Murder on the Orient Espresso(82)

I looked down at the glittery shoes, clutched so tightly my knuckles were white.

Poor, lost little murderer.

It was nearly four in the afternoon when we heard the whistle of a train.

Piling out, we raced around our locomotive to see another engine chugging up the track toward us. Pulling a single car, it stopped on the opposite side of the water-filled breach.

I pushed my way to the front of our little group of castaways just as Pavlik hopped out. He was followed by Boyce and about a dozen men and women in all kinds of uniforms.

Forgetting the dangers of the Everglades – or maybe feeling I’d already faced the worst of them – I splashed through the shallow water to the sheriff and threw my arms around him.

Pavlik kissed me hard. ‘Told you I’d be back. Is everything OK here?’

I looked down at the two glittery shoes I’d carried with me.

‘You’d best sit down,’ I said, pointing toward the doorway of our rescue train. And then I quoted the killer who’d saved my life: ‘It’s a long story.’