Murder on the Orient Espresso(9)

‘Looks like it.’ Zoe swept her hand toward the door of the bus, inviting Pavlik and me to climb on.

I went first, happy to see that most of the people who’d already boarded were wearing outfits that fit the 1930s, when Dame Agatha had set her Murder on the Orient Express. I loved old movies and though it had been a while since I’d read Agatha Christie’s book, I’d coincidentally seen the 1974 movie version just a few weeks prior. It would be fun seeing who was who. Or was it ‘whom’?

‘Looking for a seat?’ a pleasant African-American man on the aisle about halfway back asked. He was wearing navy pinstripes and I recognized him and the man next to him as the pair who had complimented Missy. He finished slapping on his nametag and stuck out his hand. ‘I’m Markus, playing MacQueen, the victim’s secretary.’

Markus/MacQueen. I was finding Missy’s system helpful already. And the use of first names only simplified things even further for a newcomer like me. ‘Nice to meet you, Markus, I’m Maggy. I’m actually looking for two se—’

‘Larry’ll always make room for a good-looking woman.’ A slightly-built older lady diagonally across the aisle nodded toward Laurence Potter in the aisle seat behind her. Potter’s face was buried behind a Publishers Weekly magazine, his briefcase on the window seat next to him.

Typical commuter ploy to discouraging sharing, but I was busy studying the elderly woman, who was wearing a dark dress with layers of pearls around her neck. Even without the nametag, I thought I had this one. ‘Princess Dragomiroff, I presume?’

‘Very good,’ the princess said. ‘And this is—’

‘Greta Ohlsson, who gives evidence in part two, chapter six.’ The bespectacled middle-aged woman seated next to the princess wore a plaid blouse and tweed skirt like the ‘Swedish Lady’ of the book she held in her hand. The part had been played by Ingrid Bergman in the movie.

‘A pleasure.’ I pointed to my nametag. ‘I’m not really narrating. In fact, I’m not even sure there is a narrator in the book.’

‘The book was written third-person, so there would be a narrative voice,’ Markus/MacQueen said. ‘Will you be speaking at the conference?’

‘Heavens, no. My friend,’ I nodded toward Pavlik, who was still at the front of the bus engaged in conversation with Zoe, ‘is, though, and we didn’t know—’

‘Ooh, you’re with that good-looking sheriff,’ Greta piped up in a soft, mincing voice. Tucking the copy of Murder on the Orient Express into her handbag, she turned to her companion. ‘You do remember him from our conference two years back, don’t you, Prudence? Zoe’s “friend” from Chicago?’

The quotation marks around ‘friend’ were about as subtle as sky-writing.

On cue, the slinky redhead in question trilled out in response to something Pavlik had said. The laughter sounded more siren song than genuine amusement. Let’s just hope the ‘good-looking sheriff’ could resist the lure of her silicone-rocky shores.

As if Pavlik sensed us all looking, he waved to me. ‘Did you find two seats back there?’

I shook my head. ‘Only one.’

‘Go ahead and take that. I’ll sit here.’ As Pavlik said it, he slid into the seat next to Zoe.

My reasonable self told my other self that I didn’t mind. After all, wasn’t ‘Maggy the Narrator’ the one who had just gotten frisky with Pavlik in the very suite Zoe had booked for him?

Or … them?

The conference organizer whispered something into Pavlik’s ear and then put her hand on his shoulder, hitching herself up with a smile to do a headcount.

It was a very thorough count, her breasts bouncing up/down and swinging back/forth next to Pavlik.

Game on, baby. I amped up my smile and said loudly, ‘Excuse me, Laurence. Is this seat taken?’

Did I imagine it or had Zoe’s smile slipped a bit? I glanced down at Potter, bald head buried in his magazine. Maybe Zoe, greedy girl, had designs on the guest of honor as well as Pavlik.

I cleared my throat.

Potter looked up. ‘Sorry?’

Though we’d met just over an hour ago, he seemed to already have forgotten me. So much for Maggy Thorsen, femme fatale.

But Zoe could still be watching, so I kept smiling. ‘I said, is that seat taken?’

‘What she’s too polite to say, Larry,’ the aging-to-aged princess snapped, ‘is you need to move your crap onto the floor.’

‘Oh, I was simply and totally immersed in this article.’ As Potter spoke, he lifted his briefcase and slid over to the window. ‘Please. Sit.’