Everyone on This Train Is a Suspect

Chapter 17

Dinner was at the Telegraph Station, one of the oldest outback homesteads in the country. Halfway along the spine of Australia, it had originally served as a relay post for Morse code messages between Adelaide and Darwin. We writers were traveling the same route as an electron of communication a hundred years ago. The train line may as well have been a telegraph line.

The station itself was a huddle of historic stone cottages converted into a museum with plexiglass blocking the rooms, which featured plastic food on colonial dinner settings. The cottages surrounded a dust bowl clearing that had been gussied up with white-clothed tables as if it were a wedding, tin bathtubs spiked with the necks of white wine and beer bottles so that they looked like sea mines, and a stage where a guitarist and a banjo player were crooning country tunes. The scent of searing meat wafted into nostrils as dinner was cooked on an open flame just far enough away from the guests to tantalize us with how rustic the cooking was, but not close enough to make us feel like we were in the kitchen. We’d been told before the trip to bring one formal outfit specifically for this dinner, so I had on a dinner jacket that thankfully covered up the crumpled shirt I’d neglected to hang. The sunset was almost offensively golden, photographically perfect. Tripods and binocular lenses clicked into place along the back fence like an army defending the line.

For all the beauty of the sunset, I couldn’t take my eyes off Douglas. I don’t know much about guns, but I do know the type he had binned—a little snub-nosed revolver, the one where you spin the chamber to play Russian roulette—was, like most guns, illegal in Australia. It’s not the sort of thing that one has a ready excuse for carrying around. I had no idea how he’d gotten it on the plane over from Texas, so assumed he’d picked it up in Darwin. Just because guns are illegal in Australia doesn’t mean they’re inaccessible, of course, and Darwin has a lot of farmland where legal firearms are used, but he’d have to be motivated to find one. And if he had gone to those lengths, why dispose of it without firing a bullet?

Douglas, in contrast to how stressed and furtive he’d appeared at the train station, now seemed relaxed and carefree, dancing with the book club ladies in front of the band. There was a definite air of celebration in him. This isn’t as accusatory as it sounds; there was very little grief in the air. Three-quarters of the train didn’t know what had happened, and of those of us who did, only a few thought it anything other than an unforeseen tragedy. What I mean is, people were determined to enjoy themselves.

Dinner was flame-grilled apostrophes of lamb chops, with chocolate damper, a bread cooked on a campfire, for dessert. We each had a designated seat; cards had been placed deliberately to separate us from our traveling party, to stoke conversation, so Juliette and I were split up. S. F. Majors, however, was at my table. After mains, when a few people had floated off to stand around the various fire pits or ice buckets depending on their desired temperature, I slid into the seat next to her.

“I don’t think we’ve properly talked,” I said, extending a hand. “Thanks for inviting me along to this whole shindig.”

Majors raised her eyebrows, looked like she was about to say something, and then gave a half chuckle and shook her head. “This whole ‘shindig’”—she rolled the word in annoyance and tossed it back to me—“is an absolute disaster.” She rubbed her temples. “If you see Wyatt coming, let me know. I’d prefer to avoid him.”

“What happened wasn’t your fault.”

“Tell that to Gemini’s lawyers. Even though Wyatt’s about to make his company a literal truckload of cash, they’ll want someone to blame. There goes my board seat for the festival too, if not the whole Mystery Writers’ Society. We killed Henry McTavish. I’m sure loads of writers will want to join now.”

“I thought it was a heart attack.” I played dumb.

She slugged back enough wine to endure me. “Sure you do. I’m a psychologist, Ernest, I can read you. Just ask me what you came here to ask me.”

She was terse enough that I figured I’d only get one question, so I refilled her wine until I decided on my angle. She didn’t seem won over by the gesture but sipped at it all the same. “What’s the psychological profile of an obsessive?” I asked. “Like a stalker?”

“Or a superfan,” Majors said, not having time for my subtlety. “Adulation is fine, but it’s a question of where the line is crossed that makes it unhealthy. It’s got more to do with the stalker than the person they’re following. The stalker might picture themselves having a certain relationship with this person. A connection that only they see. They insert themselves into a world they aren’t actually a part of and justify their actions in very improbable ways. I was just making sure you were safe by following you home, for example. It’s the inability to distinguish their own desires from those of the victim. Misinterpreting politeness for flirting, welcoming for need. That kind of thing.”

“So it’s the viewpoint that’s dangerous. Because the victim’s decisions can feel like they affect, or are even targeted toward, the stalker, even when they have nothing to do with them?”

“Precisely. Say I get my dream job and move across the country. Totally innocuous, totally personal. Someone with that view of me might see it as an attack on them. They don’t like change.”

Change, I thought. Like not writing certain books anymore, perhaps. It was something to chew on. Something else she’d said fluttered up in my consciousness. “What did you mean when you said Wyatt’s going to make a lot of money?”

“Oh, bags of it. Henry’s books sell, sure, but this will make his last novel a literary event. You know when they dig up half a manuscript from a long-dormant writer, like Go Set a Watchman with Harper Lee, or like Stieg Larsson, who died before his Millennium series was finished. That’s the spin. This is the last one. No more. You better read it. Plus”—she waved a hand—“the rereleases, the new covers, the publicity of a genius”—she basically gagged on this word—“gone too soon. It’s a gold mine. McTavish’s death is one of the best things that could have happened to Wyatt Lloyd.”

“And—”

“Hang on. My turn.”

I tore off a piece of damper and stuffed it in my mouth. It was chewy and buttery, like a scone. “Okay.”

“This isn’t about justice. This is about proving yourself.”

“That’s not a question.”

“Wasn’t it? Oh. Well, I’m right. If I can give you some advice . . . You want to be careful about how you look at this whole thing, because right now you want it to be a murder. You want it so badly, you might ignore the real facts to make it fit what you want. And part of that’s because you need a story and you’ve got a hundred grand on the line—”

I threw my hands up. “How the hell does everyone know—”

“And part of it is that you want to prove yourself to the rest of us: Wolfgang, Royce. Those who think you’re too commercial or just lucky.”

She tilted her glass at me and I refilled it from the bottle in the middle of the table.

“But most of it is that you need to be useful. Because if you didn’t survive what happened to you last year to help someone now, why did you survive at all? That’s why you wrote the first bloody book. To find some purpose in what happened. Here’s your question, then: am I close?”

My silence answered it for her. She nodded: I could continue with my own questions.

“It’s quite an eclectic group of people for this festival,” I ventured. “Handpicked?”

“I needed a balance of established names, up-and-comers, and headline grabbers. Wolfgang helps get the funding through—grant committees love a bit of pedigree. Though I didn’t think we’d get quite so many headlines, per se. I’d say I did a pretty good job, wouldn’t you?”

So that was Wolfgang’s invitation explained. Royce and I were still the disconnected outliers. “It’s got nothing to do with the fact that you, Lisa and McTavish were at the Edinburgh International Book Festival in 2003?”

Her shoulders straightened at this. The wine paused near her lips, and her breath fogged the glass. “I think now would be a very disrespectful time to comment on such matters,” she said finally.

“Why’d you invite me then?”

“I didn’t invite you,” she said cruelly, clearly retaliating for my previous question.

I ignored the barb but wondered: if she hadn’t invited me, who had? “You clearly wanted McTavish here. There’s a rumor that he stole the plot of Off the Rails from you. Any truth to that?”

She bristled. “I’m not about to give you motive. But that’s interesting—you do think it’s murder?”

“Royce thinks poison.”

She snorted at this.

“What?”

“Royce thinks.” She used her thumb and pointer on each hand to pretend to draw the words in a box in the sky, the way you’d pretend a title was on a marquee. “The oxymoron of the day.”

“He used to be a forensic pathologist.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“It’s in his bio.”

“You know that’s worthless, right? You can put anything you want in there.”

“But he did work in a lab? He has a degree? You can’t lie about that.”

“Sure, but he was, like, a graduate or an intern or whatever. Made photocopies, fetched coffees. It’s all marketing. Wyatt knew it would sound good so they ran with it on the first book and now, eleven books later, I think Royce’s even started to believe it himself.”

I’d hinged my entire investigation on Royce’s deduction that heroin was the murder weapon, so these words made my stomach plummet. I managed to say, “He’s been quite helpful, actually.”

“You want a profile on Royce? We don’t have time. We couldn’t unpack his issues if we had the rest of the train journey. Of course he’s interested in the murder, he’s finally got a chance to live up to a version of himself that’s always been mostly a lie. I am a registered psychologist—I’ve kept up my credentials. Sure, Royce must have had training somewhere, but I’d think twice about letting him diagnose me. Research is just theoretical. You think Lisa hot-wires cars like her character?”

