Murder on the Orient Espresso Read Free Page A

spell it out for you?
    Rosemary Darlington had reportedly done just that, explicitly and with quite a few redundant – and occasionally imaginative – variations over the four hundred pages of her erotic suspense novel.
    I had the feeling that this
was
going to be a fun weekend – both in and out of the hotel’s Flagler Suite.

TWO
    â€˜S o, if you knew Rosemary’s book would be a sore point,’ Pavlik said as he squeezed shaving cream into his palm, ‘why bring it up?’
    â€˜Potter’s review was obviously the elephant in the room – or lobby,’ I said, inspecting our digs. ‘Best to trot the thing out and let it take a few laps – dissipate the sting.’
    â€˜Mixer of metaphors.’ Pavlik’s reflection in the mirror looked past me to the oversized numbers on the bedside radio alarm clock. ‘We have to be downstairs in thirty minutes.’
    â€˜Don’t worry, I’ll be ready. What’s this?’ I pointed at a box that had been on the coffee table when we arrived. ‘A welcome gift from your friend Zoe?’
    â€˜Afraid not,’ he said. ‘And Zoe and I
are
just friends, while we’re trotting out the elephants in the room.’
    â€˜Hey,’ I said, raising my hands in utter innocence. ‘Did I ask?’
    â€˜Of course not. That would be admitting you cared.’
    â€˜But I do care,’ I protested. ‘You know that. I just don’t get jealous.’
    An outright lie, of course. But showing jealousy only gives the other person – or persons – power. And, besides, as my now defunct marriage proved, if two people are meant to be together they will be.
    Or not.
    â€˜So what is this?’ I asked again, tapping on the box.
    â€˜I shipped a few things ahead for my panel.’
    I should have known. ‘Welcome gifts’ rarely arrive in hotel rooms via UPS. And this one was addressed to Pavlik care of the hotel in the sheriff’s own handwriting. Though a forward-thinking man might have shipped a few romantic … toys to surprise his lady friend. Perhaps flavored whipped cream or—
    My stomach rumbled. ‘Did Missy say they’ll just have dessert on the train?’
    â€˜Cake, I think. Maybe we can grab a packaged sandwich or granola bar from the hotel’s newsstand on the way out.’
    Too much to hope the newsstand carried grilled snapper with lemon butter and capers to-go.
    I picked up a glossy hardcover to the right of the UPS box. The cover of the book showed a steam train chugging over a narrow trestle, water on both sides of it.
    â€˜Flagler’s Railroad,’ I read aloud.
    â€˜Henry Flagler is a legend down here,’ Pavlik said, apparently satisfied with the lathering of his face as he reached for his razor. ‘Flagler’s dream was to build an “Overseas Railroad” extending out from Miami over more than a hundred miles of mostly open water to Key West. And he lived to see it realized, too, but in nineteen thirty-five a hurricane destroyed large parts of it and killed a lot of workers. You can still see long sections of his railbed – mostly elevated – as you drive down the Keys.’
    â€˜He never rebuilt it?’ I was flipping through the book.
    â€˜By then Flagler was dead, the railroad hadn’t paid for itself and people had taken to calling the project “Flagler’s Folly.”’
    â€˜That’s sad.’ A grainy black-and-white picture showed the wooden trestle topped with thick crossties. The metal rail on one side of the track was completely missing. The other was curled like bits of ribbon, I imagined from the hurricane or its aftermath. The photographer must have been standing on one of the ties, shooting down the length. In the distance the trestle just disappeared into the water.
    Had a train been on that trestle when the storm hit it? And if so, would we know it or would all traces of it