Murder on the Orient Espresso (2 page)

‘I'm sorry?' Pavlik was still ogling Zoe.

‘Jake, the desk clerk is ready for us.' I stuck my hand out to the other woman. ‘Hi, I'm Maggy Thorsen.'

‘Zoe Scarlett.' We shook professionally. Kind of.

‘Zoe was with the Chicago Convention Bureau when I was the sheriff's office liaison to the bureau.' Pavlik, having put his eyes back in his head, seemed to realize an explanation was called for. ‘We worked together a couple of times and when Zoe moved to Fort Lauderdale and became the conference organizer for Mystery 101 a couple of years back, she asked me here to speak.'

‘And we're very glad to have you back.' Zoe was bouncing up and down. Or parts of her were.

‘How nice,' I said lamely, thinking, Scarlett? Like Miss Scarlett in
Clue
?

The woman in question turned to Pavlik. ‘Are you two … together?'

Apparently she'd missed our clinch, or maybe that sort of thing was common behavior between strangers in a Florida hotel line. Either way, the conference organizer recognized the way the question sounded and actually blushed. ‘I mean, I'm not sure a double room was specified.'

I glanced at Pavlik. Hadn't he told her I was coming?

‘I'm sorry,' the sheriff said, ‘I—'

‘Missy?' Zoe called to one of her minions in the milling mass near the elevators, the millers seeming to have regrouped. ‘We'll check with my assistant, but I'm sure it's just a matter of making sure there are enough towels and the like. Missy Hudson!' Zoe Scarlett put a command edge in her voice this time. ‘I swear that girl just pretends not to hear me when—'

‘Excuse me, ma'am,' interrupted one of a foursome of golfers that had fallen into line behind us, toting bags of clubs that could have stocked a Cro-Magnon arsenal. ‘If you aren't quite ready to check-in, would you mind if we play through?'

‘Oh, no. Not at all.' Zoe waved for us to step out of the line. ‘We may need to handle our situation with the hotel's event coordinator anyway. You just go ahead.'

The men hefted their golf bags as a young woman of about twenty-five with hair just on the blonde side of brown reached us. ‘I'm sorry, Zoe. Did you need something?'

‘Missy, this is the featured speaker for our forensic track, Sheriff Jacob Pavlik. I don't believe you were on the committee the last time he spoke at Mystery 101.'

‘Good to meet you, Sheriff Pavlik. I'm Missy Hudson.'

‘Jake, please, Missy,' he said, shaking the young woman's hand. ‘And this is Maggy Thorsen.'

‘Oh, of course.' Missy flashed a smile at me. ‘I received your email saying Ms Thorsen was accompanying you, which was no trouble at all, given that Zoe had already requested a suite for you.'

Again, Zoe flushed. ‘Well, good. Not to worry, then.'

It didn't take a mind-reader to realize that Zoe Scarlett – and could that be her
real
name? – had designs on something more than putting on a kick-ass conference this weekend.

‘Is that Larry? Thank God.' Zoe was looking past her assistant and toward the front entrance of the hotel.

I turned, following her gaze through the floor-to-ceiling windows to a lanky man who was stubbing out a cigarette as a curly-haired younger guy spoke to him. As we watched, Smoker held up a hand to Curly-top that seemed more stop-sign than farewell and stepped into the revolving door.

If ‘Larry' was trying to get away from the kid, he didn't succeed. Curly-top followed him in.

‘Missy, can you handle this?' Zoe asked, already moving away.

‘This' presumably being Pavlik and me. ‘Not to worry, we can just get back in line,' I said to Zoe's retreating back.

Then I noticed the dozen or so people who'd queued up since we'd moved aside. The way things were going, it would be hours before Pavlik and I were alone in his reserved suite.

‘No need to do that,' Missy said. ‘I have an inside track.'

Stepping to one side of the desk, she stuck her head through an archway. ‘Excuse me, Louis, but we're getting backed up out here?'

A man came out, struggling into a red-and-gold uniform tunic. ‘I'm so sorry, Missy. We'll bring out two more clerks immediately.'

‘That would be wonderful. The people arriving now will be anxious to get checked in – and changed, of course – before tonight's event. And could you also give me the welcome packet for the Flagler Suite?'