Mentally, I was still trying to salvage the credibility of my evidence. Even if Royce had plumped up his credentials, there was no denying that he’d researched eleven novels (and three novellas, lest I forget), so he must have had a nose for it. He had also mentioned researching heroin specifically for one of his books. Could I trust that? Or was I seeing what I wanted to see? On that, Majors was undeniably correct: I was desperate to be useful.

I opened my mouth to ask another question but she snapped a hand closed in front of me. “Well, that’s about all the time we have for today’s session, Mr. Cunningham.” She spoke in a singsong voice, breathy and quite deliberate, the way she addressed, I imagine, only her most insane patients. “I think it would be best that we continue your growth exercises another time.” She gestured to an imaginary door in an imaginary office. “I’ll leave you to make a booking with my receptionist on your way out.”

Fires had been lit in steel drums around the circumference of the cottages, and as the band got louder the dust on the dance floor rose with excitedly stamped feet. The stars were magnificent, bright pinpricks in the clearest sky I’d ever seen. Juliette was no longer at her table, and I was looking around for her near the ice tubs when a heavy hand fell on my shoulder. I turned to see Douglas Parsons, rosy cheeked, out of breath, as much tapping me on the shoulder as he was leaning against me to stay upright.

“Ernest!” he yelled with a tone of surprise, like I was an old friend he’d spotted across the supermarket and not someone he’d approached himself.

“Douglas.” I nodded, as hello felt a little formal, and besides, addressing him by name gave him another notch on the tally, and he was looking a little low at the moment.

“Enjoying yourself?” Douglas said.

“We did the bushwalk. How was your day in town? Get up to much?”

He was almost drunk enough I thought I’d get away with Shoot anybody? but I refrained.

He looked up at the stars as if having a religious moment. Eventually he said, “Life-changing.”

“I’m glad.”

“I’ve got you to thank for that. That’s what I wanted to say. Thank you.”

I hesitated, chastened already this trip from accepting apologies I didn’t understand, but gave in to his expectant eyes. “You’re welcome.”

“I mean it, Ernest.” He ripped a bottle from the ice like he was unsheathing a sword. A little avalanche of ice cubes toppled from the tub into the dirt. He held the beer out to me. I took it, again not sure what kind of accessory I was obliging myself to become. “I could tell you thought I lied to you the other day. When we met. When I said I was traveling alone.”

“Oh.” I waved it off. “No, I didn’t.”

“You did. And it’s okay. I get it. I am traveling alone, technically. But there’s someone else with me, you know, spiritually.”

I’ll reiterate the rule here that ghosts are not allowed in fair-play mysteries, and I was about ready to write off Douglas as a drunken crackpot, when he went on.

“I used to live out here. I raised cattle back home and wanted a change, and Australia seemed like the best place to use those skills. My partner, Noah, and I would watch this train go past—we could see it from our porch, and he loved it. Would check the schedules and everything. Ever since they turned it into a passenger train, I’ve wanted to go on it. For him. Well”—he spread his arms—“here we are. All we’d dreamed of.”

“But he’s not here with you, is he?” I said, though I already knew the answer. Two glasses of champagne. A solitary cheers.

“He’s dead.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Douglas beamed. “That’s what I’m trying to say thank you for. I ran away when it happened. Across an ocean. And I stayed there and tried to forget it all. But today . . . I scattered his ashes. I was able to let him go. After thirty-two years. Because of what you’ve done. I am free!” He looked up at the sky and gave a semi-howl. I noticed droplets of beer clinging to strands of his beard, like dew on a rainforest fern or, less generously, the jaw of a rabid dog. Whether he was ecstatic or lunatic, it was hard to tell.

I thought back to my brief conversation with Douglas. He’d asked me what it felt like to kill someone. He wanted to know if revenge was bitter or sweet. Even given the context of my first book, those questions were particularly intense.

Hang on, I thought. What had he just said? Because of what you’ve done. Sorry to flash back to a sentence literally two paragraphs up, but it’s important. Pieces clicked. Three specific events found their correlation.

Douglas had brought a gun on the trip.

Henry McTavish had died.

Douglas had disposed of the gun.

Douglas wouldn’t have gone to all the effort of getting a gun just to use heroin for the murder. The only reason to dispose of the gun was if he didn’t need it anymore. Which logically meant the man he’d come to kill was already dead. Was he accusing me of killing McTavish? Thanking me for saving him the trouble?

“I’m sorry to ask,” I said, lowering my voice. “But you said it’s thirty-two years you’ve had Noah’s ashes. Your partner—how did he die?”

Douglas’s eyes, without embellishment I swear, twinkled. “Oh, you are good. Why don’t you tell it? So the scene plays better in your book. Like you’re explaining it.”

I took the invitation. I knew a certain tragedy had happened thirty-two years ago. “Noah was a teacher, I’m guessing.”

“Not only that, but a good one. A great one. He knew his kids. Schools out here, they’re different. There’s none of that faceless point and learn, it’s about getting to know all the kids. Noah could tell something was wrong, but he just had a hunch and a hunch doesn’t get you far—especially in the nineties if you’re a gay man in the outback, let me tell you. I don’t want to put into words what this man had been doing, but some people are monsters. Noah had noticed, though. A girl in his class, usually so bright and happy, had fallen quiet. He finally convinced her to tell him what was happening, and he was going to help her tell the police. I don’t know how the guy found out he was about to get exposed, but he did. So he had to think of a way to shut them up. Everyone that knew about it.”

A schoolteacher. An abused child. An abuser about to be exposed. Four kids and a teacher killed in a train accident.

“The bus driver,” I said. “It was the bus driver. He was molesting the kids.”

What had Aaron said? Bus driver was a bit hard to ask, flat as he was. Just like the plot of a certain book.

Douglas nodded somberly. “Parked that school bus right up on the tracks. Locked the doors. Noah’s ashes are more ceremonial than real. So let me ask you this, do you think you could identify a body from that mess?”

I imagined again those tiny palms against the glass, the plume of dust charging, but this time I saw a lone shadow running from the tracks, sweat-slicked hands slipping off a locked door, as Douglas brought his hands together with a bang.

Chapter 18

The bus driver’s name was not Archibald Bench, by the way.

Of course, that was the first thing I googled.

Alice Springs gave me the gift of internet reception, and a freight train crunching a school bus was newsworthy enough to pop right up in a search. I found a list of the dead: four children; a teacher, Noah Witrock; and the driver, Troy Firth. Nothing in the article alluded to accusations being leveled against Troy, or anyone being directly at fault: it was a tragic accident and nothing more. But the story itself, mixed with Douglas’s version of it, did hew shockingly close to the plot of Off the Rails, the book that Majors had accused McTavish of pinching from her. Swap the parents for the bus driver, a car for a bus, and it was essentially the same method of murder. And the same method of getting away with it.

Troy Firth, unfortunately, is not an anagram of Archie Bench no matter which way you cut it. However, you’ll have thought the same thing Douglas did: it’s entirely plausible that the bodies were unidentifiable or irretrievable from the crash. It would also be fair to remind you here that Henry McTavish was crippled down his left side. I don’t want to lead you up the garden path, but I have already told you some people in this book go by several names. All these thoughts ran through my mind but were too slippery to connect.

Douglas left me to rejoin the dance floor. I passed through the tables. As I walked past Wyatt, he grabbed at me.

“Oi,” he said, tugging at my pant leg. “I picked up Simone’s scarf the other day. Think your missus left it behind. Let Simone know I’ve got it?”

That would be a relief to Juliette. I said as much and thanked him. He leaned over and slapped me on the back, but because he was sitting down, it was more a jab to the kidneys. He was incredibly jovial for someone whose author, and I assumed friend, had just kicked the bucket, but I reminded myself that he stood to make a lot of money from the death. He’d seemed quite unhappy with McTavish’s manuscript last night when I’d overheard him in the corridor, as it wasn’t a Morbund book. I suppose posthumous publicity balanced out the lower value of the content.

“I’ll give it back when I see her—it’ll give her one less thing to be sour about.” Wyatt laughed. “Never likes to lose, that one.”

“I think even Simone understands that someone dying doesn’t count as losing a client,” I said.

