Mayhem at the Orient Express (16 page)

“I guess I meant you were a hero for taking us all in when we didn’t have anyplace
else to stay. Is there something wrong with that?”

“No.” The word came out along with the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My heartbeat
ratcheted back. “I just thought—”

“What?”

“Nothing.” I whizzed past him, determined to get dishes from the cupboard before he
could notice that my hands were trembling. I would have made it if he hadn’t grabbed
my arm, holding me in place at the same time he spun me to face him.

“Bea—”

My gaze went from where he held on to me to his face. “What?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away, anyway. Not until our gazes locked, and my breath
caught again. Not until he dropped his hand as if my arm were on fire. He backed away.
“Just tell me when you want me to start cooking.”

• • •

When breakfast was finally on the table, I found I wasn’t very hungry, so I retreated
into my private suite and took care of some paperwork. It would have been easier to
concentrate if I could knock the conversation with Levi out of my head. The way it
was, the words played round and round. It’s no wonder that by lunchtime, my stomach
growled and my nerves were frayed.

“We’re out of milk.” I banged the carton—the carton someone had emptied, then put
back in the fridge—on the counter. “Why didn’t someone tell me we were out of milk?”

“It’s not like it would have mattered.” Chandra said this so matter-of-factly, I knew
she was the guilty party. “The grocery store hasn’t opened back up yet. We couldn’t
run out and get more milk, anyway.”

“That’s a great excuse for not throwing the carton away.” I did just that.

“You’re a tad cranky.” Kate was at the desk in the kitchen, checking her text messages,
and she glanced over her shoulder at me. “That doesn’t have anything to do with a
certain handsome bartender, does it?”

I gritted my teeth. “The certain handsome bartender—”

“Always has his eyes on you.” Kate got up and went over to the cupboard. I’d put her
in charge of finding something that would go along with the chili we’d be serving
for lunch, and she rooted around until she found a box of crackers. “Every time I
look at him—”

“Oh, come on!” I was so not in the mood to hear this kind of hogwash. Not when Levi
and I were always at odds with each other. Not when he’d made that off-the-cuff
hero
remark that still had my stomach tied in knots. “Why on earth would you notice what
Levi is up to?” I asked Kate. “You never pay attention to anything but that phone
of yours. Sorry. I just can’t believe you get that many messages. Nobody’s that important.”

“Maybe she’s just pretending to check her messages.” Chandra slid by, a bag of grated
cheese in one hand, a bottle of hot sauce in the other, and a sly smile on her face
“So she doesn’t have to notice that Jayce Martin can’t take his eyes off her.”

“Please!” Kate pursed her lips. “You can’t possibly think—”

“That he’s not good enough for you?” Chandra snorted. “Is that what you’re saying,
Kate? Jayce is a fine man. And he comes from a good family. But then, I guess the
rest of us common folk here on the island just can’t measure up to the great Wilders.”

Kate dumped crackers into a bowl. “
Common
being the operative word.”

Chandra made a face. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.” Kate propped her fists on her hips. “As a matter of fact, if you weren’t so
busy bonking your ex, you might notice—”

“Girls!” Luella walked into the kitchen after calling everyone down for lunch. She
aimed a laser look on each of us. “What the heck is wrong with you? It’s just like
the old days, you three sniping at each other like there’s no tomorrow.”

“I was not sniping,” I pointed out, because it was the truth, and because this was
my house to begin with and I shouldn’t have to defend myself. “If Kate wasn’t so busy—”

“Oh, no!” Kate threw a hand in the air. “Don’t pin this on me. You were fine until
I mentioned Levi. Then you got all prickly and all hell broke loose.”

I stepped up to her. “You haven’t seen hell yet. And if you don’t mind your own business—”

“Kate Wilder? Mind her own business?” Chandra cackled. “If she could do that, we never
would have met in the first place. If she didn’t keep dragging me into court—”

Kate swung around to face her. “If you didn’t keep burning those stinky fires.”

“And playing that stupid opera.”

“And has anyone mentioned the cat?”

“Oh, no!” For a woman in her seventies, Luella could move pretty darned fast. In the
blink of an eye, she was standing in the center of our little showdown. Her face screwed
up and one eye narrowed, she glanced from Kate to Chandra to me. “I’m not going to
let this happen,” she said.

I knew what she was talking about. That didn’t keep me from getting defensive. “What?”

