Next Stop Murder (A Ryli Sinclair Mystery Book 8) by Jenna St. James

Author:Jenna St. James [St. James, Jenna]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-07-27T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

“At least we still have a beautiful view for a little while longer.” I zipped up my knee-high black boots over my psychedelic, butter-smooth leggings and peered out the window. It was almost time for dinner and the sun was going down on the canyon. I could barely make out the rugged ridges from the mountainside.

“I’m enjoying the view just fine.” Garrett gave me a wink then pulled a blue-gray, long-sleeved shirt over his head and down his lean body.

“Is that so?” I wrapped my arms around his neck and gave him a quick kiss.

A knock drew us apart and Garrett went to open the door to Old Man Jenkins and Aunt Shirley. I took one look at Aunt Shirley and groaned.

“Why do you have that hideous dress on?” I asked. “I thought I told you to throw that thing away!”

Aunt Shirley did a little twirl in her forest green cowgirl dress. I hadn’t seen the ghastly thing since we went on the murder mystery weekend for her birthday. “I knew it would be perfect for the entertainment after dinner.”

“What entertainment?” Garrett asked.

“The karaoke party,” Aunt Shirley said. “Didn’t you read the brochure?”

Garrett laughed and shook his head. “I’m not doing karaoke.”

“Me, either!” Old Man Jenkins exclaimed.

“We don’t need you two spoilsports. Do we, Ryli?” Aunt Shirley slid her arm through mine, and it was all I could do not to openly weep. I didn’t want to do karaoke, either.

“I bet Jenkins and I could be persuaded to watch and cheer you two on,” Garrett said with a twinkle in his eye.

“You’re on.” Aunt Shirley turned to me. “I thought we’d start with “It’s Raining Men,” then move into “Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off.” And if there’s an encore, I say we do “My Humps.”

My mouth dropped open. “Um, no!”

“We’ll discuss it over dinner,” Aunt Shirley said as she led me out of the sleeping car.

I looked over my shoulder and glared at Garrett when I heard him and Old Man Jenkins laugh. We ascended the stairs and made our way to the dining car. I waved hello to Jack behind the lounge counter, who was busy hacking away at ice with the deadly ice pick, and ambled down the aisle to our assigned dining car.

A red-eyed Mrs. Rothchild, along with a totally oblivious Muffy, was already seated at a two-person table with Clive. The leather-warn cowboy looked to be doing his best to cheer her up. By the look on Mrs. Rothchild’s face it wasn’t working.

“Hello, Mrs. Rothchild,” I said as we slid into a four-person table next to them. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, dear. I wish I could say I’m doing better. But the truth is I’m not.” She put her face in Muffy’s neck. “I just hope this doesn’t cause some sort of lasting trauma for Muffy. I was just telling Clive here I think I should take Muffy to a doggy psychiatrist when I get home.”

Clive smiled gently at Mrs. Rothchild before turning to us.

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