“I would pay to see you tell her that.” Wyatt gestured over to one of the fire drums, where I could see Simone sitting with Wolfgang. “And she didn’t come away entirely empty-handed. I gave her a consolation prize. Not that she’ll be signing anyone with it.” He snickered at his own joke, though I wasn’t quite sure what it was. “Besides, she didn’t lose out on Henry because he died—no, it’s far more humiliating than that. She made her pitch. Screwed you over, by the way. He declined. Then he died. Vale and all that.” Wyatt did a borderline-offensive sign of the cross that was so wobbly Jesus would need a chiropractor. “Oi!” he yelled again, but this time across me. “Jasper! Champers? Lots to celebrate.” He raised his glass and spilled half of it.

Jasper had been on his way to join Harriet, whom I could see on the dance floor. Wyatt’s command pulled him into our current, and he grimaced as a glass was shoved into his hand. Wyatt was clearly willing to celebrate his windfalls with anybody who passed him. Like stepping off a land mine, or Indiana Jones switching a golden idol, I sacrificed Jasper to hold Wyatt’s attention and scurried off, making my way over to Simone and Wolfgang.

Wolfgang greeted me with a snarl of acknowledgment, and I couldn’t quite tell if he was annoyed I was there or annoyed that he had debased himself enough to know who I was. He and Simone each had a long metal skewer, which they were using to toast marshmallows from a bowl nearby. Wolfgang was only lightly singeing his. Simone was letting hers flare into a meteor, the burned sugar dripping into the coals.

“Everyone’s in a surprisingly good mood,” I said. “Events of today considered.”

Wolfgang de-skinned his marshmallow with his teeth. “One less hack, who’s complaining?”

Simone laughed cruelly. Yes, I know it’s an adverb.

“That’s a little cold,” I said. “I bet you’ve never even read him.”

“I have indeed,” Wolfgang huffed, to my surprise. “His very first. Drivel, of course. Grammatically haunting. Uses commas like cane toads—they multiply on every page—and he’s addicted to the bloody Oxford.”

I didn’t want to get into a conversation with Wolfgang about bad writing, as I would surely wind up insulted, so I changed the topic. “How’s your artwork coming along?”

“Artwork?”

“Yeah, your painting, or whatever. The Death of Literature.”

Wolfgang chuckled dryly. “It’s going just fine, thank you. And it’s not a painting, it’s an experience.”

“That’s worth staying alive until Adelaide for at least,” I said.

“If you get that far.” Wolfgang’s lips transformed into a frown. The fire cast a long shadow of his nose down to his chin, like a slash. “This could be a dangerous journey for you. If I were in your shoes, I’d be concerned.”

“Me?” My voice cracked. Was that a threat? Did he know I’d been poking around, playing detective?

His mouth split into a grin, but the type that accompanies a mean-spirited prank rather than an actual joke. “Someone’s picking off bad writers. I’d lock your door.”

Simone punched him on the shoulder playfully, which seemed, to me, a low amount of physical violence for her 15 percent. She caught my scowl. “Lighten up, Ern.”

“It’s not a nice way to be remembered, is all.”

“Is it not?” Wolfgang scoffed. “You think we look on our dead with fondness? Let me give you a history lesson. The Washington Post’s obituary of Edgar Allan Poe said that the announcement would ‘startle many, but grieve none.’ And he was an actual genius. All you crime writers owe him your careers—you talk about Christie and Conan Doyle and forget about Poe.”

I was surprised by Wolfgang’s knowledge of a genre he supposedly despised, just as I had been by his reading McTavish. It actually made me like him a little more: at least he made the effort to participate in the things he wished to criticize.

He ranted on. “And I’m supposed to grieve some middle-of-the-road Scot because he sold a few books? Please. I show him enough respect to treat him with the disdain a great artist deserves. How do we measure a man? He may be odious and foul, but if his words have value, they will outlive him.”

“An ethos you’re attempting to live by, I see.”

Wolfgang’s face did a good impression of Simone’s overcooked marshmallow, a sagging melt, before he raised his glass to Simone, ignoring me, and skulked off into the night.

“You’re in a bad mood,” Simone said, poking the coals. The tip of her silver skewer was glowing orange, flecked with the scorched sugar.

“Don’t you think something’s going on here?” I asked. “Everyone seems pretty glad that McTavish is dead.”

“Just because everyone’s glad he’s dead doesn’t mean someone killed him.” Her eyes reflected the flames. Then they lit up of their own accord and her lips curled. “You’ve got reason to be happy too! You’ve got your book! That must be a relief.”

“Speaking of the book, how does everyone know about my advance?”

Simone kept her poker face, shrugged. “Gossip?”

I knew from experience that surliness was repaid with venom from Simone, so I put it to the side and tried to capitalize on her good mood. If she was pleased I finally had something to write about, I figured she’d be open to helping me with some of the details. “Let’s say this does become the book. Help me with the backstory. You worked for McTavish, right? How’d that happen?”

“I did an exchange program to the UK and was in editorial at Gemini. This was back when they were a little floundering thing, before Morbund filled their coffers, but I jumped at the opportunity for a change of scenery. Then Henry poached me to be his full-time assistant after the first Morbund took off.”

“Good gig?”

“Better than working for Wyatt. Paid well, good hours. I’d say I got hit on less, but the two of them blur together.” She sighed. “God, the early aughts.”

“I’m sorry to hear it was so bad back then.”

“Back then?” she scoffed. “It’s happening now. So some of the really bad eggs are ‘canceled,’ apologize, and slink away for a while—and then they’re right back selling more books than ever, on our TVs, filling stadiums. The problem is deeper than that, and every person who sits back and thinks we fixed it because I don’t get slapped on the arse at work anymore is ignoring the deep-seated structural issues.”

“You seem on good terms with Wyatt,” I said. “And you were willing to agent McTavish.”

She flicked the superheated glowing tip out of the coals and held it in the air. “It’s a brave man who accuses a feminist of double standards, Ernest.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“I know you didn’t. But you don’t get to say things like that because you don’t have to make those choices. Like I said, men like this go on and on. I’ve got to play the game as much as anyone. I figure I should take some of their money while I’m at it. That’s feminism, if you think about it.”

I found myself impressed seeing this side of Simone, a glimpse at her vulnerabilities. Her staunch pride and self-confidence had always made her seem so above everything. But I could see now the artifice of what she was doing and the sacrifice of her real self that it was: she had to look hard as nails to go toe-to-toe with people like McTavish and Wyatt.

I thought about McTavish. What had he done that he should have had his comeuppance for? I remembered Brooke’s question at the panel, and the note in McTavish’s room. What if Archibald Bench was a public accusation, not an attempt to impress? “Did Henry have any, shall we say, distasteful associations?” I asked.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Hate groups? That kind of thing.”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“I found the word Reich in some papers.”

Simone chuckled. “I love that you’re doing codes and puzzles: that sells books. Lots of books. Five stars for effort.” She winked, as if she’d just told me something, but I wasn’t sure what. “But, no, if Henry was a Nazi, he hid it very well. I couldn’t say he was involved with anything like that. Pretty young women were his weakness. And he’s not alone in that.”

I nodded. “Majors told me McTavish had a fling with Lisa Fulton?”

“Did she now?” Simone looked around and spotted Majors, who was yelling at, of all people, Douglas Parsons in the shadow of one of the homesteads. Douglas seemed clueless, his body language defensive, his hands stretched out in an I have no idea what you’re talking about gesture. I wondered if they knew each other. “Well, she’s always had a grudge against Lisa. Since Edinburgh.”

“For not backing up her plagiarism claims?”

I think this was the first time I’d ever seen Simone impressed. “Well, well, well. Maybe you do have a book on your hands. Yes. You’ve got that right: Majors is adamant that Lisa should have stuck up for her. She insists that Lisa withheld her support because Lisa was with Henry that night.”

“So she and Henry have a dalliance, and then she doesn’t write another book for twenty-odd years? Is that true?”

“I can’t speak to the writing, but they were together.” Simone lowered her voice. “It’s hush-hush these days. But one of the things about being Henry’s assistant was I had all his logins—same password for everything, by the way, so much for codes and puzzles—and I was in charge of his emails, his website. I saw the things he used to send. Bad egg stuff. Including to Lisa, after that night.”

“Could you get back in?”

“God no. Like I’d remember the passwords. I do remember what he said though. Called her a, if I remember correctly, ‘firecracker in the sack.’” She winced at the words, even as she said them. “I’m amazed I lasted as long as I did in that job, come to think of it.”

“Why did you leave?”

