Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

Any mystery writer will tell you that word choice is crucial. A story changes drastically if you replace the word husband with the word brother, and while it might have made the scene of his domestic burglary more salacious, he was better off getting it right. Given we’re on the topic of word choice: Andy’s client was a botanist, not a florist. While it might be picky of me to point this out, there’s a big difference between an incestuous florist and an elderly botanist, and I did promise you accuracy.

“Let’s start with something easier,” I said. “What’s her name?”

“Uh . . .” Andy clicked his teeth as he searched for a note somewhere. “Poppy,” he said eventually, which is, in fact, not her name. Details.

“Okay, so Poppy—”

“Now, was her name Poppy or did she sell poppies?”

“Andy—”

“Or maybe it’s—”

“Maybe her name’s Poppy and she sells poppies.”

“Yes, that’s what I was saying . . .” Having a conversation with Andy is sometimes like watching a hurdler barge through all the hurdles without jumping and drag the wooden planks along: no matter the obstacle, he trudges on. “But the weird thing is, you should see the security on this place. Security cameras, keypads—man, it’s a fortress. For a florist!” Reminder: botanist. “Weird, right?”

“You think the security is there for something else? That the burglar was after whatever that was?”

“That’s my working theory.” He looked pretty proud of himself, or, at least, the inside of his nostrils did. I had to agree, it wasn’t a bad piece of reasoning, or evidence gathering. He’d successfully jumped over one hurdle. “That . . . or it’s like a flower fetish. Like a sex thing.”

I take it back: hurdles still clanked around his ankles.

“I’ve solved it then,” I said bluntly.

He lit up. “Really?”

“No, Andy. Suspects and evidence. Ask some questions. Call me back when you know, for a start, the victim’s actual name. Then I’ll try and help.”

As I hung up, the seat beneath me jolted and a long slow groan came up through the floor as the wheels ground to life for a few inches. A voice crackled through an intercom, which I realized was embedded in the roof. Juliette looked up from her book.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard the Ghan. We’ll be departing Berrimah in fifteen minutes. Please join us in the lounge for a welcome, the chance to meet your hosts, and for tea and coffee at your leisure. And may we extend a very special welcome to the Australian Mystery Writers’ Festival, joining us on board for their fiftieth anniversary. Let’s keep the murders to a minimum, please.”

“Good title,” Juliette said, pulling on a sweater and picking up Simone’s blue scarf. “Keep the Murders to a Minimum.”

“Speaking of minimums—I wrote a few words. Break?” I said, knowing I hadn’t earned one.

Juliette had the good sense not to ask just how honest I was being with my definition of few. She nodded and I stood up, but she blocked me from the door. She put both hands on my shoulders, leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek.

“I know you’re stressed. First of all, I think you need to stop worrying about McTavish. Don’t worry about some stupid blurb. Think about that after

you’ve written the book. Speaking of—trust me, it’ll come.”

I was surprised to find my face warming, neck flushed. Staring at a blank page can make you feel alone; I wasn’t prepared for how affecting it was simply to have someone tell me I wasn’t. I nodded.

She shook me gently. “And if it doesn’t, that’s okay too. You can spend these four days staring out the window if you like. Or you can spend them writing. But we’re spending them together. So keep the moping to a minimum, huh?”

I nodded, managing to croak out, “Thanks for the pep talk.”

“Purely selfish.” She smiled. “If you’re going to be a melancholy sod the whole trip, it’s going to be a long four days. Because once this hunk of metal starts moving, we’re trapped on it.”

Chapter 4

We joined a throng of people moving slowly through the single-file corridor, which felt more like a queue for a post office than the start of a holiday. In the next carriage along, the bloke in front of us patted his pockets and looked forlornly back at his cabin door, only meters away, before accepting that the current was against him. I recognized it as the same look Juliette gives me every time we reverse out of the driveway at home. That’s not sexist, by the way; I refuse to be the male protagonist who makes snide remarks about his girlfriend’s forgetfulness. I mention it because it’s a plot point.