Murder on the Orient Espresso (5 page)

‘Great, thanks.' The kid made his way back as the bus began inching forward again.

‘So, Larry,' Markus said from across the aisle. ‘This book you're writing. Is it a novel?'

‘Mr Potter –
you're
writing a novel, too?' Danny/Col. Arbuthnot had stopped next to us. A studious-looking kid, his eyes were the color of unwrapped Hershey's Kisses and about as readable. They were focused on Potter.

‘Perhaps,' said the Great One, irritably. ‘But you'd be better served by my book on writing from a few years back.'

Potter's tone was downright nasty, but you had to hand it to Danny, he seemed unfazed. In fact, the young man hunkered down in the aisle to talk earnestly across me to Potter. ‘I'd love to read your book. It would be tit-for-tat, since I already sent you mine.'

I could practically feel the steam coming off Potter. ‘What you sent, Master Danny, is a “manuscript.” Not a “novel.” If and when you get it published by a reputable trade house, I will be overjoyed to peruse it and tell the world exactly what I think.'

‘Gee, that would be really great,' said the young man, either not getting or, at least, not reacting to Potter's sarcasm. Danny straightened up and extended his hand past my face to Potter. ‘I'm going to hold you to that, sir.'

The reviewer looked at the hand before reluctantly shaking it. Then, with a guttural sound of disgust, he returned to his magazine.

Having apparently secured what he'd come for, Danny turned to me. ‘Are you an author, too?'

‘Nope. Coffeehouse owner.'

Weighing that, he must have decided there was no advantage to chatting up someone who couldn't help him in his intended career. Mumbling, ‘Good to meet you,' Danny rose and moved on to a man in a blue, yellow and red checkered sports jacket sitting behind me.

The boy introduced himself and the two chatted in low tones. So quiet, in fact, that I couldn't hear them from just one row away, despite my best efforts. As I started to swivel back forward, I saw the seated man nod toward Potter's back.

‘The kid's got balls, I'll give him that,' Prudence said as the boy stood up and continued on, working his way toward the back of the bus. Every few seats he stopped to introduce himself. ‘And sending an unpublished manuscript to a reviewer? Talk about a death wish.'

‘I assume that's not done?' I asked.

The princess shrugged. ‘What's the point? Unless, of course, you're the type who gets a kick out of having your unborn child torn apart by jackals.' She turned and glanced at the magazine held by the jackal in question. ‘No offense, Larry.'

‘None taken,' Potter said mildly from behind it, seeming pleased by the comparison.

‘Please leave the boy – is it Danny? – alone.' Grace, kindergarten teacher and apparent defender of the young, spoke up. ‘Who amongst us hasn't deluded ourselves into thinking we're the next Hemingway or Christie, just waiting to be discovered?'

A collective sigh – or maybe it was a whimper – came from the assorted aspiring writers seated around me.

I repressed a grin. ‘I suppose it would be logical to think that someone like Mr Potter would be just the person – in fact, that he could feel honored – to do just that.'

‘Not if you knew him,' a voice behind us muttered.

‘So is the kid's stuff any good, Larry?' Prudence asked.

I saw Potter roll his eyes behind the magazine before he finally lowered it to address the question. ‘And how would I know that?'

‘This Danny sent you a manuscript, or so he said.'

‘And perhaps he truly did, but you can't honestly begin to believe that I open and read what the vast unwashed mail me
un
solicited, do you?'

In these days of electronic bills and bill paying, I barely got any postal mail. What I did get were obvious solicitations which I had no trouble discarding. I couldn't imagine, though, not opening something that was obviously personally addressed to me from one human being to another.

‘Really?' I asked with the innocence of the uninformed. ‘What do you do with it?'

‘Either write “return to sender” on the envelope and give it back to the postal worker, or simply toss the thing, unopened.'

‘Michael York' leaned forward to address us. ‘In truth, since September 11, 2001, and the anthrax scare, publishers don't open mail unless it's from a reputable literary agent.'

‘Are you a publisher?' I asked.