“You know what.” Since I asked the question, I deserved the full brunt of her anger,
and I got it. “You three.” She pointed at each of us in turn. “You three were finally
getting along. And now you’re going to start again. On account of what? Because we’ve
been cooped up together too long? Because we can’t get to the bottom of what happened
to Peter? Those aren’t good excuses. I will not have you acting like toddlers who
need a time-out. Not again.”

Chandra grunted. “I don’t see how you can stop it,” she grumbled. “If Kate would just—”

“Oh, no.” Kate backed away, distancing herself not from the argument, but from any
criticism Chandra might level. “Don’t you blame me, Sandy.”

Oh yeah, she emphasized the name. Just to twist the knife a little.

“Stop right now.” Luella stomped one sneaker-clad foot. “We’ve come too far to backslide,”
she said. “And maybe the three of you don’t care, but I’ll tell you what; I sure do.
Lord knows how much longer we’re going to be stuck here together, but I’m certainly
not going to spend my time with the bunch of you going at each other. We’ve got to
get back to the way things were. You know, when we were all working together. When
we were friends.”

Were we?

Friends?

Right about then, I was too angry to debate her use of the word.

My guess was that Kate and Chandra were, too. They were both breathing hard, their
jaws as stiff as mine.

I forced my muscles to relax, but I couldn’t keep myself from sticking out my chin
when, like the naughty toddler Luella had accused me of impersonating, I asked, “What
are you going to do about it?”

Luella’s slim shoulder shot back. “Do about it? I’m going to . . . I’m going to . . .”
She glanced around the room and her gaze landed on my library copy of
Murder on the Orient Express
,
still on the countertop where I’d tossed it
.
“I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I was just reading an old newspaper article
about some group on the mainland that puts on mystery parties. You know, for fun.
I’m going to go in there right now . . .” She stabbed one finger toward the dining
room. “And I’m going to tell your guests that tonight, you three are hosting a murder
mystery dinner.”

“But—” I shouldn’t have bothered trying to object. Luella was already on her way out
of the room, and if there was one thing I knew about Luella, it was that she was as
tough and unforgiving as the lake waters she navigated so expertly. “But it’s already
noon, and you’re not giving us much time.”

“Noon. Yeah.” I was surprised the look Luella shot at the clock didn’t stop its hands.
“Then you three better get crackin’.”

16

“T
his is good. Really good.” Luella looked up from the dashed-off-at-the-speed-of-light-and-off-the-top-of-my-head
script I’d handed her. “You should be a writer.”

“No.” I shooed the thought away with the wave of one hand and what I hoped was a convincing
smile. “That’s one thing I know for sure I don’t want to be.”

“But, isn’t it good?” Luella looked to Kate and Chandra to support her position. Since
Kate was staring at the pages in front of her, chewing her lower lip, and Chandra
stood near the kitchen door with her back to us and her arms folded over her chest,
I was pretty sure they weren’t in the mood for Luella’s not-so-subtle attempt at stirring
up some kind of literary camaraderie.

Then again, I wasn’t sure I was, either.

Frosty.

I guess that’s the best way to describe the mood in the kitchen that late afternoon.
I hadn’t left the house all day, and something told me it was probably colder in there
than it was outside. Just the way it had been since right before lunch.

Truth is, I wasn’t exactly feeling warm and fuzzy, either. Not that I held a grudge
or anything. I’d gotten rid of most of my anger at having it out with Kate and Chandra
earlier with an hour of frantic writing at the computer.

But that didn’t mean I was ready to forgive or to forget.

In fact, I’d only gone along with Luella’s crazy idea about a murder mystery dinner
as a way to thank her for all the help she’d provided over the last days. It wasn’t
Luella’s fault that the two most difficult neighbors in the world just so happened
to be stuck in the house—and the book discussion group—with us.

“I guess it’s okay.” A copy of the script was on the table in front of Kate, and with
thumb and index finger, she nudged it aside, convinced—I was sure—that keeping it
too close would be nonverbal confirmation of the fact that I was not as big a nuisance
to the neighborhood as she’d always said.

Fine by me.

I was a nuisance?

Well, she was a stick-in-the-mud. And a self-important snob, to boot.

She was also, as it turned out, willing to give credit where credit was due. Even
when it was obviously painful. Until that moment—until I watched Kate’s spine stiffen
and the muscles in her shoulders tighten so much, just seeing them made mine ache—I
don’t think I’d ever completely understood all the nuances of the word
begrudging.

