Mayhem at the Orient Express (3 page)

I’d sampled a half-dozen bakers’ wares since I’d been on the island, and Meg’s muffins
and breads were by far the best, and I told her mother so.

“Hiring bakers. Hiring cleaners. Renovating the house.” Chandra had gone around to
the other side of the table and—thank goodness—she tucked that bottle of lavender
water back where it came from. “There’s been plenty of talk on the island since you
bought that place, Bea. People are wondering how you can afford to do everything you’re
doing.”

In a polite world, I would have given her an answer. Then again, in a polite world,
she wouldn’t have brought up the subject in the first place.

I was well within my rights to ignore her.

“So . . .” Maybe she was immune to the bad mojo in the room, or maybe Luella really
didn’t give a damn. She dropped into the chair next to mine. “I hear there’s a book
discussion group starting.”

“And you want to join?” Like anyone could blame me for sounding so cynical?

Apparently, Luella didn’t. Her blue eyes gleamed. “Boy, there’s nothing I love more
than reading,” she said and added for my benefit, “I run Zak’s Charter Fishing. Used
to be my business and Joe’s, my husband, but he’s been dead nearly ten years. So now
I’m the one who takes tourists out on the lake for perch and walleye. They fish, I
read. I’ve always got a book with me.” As if to prove it, she pulled a tattered copy
of a historical romance out of the pocket of her overalls. “Just finished this one
today while I was waiting for the guys over at the marina to do some work on my boat.
I’m all set for a new book.” She looked toward Marianne. “How is this going to work?
And what are we reading?”

“Well . . .” Marianne glanced around the table. “I suppose it’s up to all of us. This
is a democracy, after all.”

“Not exactly,” Kate grumbled. “Or we wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

Rather than deal, Marianne got up and walked over to the bookshelf along the back
wall of the room. “I suppose the first thing we’ll need to do is choose a book to
read. And we’ll need something we have five copies of. So . . .” She riffled her fingers
along the shelf at eye-level, plucked a book from the stack and spun around. “There’s
this one.
Darkness on the Edge of Death
by FX O’Grady. Everybody loves FX O’Grady.”

“No!” My objection came out a little too loud, and way too fast, and I didn’t even
realize it until I saw that the other women were staring at me. I tried for a smile
that even I knew didn’t look genuine. “I hear those books are scary. I don’t like
to read scary books.”

“That’s because you don’t have a clear concept of life after death,” Chandra pointed
out right before she made a face. “Although, if I remember the movie right, it didn’t
exactly portray those who have crossed over as a very friendly bunch. There were zombies,
and shapeshifters, and some pretty nasty things happening in a cemetery.”

“Scared the bejesus out of me.” Luella, apparently, wasn’t one to beat around the
bush. “The book and the movie. Couldn’t sleep for a week after and even then, had
to keep the lights on.”

I hoped another weak smile would convince them. “See? If the book is that scary . . .”
I jiggled my shoulders to get rid of the cold chill that had settled there. “I’d rather
not read it.”

Marianne weighed the book in one hand. “They say O’Grady has retired, you know. He’s
not writing anymore. So since there won’t be any more new books from him, this really
would be a perfect opportunity.”

She slid a look my way and apparently took pity on the abject terror in my eyes. She
slipped
Darkness on the Edge of Death
back on the shelf, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, here’s a different sort
of classic,” she said. “And there are one, two . . .” She counted below her breath.
“We’ve got enough copies for everyone. How about it, ladies?” She held up the book
so we could see the cover. “What do you think of a real mystery classic,
Murder on the Orient Express
?”

“I adore Christie and wouldn’t mind reading it again.” Luella reached for a copy of
the book.

Kate took a copy, plunked it on top of her portfolio, and stood. “Now that that’s
settled,” she said, “we can get out of here.”

“Well . . .” Chandra turned the book over in her hands. “There was a movie, wasn’t
there?” she asked no one in particular. “I’d rather watch the movie than read the
book.”

Because no one objected to Kate’s attempt at a quick getaway, I sidestepped toward
the door.

“You mean we’re not going to start talking tonight?” Luella looked from one of us
to the other. “I thought we might have a lot to say about the influence of classical
mysteries and . . .”

Her words trailed away. But then, like I said, I got the feeling Luella wasn’t the
type who wasted her time. And since Kate was already on her way out the door, I was
hot on her heels, and Chandra was checking out the nearest stack of DVDs, I think
she pretty much got the message.

3

“O
ne guest checked in this morning, and I’ve already had someone call and ask about
rooms for the last weekend in June. You’ve got to admit, Jason, this was a good move.
I told you I could do it.”

“I don’t have to admit anything.” Since my attorney, Jason Arbuckle, was back in New
York and at the other end of the phone, I couldn’t see his face. But, hey, I’d known
Jason a long time; I pictured him with his bald head gleaming and that omnipresent
toothpick twitching in the left corner of his mouth, the way it always did when he
tried to stand up to me and realized from the start there was no way he could. “It
just doesn’t make sense, Bea. You. On an island. Running a B and B.”

