Flamenco, Flan, and Fatalities (A Happy Hoofers Mystery) Page 7

  Tom’s face was grim. He didn’t look at us, just turned and followed her out of the car.

  Nobody said anything until Janice saw the guilty expressions on Mark’s and Sam’s faces. “It’s all right, guys,” she said. “She’s wound a little too tight.”

  I noticed Pat had returned to the buffet spread for more coffee and was talking to Denise. They brought their cups back and squeezed another chair in next to Mary Louise’s.

  “Okay,” I said. “Why’d you do it, Denise?” I was kidding around. I wasn’t prepared for her answer.

  “My son was miserable because of him,” Denise said, her face hard, unlike her usual cheerful demeanor.

  “Oh, Denise, what do you mean?” I asked, shocked at her reply.

  “He was a hateful man who did a lot of harm in this world,” she said. “He opened his big mouth and spewed out lies that people took seriously. He never thought that his hatred and vitriol might have an effect on the people who listened to him. Cause them to do things.”

  “What kind of things?” I asked.

  “He made ignorant people hate the same way he hated. His words made them bully people . . . other children . . . I . . .”

  The look on her face was so tortured both Pat and I reached out to her.

  “Denise,” Pat said. “Tell us. What happened to your son?”

  “I can’t talk about it,” she said, and stood up.

  She walked out of the car.

  “I’m going after her,” Pat said. “I think she needs to talk to someone. Maybe I can help.” She followed Denise out of the dining car.

  “I’m glad Pat went after her,” Tina said. “She’s clearly upset. If anyone can help her, Pat can. I noticed the inspector talked to Denise for a long time. Do you think she killed Shambless?”

  “Who knows?” I said. “It seems unlikely, but what do we know? Maybe she did. She certainly had reason to kill him if she believes he was responsible for a problem with her son. I don’t know what to believe anymore. It’s really creepy being on a train with a murderer.”

  “Tell me about it,” Tina said. “After our Russian cruise when someone got killed, I’d just as soon not go through that again.” She shuddered.

  “What is it about us?” Janice said. “This is the second time there’s been a murder when we’ve been hired to dance somewhere. Two murders, in fact. Do you think we’re a jinx or something?”

  “Come on, Jan, don’t exaggerate,” I said. “There weren’t any murders on most of our trips. Anyway, I don’t believe in jinxes. Speaking of dancing, Tina, are we still supposed to dance tonight? Or do we have the night off because one of the passengers was murdered? Is there a rule for this? Is there a clause in our contract that says, ‘No dancing on days when someone is murdered’?”

  “I’ll find out,” Tina said, laughing. She beckoned to Eduardo, who had just entered the dining car.

  “Eduardo,” she said. “Did you plan on us dancing tonight? It seems a little ghoulish to dance and sing as if nothing has happened. I know we did it last night, but are we supposed to do it again tonight?”

  “Señora Powell,” he said. “I know this is a lot to ask, but if you think your group would be able to dance for us this evening, it would help the other passengers a great deal. Several of them have already asked for their money back. They say they are leaving for home as soon as they can arrange a flight. I can’t blame them. But your dancing might persuade some of them to stay. You bring such joy with your music. If you don’t think you can do it, though, I certainly understand.”

  He looked at us, pleading silently for us to say yes.

  “Of course we will, Eduardo,” Tina said. “Okay with you, hoofers?”

  Frankly, I could have done without performing that evening, but I wasn’t going to let Tina down. I gave her a thumbs-up. The others agreed.

  “That’s what we’re here for, Eduardo,” Mary Louise said. “We’ll do our best to distract the other passengers from the murder and mayhem.”

  “Thank you, my lovely hoofers,” Eduardo said. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Should we do ‘New York, New York’?” Tina asked.

  “It’s not very Spanish,” Janice said.

  “Have you been to New York lately?” I asked. “You hear Spanish spoken more than English.”

