Murder on the Orient Espresso (20 page)

‘You're a writer, aren't you?'

‘Markus writes—' I started, and slapped my mouth shut. ‘Sorry. Go ahead.'

‘I write non-fiction,' Markus supplied. ‘Books on classics, mystery compendiums, readers' guides, like that.'

‘So you've never had the pleasure of being reviewed by Potter?'

‘No. Well, yes. Once.' Markus looked miserable. ‘Maybe.'

‘Maybe?'

‘Umm, well, he did review a … well, sort of an encyclopedia I did of crime writers.'

‘Sounds impressive,' Pavlik said. ‘Did Potter like it?'

‘Not exactly,' Markus directed the words toward his clasped hands on the table.

‘Excuse me?'

‘I said,' the man looked up, ‘that while he praised the “effort,” Potter found a bit of fault with it. Not at all unusual in a work of this length.'

‘How long was it?'

‘Three volumes.'

‘And how many errors did Potter find?'

‘One …' Markus, just murmuring, stammered anyway. ‘One hundred and forty-eight.'

I remembered the interchange between the two men on the bus. I'd known something wasn't quite right there. Potter had seemed to take great pleasure spreading salt into that wound.

I said, ‘It would take forever to read all three volumes cover-to-cover and fact check each page.' Being a lover of old movies, I had a couple of reference books on that subject that sounded like what Markus was talking about. Listing upon listing upon listing.

‘It's what PotShots does,' Markus said simply.

‘Apparently.' Pavlik made a note. ‘Do reviews like the one Potter gave you affect sales?'

A throaty laugh. ‘Any review is better than no review.'

Like any publicity is good publicity, but I wasn't buying it. ‘Assuming libraries and schools use your books as reference material, wouldn't the inaccuracies present a real problem for them?'

This time it was Markus directing annoyed looks my way. ‘Maybe sales weren't what they could have been, but this happened more than a year ago. I certainly wouldn't murder a man over it, if that's what you're implying.'

‘Good to know,' Pavlik said as he tapped me on the shoulder so he could stand. ‘Could you send in whoever it is who's playing the next person on the list …'

‘Ratchett's valet, Masterman,' I supplied. ‘If there is one.'

‘Will do.' Markus slid out of the booth, too, but then stood his ground. ‘You have no doubt in your mind that Potter was murdered?'

‘If you can come up with another plausible explanation for the knife on this train winding up in his back, I'd be glad to entertain it,' Pavlik said.

‘Now that you say it was the cake knife in his back, I'm at a loss. He sure didn't jump off the train with it between his teeth to fight pythons.'

‘Agreed.' Pavlik swept his hand toward the door.

Taking the hint, Markus moved to the door and slid it open. ‘Though that leaves us with what seems like an even more unlikely scenario.'

‘What's that?' I asked.

Markus stepped through into the vestibule. ‘That one of my friends is a murderer.'

The door slapped shut.

‘D
o you think whoever stabbed Larry Potter is a threat to kill again?' I asked Pavlik as we waited for our next witness. While I'd been happy to point out to Zoe Scarlett that we were
all
murder suspects, I really hoped this crime was a one-off. So to speak.

‘We have to assume that anyone who crosses that line has the potential to cross it again.' Spreading his fingers inside Markus's glass to lift it without compromising the fingerprints on the outside, Pavlik leaned over to place it carefully on the table behind us.

‘But why?' I asked. ‘This has to have been a personal attack against Potter. Someone followed him to the sleeping car.'

‘And grabbed a hunk of cake en route?'

‘Potter probably did that. Remember? He was complaining not only that he couldn't smoke, but there was nothing to eat onboard except the cake. I wouldn't put it past the man to take matters in his own hands and cut the cake.' I had sublimated my own swipe at the frosting into relative irrelevance.

‘Potter certainly struck me as somebody who believed rules – of etiquette, in this instance – didn't apply to him.'

‘So you think Potter was a … sociopath?' I heard the far door of the vestibule open.

Pavlik was regarding me with a wry grin. ‘Honey, I'm not sure there isn't a little sociopath in all of us – you and me, included.

‘What? I—'

Before I could inquire further, the near door slid open.

