Marlene’s ad-lib heroism gave the plot a new twist.
Kate aimed the gun at Bob and Connie. If this entire voyage had been staged, they were part of the act.
Juan sprawled on the deck, holding his bloody head.
“Down the hatch.” Kate always wanted to use those words in some other context than trying to convince a toddler to eat. “You, too, Juan, get up.”
The Daltons and a shaky Juan climbed down the ladder and she locked the cabin.
Know your characters, Kate thought. The authors of this charade hadn’t been aware that Kate had practiced on the firing range with Charlie Kennedy for years. Nor had they known Marlene was a champion swimmer. Or that her big heart wouldn’t allow even slime like Clive Weber to drown without making an effort to save him.
A few minutes passed in silence as the captain fought to keep the Shady Lady stable. An exhausted Marlene heaved herself over the railing. No Clive.
With the gun to his head, and fighting the rough sea, Captain Mike steered the Shady Lady back to Palmetto Beach.
“Look, dead ahead. There’s the lighthouse,” Marlene shouted. They entered the inlet, the rain stopped, the wind abated, and Kate reached the Coast Guard.
* * * *
“Even when you two aren’t playing Miss Marple, trouble just leaps into your laps, doesn’t it?” Palmetto Beach Homicide Detective Nick Carbone frowned.
Carbone, less than a friend, yet more than a colleague in crime solving, and Kate had investigated (though he called her contribution “snooping”) a murder case a few months ago and formed a grudging respect for each other.
Exactly twenty-four hours after Kate and Marlene had disembarked from the Shady Lady, they were sipping chocolate ice cream sods in Dinah’s, maybe the last coffee shop in America that allowed small, well-behaved pets to accompany their mistresses. Ballou sat happily at Detective Carbone’s feet. Humph. Nick must be sneaking the Westie whipped cream.
“So, Detective, are you going to give us the scoop or what?” Marlene sipped her soda. “After all, we brought the bad guys in.”
“Indeed you did.” Carbone looked over at Kate. “According to Mike Hastings—that’s the captain—the Shady Lady moonlighted several nights a month as a transport ship, smuggling Cubans into the United States. But Clive Weber got greedy, using the Lady to bring in drugs from Bimini. The captain, suspicious about the amount of fuel used when the boat supposedly was in port, spied on Clive. Then, together with his partners, Connie and Bob Dalton, the captain hired an actor, who did a little moonlighting himself as a hit man, to give the performance of his career.”
“Killing Clive,” Kate said.
“Was Clive dead in the water?’ Marlene asked. “Did you find his body?”
“Yes. He washed up on Deerfield Beach an hour ago. A bullet in his brain.”
Kate let out a sad, little gasp. Ballou nuzzled her ankle.
“You two, as older women, were specifically chosen to be their audience, to bear witness to Clive’s murder by a crazed Cuban who, after having killed the Holiday USA host, would—as scripted—jump into the dingy and take off.”
“Older women with gusto,” Marlene said.
Nick Carbone smiled. “Right. And those characters never had a clue your improvisations would bring down their final curtain.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
As Nora Charles, Noreen Wald is the author of Berkley Prime Crime’s South Florida Senior Sleuth Series starring Kate Kennedy as a modern Ms. Marple.
As Noreen Wald, she wrote the Ghostwriter Mystery Series with Jake O’Hara as a New York City ghost, whose assignments are murder.
Noreen served as Executive Vice-President of Mystery Writers of America National Board and was the founding president of its Mid-Atlantic Chapter.
Her nonfiction books are: Foxy Forever, How to be Foxy at Fifty, Sexy at Sixty and Fabulous Forever—St. Martin’s Press, and Contestant: The Success Secrets of a Game Show Veteran, Avon Books.
MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS, by Art Taylor
Caroline leaned weakly on Edward’s arm as they were herded along endless cement walkways and down another flight of stairs. Edward, standing tall to offer better support, had twice glimpsed the sparkling blue and gold train, but he worried that it was taking so long to reach it. After the champagne kir and the delightful bottle of Chateau de Gaudou on the Pullman carriage and the mysterious blush which they had been given in the reception area in Folkestone, the SeaCat’s turbulent crossing had been less than acceptable. Caroline had seemed to turn an even whiter shade of pale when the little English girl across the aisle had thrown up into a paper cup, and with the woman behind them, another American, quietly chanting that she was going to be sick, going to be sick, in perfect time with the rise and fall of the ship, Edward had himself felt ill—both nauseous and annoyed.
The next turn in the hallway brought them to the end of the labyrinth and the beginning of two short lines. Edward chose the one on the right because at the rear of the left one stood the Boxer. At least that was how Edward had thought of him with his crew cut and his squat bulky build and his arrogant cockney accent. They had heard him earlier at Victoria Station, talking brashly to the woman with him, a blond frizzy-haired piece. Edward had heard the word “kissy-face” and the two of them had puckered their lips at each other in such a way that he was certain that her name was Felicia or Patsy or Krissy with a K. And he was certain now, looking at the man again, that the Boxer would not be a boxer at all but just a boxer’s sparring partner or perhaps merely an actor playing one, an extra who had a cartoon name like Brutus and only got to stand in the back and frown. They were at the head of the line then. The customs official gave a perfunctory glance at the passports—a courtesy which Edward attributed to the woman’s sympathy for everyone’s pallor—and they found themselves on the platform at last.
“Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits,” said Edward, stopping to read the shining gold letters in a fine French accent. “Des Grands Express Européens.” The sun was beginning to set over Boulogne and in the twilight, the train appeared exceptionally regal. Its gleaming white roof seemed recently polished and its deep blue sides shone even more brightly up close than in his glimpses before. White-gloved porters stood attentive near the ends of each car, ready to assist with a small bag or a lady’s boarding, and a bright red carpet stretched before them along the length of the platform. Edward pictured himself and Caroline as characters in a Fitzgerald novel—but only in the happier scenes—or perhaps a story by James. This was much better, he thought and said as much aloud.
“Beautiful,” echoed Caroline, and Edward looked down to find her face still pale beneath her short blond hair, her eyes still closed. She hugged herself closer to him and scrunched up her tiny nose. “Can we find our cabin? I’d like to wash up.” She seemed so pitiful that he felt a softness fall over him and a desire to comfort her. He began immediately to move along the walkway.
Though they were only going to Paris, he was pleased they had been given a cabin instead of a table in the dining car—the usual custom waived due to the availability of rooms—but as he followed the letters hung on temporary cardboard banners from the windows of each car, he wondered why they hadn’t used the four-digit numbers or the names which were already there, lettered in gold along the panels; he would much rather have been searching for “Carrozza-Letti” or even “3555” than looking for the prosaic “B.” His only other thought as he walked his new wife along the platform was his hope that she would open her eyes: the red carpet seemed to pass so swiftly beneath their feet.
* * * *
They had been married for less than a week and he had swept her a world away from the Church of the Good Shepherd and the reception at the Cardinal Club on what he hoped would be the trip of a lifetime. This was their first excursion to Europe together and he made sure their stay in London was an elegant one. They had taken a suite at the Berkshire and shopped at Marks and Spencer down the street and strolled
through Harrods. They had eaten in the cozy intimacy of Veronica’s and, at the suggestion of the concierge, had taken in “Don’t Dress for Dinner” at the Duchess, though Edward would personally have preferred the revival of “An Inspector Calls.” They had been pressed for time before the show and had stopped at The American Grille—their only lapse from more local cuisine—because it was quick and Caroline had felt a sudden taste for a cheeseburger. Edward regretted eating his with his hands when Caroline told him that an English couple two tables away had snickered at them and eaten theirs with a fork and knife. Except for that and the fact that they had missed the exhibition of royal wedding gowns at Kensington Palace by fifteen minutes, Edward had taken their time in London as a personal success.
