Mayhem at the Orient Express by Kylie Logan

smoke—I waved one hand in front of my face—to the house.
    When I opened the back door, a burst of cold air had come into the kitchen, and since
     it still lingered like the hand of some unseen specter (see, I was telling the truth
     about having an imagination!), Kate and Luella went to sit at the counter, farther
     from the door. Chandra peeled out of her coat and kicked off her boots. There was
     still coffee in the pot, so I filled four mugs and passed them around.
    “What are you planning, Chandra?” I asked her.
    “You mean after I finish this?” She grabbed a piece of coffee cake and wolfed it down,
     and I realized I was being a lousy hostess. I pulled out dishes and flatware so everyone
     could grab a piece.
    “The way I figure it . . .” Smiling her approval, Chandra pointed to the coffee cake
     with her fork. She swallowed. “The way I figure it, we’ve got to find out what happened
     to Peter, or the island’s karma is going to be completely destroyed.”
    “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Kate rolled her eyes.
    “No, wait.” Luella put a hand on Kate’s arm. “Let her finish. Chandra might be onto
     something.”
    “Thank you.” Chandra sat up and pulled back her shoulders. “What I was thinking is
     that there are so many people here on the island who depend on the tourist season
     for their livelihoods. I do tarot card readings for plenty of tourists, and chakra
     realignments and crystal healings. And you depend on tourists, too, Luella. Bea, so
     do you. And Kate, whether you want to admit it or not, I know you can’t possibly survive
     on the sales of the wine you ship to the mainland. You need the tourists who come
     and tour Wilder Winery and buy wine to take home.”
    “Yes, of course.” Kate had a bite of coffee cake on her fork and she stopped with
     it halfway to her mouth. “But what does that have to do with—”
    “If people are afraid to come here for vacations, none of us is going to survive,”
     Chandra said. “That’s why we have to figure out who murdered Peter before the ferry
     starts running again and the killer gets off the island.”
    Kate’s laugh was sharp. “Isn’t that what the police are for?”
    Chandra had put plenty of sugar in her coffee; she shouldn’t have looked quite so
     sour. “You heard Hank last night. We offered him some darned good theories, about
     the woman’s glove and the fight Peter had with . . .” She leaned back on the stool
     and peered at the dining room door, though since it was closed, she couldn’t see Ted
     and he couldn’t see us. “The fight with Ted, and the threatening note, and the Princess.”
    Blank stares all around.
    Chandra gave us a hard look. “The Princess. The one who came to the door last night.
     You know, like the princess in the book.”
    “Mariah!” I laughed. She did remind me of Princess Dragomiroff in the Christie classic:
     haughty, well-dressed, aristocratic.
    “Hank’s not listening to any of it,” Chandra continued. “And believe me, if there’s
     one thing I know about Hank, it’s that he can be as stubborn as a rusty old lock.
     We’ve got to show him. We’ve got to be detectives. You know, like that Parrot guy
     in the book.”
    I don’t know why I bothered, but I corrected her. “Poirot.”
    “Yeah, him.” Chandra warmed to her idea. “I read the book last night,” she said, beaming
     with pride. “Cover to cover. And I’m telling you, if the weird little guy in the book
     can do it, so can we. Besides, we’ve got to do something or everybody’s feng shui
     is going to be out of whack.”
    “Hmm . . .” Luella drummed her fingers against the granite countertop. “It would be
     an interesting exercise. And I’d bet it would make Alvin plenty happy to know you
     three are working together.”
    “Yes, but—”
    My protest was interrupted by Kate. “I liked Peter. He was a nice man, and he knew
     a thing or two about wine. He didn’t live on the island that