‘Of course.'

The young woman certainly got things done. And pleasantly. My oft-irascible if not downright cantankerous business partner, Sarah Kingston, could take lessons from the mouths of babes.

Age-wise, I mean.

Raised voices drew my attention back to the entrance. Curly-top was nowhere in sight, but Larry the Lanky Smoker was talking to Zoe. He had a shaved head and handlebar mustache above a dress shirt and sports jacket, dark slacks and a pair of mated wingtips below. I recognized the style of shoes because it was one many of my former colleagues in the financial industry had favored while conducting business in the office or – in a more colorful version – on the golf course.

None of those shoes, though, had quite the panache of this pair. With strategically-placed patches of soft tan, dark brown, pale yellow and forest green, these wingtips didn't look so much like golf shoes as what golf shoes aspire to be when they grow up. The man wearing them expected to be recognized. To the point of demanding to be.

But I'd be damned if I could place him.

‘If I must, I must,' he was saying to Zoe as he fussed with his mustache. ‘But prior notice would have been appreciated.'

‘I'm certain you were sent—'

‘Here we go.' Missy, apparently not noticing the dust-up involving her boss, handed Pavlik an envelope. ‘Everything should be in here, including your tickets for tonight's event. Since it's just barely six, you'll have time to freshen up and change before we meet in the lobby at seven-fifteen.'

‘The lobby?' Pavlik echoed, as I saw any hopes of an intimate evening in the hotel suite circle the drain. But then Pavlik had been invited as an honored guest and being on the conference's dime would mean that he also had to be on the conference's time, not my own.

Bright side, this was his show and maybe they were taking us out to dinner. A nice seafood restaurant on the well-tended waterfront would—

‘Yes, here,' Missy confirmed. ‘And, please, by seven-fifteen for the bus to the station. Oh, and you did bring costumes, I hope?'

I perked up. ‘Costumes?'

Pavlik glanced at me.

Wings
, I mouthed.

The sheriff suppressed a grin. ‘Nobody said anything about an event tonight, Missy, but you're paying me and comping us. The where and when are all we need to know.'

I admired the sentiment, if not the resulting postponement of nookie time.

‘I'm so sorry.' Missy threw a concerned look at her boss, who was still deep in conversation with Larry the Smoker. ‘Zoe didn't email you about our murder train?'

‘No, but that's fine,' Pavlik said. ‘By “murder train,” do you mean like a mystery dinner theater, but on a railroad car?'

A similar train ran on weekends between downtown Milwaukee and Chicago's Union Station.

‘Yes, though it's more “cars,” plural, and we're just offering a mystery-themed cake and coffee. Not only is it cheaper and easier than full dinner service or even hors d'oeuvres on a train, but it gave me a great theme to build the event around.' Missy pointed to a sign.

‘“Murder on the Orient Espresso,”' I read aloud, wondering why I, a public relations person turned coffeehouse owner – said coffeehouse even being in a historic train depot – had never thought of mounting an event based on Agatha Christie's classic 1934 mystery novel.

Though I wasn't above stealing the idea and smuggling it back to Wisconsin. ‘What fun. Are you actually having espresso?'

‘Yes. In addition to a full bar, of course.' She gestured toward the coffee cart. ‘Boyce, the hotel's coffee vendor, will be onboard providing coffee and cake.'

I didn't point out that coffee – which could be easily brewed by the large pot – and espresso, brewed by the shot, were two entirely different efforts. Especially when dealing with a crowd. ‘How many people will there be?'

‘Fewer than twenty for tonight, which is a separate, ticketed event.' Missy frowned. ‘I'd hoped for more, but then this is the first year we've done something on the eve of the conference.'

‘That sounds like a very respectable turnout, and it'll give you a chance to get the bugs out for next year.' One of the ‘bugs,' perhaps, being espresso for twenty. ‘I own a coffeehouse in Wisconsin, so let me know if your vendor needs help.'

‘Oh, that is
so
nice of you.' Missy gave me an enthusiastic if unexpected hug. ‘This train event was my idea and I really do want to make it a huge success.'

The girl seemed to be starving for approval, something she probably didn't get a lot of from her boss – especially if Missy was trying to spread her wings a bit. Zoe, as mother bird, seemed more like the type to knock impertinent chicks out of the nest prematurely than to nurture them.

