by Sandra Balzo
Regardless of Rosemary’s writing and my imagination, though, it was very nice of her to insert a piece of Missy in the book. I’d bet the girl was thrilled.
Then I shifted, intending to do a search for ‘snake’ in the text and see if Rosemary had been more imaginative in its use than I had. I had a feeling my dream had been much tamer than the real thing – or the real fictional thing, to be precise.
I slid over the pistol to get comfortable, in the process accidentally setting it on the damp paper towel I’d brought back.
‘Better not do that,’ I said to myself, a little punchy despite my nap. ‘Guns are metal and some metals rust.’
Pulling the towel out from under the firearm, I leaned forward, intending to dab at the frosting on the carpet in front of me.
At the last moment, I pulled back. If I was right about the cake and the knife lying there, I’d be an idiot to mess with the evidence. Not that it would be the first time.
The paper towel and the cake reminded me of something, though. What was it?
The towel wasn’t unusual. From what I’d seen, the same ones were used in the bathrooms throughout the train. In fact, Missy had left one on the table in the dining car when she’d thought Zoe was going to introduce her as Mrs Hubbard.
Instead the woman had introduced Audra Edmonds, Larry Potter’s wife.
But why would that be significant? By then Potter was already missing. Whether he was dead, we didn’t know. Missy had gone out even earlier, taking Rosemary Darlington to the sleeping car. Could our event planner have seen Potter on her way back?
Had – and I couldn’t even believe I was thinking this – had the two of them quarrelled and Missy stabbed him, then stopped to wash the blood off her hands, brush her hair, apply lipstick and return to the table?
Ridiculous. And even if it were possible, why? What possible connection could there be between the slightly awkward young woman and the great Laurence Potter?
The e-reader was still in my lap. I toggled the switch and the page came up, the words ‘Oh, dear,’ leaping out at me.
Missy was a researcher and worked for Rosemary Darlington on this book.
Missy, the seeming innocent, knew what ‘Titanium’ was when I showed her the matchbook.
Breaking and Entering was a complete departure from anything Rosemary had ever written.
Potter had said the woman he’d known ‘could never have written this current pile of excrement.’ Were the words an overstatement, made for effect, or did the reviewer actually believe Rosemary Darlington didn’t write Breaking and Entering? And if so, how would Potter be in a position to know that?
‘Position,’ I said out loud. Audra thought her husband had ‘learned things’ from Rosemary. What if, instead, both of them had learned them from Missy. Rosemary Darlington, literarily, to use in her book and Potter … literally?
Could Potter and Missy have been involved in an affair? She certainly wouldn’t be the first insecure young woman to fall victim to an older man who’s more interested in punching her ticket than validating it.
Missy would see Potter as a famous, interesting, and therefore powerful figure in the industry. Very different than Danny and Pete, who were too young and unsuccessful for her taste. But if Laurence Potter wanted her, that was different. It would mean she was different.
So what had happened? Had Potter been angry after reading Rosemary’s book? Had he recognized Missy as the true writer and threatened to expose Rosemary?
If so, both Rosemary and Missy might have a reason to kill him. Could they have teamed up on the guy? Only if all three of them – the two women and Potter – were here in the sleeping car together.
I got up and went back to the vestibule and the exit, taking the paper towel with me. First, I examined the surface of the door as well as the walls to its sides. I didn’t see any signs of blood or even frosting, but the lab would know for sure. Since I’d already done enough preservation-of-crime-scene damage, I used the towel to carefully open the door.
It slid without difficulty. Certainly easily enough for even a small woman to yank it open and let somebody with a knife in his back ‘exit the train’ with no one the wiser.
I jumped down onto the railway bed.
The water seemed to be receding. At least three feet of gravel stretched from each side of the track before the bed sloped away into the wetland. A big improvement over what Pavlik and I had dealt with during our trips outside.
Across the way, I saw that the ‘island’ I’d spotted on our last excursion was, indeed, a rise of land supporting the growth of sawgrass, tangled shrubs and even some scrubby-looking trees. I wished Pavlik was here to tell me if they were mangroves or not.
