Flamenco, Flan, and Fatalities (A Happy Hoofers Mystery) Page 6

  The inspector leaned closer to me. He lowered his voice. He sounded like a prosecutor. “What kind of bullying?”

  “Especially toward gay people,” I said, trying to return this whole interrogation into a reasonable conversation. “He was always ranting against gay marriage and gay people. And he hated strong women. He wished we’d all shut up and cook.”

  The inspector paused. “Do you consider yourself a strong woman, Señora Miller?”

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “Does that bother you, Inspector?” I know, I know. Not a good answer. Sue me.

  “Sometimes a strong woman can be . . . overwhelming.”

  “Inspector Cruz,” I said. “Just because I’m strong doesn’t mean that I go around killing people who disagree with me. There would be dead bodies all over the place if I did that.” I was trying to get him to lighten up, but it didn’t work. He changed the subject.

  “Where were you after you got back from the restaurant?” he asked.

  “My friends and I performed for the other passengers.”

  “What exactly did you perform?” the inspector asked. I resented his tone. What did he think we were—pole dancers?

  “We’re the Happy Hoofers,” I said. I could see from the look on his face he had no idea what that meant.

  “Dancers, Inspector. We were hired to dance on this train.”

  “What kind of dance did you do?”

  “The flamenco,” I said. I clicked my fingers, stamped my heels, and said, “Olé!” Not even the beginning of a smile.

  “You did a Spanish dance?” he asked. I can only describe the expression on his face as a sneer.

  “Yes, the flamenco,” I said. “We thought it would be the best way to introduce ourselves to the other passengers, many of whom are Spanish, by doing that. It was our attempt to honor their country. Your country.”

  “Admirable,” the inspector said without meaning it. I knew what he really meant. Americans have no right to muck up one of the finest traditions of Spanish culture.

  “What did you do after you, um, danced?” he asked.

  “We hung around talking to people. Do you suspect me of anything, Inspector?” I asked, really annoyed at this man.

  “I’m just trying to get some information. Do you always take offense when people ask you questions?”

  I was about to explode and say things I shouldn’t when Tina moved closer to me and put a gentling hand on my arm.

  “Inspector,” she said in her most charming voice. Believe me, nobody is more charming than Tina when she puts her mind to it. “Gini has a short fuse, but she’s not a murderer. She was with us all the time after we got back from the restaurant. She and I share a suite. She certainly didn’t get up in the middle of the night and kill anyone. I would have noticed.”

  “You share a suite?” he asked.

  “Yes, the suite we were assigned by Eduardo,” Tina said.

  “You have a problem with that?” I asked, noticing the raised eyebrow on his face again.

  “No, no, señora,” he said. “No problem at all. Thank you for your cooperation.” He didn’t look all that grateful. “Please be available for more questions later on.”

  When he questioned Janice, his whole manner changed, softened. You really couldn’t blame the guy. Janice was looking particularly gorgeous at nine in the morning. Her blond hair fell smooth and straight around a face that didn’t seem to have a touch of makeup on it. I knew, of course, it was invisibly helped with makeup base, subtle blush, undetectable mascara, and just the barest shine of pale lipstick on her full lips. She was wearing a sheer pale pink top with white jeans. She smelled like freshly picked roses. The inspector was a gone goose.

  “And you are . . . ?” he stammered.

  “Janice Rogers, Inspector.”

  “Señora Rogers.” He paused and smiled. Even her name delighted him. “Did you notice anything suspicious during dinner or afterward that might help us solve this murder?”

  “Only that he was so rude and loud that everyone in the restaurant wanted to kill him, including the waiters and the chef,” Janice said. “He complained about everything—the food, the wine, Spain, this trip. But you don’t kill somebody for being rude, do you?”

  “I can’t imagine you killing anybody,” the inspector said. “Except perhaps with your beauty.” Ah, Spanish men. Why can’t all men say things like that? He took her hand and gently brushed his lips across it.