  Eduardo began to sing the words to “New York, New York” in Spanish in a mellow, lovely baritone. “Nueva York, Nueva York.”

  My gang and I joined him, singing in English.

  Passengers at a nearby table applauded. The mood of the day seemed to lighten a little. But like a lot of things in Spain, there was an underlying sense of foreboding, even while Eduardo was singing.

  When we stopped, Eduardo said, “You’re just what we need right now, señoras. Thank you.”

  “I think we need you, too, Eduardo,” Tina said. “Would you sing in Spanish while we dance? It would be perfect.”

  Eduardo bowed. “It would be my pleasure,” he said.

  Such a lovely man, I thought. There’s something about music that brings out the best in people. It’s almost impossible to stay angry or scared or mean when you’re singing.

  Mike Parnell left the table where he had been sitting with Geoffrey, and walked over to say hello.

  “That was great,” he said. “I’m looking forward to seeing your show tonight.”

  “Mike, is there any news?” Mary Louise asked. “Did you hear anything? When can we get off this train?”

  “Nobody knows anything for sure. It’s all rumor. But the one thing they are positive about is that he was poisoned. They think it might have been one of the people who works in the restaurant or on the train.”

  He stopped, embarrassed, and said to Eduardo, “Of course I don’t believe that, Eduardo. I know what a fine staff you have. It’s just that Shambless was so rude to so many people, there’s a slight possibility that one of them was angry enough to kill him. The police are questioning the staff now. Or someone in the restaurant could have poisoned his food. He certainly didn’t make any friends there.”

  “Our employees are very carefully investigated before we hire them,” Eduardo said. “None of them could possibly be a murderer.”

  “So you’re saying it had to be a passenger or someone in the restaurant?” Mike asked.

  “Probably,” Eduardo said, then stopped, flustered. “I don’t mean any of you, of course.”

  Michele, who had been sitting at the table with Mike and her father, got up and walked over to us.

  “I know who killed him,” she said.

  Startled, we stopped talking and stared at this young woman, who looked so sophisticated in her white linen pants and bright coral blouse.

  “Who, Michele?” I asked.

  “It was the bartender—Juan,” she said.

  “Oh, Michele, what makes you say that?” Geoffrey said, coming over to join his daughter. “You shouldn’t go around making wild accusations.”

  “It’s true, Dad,” Michele said. “I went into the bar car after we got back from the restaurant to get a chartreuse before the hoofers’ show last night. Shambless was sitting there. He looked odd.”

  “What do you mean, odd?” her father asked.

  “As if he were drunk. He was sweating a lot. He kept wiping his face with his handkerchief.” Michele imitated him, swaying back and forth, pretending to mop her face.

  “What makes you think the bartender killed him?” Geoffrey asked.

  “I heard Shambless yelling at Juan because he didn’t like the way he made his martini. ‘Too much vermouth,’ he kept yelling. He sounded totally drunk. He’d already had all that wine at dinner. Remember how much trouble he had getting into that car? He called Juan an idiot and said Spanish people were morons who didn’t know how to do anything right. He grabbed Juan’s tie and pulled him close. I thought Juan was going to kill him right then. His face was so angry. Shambless said he was going to get Juan fired for incompetency.”


  “Did anyone else hear this?” her father asked.

  “Sure. There was a bunch of the train’s crew cleaning up. They heard him—you couldn’t help it, he was so loud. They looked like they wanted to kill him too. Most of the passengers were in the other car waiting for the dancers to perform. Oh, there was one passenger sitting at a table in the bar. I think her name is Sylvia something. She was watching Shambless and sipping a drink.”

  “You sure it was Sylvia?” I asked. “What did she look like?”

  “Sort of gray all over. I remember her stopping at Shambless’s table on her way out of the restaurant. She looked really fierce. I think that’s why I remembered her.”

  “What happened then, Michele?” Mike asked.

