Murder on the Orient Espresso Page 5

  She was happy to follow my differing lead, though. ‘You’re right. I didn’t ask the banner company to attach these ropes and they make it ever so much heavier. Maybe I should cut them off.’ She was eyeing the scissors.

  ‘Uh-uh.’ I scooped up the scissors before she could and stepped back to look at our options for securing the signage to the side of the train. ‘How secure does the banner have to be?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Are we moving or staying right here in the station?’

  ‘Oh, no, we’ll be leaving in a few minutes. It’s very exciting. I’ve managed to get us a sneak preview of a brand-new excursion into the Everglades.’

  I surveyed the ‘excursion’ train. There were four cars and … ‘We have a locomotive on each end.’ And facing opposite ways.

  ‘Of course. The west one,’ Missy pointed at the locomotive to our left, ‘will take us into the Everglades. The east one will bring us back to Fort Lauderdale.’

  Seemed like kind of a waste to me. ‘Don’t they usually have just one locomotive and then circle it around to the other end at the station so it can go back in the direction it came?’

  ‘Yes, if there was a station. We’ll be stopping on the single track in the Everglades and simply reversing back the other direction.’ A gust of wind ruffled the banner. ‘I hope the storms will hold off until after our three-hour tour.’

  ‘Three-hour tour,’ I repeated, the theme from Gilligan’s Island dancing through my head. Not to mention the photograph of what was left of Flagler’s Railroad after the 1935 hurricane. ‘Isn’t the route through the Everglades called Alligator Alley?’

  ‘Well, the driving one, anyway. However, we’ll be on a railroad bed that has just been completed – or almost completed – quite a bit north of the highway. We won’t even see Alligator Alley. And besides,’ Missy picked up one of the banner ropes and eyed it with evil intent, ‘you don’t see quite as many alligators anymore. The pythons are eating them.’

  I reflexively glanced west toward the Everglades, imagining ominous clouds building in the dark. Despite the Florida heat, I felt a chill. ‘Pythons? As in … snakes?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Missy said. ‘Burmese pythons.’

  She said it as casually as Wisconsinites would say ‘Canada geese.’ But geese don’t eat alligators. The worst they could do is poop all over them. ‘Burmese pythons? How in the world—’

  ‘—did they get to Florida?’ Missy was trying to unstick the tape she’d attached to her edge of the banner. ‘Until a couple of years ago it was legal to have them as pets.’

  ‘Pet snakes.’ Snakes in their natural habitat scare me enough, but in the house? Brr. And what did you do with them? Take Fido out for a slither? Play fetch the squirrel? A snake didn’t even have ears to scratch.

  ‘… ball pythons,’ Missy was saying. ‘People who had Burmese pythons before the law was changed are grandfathered in and can keep the one – or more – they already have, assuming they get a “reptile of concern” permit.’

  One or more ‘reptiles of concern’?

  ‘Unfortunately,’ Missy continued, ‘permitted or not, if the snakes get so big they’re not cute anymore, people tend to dump them into the Everglades.’

  I was kind of stuck on her choice of ‘cute’ when describing snakes in general, but especially those that could realistically consider alligators ‘snack-size.’

  ‘Isn’t that like … I don’t know, biological littering?’

  ‘I suppose. And, maybe even worse, Hurricane Andrew back in ’ninety-two destroyed animal and reptile “breeding greenhouses” and pet stores, freeing their inhabitants. I’ve even heard there were panthers and monkeys and gazelles running free for a while. The panthers are encouraged – they’re a native species and quite rare – but the rest of the animals were rounded up, supposedly.’

  Supposedly. I knew where this was leading, unfortunately. ‘But the pythons are still out there.’

  ‘Yes, a nearly eight-foot female was caught recently and she had eighty-seven eggs inside her, can you believe that? I’ve heard that we could have tens of thousands – even a hundred thousand – pythons slithering around the Everglades these days.’

  Missy looked west as I had, but kind of wistfully, I thought. ‘It’s very hard to be sure. What they do know is that reported sightings of white-tail deer have dropped by ninety-four percent, and the entire population of rabbits in the Everglades has been wiped out.’

