Flamenco, Flan, and Fatalities (A Happy Hoofers Mystery) Read online

  “Do we have to stay in our suites or is it okay to go into the dining car?” I asked.

  “I think it’s all right for you to go. I don’t know why not. I just . . . Please excuse me. I have to talk to the police. I’ll let you know as soon as I find out something.” He walked quickly down the corridor into the next car.

  We exchanged glances. Coffee. Now. We headed for the dining car. Along the way, other passengers poked their heads out of their suites and asked us what was going on. Had we heard anything? Was someone ill? What about breakfast?

  We told them we had no idea. We said we were going for coffee and would try to find out more.

  By the time we got to the dining car, several passengers had already arrived, looking confused and asking questions in Spanish, German, English, and Norwegian.

  The dining car was long and narrow with tables for two on each side of an aisle. A buffet table beckoned from the far end. I took a quick peek and saw only the large urns containing coffee and hot water for tea. There was no food to be seen.

  We got our beverages and sat down. The wood in the dining room was dark and polished. The sconces held exquisite lamps that looked like they had been there since the 1890s. Everything was elegant, classic, perfect. I wanted to photograph every inch of this car. I imagined this is what the dining car on the Orient Express must have looked like. Not that I’d ever get a chance to ride on such an incredibly expensive train—unless, of course, they hired us to dance on it. Now there’s an idea.

  “Hey, Tina,” I said. “Think you could get us a gig dancing on the Orient Express?”

  “Dream on, Gini,” she said.

  Tom edged his way into the car and stopped at our table. “Hi, hoofers, what’s going on? I can’t get anyone to tell me anything. I came back here to get breakfast. They said they weren’t sure when it would be ready and would I like some coffee while I wait.”

  He was really talking to one person in our group. We all knew it.

  “Are you okay, Jan?” he asked, his face showing his concern.

  “Sort of,” she said. “That talk show guy—you know, the loud, obnoxious blabbermouth, the one who fired Sylvia—is dead. Nobody knows what he died of. They’re going to take him to the lab for tests.”

  “Wait till Sylvia hears this!” Tom said.

  “Where is she?” Janice asked. “Why isn’t she with you?”

  “She’s coming,” Tom said. “She was still getting dressed when I left. She was up late last night. She said she couldn’t sleep and was going to watch TV in the lounge car.”

  The door of the dining car opened and a quintessentially Spanish man, dark hair, gray at the temples, lined face, serious expression, aquiline nose, dark brown, almost black eyes, walked in and strode to the front of the car in front of the buffet table. Everyone stopped talking.

  “Good morning, señores and señoras. I’m Inspector Javier Cruz,” he said. “There was a death on this train last night. The medical examiner has established that Señor Shambless was poisoned. I would like to ask each of you a few questions. I would appreciate it if you would move into the lounge car where there is more room. You can bring your coffee with you. I hope we do not have to inconvenience you for very long.”

  “He’s gorgeous,” Janice whispered to me.

  “There’s something about Spanish men that’s—different, sort of intense,” I whispered back. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s very sexy.”

  “Can I have him?” Janice said.

  “He’s all yours,” I said. I love watching Janice entice a man into her web. She just sort of stands there, looking unattainable and beautiful. There isn’t a man I’ve ever seen who can resist her. She’s also the least organized of any of us. We have to keep making lists for her so she’ll bring what she needs for the costumes we wear for our dances. We stick Post-its all over her purse and text her all the time so she won’t forget anything.

  I’m sure most men wouldn’t care if she forgot her name as long as they could look at her.

  We inched our way into the lounge car, where we all crowded together to wait for the inspector’s questions.

  He took Mike aside first. I moved closer so I could hear their conversation. Holding up the local newspaper, Noticias del Dia, I pretended to be fascinated by the coverage of a soccer match. The action photos of the game were actually quite well done.

  “What did Shambless look like when you saw him last night, Dr. Parnell?”

