The Mystery Megapack

she was as crestfallen as he was. Her eyes, fairly shining with disappointment, seemed to plead with him for something that he feared he couldn’t provide. “I had just wanted this evening to be perfect,” he said and knew that there was nothing to be gained by ordering another bottle of wine this late in the meal—that there were no other tables to move to and no possibility of asking Brutus to cease his ill manners.
    Caroline reached across and took his hand. “Everything’s fine.” Her touch was warm but he could hear her lack of conviction, and he wished again that they were continuing to Venice. Those fortunate passengers were already moving through the first dining car on their way to the second seating. They were all dressed in crisp tuxedos and evening gowns, and two Scotsmen had worn dinner jackets over bright formal kilts. Edward was certain that the dinner for the people continuing to Italy would be different and that the extra time aboard the train would give the journey time to redeem itself. But it was too late now to change their plans; someone had already claimed their cabin for the balance of the journey, and Edward and Caroline had months before made their own reservations at the Ambassador in Paris.
    “I had just planned,” he sighed again, “on everything being so perfect.”
    The chestnut pancake arrived then: a crepe-thin puff folded up like a flowerbud and drizzled with a light orange syrup. As the dessert was served, the chef entered the car in his dress whites and moved from table to table greeting the guests. Edward lacked the enthusiasm to ask his wife for the book but she was already handing it across.
    “ Le diner, c’est merveilleux ,” Edward told the chef with a good show of sincerity. He handed the book to him. “ Votre signature, s’il vous plaît. Pour souvenir .”
    The man glanced at the title and smiled, his tall white hat bobbing with his nod.
    Pour souvenir. Le chef de cuisine, Ch. Bodiguel , Edward read after it was handed back and the chef had moved to the next table. He glanced over the other names from the afternoon: Alan, their waiter on the Pullman, who said he traveled to the States once a year for the Kentucky Derby; the Shrimptons, who had offered Best Wishes from 25 Years Ahead and signed their names David and Rosemary .
    He turned to the title page then, because he had heard Brutus call out “What’s ’at?” and wanted to wait for him to ask a second time. Even without looking, he could see in his mind the Boxer pointing his fork at the book, a grotesque image of smacking lips and teeth dripping with the pancake’s orange syrup. As he reread the title a fourth and then a fifth time, he entertained the thought that there would be a murder and Brutus the victim. When he asks me again, I’ll tell him that we call it a book, he thought and he overenunciated the word in his mind. And then if he’s insolent enough to ask the name, I’ll pass it across to Caroline without showing it and tell him it’s The Origin of Species and that he should be familiar with it. Edward was well into the copyright page when he thought that the sarcasm might be too subtle and then he realized that the dining car had gone quiet and slowly became aware that the Boxer had begun to choke.
    Suddenly everyone was standing, either moving toward the flailing man or stepping back in horror. Felicia was screaming and jumping up and down, her face twisted in shock, her arms flailing helplessly as her body shook in fear. The Boxer’s arms were spinning as well, striking the glasses from the table, thrashing at the people around him, on his right hand a single finger sticking out like it was pointing at something in the air.
    “Heimlich maneuver,” shouted Edward. “A doctor, a doctor.” The wine steward had already managed to wrap his arms around the Boxer, and he lifted the bulky man up in the air, jarring his body, pulling and pulling against his chest until finally, a lump of pancake flung itself forth from his mouth. But Edward could see from the Boxer’s color and his puffy face that help had come too late.
    * * * *
    Soon, they were back in their cabin. Caroline sat by the window, staring out at the lights which passed so slowly in the distance. Edward had opened the cabinet again and was washing his hands in the small porcelain basin. In the mirror, he caught sight of himself and noticed that his hair was going prematurely gray.
    Brutus was dead, and Edward, despite