February Fever (10 page)

Twenty-One

In any case, Ms.
Wrenshall definitely wasn't lying about the police leaving the scene. I couldn't spot any of them outside, and the parking lot on the other side of the train was empty of official vehicles. With the police gone for the moment and both my neck and Aimee's on the line, no way was I staying put in my cabin. Police orders be damned. I herded Ms. Wrenshall into her cabin and convinced Mrs. Berns that we couldn't
both
leave our room. One of us would needed to stay back and lie and/or eavesdrop if the police returned. She only relented after I promised she'd get to “run reconnaissance” next time.

Police tape crisscrossed Cabin 1. I had no intention of violating the space and possibly messing up an investigation, so I just peeked inside. The room appeared not only clean but empty. The only evidence that someone had been rooming there was in the mussed-up bed. Otherwise, there was not a stitch of luggage, clothing, food wrappers, or reading materials. The room presented as if Aimee's dad had known they'd need to make a quick getaway and so he'd packed up beforehand.

I guessed he was the number-one suspect. Husbands always are when a wife's murdered. If she
was
murdered, that is. The jury was still out on that one. But if she hadn't been deliberately killed, why would Aimee and her dad have fled? And was it coincidence that a man had been murdered in Fargo, shortly before the time Aimee's mom had died, or were they connected? Strange days, indeed.

After I'd gotten as much as I could from a visual scan of the room, I headed toward the rear of the train, where I thought I'd seen two people board. Cars 12, 13, and 14 were similar to my own Car 11—a welcome kiosk of coffee and snacks at the head of each near the public bathroom, then arrays of rooms to one side of the aisle, all of their doors and curtains shut. It was almost like walking through a ghost train, except I could hear hushed talking behind the doors.

The foyer between each car felt like an unsafe elevator as I waited for the door behind me to close and the one in front to open. Something about being in the rubber between trains now made me feel vulnerable.

Beyond Car 14 was storage. I was worried I wouldn't be able to access the car, but the door slid open with ease. I spotted hundreds of suitcases, snowboards, and some odd-shaped packages. The walls seemed closer than in the rest of the train car, and once my eyes adjusted, I could make out what looked like cupboards behind the racks of luggage. I peeked around each bit of luggage into every space large enough to hide someone and found nothing. Making my way to the lower level of the car, I found it identical to the top floor and conducted the same search. I found nothing. I was about to return to the top level when I heard a scraping sound near the rear of the car. I whipped around.

“Aimee?” My short hairs were on alert, each one vibrating, but there was no answer. Suddenly, I felt seriously afraid. I ran to the
top level, glancing behind me the whole way. It took every ounce of my willpower not to scurry back to my own room, yelling “mom!” the whole way. Instead, I forced myself to walk toward the rear and the last car on the train: the caboose.

I opened the door at the far end of the storage car.

I stepped into the bladder between cars.

I pushed on the panel that would let me into the caboose.

Nothing.

I pushed again, but it wasn't opening. The foyer was dark, but I felt around with my hands until I located it: a recession for some type of key. This car was off-limits to passengers. Part disappointed and part relieved, I made my way back to my own cabin.

When I arrived, Police Chief Bob Harris was standing outside my door.

Twenty-Two

My stomach dropped audibly.
Hoping that Chief Harris subscribed to the “If I can't see you, you can't see me,” school of thought, I kept my eyes locked on my feet and brushed past him and into the room. Because I was looking down, I didn't see Mrs. Berns until it was too late. I knocked her to the ground, where I first noticed that she was shirtless. I grabbed a blanket from the nearby chair to cover what was an admittedly nicer bra than any I owned.

“Stop it—I got this,” she hissed to me as I helped her up, pushing me to the side.

I watched with a cross between horror and admiration as she continued what was certainly a seduction to distract the police chief from my absence.

“So, Chief Bob, as I was explaining before Mira so rudely interrupted us, I find that yoga greatly increases my flexibility and stamina.” She smiled slyly before dropping into what was supposed to be Downward Facing Dog but came across more as Canine In Heat. I had to look away. Bob Harris had the decency to do the same.

“And as
I
was explaining,” he said, glancing down the hall uncomfortably, “I am afraid I don't have time for yoga, and I'm incredibly sorry to have interrupted your practice just as you were, ahem, removing your shirt.”

I almost felt sorry for him. He was trying to do his job. “Can we help you with something?”

He trained his gaze on me, careful not to let it land anywhere near Mrs. Berns, who was Cat/Cowing with all the single-mindedness of Jenna Jameson on set. “You can start by telling me where you were just now.”

Mrs. Berns, realizing her audience had moved on, stood and pulled on her shirt. “She was looking for a place to poop because she clogged the toilet.”

I blushed, but it might have been from pride at how quickly she concocted that lie by sewing together last night's truth with this moment's falsehood. “It's true,” I said, playing the blushing for all it was
worth. “My tummy is still upset. I went to Car Twelve to use their
public bathroom.”

“Why not use this car's public restroom, like you did last night?”

I held my hands, palms up. “Trying to spread the wealth.”

