Mayhem at the Orient Express by Kylie Logan Page B

In an attempt
     to thumb my nose at the weather, I set the cherry table in the dining room with a
     lace cloth and the yellow and white china I’d bought in London a couple years earlier.
     The dishes and chunky mugs were decorated with cute cartoon characters who offered
     advice like, “Start each day with a smile and get it over with.”
    Take that, snowstorm!
    By nine o’clock, we were ready, and at nine fifteen, I heard the first footsteps against
     the oak floors upstairs.
    When he walked into the dining room, Ted Brooks scowled. “I can’t believe it’s still
     snowing.” As if he needed to reinforce what he’d no doubt already seen from the windows
     in his suite, he knelt on the dining room window seat and peered outside. If he was
     trying to make himself feel better about the weather, he’d picked the worst possible
     moment; the snow fell fast and hard, the wind blasted, and it looked like we were
     smack in the center of a snowglobe that had been given a good, hard shake.
    “Terrible.” His brows veed over his small, dark eyes, Ted stopped at the buffet to
     pour coffee and grab some of the scrambled eggs Luella had insisted on making. “A
     good hot breakfast,” she’d said. “That will cheer folks up.”
    If the frown on Ted’s face meant anything, her plan wasn’t exactly working.
    Mariah showed up just a minute later. That morning, she was dressed in black pants,
     a teal turtleneck, and a black silk jacket lavished with teal and cream embroidery.
     I directed her to the buffet, but before I could attempt small talk, I heard a small
     voice call out from the top of the stairs.
    “Miss Cartwright?”
    Amanda Gallagher peered over the railing, the collar of her chenille robe pulled up
     around her ears and a scarf wrapped around her neck.
    “I’m afraid . . .” She shifted from foot to foot and I saw that she was wearing a
     pair of those slipper socks I’d offered her the night before. “I’m not feeling well,”
     she said. “I think . . .” She sniffled loud enough for me to hear it at the bottom
     of the steps. “I think I’ve picked up a bug of some sort. I was wondering . . . If
     you wouldn’t mind . . . That is, I hoped you could bring some breakfast up to my room.”
    Of course I said yes.
    Of course I was grumbling about it when I went back into the kitchen.
    “I didn’t exactly promise room service,” I told Luella, who was busy making another
     batch of toast, and looking more awake than she had just a few minutes earlier.
    “No worries.” She put a friendly hand on my shoulder. “I’ll take it up to her. You
     butter the toast and get it out to the dining room.”
    “But you shouldn’t have to—”
    She was already walking into the dining room to grab a plate for Amanda. “Like I said,
     not a problem. It’s the least I can do to repay you for your hospitality.” A gust
     of wind rattled the windows, and Luella shivered. “Chances are if I’d started for
     home last night, I would have gotten stuck on the road somewhere. Believe me, I’m
     grateful to have your roof over my head. Nobody’s going anywhere. Not today.”
    “Is it true?” When the door between the kitchen and the dining room swung open, I
     heard Mariah’s breathless question. “Mr. Brooks here tells me the ferry isn’t running.”
    “I’m afraid he’s right.” While Luella filled a plate and took it up to Amanda, I refilled
     coffee cups. I weighed the wisdom of mentioning Peter’s murder to my guests and decided
     against it. Once the storm passed and Ted and Mariah were on their way back to the
     mainland, no doubt they’d hear plenty about the murder. For now . . . well, for now,
     there was no use giving the island a black eye. Or worrying anyone. Maybe the good
     thing about being snowed in was that no one could spread the word that there was a
     murderer loose somewhere on the island.
    Unless the murderer happened to be staying in Suite #2 and already knew