McTavish (not dead) showed soon after, in a vest and a red tie, with Wyatt (not dead). They were both in jovial spirits, seemingly having moved past their midnight argument—though McTavish did have a slight bump on the bridge of his nose, a redness that looked like the prologue to a bruise. Had it been getting physical before I interrupted them? Brooke tried to shove her journal, pen extended, at McTavish as he passed her on the way to his seat, but Wyatt squeezed between them and reminded her there’d be a signing after the panel.
Simone (not dead) gave me a shoulder squeeze as she moved by me to sit down next to Douglas (not dead), who was carrying a single coffee this morning, perhaps out of awareness I’d been counting his drinks. Wolfgang (not dead), his back to the speakers, was reading a scuffed hardback titled The Price of Intelligence, which looked—from its plainness and size—like a science textbook, but I figured there was an equal chance it was an incredibly self-indulgent poetry collection. Jasper and Harriet (not dead) were unsurprisingly there, having proved to be autograph-hunting Mongrels themselves. Cynthia (not dead) was working the coffee machine again, under the supervision of our host, Aaron (not dead). Royce (not dead, but he looked halfway there) stumbled in just as Majors cleared her throat, seemingly about to start the panel; the scruffiness of a hangover still blurred his edges, and he dropped into a seat like he’d been shot in the knee. The only person truly absent was Lisa Fulton (liveliness to be determined).
As unslit throats were cleared with light coughs, hangovers were massaged from unshot foreheads, glasses of water were poured from unpoisoned jugs, and the remainder of the guests assembled and caffeinated themselves, McTavish leaned forward and whispered to Brooke, “It’s a mighty fine drop to drink alone.”
Before he could say anything more, the shrill feedback of a microphone indicated the start of the event. For her part, Majors had worked hard to make sure that this morning’s panel sought a closer examination of McTavish and his works. Despite her efforts, McTavish took those familiar swigs from his flask as he launched into the same anecdotes as yesterday. My attention drifted out the window. There hadn’t been much wildlife beside the train—the land was too barren even for kangaroos—but a circling bird, clawing talons extended, floated beside us.
Far on the horizon, thick black smoke blemished the blue in several spots. A helicopter dotted the horizon with a full vessel of water suspended underneath. It made me think there was probably more concern about the bushfire-lighting kite bird than Aaron had let on. Natural ecosystem, circle-of-life stuff it might be, but all that destruction for one’s own benefit didn’t seem all that natural to me. Burn a whole forest for one measly breakfast. It seemed, well, human.
Then I heard Majors say, “Are you okay?” and everything changed.
I turned to see McTavish with a hand over his mouth, shoulders heaving. He half-burped, half-hiccupped, and a stream of vomit gushed into his hand, spraying between the gaps in his fingers and over the front row, where the seated attendees squealed and scrambled backward. McTavish doubled over, dropping his flask to the floor, and gave up covering his mouth, spewing onto the carpet and coating Brooke’s copy of Misery.
I stood up, along with everyone else in the room, hovering, unsure how to help. Aaron was pushing his way to the front of the car, first-aid kit in hand. McTavish’s face was stark white now but had a tinge of blue to it, and he’d started to shiver. He gripped his cane and levered himself up to a standing position. His breath was coming in short sharp bursts.
McTavish seemed to have regained his composure, though he still leaned unsteadily on his cane. His skin was pale and clammy, his pupils pinpricks. The flask glugged in slow heaves, soaking alcohol into the carpet. He looked at us all, wiped his mouth and said, “I don’t seem to be feeling all that well.”
And then he died.
I mean that literally. He was looking right at me, and it was like someone switched his brain off. There was no slow eyes rolling back into his head, no gradual closing of his eyelids. He was looking at me one second, and then his circuits fried, his eyeballs snapped to different directions (one up and to the left, one completely sideways), and everything in them was gone. He stayed upright for a second after this, by virtue of his cane, and then his body slackened and he crumpled to the floor.
Unmoving. Dead.
No one budged. It was too absurd, too unexpected and too violent for anyone to even think to scream. No one made a sound: just a single, horrified silence.
Except, of course, for the scratching of Alan Royce’s pencil, scribbling in his notebook.
Chapter 11.5
Here’s what you’re thinking:
Lisa Fulton is your current primary suspect, by virtue of her being the only person who’s been remotely nice to me so far on this trip. Her lack of incrimination is, ironically, incriminating. She was also the only person not in the room during McTavish’s death.
Alan Royce is currently lowest on your list of suspects, given that he is the kind of reprehensible cockroach who normally winds up the victim in these books, and you consider him too obvious as a murderer.
S. F. Majors and Wolfgang are on equal footing, somewhere around the middle, as are Simone and Wyatt. They’re all clearly hiding something, but it’s not clear whose secrets are worth killing for. Wyatt seems to be in the middle of a lot of webs, given he has relationships with most, if not all, on board due to his position at Gemini Publishing. You’re keeping an eye on all four.
You have also considered that the killer may not be one of the writers but could be one of the guests, in which pool you have Brooke, Jasper and Harriet Murdoch, the erotic book club ladies and Douglas. You’re not convinced that any of them have reason enough to qualify as a murderer—but out of the lot of them, Douglas’s “mysterious stranger” act has perhaps drawn the most attention.
You haven’t ruled out the staff: Cynthia, the bartender, and Aaron, the journey director, because Aaron and Cynthia are the only staff members I’ve given a name to. Of course, Aaron and Cynthia may be on your mind because you know there is also a second murder to come, and you may have considered this reason enough for Aaron and Cynthia to be named.
Juliette has thus far avoided your scrutiny, because a returning character doesn’t tend to commit the murders in the sequel unless their character changes completely, and such an inconsistency wouldn’t be considered fair. Sure, you might suspect a little bit of jealousy given that we both wrote a book on the same topic and I’m the one with the invitation to the festival. But to be clear: only an idiot would accuse Juliette of murder.
So now we know where we sit with regard to suspicions. You also find yourself wondering about the following plot points:
Is Henry McTavish really dead? Because people sometimes come back in these kinds of books. I’ll tell you now that you can as much wink at a blind horse as you can at a dead Scottish author: he’s stone-cold deceased.
You think the plot of Off the Rails may be significant.
It has occurred to you that not everyone in these books is who they say they are. You wonder if someone whose real name is Archibald Bench is on the train under a different identity.
I also promised you I’d use the killer’s name, in all its forms, 106 times. To be fair, if there are multiple identities at play, I will consider the cumulative total of both. The running tally is:
–
– Alan Royce: 70
– Simone Morrison: 56