Murder on the Orient Espresso (4 page)

Having won the battle, Missy now seemed appalled at the idea of her boss dealing with the ‘train people.' Or any people at all, especially ones Zoe might consider underlings. ‘Oh, no, you needn't talk to anyone at the station. I've arranged it all.'

‘I certainly hope so.'

Missy was going through a small stack of cards and pulled one out for Zoe. ‘Here's your event name badge.'

Zoe looked at it. ‘Why do I need that? We'll have everyone's conference tags at registration tomorrow.'

‘Well, yes,' Missy said, still holding it out tentatively, ‘but these are for tonight's Murder on the Orient Espresso. See? They have our train-ride roles on them.'

The badge read ‘Zoe' in big letters and, below it in smaller type, ‘Woman in the Red Kimono.'

Zoe still didn't take the thing. ‘What – no last name?'

‘Well, no.' Missy pulled back her hand like she thought Ms Scarlett was going to bite it off. ‘There wasn't room for that and the roles, if we wanted them to be readable. Besides,' Missy appealed to Pavlik and me, ‘first names are so much friendlier, don't you think?'

‘Well, it's for certain the only thing that
I'll
remem—' I started.

Zoe cut me off. ‘Friendly, schmiendly. Without the full names, how can attendees know who's important?'

‘You mean for sucking up?' I asked.

‘Of course. Literary agents, publishing house editors, established authors. How's one supposed to know?' Zoe demanded.

‘The name badges for tomorrow will have full names and be color-coded with all that information,' Missy gamely assured her. ‘But for tonight I thought it would be fun—'

‘Fine, fine.' Zoe Scarlett turned her eyes to the list she held, her hand trembling in excitement or anxiety, I wasn't sure which.

Missy Hudson – or ‘Mrs Hubbard,' I suppose – tried to appear unfazed by the tsunami of criticism, but I could see her fighting the tears in her eyes as she handed Pavlik and me our own badges for the night.

‘“Maggy/Narrator,”' I read from mine. ‘But will I really be doing any narrating?'

‘Oh, no. Not to worry.' Missy seemed more apologetic than defensive. ‘I just didn't have a role for you and didn't want you to feel left out.'

‘That's so nice. Thank you.' I peeled the backing off the badge and stuck it to my dress, then went to help Pavlik, who was having trouble with his.

‘Jacob/Ratchett,' I said, affixing it to the shoulder of his shirt.

‘I'm so sorry Jacob and Ratchett don't alliterate,' Missy said. ‘Zoe decided which roles the sheriff and the guests of honor were playing.'

More special treatment for Pavlik, courtesy of our buxom conference organizer. But, hey, I rationalized, it had scored us a suite so far. As long as the woman kept her hands to herself …

Missy was leafing through the short stack of badges in her hand again. ‘I chose the players and their respective roles so people could put them together easily either through alliteration or word association.'

‘Which is why Zoe
Scarlett
is the Woman in the
Red
Kimono? Very clever.'

‘Thank you. And then there's the fact that Agatha Christie never properly reveals who's wearing the kimono. Zoe didn't want to play a role.'

That figured. Nothing could top ‘Countess of the Conference.'

The girl was pulling out another badge. ‘See? I'm Missy/Mrs Hubbard.'

‘Huh,' I said, looking. ‘Missy, Mrs. And even your last names, when you think of it, alliterate. “Hudson” and “Hubbard,” very neatly done.'

‘Says the woman who attempted to assign seats in her coffeehouse,' I heard Pavlik say under his breath.

‘They don't all,' Missy was saying. ‘The last names, I mean. That's why,' she lowered her voice and snuck a glance toward Zoe, ‘I didn't put them on.'

I knuckle-bumped with her. ‘Good for you.'

Zoe, who'd been running her finger down the clipboard, suddenly looked up. ‘Good for who?'

‘You and Missy,' I said with a smile. ‘Are we all here?'

‘Looks like it.' Zoe swept her hand toward the door of the bus, inviting Pavlik and me to climb on.

I went first, happy to see that most of the people who'd already boarded were wearing outfits that fit the 1930s, when Dame Agatha had set her
Murder on the Orient Express
. I loved old movies and though it had been a while since I'd read Agatha Christie's book, I'd coincidentally seen the 1974 movie version just a few weeks prior. It would be fun seeing who was who. Or was it ‘whom'?

