Mayhem at the Orient Express Read Online Free PDF Page B

wearing a tan trenchcoat and
     a brown fedora.
    Disappointed? Yes, a little. Until I reminded myself that Peter was quick and efficient
     so it shouldn’t take him long to take care of this man. And besides, the orange/peanut
     chicken was worth waiting for.
    I was all set to stroll right in and take my place in line when I heard the baritone
     grumble of the customer’s voice and saw him poke Peter square in the chest with one
     finger.
    Hey, even in New York, where shrinking violets get walked all over, this was not the
     way we put in our takeaway orders.
    Curious, I ducked to my right and out of both men’s line of vision, the better to
     watch what was going on.
    As if he were moving in slow motion, I saw Peter flatten his hands against the front
     counter and lean forward. He was shorter than the other man, slimmer, and wearing
     a white apron tied around his waist, and he had one of those paper surgical masks
     looped around his neck and hanging down on his chest.
    Not exactly the picture of a tough guy, but whatever the customer had said, Peter
     gave back as good as he got. His voice was quieter, and higher-pitched; I couldn’t
     understand a word. But I couldn’t fail to miss the fact that Peter’s eyes spit fire.
    His teeth clench over his words, Peter reached under the front counter and came up
     holding a single sheet of white paper. He waved it in front of the customer’s face.
    The man stepped back and shook his head, and I caught a couple words. “Not me. Don’t
     know what . . . You’re crazy . . . It’s not what we’re talking about, anyway.”
    Peter slammed the paper down on the counter, and the customer whirled toward the door.
     The stranger’s voice rumbled its way out to the sidewalk. “It was a bait and tackle
     shop once. It can be a bait and tackle shop again.”
    Before I could move to get out of the way, the man slammed out of the door and plowed
     right into me.
    My knees buckled and I would have hit the sidewalk if he hadn’t grabbed my arm to
     keep me upright. This close, I saw that the man’s brown eyes were small and set close
     together and his cheeks were doughy. The hand that held my sleeve was meaty, the fingers
     short and as fat as sausage links. The man’s mouth opened and closed, and though I’m
     definitely not the rose-colored-glasses type, I found myself hoping he was fighting
     to form the words of an apology. When he came up empty, dropped his hand, and stalked
     away, I couldn’t help but be annoyed.
    “Well, then.” My spine stiff with indignation, I tugged my jacket back in place, nudged
     my glasses up to the bridge of my nose, and took a deep breath. Undeterred and as
     hungry as ever, I walked into the Orient Express.
    What to say to a proprietor who’s just had a knock-down-drag-out with a customer?
    No worries. Like I said, I’m from New York. Though it wasn’t a daily occurrence, I’d
     seen my share of confrontations back in the big city and, truth be told, I’d been
     involved in a couple myself. I knew the drill. When in doubt about what’s politically
     correct or morally right, pretend nothing happened at all.
    At least if you’re smart.
    But like I may have mentioned before . . . me and smart (at least that kind of smart) . . .
     not two concepts that are usually included in the same sentence.
    The moment I was inside the door, I asked Peter, “Are you all right?”
    I actually thought he might throw the same question back at me. After all, I was the
     one who’d nearly been flattened by the man in the trenchcoat, and Peter is usually
     nothing if not chatty and concerned that his customers have just the right experience
     at the Orient Express.
    Except this time, I guess he was so upset by the incident I’d witnessed inside the
     restaurant, he didn’t even notice my close encounter with the sidewalk.
    He was standing right where I’d last seen him, his face screwed into an expression
     I refused to call inscrutable,