‘No. A “reputable literary agent.”' The man cracked a small smile, but didn't extend his hand. ‘I hope you'll forgive me for not shaking hands, but I fear contagion.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry,' I said, though he hadn't shown any symptoms. ‘You're not feeling well?'

‘No, no. I'm just fine,' the agent said, hands still rotating his hat like the steering wheel of a car doing perpetual doughnuts. ‘Now.'

‘Our Carson is not only a renowned agent, but a renowned germaphobe,' Potter said dryly.

Ahh, I got it. Not being contagious, the agent really
did
‘fear contagion.'

‘I haven't shaken hands with anyone for over ten years,' Carson said proudly.

‘Truly?' I was trying to imagine the business meetings and conferences, parties and receptions the agent must have been invited to during the span of more than a decade. ‘Isn't that a little awkward in your line of work?'

‘My clients understand,' the literary agent said, now with a genuine smile.

‘They understand he's a nut job,' Prudence cracked out of the corner of her mouth.

‘One that negotiates some of the biggest advances in our industry,' Potter countered.

I glanced at my seat companion in surprise. It was the first time I'd heard Laurence Potter say anything positive about anyone.

Except himself, of course.

‘Well, it's a pleasure to meet you,' I said to the agent. ‘And your costume is wonderful. Count Andrenyi, the Hungarian diplomat.'

‘Costume?' He looked down at the hat in his hand.

Uh-oh. I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. ‘I'm sorry. I just thought … umm, I mean, you look so much like Michael York, who played the role in the, umm …'

The man exploded with laughter. ‘I'm sorry, my dear, but I couldn't help myself.' He held up a badge encased in a plastic sandwich bag. It read, ‘Carson/Count Andrenyi.'

Oh, thank the Lord. At least the germaphobe had a sense of humor. ‘So you
are
playing the count tonight.'

‘I am, and apparently I've nailed the role.' Carson the agent/count was pleased with himself.

‘Carson was originally on Broadway,' the man in the checkered sports jacket said from behind me. ‘In fact, we worked together way back when. Rosemary Darlington was in theater, as well.'

‘What interesting career paths,' I said, meaning it. ‘Actor, agent, writer—'

‘A lot of young people come to New York to study theater,' Carson said. ‘Just as they flock to Los Angeles for the movie industry. Most of us end up doing other things. Only a very few can make a living at acting and even fewer become famous.'

‘That's not so different to writing,' Markus said. ‘How many writers give up their day jobs?'

‘More than should,' Potter observed acerbically.

‘That's true,' Carson agreed, whether because the reviewer had bolstered the agent a minute before or not. ‘Writing fiction is, at best, project work. You start one book and hope you have a contract to publish another by the time the first is finished. And that the successor sells once it, too, is published. Nothing like a twice-monthly, automatically deposited payroll check, by any means.'

‘Even the best writers have gaps between books,' Grace contributed. ‘Look at our Rosemary.
Breaking and Entering
came out nearly five years after her last book.'

‘Is she one of your clients?' I asked the agent. The more I learned about these bizarre people, God help me, the more I wanted to know.

‘No, but she's represented by another agent at my firm, Natanya Sorensen, who was supposed to be here and play countess to my count.' He directed a smile toward me.

I returned it. ‘You're … countess-less, then?'

‘Natanya had the sniffles, and I insisted she stay home and take care of herself.'

‘Good thing the woman listened,' I heard Prudence mutter. ‘Or he'd have sealed her up inside a Baggie, too.'

Undaunted by the jibe, Carson continued his train of thought. ‘I'm afraid Missy was very disappointed.'

‘That's because she's a control freak,' Prudence said.

‘That's unfair,' Grace protested. ‘Missy's worked very hard to put this together for us.'

‘I managed events for a large corporation up north,' I said, ‘and I would've loved to include someone with Missy's initiative on my staff. Did you know she's driving Rosemary Darlington to the train station because the guest of honor didn't want to ride the bus?'

‘Oh, dear,' our other guest of honor said, eyebrows knitting theatrically as he looked up from his magazine. ‘I do hope it wasn't anything I said.'

What an ass. ‘Didn't you realize you'd be doing this event together when you wrote that review of her book?'