  I’m telling you, I would never have believed it in a million years, but Janice actually blushed. She did. People have been telling her she’s beautiful ever since I’ve known her, but I’ve never seen anyone make her blush before. This devastatingly good-looking Spaniard accomplished it.

  He tried to look as if he weren’t affected by her, but failed. His face was much gentler, kinder than when he questioned the other passengers. “Will you be around later?” he asked. Evidently he had asked her all the hard-hitting questions he could think of.

  “Of course,” she said, not sounding like Janice at all, but like an ingenue in one of her plays.

  The inspector left her reluctantly and made the rounds again, talking to some of the other passengers. He spent most of the remaining time with Denise and with two men I noticed in the restaurant who ate together and talked to each other as if they were a married couple. He also seemed to linger with Sylvia for quite a while, but I couldn’t hear what he asked her. It wasn’t from lack of trying, but the inspector’s expression made it clear that I wasn’t to get too close. He would stop talking and move away from me if I overstepped his boundary. I guess he didn’t trust me, for some reason.

  After about an hour, he headed for the door, and said, “Please remain on the train until further notice. I will be back with more questions when I have the medical examiner’s report.”

  He left the train and Eduardo addressed the car full of passengers. “We apologize for the inconvenience,” he said. “We have arranged for an excellent restaurant to bring the food to us as long as we are confined. We hope this delay won’t last long. Thank you for your patience. If you will return to the dining car, we have prepared some breakfast for you.”

  He left the lounge car. There was an instant buzz of conversation in several different languages as everyone tried to understand what was going on. An uneasiness moved through the crowd as they returned to the dining car. I heard one woman say to her husband, “I think we should get our money back and go back home. This is ridiculous.” It was beginning to sink in that someone, maybe the person right next to them, could be a murderer.

  Gini’s photography tip: Always offer to send

  the photo you take of someone to their

  phone or computer so they can see what

  they really look like.

  Chapter 4

  Whodunnit?

  We attacked the buffet table like starving dieters. The array of croissants, coffee, tea, hot chocolate, smoked salmon frittatas, orange juice, and fresh fruit, was mouth-watering. We helped ourselves and sat down at the tables near the windows, where we could see police and reporters gathered outside. The other passengers were seated nearby. All of the tables were two-seaters because of the narrowness of the car.

  I glanced around. The murderer could be anybody. There were several possibilities, but that’s all they were—possibilities. And the killer might not even be one of my fellow passengers at all. It could have been someone in the restaurant. The inspector even suspected me. I must remember not to shoot my mouth off. Yeah, good luck with that, Gini.

  “What do you think, Tina?” I asked when she sat down across from me with her hot chocolate and croissant. “The only one who is even a remote possibility as Shambless’s killer is Sylvia. She hated him. Tom said that she was up late last night after he went to bed.”

  “Oh, Gini, that doesn’t make her a murderer,” Tina said, “I mean, I suppose she could have done it, but what about the blonde? What’s her name? Julie. He certainly lied to her and double-crosse
d her. I don’t think he brought her along to direct the film, do you?”

  “She couldn’t direct traffic,” I said. “She’s definitely a suspect.”

  “Let’s see,” Mary Louise said, from across the aisle, where she shared a table with Pat. “There’s Danielle and Geoffrey and Michele—they didn’t like him, but they don’t seem the murdering type.”

  “Maybe Mike did it, Mary Louise,” I said to tease her.

  “Oh, Gini, come on,” she said angrily until she realized I was kidding. “He brings lives into the world, not out of it.”

  “Well, it certainly couldn’t have been that ridiculous, what’s her name, Dora, who worshipped him,” Pat said. “She’ll probably kill herself out of grief.”

  “No, Dora is weird, but she couldn’t kill a fly,” I said. “She’s too nervous. How about your new best friend, Denise?”