Kate made them roaringly clear. “You’ve taken the entire story of
Murder on the Orient Express
and distilled it down to its essence.” Was this a compliment I heard forming on her
lips? I braced myself, wondering, if that were the case, if I could be gracious.

“It’s just enough to get people interested,” Kate went on, her voice thawing just
a tad. “Just enough to get them involved. But not so much that it’s going to drag
out forever and everybody’s going to end up bored.”

Okay, so not exactly a compliment. Not an effusive one, anyway. And not exactly groveling,
either.

I took what I could get. This was as close to an apology as a woman like Kate was
ever likely to give.

Or maybe not.

The next second, she sat up as if she’d touched an electrical line and a smile eased
the obstinate set of her chin. “Hey!” She turned in her chair to look at me. “What
if we did mystery dinners at the winery this summer? The tourists would love it, and
we could do it in conjunction with wine tastings. With you writing the scripts—”

I didn’t know of any other way to say
no
than just to say it, even if it meant getting on her bad side—again. I never had a
chance. Chandra, who was apparently not the fastest reader in the world, had just
gotten to what I knew would be the most significant aspect of the script, at least
for her.

“Bea!” When she spun around, her eyes were bright with what I was afraid were tears
of thanks. “After all those terrible things I said. You still . . .” She cleared her
throat, and when she spoke, her accent was as heavy as that fat lady who’s said to
end the opera. “It is I! I who am playing the great Hercule Poirot!”

“But of course.” I slipped into the accent without even thinking, gave myself a mental
slap, and dropped it pronto. “I knew you’d want to be Poirot,” I told Chandra. Then,
because I couldn’t stand the fact that it looked like she was about to cry, I turned
to Luella.

“And it only makes sense that you’re playing Mrs. Hubbard,” I told her. “She was a
dear friend of the mother of the murder victim, and she’s the lynchpin of the piece.”

“And me?” Kate did another quick read through. “I’m the countess and the count is . . .”
Her mouth thinned, but he cheeks flushed. “Jayce? Really? He’s not exactly the count
type.”

“Why not? Because he’s not good enough for you?” Chandra stepped forward, but I placed
one hand on her arm and gently urged her to stay put.

I could be sweet when I wanted to be (which wasn’t often), so I pasted on a smile.
“Come on, Kate,” I said. “Think of poor Jayce. Because that’s what I was thinking
when I gave him the part. His business has really suffered with the ferry being shut
down. He’s been cooped up here, and every time I see him, he’s either got his nose
buried in some fishing magazine or he’s staring at you. Cut the guy some slack. Besides . . .”
I had more pages waiting on the computer printer and I went and got them. “Maybe if
you two actually got to know each other, you’d decide Jayce isn’t so bad after all.”

“He’s a mighty fine man.” This from Luella. “Reminds me of his father. Good man, Daniel
Martin, honest and hard working. Good family man, too. You could do worse, Kate. Much
worse.”

“And that Jayce . . .” Chandra jiggled her shoulders. “He’s cute, too!”

“All right, already!” Kate surrendered so quickly, I couldn’t help but wonder if this
was the opportunity she’d been waiting for, an excuse to be thrown together (figuratively
speaking, of course) with the strapping ferryboat captain. “Stop with the matchmaking.”
I was more convinced than ever that she was keeping her real feelings for Jayce buried
when she tapped the pages of the script into a too-neat pile and set them down precisely
in front of her. “It’s not going to work, but that doesn’t mean I can’t get along
with the man. I’ll play the countess to his count.”

“That’s all we ask.” I gave three more sheets of paper to each of the ladies. “I found
roles for every one of our guests. We’ll hand out the roles as they come down to dinner.
I’ve tried to keep everything nice and simple, just what they’re supposed to say when
Poirot interviews them.”

“Meg is playing the cook. Brilliant!” Looking over her pages, Luella laughed. “And
Hank is the bodyguard, a retired policeman. And Princess Dragomiroff—”

“Let me guess!” Chandra edged up behind Luella so she could read over her shoulder
and squealed with laughter when she saw her hunch was right. “Think she’ll get it?”
she asked. “When we tell Mariah she’s playing the part of the Russian princess, do
you think she’ll get it?”

“I’m not trying to be mean,” I assured them. “And I’m certainly not poking fun at
Mariah. I just figured she’s got the right wardrobe. Everybody else’s parts are pretty
self-explanatory.”

