Murder on the Orient Espresso (8 page)

‘I wouldn't chance it if I were you,' Prudence said. ‘Zoe told me we were leaving at precisely eight p.m. and it's just past that now. Once they fire up this baby, anyone not onboard will be left behind.'

‘But she's the one who told me I had time,' I protested.

‘I'll bet she did.' Prudence nodded toward the booth where Pavlik and Zoe still sat, heads together. ‘The bar in the club car just opened and if I were you, I'd get whatever crap they're serving and hightail it back before our host inhales that sheriff of yours alive.'

I decided to take Prudence's advice. It required me to push my way past the exit to the front car, but at least I wouldn't risk getting off and being left behind.

Unfortunately, I wasn't the only one in search of libations. In fact, the line for the lone bartender was past Boyce/Bouc's espresso bar and out onto the platform. This seemed a problem in light of both Prudence's warning and the ‘All aboard!' that somebody was shouting.

As I moved to the end of the line, a crack of thunder echoed. ‘That bitch would have left me here in the rain,' I muttered under my breath.

‘I'm sorry?' Markus/MacQueen stood on the platform.

‘I just said “the … weather's a bitch.”'

‘Sure you did.' With a grin he stepped back and waved for me to get in line in front of him.

‘Thank you, but there's no need. I'll just get a coffee for now.'

‘All aboard!' again.

I beckoned. ‘We'd better get on before the train starts to move.'

‘You think the bitch will leave us in the rain?' Markus flashed me a grin.

I smiled sheepishly as he and I both part pushed and part edged our way into the train vestibule.

With multiple apologies and explanations, I continued on, bypassing the queue for the bar to get to the espresso station where there was no line at all.

I hesitated, not sure how welcome I'd be given our earlier conversation, but Boyce greeted me like an old friend – a sure sign he was bored. ‘I'm afraid it's going to be a long night. Pete's doing gangbuster business, though. I'm thinking I should give him a hand rather than standing here twiddling my thumbs.'

‘Pete is the bartender?' I asked, taking in the dark blue uniform the good-looking young man was wearing.

‘Not really, but that's what Missy is calling him. He's also the conductor.'

‘What?' I didn't get it.

Boyce laughed. ‘Missy needed a bartender who could play “Pierre Michel,” conductor of the Orient Express. Tomorrow, Pete/Pierre Michel goes back to being Brandon, a server at the Olive Garden.'

Pete, it was. ‘Do you want to help him while I staff the coffee bar for you?'

‘I think I will, but there's no need for you to stay. If somebody does show up, I can always slide over and handle it.'

Old friend, perhaps, but this man had no intention of letting me get near his equipment.

Which was fine, I reminded myself. This was my vacation, after all. ‘I'm sure there'll be a stampede for coffee once the cake is cut.'

‘That's not going to be until after the program,' Boyce said. ‘In the meantime, can I get you liquored up on an espresso martini and you can show these people what they're missing?'

‘Gladly. And better make it a double.'

‘Yes, ma'am. Double espresso or double vodka?'

‘Both, please,' I said as Boyce tipped the espresso shot into the plastic martini glass. ‘Do you know what kind of program is planned? Are we going to get clues and skulk around questioning suspects?'

A shake of the head. ‘I'm not sure how elaborate it's going to be,' Boyce said, adding the clear alcohol. ‘Missy told me her boss was willing to go along with the theme, but pointed out that the majority of the people – who are repeat attendees – would want to have a drink and catch up with each other on the first night.'

‘Well, she's certainly right about the drink part,' I said as the train lurched away from the station. I was relieved to see that, though the exit door was still open, nobody was marooned on the platform. ‘Let's hope the engineer goes slowly enough that we don't lose anyone.'

‘I believe “slow” is part of the arrangement, given the train route isn't officially open yet. I have my fingers crossed we don't run into something unexpected.'

‘You've heard about the pythons?' Apparently Missy wasn't overblowing this, either.

‘Oh, yes. It's a real problem. Whipped cream?' Boyce held the spray can poised over my incipient drink.

‘Load me up,' I said, sliding over a twenty. ‘I hate snakes.'

He laughed, stuck a swizzle stick in my drink and slid the twenty back. ‘My treat. One professional to another. And don't worry about the wildlife. They're out there and we're safe in here.'

