Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

I was about as determined to enjoy myself in Alice Springs as Juliette was determined to distract me from thinking about McTavish. The writers’ panels were mercifully canceled for the day, which meant that we had our choice of the activities provided to the regular guests or could simply wander the township on our own. Juliette and I elected to do the latter (Majors told me where to get the best vanilla slice), and then Juliette insisted on joining the bus for a bushwalk to Simpsons Gap, a natural marvel where steep red-rock cliffs had been cleft by weather and time to leave a ravine. I had hoped to bail up Simone with a couple of questions, but I overestimated her proclivity for sightseeing; she’d elected to stay on the train (the bar, we were told, had reopened). In any case, I was quickly taken by the towering view and deep ochre of the rock against the crisp blue of the sky, and promptly forgot all ideas I had about questioning anyone.

I sat in the sand at a point where the ravine was half in sun and half shaded by the ridge, and Juliette put her head on my shoulder, her face half in light and half in shadow. The rocks in front of us had existed for millions of lifetimes. They would be here when our bones were dust and our books were mulch. We were blips. But two blips are bigger than one blip. I think you know you’re onto a good thing when you can apologize without talking.

It was nice enough that I only kept half an eye on what everyone else was doing.

Harriet and Jasper took selfies like they were on their honeymoon. Wolfgang chose a high-up flat piece of rock and meditated on it. The book club ladies delighted in spotting wallabies. S. F. Majors skipped rocks across a pool of water halfway down the ravine, where Brooke, intrepid with youth, hopscotched rock to rock as far along the water’s edge as she could. Lisa hung back in the shade, telling Brooke to be careful, and, later, helping to apply aloe vera cream to Brooke’s one-armed burn. Royce was by the table of drinks the staff had set out, pounding beers. Cynthia kept an eye on us, occasionally yelling how long we had left.

I spotted Harriet and Jasper struggling to get a selfie that captured the whole ravine and walked over to them. “Take your photo?” I asked. “I assure you I’m a well-trained Instagram boyfriend—there’ll be plenty of backup shots. And even retakes without complaint.”

Harriet laughed and excitedly handed me the camera. The photos came out well, although I noticed their smiles were a little too tight. Lips fresh from argument. I could tell Harriet wanted me to try again, but Jasper wouldn’t let her.

I walked away slowly, just to eavesdrop.

“It’s a lot of money,” Jasper said. “I can’t just say no.”

“We don’t need it,” Harriet said.

“Did you pay for this trip? Trust me. We could use it.”

Harriet didn’t like that. She sulked off toward the bar. Jasper followed, chanting her name: “Harriet! Harriet?! Harriet?” It was a familiar trifecta to anyone in a long-term relationship, each inflection meaning something different: Come on; Seriously?; I’m sorry!

Wyatt hadn’t joined us on the trip. I’d last seen him on the platform yelling into his phone; I supposed there was some paperwork to do when an author died. Douglas had also elected to stay behind.

I didn’t think of the murder, or of Douglas, again until we pulled in, pink-cheeked and sun-drunk—except for Royce, who was drunk-drunk—and I spotted Douglas hurriedly walking along the platform. It was no coincidence for us to be there at the same time: we’d been told to be back at the train by five P.M. At first I assumed that Douglas was worried about being late. But then I noticed his head was swiveling, checking to see if he was being followed. I watched as he reached a trash can, spun his backpack around and, with one last head-check, moved an object from his bag into the bin. Almost in the same motion he was walking away.

I looked around the coach. People were chattering and jovial, buoyed by the excursion. Juliette was asleep on my shoulder. I was the only one who had seen it.

We disembarked and I made an excuse to divert toward the bin, faking blowing my nose into a tissue and hoping Juliette didn’t notice I’d skipped two closer receptacles. Inside the bin were the usual scattered food wrappers and empty water bottles, apple cores and banana peels, but in the middle was a folded newspaper. It seemed an odd object to dispose of so suspiciously. I leaned into the bin and unfolded it.

It surprised me to see a murder weapon.

Not the murder weapon, of course. But one that could have only been brought onto the train with murderous intent in mind.

Wrapped up in the middle of the paper was a gleaming silver revolver.

Psychological

Chapter 17