  “Shambless totally ignored me at first. Then he noticed me watching him. His eyes were all blurry. He sort of leaned toward me, and asked, ‘Why aren’t you in there watching the happy hookers? Don’t you like to watch sluts dance?’ ” Michele stopped and looked at us apologetically. “Sorry about that, hoofers,” she said.

  “What did you say?” I asked, ready to kill this man all over again.

  “I said you were the happy hoofers, not hookers. I told him you were really good. I said he should go and watch you.”

  “What did he say then?” Tina asked.

  “He said, ‘When pigs fly.’ ” Michele said. “I wanted to get away from him—he was so disgusting. I thought he was going to throw up right there in the bar. Before I could get off my stool, he took a gulp of his martini and started yelling about how terrible his drink was. Then he sort of slumped over and leaned against the bar. Juan said perhaps he’d had enough. That made Shambless even madder, and he shouted, ‘Don’t tell me not to have another drink. See if you can make a decent martini for once in your life.’

  “When I left, Juan was fixing him another drink, but he was really angry. His face was white. I wouldn’t blame him if he killed Shambless.”

  “Juan would never kill anybody,” Eduardo said. “No matter what Shambless did. He’s a very fine man.”

  “I agree,” Mike said. “He’s been on this train for years.”

  “Michele,” her father said gently, “I don’t think you should mention this to anybody else. You could get Juan in real trouble. There’s no proof that he poisoned Shambless.”

  “I guess you’re right, Dad,” Michelle said. “But if you’d been there . . .” She paused. “I certainly don’t want to get Juan in trouble, though. I won’t mention it again, counsellor.” She smiled at her father. She obviously adored him.

  “That’s best,” Geoffrey said. “Let’s go back to the suite.”

  He put his arm around his daughter and they left with Danielle.

  We were all silent, thinking over what Michele had said. It certainly seemed plausible that Juan could have killed Shambless. Spaniards are proud people. They don’t put up with the kind of verbal abuse Michele just told us about. Juan had been a bartender for a long time, though. He must have heard worse than that from people who had too much to drink.

  “I’m going back to the suite to get a book since we can’t leave the train,” Tina said. “Anybody coming with me?”

  The three of us followed her back to our rooms, and knocked on Pat’s door.

  “Come on in,” she said. “I want to tell you what Denise told me.”

  We crowded into her suite. Tina said, “We’ve all been wondering what she meant by ‘My son was miserable because of him.’ ”

  “It’s so sad,” Pat said. “Her son was very shy. He was no good at sports. The other kids in high school bullied him and called him gay. Denise thinks they did that because Shambless was always putting down gay people and ranting against gay marriage. She really believes he incited his viewers to violence against gays. She’s convinced that’s why her son was bullied at school and refused to ever go back there. He’s in therapy now, and Denise blames Shambless for his depression.”

  “What did you say to her?” I asked.

  “I told her that Shambless was a terrible person, but that he probably wasn’t responsible for her son’s behavior,” Pat said. “A lot of bullying goes on in schools, unfortunately. Those kids who do it have probably never heard of Shambless.”

  “You’re right, Pat,” Mary Louise said. “Bullying in schools—especially in middle school but also in high school—is horrible. My kids said it used to go on all the time in their school. But the principal finally did something about it. She called in the parents of the bullies and convinced them of the harm their children were doing. They say it happens much less often than it used to. Thank God.”

  “I’m not sure how I can help Denise,” Pat said. “She’s distraught by her son’s depression. She doesn’t know how to help him.”

  “Where’s her son now?” Mary Louise asked.

  “He’s with his dad. It’s their scheduled time to be together. Denise said the father is good with the boy. She hopes some ‘guy time’ together will help the situation.”

  “Do you think Denise could have killed Shambless?” Janice asks.

  “A couple of times when she mentioned his name, she did look as if she could have killed him. At least she wanted to kill him. I don’t know why she talked to me about it. Maybe she wants me to find out. I wouldn’t blame her if she did. I’m having a lot of trouble being sorry he was murdered.”

  “I think only that silly woman on the bus is sorry,” I said. “That Dora person.”