‘Thanks, for both the drink and the reassurance,' I said, raising the former. ‘Let me know if you need help.'

‘Will do,' Boyce said, sounding like he actually meant it this time. ‘And have fun.'

‘Hey, gigantic reptiles that eat each other, an untested train track, and a storm raging toward us?' I turned with my double-double, finishing over my shoulder with, ‘If that doesn't spell fun, what does?'

G
etting back to the dining car, I stepped inside its door. Zoe Scarlett was still to Pavlik's left on the banquette, but Rosemary Darlington and Laurence Potter had joined them. Potter was seated next to Zoe and Rosemary was on the other side of Pavlik, effectively putting her diagonally as far away from Potter as possible.

Bookended by the two most important men at her conference, Zoe was understandably incandescent. I wanted to smack her one upside the head.

This despite knowing full well I should be more threatened by Rosemary Darlington. As the author of the most erotic work of popular fiction since
Fifty Shades of Grey
, she'd certainly know all the moves. Still, the woman managed to come across as a class act.

As the ‘Mary Debenham' of the book, Rosemary was wearing a light gray coatdress. The vintage garment crossed over at the front, forming a ‘V,' like Zoe's, but in contrast to the red wrap Rosemary's dress was entirely risqué-free. A row of demure buttons fastened the panels of the dress, supported from below by a belt at her waist. The fullish sleeves of the dress ended in bands just below the elbow and, on her head, she wore a matching beret.

As I drew even with the banquette, Potter was talking. ‘I'm not saying, Rosemary, that you haven't done all of us a service by … shall we say, enlivening our sex lives? I have to admit that even I learned a trick or two from your book.'

‘How lovely,' Rosemary said with a tight smile. ‘Shall I expect a thank-you note from your wife?'

Good deal. I may have missed the preliminary bouts, but it appeared I was still in time for the main event. Setting my espresso martini on the table, I slid in next to our female guest of honor.

‘Big enough for you?' Pavlik was nodding at my drink.

‘No, but it was as much as the glass would hold.' I clamped on the plastic stem as the train swayed and picked up speed.

‘What
is
that?' Rosemary Darlington asked. Her tone didn't convey disdain so much as envy. Rosemary didn't have a glass in front of her, but looked like she could use one. Our female guest of honor was a tad green.

The way the tables and banquettes were set up – in that ‘C' shape with the open ends facing the aisle – Pavlik was sitting dead center and therefore sideways to the motion of the train, with Zoe and Potter facing forward on one side of the semicircle and Rosemary and myself facing backward.

‘This?' I said, gesturing toward my glass. ‘An espresso martini.' Then, lowering my voice, ‘Do you think if you sit on the other side, the motion of the train will be easier to tolerate?' I nodded toward the patch of unoccupied bench next to Potter.

‘Thank you,' Rosemary said, matching my tone. ‘But I'd rather projectile vomit.'

I laughed and took a sip of my drink.

Just then Missy came by. ‘Oh, our signature cocktail! I love how you're embracing the theme, Maggy.'

If all it took to ‘embrace the theme' was to imbibe caffeine and alcohol, I was her poster girl. I flicked my tongue to lick cream off my upper lip.

‘Speaking of
Murder on the Orient Express
– or
Espresso
, I should say,' Missy continued, virtually chirping like a bluebird and tentatively settling on the very edge of the bench to Potter's left, ‘can we talk about our program?'

‘Excuse me, my dear,' Laurence Potter interrupted, ‘but would you mind standing? I find my left knee aches if I can't extend it.'

Looking mortified, Missy jumped up and tugged at her evening dress. ‘Oh, I'm sorry. I just—'

‘No harm done, I'm sure.' Potter flexed his legs and extended them into the aisle, the multicolored toes of his wing-tip shoes ducking under the white cloth of the table across from us.

‘Somebody's going to trip over Gumby's legs and sue,' I murmured automatically. One of the reasons I'd been happy to leave my role as events manager behind and open a coffeehouse was to escape the stress of being responsible for the safety and well-being of people who couldn't be trusted to behave responsibly.

Rosemary giggled. ‘Gumby. Good one.' She had my martini in her hands.

I thought about reclaiming the drink but figured our female guest of honor needed it more than I did.