He nodded, struggling for words, then finally gave up and ran his hand through his thinning hair. “I stopped by to let you know that we're lifting the lockdown. Everyone is free to move about the train, but you can't disembark for the time being.”

“Whoo-hoo!” Mrs. Berns yelled. “I was going stir crazy.”

“Have you found anything?” I asked.

“Have you?” he asked back, reminding me that he was not a man to underestimate.

“Just that the toilet paper in Car Twelve is no softer than in Car Eleven.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “The train will be staying put for a while, so I am recommending to everyone that they stock up on food. Also, it goes without saying that the scene of the death is off-limits. I'll have an officer posted outside the door. There will also be police officers posted around the train to make sure no one comes or goes.”

“Thank you,” I said, because a response seemed warranted.

He risked a look at Mrs. Berns, then back at me. “You two are quite a pair.”

You have no idea
.

Chief Harris left, presumably to share the news with the other sleeper cars. Mrs. Berns informed me that she'd removed her shirt as soon as I'd left because her girls were her “best weapons in the fight against getting busted,” and we made our way to the snack car to collect food and information.

Car 10 had the same subdued feel as the other sleeper cars I'd just visited. The atmosphere in Car 9, however, was chaos. A pair of thirty-something men argued with what I was guessing was a plainclothes officer stationed at the exit. Kids were either crying or running up and down the aisles, and a makeshift food war meant that Froot Loops were being tossed from one side of the car to the other. Mrs. Berns and I kept our heads down and threaded our way through the car.

“They're going to have to let these people out soon,” I muttered.

Mrs. Berns nodded her agreement and led the way to Coach Car 8, which had a distinctly different feel, likely due to the hazy, sweet smell of pot and the makeshift music coming from one of the snowboarders. One was strumming on an acoustic guitar, another playing harmonica, and Jed had joined in, beating his chair tray like a bongo. The rest of the train car was either swaying to the music, whispering in small groups, or napping.

“Now this is more like it,” Mrs. Berns crowed. She raised her voice to be heard above the music. “Who's got the good stuff?”

Jed stopped playing his tray-bongo to wave at us. “Mira! Mrs. Berns! I'm so glad you two are okay. Wanna make music with us?”

“You betcha,” Mrs. Berns said. “As soon as I sample your weed.”

I nudged her. “Nunh-unh. No wacky tobacky for you. We've got work to do.”

“Just a toke?” She tossed me pleading eyes. “Helps me to focus.”

“Helps you to think the word
titter
is the most hilarious thing ever invented before you fall into a deep coma, is more like it,” I said. “Remember New Year's Eve?”

She got a faraway look in her eyes before she started giggling. “
Titter
,” she said.

I pushed her forward. “Exactly. Let's keep moving. Jed, can you keep your ear to the ground for us? Let us know if you hear anything about why the train is stopped?” It had occurred to me that maybe not everyone knew there'd been a possible homicide onboard, and certainly most people didn't know that there had been a fatal shooting at the Fargo train station.

“Sure, man. And can you pick me up some salted peanuts and a Coke while you're in the cafe car?”

I told him I would, and we continued to the viewing car. It was packed, as usual, but the mood was calm overall, maybe because the people in this car were close to food. Still, it was a wonder the officers visible outside the windows weren't making them nervous. I tapped an older man on the shoulder, a white-haired guy right inside the door who was reading in one of the cup chairs.

“Excuse me, do you know why the train is stopped?”

Mrs. Berns turned, her expression at first confused and then keen. “Yes, no one is telling us anything back in the sleepers.”

He put his finger in the book to hold his page. “Something mechanical. I hear it's making some people on the train antsy, but I'd rather they take the time to fix it than to go off the rails, wouldn't you?”

“Definitely.” I tipped my head toward the window. “But why the police out there, if it's just mechanical?”

He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. I really should invest in one of those, but who would I call? My friends were either with me or could reach me on a landline.

“I can tell you that firsthand,” he said, “or close to it. I boarded back at Fargo. Two dangerous convicts escaped from the prison there, and they think they might be on this train. Damn phone's been ringing off the hook with family telling me.”

Twenty-Three

We thanked the man
for the information and made our way to the lower half of the car, where the snacks were sold. A line of people snaked up the stairs, so we queued up at the end. I leaned in close so no one could hear me and whispered into Mrs. Berns's ear. “What do you make of all that?”

“That we should have flown,” she replied, not bothering to lower her voice.

“No, about the escaped convicts.”

“That we're locking our door from now on. And that the death next door is taking on a distinctly more murderous tinge.”

The line inched forward, and we found ourselves on the first step leading down, limiting our view of the people occupying the viewing car and giving me a false sense of privacy. “I think I saw them.”

“What?”

“Aimee and her dad. I thought I saw them sneak onto the train. That's part of the reason I left.”

A woman spoke behind me, her voice shrill. “You saw the
little girl?”

I swiveled, my heart plummeting. Ms. Wrenshall stood behind me, sucking a pint of milk through a straw. “I meant back in Detroit Lakes,” I stammered.

“What's this?” Terry Downs, our PI dinner companion from the previous night, appeared behind Ms. W's shoulder.

“Mira thinks she saw the daughter and husband of the murdered woman reboard the train.”