  Pat glanced at me. “Oh, yeah, she’s certainly a killer,” she said. “She had no reason to kill him—at least as far as I know. But someone at the restaurant or somebody working on this train must have become angry enough to get rid of him. I can certainly understand that. That doesn’t make sense, though. You can get really mad at someone, but you don’t actually kill him. Only a crazy person does that. There has to be a better reason than anger at his rudeness and insulting behavior.”

  “Well, I hope that rude inspector is better at finding the killer than he is at asking questions,” I said.

  “He’s not rude, Gini, he’s adorable,” Janice said, nibbling on some fresh fruit. “I hope he asks me more questions. I have lots of answers for him.” She grinned wickedly.

  “He’s more adorable with some people than with others,” I said. “He could hardly ask you any questions, he found you so attractive.”

  “You think so?” Janice said, reaching over to take a piece of Tina’s croissant. “I didn’t really notice.”

  “Right,” I said. “You’d have to be a potted plant not to notice.”

  None of us resented the fact that Janice was the best looking in our group. She was an actress, after all. It was part of her equipment. Each one of us had something unique: I was the funniest, Mary Louise was the kindest, Tina was the smartest, and Pat was the wisest. We all felt we were lucky to have each other and treasured the special quality we each possessed. That didn’t mean we didn’t get on each other’s nerves once in a while precisely because of the differences in our personalities.

  Tom and Sylvia sat down at a table near us. Sylvia went to get some food from the buffet table.

  “So, Tom,” I said, “why did you do it?”

  He laughed. “I bet a whole bunch of people killed him—you know, like that Agatha Christie movie where twelve people each took a turn killing the victim.”

  “My favorite movie,” I said. “Murder on the Orient Express, right? I was thinking before, this dining car looks like it could have been on the Orient Express.”

  “That’s the one. Someone should write Murder on the Train in Spain,” he said. “I can easily think of twelve people who would want to kill Shambless.”

  “Let’s see,” Sylvia said, coming back to the table with a cup of coffee. She looked even grayer in the morning. “Who would be on that list? There’s you, of course, Gini, since you said you wanted to kill him. Every other woman on this trip is suspect, too, because he was always bashing women.”

  “How about you, Sylvia?” I said. Tina kicked me under the table, but I kept on. I couldn’t help it. “I heard you used to produce his show and he fired you. Is that true?”

  Sylvia glared at Tom.

  “Do you have to blab our private business to everyone you meet?” she said to Tom.

  “I didn’t tell her that,” Tom said. “She heard it from someone else. But it’s true, Sylvia. Why deny it?”

  “Because it’s not something I want everyone to know. Even you should be able to understand that!”

  This woman was a piece of work. I hated the way she talked to Tom and to everyone else. She was really making me mad. I know. It doesn’t take much. But underneath I’m this gentle, sweet, kindly filmmaker. Believe that and I’ll sell you the Brooklyn Bridge.

  “Did he fire you?” I asked again.

  “Not that it’s any of your business,” Sylvia said, “but actually, I resigned. I had good reason to leave. I couldn’t stand the working conditions on that show. After I left, he made it impossible for me to get another job for a long time and—I don’t want to talk about it.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin and stood. “Are you coming, Tom?” she said as she was leaving.

  “In a minute, Syl,” he said. “I just want to finish my coffee.” He watched her go. His face was so sad, I immediately regretted my hostility.

  “I’m sorry, Tom,” I said. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “It’s okay, Gini. Shambless made her life miserable and she hates talking about him. She didn’t resign. He did fire her as producer of his show for no reason and spread the word that she was incompetent. Because of him she couldn’t get another job in television for years. It was only through a friend of hers who was a sponsor of the soap that she got another producing job. Before that she worked as an accountant and as a restaurant manager. Shambless ruined her career. She really hates him.”

  “Enough to kill him?” I asked.

  “Gini, cool it,” Tina said sharply. “What kind of question is that to ask a man about his wife?”

  “You’re right, Tina,” I said, chastened. “Sorry, Tom. Did Sylvia tell the inspector how she feels about Shambless?”