‘Pardon me?' As if the vodka gods had heard me, Boyce, our onboard barista, was in the doorway behind me. But before I could order an espresso martini to replace the one Rosemary had commandeered, he said, ‘Missy? There's someone who needs to speak with you.'

Missy, who'd been awkwardly standing in the aisle downstream of Potter's long, ungainly legs, looked grateful for the interruption. ‘Of course.'

She stepped over Potter's wheels and kept right on going, Boyce on her silvery heels.

As the vestibule door to the club car slid closed, I caught a glimpse of Potter's ‘sycophant,' Danny/Col. Arbuthnot, talking to a blonde woman I'd not seen earlier.

‘Damnation,' Potter said, both hands reaching into his jacket, one pulling out a pack of cigarettes and the other a striking black and silver book of matches.

‘No smoking,' I snapped as Potter knocked a coffin nail out of the pack. If I wasn't going to get my drink, he sure as hell wasn't going to enjoy
his
vice at our second-hand expense.

‘What?'

‘I said, no smoking is allowed inside the train cars.' Technically, I didn't know if that was true. But if not, it should be.

‘Fine.' Laurence Potter dropped the loose cigarette and its pack back into his pocket, leaving the matchbook on the table's surface. ‘I can't smoke and there's nothing to eat but that ridiculous cake. And even that, only after,' – air quotes – ‘“the crime is solved.” What, pray tell, am I supposed to do until then?'

‘Chat with attendees and be pleasant?' This from Rosemary Darlington. ‘Seems the least you can do, given we are both being paid a fee for being here.'

Potter turned on her. ‘And exactly who would you have me “chat” with? You?'

‘Heavens, no. But perhaps that hero-worshipping mop-haired boy you seem to be avoiding.'

‘Ridiculous,' Potter said. ‘And I'll thank you to mind your own business, Rosemary.' He turned away from us.

If they
had
been lovers, they'd certainly perfected the ‘quarrel' part.

‘You seem to have struck a nerve with him,' I whispered to Darlington, who had simply smiled and gone back to her – or
my
– drink.

‘I did, didn't I?' Rosemary was obviously pleased with herself. ‘To be honest, I'm not sure what Larry has against the kid, but I'm happy to needle him, regardless.'

I resisted the urge to probe further into the Potter/Darlington milieu. ‘So you've never seen Danny before?'

‘Danny? Oh, the kid himself? No.' Rosemary was absently swirling what was left of my martini in its picnic-quality glass, like it was crystal from the Reidel collection. ‘Maybe Larry's planning on stealing his book and foisting it off as his own. You know, like Agatha Christie's play,
Mousetrap
.'

‘I think you mean Sidney Lumet's film,
Deathtrap
.'

She drained my glass and set it down. ‘Christopher Reeve, Dyan Cannon, Michael Caine?'

‘Yes, that's
Deathtrap
. I can understand your confusion, though, given the title and the fact that Lumet also directed Christie's
Murder on the Orient Express
. That was 1974, though, and
Deathtrap
was 1984, based on Ira Levin's play by the same name.'

Rosemary waggled her finger. ‘Washed-up playwright decides to kill aspiring writer and stage his play as his own?'

‘That's the one,' I said. ‘Though the twists and—'

‘Excuse me.' Missy was standing in the aisle behind my shoulder.

I turned.

‘Surprise!' A blonde woman in a fur jacket nearly identical to Missy's – except this one looked more fox than faux – jumped out theatrically from behind her. I was fairly certain it was the same blonde I'd glimpsed through the door when Missy had answered Boyce's summons.

Laurence Potter's feet retracted like the Wicked Witch of the West's after Dorothy squibs the ruby slippers. ‘Audra! Uh – my dear! Whatever are you doing here?'

I swiveled my head to Rosemary. ‘Don't tell me.'

‘You got it.' Rosemary lifted and tipped my glass before tapping on the base to dredge the dregs. Then, ‘All passengers, fasten your seat belts for Act Two. Wifey's here.'

‘Y
ou didn't really think I'd miss your ‘guest of honor' stint, did you?' The new arrival kissed Laurence Potter on the cheek and perched awkwardly on the sliver of bench Missy had vacated earlier. ‘Do slog over, my love, so I have some room.'