Mayhem at the Orient Express (14 page)

“Charming to customers, maybe. But that’s because he wanted to keep you coming back
and spending your money. In business dealings, he was underhanded, dishonest, and
unscrupulous,” Ted said.

Chandra shook her head. “But he was such a good cook!”

“Which doesn’t mean he was an honest person.” I can’t say how the ketchup bottle ended
up on the breakfast table, but it had been a busy morning and lots of people came
and went in the kitchen; Ted grabbed the ketchup and doused his eggs. He shoveled
up a mouthful.

“I first met Peter Chan twelve years ago back in Cleveland,” he said, ketchup on his
lips. “He rented a building from me and opened a restaurant, and it tanked. How do
I know?” Ted stabbed another forkful of eggs. “Because I went around to collect the
rent one day, and found that Peter had moved out. Took all his equipment. And left
me in the lurch.”

“He owed you money?” I asked.

Ted poured coffee from the carafe on the table and added two spoons of sugar and the
last of the cream. Really, the last. I’d drained the carton when I set the table that
morning. “Lots of money,” he said.

“But then, why . . .” I wondered if I was missing something, so I thought through
my question once, then again, before I gave voice to it. “Why would you rent him another
place?” I asked. “If he owed you money and you didn’t trust him, why lease him the
building for the Orient Express?”

Ted was about to polish off the last of the eggs on his plate, and he tossed down
his fork. “Well, that’s just it, isn’t it? That’s why I was so mad when I walked in
there Sunday afternoon and found Peter behind the counter. I sure didn’t expect to
see him. And I bet he didn’t think I’d just stop in out of nowhere, either. His jaw
just about hit the floor when I walked through that door! I never would have rented
another property to Peter Chan, and he knew it. We did the whole lease agreement months
ago, worked through an attorney, and the only contact we had was via email. That lousy,
no good son-of-a-gun had somebody else sign the lease agreement for him. Somebody
named Amanda Gallagher.”

• • •

That explained everything!

Well, part of everything, anyway.

“That’s why she was pretending to be sick,” I said, popping out of my chair and leading
the way up the stairs to Suite #1. “Amanda was probably surprised to find out Ted
was here. She didn’t want to run into him.”

“But why would she sign the lease, then try to avoid the man?” Chandra’s question
came from right behind me.

“And how did she know Peter?” Luella was in back of Chandra, but she asked her question,
too.

“And why—?”

At the top of the stairs, I stopped Kate’s question with one hand out like a traffic
cop, and led the way to the door of Amanda’s room. I knocked. Three times.

There was no answer.

At least not from Amanda’s room.

Across the hall, Mariah stuck her head out of her door. “I thought I heard someone
knocking. Now that the storm is over, it’s so wonderfully quiet here. I can see why
you love this island, ladies. I’m thinking I’m really going to like it here, too.”
She stepped out into the hallway, resplendent as always, even if she was wearing the
same black pants and red cashmere sweater I’d seen her in the day before. I forgave
her the fashion faux pas. Even the most with-it princess can be forgiven for not packing
every gorgeous outfit she owns when she doesn’t know she’s going to get stranded in
a snowstorm.

“If you’re looking for Amanda,” the Princess said, “I think you’re looking in the
wrong place. While we were all at breakfast, I saw her tiptoe down the steps bundled
to the teeth. It looked like she was going out.”

Indeed.

We hurried into the kitchen and got on our coats and boots, and when we stepped outside,
I paused for a moment, savoring the quiet and the blinding light of the sun glancing
off the mounds of snow. The sky was clear and an amazing shade of blue, and somewhere
nearby, a cardinal called out. Grateful we’d made it through the storm, I lifted my
face to the sun. That is, right after I whisked off my glasses, got a pair of sunglasses
out of my purse, and popped them on.

Thank goodness for a good pair of sunglasses that cut the glare. When Chandra whined,
“How are we going to find her? We don’t know where she was going,” I was ready.