  Jesus. ‘The pythons are eating them, too?’

  ‘Yes, which you’d think would be good news for the alligators.’

  ‘But it’s not? Good news, I mean.’

  ‘No. Alligators eat rabbits and deer – in addition to birds, turtles and fish, of course – so both the alligators themselves and their food supply have been affected by the pythons.’

  Missy looked up from her work. ‘Did you know that nearly sixteen-hundred people signed up to hunt Burmese pythons last year to bring down their numbers? But all those hunters managed to kill only sixty-eight in a month. Apparently pythons are slippery devils.’

  Or their hunters didn’t have enough incentive. ‘Maybe they should send Fendi and Jimmy Choo in there after them,’ I said.

  ‘For designer handbags and such?’ Missy looked thoughtful. ‘In fact, a couple of local places are paying fifty or a hundred dollars a snake. After processing and all, a custom-made python purse can bring, like, twelve hundred dollars, shoes easily a thousand, and jackets nearly five thousand.’

  Maybe I should go into the snake-catching business – or better yet, processing. ‘Word gets out and the pythons will be wiped out in no time.’

  ‘That would be a very good thing,’ Missy said absently, her attention seemingly back on the banner.

  ‘I’m sure the alligators would appreciate it.’ Not to mention Thumper. And Bambi.

  ‘I’m sure they would,’ Missy said, looking up, ‘but I don’t want you to think there aren’t consequences for the pythons, too.’

  ‘Beyond being turned into Giorgio Armani stilettos?’

  ‘No, no,’ Missy said, a little impatient with me. ‘I was talking about the snakes eating alligators, especially after they’ve had a big meal of their own. If you go on YouTube you can probably pull up photos and even a video or two of some pythons that have exploded during the digestive process.’

  Oh, my. In my head, I’d been visiting the designer shoe floor of Barney’s – and actually being able to afford something – and here was Missy yanking me back to the smorgasbord that the Everglades had become.

  And with thoughts of rabbit, inside alligator, inside python, no less. The concept of turducken – a de-boned chicken, stuffed into a de-boned duck, in turn stuffed into a de-boned turkey and baked – had always seemed exotic enough, without imagining the Everglades own sushi version of the same. The one remaining comfort being that human beings weren’t on the menu.

  At least until the pythons ran out of rabbits, deer and alligators.

  SIX

  ‘If you want to get technical,’ Missy Hudson snapped me out of my snake-themed reverie, ‘pythons don’t really eat their prey so much as crush it so they can swallow it whole and digest it.’

  Lovely. ‘And this differs from “eating” in what way?’

  Missy looked up, apparently startled by the edge in my tone. ‘Well, no chewing, of course.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘That’s nothing, though. You want to know something really scary?’

  I hadn’t realized that what we’d already been talking about didn’t qualify. ‘Sure.’

  ‘They’ve found a number of African rock pythons in the Everglades. Including a pregnant one.’

  ‘And that’s worse than a Burmese python?’ Or tens or hundreds of thousands of them?

  ‘Oh, yes. The rock pythons are Africa’s largest snake – over twenty feet long. And the fact one was pregnant means they’re reproducing here.’

  ‘And not-too-tightly-
wrapped people kept those things as pets, too?’

  ‘Yes, can you believe it? The herpetologist at the Florida Museum of Natural History in Gainesville said the species is so aggressive they come out of the egg striking. His theory is that breeders didn’t expect them to be so vicious – and hence so unmarketable to consumers – that they released them into the wild, too. The fear is the African rocks will mate with the Burmese and spawn a large and powerful population of hybrids – like a kind of Super Python.’

  Just gets better and better. ‘You sure seem to know a lot about these creepy-crawlies.’

  ‘Well, most Floridians who live near the Everglades have heard the news reports, or at least should have. Knowledge is power. Besides,’ Missy was back to picking at the tape, ‘I needed to research them for Breaking and Entering.’

  ‘There’s a snake in the book?’ Other than the trouser variety, I meant.

  ‘Well, yes. Rosemary wanted Kat, the umm, heroine to have an, umm … encounter with one. Or was it two?’ The corner of the tape came loose. ‘Damn.’