  “He was a mess, Inspector. There was vomit and feces all over the bed. He had tried to reach for the bell to call someone, but his bulk kept him from turning over. He was half in the bed and half out of it. I assumed he drank too much and choked on his own vomit. I didn’t really have a chance to examine him thoroughly, though.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I told Eduardo to call the police squad right away and then I left. I stayed until the medical examiner came.”

  “Did it occur to you that he might have been poisoned?”

  “No, I just thought it could have been flu or some kind of gastrointestinal upset. Poison didn’t occur to me. I couldn’t really examine him because the medical crew was on its way. I had to leave.”

  “Do you have any idea who could have killed him?”

  “No,” Mike said. “It could have been anybody on the train or in the restaurant. He made a lot of people angry because he was so rude. I leave it up to you to find his killer, Inspector.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. If you think of anything that might be helpful, let me know.”

  “Of course.”

  The inspector walked over to the blonde huddled in the corner with Steve, the photographer. With her face free of makeup, she seemed younger, more vulnerable than she did the night before. She looked defiant when the inspector approached her. I turned the page of my newspaper and edged closer to hear her answers.

  “You were traveling with Señor Shambless?” he asked her.

  She nodded. “I was,” she said.

  “I understand he was making a documentary of this trip. Were you helping him or . . . what exactly were you doing, Miss . . . ?”

  She sat up straight. “Callahan. Julie Callahan. I was directing the documentary,” she said.

  The inspector glanced up at the photographer in time to catch a small smile on his face when Julie said that. He spoke to him.

  “And you are . . . ?”

  “Steve Bergman, Inspector. I’m the camera guy for this trip.”

  He looked like a lot of the men I’ve seen when I’ve been covering a story. Shaggy-haired, a little paunchy from too much beer, eyes darting around to get the right angle for a photo, somewhere in his thirties.

  “How well did you know Señor Shambless before this trip?” the inspector asked.

  “He wasn’t like a buddy,” Steve said. “I’ve done some publicity shots for him, but this is the first time I’ve done a documentary for him.”

  “Do either of you have any idea why someone would want to kill Mr. Shambless?”

  They exchanged glances and didn’t answer at first.

  Finally, Julie said in a voice so low I could barely hear her, “Of course not. Everyone loved him.”

  “Yeah, loved him,” Steve said.

  “You don’t sound very convincing, Señor Bergman,” Inspector Cruz said. “Do you have reason to believe that someone did not love him? Perhaps wanted to kill him?”

  “Inspector, besides the millions of people who did love him, there were just as many who didn’t,” Steve said. “He told me he got threats all the time. He usually traveled with a bodyguard, but I guess this time he thought he wouldn’t need one because I was here to protect him.”

  “I thought he was a popular talk show host in your country,” Cruz said.

  “Oh, he got top ratings. There are a lot of people who think he was the greatest thing since sliced bread. And a lot who wished he would shut up and get off of TV.”

  “How about you, Señor Bergman? Did
you like him?”

  “I wasn’t crazy about him. I’m no right-wing nut. But this was a good gig. All I had to do was take pictures of this part of Spain. Green Spain, I think they call it. Right? It’s beautiful here. The mountains, the ocean, the white houses. I had to keep reminding myself to take pictures of him.”

  The inspector nodded in agreement. “This is my favorite part of our country,” he said. “Even with all the rain. That’s why it’s Green Spain.”

  He addressed Julie again. “Did you share his suite with him?” he asked.

  She flashed him a hostile glance. I didn’t think she was going to answer. But lifting her chin, she said, “No, he likes to be alone. I had my own room.”

  The inspector looked at some notes on his iPad. “Some people in the restaurant last night got the impression that you were quarreling with him. They said you asked him about doing something and Shambless said it would have to wait. Then, they said, you got up and left the table and waited for him outside the restaurant. They seemed to think that perhaps your relationship was more personal than just director of the documentary. Is that true?”

