Murder on the Orient Espresso(75)

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.