The man who'd been taking notes earlier entered. Harvey/Hardman's checkered sports jacket might be loud, but his voice was even louder.

‘Hope you folks don't mind,' he said, every bit the blustering American of Christie's novel. ‘But I have things to do and people to see. I took a poll and nobody minded that I went next.'

I minded. With a sigh, I skipped over Missy as Mrs Hubbard, Grace the Swedish Lady, Prudence the Russian Princess, Carson as Count Andrenyi and Danny as Col. Arbuthnot on my neat list and put a grudging checkmark next to Mr Hardman the American. Then I checked the time. Nearly 2:30 a.m.

‘Things to do and people to see at this hour, Mr …?'

‘Hardman.' We all shook hands.

Before I could tell Pavlik that ‘Hardman' was the man's fictional identity, Harvey blustered on. ‘I know what you're going to say. Maybe it's
people
I should be doing and leave the seeing to others.' Cue hardy laugh.

You had to give it to the man – he raised the bar of ‘Ugly American' to new levels, stereotype-wise.

‘Have a seat. Maggy, would you mind getting Mr Hardman a glass of water?'

‘Not necessary,' Harvey said, waving me to sit back down.

I ignored him, poured the water and handed it to him.

‘His name really is Harvey,' I told Pavlik. ‘He's just playing the part of Christie's “Hardman.”'

Harvey accepted the glass, but set it down immediately. He glanced back toward the closed connecting door to make sure we couldn't be heard, then leaned in anyway. ‘You do know the Hardman character is just a blind. I'm a private detective.'

‘And
you
do know,' Pavlik said, ‘that you're only a fictional character, right?'

Harvey sat back like Pavlik had punched him, a look of astonishment on his face. ‘But this is just part of the show, right? The whole crazy man-eating snake story?'

‘Take my word for it, Harvey,' I said. ‘The python was real, Potter is dead and neither incident was in the script.'

Harvey cocked his head. ‘Listen, you don't have to worry about me. I'm not part of this group – just an actor. I've been playing these kinds of parts for years, and—'

‘For the last time,' Pavlik said, honing an edge in his voice that made me fear for all mankind. ‘This is
not
a show. A man has been stabbed to death, more than half devoured by a snake the length of a fishing pier, and this train is stranded in the Everglades with no current means of communicating to the outside world.'

‘Oh.' Harvey seemed to deflate beneath his flashy sports jacket. ‘Well, that's not good.'

‘No, it's not,' said Pavlik. ‘Your real name, please, as well as your profession and address?'

Harvey wiped his forehead on a cocktail napkin and scribbled his answers on another.

‘Thank you,' Pavlik said, after reviewing the details. ‘How many of the people on this train did you know prior to boarding?'

‘Know personally, you mean?'

‘Personally, or via telephone, telegraph, carrier pigeon, email, Facebook, Twitter.' Pavlik was getting wound up. ‘I really don't give a shit, Harvey. Just tell me if you know any of these people.'

‘And therefore have a motive, huh?' Harvey leaned back. ‘Well, let's see. Zoe Scarlett. And Missy Hudson, of course, was the one who invited me.'

‘Who else?' asked Pavlik.

‘Well … no one,' Harvey said, trying to smooth down the independent-minded lapels of his God-awful sports jacket. ‘I mean, not really.'

Even I could see that Harvey was prevaricating.

‘How about Potter, Harvey?' the sheriff asked.

‘What about Potter?'

Pavlik's eyes darkened. ‘Cut the crap. Did you know anything about Laurence Potter before you boarded the train?'

‘Well, well,' Harvey said. ‘If you put it like that, of course I'd
heard
of Potter. What writer hasn't?'

‘Then you're a writer as well?' I asked.

‘As well as what?'

‘As well as an actor.'

‘Oh, yes.' Harvey dipped his head. ‘I've tried my hand at the occasional screenplay or two, here and there.'

‘And that's how you knew Potter?'

I could tell that Pavlik wasn't going to let go of his bone.

‘I didn't say I knew him
personally
. A friend offered to show him one of my screenplays, but I ultimately decided against it.'

‘Why?'

‘A different friend warned me off. Said Potter had a reputation for …'

Pavlik growled, ‘Giving unkind reviews?'