The sun was nearly straight-up noon. The sheriff and Boyce had been gone for four hours, and it could be many more before they returned. In fact, they’d told us to wait a full twenty-four before even sending out another scouting party. I wasn’t sure I could stand by and do nothing for that long.
Turning back to the train, I stood on my tiptoes to reach the top of the vertical grab bar next to the door. Running my hand along the bar, I knew I was searching for some kind of confirmation.
If Potter had been stabbed outside the train after we’d stopped, his assailant would have gotten gunk on the railing or outside door handle as he – or, more and more likely, she – had swung back in. And then again on the inside door handle, where I’d already found it, when the killer closed the door.
But … nothing. No stickiness on the grab bar or on the outside door handle, which I checked next. I supposed the driving rain could have—
A shadow shifted on the opposite bank, just twenty feet away.
‘Alligator,’ I said out loud, if in a slightly ragged tone.
‘Oh, dear.’
THIRTY-TWO
Missy’s voice had come from behind me.
I turned. The girl must have circled the end of the sleeping car and was standing about as far away from my position as the shadow had been across the water in the other direction.
‘You scared me,’ I said for the second time that day.
‘Sorry, Maggy. We’re all going stir crazy in there, so I thought I’d come out for a stroll in what passes for fresh air this time of day.’
Missy was right about the ‘passes’ part. You could nearly see the steam rising off the plants in the midday sun.
‘Is it safe to be wandering?’ I glanced toward the alligator. Or the void where it had been. Suddenly an alligator you couldn’t see was worse than one you could.
‘Don’t worry.’ Missy lifted up a revolver with a short but stout barrel, her hand holding the ‘right’ end. ‘I have a gun.’
Oh, I was worried, all right. Mostly because I did not have one. I’d left the semi-automatic Pavlik had given me on the floor of the train when I’d jumped down, thinking I’d quickly finish what I needed to do and be back inside. Like they say, though – the first step was a doozy.
And so here I was.
Missy raised the muzzle of her gun on a line with my belly button, then stepped toward me. ‘What were you doing?’
‘What do you mean?’ I was trying to keep my voice casual.
‘You were polishing that railing or whatever it is. Did you find something wrong?’
‘Nope,’ I said. ‘I’m just a little ditzy. I fell asleep reading a passage on the device you so kindly loaned to me, and I had a dream about snakes. I came out here to reassure myself that none were poking around the train and, umm … dried off the rail so I wouldn’t slip getting back in.’
It was a little weak, but then so was I at the moment.
‘Oh, were you reading Breaking and Entering? I’m surprised you got to the snake part so fast. Were you skipping ahead?’ Missy looked so proud I decided to go with it.
‘Couldn’t resist. I also noticed the use of your catchphrase. That was so nice.’
Her face darkened. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The “oh, dea
r.” You say it all the time. I thought it was a great compliment to you that Rosemary had Kat using it.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Missy said, lowering the gun’s muzzle. ‘That was nice. Sort of a … a—’
‘Tribute,’ I finished for her. It was apparent to me that Missy hadn’t even realized until this moment that, as a writer, she’d given her main character her own subliminal signature. ‘In gratitude for all the hard work you did, researching and all.’
‘Yes.’ Missy tried to smile. ‘That was … nice.’
Allrighty then. ‘Well, I’d better get to my post. Good talking to you.’
‘You, too.’
As I grabbed the bar to pull myself up, I heard the sounds of Missy starting to move away, the staccato of the glittery heels on the gravel, the swish of the evening gown in the abominable humidity. Then stillness.
‘You know.’
I debated whether I should continue my swing up onto the train and slam the door closed.
In that second of deliberation, I lost that option.
When I looked back, Missy was still there, gun levelled at my waist. ‘I said you know, don’t you?’
I let go of the bar and dropped back down to the railroad bed. ‘I don’t know anything, Missy.’
