Molly Fitz: Himalayan Hazard (Pet Whisperer P.I. Book 8)

“Wow,” he said on the wings of a dramatic exhale. “You read about it. You write about it. But you never think you’ll actually stumble upon a real-live murder mystery. And on a train. This is so Agatha Christie!”

“Easy, Tolstoy. There’s been a murder here. Show some respect for those of us who didn’t make it,” my father warned, wrapping his arm around Mom’s waist protectively.

“Who’s this guy?” Dan asked, swinging his light closer to the writer who’d invited himself into this intimate scene.

“The name’s Melvin Mann. Remember it, because one day soon you’ll see it at the top of the New York Times Bestsellers list.” I couldn’t be sure given the current lighting situation, but I think he actually made jazz hands to punctuate his expression.

Oh, brother.

“Well, Melvin,” I said slowly, trying not to gag on my words. “This is a crime scene, not Grand Central Station. I think it’s time you went back to your seat.”

“Oh, really? What gives you any more right to be here than I have?” He crossed his arms over his chest and stepped deeper into the room.

“Because I’m a P.I. That’s why.” Would I really need to establish that with each new person who arrived? Apparently.

He leaned forward, making himself several inches shorter so he could look me right in the eye. “Prove it.” His words smacked of condescension. Not only did this guy think he was better than everyone else, but he also seemed to think I was worse. Infuriating.

“What? I can’t prove it beyond my word.”

He straightened back to full height. “Show me a business card or something.” Right, because it was impossible to create cards that read anything you wanted them to.

Case in point, Melvin pulled a stack of cards out of his pocket with a flourish and handed them around. “See, Melvin Mann, novelist. Now show me yours?”

“I don’t have any business cards on me. Sorry.” I would have turned out my pants pockets, if I had any. He seemed the kind of guy to appreciate overwrought gestures, like purple prose in real life.

He jabbed a finger at me so hard it would probably be a bruise. “Ah-ha! See, I knew you were just pretending.”

My father rushed to my side and stared at Melvin so ferociously that the other man couldn’t help but take a step back.

“Look, we can stand here arguing until the killer finds us, too,” my dad said, not taking his hard eyes off the writer for a second. “Or we can work together to solve this thing.”

“Oooh, I like that,” Melvin said, steepling his fingers in a far too sinister fashion for my liking. “This is wonderful inspiration for the mystery story arc of my novel.”

I held in a sigh, an eyeroll, and a groan all at once. “Earlier you were asking me about suspicious characters, so why don’t you go find some?”

“I wasn’t asking about the characters. I have my characters on lock, thank you very much. I was asking about synonyms.”

“Just do what she says, JD Salinger,” my father growled, taking another threatening step forward.

Melvin stood in place; a smile snaked across his face. “You think calling me by classic novelists’ names is an insult, but it’s really quite the opposite.”

Dad did not hold back the choice words he had in response to that.

I turned to Dan, ready to put this whole macho showdown—or whatever the heck it was—to rest. “Can you go check in with your bosses? See if we can get the train moving again or the police sent to our location. Something. Anything to help.”

“Can do,” he said, offering a thumbs up and a smile. At least he was more cooperative than Melvin Mann. The haughty writer would be a liability in this investigation, no doubt.

“Great. Thanks so much.” I pushed them both toward the door. “Oh, and one last thing. Please keep the other passengers in the dark about this. No need to start a panic.”

“In the dark,” my mom said with a chuckle. “Good one.”

I swear, even if she and Nan weren’t related by blood, sometimes it was simply impossible to ignore the similarities they shared. Mom was far more pragmatic and a lot more normal than either Nan or me, but she belonged with us all the same.

We were a family, and nothing—not even newly exposed secrets—could change that.

Chapter Ten

After Dan and Melvin exited, I closed the door behind them and twisted the lock to ensure those of us who remained had some privacy.

“Mom, Dad, could you continue to search the room? I’m going to catch up with the cats,” I said once I could no longer hear the departing men’s footfalls in the corridor.

“Oh, sure, honey,” Mom answered for them both. “We’ll stay out of your way, Miss Pet Whisperer P.I.” She was the one who had come up with that name for Octo-Cat’s and my operation and was immensely proud of it—even though I secretly hated it. Talk about parading my secret for all to see! I pretended it was just a gimmick, but I had to wonder if the unusual name was the reason our firm hadn’t received a single paying case to date.

“Let’s go to the bed so we aren’t in the way,” I told the cats, but it was my dad who moved in the direction I had dictated.

I laughed awkwardly. He hadn’t gotten used to this yet. Well, he was about to become very familiar with how things went when I was working a case with animal assistance.

“Oh, you meant…” He flashed his light toward Grizabella, and the startled feline hissed.

“Well, you have fun with that, then,” he finished, backing slowly away.

“Why did you hiss at him?” I asked the Himalayan, not bothering to hide my irritation as I narrowed my eyes at her.

“He shone that bright light right in my eyes. It hurt!”

Ouch. Okay.

“Sorry, he didn’t mean to.” Again I wondered if I should pet her as a way of offering comfort, and again I decided against it. I had a sneaking suspicion that Grizabella didn’t much like me, and I’d hate to actually be proven right while our investigation was still ongoing.

We settled on the bed. Given the way the comforter lay completely smooth, I guessed she hadn’t tried going to sleep before meeting with her murderer. The cats each lay on a pillow, leaving me to sit farther down the mattress.

“Okay, what did you learn while you were out there?” I had no light with me but could make out their vague shapes in the spill-off from Mom and Dad’s.

“Nothing,” Grizabella answered for the both of them. She sounded almost bored.

“But you followed Dad the whole way, right?”

“We did,” Octo-Cat assured me. “But we found nothing that drew our attention.”

Well, I hadn’t expected this. I was sure my kitty reconnaissance would turn off at least something helpful. “What about anyone who looked, sounded, or smelled familiar, Grizz?”

A threatening growl rose in the dark. “Don’t call me Grizz. My name is Grizabella, and no, I didn’t notice anything. Just as I told you before. This is hard for me, so please pay attention the first time around.”

Yeesh, she sure made it hard to want to help her.

I took a deep breath and reminded myself that she was grieving and probably even more startled by Rhonda’s murder than either me or Octo-Cat. We’d investigated deaths before, but Grizabella had never had to deal with anything like this.

Why would she? Why would anyone?

“I’m sorry,” I said, hoping she’d believe the sincerity in my words. I truly did feel sorry for everything she’d gone through already, everything she’d still need to go through before this case was settled. “I just have a hard time believing this was a simple robbery. Someone wanted Rhonda dead, and I want to know why.”

“Look at this!” Mom called from the bathroom, appearing in the doorway. From behind her, Dad shone his light on the object in her hands. An ornately carved wooden jewelry box.