I held up a hand, my index finger pointed upward much like a Belgian detective. Or
at least an incense-burning, crystal-reading cat spoiler who has dreams of being a
Belgian detective. When I had everyone’s attention, I slowly lowered my hand, pointing
down to the snow.

“Footprints!” Kate was on it like . . . well, like white on snow.

Our heads down, we followed the trail Amanda had left, around the back porch and on
to the front of the house. From there, the footprints led down the road toward town.

I was still studying them when I heard the engine of the VW van cough into life behind
me.

“Come on.” Chandra stuck her head out the window of the van and waved us in. “There’s
no way I’m walking all the way into town. We can drive slow and still follow the footprints.”

We did, and honestly, it wasn’t any big surprise when we saw that they stopped right
in front of the Orient Express.

Then again, Amanda was standing outside the front door, so that was pretty much a
giveaway, too.

I popped out of the van before Chandra had it in park, and even before I was up to
the door, I saw what Amanda was doing, and sucked in a breath. She had a nail file
in her hands, and she was working on the lock of the door.

“What on earth are you up to?” I glanced around, grateful that the street was empty
and that Levi’s across the road was closed so no one could be watching from the window.
“Give me that.” I held out my hand and, red-faced, Amanda dropped the file in it.
“Are you trying to get arrested?”

“I’m not trying . . . I mean, I am trying . . . That is, I’m not . . .” Amanda’s shoulders
heaved. By now, the other ladies were out of the car, and we closed in around Amanda.
“I just wanted to get inside,” she said, her voice clogged with tears. “I just wanted
to see the place.”

“The place you signed the lease for?” For a warm and fuzzy tree hugger, Chandra can
be pretty intimidating when she tries. She stood up straight, pulled back her shoulders,
and leaned in nice and close to Amanda. “Why would you need to do that?”

“I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t know. I mean . . .” The blubbering didn’t help Amanda’s
explanation.

It was time to regroup. I signaled the ladies to back up and give Amanda some room
to breathe, then closed in on my own. Literally speaking, of course.

“We found out what was going on, Amanda,” I told her. “You signed the lease for the
Orient Express. Ted told us. Is that why you’ve been trying to avoid him?”

Amanda threw her hands in the air. “But that’s just it, don’t you see? The last person
I expected to see here on the island was Ted. I know what happened back in Cleveland
all those years ago. With Peter and the restaurant he had there. I knew if Ted ever
saw me again he’d think I had something to do with Peter skipping out on his rent
even though I didn’t, and then Ted would be furious.”

My mind working a mile a minute, I tried to make sense of the scenario. “If Ted knew
you on sight, why did he lease the Orient Express to you?”

Amanda sniffed, and I found myself thinking that it was a good thing the sun was out
and the air was warming bit by bit. Otherwise, her tears would have frozen to her
cheeks. “Back then,” she said, sniffling, “he didn’t know me as Amanda Gallagher.
Back then, I was using my married name, Amanda Chan.”

I was the first who snapped out of stunned silence and voiced the question I was sure
we were all thinking. “You were married to Peter?”

She shook her head. Not like I was wrong. Like just thinking about it disgusted her.
“Biggest mistake I ever made in my life,” she said. “And the best thing I ever did
was divorce him. The man was a creep.”

It was the same word Ted had used to describe Peter. And it didn’t explain . . .

“But if you hated your ex—” I fought to make sense of everything she told us. “Then
why did you lease the building for him?”

“Don’t you get it?” Amanda’s voice brimmed with tears. “I didn’t lease the building.
Peter forged my name on the lease. My maiden name. That’s why Ted didn’t recognize
it. A few weeks ago, I ran one of those free credit checks. That’s when I found out.
That’s why I came to the island. To have it out with Peter. The son-of-a-bitch didn’t
even let me have that much satisfaction. He died before I ever had the chance.”