“It makes plenty of sense, and you know it,” I told him. “I wanted out of New York,
and I got out. I was looking for a place that was laid back and quiet, and I found
it.” I was doing a last-minute check on the downstairs parlor, just in case my guest
wanted to sit in front of the fire later in the evening. Thanks to the crackerjack
cleaning crew I’d hired as soon as the painters and decorators were done with the
house, the room was pristine, from the tin ceiling to the antique Oriental carpet
in shades of indigo, madder, and tobacco that looked perfect with the leather furniture
I’d brought with me from New York.

Speaking of which . . .

“You got an offer on the condo?” I asked Jason. It wasn’t the only reason he would
call on a Sunday, but it was the best one.

“You don’t have to sell,” he said.

“But you got an offer.”

“If you keep the condo, you can always decide to come back.”

“If I don’t keep the condo, I can always decide to come back and buy another condo.”

He grumbled, but he gave in, just like I knew he would, and when he told me how much
the offer was for, I agreed to it on the spot.

Ater all, I had a guest settled in upstairs in Suite #1, it was lunchtime, and I was
starving. I was not inclinded to dicker.

Finished with Jason, I raced up the stairs to tell my guest, Amanda Gallagher, that
I was going out to pick up some lunch, asked her if she wanted anything (she didn’t),
and headed out of the house.

For about fifteen seconds.

It was downright chilly out, considerably colder than it had been earlier in the week,
and I whirled back inside and grabbed my heavy jacket. If what the weather forecasters
said was true, we had snow heading our way, and the nip in the air told me they just
might be right. Yes, it was officially spring, but according to the people I’d talked
to at the grocery store the day before, snow in April isn’t all that unusual in Ohio.
It would pass in a day or two, they assured me, and added that the daffodils just
peeking out of the beds around the house were as hardy as the rest of the island’s
residents; they wouldn’t mind a bit.

I fished in my left pocket for my gloves, and in my right pocket for my knitted hat,
and thus attired and as cozy as I was likely to be with a brisk wind racing south
over the lake from Canada, I stayed with my original plan, which was to walk into
town. South Bass is only a little more than four miles long and about a mile and a
half wide, and smack dab at its narrow center from north coast to south is the town
of Put-in-Bay. I’d been smart enough to buy property not far from downtown. The location
was convenient for me, and for all those guests I hoped to host over the summer, and
the chance to get out and walk in the brisk air without seven million other people
milling around me was more of a treat than I can say.

Content and with the kind of spring in my step that I had only dreamed about back
when I was still in New York and desperate to get out, I paused in front of Chandra’s,
listening to the not-so-melodic clang of her windchimes while I took a good long look
back at Bea & Bees.

As much as I hated to admit it, Kate was right when she said the house was a monstrosity.
Turret, wraparound porch, six suites for guests that each included its own bathroom,
and the common rooms: parlor, dining room, kitchen. There was also a full basement,
an attic I hoped I would someday need to convert into more guest rooms, and my own
private first-floor suite, which included my bedroom, a bath, a sitting room, and
a back porch I had yet to have the leisure to enjoy.

The place had been for sale for a couple years before I discovered it, and from what
I’d heard, plenty of people had looked at it before me. It intimidated the hell out
of every single one of them. Honestly, I could see why. My little piece of real estate
was directly across the road from a postage-stamp-sized area of green space that included
a picnic table, a park bench, and a few battered trees that leaned away from the wind.
There was a three-foot drop to the lake just beyond the little park, and most days,
Lake Erie slapped gently against the narrow, rocky strip of shore. Today, the waves
were more of the crashing variety. Even twenty feet away, I felt the cold sting of
spray.

As all the architectural magazines say, homes near water are plenty desirable, and
romantic, too. But what most people don’t realize is that they also require more maintenance
than most normal human beings are willing to commit to. Add to that the fact that
island real estate is scarce, and thus expensive, and it was easy to see how folks
had been scared away. Sticker shock plus endless upkeep and the cost of the renovations
the place sorely needed when I stumbled on it? Yeah, even the bravest speculators
and the smartest investors had run off screaming into the night.

Fortunately for me, I’d never been accused of being especially brave or exceptionally
smart.

I looked past the newly installed Bea & Bees
sign tastefully highlighted with gold gilt and painted in shades to match the house’s
fresh coating of teal paint and accents of rose, terra cotta, and purple. Automatically,
my gaze went to the distinctive chimney with its ornamental brickwork that hugged
the outside of the house all the way from the first floor to the slate roof, and my
heart squeezed. She was the pride of the neighborhood.

Well, at least I thought so.

As for what my neighbors thought . . .

I spared exactly one second looking at Chandra’s rainbow house and at Kate’s across
the street from it, a modern, one-story number right on the water that had a sloping
roof and natural-colored shake siding.

