Free Mayhem at the Orient Express by Kylie Logan Page B

judge. Just like it’s for us to decide how we can best handle how upset we are. Being
     with friends . . .” She glanced around at us. “Well, if you ask me, that’s the best
     way any of us can handle the kind of trauma we’ve been through tonight.”
    Were we friends?
    This didn’t seem the moment to debate it.
    Done with the coffee, I got out mugs and offered one to the cop, who declined with
     the tip of his head.
    “Speaking of the murder, there are a couple interesting things we noticed,” I began.
    “Yeah, like how it’s just like the one in
Murder on the Orient Express
.” Her cheeks flushed, Chandra cut me off. “That’s what we’re reading, for your information.
     You know, for our book discussion group at the library.”
    Was that a smile I saw on the cop’s pug-ugly face?
    I must have been imagining it, because the next second, his mouth thinned.
    “Don’t give me that bull, Chandra,” he said. “You haven’t read a book in thirty years.
     Not unless it was some book about tarot cards or how to make that stinky incense you
     cook up in the basement.”
    “You’re wrong,” she shot back and not one of us disputed this. For one thing, this
     was not the time to quibble about the differences between reading a book and watching
     a movie based on that book. For another, I wasn’t sure I liked this cop’s attitude.
    “We found a clue,” Chandra said and yes, she was stretching the truth. Well, just
     a little bit, anyway. Again, I didn’t bother to interrupt. See above about attitude.
     “When we walked into the Orient Express tonight, before we realized what had happened
     to Peter, we saw a woman’s glove on the floor.”
    The cop simply stared.
    Chandra stepped closer, leaned in, and tapped her forehead with one finger. “Hello!
     Don’t you get it? A woman’s glove on the floor? That’s got to mean something. Like
     that Peter was murdered by a woman.”
    All this time, the cop had stayed near the door that led out onto the little porch
     and from there, to the backyard. Now, he took a couple steps farther into the kitchen.
     He scrubbed one finger under his nose. “Or it could mean that the Orient Express is
     a public establishment. You know . . .” He leaned toward her and tapped his forehead
     with one finger. “Like lots of people come and go in the place. A woman’s glove!”
     He chuckled. “That doesn’t mean any more than the pack of chewing tobacco we found
     behind the counter.”
    “Well, Peter wasn’t a chewer.” Me. I had no intention of getting in the middle of
     whatever was going on between Chandra and the cop, but it was a legitimate comment,
     and we were in my kitchen, after all. “At least I’d never smelled tobacco on him.
     So that could mean—”
    “That the murderer was a man!” The cop’s eyes flew open in mock surprise. “Or that
     the murderer was a woman who likes a good chew now and then. Or that the Orient Express
     is a public establishment.” He pronounced these last two words slow and loud, like
     we hadn’t heard him the first time he’d pointed this out. “You four, you’re playing
     games, and murder isn’t about games. Leave the investigating to the professionals.”
    “We’re not investigating.” Chandra crossed her arms over her chest. “We’re observing.
     And what we’re observing is that the whole thing, it’s a lot like
Murder on the Orient Express
. I mean, come on.” She glanced around to where we were lined up on the opposite side
     of the kitchen from the cop. “Did you take a look at the chick who just came to the
     front door? It’s like she just stepped out of the book. Like that Princess . . . Princess . . .”
     Her memory came up empty, and Chandra screeched her frustration. “You know who I mean.”
    “Princess Dragomiroff.”
    When I supplied the name, Chandra nodded. She stood tall and pulled back her shoulders,
     trying for a British accent that fell way short, but was as funny