‘Well, yes, that too, but my second friend was talking more about Potter stealing other people's ideas.'

‘Like whose?' I asked.

‘Rosemary Darlington, for one,' Harvey said. ‘Word has it he was mentoring her a few years ago – professionally
and
personally, if you get my drift.'

I didn't bother to correct him. I was too busy thinking about Rosemary's slightly drunken suggestion that Danny was dogging Potter because the young man suspected the uber-reviewer had stolen his manuscript. Not to mention that I'd seen Danny whispering with Harvey on the bus.

‘And that kid, Danny,' Harvey continued, like he'd read my mind. ‘He's been pumping me for information on Pott—'

Two doors slid open in rapid succession and then Missy was standing there. ‘I think you'd better come. And quick.'

‘Why?' Pavlik and I answered in duet.

‘Well, Audra has a gun and, oh, dear, she's going to shoot Boyce.'

‘I
want to see my husband.' Audra Edmonds was, indeed, pointing some kind of pistol at Boyce, not three feet in front of her, Danny the Sycophant just to her side.

Boyce didn't look too worried. He was sitting on the stool we'd found for him, leaning against the door of the vestibule leading to the sleeping car, arms crossed. ‘I'm afraid not.'

‘Are you blind?' She waggled the barrel to prove her point. ‘I have a gun.'

‘And a permit for it?' Pavlik asked quietly from behind her.

Audra turned, startled, which is when Boyce stood and pushed down her wrist so the muzzle was pointing to the floor before he pried it from her hand.

‘Of course I have a permit,' Audra said to the sheriff, rubbing her forearm and seeming dazed by his question. ‘This is South Florida. Santa and his reindeer can carry concealed weapons.'

‘Unfortunately, that's true,' Boyce said, handing Pavlik the gun, butt first. ‘It's easier to get a CCW permit down here than a driver's license.'

‘Or a Resident Beach Parking permit,' contributed Danny.

Absently, I wondered how he hyperlinked to that connection. And which of the two permits Danny had attempted to get.

The young man stepped past me to take hold of Audra's non-shooting arm. ‘She's really upset,' he told Pavlik. ‘Can we go to the club car, maybe find her something to drink?'

‘As long as she doesn't expect to get this back anytime soon.' The sheriff held up the gun and we watched Danny and Audra shuffle/stumble off.

‘Interesting,' I said under my breath. ‘A variation on the
Deathtrap
twist, perhaps?'

‘What?' Pavlik asked.

‘Never mind,' I said, linking my arm with his. ‘We'll watch it together some time. What's next?'

‘Excuse me, Sheriff.' Carson/Count Andrenyi was standing in front of us.

‘Yes?'

I couldn't remember if Pavlik knew who the man was. ‘This is Carson, the lit—'

‘Of course,' the sheriff said. ‘I saw you in the club car earlier. You're Mr Potter's and Ms Edmond's agent.'

But when Pavlik extended his hand, Carson leaped back like a two-legged gazelle.

‘He doesn't shake,' I whispered to my lover.

The sheriff lowered his hand. Slowly, I thought, so as not to embarrass Carson any more than the man had himself. ‘What can I do for you?'

‘I do understand that you're interviewing people in order and I should wait my turn.'

‘He's Count Andrenyi,' I said to Pavlik. ‘In Christie's sequence, the second to last.'

The sheriff shrugged. ‘It sounded like a good idea at the time, but I think that moment has passed. Why don't you follow us?'

I led the way and got Carson a glass of water while Pavlik settled in across from him and opened his notebook. ‘Do you have something you'd like to tell us?'

I tried to hand Carson the water, but he just waved me off, refusing to touch the glass.

I set it down and picked up the smart phone. ‘Do you mind if I video our conversation?'

‘No, I suppose not,' Carson said. ‘Though I'd appreciate both of you keeping this confidential unless it has a bearing on Larry's death.'

‘I'll do my best,' Pavlik said, ‘but you have to understand that I don't have jurisdiction here. We'll need to answer the authorities' questions when they arrive, just like everyone else on this train will.'

Carson thought about that for a second. ‘Understood.' He leaned forward. ‘I'm a little concerned about Audra and that young man.'