“Then you . . .” I took a step back, astounded by where my own deductions took me.
“You didn’t receive a threatening note like the one Peter got. You wrote those notes!”

She didn’t look embarrassed. “As soon as I saw the building lease on my credit report,
I knew Peter was behind it. That’s when I sent the first letter. I thought I’d scare
him, you know? Just to get even. And to let him know he wasn’t going to get away with
it. Then I sent another one, and another one. And then I came to the island. I figured
by then, he’d be shaking in his shoes. He should have been, the lowlife. How dare
he do something like that? It’s got to be illegal. I mean, it’s identity theft, right?
Leave it to Peter.” Her laugh contained exactly zero amusement. “If there was a sneaky
way around a law or a quick way to make a buck—honest or not—Peter was the one to
do it. To tell you the truth, that’s actually why I came here today. I wanted to see
the place where Peter died. You know, just to mark the occasion with a little happy
dance.”

“What Peter did was illegal, sure.” I did my best to make sure I didn’t sound like
I was accusing her of anything. Not yet. “But so is murder.”

Amanda’s mouth fell open and color raced into her porcelain cheeks. “You don’t think . . .”
She lifted her chin. “I sure didn’t kill Peter,” she said, her teeth snapping out
the words. “As much as I would have liked to, I hate to admit it, but I just didn’t
have the nerve.”

14

W
e waited until Amanda walked away, and then we waited some more, just to be sure she
didn’t double back and try to break into the Orient Express again.

Guests with police records are bad for business.

Then again, having a guest who was a murderer wouldn’t do much for the reputation
of Bea & Bees, either.

“Ted and Amanda both have reasons to hate Peter.” I thought the words were just playing
around inside my head, but apparently, I spoke them out loud, because there outside
the front door of the restaurant, Kate, Luella, and Chandra turned to me. I explained
as simply as I could.

“They both have motives. I wonder about opportunity.”

Chandra looked genuinely confused. “You mean . . .”

A leftover blast of wind raced down the street, and though the sun was quickly warming
the air, the breeze blew across the piled-up snow and created instant air-conditioning.
I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my parka. “I mean do either one of them have
an alibi?”

Kate’s mouth thinned. “Well, they were both on the island that night. We know that
because Amanda checked into your place on Sunday and Ted showed up Monday evening.
By then the ferry wasn’t running. So they both had to be on the island at the time
Peter was killed.”

“And Ted arrived late, remember.” Luella started back toward the van. “That means
he could have been anywhere before he came to your place.”

“He said he was checking his properties.” Chandra jumped behind the wheel. “But maybe
that was just a story.”

“And maybe . . .” Another memory from that night jumped up and slapped me like the
leftover icy wind that blew off the lake. I climbed into the van and put on my seat
belt. “Remember when Amanda came down and asked for tea the night of the murder? She
was wearing boots. That means she must have gone out sometime that night.”

“She said she forgot her slippers,” Kate reminded me.

“Completely possible,” I conceded. “But if you forgot your slippers, wouldn’t you
just walk around in your socks? Why boots? And why—?”

It was the mention of socks that knocked another memory out from where it had been
lodged in the deepest recesses of my brain. The night of the murder, after we came
back to the B and B and built a fire, we left our boots by the door and padded around
in our stocking feet. After Amanda went back upstairs—

“There was a wet patch on the carpet!” I was so upended by this dim memory, I grabbed
the sleeve of Kate’s jacket and gave her a shake. “Remember, Kate, you stepped in
it. After Amanda came down, the floor was wet.”

Chandra was backing out of the parking space, and in the rearview mirror, I saw her
flash me a look. “Which means—?”

“That her boots were wet, of course. She
had
been out.” I shot a look down the street in the direction Amanda had gone, and saw
her in the distance, plodding on toward the B and B. “Funny, she didn’t mention that
when she told us what a creep Peter was.”