She smiled, but unhappily. ‘No, I’m the one who doesn’t know anything. Not even what I put in my own book. Or Rosemary’s, I should say.’
‘So you ghost-wrote the novel. That’s perfectly legitimate. And you did a good job. Rosemary must be very pleased.’
‘She is,’ Missy said. ‘Or at least she was, until Laurence wrote his review. I couldn’t understand why he would rip it apart like that.’
‘Did he know you wrote Breaking and Entering?’
Missy gnawed on her lower lip. ‘I think he guessed. There were scenes he,’ she flushed, ‘might have recognized.’
‘He was planning on writing a book of his own, using those kind of … “scenes.”’
Had I actually read the book instead of falling asleep for two hours, I might have known exactly what we were referring to. I believed, however, that Missy’s manner gave me the gist of it.
As my allusion to Potter’s projected novel seemed to sink in, Missy looked genuinely astonished. ‘But Laurence hated Breaking and Entering. He called it smut. And he honestly wasn’t very good at …’ she blushed again, ‘most of the scenes anyway. He didn’t even like going to Titanium.’
‘So, you went to Titanium?’
Missy must have heard the surprise in my voice. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ she said defensively. ‘It’s the perfect place to meet people.’
Yikes. ‘Is that where you and Potter met?’
‘Of course not.’ She seemed shocked at the very idea. ‘We met at Mystery 101. I knew it was … kismet. Laurence was so different than any man I’d met before.’
Might have something to do with ‘meeting’ them at a sex club.
‘He wasn’t a user, like the others,’ Missy continued. ‘I did everything they wanted and more and it still wasn’t good enough. Laurence thought I was special. He called me “Melissa,” and taught me things. I taught him other things in return.’
‘That was very … reciprocal of you,’ I said lamely.
Missy’s brow furrowed. ‘But like I said, Laurence just wasn’t very good at sex. Why would he want to write a book about it?’
‘To make money, I suppose. All I know is that it was supposed to be a he-said, she-said, authored by Audra and him.’
‘Audra? But he didn’t love her.’
‘That’s what they all—’ I stopped myself.
But not in time. Missy waggled the gun barrel toward me the way a kindergarten teacher might her index finger at a misbehaving child. ‘You were going to say, “That’s what they all say.” But Laurence wasn’t like that.’
This time I had the smarts not to even open my mouth.
‘He told me he loved me.’ Missy’s eyes welled up and overflowed. ‘And now he’s gone.’
She started to sob. I moved close enough that I could have put my arm around her. But first, I needed a little clarity. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Missy. But what did you mean before when you said that I – Maggy – “know”? Know what?’
Missy lifted her head. ‘About Laurence and me. I felt you look right into my soul when you said what happens in Fort Lauderdale, stays in Fort Lauderdale because that’s where we first met. In fact, it was at this very conference last year.’
Ohhh. ‘To be honest, I believe I was talking about Potter and Rosemary. I really wasn’t thinking about you.’
‘Oh, I’m glad.’ Missy shuddered, but now was nearly glowing again. ‘We worked very hard to be circumspect. Laurence would even be … well, nasty and condescending to me in public. We would laugh about it later.’
Ha-ha-ha. Me? I would have smacked him one. ‘Well, you two had me fooled. In fact, I was sure we’d find him with Rosemary when you and I first went back into the sleeping car.’
‘Laurence was incapable of doing something like that.’ The gun in one hand, Missy swiped across her eyes with the back of the other.
‘Of course he was,’ I said hastily. ‘At the time, though, I didn’t know about your relationship.’
‘Relationship?’ Missy scrunched up more than wrinkled her nose. ‘That’s not why it was impossible, Maggy.’
‘Then …?’
‘Why? Because Laurence wasn’t on the train anymore.’
THIRTY-THREE
Maybe Theodore B. Hertel, Jr was right. Maybe, in the end, everything is fiction.
Because this sure felt like make-believe.
