Mayhem at the Orient Express Read Free Page B

name is Sandra. A couple years ago,
     she insisted we all start calling her Chandra because she thought it sounded more
     mystical, but a lot of the old-timers still call her Sandy.”
    I felt my smile get bigger. “Sandy. Yeah. I can see that. She looks like a Sandy.”
    “And smells like a Chandra.” Kate wrinkled her nose. “All those herbs and potions
     and oils. I swear, if the woman put half as much effort into fixing up her house as
     she does into concocting all that weird stuff she’s always giving people to use, all
     our home values would skyrocket.”
    I had seen Chandra’s house, of course; I knew exactly what Kate meant. Though it wasn’t
     a dump by any means, Chandra’s place was . . . eclectic, a spare, single-story house,
     each outside wall painted in a different color: turquoise, orange, pink, purple. She
     saved the sunshiny yellow for the garage door. The house was surrounded by a veritable
     forest of wind chimes and fountains, gnomes and sparkly twirling suncatchers. I shuddered
     to think what might pop up in her overgrown garden once the weather was warm and Chandra
     really got into the spirit of outdoor living.
    “You’re thinking about summer.” Chalk one up for Kate; she was an annoying little
     twit, but she was perceptive. “When your windows are open, that’s when you’ll start
     hearing the music.”
    “And the cat will visit more often, I imagine.” Just thinking about it, my head started
     to pound. “I’m considering tiny electric fences. One for each of my flower boxes.”
    For about half a second, she thought I might actually be serious. Then her smile bloomed.
     “I’m thinking about something a little more irritating than opera. Hip hop?”
    I joined in the good-natured fun. “Knowing Chandra, she’d be out in the street, dancing
     to the beat.”
    “Broadway show tunes?”
    “I have a confession. I like Broadway show tunes. I even know most of the words. If
     you start playing them, I’ll start to sing. And I’m pretty sure you don’t want to
     hear me sing.”
    “Then zydeco.”
    “Klezmer.”
    “Polkas.”
    “Yanni.”
    “No.” Kate groaned. “Chandra actually likes Yanni! You’ll hear a lot of him this summer,
     too.”
    By this time, we were both laughing, and I decided that maybe I’d misjudged Kate.
     Maybe, like me, she was annoyed at being dragged into Alvin’s courtroom—again—when
     she had more important things to do. And irritated about being forced to read and
     discuss a book she’d likely have no interest in. Maybe that explained the way she’d
     acted when we were in court together a few days before. Maybe Kate was simply rushed.
     And overworked. Maybe she really was as busy and as important as she made herself
     out to be.
    “The workers are nearly done at my place,” I said, proving once again that I can act
     like an adult when the situation calls for it. “There will be less traffic soon.”
    “Well, that’s a relief.” Kate sat back. She must have just come from the family winery,
     because she was wearing a tweedy brown suit with flecks of orange in it that matched
     her hair. I was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a navy blue sweatshirt, and I felt like
     we’d reversed roles and that I was the country bumpkin and she was the power broker
     from the big city.
    “I’ve got my first guest checking in on Sunday,” I said, and maybe I wasn’t just making
     conversation; maybe I was reminding myself that running Bea & Bees wasn’t just my
     new career. It was my chance at starting over, and I planned to be as darned good
     at it as I was at everything else I’d ever tried in my life. “Kind of a red-letter
     day for me.”
    “First guest. Let’s hope it’s not the last.”
    “No reason it should be. Once the summer tourist season starts—”
    “The island will be hopping. Yeah, that’s true. Around here, from Memorial Day to
     Labor Day, the place explodes with visitors. Fishermen, boaters, families,