“I was only there a year and a half. After Knee-Deep in Trouble, Henry’s second book, sales slipped. It wasn’t a great book—second books are tough—and then there was his accident. The painkillers made him fuzzy at the best of times, and I could tell the third was squeezing out of him like a kidney stone. I felt like I had to leave before Henry realized he couldn’t afford an assistant anymore. Plus, you know, I saw all the stuff flying around about Majors. I preferred to work on real literature. I scraped together some savings and moved back to Melbourne to start my agency. Obviously a big mistake seeing how popular Off the Rails was, given he’d agreed to a contract with bonuses in it to lure me over from Gemini, but, hey”—she pinched my cheek—“I’ve got you now, don’t I?”

“But you still felt he owed you, that’s why you wanted him as a client?”

Simone laughed. “You sure do read into things. No, not exactly. I told you the reasons I wanted Henry. He’s worth a lot of money—I wanted some. But, sure, maybe subconsciously I thought he owed me a little for the year and a half I spent putting up with him.”

“And your opportunity was that Wyatt wasn’t happy with McTavish’s next book? One wanted to end the series and the other wanted to keep it going. That was the friction between them. Without an agent, I assume Wyatt controls things like film rights and merchandising, and the other stuff that a publisher doesn’t usually have their fingers in. That’s big money. McTavish was worth more to Wyatt than just book sales.”

“Very good,” she affirmed. “You have been working hard.”

“How’d you feel when Henry declined your offer?”

I thought she was about to skewer me, but she impaled another marshmallow instead. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Gossip.”

She sucked her cheeks in. “So. I’m in it?”

“In what?”

“The book.”

“I guess.”

“You’re making me a suspect?”

“Depends on how you felt about Henry’s rejection.”

“Oh, come on. That’s thin. Besides, you can’t be that indignant about how everyone’s behaving here and not check yourself. As if you aren’t a little grateful. A little bit more secure in the inspiration for your next book. It’s fallen right in your lap. These murders are exactly what you needed. Pretty lucky, huh?” She did a little curtsy. “You’re welcome.”

“You’re welcome?” I repeated. It seemed an odd thing to say.

“For forcing you out of your comfort zone. You’re welcome.” This time she said it with the slow-motion cadence that people use when they feel they are underthanked, stretching the words like chewing gum.

“You haven’t answered my question,” I said.

A roar of good cheer sounded from the book club table and Simone turned their way. She gazed at them awhile, then turned back to me. “Here’s the truth. People like Henry and, hell, Alan Royce—they think they’re the only ones. Truth of it is, there’re plenty of people hungrier than they are these days, waiting in the wings. So what if I didn’t get Henry to sign on the dotted line? There’ll be another Henry. There’ll be another you. And despite what Wolfgang thinks, there’ll be another Wolfgang. And he’s got all the prizes in the world, but I’ve seen his royalty statements.” She held up her thumb and forefinger, a tiny space between, like locker room talk. “Now, what I would kill for”—she pointed at the book club—“is one of those Erica Mathison books. I know it’s another first-name last-name book, but those numbers . . .” She whistled. “Wyatt’s gotta be happy with that.”

“First-name last-name book?” I asked, confused.

“You know, you put the full name of the character in the title? Put a number next to it too, if you want to get real flashy. It’s the trendy thing right now. The Eleven Orgasms of Deborah Winstock, The Five Lives of Erin O’Leary, The Four Cousins of Barbara Who-Gives-a-Toss. They’re everywhere. You should consider it for whatever this”—she spun a finger at me—“turns out to be.”

“I’ll think about it.” I saw Juliette at last, over by the camel rides, talking to Harriet. “I’ve just spotted Juliette, if you’ll excuse me. Oh, and Wyatt has your blue scarf. He’ll give it back to you. Thanks for the chat.”

Simone grabbed my arm as I turned to leave, squeezing it just a little too tightly. “You’re onto a good thing here, Ern, and it’s great to see you thinking and writing again. I’m proud of you. I am. And I want you to write this book. But just, you know, leave me out of it, would you?”

It felt like a demand rather than a favor. I nodded, more out of obligation than agreement, but it seemed to please her.

“Attaboy. Also, if this is going to be a book, you’ll need to spice it up a little. It doesn’t all have to be true. Chuck in some romance. I’ve got that list you gave me on your structure. It seems the trip’s been following it pretty well so far. Setting up all the suspects and their motives is great, but you probably need a little action.” I was surprised she’d even kept my rambling note, let alone was taking it seriously. Her eyes shone with excitement. “What you need, my friend, is a second murder.”

She wasn’t wrong. We are not too far from the sixty-thousand-word mark, which means I am due another body. Not that the real world is beholden to my schematic for writing fiction, but it had, up until now, felt like it was sticking to my desires for this book a little too closely. I chalked it up to cosmic luck.

I turned over Simone’s words in my mind as I waved at Juliette. The box in my pocket rubbed against my leg. I couldn’t summon up another body—in fact, I’d much rather have prevented it—but romance I could do.

Simone had been surprisingly candid; I felt I’d learned a lot about McTavish. What I wouldn’t know until later was that she had just lied to me. Twice.

The Two Mistruths of Simone Morrison, if you will.

Chapter 19

Romance I can do.

I chanted it like a mantra in my head as I marched up to Juliette, until I realized I was so determined that I was literally marching. I tried to turn it into a more casual saunter but just ended up making myself wobbly enough to look saddle-sore.

“Had a few?” Juliette chuckled.

“I spy my husband actually,” Harriet said, in a way that meant she knew we’d argued recently. “Better stop him before he goes the same way.” It was a tactful exit, swiftly made.

That left Juliette and me alone. She’d taken the dress code seriously and looked beautiful in a knee-length orange dress. It was creaseless, carefully hung. We were under the clearest starlit sky I’d ever seen, partway through one of the world’s great rail journeys, in the middle of a natural wonder of a desert. It should have been perfect. Instead, the remnants of our argument hung over us, brighter than the stars. Despite our day at the ravine, I still had yet to actually say I was sorry. I wished I had some marshmallows to keep my hands busy.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey.”

Fair enough. She wanted me to earn it.

“What were you talking about?” I nodded back to Harriet.

“Men.”

“Oh. Good things?”

As any shacked-up men reading this will know, sometimes your questions answer themselves.

“I’m sorry if I got carried away,” I said.

She took a deep breath. “If?”

I tried again. “I’m sorry. I got a little carried away.”

“That’ll do.” She smiled, took my hand. Tilted her head back. I followed her lead and we stood for a while, side by side, looking into the night. “And I didn’t mean to be so negative. I’m glad you’re excited. I’m glad you’ve got the potential for another book. But I also want you to be here with me. If you spend too much time looking for clues, you’ll miss the stars.”

“What if the stars are the clues?” I asked.

“You’re right. Sagittarius did it.”

I didn’t know which set of stars was Sagittarius, but I searched for a moment anyway. “I love you, you know that?”

“I do. I love you too.”

My hand felt for the box in my pocket, massaging it through the fabric. “I’m thinking we could spend more time together.”

“This is a nice start.” She thought I was still apologizing for running off and playing detective.

“I meant every day.”

“We’re stuck on a train together. I think we’ll get a lot of each other.”

“Well, we haven’t seen all that much of one another in the first half of the trip.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“I wasn’t talking about . . . Look, I’m trying to say something else. I’d do anything for you.”

“And I’d do anything for you, Ernest. Are you feeling okay?”

“You’re my blip.”

She looked down from the stars and sized me up. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I dropped to one knee. Whether that’s because I didn’t know what else to do or because it was going so badly my balance gave out is still with the jury.

“Oh my God,” she said.

“I know we haven’t really made the most of this trip. I’ve been distracted and we haven’t seen a lot of each other. I couldn’t join you on the gorge excursion, and then I stayed up while you went to bed early . . .” I paused. I’d had a thought.

“This is a pretty long prologue for a man who doesn’t like them,” Juliette said.

“Did you go straight to bed last night?”

Her mouth formed wordless circles for a few seconds. “Is that the question you got down on one knee to ask me?”

“No, spur of the moment. It’s just, when you say you’d do anything for me—”

“Oh my God.” This was a very different oh my God from her first. “Are you . . . interrogating me?”

“No. Sorry, I want to ask—”

“I don’t care about what you want to ask, I care about what you did ask. You’re checking my alibi?”

“It just popped into my head.”

“Did it.” It wasn’t a question.

People over at the dining tables had noticed I was down on one knee. I could tell they were starting to turn and watch; too far away to hear our words, it looked like it was going better than it was, and they clutched together in groups of excitement. Whispers carried on the wind, sounding like waves breaking on the shore.

Okay, look. I’m not proud of what’s about to happen. But I promised you the truth, stupidity and all, so I’ve resisted the urge to edit myself into a more, shall we say, debonair position.

“I’m not seriously a suspect?” Juliette said.