  The subject of our conversation had gone from bad to worse. It was one thing to exchange views with someone my own age, but Missy couldn’t be more than six years older than my son Eric, who was in his second year of college.

  ‘Why don’t I hop up into the train and open the window?’ I suggested. ‘You can hand me the rope and I’ll secure it to something.’

  ‘That’s a wonderful idea! This is the passenger car, so—’

  In my haste to get away from the images in my own mind, I didn’t wait to hear the rest of Missy’s instructions.

  Entering the train, I turned right and nearly ran into a broad-shouldered man. He was wearing a boxy three-piece suit with a gold watch chain, presumably leading to a pocket watch in the vest. ‘Can I help you?’ he said, holding open a sliding door into the next car.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I was just looking for the passenger car.’

  ‘This is the club car,’ he said, hiking a thumb behind him. ‘I’ll be serving coffee and espresso drinks in a few minutes.’

  ‘So our Orient Espresso will really have espresso?’ I asked, spotting a brewer on one of the bars.

  ‘That’s the plan. Though it’s not ready yet.’

  ‘Oh, not a problem. I’m actually working on setting up myself.’ I glanced out the window and saw that Missy was sorting out the ropes on the banner. ‘I’m Maggy, by the way.’

  The big guy wiped his hand and shook mine. ‘Boyce. Or,’ he pointed to his badge, ‘M Bouc – the head of the railroad.’

  Ah, Boyce/Bouc. ‘I understand you run the coffee concession at the hotel. I own a coffeehouse in Wisconsin and there’s no way I’d have the nerve to try to serve espresso to this many people at once. I’m impressed.’

  ‘Don’t be. I’ll have brewed coffee, but I sure can’t do hot espresso to order, given the space restrictions and the fact there’s also a full bar next to me.’

  ‘So, the espresso machine is just a prop?’

  ‘Not at all, though I have to admit I considered it,’ Boyce/Bouc said with a wry smile. ‘But Missy was so excited about the Murder on the Orient Espresso theme she came up with that I knew I had to work something out. My plan is to pull shots ahead and let them cool down for espresso martinis.’

  ‘Pulling a shot’ was our trade expression for grinding espresso, tamping it into a small filter and then brewing the shot.

  Boyce was looking a bit embarrassed. ‘Not ideal, I know, quality-wise. But …’

  ‘Hey,’ I said, waving off his professional discomfort. ‘I think it’s brilliant.’

  ‘Thank you. Where did you say your coffeehouse was?’

  ‘Brookhills, Wisconsin. It’s near Milwaukee.’

  ‘Oh, sure, I know the area. I went to college in Madison,’ he said, referring to the University of Wisconsin’s flagship campus in the state’s capitol. ‘And my parents still live in Milwaukee. Maybe I’ve seen your place. Where is it, exactly?’

  ‘Originally in Benson Plaza on the corner of Brookhill and Civic. These days we’re in the old train depot.’

  ‘Brookhills Junction? Great area, but I remember it being pretty much abandoned.’

  ‘It was, but we’ve rehabbed the station, which is the westernmost stop for the new commuter train to Milwaukee.’

  ‘Sweet,’ Boyce said, recognizing the value of being able to serve five-dollar cups of coffee to bleary-eyed workers before they were fully awake. ‘How long have you been open?’

  ‘About two years.’

  ‘Two locations in two years? I can’t imagine having that kind of energy.’

  ‘Believe me, it wasn’t by choice. Our first place kind of collapsed.’

  ‘Collapsed?’

  ‘Yes, but we already knew we needed to relocate. Our landlord had decided not to renew our lease. That was before he had the run-in with the snow blower.’

  ‘Snow blower?’ Boyce repeated. ‘What did he run into it with?’

  ‘His head. But we think he was already dead.’

  Boyce’s eyes narrowed. ‘Wait a second. Don’t tell me you own Uncommon Grounds.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, surprised. ‘So you do know it.’

  ‘Only through my parents. Wasn’t one of the owners found dead in a pool of skim milk the morning you opened your first place?’

