The Mystery Megapack

his partners, Connie and Bob Dalton, the captain hired an actor, who did a little moonlighting himself as a hit man, to give the performance of his career.”
    “Killing Clive,” Kate said.
    “Was Clive dead in the water?’ Marlene asked. “Did you find his body?”
    “Yes. He washed up on Deerfield Beach an hour ago. A bullet in his brain.”
    Kate let out a sad, little gasp. Ballou nuzzled her ankle.
    “You two, as older women, were specifically chosen to be their audience, to bear witness to Clive’s murder by a crazed Cuban who, after having killed the Holiday USA host, would—as scripted—jump into the dingy and take off.”
    “Older women with gusto,” Marlene said.
    Nick Carbone smiled. “Right. And those characters never had a clue your improvisations would bring down their final curtain.”
    ABOUT THE AUTHOR
    As Nora Charles, Noreen Wald is the author of Berkley Prime Crime’s South Florida Senior Sleuth Series starring Kate Kennedy as a modern Ms. Marple.
    As Noreen Wald, she wrote the Ghostwriter Mystery Series with Jake O’Hara as a New York City ghost, whose assignments are murder.
    Noreen served as Executive Vice-President of Mystery Writers of America National Board and was the founding president of its Mid-Atlantic Chapter.
    Her nonfiction books are: Foxy Forever, How to be Foxy at Fifty, Sexy at Sixty and Fabulous Forever —St. Martin’s Press, and Contestant: The Success Secrets of a Game Show Veteran , Avon Books.

MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS, by Art Taylor
    Caroline leaned weakly on Edward’s arm as they were herded along endless cement walkways and down another flight of stairs. Edward, standing tall to offer better support, had twice glimpsed the sparkling blue and gold train, but he worried that it was taking so long to reach it. After the champagne kir and the delightful bottle of Chateau de Gaudou on the Pullman carriage and the mysterious blush which they had been given in the reception area in Folkestone, the SeaCat’s turbulent crossing had been less than acceptable. Caroline had seemed to turn an even whiter shade of pale when the little English girl across the aisle had thrown up into a paper cup, and with the woman behind them, another American, quietly chanting that she was going to be sick, going to be sick, in perfect time with the rise and fall of the ship, Edward had himself felt ill—both nauseous and annoyed.
    The next turn in the hallway brought them to the end of the labyrinth and the beginning of two short lines. Edward chose the one on the right because at the rear of the left one stood the Boxer. At least that was how Edward had thought of him with his crew cut and his squat bulky build and his arrogant cockney accent. They had heard him earlier at Victoria Station, talking brashly to the woman with him, a blond frizzy-haired piece. Edward had heard the word “kissy-face” and the two of them had puckered their lips at each other in such a way that he was certain that her name was Felicia or Patsy or Krissy with a K. And he was certain now, looking at the man again, that the Boxer would not be a boxer at all but just a boxer’s sparring partner or perhaps merely an actor playing one, an extra who had a cartoon name like Brutus and only got to stand in the back and frown. They were at the head of the line then. The customs official gave a perfunctory glance at the passports—a courtesy which Edward attributed to the woman’s sympathy for everyone’s pallor—and they found themselves on the platform at last.
    “Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits,” said Edward, stopping to read the shining gold letters in a fine French accent. “Des Grands Express Européens.” The sun was beginning to set over Boulogne and in the twilight, the train appeared exceptionally regal. Its gleaming white roof seemed recently polished and its deep blue sides shone even more brightly up close than in his glimpses before. White-gloved porters stood attentive near the ends of each car, ready to assist with a small bag or a lady’s boarding, and a bright red carpet stretched before them along the length of the platform. Edward pictured himself and Caroline as characters in a Fitzgerald novel—but only in the happier scenes—or perhaps a story by James. This was much better, he thought and said as much aloud.
    “Beautiful,” echoed Caroline, and Edward looked down to find her face still pale beneath her short blond hair, her eyes still closed. She hugged herself