“I mean, everyone’s a suspect.”

“Are you?”

“Well . . . no.”

“Why not?”

“I’m the narrator.”

She went to throw her hands up but then realized too that everyone was watching us, and instead held them with quivering restraint by her sides as she pulled on a fake smile. She spoke behind her teeth. “That’s bullshit and you know it. Just because you’re writing it down doesn’t give you a special pass. This is real life: it doesn’t follow the rules of a detective novel. You waltz around like you’re invincible, and it’s going to get you killed. Royce is writing it down too, genius, I bet he’s not the villain in his book.”

“I’m just asking questions. This case is important.”

“Case? Case?! You’re not a detective, Ern.” She shook her head. “I knew I shouldn’t have come.” Tears splashed down her cheeks and she wiped them frantically with the back of her hand. Annoyingly, this got a cheer from one enthusiastic member of the crowd who mistook it for happiness. A camera flash went off.

“You didn’t want to come?” I asked, surprised by how much that hurt.

“I don’t know how to explain this to you. You’d been in a funk ever since the murders. I get it, I do. And you thought this book you wrote defined you, gave some kind of meaning to what happened. You defined yourself so much through it. I thought it would give you a bit of confidence back, coming here. And you don’t even take five seconds out of your day to appreciate it.”

“Appreciate what?”

“You weren’t invited on this festival, Ern. I was.”

It was as if the stars had been shut off. My vision started getting blurry, dark. My conversation with Majors flashed through my mind: the way she looked when I thanked her for the invite; I didn’t invite you. “But Majors—”

“Invited me. A bit of quid pro quo for the endorsement she wanted. I said no, and suggested you instead. I thought you needed it, I thought it would help you feel valued. And instead, I’ve been relegated to a bit part in the Ernest Cunningham Show, like I’m a side character in my own story. You keep saying I’m waiting on my next adventure, but when have I ever told you that? I might like to open up a new resort. I might like to write another book. But you’ve never asked, because we’re always talking about you. And I know that what you went through broke you, and I know it’s been hard to work through. But my home burned down last year. I lost my livelihood. And yet I still gave this invite to you. I’m not twiddling my thumbs ‘waiting on my next adventure,’ I’m waiting for you. But now I see that this might be all I am to you. Just a part of your story.” She took a breath. “That scares me.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, simply because I didn’t know what else to say. I’d never even been invited on the trip. She’d made this huge, unspoken gesture for me and this was how I’d been treating her? Shame sat hot in my stomach. My knee was feeling the hardness of the dirt. The murmur of the crowd was growing; they were starting to think it was the longest proposal they’d ever seen. Proposing is the opposite of sex in terms of desired durations: the faster the better.

“It’s too late for sorry,” Juliette said. “You thought I did it.”

“I didn’t—”

“Even for a second. Even that it crossed your mind. That’s enough.” She sniffed. “Humor me. Why would I have done it?”

Now, it is a great virtue to understand when a question is rhetorical. This is a virtue, I’ve learned, that I do not possess.

I should have left it.

I definitely should not have listened to Simone’s voice in my head: As if you aren’t a little grateful . . . It’s fallen right in your lap.

“You might have wanted to help me . . .” You’re willing me to stop, but unfortunately, I do not. It sounds just as stupid now as it did then. “. . . write the book.”

She looked at me like I was a waiter who’d gotten her order wrong. “You think that’s motive for murder?”

I don’t know why my mouth was still moving. I winced as I said it. “And he gave me that bad review.”

“That is some really outdated sexist shit, Ern. Not all women kill just because their boyfriend’s pride gets a little dented.” Now she was laughing. “I murdered Henry McTavish because you got a bad review. Wow. You really do think this is your story.”

“Please, Juliette.” I took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I was nervous. My tongue has a mind of its own. Please. Just let me start again.”

I pulled the box from my pocket, opened it and held up the ring.

The crowd cheered.

Chapter 20

She said no.

Chapter 21

It’s a little more complicated than that.

In terms of dud proposals, accusing your girlfriend of murder partway through has got to be an all-time clanger. I said before that only an idiot would accuse Juliette of being the murderer. This idiot, as it turns out.

“I’m going home,” she said. I was still on one knee, the ring in the air. My hamstrings were straining; I hadn’t planned on being down for this long. Tip for anyone proposing: do some squats first.

“What? Now? You can’t just leave.”

“It’s not a school excursion. I can do what I like.”

“But the train—”

“I’ll get a motel tonight, fly home tomorrow.”

“Please.”

“It’s not a no no. It’s just a not now.”

“Not now,” I echoed. “When?”

“You’ve got a lot of things to figure out between here and Adelaide. And I’m not talking about a murder. Once you know whose story this is. That’s when. But now”—she grabbed my hand and pulled me up—“let’s save ourselves some embarrassment. Everyone’s watching. We should give ’em a show.”

She kissed me, and there were whoops and hollers and camera flashes and her lips were cold and dry and pressed against mine flatly as if we were posing for the paparazzi. She even put her hips into it, kicking a heel into the air.

Writing this out now—that kiss frozen in time thanks to both these words and the photo Lisa Fulton emailed me before she . . . well, we’ll get to that—I am once again considering Juliette’s question: whose story is this?

It’s no spoiler to tell you that I’m writing this all down because the guilty have been discovered and dealt with. This leads to the cardinal rule I keep sticking to so doggedly, that because this is in first person, I have survived the events of the story. But just because I’m writing it doesn’t mean the story’s mine, or that it’s over. I could write this sentence, for example, just as someone kicks in the door to my Adelaide hotel room and puts a bullet in my brain. It’s not the writing that tells the story, it’s the reading.

Words on a page aren’t a legacy until they’re read.

So what if I’m writing this down and the story is still going?

I was subjected to a carnival of backslapping on my search for a drink, only to find an oasis in Jasper Murdoch, holding a glass of champagne out to me like those hooks that catch fighter jets on aircraft carriers. If he thought it was strange that I was toasting on my own, he was too polite to say it.

“I think we’re sharing congratulations,” he said as I necked the glass and plonked myself down at his table. He misread my dejection and refilled my glass. “Mate, I get it. I remember when I proposed to Harriet. Felt like I’d run a marathon.”

“Doesn’t get any easier the second time around,” I said.

“Oh.” He hadn’t known about my previous marriage, which also meant my last book was on his bedside table, unopened. He blushed slightly, then offered, “Surely easier than divorce.”

I raised my glass sarcastically. The champagne was going straight to my head. “Cheers to small achievements, I suppose. You’re better at romance than I am. I saw the petals by your door the other night. That was your room, right, next to Wyatt? Smooth moves.”

“Except it gave Wyatt the sniffles.” Jasper laughed. “That’s all Harriet anyway.” He put on her Irish lilt. “Brighten the space.”

I examined him. “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Not take it all so seriously.”

Jasper sighed. “Is this still about Henry?”

“If I said it wasn’t, would you believe me?”

He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “Writers are normally better liars than you are.”

“I’m quickly learning.”

“Bad reviews are part of being a writer. We all get them. I got one once, wrote to the reviewer. Then I married her.”

“No way! Harriet?”

“Yeah, she was an arts journo, way back.” He nodded. “Look, there’s no secret to it. Do you write this stuff for people to read, for people to enjoy or to have your name in lights? That’s all it comes down to.”

I’d been emboldened by my chat with Majors to try a psychological profile of my own. This train was jostling with egos and blurbs and legacies, and Jasper seemed too nonchalant about being known among it all. Harriet clearly disagreed. But maybe it wasn’t humility. Maybe it was necessity. I remembered Wyatt, whom I’d barely seen crack a smile this whole trip, wanting a celebratory drink with him, and this bolstered my confidence in my deduction.

“That’s easy for someone to say who doesn’t have their name on their covers,” I said.

Jasper’s smile had fallen so far he had to retrieve it. Eventually he mumbled out, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t.” I winked.

I saw Jasper wrestle with it, and then accept my discovery. “Just don’t tell anyone. I’m serious. It’s only worth anything because no one knows.”

This is far from my finest deduction. Veronica had a personalized signature in her copy: To V! A copy that I knew had been bought in Darwin, at the beginning of the train ride. It could only have been signed in the last three days. There was no other solution: Erica Mathison was on the train.

“You are killing it,” I said. “No wonder Wyatt was smiling. You were here to hash out a new deal. Seems you’ve got something to celebrate?”

“Me? Yeah. Harriet? She’ll come around.” He read my expression. “She’s happy for me, of course. She’d rather I publish under my own name.”

