Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

“Oi,” he said, tugging at my pant leg. “I picked up Simone’s scarf the other day. Think your missus left it behind. Let Simone know I’ve got it?”

That would be a relief to Juliette. I said as much and thanked him. He leaned over and slapped me on the back, but because he was sitting down, it was more a jab to the kidneys. He was incredibly jovial for someone whose author, and I assumed friend, had just kicked the bucket, but I reminded myself that he stood to make a lot of money from the death. He’d seemed quite unhappy with McTavish’s manuscript last night when I’d overheard him in the corridor, as it wasn’t a Morbund book. I suppose posthumous publicity balanced out the lower value of the content.

“I’ll give it back when I see her—it’ll give her one less thing to be sour about.” Wyatt laughed. “Never likes to lose, that one.”

“I think even Simone understands that someone dying doesn’t count as losing a client,” I said.

“I would pay to see you tell her that.” Wyatt gestured over to one of the fire drums, where I could see Simone sitting with Wolfgang. “And she didn’t come away entirely empty-handed. I gave her a consolation prize. Not that she’ll be signing anyone with it.” He snickered at his own joke, though I wasn’t quite sure what it was. “Besides, she didn’t lose out on Henry because he died—no, it’s far more humiliating than that. She made her pitch. Screwed you over, by the way. He declined. Then he died. Vale and all that.” Wyatt did a borderline-offensive sign of the cross that was so wobbly Jesus would need a chiropractor. “Oi!” he yelled again, but this time across me. “Jasper! Champers? Lots to celebrate.” He raised his glass and spilled half of it.

Jasper had been on his way to join Harriet, whom I could see on the dance floor. Wyatt’s command pulled him into our current, and he grimaced as a glass was shoved into his hand. Wyatt was clearly willing to celebrate his windfalls with anybody who passed him. Like stepping off a land mine, or Indiana Jones switching a golden idol, I sacrificed Jasper to hold Wyatt’s attention and scurried off, making my way over to Simone and Wolfgang.

Wolfgang greeted me with a snarl of acknowledgment, and I couldn’t quite tell if he was annoyed I was there or annoyed that he had debased himself enough to know who I was. He and Simone each had a long metal skewer, which they were using to toast marshmallows from a bowl nearby. Wolfgang was only lightly singeing his. Simone was letting hers flare into a meteor, the burned sugar dripping into the coals.

“Everyone’s in a surprisingly good mood,” I said. “Events of today considered.”

Wolfgang de-skinned his marshmallow with his teeth. “One less hack, who’s complaining?”

Simone laughed cruelly. Yes, I know it’s an adverb.

“That’s a little cold,” I said. “I bet you’ve never even read him.”

“I have indeed,” Wolfgang huffed, to my surprise. “His very first. Drivel, of course. Grammatically haunting. Uses commas like cane toads—they multiply on every page—and he’s addicted to the bloody Oxford.”

I didn’t want to get into a conversation with Wolfgang about bad writing, as I would surely wind up insulted, so I changed the topic. “How’s your artwork coming along?”

“Artwork?”

“Yeah, your painting, or whatever. The Death of Literature.”

Wolfgang chuckled dryly. “It’s going just fine, thank you. And it’s not a painting, it’s an experience.”

“That’s worth staying alive until Adelaide for at least,” I said.

“If you get that far.” Wolfgang’s lips transformed into a frown. The fire cast a long shadow of his nose down to his chin, like a slash. “This could be a dangerous journey for you. If I were in your shoes, I’d be concerned.”

“Me?” My voice cracked. Was that a threat? Did he know I’d been poking around, playing detective?

His mouth split into a grin, but the type that accompanies a mean-spirited prank rather than an actual joke. “Someone’s picking off bad writers. I’d lock your door.”

Simone punched him on the shoulder playfully, which seemed, to me, a low amount of physical violence for her 15 percent. She caught my scowl. “Lighten up, Ern.”

“It’s not a nice way to be remembered, is all.”

“Is it not?” Wolfgang scoffed. “You think we look on our dead with fondness? Let me give you a history lesson. The Washington Post’s obituary of Edgar Allan Poe said that the announcement would ‘startle many, but grieve none.’ And he was an actual genius. All you crime writers owe him your careers—you talk about Christie and Conan Doyle and forget about Poe.”

I was surprised by Wolfgang’s knowledge of a genre he supposedly despised, just as I had been by his reading McTavish. It actually made me like him a little more: at least he made the effort to participate in the things he wished to criticize.