‘Looking for a seat?' a pleasant African-American man on the aisle about halfway back asked. He was wearing navy pinstripes and I recognized him and the man next to him as the pair who had complimented Missy. He finished slapping on his nametag and stuck out his hand. ‘I'm Markus, playing MacQueen, the victim's secretary.'

Markus/MacQueen. I was finding Missy's system helpful already. And the use of first names only simplified things even further for a newcomer like me. ‘Nice to meet you, Markus, I'm Maggy. I'm actually looking for two se—'

‘Larry'll always make room for a good-looking woman.' A slightly-built older lady diagonally across the aisle nodded toward Laurence Potter in the aisle seat behind her. Potter's face was buried behind a
Publishers Weekly
magazine, his briefcase on the window seat next to him.

Typical commuter ploy to discouraging sharing, but I was busy studying the elderly woman, who was wearing a dark dress with layers of pearls around her neck. Even without the nametag, I thought I had this one. ‘Princess Dragomiroff, I presume?'

‘Very good,' the princess said. ‘And this is—'

‘Greta Ohlsson, who gives evidence in part two, chapter six.' The bespectacled middle-aged woman seated next to the princess wore a plaid blouse and tweed skirt like the ‘Swedish Lady' of the book she held in her hand. The part had been played by Ingrid Bergman in the movie.

‘A pleasure.' I pointed to my nametag. ‘I'm not really narrating. In fact, I'm not even sure there is a narrator in the book.'

‘The book was written third-person, so there would be a narrative voice,' Markus/MacQueen said. ‘Will you be speaking at the conference?'

‘Heavens, no. My friend,' I nodded toward Pavlik, who was still at the front of the bus engaged in conversation with Zoe, ‘is, though, and we didn't know—'

‘Ooh, you're with that good-looking sheriff,' Greta piped up in a soft, mincing voice. Tucking the copy of
Murder on the Orient Express
into her handbag, she turned to her companion. ‘You do remember him from our conference two years back, don't you, Prudence? Zoe's “friend” from Chicago?'

The quotation marks around ‘friend' were about as subtle as sky-writing.

On cue, the slinky redhead in question trilled out in response to something Pavlik had said. The laughter sounded more siren song than genuine amusement. Let's just hope the ‘good-looking sheriff' could resist the lure of her silicone-rocky shores.

As if Pavlik sensed us all looking, he waved to me. ‘Did you find two seats back there?'

I shook my head. ‘Only one.'

‘Go ahead and take that. I'll sit here.' As Pavlik said it, he slid into the seat next to Zoe.

My reasonable self told my other self that I didn't mind. After all, wasn't ‘Maggy the Narrator' the one who had just gotten frisky with Pavlik in the very suite Zoe had booked for him?

Or …
them
?

The conference organizer whispered something into Pavlik's ear and then put her hand on his shoulder, hitching herself up with a smile to do a headcount.

It was a very thorough count, her breasts bouncing up/down and swinging back/forth next to Pavlik.

Game on, baby. I amped up my smile and said loudly, ‘Excuse me, Laurence. Is this seat taken?'

Did I imagine it or had Zoe's smile slipped a bit? I glanced down at Potter, bald head buried in his magazine. Maybe Zoe, greedy girl, had designs on the guest of honor as well as Pavlik.

I cleared my throat.

Potter looked up. ‘Sorry?'

Though we'd met just over an hour ago, he seemed to already have forgotten me. So much for Maggy Thorsen, femme fatale.

But Zoe could still be watching, so I kept smiling. ‘I said, is that seat taken?'

‘What she's too polite to say, Larry,' the aging-to-aged princess snapped, ‘is you need to move your crap onto the floor.'

‘Oh, I was simply and totally immersed in this article.' As Potter spoke, he lifted his briefcase and slid over to the window. ‘Please. Sit.'

‘You weren't saving it for someone?' As I sat down, I saw Zoe swivel back around toward Pavlik.

‘More likely saving it
from
someone,' the princess said. ‘I'm Prudence, by the way, and my seatmate is Grace.'

Prudence/Princess Dragomiroff and Grace/Greta Ohlsson. Missy deserved a gold star in my alliteration/memory-trick book.

I shook the princess's ring-covered hand. ‘Maggy,' I said, before turning to Grace. ‘Are you both writers?'

‘Aspiring writers,' Grace said.