I remembered them arguing about money. It made sense now: Harriet was disappointed that he was just doing it for the money. She wanted him to do it for himself, and she’d been trying to convince him it didn’t matter if they took a hit financially. She wanted him on the other side of those panels they’d come here to watch.

“But I have been published as myself. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. And I’m happy, especially if Wyatt keeps doubling my advance. Sometimes I think it might be nice . . .” I realized he was staring across the yard, where Harriet was dancing in the dust, arms above her head, swaying in the throes of the music. “Then again, I’ve got better things to put my name on.” He pointed at her. “That right there, that’s what you’ve got to look forward to. We’re trying to adopt. My name there, handed down to their kids and so on, that’s going to outlast any book.”

“Yeah,” I muttered, staring at my shoes.

He turned back to me. “It’s nice to have someone else to talk to about this for once.”

“Seeing as we’re being honest, I think I might have stuffed things up with Juliette.”

“That’s gotta be a record. You got engaged twenty minutes ago.”

“I guess I’m a better liar than you think I am.”

“Why the hell are you sitting here drinking with me, then?”

I stood up. “That is an excellent point.” I extended a hand and put on a toffy formal accent. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Mathison.”

He laughed, great relief in his voice. His secret out, the burden gone. He squeezed my hand, mimicked my poshness. “I prefer Jasper Murdoch, if you please.”

Chapter 22

You’ll have to read Erica Mathison if you want a race to the airport and a romantic climax (plus a tryst in the toilets, if those types of books are anything to go by), because not ten minutes after I’d left Jasper, we were all being shepherded onto the buses headed back to the Ghan. I was told Juliette had already gotten a taxi from the homestead into town. She wasn’t answering her phone; I tried the whole ride back. On the platform, Aaron looked nervously at his watch, sucked his teeth and said, “I’m sorry, sir, she asked me not to tell you where she was going. We leave in five minutes.”

I looked around the platform, hoping Juliette might suddenly appear, mind changed. I noticed there were no police cars in the lot anymore.

“Are any officers joining us for the second half of the journey?”

Aaron seemed surprised. “No. Why would they?”

“Protection?”

“What would they be protecting us from? They’ve taken the body, and you and your pal said yourselves there’s no foul play. Listen, I know it’s been a tough night. But you’re either on the train or you’re staying here.”

The lights of the township cast a dim halo into the night. My vision for what this trip could be had crumbled: it was all a dream. It was a choice between the train and door-knocking every Alice Springs motel room until dawn.

Writing this all out in hindsight, it’s so easy to see I’ve gotten a few things wrong so far, both deductive and emotional, and here’s another one.

I chose the train.

Chapter 23

The first thing I did back on board was commit a crime.

Theft, specifically. Everyone was in a good mood from the food and the grog and most were kicking on in the bar carriage. Douglas asked Cynthia to make him a cup of tea, complaining that the binned kettle in the hallway was of no use. I made my way there for a drink too, intending to drown—no, that wasn’t severe enough, waterboard—my sorrows. However, as I walked in I saw Alan Royce, legs splayed the way stockbrokers sit on public transport, and I pinwheeled immediately back into the corridor. It wasn’t that I was avoiding Royce, it was that he’d changed his clothes.

The Ghan has limited locks on the doors, remember, and so I swiftly ducked into Royce’s room. Sure enough, he remained allergic to putting things away: his crumpled jacket from this afternoon lay on the bed. On the ground, piled like they’d been literally stepped out of, were his trousers. Jackpot.

I know. It’s not a nice thing to do, even to a man like Royce. But I think, after the events of this book are all printed, he won’t really be in a position to press charges over something so small as burglary. Not after what he did.

Afterward, I meandered my way through the carriages down to the back of the train, where there was an outdoor smoking deck. It was tiny, suitable for three or four people at most, with a wrought-iron fence to stop guests tumbling off the back, and a small awning. The clanking of the train was loud here, mechanical and foreign against the quiet of the desert night. The symmetrical tracks whizzed out from under the carriage, our journey perfectly measured by their line, meter on meter unveiled as we picked up speed. I watched Alice Springs, and everything in it, fade into the distance.

Then I unfolded the piece of paper I’d taken from Royce’s pocket. The one he’d secreted away while searching McTavish’s room. It was a check. Well, half a check. It had been burned, starting in the bottom right corner, the flame devouring all the identifying details except the bank’s header and the amount: $25,000. I recalled the ash on McTavish’s floor and my assumption that he’d flouted the no-smoking rule. This is one of the places where I had been wrong.

The door opened behind me and I stuffed the check back in my pocket as I turned to see Lisa Fulton. She was wearing a floor-length sapphire-blue evening gown, which was almost too fancy for the formal evening dress code on the itinerary. The hem had been splashed up with dirt and dust from the farmyard, and she had a slight bruise just above the elbow on her right arm, which was enough to make me glad I’d skipped the rowdy dance floor.

“Congratulations,” she said, sheltering a cigarette from the wind and flicking a lighter.

It took me a second to deduce what she was congratulating me for. I could still see the dim glow of Alice Springs retreating behind us.

“Thank you, we’re so happy.”

“Happy enough that you’re traveling on your own?”

I thought I’d have a little more time before people noticed Juliette hadn’t boarded the train with me. I tried to think of a fast excuse. “It’s all a bit ad hoc. We thought we might do it quickly. Like, next weekend quickly. Lots to organize.” Lisa didn’t look like she bought it, so, as with all teetering lies, I simply built it up. “Besides”—I laughed—“a few too many dead bodies for her ideal holiday.”

“Weak. There’s only one.”

“Surely one’s enough.”

“Depends where you holiday. I took a photo of you proposing, by the way. Give me your email and I’ll flick it to you while we still have reception.” I obliged, and a minute later, the reception growing more sluggish as we moved, my phone dinged. The photo looked properly romantic to the unknowing—starry night, the glow of the marshmallow fires—but all I could see was the strain in my jaw. The glisten in Juliette’s eyes.

“It’s very . . .” I hunted for the word, shot it out of the sky. “Memorable. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now, what’s this I hear about you and Alan thinking Henry’s death was suspicious?”

This was much more comfortable ground for me. “I think the circumstances invite a certain level of inquiry. And I think a lot of people had reasons to dislike McTavish.”

“A lot of people?”

“Well, everyone.”

She turned away from the tracks and sized me up. “Me?”

I hesitated. “I heard McTavish was an old flame.”

Her hands kneaded the grate. “More a candle than a bonfire. It was very short-lived.”

“You left an impression on him, though—he gave you that blurb. And you were the only one to skip his panel the next morning.”

“It’s all been a bit overwhelming.” She sighed. “Anyway, I’m glad I sat it out.”

“It was gruesome. You’re lucky you missed it.”

“Good research, I suppose.”

“I wish people would stop saying that.”

She was fiddling with the filter of her cigarette now, clearly uncomfortable, but she hadn’t yet left. It was like she wanted me to ask her something. Like Jasper’s truth: desperate, in a way, to get out. Or she wanted to see how much I knew. I was happy to play that game.

“Royce heard you in McTavish’s room last night.”

Lisa snorted. “Royce is a drunk.”

“So you weren’t in his room? Majors I doubt he’d let in. Harriet’s got an Irish accent, Cynthia and Brooke are too young, and Simone’s too loud. I have a feeling even an inebriated Royce hasn’t mixed up all those voices.”

She was silent.

I took the burned check out of my pocket and showed it to her. “I wonder if this is about enough to buy an endorsement?”

Lisa laughed it off, but I could tell she was a little surprised. “If you think I’m earning enough from book sales to ladle out twenty-five grand on a blurb, you are barking. Besides, that amount wouldn’t even flutter Henry’s heart.”

“Maybe there’s other ways to pay.”

She made a sour face. “You got that from Royce, didn’t you?”

I stared at the tracks. I had indeed recycled that from Royce, and it felt nasty on my tongue even as I said it. “Yeah, I’m sorry. That’s not me. You want to tell me something though, that’s why you followed me out here. And you’re the first person to practically ask me to question them. Maybe I’m asking the wrong questions. What is it you want to tell me?”

This was a better tactic. She took a deep breath. “I didn’t kill him,” she said. “But tomorrow you’re going to think I did. And I guess I just wanted to say that to somebody. I assume you’re writing this down for a book. Will you put it in, exactly like that?”

“What’s going to happen tomorrow?”

“That would be the wrong question.”

“But you were in his room?”

“If it’ll make you happy, yes, I went there to thank him—with words—for his endorsement. Royce was bashing on the door so I had to stay there until the two of you left. That’s it.”

