew him at all.”

Far be it from me to pretend I was a detective, but the way Chandra was squirming
in her seat, I envisioned her losing control at any moment, pointing a finger, and
screaming out
j’accuse
with all the French outrage she could muster.

I couldn’t let that happen, and the reasons should be fairly clear:

1. I couldn’t offend Ted if he wasn’t our murderer. Hospitality and all that, and
besides, he was a paying guest.

2. If Ted had killed Peter, we couldn’t afford to tip our hand. He might be desperate,
dangerous—and I was responsible for the welfare of the people under my roof.

In an effort to throw him off his guard, I stammered. Just for the record, I am a
lousy stammerer. “I’m so sorry. I could have sworn it was you.” I pretended to think
it over. “It’s funny, isn’t it, how our memories can play tricks on us? When I stopped
at the Orient Express on Sunday—”

“Oh, the restaurant?” Ted grabbed a napkin and wiped a dribble of tomato sauce from
the corner of his mouth. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Really? The Orient
Express? That building is one of the properties I own here on the island!”

“So you must have known Peter Chan. He was one of your tenants.”

Ted glanced toward Kate, who’d made this pronouncement. “Chan! Is that what you said?”
He looked back at me. “Peter Chan? I thought you said Jan. Peter Jan.”

Yeah. And I just fell off a turnip truck.

“Not only was he your tenant, but you were there.” Me again. Hoping I came off as
merely interested, not burning with curiosity. “Sunday afternoon. You were walking
out of the Orient Express as I was walking in.”

Ted’s face crumpled with the effort of remembering, then cleared when he snapped his
fingers. “Yeah. Of course. You bumped into me as I was leaving.”

My smile was angelic. After all, I was the hostess. “You bumped into me,” I reminded
him ever so gently, though
plowed into me
was a more accurate way to describe it. “But then, I can see how you might not remember.
You and Peter were having something of a knock-down-drag-out argument when I arrived.”

“Were we?” Ted was to acting what I was to stammering. He refused to meet my eyes.
“I wouldn’t exactly call it that. I was—”

“Angry.”

“Upset,” he insisted.

“It looked a little more personal than that.”

“Well . . .” There was a bowl of sloppy joe meat and more sandwich buns on the buffet,
and he got up for seconds. Don’t think I didn’t notice how much time he took to arrange
the food just so on his plate, then again when he sat back down and squirted a ketchup
design on his fries.

“You were having a business disagreement,” I suggested.

He dredged a fry through ketchup and chomped it down. “No, no, nothing like that.”

“But from what Bea says . . .” Kate sat back, regarding Ted with a look so perceptive,
it made me certain that Wilder Winery was in capable hands. “Bea says it was a pretty
heated discussion. Come on, Ted, you’re a man of business. You and I both know there’s
nothing that can press your buttons like some dispute over rent, or utilities, or
upkeep on a property. Believe me, been there, done that. I know my temper’s gotten
out of control a time or two when it comes to that sort of thing. That’s why I understand.”

Slick. Oh yes, I had to give Kate credit for that. She was as poised under the pressure
of this impromptu interrogation as Chandra was dramatic and transparent.

Cool as a cucumber and as icy as the wind from Canada that battered the house.

I told myself not to forget it, just in case Kate ever decided to write another letter
about me to the township board.

Ted was about to bite into another fry and he changed his mind and set it back on
the plate. “In light of the fact that Peter Chan is dead, I can understand that you’re
curious. And I know it’s only human to jump to conclusions. I mean, about a landlord
and a tenant and a dispute. But honestly, that’s not what happened at all. You see,
I called ahead to the Orient Express before I stopped in. To order lunch.” His head
was bent, and he raised his small round eyes and looked across the table at me. “It’s
going to sound silly.”

“We won’t know until you tell us,” I replied.

He played with a fry on his plate, trailing it back and forth through the sea of ketchup.
“Well,” he said with a sigh, “it was all because when I called, I told the man who
answered the phone—Peter, I know that now and didn’t then—that I was hungry and willing
to try just about anything. He decided to make up a dish of something he called orange
chicken.”

It wasn’t my imagination; a sigh went ’round the table.

“When I placed my order, I said I didn’t care what I ate, but I had one stipulation.
I said I was allergic to peanuts. Peter said not to worry. And when I got there, well,
good thing I checked before I walked out, because if I’d taken even one bite, it wouldn’t
have been pretty. There were definitely peanuts in that orange chicken.”

Another sigh, and yes, I was just as guilty as the other ladies. I thought about the
perfect blend of ingredients, the sweetness of the orange juice, the crunchy peanuts,
and my mouth watered.

Right before I told myself to get a grip.

“So you and Peter were arguing about peanuts?”

Ted’s brow folded into a dozen creases. “I’m sorry to hear the poor guy’s dead, and
I wish I could tell you more, but really, things just kind of got out of control,
what with me telling him the peanuts could have killed me and him telling me that
I’d never told him I was allergic. I did tell him. Of course I did. But honestly,
there wasn’t anything else for us to fight about. I never saw the guy before that
afternoon.”

“You rented him space and never saw him before?” A plain and simple question from
Luella, and she folded her hands on the table in front of her, waiting for Ted to
answer.

“All done via email. And the contracts were sent through regular mail.” His explanation
was short and sweet. Then again, his sloppy joe was getting cold. He dug into it,
and I wondered if he was telling the truth. If Peter and Ted didn’t know each other,
why had Peter waved that note under Ted’s nose?

In an effort to look casual, I picked up a pickle spear. “Then what,” I said, and
bit into the pickle to emphasize my point, “about the threatening note?”

Ted’s doughy face blanched. “How do you know anything about a threatening note?” he
asked.

Which wasn’t at all the same as answering my question.

Before I could point that out, Mariah’s fork clattered against her plate. “The whole
thing is perfectly dreadful,” she said, touching her napkin to the corners of her
mouth. “I thought . . . That is, I was hoping island life would be less . . . eventful.
You see, I was hoping to settle down here.”