‘Some of us aspire more than others,' the princess said sourly. ‘Grace hasn't written a word since the last Mystery 101.'

‘I teach kindergarten in Detroit,' Grace explained, unruffled. ‘I'm afraid the little ones take up all my—'

‘A word of advice, Maggy?' Prudence interrupted. ‘Watch out for Zoe.'

‘Zoe? What do you mean?' I knew exactly what she meant, but I wanted to hear it from her.

‘She means,' Laurence Potter said dryly, ‘that the woman is a venal fly trap.'

Venal, not venus. ‘As in—'

‘
As in
a mercenary snare of male privates,' Potter provided. ‘Or must I spell it out for you?'

He pretty much had. But since ‘innocent' had gotten me this far: ‘I thought Zoe was married, at least until recently.'

A snort from Prudence/Princess, but it was Grace/Greta next to her who answered. ‘Ignore these two, Maggy. We all owe Zoe – and Missy, too, as of last year – a debt of gratitude for spearheading this conference.'

‘Ah, yes,' Potter said, lifting up his magazine to eye level again. ‘Though the job does come with certain … benefits.'

Grace spread her hands. ‘I'd like to know who amongst us doesn't come to these events partly to meet legends like Rosemary Darlington.'

‘Legends.' The word came from behind the magazine.

‘Whatever you think of the new book, Larry,' Grace said, ‘you must admit Rosemary has written nearly fifty novels over the years, most of them very good. And now she's reinvented herself for a new generation. That makes Rosemary Darlington a legend in my mind.'

‘And her own, if nowhere else.' Potter lowered his copy of
Publishers Weekly
and shook his head sadly. ‘There was a time I thought Rosemary Darlington had genuine talent, but that woman could never have written this current pile of excrement.'

‘Just because you don't like the romance genre,' Prudence snapped again, ‘doesn't make it “excrement.”'

‘Absolutely right.' The magazine came down and the gloves, apparently, off. ‘I've been unfair to excrement.'

Whoa, boy. This was getting fun. ‘You're so knowledgeable,' I said as naively as a bedazzled fourth grader to Potter. ‘Do you write, yourself? Novels, I mean.'

‘Yes, Larry,' Prudence said, sticking out her neck like an elderly, but remarkably aristocratic, chicken. ‘Do tell us what
you've
authored.'

‘Happily,' Potter said as the bus lurched away from the curb. ‘In fact, I have a book in the works right now.'

‘Are you—' I started, but the bus driver slammed on his brakes, sending me flying forward. Potter put his arm out to keep my head from hitting the back of Markus's seat, managing to buff my breasts thoroughly with the back of his forearm in the process.

‘Thank you,' I said automatically as I righted myself and slid the spaghetti strap of my dress back onto my shoulder.

‘He should be thanking
you
,' I heard the princess mutter.

‘What the bloody hell is this idiot driver doing?' Laurence Potter demanded as the door of the bus opened.

‘Sorry, sorry.' The curly-haired young man I'd seen outside the hotel earlier that day climbed aboard.

‘Oh, that's just swell,' I heard Potter mutter. ‘The merely excruciating has managed to become the intolerable.'

‘D
o you know him?' I asked Potter, ignoring the fact I'd seen the two of them together.

‘Just another sycophant.'

‘Better honey than vinegar,' the man next to Markus said. Sporting a small mustache, blonde hair slicked back, he looked a bit like the actor Michael York in his cream-colored three-piece suit. His hands nervously circled the brim of a matching hat in his lap.

‘But they
said
at the registration desk that the event wasn't filled to capacity.' Potter's ‘sycophant' was arguing his case to the bus driver.

Zoe stood up. ‘Are you a conference attendee?'

‘I just signed up.' He held up a nametag. The big letters read ‘Danny' but I couldn't see the rest.

‘The lady said I could be …' Danny turned the tag around so he could read it, ‘Colonel Arbuthnot?'

Sean Connery played the role of the British Indian Army Officer in the movie. And this kid was no Sean Connery. Nor, I might add, did his real and assigned names alliterate.

But talk, he certainly could. ‘… so I was late. But I did pay for the conference.'

‘And this event?' Zoe asked.

Danny nodded.

The conference organizer gestured toward the back. ‘Well, then, welcome aboard. You'll have to stand for the time being, but there will be plenty of room on the train.'