Mayhem at the Orient Express by Kylie Logan Page A

“Not answering it. I have nothing to say.”
    “Me, either,” Luella chimed in.
    “Or me,” Kate added.
    “Or me,” Chandra said.
    When the cop walked out the door, he was laughing. Only not like it was funny. “That,”
     he said, “would be a first.”
    It wasn’t until the door banged shut behind him that I felt some of the tension inside
     me ease. I’d already poured myself a cup of coffee, but there was still an inch of
     margarita left in my glass and I reached for it and wrapped my fingers tight around
     the green cactus that served as the stem. “What’s that guy’s problem?” I asked no
     one in particular.
    Chandra’s laugh sounded like air escaping from a balloon. “Sorry.” She laughed some
     more and washed it down with a slug of beer before she was able to talk. “We forgot
     to introduce you. That was Hank.”
    My mouth fell open. “Hank—”
    “Yep.” Chandra grinned. “My ex number two. Cranky son-of-a-bitch, isn’t he? Hank,
     he has this funny way of losing his cool whenever he has to deal with a situation
     that involves me. And me? I just love it when I can get under his skin like that.
     Makes life worthwhile.”
    Luella spooned sugar into her coffee and stirred, her expression thoughtful. “I’d
     say we all handled him just fine.”
    “Yeah, except for him not believing what Bea said. About the note, and the fight.”
    I appreciated Kate coming to my defense, but honestly, I didn’t need it. I sloughed
     off the whole thing with a lift of my shoulders and divided what was left of the margarita
     mix in the blender between my glass and Kate’s. “No worries. He’ll spend some time
     thinking about it, and then he’ll come around. I predict Hank will be back here tomorrow
     asking about the note. And the fight.”
    “You’ve had experience with cops.” Luella didn’t say it as a question, so I didn’t
     feel obliged to answer.
    In fact, I leaned against the counter, my head tipped to one side. “What Hank said . . .
     about the time of Peter’s murder . . .”
    “He said between seven and eight,” Kate reminded me.
    “Which was after the ferry stopped running.”
    It took a couple seconds, but they all got the message. I knew this for a fact because
     suddenly, each of their complexions was the same color as the margarita in my glass.
     Something told me mine was, too.
    “You mean . . .” Chandra latched on to my arm with both hands. “Are you saying . . .”
    “I’m just saying what old Hank didn’t want to say,” I told them. “Nobody can get here.
     And the ferry’s not running to the mainland. That means the killer’s still on the
     island.”

7
    T he next morning, I woke to the sight of snow swirling outside my window, and the sounds
     of howling wind and pounding waves.
    Or maybe that pounding was all in my head.
    “Margaritas.” Standing in the kitchen watching wave after snowy wave hit the windows,
     I grumbled and scrubbed my hands over my face, reminding myself that I had a houseful
     of guests and I needed to get a grip. There was a time when I used to party hearty
     until the wee hours of the morning. These days? It looked like the laid-back island
     life was already getting to me. A couple margaritas, and I was ready to head back
     to the sack. Of course, there had been that champagne, too . . .
    “Good morning.” The good news was that when she dragged into the kitchen, Luella didn’t
     look much more chipper than I felt. She’d stayed behind to help me clean up the night
     before and by the time she was ready to leave, the storm was worse than ever. I’d
     talked her into sleeping on the pull-out couch in my private suite. Now, she scraped
     her hands through her hair, shook her head to clear it, and reached for a coffee mug.
     “Need help with breakfast?”
    She was the answer to my prayers, and I told her so. Together, Luella and I warmed
     a cinnamon and sour cream coffee cake and cut up fruit for a compote.