I considered for a second. “You didn’t hit him? There were bloodied tissues in the bin.”

“No.”

“Let me pose a scenario. You go to his room to thank him for the endorsement, with words.” She nodded. “But maybe words aren’t enough. Maybe McTavish wants a different sort of thanks. We all know what he was like. Maybe he grabs you by the arm, firmly enough to leave a bruise, right there, just above the elbow. Maybe you crack him in the nose. It’s not murder. So why hide it? Am I close?”

She turned to go. I reached out to her but stopped myself. I didn’t want to be the man who grabbed at women. “I believe you,” I said. That turned her on her own. “McTavish was a sleaze. Whatever you’re worried about tomorrow, maybe we can get ahead of it? Help each other?”

She didn’t answer, but I could tell she was grinding her teeth by the wriggle in her cheek.

“You’ve got legal expertise—that actually might come in handy.”

That cracked a glimmer of teeth. An almost smile. “Is that what you’ve been doing? Royce on forensics? Majors on profiling? Me on law? Wolfgang on, what, being an asshole? All our specialties combined into one super detective? Like a Mighty Morphin Power Ranger?”

I blushed. “Sounds stupid when you put it like that.”

“It is stupid. We’re writers. I haven’t practiced law in . . . Hang on, what’s Majors’s profile of me, exactly?”

“Jilted lover,” I said.

Don’t worry, your memory’s not dodgy and you haven’t skipped any pages. Majors hadn’t given me a profile of Lisa. I thought I could provoke a reaction if I made one up. It worked.

“Selfish piece of—” Lisa seethed. “Don’t listen to her. She’s got it in for me.”

“Why didn’t you back her up about Edinburgh?”

Lisa was so incensed, she had forgotten I was probing. “I couldn’t, and she knows that. Jeez. It’s not like she was on the witness stand. A year later when Off the Rails comes out”—she snapped her fingers—“suddenly it’s my problem. This is ridiculous.” She looked back at me. “I didn’t kill Henry. People only kill for one reason: love. I didn’t love him. Far from it.”

“People kill for two reasons,” I said. “Love and money.”

She shook her head. “Maybe people kill for the love of money. But it all comes down to love.” She opened the door. The warm light of the carriages spilled onto the deck and gave us a better view of the tracks rushing under us. “Hell, like you say, everyone’s got a motive. Maybe everyone did it.”

“I think that’s been done before.”

“Nothing beats a classic.” She closed the door behind her.

Chapter 24

It would be a cliché and untrue to say my bed felt empty without Juliette, seeing as it was a bunk bed.

But there was something missing all the same. She’d left in such a hurry, or was so keen to avoid me, that she hadn’t come back on the train to collect her things. Her clothes still hung on the hangers, her toothbrush still by the sink. The cabin felt deserted in both senses of the word.

I procrastinated before bed, neatly folding her clothes and zipping up the bag, laying it on the top bunk. I resisted the urge to check the pockets for any small vials. I wanted to, but her words hung heavy in my mind—Even for a second. Even that it crossed your mind. That’s enough.

My phone’s reception had continued to deteriorate, and by this point clung to a thread. I sent a text to Juliette. And an email. And another text.

Then I tried to squeeze some backstory googling in. I know, it’s lazy detecting. But cut me some slack. Mystery writers these days always have to find a way to take away their crime-solvers’ phones because otherwise the reader sits there the whole time thinking, Google it! My Golden Age compatriots didn’t have to work around this, there was no Oh no, Sherlock Holmes can’t access his Encyclopaedia Britannicas because someone lost the key to the library!

I started, because I was losing faith in Royce’s medical pedigree, with the symptoms of heroin overdoses. Google begrudgingly (or perhaps that was just me) confirmed the symptoms in Royce’s favor. Next I searched for “Henry McTavish limp,” which didn’t get me much (except for reviews of his second book, his worst received, where limp was used adjectivally), and then for details of his accident, which proved more fruitful. An image of an unrecognizable, purple-faced and heavily bandaged McTavish shuddered onto my phone screen like it was an incoming fax. Surgeons had to almost entirely re-skin his leg. This was in 2004, between the publication of his second and third novels. How had Simone put his writing of the third novel? Kidney stones. Recovering from an accident like that, though, no wonder it had been tough.

Still nothing from Juliette. I began to wonder if I was in internet range but not messaging reception—I’m not really sure if that theory holds up technologically, but it succeeded in making me feel momentarily better until my phone dinged and disproved it. Disappointingly, it was a text from Andy.

“I’ve got my list of suspects. Statistically speaking, it’s most likely to be the ex-husband.”

I sent one back: “Yes, that sounds reasonable. Jealousy. Anger. All good motives.”

Andy messaged quickly. “Great. Problem is she doesn’t have an ex-husband. She does have a husband though.”

I replied: “If she doesn’t have an ex-husband, why is one on your list of suspects?”

There was a pause while Andy, bless him, tried to think.

“Apparently it’s likely,” he replied.

I texted: “Apparently?”

“I fed in all the details here”—he sent me a link—“and that’s the most probable.”

I clicked the link, which took me to ChatGPT, the open-source AI software that had taken the world by storm, much to the consternation of universities everywhere whose students were using it to write their essays. While it was indeed an impressive piece of software, it was quite a scary proposition for both those whose careers were typing words and those who’d seen The Terminator. You could put anything to it, and it would spit you out a response, from “Write me a five-hundred-word essay on ancient Egypt” to, in Andy’s case, writing the bio on his website or “Who robbed the old lady’s flower shop?” Of course Andy was into AI; he’s able to maintain a straight face while using the word fungible, plus he can declare that crypto is the future while arguing he’s been shortchanged coins at a café. I was tempted to type in “How do I call my uncle an idiot but make it sound constructive?” But I didn’t think AI would have the plethora of curse words I required.

I texted him back: “AI is no replacement for the human brain, Andy. But humor me. What are Skynet’s other suspects?”

The good thing about insulting Andy is that sometimes all you have to do is set him up to do it to himself. He replied: “Undercover FBI agent . . . And then a satanic death cult.”

There was a pause, then Andy texted again. “Okay, point taken. Night.”

My internet lagged out, then blipped in. I turned my attention back to my research. This time I went to the Morbund’s Mongrels forum on Reddit. The most recent post was titled The Dawn Rises—Spoiler Discussion. I had half expected the news of McTavish’s death to break, but evidently it hadn’t filtered out yet.

I scrolled through the thread. People were discussing the latest release, and many were anguished about the end of Detective Morbund. One post drew my attention:

MongrelWrangler22 (admin):

Oh no, you guys. Morbund is my LIFE. I’m actually literally lying here screaming. I’ll have to get another copy, because this one’s stained with tears. If this is the end . . . I don’t know what I’ll do . . .

The user was an administrator, which would fit someone involved with the Mongrels in an organizational role: president, perhaps. It did sound an awful lot like Brooke to me. I scrolled through the replies, a mix of commiserating with MongrelWrangler22, outright denials that Morbund could be dead and one alarming post saying All we need to do is get to McTavish. I’m sure we can . . . convince him . . . with the right motivation, next to a little emoji of a hammer.

I got tired of the deluge of comments and instead clicked on MongrelWrangler22’s profile. The avatar was a cartoon version of Morbund himself, I assumed, given his rugged Scottish appearance, and the location was listed as Australia, but other than that it was anonymous. All of MongrelWrangler22’s recent comments were neatly listed below though. I clicked one at random:

Can I just say something? I love these books because I feel like he’s speaking to me. You know? Like they are written just for me. A bedtime story or a special treat. I know you guys all love the books as much as I do, but that’s how it feels when I’m reading them. Like it’s me and him. Let me know why you read the Morbund books. Would love to hear from everyone else ☺

What had Majors said about obsession? That it’s the ability to center another’s experience on yourself? This matched it to a T.

I clicked back to MongrelWrangler22’s profile page and opened the most recent comment, just to see if it mentioned the Ghan. The comment had been posted three days ago in the Dawn Rises—Spoiler Discussion thread:

Stand down. I repeat. Stand down. I can breathe again.

Archie fucking Bench!

The comments that followed were variations of Who’s Archie Bench? and I don’t get it, what’s the big deal? but MongrelWrangler22 hadn’t posted since then. Conveniently, the timing of the post fit neatly with stepping onto an outback train with limited phone reception. I couldn’t see how it would be anyone but Brooke.

Stand down. Was that a figure of speech, or literal? Everything’s literal on the internet these days, like literally everything, so it was hard to tell. Stand down from what?