  She shifted in her seat, looked at Steve, and then said, “I don’t know whom you were talking to. It was nothing personal, nothing serious at all. He complained about the food at the restaurant. I told him this part of Spain is famous for its seafood, and he should at least try it. You know, for the sake of the documentary. But he insisted on ordering a steak and French fries.”

  The inspector’s expression was skeptical. He raised one eyebrow and continued. “I understand from some people at the next table that you wanted him to do something he didn’t want to do. He got annoyed with you for bringing it up. Is that correct?”

  “We disagreed on what to put in the documentary, that’s all,” Julie said. “I thought we should have more scenes outside. He wanted more pictures of himself eating and talking to his devoted fans. He didn’t seem to notice that he didn’t have too many fans on this train. Just that idiot woman who asked for his autograph.”

  “Which ‘idiot woman’ are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know her name. She’s always talking about what a great man he is.”

  “Is she here in this room now?”

  Julie looked around. “I don’t see her.”

  Dora, who had been standing near the bar, hidden behind some taller people, stepped forward.

  “If you’re trying to find the ‘idiot woman’ who thinks Shambless was a great man, I guess that’s me,” she said. She looked at Julie. “You have some nerve calling me an idiot. You’re the one he was trying to get rid of.”

  “I apologize for the use of that term,” Javier said. “Please stay here, señora. I would like to ask you some questions in a few minutes.”

  “I’d be glad to answer any questions you might have to find the evil person who killed one of our country’s most revered men,” she said.

  The inspector turned back to Julie.

  “That’s all you disagreed about? What should or should not go into the documentary?”

  “Yes, that’s it. Can I go now?”

  The inspector took some rapid notes, and then said, “You may go, but we’ll talk about this again later.”

  Julie stood up and walked quickly out of the car. People moved aside to let her through. The lounge car was barely big enough to hold all the passengers. Some of the younger people were sitting on the floor.

  I edged a little closer to the inspector to hear better as he started to question Steve. I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, just another tourist wrapped up in the local newspaper. I could hear every word.

  “Any idea what they quarreled about?” the inspector asked Steve. “Was it the documentary?”

  Steve looked away from the inspector. He was obviously uncomfortable.

  “Señor Bergman?” the inspector said.

  “Listen, Inspector, I don’t want to say anything to get her in trouble. She’s a good kid.”

  “I understand your loyalty, but it would help me if you could tell me what the problem was.”

  Steve took a deep breath. “Well, see,” he said, “it wasn’t about the documentary. She didn’t really have much to do with that.”

  “I thought she was directing the film,” the inspector said.

  Steve shook his head. “Not really,” he said. “That’s what Shambless told people, but she was really here to . . . uh . . . to keep him company. As a . . . uh . . . companion.”

  “You mean they were lovers?” the inspector said. “Is that what you mean by ‘to keep him company’?”

  “I guess you could say that,” Steve mumbled, cracking his knuckles, clearly uneasy talking about this.

  The inspector persisted. “What was the quarrel about?”

  Steve put his head in his hands, his hair flopping in his eyes. I could hardly hear his words when he continued, so I got a little closer. The inspector looked up and frowned at me, so I moved back an inch.

  “She thought he was going to marry her,” Steve said. “Look, he was a rat—okay? He lied to her. She believed him when he said he was going to divorce his wife. Then, on this trip, he kept putting her off. It was obvious—well, it was obvious to me anyhow—that he had no intention of marrying her. He was just lying to her. I felt sorry for her. Like I said, she’s a good kid.”

  “Did you see her last night after returning from the restaurant?”

  “Just for a minute. I went into the bar to get a drink. Shambless was already there and Julie was trying to talk to him. I heard her ask him if he felt all right, if he needed anything, but he pushed her away. I heard him tell her to leave him alone. She got into a conversation with the bartender after that, but I couldn’t hear what they were talking about. I assumed she had a drink and went back to her suite.”