What the rest of the world thought of Bea & Bees, I really didn’t care. I had found
my home sweet home, and discovered my bliss, to boot, and nothing and no one—not Jason
who was worried I’d be lost forever in middle America, or Jerry Garcia the unsanitary
cat—was going to scare me away.

Buoyed by the thought, I made my way downtown in record time. (The cold temperatures
might have had something to do with how quickly I walked, too.) Once summer arrived,
the island would teem with tourists, but on a cold (and getting colder) Sunday afternoon
in April, things were pretty deserted. A couple of restaurants stayed open year-round
to accommodate the couple hundred hearty souls who stayed on the island through the
winter months, but I passed them by without a second thought.

I knew where I was headed, and I knew what I’d order when I got there, and since I
visited the establishment at least three times a week, my feet knew the way as surely
as if I had a yellow brick road to follow.

Before I knew it, I stood in front of the island’s newest eating establishment, the
Orient Express.

Yes, I thought about the book I was supposed to be reading for our discussion group.
Well, for about a nanosecond, anyway.

No, I had yet to start the assignment.

And yes (again), I was fully aware that the next day was Monday and I’d better get
off the stick, but really, I’d been busy all week with the last of my unpacking, and
I’d made a couple trips to the mainland on the ferry to check out landscaping plants
at a garden center and do some other necessary shopping.

Even if I were so inclined (and I wasn’t), I wouldn’t have felt guilty.

For now, all I cared about was the tingle of anticipation that coursed through my
bloodstream like some kind of crazy-making drug. How could I think about books or
anything else when just a few short feet away, on the other side of the door in front
of me, lay Nirvana?

Peter Chan’s as-good-as-anything-I’d-ever-eaten-anywhere-in-the-world orange/peanut
chicken.

I pulled in a breath of icy air and the glorious aromas of soy sauce and stir fry
that wafted out of the building. The Orient Express had opened only a few weeks earlier
in a nondescript strip that included a souvenir store and a knitting/quilt shop, and
already, Peter and his stellar takeaway cuisine had a reputation on the island for
fresh ingredients, terrific service, and reasonable prices. Once summer started, I
anticipated long lines at the counter, and truth be told, I am not a fan of long lines.
Not to worry, I already had a plan: I’d get my fill of the fabulous, fabulous orange/peanut
chicken before that. Then I could afford to be generous and let the tourists enjoy
Peter’s culinary talents. Either that (and I was thinking this was actually the better
plan), or I’d pay the small upcharge and have dinner delivered right to my doorstep.

Unfortunately, in spite of the weather, it looked as if I’d have to start sharing
Peter a little sooner than I anticipated. Through the front window, I saw that there
was already a customer at the front counter. His back was to me, so I couldn’t see
his face, but I did see that he was a tall, broad man wearing a tan trenchcoat and
a brown fedora.

Disappointed? Yes, a little. Until I reminded myself that Peter was quick and efficient
so it shouldn’t take him long to take care of this man. And besides, the orange/peanut
chicken was worth waiting for.

I was all set to stroll right in and take my place in line when I heard the baritone
grumble of the customer’s voice and saw him poke Peter square in the chest with one
finger.

Hey, even in New York, where shrinking violets get walked all over, this was not the
way we put in our takeaway orders.

Curious, I ducked to my right and out of both men’s line of vision, the better to
watch what was going on.

As if he were moving in slow motion, I saw Peter flatten his hands against the front
counter and lean forward. He was shorter than the other man, slimmer, and wearing
a white apron tied around his waist, and he had one of those paper surgical masks
looped around his neck and hanging down on his chest.

Not exactly the picture of a tough guy, but whatever the customer had said, Peter
gave back as good as he got. His voice was quieter, and higher-pitched; I couldn’t
understand a word. But I couldn’t fail to miss the fact that Peter’s eyes spit fire.

His teeth clench over his words, Peter reached under the front counter and came up
holding a single sheet of white paper. He waved it in front of the customer’s face.

The man stepped back and shook his head, and I caught a couple words. “Not me. Don’t
know what . . . You’re crazy . . . It’s not what we’re talking about, anyway.”

Peter slammed the paper down on the counter, and the customer whirled toward the door.
The stranger’s voice rumbled its way out to the sidewalk. “It was a bait and tackle
shop once. It can be a bait and tackle shop again.”

Before I could move to get out of the way, the man slammed out of the door and plowed
right into me.

My knees buckled and I would have hit the sidewalk if he hadn’t grabbed my arm to
keep me upright. This close, I saw that the man’s brown eyes were small and set close
together and his cheeks were doughy. The hand that held my sleeve was meaty, the fingers
short and as fat as sausage links. The man’s mouth opened and closed, and though I’m
definitely not the rose-colored-glasses type, I found myself hoping he was fighting
to form the words of an apology. When he came up empty, dropped his hand, and stalked
away, I couldn’t help but be annoyed.

“Well, then.” My spine stiff with indignation, I tugged my jacket back in place, nudged
my glasses up to the bridge of my nose, and took a deep breath. Undeterred and as
hungry as ever, I walked into the Orient Express.