  “She and several million people who listen to him every day,” Tina said. “They call him up and tell him they are so honored to talk to him. They agree with every bigoted, nasty, rotten thing he says.”

  “I’ll never understand those people,” Mary Louise said. “They’re always blatting on and on about all the welfare cheats lying around not working, living off the hardworking people in the country. Don’t they realize there are little kids who don’t have enough to eat, single mothers struggling to take care of their children, people with disabilities who would die without government help. Old people who—” She stopped. “I don’t understand it.”

  “You’re just a confirmed bleeding-heart liberal,” I told her. “Like the rest of us. Anyway, Tina, what’s the schedule for the rest of the day? What are you going to do before our performance tonight?”

  “I don’t know what to tell you about the rest of the day because we can’t get off the train. It’s only eleven-thirty, so it’s too early to drink. Who knows when we’ll eat again? And there’s nothing good on TV. I think I’ll go back to our suite and call Peter. I haven’t talked to him since we got on this train. He doesn’t know about the murder.”

  “Everybody knows about the murder,” I said. “Shambless’s murder must have been in all the papers and TV at home.”

  “That’s true. I wonder why Peter hasn’t called me,” Tina said. “Ever since the Russian cruise, he worries about me being surrounded by murderers.”

  “Maybe you haven’t heard from him because he’s on his way over here,” I said. We all loved Peter because he adored Tina. Ever since her husband died two years ago, he has been trying to get her to marry him. He had been a good friend of Tina and her husband, Bill, since the two men were in law school together. Ever since his divorce he’s done everything he could to make sure Tina was all right. She’s still making up her mind whether she wants to get married again or not. Bill was a hard act to follow.

  “I better call him,” Tina said. “I miss him.”

  “I think I’ll wander back to the lounge and see who’s there and get some coffee,” Mary Louise said. “Eduardo mentioned something yesterday about a cooking class on tapas. I’d love to know how to make them. Anybody want to come with me?”

  Janice and I decided to follow her. We headed for the lounge car.

  Gini’s photography tip: Don’t take a

  picture of someone chewing his food.

  It never looks good.

  Chapter 5

  My Tapas Is Your Tapas
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  “Eduardo,” Mary Louise said. “Did you say something yesterday about a cooking lesson today? Tapas, I think you said. Is that still on?”

  “I forgot all about it,” Eduardo said. “Yes, the chef from a local restaurant will show us how to make the tapas you had yesterday. Come into the bar car. He’s just about to start.”

  About two dozen women and some men, including Mark and Sam, were gathered around the bar where a chef in a toque was arranging ingredients in front of him. He was a plump, smiling man who spoke English with a lilting Spanish accent.

  “Welcome, welcome,” he said. “Come closer. I want to show you how to make one of the most popular tapas in our country—tigres, or stuffed mussels. They’re perfect when people stop by late in the afternoon. Mucho gusto. Especially with wine. Very easy. Watch.”

  We crowded in closer to the bar. Mary Louise pushed me up to the front because I’m short.

  “Okay,” our jolly chef said. “I show you how to make tigres because someone here asked for them. Who was that?”

  Mary Louise raised her hand and smiled at the chef. “Me. Guilty as charged, señor. I want to make them at home.”

  The chef took one look at our Mary Louise, looking unusually lovely this day in a turquoise sleeveless top and white jeans, and held out his hand.

  “You must come and stand by me, so you will know exactly how to make tigres, or stuffed mussels as you call them.”

  Mary Louise was behind the bar before the chef could finish his sentence.

  The chef put his arm around her and pulled her closer.

  “So you won’t miss anything,” he said. He winked at his audience.

  “I have done part of this recipe ahead of time. You must first steam the mussels until they open. Take them out of their shells and chop them up. Be sure and save the shells. You will need them later. Next you will see here in front of me, I have chopped up a leek, an onion, and a green pepper, which I have sauteed in olive oil until they are—what do you call it when you can see through them?”