On a whim, I tried “Wolfgang art project.” But the search was too vague, and I was subjected to pages and pages about his namesake: the famous Austrian musician. I wondered if Wolfgang spoke German, and if he could help me with Reich. Next I tried all combinations of Wolfgang’s name and the words writer, art, interactive and experience. All I got were hits like this very festival, with the same line repeated at the end of every bio: His next project is an interactive art project titled The Death of Literature.

A fleeting thought whisked across my mind—Just how interactive is your project, Wolfgang?—and was gone.

My phone was struggling. I typed in one last Hail Mary search, which took five minutes to load and so I knew it was the last bit of twenty-first-century help I was going to get. But this one wasn’t clue-hunting, it was simply pure curiosity. The article was from the New York Times in 2009 and was titled “Crime Debutant Jasper Murdoch Can’t Match It with Crime Fiction’s Best” by Harriet Sykes, freelance writer from Melbourne, Australia.

Honestly, on reading it, I was surprised he’d married her. It was an absolute pasting. Although the review didn’t have too much to say about the book, it was dogged in comparing Jasper to the literary heavyweights of the genre—career authors, multimillionaires. Harriet couldn’t quite accept that he wasn’t up to their level, and she razed him for it. Murdoch wishes he could write like McTavish, and there are glimmers of potential in his work, but alas, he falls short of the high mark set by the Scottish favorite.

No wonder Jasper didn’t write crime anymore. But I remembered the look in his eyes as he’d watched Harriet dance. If this review had led them to cross paths (I imagined him plucking up the courage to write this reviewer an email, perhaps offering a coffee so he could explain what he was trying to do with the novel, or maybe downing half a bottle of white wine and cavalcading in with a thesaurus’s worth of inventive and invented curse words), he probably didn’t mind it one bit. I reread it through the lens of Jasper’s hippie zen-ness and it didn’t sound so cruel. On scrolling, I also saw Harriet was the writer of McTavish’s oft-used NYT blurb—“unputdownable and unbeatable: McTavish is peerless”—pulled from a review of his fifth novel in 2006.

I sent another text to Juliette and was momentarily excited by the immediate ding in return, until I realized it was a red exclamation mark claiming the message could not be sent.

I put the phone away and shut my eyes. But Jasper’s voice stayed inside my head. Except now he was saying something else: especially if Wyatt keeps doubling my advance. I remembered Wyatt on the phone at the station. Trying to authorize a deal term, perhaps?

It had glanced off my notice at first; I’d assumed Jasper’s new deal was for an Erica Mathison book. But if this review held weight, if Jasper’s writing really was Dollar Store McTavish, then his own fiction would always be just an imitation. Even the success of The Eleven Orgasms of Deborah Winstock wouldn’t have papered over that feeling, that he was a wannabe relegated to a permanent second place behind a better author. One way to beat the comparison, perhaps, was to remove it entirely.

I fell asleep thinking two things:

Henry McTavish hadn’t wanted to keep writing the Detective Morbund books.

And perhaps, to Wyatt Lloyd, McTavish-lite was better than no McTavish at all.

Chapter 25

I had no idea how long I’d been asleep, but I knew from the bashing on the door whose inelegant fist the knock belonged to, so I wasn’t all that surprised to see Royce standing in the corridor. What did surprise me was the line of people behind him.

“Come on,” was all he said, shuffling off to assault the next door before I’d had a chance to wipe the sleep from my eyes. He kept moving along the line, like a prison warden waking inmates.

I slid into the conga line between Simone and Wolfgang. Everyone was in pajamas: I was decent in a faded band T-shirt and tracksuit pants; Simone wore a matching purple silk shirt and trousers, SM embroidered on the breast pocket; and Wolfgang, most surprisingly, was in full-length blue-and-white-striped flannel pajamas. I’d assumed he slept in a three-piece suit. S. F. Majors was behind Wolfgang, still in the finery she’d worn to dinner, which meant she had either taken the time to get dressed or not yet gone to bed. We shuffled along to the next door. I checked the time: three A.M.

I tapped Simone on the shoulder. “What’s going on?”

“Royce has solved it,” she whispered. “Wants us all in the bar carriage.”

“What?” If I’d had a drink, I would have spat it out. “Royce?”

“It’s not like you didn’t have enough chances. Damn it, Ernest, you were supposed to get there first.”

“Well, what’s all this then?”

“Don’t be bitter. You know you’ve got to get all the suspects together to do the grand reveal. That’s what you’d do, isn’t it?”

“I know how a denouement works,” I said, sulking.

“De-noo-moh,” Wolfgang said from behind me, ladling the French over my mispronunciation like syrup. “Not dee-now-ment.”

“Merci,” I growled, refusing to turn and face him. Up ahead, Lisa slid out of her room, closing the door quickly behind her lest anyone see inside, and joined the line.

A heavy hand clapped me on the shoulder. Wolfgang again. I couldn’t see his face, but I could feel his grin burning into the back of my neck.

“Looks like he beat you to it, old chap. Your book will be second fiddle now.”

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.

“You did. You were blind drunk at the time. I caught you going to visit him to give him a piece of your mind. Maybe you gave him a piece of something else instead.”

“Can everyone just shut up for one—” Royce took a breath. “This isn’t how it goes. Okay? I go around the room, I deconstruct your alibis and then I reveal the killer. There’s not normally this much heckling in a denouement.”

“De-noo-moh,” Wolfgang and I said in unison.

If the Ghan were a steam train, Royce’s ears could have powered it. “There’s only one person with real motive. That’s where the clues point. Someone who visited Henry in his room, who was close enough to him to spike his hip flask. Someone who was upset by the amount of money they were about to lose on Henry’s next book. Someone who offered Henry a check for twenty-five large to retcon the series ending. Henry turned down the offer—he burned that check in front of our killer. Bet you didn’t know I had that clue, did ya, Ernest?” He patted his pockets, looking for the burned check to show off, which he, of course, couldn’t find.

I hid a smile.

“They fought, which gave Henry a bloodied nose. This person realized Henry’s next book would be twice as marketable if he was dead than if he was alive. That someone was . . .”

Just quickly, if it helps see who’s close to 106, I’ll interject with a name tally:

– Henry McTavish: 286

– Alan Royce: 220

– Simone Morrison: 96

– Wyatt Lloyd: 90

– S. F. Majors: 86

– Lisa Fulton: 83

– Wolfgang: 77

– Aaron: 59

– Brooke: 56

– Jasper Murdoch: 55

– Harriet Murdoch: 50

– Douglas Parsons: 35

– Book Club/Veronica Blythe/Beehive: 26

– Cynthia: 25

– Archibald Bench: 24

– Erica Mathison: 11

– MongrelWrangler22: 6

– Troy Firth: 3

– Juliette: EXEMPT

– Noah Witrock: EXEMPT (by virtue of being introduced past halfway, too late to be a killer in a fair-play mystery)

Majors has really come around the outside here to bump up the ranks, and there’s a bit of a move from the back of the pack in Aaron, Jasper, Harriet and Brooke, all climbing up a notch or two to pretty much dead even. Royce has tipped into the category of “too obvious,” and besides, why stage this grand reveal if he was really the killer? A few look primed to overjuice the tally, but consider that Wolfgang’s only put on a meager thirty-seven since the last count and anything can happen. And remember to add multiple identities together.

Okay, interlude done. I’ll let Royce finish his sentence . . .

“. . . Wyatt Lloyd!”

There was a silence as we all digested it. Though there was more head-scratching than gasping. On pure statistics, having now used his name ninety-two times, Wyatt’s (ninety-three) definitely in the mix.

“Does that work?” Brooke asked skeptically, breaking the silence.

I was running through the clues in my head. Wyatt definitely had motive; Royce was right about the financials. But I’d heard them arguing in Wyatt’s cabin, not McTavish’s, though Royce didn’t know that. So the burning of the check would have happened there. I was also certain Lisa had given McTavish the bloodied nose.

“Of course it bloody works,” Royce snarled.

Simone had a hand up now. “I don’t know if it does. Where’d you find the check?”

“Twenty-five’s not really going to move Henry’s needle—his advances must be in the six figures,” Wolfgang said.

“Did Wyatt have bruised knuckles?” Majors asked. “I didn’t notice them.”

“LISTEN!” Royce bellowed. “I am telling you exactly what happened. Henry McTavish was murdered, and Wyatt Lloyd is—without a skerrick of doubt in my mind—definitely the killer.”

Not even a millisecond after he’d finished speaking, there was a scream from the tail carriages. No one spoke or moved for the next few seconds. Then Jasper burst into the room, gasping, and said:

“Wyatt Lloyd’s been killed.”