Murder on the Orient Espresso by Sandra Balzo Page A

tomorrow. Or maybe go to the beach. There was an original thought, given I was in South Florida. From rainforest tonight to sand castles tomorrow. And I’d thought Wisconsin was diverse.
    â€˜Gravity,’ Prudence said. ‘Is that the one with the button on the handle?’
    â€˜Exactly,’ my personal weapons expert said. ‘When that’s pushed and you flick out to the side with your wrist, the weight of the blade opens the knife.’
    â€˜But isn’t that a switchblade?’ Missy seemed puzzled.
    I, for my part, was completely lost.
    â€˜Not at all,’ Pavlik said. ‘When you thumb the button – or ‘switch’ – on a switchblade, the blade flicks out automatically.’
    â€˜So no gravity needed.’ Prudence was nodding.
    â€˜Correct,’ Pavlik said. ‘The pocket knife, on the other—’
    â€˜We’re moving,’ I interrupted, feeling the train hiccup in the other direction.
And
with Pavlik still safely inside. My delaying tactic had worked.
    â€˜Oh, thank goodness.’ Missy was back to the window. ‘The engineer has already moved to the other locomotive. We must be starting back toward Fort Lauderdale.’
    â€˜Spry old fellow,’ Prudence said.
    â€˜The engineer? Oh, he’s quite the character.’ Missy checked her watch. ‘I do worry that we’ll get back to the station too early, though. You know, before the crime is solved?’
    â€˜Maybe someone should make an announcement,’ I suggested. ‘Requesting that Potter and the rest of the “cast” come to this car.’
    There was a flaw, of course, in my plan: Laurence Potter obviously didn’t want to appear. Missy, however, didn’t seem to see it. ‘That’s a wonderful idea, Maggy. Zoe should—’
    â€˜Zoe? Why not you?’ Prudence prodded. ‘You do most of the work, anyway. Why let her take all the credit?’
    Missy blushed, tugging down her dress. ‘Oh, no, I prefer to work behind the scenes. I couldn’t.’
    â€˜You couldn’t what?’ Zoe, perhaps instinctively, had magically turned up, too.
    â€˜Maggy suggested that we make an announcement …’
    â€˜Maggy?’ Zoe repeated.
    I raised my hand. The woman was either stupid or trying to rile me. I was betting on the latter.
    â€˜Oh, right,’ Zoe said distractedly, her attention drawn to the commotion in the corner, where a huge man dressed in a zoot suit was trying to climb onto the table.
    Pavlik, having been thwarted in his effort to save the day by venturing into the Everglades, slid out of the booth. ‘You!’ he said in a thundering voice. ‘Down! Now!’
    The big man ignored him. With the train’s swaying movement he looked like an overweight, overdressed mob surfer trying to position his feet for one last Big Kahuna of a wave. Worse, he was a decade off in his costume. The high-waisted trousers and long coats with wide lapels and padded shoulders were popular in the forties, not the thirties.
    â€˜Off the table, Fred!’ Zoe bellowed.
    â€˜Fred’ got off. Pavlik shrugged and returned to our table.
    â€˜Zoe, we think you should cut the cake,’ Prudence suggested. ‘Sop up some of the alcohol.’
    â€˜Too late,’ Missy said mournfully.
    â€˜Too late to sop up the alcohol or too late to cut the cake?’ One more Orient Espresso martini on an empty stomach and
I’d
be up on a table. Or under it.
    â€˜Maybe both.’ Missy was agitatedly tip-tapping her foot. ‘But what I mean is that someone took a big hunk out of our cake and made off with the knife. Can you believe that? What are we going to use to cut the rest of it?’
    I looked down at my swizzle stick, hungry enough to give it a good-faith try.
    â€˜I’m sure we can come up with something,’ Pavlik said. ‘If all else fails, I have my trusty Swiss Army knife.’ He