But today was another matter: the centerpiece of their honeymoon, the highpoint of their trip. So far, it had gone only half and half, the channel crossing all but completely erasing the excitement of the Pullman earlier in the afternoon.
In the cabin, Edward hung up their evening clothes and settled onto the seat with its brocade of light green and black while Caroline opened the washbasin cabinet to refresh herself. He pulled out their copy of Murder on the Orient Express—not the first printing, which a bookseller friend had tried in vain to find, but a small 1955 Crime Club edition still well-suited to their purpose; he didn’t want to forget to take it to dinner or to have the cabin steward sign it. A unique souvenir, he thought, and Caroline had been engrossed in reading it on the plane over. He placed it on the seat beside him. A packet of stationery and a trio of postcards lay on the mahogany table before him and he flipped through them while he waited.
“Do you wish that we were going all the way to Venice?” he asked, looking over a postcard of Canaletto’s Regatta on the Grand Canal.
“We’ve never been to Paris together.”
“But if we could come back to Paris?” He was thinking of midnight in the bar car, breakfast in their cabin, the brochure of the Hotel Cipriani that the two of them had admired. “We could leave the curtains open when we went to bed tonight and gaze out at the Alps.”
She turned and smiled, a little of the rosiness returning to her cheeks, a little of the sprite back in her blue eyes. “We would be sleeping on bunk beds,” she said and came over to hug him. “And there’s no shower. I couldn’t leave the cabin without a shower.”
“Who says we would need to leave the cabin?” He smiled and winked. He was thinking of her trousseau and each of the evenings in London, pleasantly surprised by a side of her that he had never seen. He would have taken her again right there except for the steward just outside the door and the fact that someone else would be coming into the cabin in Paris. He worried that they would know.
* * * *
The train bucked from side to side as they made their way down the hallways toward the bar car. The continental train was speeding along much faster than the British train and Edward was afraid that the movement would upset Caroline’s system again. She held her hands up as she walked, bracing herself between the window and the wall, and when they reached the passways between cars, he stepped ahead to open the doors while she held on to the siderail.
He moved up again when they reached the bar car and found himself looking at Brutus, the Boxer, through the small window, the vulgar man sitting with his leg stretched out in front of the door. Edward was so unnerved by the obstruction that he found himself fumbling to turn the handle properly.
Brutus opened it for him. “Ey, mate,” he laughed. “Havin’ trouble with the door?” Felicia, sitting beside him, laughed as well and Edward felt himself blushing and unable to speak as he let Caroline step through before him. Boxer, he thought. Extra. The man had carried the word “door” out to what seemed like a full three syllables and didn’t even pull his feet in when they walked past. As Edward stepped over the ill-mannered legs, he felt a pat on his back and heard the cockney whisper: “Don’ worry, friend. Just havin’ a bit o’ fun.”
Edward’s back stiffened but he didn’t comment. Instead, he continued to the bar, ordering a martini for himself and a small Coca-cola for his wife. Turning, he saw that another couple had joined Brutus and Felicia and the party seemed to take up the whole end of the car. Brutus had lit a cigar and was puffing big billows of smoke into the air, gesturing broadly, and bellowing like a hyena. Felicia leaned suggestively against his shoulder, breathing in his fumes and echoing his laugh. Edward thought for a moment how his position had been reversed; in novels, one always read about the genteel Englishman and the bellicose American. And yet, there they were.
The four of them crossed paths again an hour later. Felicia and the Boxer were seated across the aisle from Edward and Caroline at dinner—the early seating for those passengers disembarking in Paris—and Edward wished once more that they were continuing to Venice so that some part of the journey might take place without the Boxer’s incivility.
Edward had expected the evening to be the pinnacle of excellence, both in terms of the food and the atmosphere, and he and Caroline had changed for the meal: Edward into the tuxedo he had worn at their wedding while Caroline wore a lavender evening dress which she had chosen just for the occasion and a string of pearls which Edward had given her at their rehearsal dinner. She also carried a small black purse to hold the novel which they hoped the chef would sign; Edward, afraid that the book alone might be improper, had preferred they be discreet.