‘Of course,' Potter said. ‘What would that matter?'

I shrugged. ‘I assumed it would be just … awkward.'

Prudence snorted. ‘As you can see, Larry's not the sensitive type.'

‘If authors can't take criticism,' Potter said, ‘they shouldn't be putting their work out there for everyone to read. The same for so-called authorities writing on their subjects. Am I right, Markus?'

Markus shifted uncomfortably. ‘Well, yes. Reviews are certainly a recognized part of the industry.'

‘Are you a published author?' I asked.

‘More of a fan.'

‘Fan?'

‘Oh, don't listen to his self-deprecating bullshit.' Prudence the Princess confirmed her potty-mouth. ‘Markus is a librarian, as well as a writer in his own right.'

Markus glanced uneasily at Potter, once again engrossed in his magazine. ‘Just non-fiction. Readers guides and the like.'

‘Writers don't exist without readers,' Grace pointed out.

‘Your attention, please!' Zoe was standing up in the front of the bus, her hand on Pavlik's shoulder. Just for balance,
I'm sure
. ‘We're approaching the station and since we're running late, I'd appreciate everyone exiting the bus quickly and moving to the train.'

She broke off and leaned down to look out the window, her breasts practically fwopping against Pavlik's cheeks.

‘Oh, thank God,' Zoe said, straightening up and tucking a boob back in. ‘Rosemary has just arrived.'

‘Oh, thank God,' Laurence Potter echoed, gathering up his briefcase. Then a sigh before the words: ‘That woman will be the death of me yet.'

‘S
o what's the deal?' I asked Pavlik when I joined him outside the bus.

‘How do you mean?' The sheriff seemed uneasy, like a man who feared he was walking into a trap. ‘I guess this must be a tourist train. You know, like the wine one in the Napa Valley or that Tootsie railroad in North Carolina's High Country.'

I waved away the fact that we were standing in front of something that looked more like a movie set than a train station that actually transported people who needed to reach somewhere. ‘In North Carolina, it's “Tweetsie,” not “Tootsie,” but I didn't mean that. I was talking about the obvious friction.'

‘Friction? Between who?' Pavlik looked even more uncomfortable. And why? After all, I hadn't asked what you get when you rub a sheriff and a conference organizer together.

Instead, I said, ‘It's “between whom,” I think. Around writers, better get that stuff right. And the “friction” I meant is between Laurence Potter and Rosemary Darlington, of course.'

‘Oh.' Pavlik's face relaxed. ‘I don't have a clue.'

‘It seems to go beyond professional. Larry seems to take Rosemary's new book as a personal affront.'

Pavlik was smiling now. ‘“Larry”? Are you going to call him that the entire time, just to provoke the man?'

Of course. And Zoe Scarlett will continue to call you ‘Jacob' in that possessively arch way just to provoke me. It's what we do.

I shrugged. ‘It seems to be what everybody calls Potter. And besides, from what we've seen so far, it doesn't look like much is required to provoke him.'

We were following Zoe through the deserted train station. It was then the light dawned on me. ‘Ah, the dragon kimono. I get it.'

‘Kimono?'

‘In
Murder on the Orient Express
. Zoe's wrap dress has a dragon design on the back, see? It's a more modern' – and sluttier – ‘version of the red kimono Christie gave to one of her characters.' I looked at Pavlik. ‘You
have
seen the movie, right?'

‘No, but I read the book, which will probably endear me to more people at a writers' conference.'

‘Movies are written, too,' I pointed out. ‘And I have to believe that every aspiring writer here would also love a movie deal – oh, this must be our train.'

Not much of a stretch, since there was but one. Missy, having delivered her charge safely to the station, was squatting down in her furs and evening dress, teetering precariously on her high heels as she tried to tape a banner to one of the cars.

‘You go on,' I said to Pavlik. ‘I might as well earn my keep by seeing if Missy needs help.'

‘I'll save you a seat this time.' Pavlik gave me a quick kiss on the lips.

‘I'd like that.' I felt rewarded for not making a big deal – or any deal at all, in fact – about Zoe and the seating arrangement on the bus.