“So Ted and Amanda both have motive. And opportunity.” Luella was sitting up front,
and she turned in her seat. “What are the chances somebody else on the island did,
too?”

I answered her with a question of my own. “What are the chances Marianne might be
at the library today?”

Nobody bothered to ask why I was interested.

We drove straight to the library.

• • •

As it turned out, Marianne
was
at her post at the library’s main desk that morning. She was surprised when we knocked
and asked to be let in, but she didn’t question it. Instead, she told us that she
had stopped in to make sure nothing in the library had gotten damaged and was relieved,
now that the electricity was coming back to the island bit by bit, that the library’s
lights were on and the heat was pumping.

“And with all this peace and quiet . . .” Marianne glanced around the library, which
was smaller than the library room in my condo back in New York. She sighed with the
contentment of a real book lover. “Before we officially reopen for business and our
patrons return, I can do some serious shelving without being interrupted.”

For our part (okay, truth be told,
my
part, because I was doing the talking for the group so I was the one who made up
the story on the fly), we said that while we waited out the storm back at the B and
B, we’d been discussing
Murder on the Orient Express
and wondering what it would be like to be real detectives. With Poirot’s incomparable
skills in mind, we’d given ourselves a challenge.

“We’re going to put our own little gray cells to work.” I was afraid I sparkled a
little too much when I said this and that it might give us away, so I toned down my
smile and opted for at least part of the truth. “We’d like to see how much we can
find out about Peter Chan.”

“Internet?” Marianne suggested with a gesture toward one of the library’s computers.

I put Kate and Chandra on it.

But I had other ideas. “Microfilm,” I said. “Cleveland newspapers.”

Humming with the excitement of helping us explore the classic book in this new and
different way, Marianne led the way to the library’s one and only microfilm reader.

Luella poked me in the ribs. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you actually had
some experience being a detective.”

“Oh, or a secret past!” From over by the computer, Chandra practically swooned. She
had just slipped out of her coat, and she clutched her hands to her heart. “Leave
it to Bea to have some great, exciting double identity.”

When everyone else laughed, I joined in. Not exactly as easy as it sounds when the
emotion felt so hollow. “Actually,” I said, skirting the subject as cleanly as I was
able, “I’ve had some experience doing research. Newspapers are always a great place
to start.”

“But how do we know where to look?” By this time, I was sitting in front of the microfilm
reader, and Luella was seated on my left. “It’s not like we know much about Peter.”

“We know he lived in Cleveland twelve years ago,” I reminded her. “And we know he
left suddenly. That means he might have had a very good reason to get out of town.
A reason besides dodging his rent payments, that is.”

With that in mind, we asked Marianne for the microfilm reels from the proper dates
and got down to business.

It was slow going, and by the time we were all the way through May, my head pounded
and my eyes felt as if they were going to pop out of my head. We started in on June
and I rotated my shoulders, getting rid of a cramp.

“Baseball scores, hints of public corruption, oil prices, movie reviews.” I scanned
page after page, providing Luella with a running commentary, just in case she didn’t
read as fast as I did. “Recipes, letters to the editor, a lawsuit resulting from a
death at a Chinese restaurant.”

My own words echoed back at me and I sat up like a shot and pointed to the screen.
“A lawsuit resulting from a death at a Chinese restaurant,” I repeated.

I didn’t need to. Luella was already out of her chair, leaning over my shoulder and
reading the article along with me.

I skimmed, voicing the highlights. “Popular eatery . . . elderly woman . . . Anastasia
Golubski . . . became ill immediately after eating there in early March . . . some
question as to the cause of death . . . civil suit brought by family against owner . . .”
I wasn’t surprised and I don’t think Luella was, either, when I read the man’s name.
“Peter Chan.”

While I reread the article and hit the proper button on the machine to make it print,
she flopped back down in her chair.

“What are the chances?” I asked.