“That's not true! I saw them get on back at Detroit Lakes, and I was wondering if they were lying about being from New York.” Trying to convince someone that the truth is a lie is a tricky move, one I call the Reverse Fib. It should not be attempted by amateurs, but if you find yourself cornered, here is the key rule: the Reverse Fib must itself be at least 50 percent truth because the person you are RFing will already have caught a whiff of honesty; to lead them away from the original truth, you need to mimic that scent.

“Have I talked to you about yoga?” Mrs. Berns asked, beginning to pull up her shirt. I grabbed her hands, my mind scurrying for a more appropriate way to throw Ms. Wrenshall and Terry further off the trail, when the crackle of the viewing car PA system saved me.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have an announcement. We have a very special guest boarding.”

Conversations in the viewing car hushed immediately. Ms. Wrenshall and Terry stood aside, giving Mrs. Berns and me room to step back onto the top floor. Everyone stared expectantly toward the speakers mounted in the corners of the cabin, as if the someone special was going to walk out of one of them. Instead, he came through the door nearest the dining car.

I recognized him immediately.

Twenty-Four

I am not a
big TV watcher. It isn't elitism; I just have terrible reception out at the double wide. However, there was one channel that came in consistently, and that was RNC, a cable channel devoted to reality television. As a diehard people watcher, I have no issue with reality TV other than the scripted feel of it.

That said, there was a show that I'd caught once or twice that always rubbed me wrong. It was called
Attenborough PI
, and featured Doghn (pronounced “Don,” which was enough in itself to turn me off) Attenborough, “actual private investigator with twenty-three years of experience running his own agencies in three different countries, escaping danger, thwarting criminals, and saving lives and reputations.” He'd been propelled into the national spotlight by solving a high-profile case, and he'd rolled that career move into a TV show. He came across as an arrogant, precious man, and I was looking at him right now, in the flesh.

He appeared smaller in person than on TV, no taller than five-five, with a head so big it looked like he was standing near me even though he was ten feet away. His predominant characteristics were a mustache curled up at the tips and a cherubic pink nose.

“Hello!” He held his hand in the air to quiet the excited murmuring. I couldn't place his accent when I'd watched his TV show, and it was no clearer in person. It seemed like a Mississippi twang trying to wear a British coat. “Doghn Attenborough. Pleased to meet you all. I hear you've had a little trouble. Well, don't worry, I'm here to help.”

Several people on the train clearly recognized him. Mrs. Berns
was not one of them. “Who's the puffy little rooster?” she asked
me, not using her inside voice.

Doghn's smile slipped, but he glided through the packed car to where she and I were standing with Terry and Ms. Wrenshall. He opened the jacket of his three-piece suit, retrieved a silver case, and flicked out a business card in a signature move that I'd seen him perform on TV.

“Doghn Attenborough, actual private investigator with twenty-three years—”

Mrs. Berns scratched at his card.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“It looks like a couple extra letters fell onto your first name, Don,” she said, “and I was trying to see if they came off. It'll be mighty expensive to reprint these if not. Maybe some Wite-Out?”

“That is the correct spelling of my name.”

This close, he smelled like Aramis, which is what my high school gym teacher used to wear. I associated the odor with swishy pants, whistles, and incompetence. “You said you're here to help?” I didn't add to the question because I wanted to hear exactly what he thought the trouble was. The possible murder of Aimee's mom? The fact that Aimee and her dad were missing? The gunshot victim back at the Fargo train station? The escaped convicts who may or may not be on the train? The mechanical problem that likely didn't exist?

He snatched his card back from Mrs. Berns and returned it to the silver case. I wondered if that was the first time he'd ever had to do that. “The missing persons case, obviously.”

“Who's missing?” I prompted him.

“A father and daughter.”

The rest of the train inhabitants had returned to their conversations, though some appeared to be surreptitiously eavesdropping on Doghn.

“And who called you to help?” I asked. Seriously. The guy lived in Michigan, as far as I knew. Why would the police ask him to come all the way to Montana to help with what looked like a tragic but not particularly unusual missing-persons-possible-homicide case? And how had he traveled here so fast?

“I'm the PI. I'll ask the questions here,” he said, stroking the tips (swear to god) of his effeminate mustache.

Mrs. Berns harrumphed. “Mira here is a private investigator, too, and so is Terry,” she said, stabbing her thumb at the man who'd been standing behind her, quietly absorbing all of this. “I'm in training. We're all headed to the PI conference in Portland, so I'm sorry to inform you that you're not the queen of this ball.”

“Is that so?” Doghn glanced at me with renewed interest before letting his eyes flit to Terry. “Well, we must work together! The more the merrier. Let us first go to the scene of the crime. Porter, deliver my bags to my room!”

Reed materialized behind Doghn, a valise under each arm. He appeared disgruntled at best. We all followed him with various levels of enthusiasm. For my part, I couldn't wait to hear the story of how Doghn had reached this train and how much he knew. I was also itching to find out what the law would think about him being here to “help,” how he'd found a room on what was supposedly a booked-solid Valentine Train, and most importantly, if he could locate Aimee.

I hoped with every inch of me that he could.