Despite the recommendation of black tie for dinner, few of their fellow diners had gone to as much trouble as they had. The East Asian woman two tables down appeared elegant enough but her husband only dressed to the extent of a dark jacket and taupe pants, and a quartet of businessmen diagonal to them huddled in the charcoal suits they had worn in the afternoon. The Shrimptons, whom they had met on the Pullman that afternoon, were dressed in church attire further down the car; he worked with the Bank of England and it was their twenty-fifth anniversary, though they hardly seemed to Edward that much older. Felicia and Brutus were still wearing their casual clothes. The Boxer’s khaki pants were wrinkled and the tie he had added was a smidgen too wide. Felicia’s outfit was so tight and red that Edward thought it just short of tawdry, tolerable for the afternoon but entirely out of place as evening wear. The two of them had been seated at a table for four and were soon met by the couple who had joined them in the bar—a rough-looking pair as well. The four of them had continued to smoke and carry on.
Edward tried his best to ignore them and was pleased that Caroline as well pretended to be unfazed by it all. Her color had come back and she had told Edward that she felt well enough to share another bottle of wine. He saw the steward—a large Italian—at the next table and glanced over the menu to help with his decision.
It was a fixed menu—a mixed bag. Neither of them would touch the smoked eel appetizer but the steamed lobster and leeks with foie gras sounded delicious and the same was true of the entrée: a fillet of lamb in spiced wine and red currants, with sautéed potatoes and vegetables. The usual cheese would follow the meal and then a chestnut pancake and mignardises for dessert. The wine steward was stepping over to take their selection just as Edward turned to peruse the cartes de vins.
“And then this namby-pamby-lookin’ Yank gent comes strollin’ along the way they do,” came the cockney voice quietly from the table across the aisle and Edward felt certain that the Boxer was talking about him. He closed his menu even as the steward was approaching. “Buona sera, signora, signor.”
Over the next few minutes, Edward realized that his ears had somehow managed to hear the empty part of both conversations. His wife, upholding his opinion of her as a model of discernment, took it upon herself to ask the steward for his recommendation. But though he heard her tell him that she didn’t like anything too dry, he did not hear the name of the wine suggested. And though he heard the Boxer speaking of wanting to “mash” the namby-pamby “right there” and his companion’s question as to why he didn’t, Edward could discern no further evidence th
at he was the one being discussed. There had been a “laughing,” he knew, and “words passed” and the “namby-pamby” hadn’t stood his ground, but by the time they seemed to be moving to the crux of the story, he found himself listening to his wife as she gave her assent. “Grazie, signora,” said the wine steward and passed between Edward and the party across the aisle.
“And all this happened right there on the street?”
“Right there, not a stone’s throw from the Bow Bells, mark my words.”
So they had not been talking about him, thought Edward, relieved, and added under his breath that Brutus the Boxer looked like one who might have thrown stones.
“What?” asked his wife.
“Oh, nothing,” said Edward. “Just talking to myself.” And he adjusted the napkin in his lap.
The eel was brought then with a small dish of caviar, and the wine arrived almost immediately after, though the Italian broke the seal and removed the cork without Edward’s being able to see the label. He felt certain that he would be given the opportunity to examine the bottle and taste it before it was served, but the man poured the wine into Caroline’s glass instead. Flustered, Edward glanced quickly around at the other tables. The Asians were still examining the menu and the businessmen were engrossed in conversation, but he could almost feel the Boxer’s eyes cutting his way. He pretended to be looking at the lacquered ebony wall panels where painted yellow pelicans dove for fish. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Caroline taste the wine and nod her assent.
It was a Bordeaux he saw, peeking under the linen once the bottle had been left in its cooler: Sauternes. He had always thought of it as a dessert wine and wondered at the waiter’s choice as he touched the glass to his lips. It looked gold and thick like olive oil; it tasted like honey.
The Mystery Megapack: 25 Modern and Classic Mystery Stories Page 2
