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Note: If you need to find previous chapters, they are always available here: www.motae.mkrumsey.com

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Previously in Murder on the Aerial Express: Isabelle loses a game, and gossip makes her worry about Captain Miro’s fate. She breaks into Beechcraft’s suite and searches. She finds:

She also overhears two maids while hiding. One mentions Beechcraft’s abuse of female employees and the chance that his adopted daughter is his illegitimate offspring. As Isabelle exits the suite, Reimund sees her.

Isabelle squeaked, closing the door. Corrosion and corsets. She bumped the back of her head against the wood and cursed (1) her stupidity (2) dishonest chaperones, and (3) gentlemen with too much time on their hands. 

She reordered the list. (1) Reimund was a plague, (2) Mrs. Darling was a liar, and (3) she was an idiot — but what was she supposed to do on a ship full of plagues, liars, and murderers?

A light rap on Beechcraft’s came by her left temple, and she jumped forward. The moment she moved, Reimund opened the door, thwarting her escape. She stepped back into the suite as he entered.

He regarded her in amused horror. “What are you doing, my titled flower of femininity?”

“I thought I dropped an object in here earlier.” Isabelle blushed — not at the untruth, but at how bad it was. 

He arched a brow. “Try again?”

She sighed. “I wanted to see some things.” Reimund waited for her to continue. She changed tack. “Why did you and your cousin hate Julius Beechcraft?”

“Don’t change the subject. How did you even get inside?”

She looked to one side. “It was open.”

“Lies, my pearl beyond price?” 

Isabelle glowered and hugged her chatelaine to her chest. The silver weight comforted her. “I’m concerned for the captain, an old family friend.”

“A friend under suspicion for Beechcraft’s murder. So you snooped, hoping to find…what? A signed confession exonerating him?” Reimund’s smirk lent his face a tempting, punchable quality.

Enough. Isabelle stopped searching for an escape. “At least I can make sure the authorities will consider other possibilities.”

“My cousin and I are not suspects!”

She folded her dry lips, wetting them. “Tell me about your cousin’s papers.” 

One long step disappeared the space between them. “What did you say?”

Isabelle’s breath leaked like air from the dirigible’s ballonets. She stared at this too-close stranger. Without the humor lifting his brows and curving his mouth, Reimund bore little resemblance to the flirtatious man she’d met. “The papers. Yesterday, you spoke of them with the baron.”

“Were you spying on us?”

“No.” At least, she hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. “If it’s sensitive, you shouldn’t discuss the matter when traipsing past people’s favorite reading nooks.” She widened the distance between them.

He didn’t pursue her, but his stiff posture gave no quarter. “What do you know?”

She raised a shoulder and tried to look omniscient.

Reimund paced further into the parlor. “You can’t believe—”

“You have no idea what I believe.” This was a certainty since Isabelle didn’t know what she believed.

He sighed, raking his fingers through his blond hair. The silky strands fell back into place, the style undisturbed.

If Isabelle did that, her mane would ensnare her hand. Permanently. She glared harder.

He mistook her venom. “You must understand. My cousin is the best man of my acquaintance.”

She hummed, the acknowledgment empty.

“Truly. Few people concern themselves with the bastard of an opera singer and a graf, not even when the noble sire recognizes the child.”

German ranks of nobility were labyrinthine, but Isabelle believed a graf was the rough equivalent of a count elsewhere on the continent.

“Heinrich... there aren’t many things I wouldn’t do for my cousin.” He rolled his eyes at her sharp inhale. “Murder is one of them.”

“So you say.”

He ignored that. “Nor would Heinrich ever kill someone.” Having declared the matter settled, he ambled deeper into the room and peered about the space.

She was torn. The exit was clear, but Reimund had lost his strange intensity. The tension broken, curiosity pushed harder at her, and she followed him into the bedroom.

His presence cast the red fabrics and sumptuous furnishings into a different light. The environment felt less sinister and more sensual as he prowled through it.

“What are you doing?” 

He shrugged, continuing without a backward glance. “Investigating.” He glanced into the washroom as he passed and entered the closet. “What’s this?”

He crouched before the safe and studied the metal front and dial, tugging at it. “Did you open it?”

She wondered why he bothered with the falsely casual note. “No.”

A beat. “Could you?”

“No!” She tried to sound indignant — as if morals rather than inability stood in her way.

Reimund shifted onto his knees, spinning 180 degrees in a single, fluid motion. He examined Isabelle for signs of duplicity but found none. “Pity. I’m sure the contents are interesting.”

(Would he be able to tell Heinrich’s handwriting? Maybe. At least, the difficulty would be in a lack of familiarity, not his usual issues.)

“I’m sure they’re fascinating — whether or not the baron’s documents are included.” 

He rose, never using his hands. “You haven’t told me what you discovered.”

“Why should I?”

The small space shrank further as he stepped closer. “I’ll trade, question for question.” Each q puckered his mouth as if for a kiss.

“Fine.” A single, breathless syllable.

“Did you notice anything interesting?”

“Yes.”

He waited for more, but it wasn’t Isabelle’s fault he started with a yes-no question. “What caused the enmity between the baron and Beechcraft?”

