Read Online Mayhem at the Orient Express by Kylie Logan - Free Book Online
Authors: Kylie Logan
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could,
the kitchen door at the end of the hallway swung open, Amanda stepped out, saw our
little clutch at the bottom of the stairs, and swung around and back into the kitchen.
“Ted Brooks.” Apparently, this newest guest thought my hesitation was due to the fact
that we hadn’t been properly introduced. He held out a hand and with no choice, I
shook it. “I run Island Properties. You may have heard the name.” He looked back and
forth between me and Kate, and she knew what he was talking about; she nodded. “I
own a number of cottages here on the island and rent them out to tourists. That’s
why I came to South Bass yesterday. To check on my properties, make sure everything
made it through the winter okay.”
“Competition, huh?” I hoped my smile looked as casual as I intended. It was better
than letting him in on the flood of ideas racing through my mind:
Peter.
This man.
Murder.
Ted’s laugh rattled me out of my thoughts. “This experience tonight, it’s really got
me thinking, that’s for sure. I mean, about getting generators for the cottages. You
know, in case any summer storms knock out the power. But heck, that would cost a small
fortune.”
There wasn’t much I could say, about the generators or to discourage him from staying,
so I led the way up to Suite #2 and allowed him to step inside the room ahead of me.
I have never been a fan of froufrou but, let’s face it, a rambling house needs its
share of ambiance and guests expect a certain amount of kitsch in a Victorian B and
B. For the room Amanda was staying in, I’d gone all out: wallpaper studded with violets,
lacy curtains, antique photographs in gilded frames. In Suite #2, I’d toned things
down a bit. The walls of this room were painted a tasteful, deep green, and the four-poster
bed was hung with maroon damask bed curtains. The shelves near the window were filled
with leather-bound books.
Ted was apparently not a bric-a-brac kind of guy. He looked around and nodded his
approval. “Hey, maybe we could come up with some kind of arrangement,” he suggested.
“You know, if it ever happens that my guests can’t stay in one of my cottages for
any reason, like there’s no electricity, I could have them come here to your place.”
I said I’d think about it, told him breakfast would be on the table at nine, and hightailed
it out of there, my mind still racing. Same tune, different words. The racket went
something like this:
Ted Brooks fought with Peter.
Peter was dead.
Ted was in my house.
Good thing that sturdy oak door to his suite was shut before I started back downstairs.
Otherwise, he might have heard me gulp.
I deposited the tissues where Chandra could grab a box, then kept walking. My original
intention was to follow Amanda’s lead and go into the kitchen and make a pot of tea,
but heck, as genteel as that sounds, I knew there were better ways to soothe the battered
spirits of four women.
When I walked back into the parlor, I was carrying a tray with four fluted crystal
glasses on it, and a bottle of Dom Perignon.
Kate took a gander at the label and her eyebrows rose. “1986. You must have been saving
that for a special occasion.”
“It was a gift.” It was true, and as far as I was concerned, of no consequence. I
poured and when she walked past the room, I offered to get another glass for Amanda.
She declined and headed up the stairs, and I passed the glasses around.
“We’re not . . .” When the bubbles in her glass tickled Chandra’s nose, she held the
Waterford a little farther away. “I feel guilty. Like we’re celebrating something.
And we shouldn’t be.”
“Don’t think of it as a celebration.” My mind still reeling, I didn’t bother to sip.
I took a nice big gulp and tipped my head back, enjoying the tickle of the bubbles
in my throat. “Think of it as a way to help thaw the ice inside all of us.”
“I’ll drink
the kitchen door at the end of the hallway swung open, Amanda stepped out, saw our
little clutch at the bottom of the stairs, and swung around and back into the kitchen.
“Ted Brooks.” Apparently, this newest guest thought my hesitation was due to the fact
that we hadn’t been properly introduced. He held out a hand and with no choice, I
shook it. “I run Island Properties. You may have heard the name.” He looked back and
forth between me and Kate, and she knew what he was talking about; she nodded. “I
own a number of cottages here on the island and rent them out to tourists. That’s
why I came to South Bass yesterday. To check on my properties, make sure everything
made it through the winter okay.”
“Competition, huh?” I hoped my smile looked as casual as I intended. It was better
than letting him in on the flood of ideas racing through my mind:
Peter.
This man.
Murder.
Ted’s laugh rattled me out of my thoughts. “This experience tonight, it’s really got
me thinking, that’s for sure. I mean, about getting generators for the cottages. You
know, in case any summer storms knock out the power. But heck, that would cost a small
fortune.”
There wasn’t much I could say, about the generators or to discourage him from staying,
so I led the way up to Suite #2 and allowed him to step inside the room ahead of me.
I have never been a fan of froufrou but, let’s face it, a rambling house needs its
share of ambiance and guests expect a certain amount of kitsch in a Victorian B and
B. For the room Amanda was staying in, I’d gone all out: wallpaper studded with violets,
lacy curtains, antique photographs in gilded frames. In Suite #2, I’d toned things
down a bit. The walls of this room were painted a tasteful, deep green, and the four-poster
bed was hung with maroon damask bed curtains. The shelves near the window were filled
with leather-bound books.
Ted was apparently not a bric-a-brac kind of guy. He looked around and nodded his
approval. “Hey, maybe we could come up with some kind of arrangement,” he suggested.
“You know, if it ever happens that my guests can’t stay in one of my cottages for
any reason, like there’s no electricity, I could have them come here to your place.”
I said I’d think about it, told him breakfast would be on the table at nine, and hightailed
it out of there, my mind still racing. Same tune, different words. The racket went
something like this:
Ted Brooks fought with Peter.
Peter was dead.
Ted was in my house.
Good thing that sturdy oak door to his suite was shut before I started back downstairs.
Otherwise, he might have heard me gulp.
I deposited the tissues where Chandra could grab a box, then kept walking. My original
intention was to follow Amanda’s lead and go into the kitchen and make a pot of tea,
but heck, as genteel as that sounds, I knew there were better ways to soothe the battered
spirits of four women.
When I walked back into the parlor, I was carrying a tray with four fluted crystal
glasses on it, and a bottle of Dom Perignon.
Kate took a gander at the label and her eyebrows rose. “1986. You must have been saving
that for a special occasion.”
“It was a gift.” It was true, and as far as I was concerned, of no consequence. I
poured and when she walked past the room, I offered to get another glass for Amanda.
She declined and headed up the stairs, and I passed the glasses around.
“We’re not . . .” When the bubbles in her glass tickled Chandra’s nose, she held the
Waterford a little farther away. “I feel guilty. Like we’re celebrating something.
And we shouldn’t be.”
“Don’t think of it as a celebration.” My mind still reeling, I didn’t bother to sip.
I took a nice big gulp and tipped my head back, enjoying the tickle of the bubbles
in my throat. “Think of it as a way to help thaw the ice inside all of us.”
“I’ll drink
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