the desperate, eager expectation of a dog waiting for a scrap to fall from the
table. That was, of course, right before she blurted out, “Have you two heard about
the murder?”
I was seated directly across from Ted, so I couldn’t fail to notice that he blanched.
It was Mariah, though, who spoke first. She was the type—no big surprise—who eats
a sloppy joe with knife and fork, and she paused, the flatware poised over the sandwich
on her plate.
“Not a murder here on South Bass, surely.” She dismissed the very thought with a twitch
of her very red lips. “You’re talking about something you saw on the news this morning
that happened somewhere else. Or perhaps something that happened here ages ago?”
“Yeah, if last night counts as ages ago.” Chandra again, her eyebrows rising and falling
with the excitement of sharing the lurid secret.
This time, I was ready for her.
Sort of.
Before she could add anything to what she thought was the piercing look she darted
between Ted to her right and Mariah on her left, I cleared my throat to deflect their
attention.
“I’m afraid it’s true, and I figured you hadn’t heard since we’ve all been stuck inside
since last night. It’s a terrible thing.”
“And not something that usually happens here, that’s for sure,” Luella added, defending
the honor of the island.
“But a murder? Really?” Mariah set down her silverware, her hands fluttering above
her plate like anxious butterflies before she pressed them to her ample bosom. “How
awful!”
“It was. It is.” I saw Chandra open her mouth and knew if I didn’t speak fast, she
was going to say something about the game being afoot. “Ted . . .” I did my best to
make this sound like nothing more than a simple statement of fact, no guilt intended.
“I believe you knew the victim. It was Peter Chan.”
Talk of murder or not, Ted had just taken a chomp out of his sandwich, and he held
up a finger to signal that he couldn’t answer me while he chewed, his jaw working
up and down like pistons in an engine. He swallowed, washed down the mouthful with
a glug of coffee, and pounded his chest.
“Name doesn’t sound familiar. I don’t think I knew him at all.”
Far be it from me to pretend I was a detective, but the way Chandra was squirming
in her seat, I envisioned her losing control at any moment, pointing a finger, and
screaming out
j’accuse
with all the French outrage she could muster.
I couldn’t let that happen, and the reasons should be fairly clear:
1. I couldn’t offend Ted if he wasn’t our murderer. Hospitality and all that, and
besides, he was a paying guest.
2. If Ted had killed Peter, we couldn’t afford to tip our hand. He might be desperate,
dangerous—and I was responsible for the welfare of the people under my roof.
In an effort to throw him off his guard, I stammered. Just for the record, I am a
lousy stammerer. “I’m so sorry. I could have sworn it was you.” I pretended to think
it over. “It’s funny, isn’t it, how our memories can play tricks on us? When I stopped
at the Orient Express on Sunday—”
“Oh, the restaurant?” Ted grabbed a napkin and wiped a dribble of tomato sauce from
the corner of his mouth. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Really? The Orient
Express? That building is one of the properties I own here on the island!”
“So you must have known Peter Chan. He was one of your tenants.”
Ted glanced toward Kate, who’d made this pronouncement. “Chan! Is that what you said?”
He looked back at me. “Peter Chan? I thought you said Jan. Peter Jan.”
Yeah. And I just fell off a turnip truck.
“Not only was he your tenant, but you were there.” Me again. Hoping I came off as
merely interested, not burning with curiosity. “Sunday afternoon. You were walking
out of the Orient Express as I was walking in.”
Ted’s face crumpled with the effort of
table. That was, of course, right before she blurted out, “Have you two heard about
the murder?”
I was seated directly across from Ted, so I couldn’t fail to notice that he blanched.
It was Mariah, though, who spoke first. She was the type—no big surprise—who eats
a sloppy joe with knife and fork, and she paused, the flatware poised over the sandwich
on her plate.
“Not a murder here on South Bass, surely.” She dismissed the very thought with a twitch
of her very red lips. “You’re talking about something you saw on the news this morning
that happened somewhere else. Or perhaps something that happened here ages ago?”
“Yeah, if last night counts as ages ago.” Chandra again, her eyebrows rising and falling
with the excitement of sharing the lurid secret.
This time, I was ready for her.
Sort of.
Before she could add anything to what she thought was the piercing look she darted
between Ted to her right and Mariah on her left, I cleared my throat to deflect their
attention.
“I’m afraid it’s true, and I figured you hadn’t heard since we’ve all been stuck inside
since last night. It’s a terrible thing.”
“And not something that usually happens here, that’s for sure,” Luella added, defending
the honor of the island.
“But a murder? Really?” Mariah set down her silverware, her hands fluttering above
her plate like anxious butterflies before she pressed them to her ample bosom. “How
awful!”
“It was. It is.” I saw Chandra open her mouth and knew if I didn’t speak fast, she
was going to say something about the game being afoot. “Ted . . .” I did my best to
make this sound like nothing more than a simple statement of fact, no guilt intended.
“I believe you knew the victim. It was Peter Chan.”
Talk of murder or not, Ted had just taken a chomp out of his sandwich, and he held
up a finger to signal that he couldn’t answer me while he chewed, his jaw working
up and down like pistons in an engine. He swallowed, washed down the mouthful with
a glug of coffee, and pounded his chest.
“Name doesn’t sound familiar. I don’t think I knew him at all.”
Far be it from me to pretend I was a detective, but the way Chandra was squirming
in her seat, I envisioned her losing control at any moment, pointing a finger, and
screaming out
j’accuse
with all the French outrage she could muster.
I couldn’t let that happen, and the reasons should be fairly clear:
1. I couldn’t offend Ted if he wasn’t our murderer. Hospitality and all that, and
besides, he was a paying guest.
2. If Ted had killed Peter, we couldn’t afford to tip our hand. He might be desperate,
dangerous—and I was responsible for the welfare of the people under my roof.
In an effort to throw him off his guard, I stammered. Just for the record, I am a
lousy stammerer. “I’m so sorry. I could have sworn it was you.” I pretended to think
it over. “It’s funny, isn’t it, how our memories can play tricks on us? When I stopped
at the Orient Express on Sunday—”
“Oh, the restaurant?” Ted grabbed a napkin and wiped a dribble of tomato sauce from
the corner of his mouth. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Really? The Orient
Express? That building is one of the properties I own here on the island!”
“So you must have known Peter Chan. He was one of your tenants.”
Ted glanced toward Kate, who’d made this pronouncement. “Chan! Is that what you said?”
He looked back at me. “Peter Chan? I thought you said Jan. Peter Jan.”
Yeah. And I just fell off a turnip truck.
“Not only was he your tenant, but you were there.” Me again. Hoping I came off as
merely interested, not burning with curiosity. “Sunday afternoon. You were walking
out of the Orient Express as I was walking in.”
Ted’s face crumpled with the effort of
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