  “No, of course not. She doesn’t want him to know.”

  I didn’t say anything. I felt, as usual, I had said enough.

  Tom waved at two men entering the dining car.

  “You have to meet these guys,” he said. “I persuaded them to come on this trip,” he said “They’re friends from the old days in New York. You know them, Jan—Mark and Sam who had that restaurant on West Forty-Sixth Street in the theater district. Remember?”

  “They were great guys,” Janice said. “Is the restaurant still there?”

  “Ask them yourself,” Tom said. He motioned to the two men again. They walked down the aisle to sit at the table in back of Tom’s. Impeccably groomed, they made every other man in the car look like a slob. They each had expertly cut dark hair and a neatly trimmed mustache, and they were wearing immaculate white shirts and carefully pressed black pants. Their expensive loafers were polished to perfection. I’m no expert, but I think they were Pradas.

  “Hoofers, these obviously guilty guys are Mark and Sam,” Tom said.

  “Don’t joke, Tom,” Mark, the older of the two men said. “The inspector thinks we are prime suspects.”

  “Why?” I asked. “You don’t look like you could be guilty of anything except being too good-looking.”

  “I like you already,” Sam said. “You’re one of the dancers, right?”

  “Yes, I’m Gini Miller. Hi, Sam. Tell us how that inspector could possibly think you did it.”

  “We worked to make gay marriage legal in New York,” Sam said. “Shambless never missed a chance to condemn it. So it’s simple: We must have killed him because he was anti-gay.”

  “Luckily,” Mark said, “we were with other people all evening. After the restaurant, we were in the entertainment car watching you guys dance. You were really good. Then Carlos brought us coffee in our suite late at night.”

  “One of you could have slipped a little poison into his wine at dinner,” Tom said.

  “Right,” Mark said. “Without anyone noticing in a crowded restaurant.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” I said. “We couldn’t say anything because Eduardo asked us not to, but Shambless was dead before we danced last night. Eduardo told us just before we went on onstage. He wanted us to distract people so they wouldn’t panic when they found out a passenger had died.”

  “You sure distracted us,” Mark said.

  “Now that we know you’re not
murderers,” I said. “Tell us about your restaurant in New York. What’s it called?”

  “Mark and Sam’s,” Sam said.

  “How did you ever come up with such an unusual name?” I asked, grinning. “What kind of food?”

  “All kinds,” Mark said. “French, Italian, Thai, Spanish. One of the reasons we came on this trip when Tom suggested it was to get some new Spanish dishes for the restaurant. You have to come and bring your whole crew.”

  “I got some recipes from the restaurant last night if you want copies,” Mary Louise said. “I’m going to try to make them at home, but I’d rather eat them in your restaurant.”

  “What did you get?” Mark asked.

  “The seafood salad, the calamari, and the lobster with potatoes,” she said. “You’re welcome to them.”

  “Thanks. Which one are you again?”

  “Mary Louise,” she said.

  “Bring your gang. Free meal on us.”

  “You’d love their restaurant, Mary Louise,” Tom said. “It’s elegant but fun. Everybody goes there.”

  “He’s right. It’s a terrific place,” Janice said. “How are you two? I didn’t know you were on this train. You look wonderful. It’s been such a long time. How long has it been?”

  “Since you and Tom were in Virginia Woolf together,” Sam said. “We were always glad when you came into the restaurant after the play. You had such a good time together after beating each other up every night onstage. We couldn’t believe how much you liked each other afterward. We always thought you two would get married.”

  “Yeah,” Mark said. “We were surprised when you married someone else, Tom.”

  Mark opened his mouth to say something else, but Sam poked him. Sylvia was standing right behind him.

  “Why were you surprised Mark?” Sylvia asked.

  “Oh, did I say surprised?” Mark said, stammering. “I meant to say delighted.”

  Sylvia ignored him, and said to Tom, “Are you going to spend all day here? I’ve been waiting for you in the lounge car.”