  ‘Well, yes, but—’

  ‘And, just recently, a body in the basement of the new location?’

  ‘Under the boarding platform, technically, but—’

  I was interrupted by tapping from outside the train.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, grateful for the interruption. ‘I promised to help Missy hang the banner. Do let me know, though, if I can pitch in later with your espresso brewing or anything.’

  ‘You bet.’ He said it automatically, though his expression was more in the vein of, Right about when hell freezes over.

  ‘Great.’ I was all too aware that trying to explain would only make matters worse. The truth was that Uncommon Grounds had more skeletons in its closet – and other environs – than Boyce had already mentioned.

  The coffee man cleared his throat, probably eager to get rid of me. ‘Did you say you were going to the passenger car?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Dining is next,’ he said, pointing toward the sliding door opposite the one he was standing in, ‘and the passenger car beyond that.’

  We were standing in a vestibule, kind of an airlock with a metal floor and a sliding door on each of the four walls. Two of the doors – the one Boyce was standing in and the slider he’d indicated I should use – led to the adjacent train cars. The other two were exits to the platform on both sides of the train.

  The dining car was through the slider, just as Boyce had promised. Eight white-clothed tables with C-shaped banquettes faced the aisle, four on each side. At the far end of the car, another table held a sheet cake frosted to look like a man sleeping. A knife protruded from his chest and red decorating gel with sparkles had been used to simulate other slashes.

  I paused to admire the effect. The knife was real and had a brown staghorn handle, reminding me of a three-piece set that my grandmother had passed down to me. I pulled the knife up a bit and, sure enough, there was the same ‘Hollow Ground Stainless Steel’ stamp as the blade of my set. I’d managed to trace those knives back to the fifties. Well after the era of the book, certainly, but nonetheless, I thought it was a nice touch.

  More tapping, increasing in insistence. I replaced the knife, but then turned back to swipe my finger across the cake frosting on the culinary victim’s foot, where nobody would notice. I plopped the sweet icing in my mouth. It had been hours since Pavlik had bought me lunch and I was starving. Needless to say, with our last-minute hanky-panky under the blankie, we hadn’t had time to grab a snack from the newsstand as he’d suggested.

  Believe me, I wasn’t regretting it. I’d take Pavlik over a granola bar anytime. Even a sandwich.

 
; Through the next vestibule, I found a regular passenger car with rows of seats. At the end of that car was a restroom. Stopping just short of it, I slid open the window.

  ‘Sorry,’ I called out to Missy. ‘I stopped to introduce myself to Boyce.’

  She passed me the rope. ‘No need to apologize. You’re helping, after all. And as a guest, you should be relaxing. I’m sorry I got a little impatient with you before.’

  The girl obviously had no idea of the heights – or depths – I’d seen true impatience reach.

  I caught a glimpse of Pavlik walking toward the platform with Zoe, each carrying something in one hand. Behind them was a gaggle of what I guessed to be writers, probably eager to pick the sheriff’s brains about gore and mayhem. I told myself that wasn’t the part of Pavlik I was most interested in.

  At least not this weekend.

  ‘It’s nice to have something to do, since I’m a little out of my element here.’ I opened the next window and tied the rope around the post between them with a double knot. It wouldn’t get me a merit badge, but it should hold. ‘How’s that?’

  ‘Genius,’ Missy said. ‘Will you be able to close the window, or at least nearly so? I’d hate for it to get too hot in there.’

  What a difference a few hours and fifteen hundred miles can make. In Wisconsin on the first day of November, you’d slam the window to keep out the cold air. Here it was the opposite.

  ‘Good idea. That way the rope will be more secure anyway.’ I slid down one of the windows to prove it. ‘Is that far enough?’

  ‘Perfect,’ Missy said.

  I moved a few rows forward and tied the other end of the banner the same way. By the time we had the banner secure people were already boarding the train, which made the point moot, when you thought about it. I mean, once everybody was on the train and we were in the Everglades, nobody would be able to appreciate the legend on the banner. And I didn’t think the alligators and pythons – whether they were Burmese or African rock – would need help identifying us as boxed-car lunches. Or dinners, adjusting for the time of day.