“You mean the chances someone might have a grudge against Peter because of the woman’s
death?”

“That.” I grabbed the article from the printer. “And what are the chances that person
could be on the island?”

• • •

The most logical way back to the B and B from the library was down the road that ran
parallel to the lake, but once we were on it, we realized village officials had called
out the backhoes and dump trucks usually used for repairing roads and put them to
work removing snow. The road was blocked, and rather than follow the trucks at a snail’s
pace, we endured a couple harrowing minutes of Chandra inching the van forward, then
slamming it into reverse to get us turned around. We went back the way we came, right
past the Orient Express.

“Hank,” Chandra said just as we approached the building, and I was just about to lecture
her about her love him/hate him relationship when I saw what she was talking about.
Hank’s patrol car was parked in front of the restaurant.

When Chandra parked the van, I didn’t object. But then, I think my reasons for wanting
to get another look at the Orient Express were different from Chandra’s. (Hint, hint:
Chandra ran a comb through her hair and slapped on some lipstick before we went inside.)

“Hey, Hank.” Her hips swaying just enough to distract Hank’s attention from the clipboard
he was holding and the notes he was jotting, Chandra strolled into the restaurant
as if she had every right to be there. And since she got away with it, the rest of
us followed right along, sans hip swaying. “What are you doing here, big guy?”

We exchanged glances, wondering what, exactly, the nickname referred to. Maybe Hank
was thinking what we were thinking, because color raced up his neck and into his face.
“Just looking things over again,” he said, ignoring her too-familiar greeting and
setting down the clipboard on the front counter so he could run a hand through his
buzzed hair. “I don’t know why, but this case is making me crazy. It just doesn’t
make any sense. But then . . .” Hank’s glance skipped over Chandra to the three of
us standing right behind her. “I’m probably boring you ladies to death with talk of
police work.”

“Actually . . .” I figured I might not ever get a chance like this again. Besides,
Hank owed me. If it weren’t for Bea & Bees, he’d be sleeping on the couch at the station.
And he would have missed out on his assignation with Chandra the night before. “We
were here yesterday,” I said, and reminded him, “You said Ted could get back in and
Chandra came over to—”

“Yeah, yeah. I remember.” He waved a hand as if he could still smell the herbs Chandra
had burned during her cleansing ceremony. “It’s up to the building’s owner, after
all, who he lets in and what they do when they get here. And if mumbo jumbo makes
Ted Brooks happy, I suppose that’s all that matters. But let’s face it, all that hocus-pocus
is nothing more than horse hockey!”

Chandra crossed her arms over the front of her purple coat, and in a voice filled
with so much patience, I was sure she’d lectured Hank about this a thousand times
before, she said, “Just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

“Right.” There was no doubt about how Hank felt about the subject, either. I mean,
what with the way he split the word into two syllables. His chin came up. “How many
times have I told you, if you’d get your fuzzy brain out of the clouds—”

Patience gone in a flash, Chandra’s voice was sharp. “And if you’d try to see further
than the end of your nose—”

“You’d realize that you’re just kidding yourself.” Bad move to bring it up in the
first place, and punctuating the statement with a laugh didn’t earn Hank any points.
“Isn’t that what I’ve been telling you for years, Sandy?”

“It’s Chandra.” Her jaw tightened. So did her fists. “And if you’d just take a little
time to think less about yourself and more about the magical world around you . . .”

I left them at it. The sometimes lovebirds were too busy fighting to notice when I
slipped up the stairs and back into the apartment. A second later, Luella and Kate
followed me into Peter’s kitchen.

Kate glanced around. “We’ve already been here. What are you looking for, Bea? Nothing’s
changed. Nothing’s different.”

My hands on my hips, I glanced around the kitchen, too. Of course, it looked exactly
the same. Same blue counter. Same white cabinets. Same blue and white floor. “Something’s
still bugging me,” I admitted. “Something about Peter saying he was remodeling.”