The sun was shining brightly, the alligators and snakes off on frolicks of their own. I was wearing a flowered sundress and kitten-heel sandals, albeit a little worse for wear. Missy, the leading lady, was in a silver evening gown and spike heels. The revolver that completed her ensemble could have been a prop.
I cleared my throat, trying to choose my words carefully. If I played it straight – treated Missy like a co-investigator rather than the killer I feared she was – maybe she’d let her guard down. ‘So Potter wasn’t on the train when you and I went to check on Rosemary. Can you be sure of that?’
‘Yes, but it’s a long story,’ Missy said, waggling the gun toward the door of the train. ‘Would you mind if I sat down? These heels are killing me.’
I felt myself relax a bit, thinking my half-baked plan might be working. Or maybe, even, that I was wrong in my suspicions. ‘Be my guest.’
Missy, casual as could be, handed me her gun, grabbed the rail and pulled herself up, settling on the floor of the doorway through which Boyce had carried Laurence Potter’s body.
‘I hate to get this dress dirty,’ Potter’s lover said, tugging it down, ‘but I’ll have it thoroughly cleaned before I donate it back to the Salvation Army.’
‘Good idea.’ I was looking at the gun in my hand, trying to put together what the hell was going on.
‘So, shall I continue?’ Missy was swinging her legs like a first-grader on a jungle gym.
‘Please.’
‘As you know, I took Rosemary to the sleeping car and settled her in. As I started back, do you know what I saw?’
‘No.’
‘The piece of cake you stepped on, along with my staghorn knife. Both on the floor. Can you believe that?’
‘No.’ I figured the shorter my responses, the less likely I’d screw up.
‘I was so angry somebody had not only cut a piece of cake without asking, but then dropped it right there and didn’t even bother to pick it up. How would that look when Sheriff Pav— I mean, Jake, was pretending to be Ratchett?’ Missy looked like she was going to cry again. ‘And that’s not even counting that the knife was supposed to be the murder weapon!’
‘Inexcusable.’
‘Exactly what I thought. I picked up the knife so nobody would step on it and opened the door to check on the room. Imagine my surprise to find Laurence there. Not only had he
filched the cake – unsuccessfully, I might add – but he was smoking.’
‘Smoking?’
‘Yes, and we all know that’s not allowed on the train. We could even be fined for it.’
‘Gosh.’ Even if I had wanted to say something stronger I wasn’t sure what it would be.
‘The window was open and the air conditioning was woofing right out into the Everglades. Cake in the hallway, and Laurence just sitting there. Do you know why?’
‘Uh, no.’
‘He said he was having a smoke.’
‘And … he wasn’t?’
Missy looked at me like I was the one who was nuts. ‘Of course he was. I just told you that.’
‘Right, sorry. So what happened next?’
‘I asked about his wife showing up. I wasn’t mad, Maggy. I just thought it was a good opportunity for us to confront her together.’
‘About …?’
Another Maggy-you-stupid-idiot look. ‘About us, of course.’
‘Do you mean he was leaving his wife?’ At least this time I didn’t add, ‘That’s what they all say.’ Just my luck, I’d been married to the only cheater who’d actually meant it.
‘As it turns out, no. But apparently Laurence was nothing but a hypocrite anyway. Writing scathing reviews of our book when you say he intended to publish one just like it. Assuring me he was leaving Audra when he clearly had no intention of doing so. Laurence said,’ Missy elongated her neck like a chicken in an imitation of Potter, ‘“your ardent desires aside, Melissa, I have no desire to make an honest woman of you.”’
Melissa. I’d corrected Potter when he’d called her that, but it hadn’t been a mistake – probably more a signal between them. Potter had made his young mistress feel special. Maybe he was the only one who ever had, despite the fact that she tried so very hard. ‘I’m sorry, Missy.’
‘Oh, Laurence didn’t stop there.’ Missy’s feet were still dangling and she was kicking her heels against the train’s side as she talked. ‘He told me I was pathetic and should just grow up. That he thought “Murder on the Orient Espresso” was a juvenile idea, and he wouldn’t be part of it.’