Reimund bent his head an inch closer. “As you’ve realized, Beechcraft held some papers, correspondence, over Heinrich’s head. He used them to force my cousin into a ruinous business arrangement and applied his improved designs for a lignite pump elsewhere with no compensation.” His stern pause emphasized his refusal to say more on this subject.

“What did you find? That applies to Beechcraft’s death,” he added, which was smart. She’d love to catalog everything in the room, burying the important in unnecessary detail.

“A newspaper article, sleeping draughts, a blood stain, a painting, a ledger, and a scrap of fabric.”

His eyebrows climbed as she listed the objects and fell, eyes narrowing, as she failed to elaborate. “You’re not playing fair, my delightful duchess.”

“You know that I’m not a duchess... or a countess... or a princess?” Isabelle asked before realizing it was technically a question.

“Yes. Why did the specified items strike you as important?”

She shook her head. “No. That’s six different questions. Pick one thing. That will bring us even, and I want to leave.”

“The bloodstain.”

So like a man to select the gore. In his place, Isabelle would choose an item that had no obvious relevance. “It was in the closet. I think the murderer searched the safe — or tried — after hurting Beechcraft. He’d removed the victim’s finger, possibly in search of a combination. Or not. Either way, I can’t say whether he accessed the lockbox.”

Reimund winced and rubbed his face. Isabelle sidled, stepping back from the distracting German and toward the exit.

He strolled after her. Irritated at the world, her nerves on edge, Isabelle pressed her eye to the peephole. “I don’t see anyone.”

Reimund hesitated. She turned, and he was eying the entrance to the study, lips parted.

She snapped. “Don’t be an idiot. Even you should understand that we’re pushing our luck.” 

His blue eyes darkened. Surely, the generic insult didn’t wound him. He passed her and opened the door enough to stick his head out, craning his neck to look in either direction.

Reimund stiffened, swore, and yanked it back with a too-loud click.

Isabelle’s heart stopped. It restarted at triple the speed.

Wild-eyed, he ushered her away from the door, and she backpedaled, unable to think, going where directed. Within seconds, they were on the far side of the bed, and he pulled on her arm. She knelt, and he pressed one finger to his mouth in caution. She turned her head, cursing herself — and only herself, no list necessary — for her foolishness. Why hadn’t she left when she could?

“What did you see?”

Time crawled as Reimund’s eyes met hers, and his lips quirked in derision.

Her body flamed, hot from embarrassment mingled with rage. She stood up in silence, unable to speak. 

Nothing. He had seen nothing. She called him an idiot, so he made her feel like one.

Isabelle’s temper turned her careless, and she stalked toward the door.

Reimund cursed. “Wait. Check first.”

She ignored the advice, but the universe must have decided she was due some good luck because no one saw her as she slipped into the hall — at which point her luck ran out. She hadn’t taken a single step before her chaperone appeared at the end of the corridor.

“Mrs. Darling.” Isabelle greeted her with a raised voice. Reimund needed to hear and not open the door. 

“Hello, Isabelle. Shall we take our evening meal?” Mrs. Darling asked as she approached. She noticed her charge’s position outside the crime scene and searched Isabelle’s eyes.

Mind spinning, Isabelle pointed at the floor, pantomiming discovery. She dropped to her knees and covertly detached the pen from her necklace. “Ha! I knew it must have fallen near here.” She rose, gesturing to the slandered utensil. “The pen’s clasp is faulty. Let me store it before I join you for dinner?”

Mrs. Darling squinted at her. “Very well.” 

Isabelle trotted the few steps to her room, unlocking it as her chaperone disappeared around the corner.

In the excitement, she’d almost forgotten the most startling discovery in Beechcraft’s suite, the small piece of gray fabric by his bed, but Mrs. Darling’s arrival reminded her.

She switched her cabin key for her picks and turned her attention to the connecting door. Her hands shook, and the lock to Mrs. Darling’s domain took twice as long as it should. She forced herself to take slow breaths. 

At last, she was in. She needed to hurry, or the chaperone would return to check on her. 

Isabelle opened the wardrobe. The chaperone’s gray dress from the day before hung next to a shirtwaist and a black skirt. She ran her hands along the fabric, stroking it in a methodical pattern. She didn’t find the tear until she inspected the bottom. A chunk of the hem’s excess material was missing. Isabelle was often careless with her clothing, so she knew it was a strange place to lose a fragment. More commonly, the hem’s underside would detach or the fold fray.

Bending in front of the garment, Isabelle retrieved the scrap she’d stolen from Beechcraft’s chambers. She held it to the dress. It fit with the precision of a jigsaw piece.

Isabelle swallowed, returning the bit of cloth to her pocket. Head swimming, she reviewed the rest of the wardrobe, working hastily but carefully, determined to leave no trace of her intrusion. She discovered nothing else. With a last check that everything was where she’d found it, she withdrew from Mrs. Darling’s room and went to dinner.

The woman might be involved in Beechcraft’s murder, but she wouldn’t attack with a steak knife mid-bite.

Right?

That’s it for Chapter Six. Don’t forget our dinner date with Isabelle and Mrs. Darling next Thursday.

And you can learn how Isabelle acquired her lock-picking skills in the referral program exclusive: “Unlocked.”