Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

“Just before we got on the train, you logged in to his Goodreads social media profile, the one Wyatt had always begged him to use—because although Goodreads wasn’t around when you worked for him, he only ever used the one password, even though you told me you didn’t remember it—and left five individual reviews as Henry McTavish.”

Simone’s objection doused itself before it got out of her mouth.

“McTavish was confused when Wolfgang suggested he was an ally in disliking my writing, even though he’d supposedly just given me one star. He’d never used the platform before, and these were his only reviews. That was why you wouldn’t talk to Wyatt about taking it down. Because it was a code. A threat for McTavish.”

I’d seen it in Royce’s notebook, almost perfectly stacked, and I felt a fool for not figuring this part out sooner.

Ernest: * Ghastly

Wolfgang: ** Heavenly

S. F. Majors: *** Overblown

Me: **** Splendid

Trollop: ***** Tremendous

“You were spelling a five-letter word in code. That’s why Wolfgang’s two-star review is incongruous with the word heavenly, and Majors’s Overblown is a bit harsh for three stars. The star rating dictates the letter placement in the code word. Using the first, capitalized, letters of the reviews in order, it reads GHOST.”

Up by the bar, Aaron took a long swig of the vodka straight from the bottle. Cryptology is not for everyone.

“Of course, McTavish doesn’t actually use his Goodreads, but you knew Wyatt would tell him. And McTavish was savvy enough to piece it together, given his skill at codes. And because it couldn’t have been Wyatt, he’d have suspected you were the most likely to log in to his accounts. So you made your pitch. He must have invited you to his carriage for privacy—I smelled your blueberry vapor in his room. But the threat of exposure wasn’t enough to persuade McTavish to sign with you. All you got was a red face and, from Wyatt, a consolation pen. But then he died, and you figured I might write about it. You told me that the more complex, the more cryptic clues there were, the better it would sell. You tried to make me think about the reviews too, drawing my attention to them at the dinner—five stars for effort. You were pointing to Jasper as the killer all along. If I figured it out, you won in two ways: I’d have a better shot at another bestselling book, and I’d take Wyatt down a peg in the telling. Too bad he died before he could see his name in print. Right on schedule, it occurs to me.”

Simone folded her arms. “Maybe some of that’s true. But I’m not killing people so you can write your stupid book, Ernest. And I only gave you one star because I thought you could take it. I didn’t realize you’d be so fragile.”

“You don’t know me very well, do you?” I said.

“Doesn’t mean I hurt people.” She was the last of the group to say “I didn’t kill anybody.” She marched over to the bar and snatched Aaron’s vodka from him, swigged it and put it on the counter. “Can you just arrest Jasper already?” she appealed to Hatch.

Hatch took a step toward Jasper, having heard enough to convince him. Jasper shuffled backward, but he was hemmed in by the bar itself. He had nowhere to go. Harriet took his hand in sympathy.

“The problem is,” I continued, “Jasper did agree to a deal with Wyatt. Wyatt doubled his ghostwriting advance so that Life, Death and Whiskey could be McTavish’s posthumous novel. If he has motive to kill McTavish, he doesn’t for Wyatt. Jasper didn’t do this.”

Before I could say it aloud, the murderer revealed themselves. If I’m honest, it was sort of disrespectful: they spoiled my big moment. The detective is supposed to announce the solution while everyone slowly turns to look at the culprit. But by the time she’d grabbed the vodka bottle from the bar, smashed it and held its ragged mouth at Simone’s throat, all eyes were already on Harriet Murdoch.

Chapter 36

“Harriet?” Jasper said to me, confused. Then turned to her. “Harriet?” As in, Is this really you? And then back to me for a final, “Seriously. Harriet?” His incredulous chanting of his wife’s name did my tally count a real favor.

Harriet had Simone in strength, age and size. She’d spun her into a tight grip, forearm clutched against Simone’s chest. The rest of us, Jasper included, backed away. Though several of us could have taken her one-on-one, the jagged shards of the bottle dimpling Simone’s neck held us at bay.

“I’m sorry, Jasper,” I said.

“Tell them it’s not true,” he begged her. “Tell them. Or that you didn’t mean it. It was an accident. Please.”

Harriet didn’t say anything. A drop of red beaded on the broken glass, trickled down the inside of the bottle. Simone was bug-eyed. Her hands were fluttering at her sides: Stay back. Hatch made a pantomime show of putting his Taser away in the hope Harriet might relax.