‘Missy?' Zoe, as if she'd heard, came over with the lanky, bald man in tow. ‘You and I discussed for weeks that Larry would play the role of our detective, Hercule Poirot, tonight.
Yet
he says you never even asked him to take part.'

Missy's eyes went wide. ‘But Zoe, you said that
you'd
take care of …' Then, probably not wanting to argue the point publicly, ‘I don't know what could have happened. Sheriff Pavl— I mean, Jake didn't receive an email, either.'

‘Email!' Larry actually snorted. ‘I don't respond to
e
mail.'

Even Zoe, trying as she was to calm the waters, seemed surprised by that. ‘But your “PotShots” is an online book review site. How can you not—'

‘Precisely,' the man interrupted. ‘Which is why I don't open my email. Do you really think I want to hear all the belly-aching from authors – whether newbies or established franchises – who seem to think I
owe
them a good review?'

PotShots rang a bell. ‘Why, you're Laurence Potter.'

I felt Pavlik's surprise as Potter turned toward me. ‘I am, indeed. And you are?'

‘Maggy Thorsen,' I said, holding out my right hand. ‘I enjoy your reviews.'

‘Then you certainly can't be an author yourself.' Potter enveloped my fingers and drew their knuckles to his lips, a glint in his eye. ‘How refreshing.'

‘As refreshing as your critiques.' I took my hand back, willing myself not to reflexively wipe it on my pants. A rumored womanizer and sleazeball, Potter might be a nasty piece of work – as were his reviews – but he was also borderline charming and certainly entertaining. ‘You sure don't pull any punches.'

A modest shrug, though I had a feeling that nothing Potter did was modest, and that what he did to appear modest was nothing like unrehearsed. ‘Too many critics simply don't bother to review books that are dreadful. Personally, I don't subscribe to the old saw, “If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.” In fact, I don't know why words uttered by some rabbit in a children's animated feature would be so revered in the first place.'

The words were ‘uttered by' Thumper in
Bambi
. And it was ‘say
nothing
at all,' not ‘say anything at all.' Sheesh, if you can't trust a reviewer to get it right …

‘What about the old saw, “those who can't do, teach”?' a voice from behind me contributed. ‘Do you “subscribe” to that one, Larry?'

I turned to see a chic woman with short, choppy black hair. She wore a deceptively simple white blouse over designer jeans – and not the department store kind. I'm talking denims that command upwards of a thousand dollars. And have waiting lists.

‘Laurence,' Potter snapped, his eyes narrowing.

The new addition to our group smiled icily. ‘Oh, Larry, I've known you for years. Why so formal?'

‘I've grown tired of correcting the hearing-impaired morons who insist on confusing my name with that of JK Rowling's detestable four-eyed wizard.'

Ah, Harry Potter.

‘Be glad your name's not Dumbledore,' I said under my breath, winning me a warning look from Pavlik, who knew I liked to stir a cauldron myself now and then.

Meanwhile, the smile was etched on the chilly face of the elegant woman. ‘So now you only need to inform them that Laurence is spelled with a “U” and not the more pedestrian “W.”'

‘As is the case with Olivier and Fishburne, so I'm in rather good company,' Potter said. ‘And speaking of the company we keep, how nice it is to see you again, Rosemary.'

‘And me, you,' the woman said. They air-kissed, each of them careful not to engage in any actual flesh-to-flesh contact.

It was obvious both of them were lying respectively through their tightly clenched teeth and suddenly I realized why. ‘Rosemary Darlington. I've been reading about your new book,
Breaking and Entering
.'

And I had, on PotShots. The first book from the legendary lady of romantic suspense in years and Laurence Potter had absolutely eviscerated it. Called it smut, even. Apparently the ‘Breaking' part referred to hearts. And the ‘Entering' … well, as Potter had written on PotShots,
Do I have to spell it out for you?

Rosemary Darlington had reportedly done just that, explicitly and with quite a few redundant – and occasionally imaginative – variations over the four hundred pages of her erotic suspense novel.

I had the feeling that this
was
going to be a fun weekend – both in and out of the hotel's Flagler Suite.