  “Thank you, Señor Bergman,” the inspector said. “You’ve been very helpful.”

  The inspector began to question another passenger but turned around to say something else to Steve.

  “Señor Bergman, por favor. One more question. Did you film the restaurant and Señor Shambless for the documentary last night?”

  “I did.”

  “Mostly in the restaurant or outside?”

  “Both, Inspector.”

  “I assume you also have footage of Shambless himself?”

  “Some—not a lot. I wanted to get him with his fans, but there was only that one woman who asked for his autograph. The one Julie mentioned. I got some shots of her with Shambless.”

  “Would you be kind enough to show me what you filmed?”

  “Sure, Inspector. I’ll get my camera. I left it on the table in the dining room.”

  “Thank you,” the inspector said. He turned to talk to the person standing nearest to him, Shamblesss’s devoted fan, Dora. I pretended to point out a newspaper article to Mary Louise, but I was really listening to the inspector’s questions and Dora’s answers.

  “You were a big fan of Señor Shambless, I understand,” he said.

  “Yes,” she said, twisting her hands together. “I must say I resent being called an idiot by that blond tramp. He was a wonderful man, Inspector. Just wonderful.” She pressed her fingers against her forehead. “Would you mind if I talked to you later? I just realized I need something in my cabin. A pill. I’m getting one of my really bad headaches.”

  “Of course, señora. Come back when you’re feeling better. Again, I apologize for the use of the word idiot.”

  Dora scurried out of the car. The inspector walked around the packed car, asking several people a few questions, listening intently to their answers, moving from group to group until he got to the five of us.

  He addressed me first. “I hope I spoke loudly enough for you to hear my questions to the other passengers, Señora Miller.” His smile was sardonic. I have to admit I was a little embarrassed. But I certainly wasn’t going to let him know that.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Inspector,” I said. “This c
ar is really crowded. I couldn’t help being close to you at times. I’m sorry if you thought I was eavesdropping.” I didn’t sound convincing even to myself. The inspector let it go.

  “You produce documentaries, Señora Miller, no?” he asked.

  “I produce documentaries, yes,” I said.

  “What kind of films have you done?”

  “I did one on Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans. One on 9/11. One on an orphanage in India.”

  “Are you filming a documentary on this train trip?”

  “No, I’m just an entertainer on this ride,” I said. “But there is certainly a lot to photograph in your beautiful country. I was hoping we’d get to Ribadeo today because I hear it’s a filmmaker’s dream. Any chance we’ll be able to leave the train?”

  The inspector smiled at me. Maybe he’s not so bad after all, I thought. “It is indeed a beautiful country,” he said, his tone a little friendlier. “Especially Ribadeo. I’m not sure if you will be able to see it today, though, señora. It depends on how much information I can gather from you and your fellow passengers.”

  “Ask me anything you want, Inspector. I have no secrets.”

  He consulted his notes. His expression changed. He didn’t look all that friendly anymore. “I understand you said you’d like to kill Señor Shambless on the bus last night,” he said.

  I stared at him, stunned. We seemed to be having a nice, civilized conversation about my work and Spain. Then wham! He hit me with this. I started to speak. At first nothing came out of my mouth. For the billionth time in my life, I wished that I didn’t always say the first thing that popped into my mind.

  “I might have,” I said, my voice rising with each word. “I certainly didn’t like him. He was an obnoxious fool. But who told you I said that?”

  “One of the other passengers heard you. Several other people heard you quarreling with him in the restaurant and then threatening to kill him on the bus. Why didn’t you like him?”

  Uh-oh, this was starting to get serious, I thought. I tried to talk more calmly, but it was no use. I’m just not a calm person when I feel threatened. Maybe you’ve noticed.

  “Because he spewed hatred and narrow-mindedness on television every day,” I said, my voice getting louder. “I think he’s responsible for a lot of bullying that goes on in this world.”