Mayhem at the Orient Express by Kylie Logan

as hell. “Oh, so
     proper. And so regal.”
    “And so well dressed,” I added, because the other women hadn’t gotten a really up
     close look at Mariah.
    “And then there’s the note.” Kate licked her spoon before she put it in the kitchen
     sink. “The one Bea saw on Peter’s front counter yesterday.”
    “And the fight Peter had with . . .” Luella pointed to the ceiling, indicating Suite
     #2 and Ted Brooks.
    There was exactly zero humor in the cop’s laugh. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. All
     that is just like in the book, too.”
    “Well, yeah.” As strange as it sounded, it was the truth, so I wasn’t embarrassed
     to admit it.
    “And you’re the one . . .” He looked my way. “You’re the one who had both these experiences?
     You saw the fight? And read the note?”
    Why did he make it sound like a bad thing?
    I nodded.
    “And that was after you read the book, right?”
    “No, it was before, but—”
    The cop’s grin was sharp enough to cut me off. “Somebody”—since he was looking at
     me when he said this, I had a pretty good idea who that somebody was—“has an overactive
     imagination.”
    It was not the first time in my life I’d had that said about me, but this time, it
     sounded less like a compliment, and more like an accusation.
    My shoulders shot back. “I’m not making any of this up. Why would I?”
    The cop pursed his lips. “Sometimes when people get a little taste of the spotlight . . .”
    “That’s what you think’s going on here?” My pink bunnies preceding me by a couple
     inches, I marched across the kitchen to face him. “You think because we were unfortunate
     enough to stumble across a body that all of a sudden, we’re trying to get our names
     in the papers? Or our faces on the news?”
    “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I came over here to talk to you about. Glad
     I found you all together. Saves me from making a stop at each of your places.” He
     glanced around from Luella (looking like she really didn’t give a rat’s ass), to Kate
     (who’d lost patience with the whole thing and had out gotten another pint of ice cream
     and was digging into it), to Chandra, who, I swear, looked like her head was going
     to pop off at any moment, to me.
    “We’d appreciate it,” the cop said, “if you ladies didn’t talk to the press. No interviews.”
    “Like anybody could get to the island tonight to interview us anyway,” Kate reminded
     him.
    “Well, no phone calls, either. We’d like to keep the details of the murder under wraps
     until we’re a little further along in our investigation.”
    “No one’s called. Not any of us.” The other ladies’ nods confirmed my statement.
    “That doesn’t mean they won’t.” The cop had been holding his hat in one hand, and
     he plopped it on his head and back-stepped toward the door. “As near as we can figure,
     Peter died somewhere between seven and eight this evening. That means folks have had
     a couple hours to call their friends and neighbors over on the mainland and tell them
     what’s going on. Sooner or later, the press is going to get wind of the whole thing.
     You know when my guys arrived on scene to talk to you, folks were watching from that
     new bar across the street. I’m sure they knew who you four were. They’re talking about
     you. And when they call those friends on the mainland, they’re sure mention your names.”
    This was something I hadn’t even considered when I made the original call to the police.
     Not that thinking about it would have stopped me from fulfilling my civic duty. I
     consoled myself with the fact that because I was a newcomer, those folks over at the
     bar might not know who I was, and that made me feel better.
    At least until my phone rang.
    I checked caller ID. “WNWO.”
    “That’s the NBC affiliate TV station in Toledo,” Kate said.
    My hands in the air, I backed away from the phone. “See?” I looked at the officer.