“Oh look, Levi’s playing the victim’s secretary. And Bea is the Swedish nurse.” Chandra’s
wink was over-exaggerated. “Think they’ll have a scene together?”

I ignored this comment because, let’s face it, Levi and I had already had a few scenes
together, and none of them were what I’d call well written. Precisely why I’d made
sure to cast us in roles that absolutely, positively did not interact.

“Next . . .” The printer spit out another round of pages, and I handed them around.
“Props,” I explained. “We’ll need to get it all collected before everyone comes down
to dinner. Nothing should be hard to find.”

“Blanket, coat, wineglasses, matchbook,” Chandra read under her breath. “Most of it
should be easy enough. Do you care where we get it?”

“
Mi casa es su casa!
Except if you’re going to use something that belongs to one of our guests. Then you
should probably ask first.” I checked the clock. “We’ve got thirty minutes until dinner
hits the table. As the guests come down, give them their roles and make sure they
stick to the script or this could go on forever.”

“So no ad-libbing.” Kate nodded her understanding and stood.

“Like I said, short and sweet. I’ve pretty much limited everyone’s role to things
like saying they didn’t know Ratchett, the victim. Or they had no motive for killing
him,” I said.

“Maybe unlike one of our dinner guests.” Leave it to Luella to be the thoughtful one.

I crossed a finger over my heart. “I’m not thinking we can use this little play to
somehow expose Peter’s killer,” I said. “Honest.”

“But it would be terrific.” Kate gathered her papers. “If we play our cards right—”

“I’m no Shakespeare and this isn’t Hamlet. What murderer in his right mind is just
going to confess just because of some silly play?”

I was right and they knew it. I mean, that’s the only possible reason no one argued
with me, right? One by one, they filed out of the kitchen to get busy.

“Good work.” When she went by, Luella patted me on the back.

“Thanks.” I collected the pages of my own script and the list of props I needed to
collect. “But you already said that. You said you liked my little play.”

“I did.” Chandra and Kate had gone out into the hallway, and from the kitchen, we
heard them talking and laughing. “But this time,” Luella grinned, “I wasn’t talking
about the script.”

• • •

Dinner was a tad late being served.

Who would have imagined it!

No sooner had my guests come down and Kate and Chandra began passing out their parts
for our version of the classic mystery, than a hum of excitement started up. Blame
it on cabin fever and the weather that had us stuck inside together all these days.
My guests (well, except for Levi, who stayed in the parlor until the very last minute;
little Isabelle, who wasn’t feeling well; and Amanda, who refused to come down on
the grounds that she didn’t want to face Ted) were actually eager to assume their
roles in our little production and insisted on returning to their rooms to cobble
together costumes.

As we’d predicted, Mariah was all about playing Princess Dragomiroff. She disappeared
upstairs and when she came down again, she was wearing a shimmering purple caftan
and a dozen gold bracelets. Ted didn’t have to stretch too much to play Foscarelli,
the car salesman. When he walked into the dining room in a plaid sportcoat that was
probably as old as me, I had a feeling he’d brought it along to the island just in
case he happened upon a special occasion. In spite of Kate’s protestations, she and
Jayce must have actually put their heads together long enough to coordinate their
outfits. Kate trudged home to grab an elegant black suit and wore it with a cream-colored
cami and a string of pearls, and Jayce slicked back his hair and wore a black sweater
tied artfully over his shoulders. He looked so darned Continental, it took me a minute
to notice that the sweater was mine.

When he finally did make an appearance, Levi . . .

I’d given him the role of Hector MacQueen, the victim’s secretary, and maybe he knew
the book and knew that Hector was one of Poirot’s chief suspects from the start.

Maybe that explained why he sat at the farthest end of the table from where I took
a seat and didn’t look my way the entire evening.

Ask me if I cared.

Go on, ask.

Because I didn’t. So there. As far as I could tell, Levi Kozlov and I had nothing
in common, nothing we needed to say to each other, and nothing else to talk about.
Unless we were talking about what he wasn’t talking about when we were talking about
Peter’s murder.

So why should I possibly care?

While those thoughts played through my head, I listened to the excited burr of conversation
around the table, and when the dishes were cleared (we were really scraping the bottom
when it came to groceries, so it was turkey sandwiches and potato chips that night),
we got down to the business of having a little fun.