Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

Royce’s audience was both sleepier and smaller than he’d anticipated. We slumped over the chairs and couches while Royce stood by the bar, pulling on his suspenders and doing a head count. The writers were all there, though not many others—only Harriet, who must have been roused by the procession past their room (I imagined a scissors-paper-rock between Harriet and Jasper on who’d go check out the commotion), and Simone. Jasper, Douglas and Wyatt were absent, as was the cult of Erica Mathison. Aaron’s and Cynthia’s rooms were on the opposite side of the restaurant, and it appeared Royce hadn’t woken them up: he mustn’t have thought they were important.

Royce seemed hesitant to start; his finger kept tapping the air as he added us all up again. Wolfgang eventually stood to leave, which made Royce cut his losses and clear his throat loudly.

“I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve gathered you here, especially at this late hour,” he said. It seemed rehearsed.

There was a general murmur of disagreement, as we all knew exactly why we were here. That did little to deter Royce from his script.

“This may surprise some of you, but Henry McTavish was murdered. And somebody in this room”—he faltered—“on this train, sorry, is the murderer.”

It was a revealing stumble. Royce hadn’t wanted to start speechifying because someone important to his theory was not in the room. That included Jasper, the book club ladies, Wyatt, Aaron, Cynthia, Douglas and, I suppose, Juliette. Royce may not have known she had gotten off the train. It would also have included Brooke, but she walked in just as I had this thought, squinting tired eyes at the group as she tried to figure out what was going on. She sat down next to Lisa, who seemed annoyed to have a seating buddy and tilted away from her.

“Get on with it,” Simone said.

This only rattled Royce further.

“You want some pointers?” I couldn’t resist heckling. “I’ve done this before.”

“Would you just—” He squeezed his fists by his sides and took a breath. “Thank you, Ernest. I’ll be fine on my own from here.” He rummaged in his pocket and, in a small defeat, pulled out his notebook, from which he unclipped his Gemini pen and used it to trace his position in his speech. “Many of us here had reasons to dislike Henry McTavish. Several are probably glad he’s dead. But there is only one . . . oh, yes, just one”—this was definitely written alongside the phrase “dramatic pause”—“person who would actually go through with it.”

Simone yawned loudly. Red was crawling up from under Royce’s collar.

“Let’s look around. We have the fellow novelist who thinks Henry stole one of her ideas. We have the literary agent who wanted a piece of McTavish’s earnings and was left at the metaphorical altar.” He wriggled the pen at his accused, both of whom scowled. To be fair, so far Royce’s theories were reasonable; I’d considered both of them. “We have the literary writer who hates commercial fiction.”

“That’s seriously the motive you’ve got for me?” Wolfgang snorted. “I didn’t kill him.”

Royce paused, thought a moment, then moved his pen across the notebook in a clear horizontal line. It seemed as easy as disagreeing with him to be crossed off Royce’s suspect list.

“Then we’ve got the struggling writer.” His pen landed on me. “Desperate for a new scenario for his second book. Maybe he’s created it for himself. There’s a bit of money at stake, too. Maybe someone else wants him to succeed, someone close to him, like—” Royce’s head swiveled, clearly looking for Juliette.

“She’s sleeping,” I said. Lisa shot me a look, as if surprised I’d lie. I put both hands on my cheeks in mock surprise. “Unless . . . unless . . . maybe she’s off murdering people,” I gasped in breathy discovery.

“If you’re not going to take it seriously—”

“The struggling writer is taking it very seriously.” I furrowed my brow dramatically.

“Am I a suspect?” Lisa put up her hand. “Tell them why I’m a suspect, Alan.”

“Well, I hardly think an ex-girlfriend—”

“That sounds very likely, actually,” Majors said. “From a profiling angle.”

“You strike me as someone for whom twenty years is enough water under the bridge,” Royce said to Lisa through his teeth. He was almost too deliberately keen to move away from her possible motive. “So I don’t think you’re a very viable suspect.”

“Can I go to bed then?”

“No.” Royce’s lips fizzed with spit. “I haven’t told you—”

“I’ve got to give you credit, Royce,” Wolfgang broke in. “Your words are normally so good at putting me to sleep. This is surprisingly entertaining.”

“What about you?” I asked. “Why aren’t you a suspect?”

“Henry was, uh”—Royce faltered—“my friend.”

“What do you think, Majors?” I asked.

“I think a close personal relationship probably makes it more likely, if we’re profiling.”

“You were furious he didn’t give you that endorsement quote,” I said. “You told me he owed you, big-time.”

“I did not.” Royce paled.