February Fever (6 page)

Ten

I'd counted sixteen cars
before boarding the train. Two in the rear appeared industrial, and the five in front of these were sleeping cars with two levels, including Car 11, where Mrs. Berns and I were bunking. The coach seats started at Car 9, Jed was in Car 8, and according to the train layout map, Car 7 was the viewing train with a café in the lower deck, Cars 5 and 6 were coach cars, Car 4 was the dining car, and everything forward of that was employee's quarters or the engine.

Moving from Car 10, the first sleeper car, to Car 9, the last coach car, was a wake-up call. I'd been too excited when I'd come in from the other direction, and everything had looked new and fun. Coming this way, the quiet elegance of the sleepers was replaced by the raucous feel of people waiting for concert tickets. Most coach seats were full, and conversation droned steadily. Some people hollered across the tight aisles, and the crowd was surprisingly young, about half male and half female. Walking on the train was difficult. It swayed steadily but would also jerk at odd times, tumbling you into the lap of a stranger if you didn't hang onto the overhead rails as you threaded the needle.

Car 8 had a similar feel. I thought Jed would be right at home here, but he was nowhere to be seen. “Excuse me?” I asked the pretty brunette in the seat next to his. “My friend Jed was sitting here. Do you know where he went?”

She smiled at me and blinked. I waited politely for an answer before I realized she had ear buds in. I made the motion to remove them, thinking she'd be perfect for Jed. “My friend,” I repeated, “was sitting here. Do you know where he went?”

“Jed?”

“Exactly.”

“He's so nice! Um, I think he was going to play cards with some people somewhere. Maybe?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Thanks.” Maybe.

Realizing that my kidneys had become champagne purses, I made my way to the lower-level restroom. Because of the space limitations, the steps leading down were steep and curved in on themselves at a 90-degree angle halfway down, which meant that I couldn't see farther than four steps ahead of me. I reached the first landing halfway down the stairs and was about to turn to the right when the sounds of an argument zipped through the enclosed space.

“… and again. I don't know why you do it.” It was a man's voice, and the words were clipped.

“I do it because you ask me to do it. What do you think? That I aim to hurt myself?” A woman's voice, but not harsh. It was intense and focused, almost as if she was enjoying the heated discussion.

Was this the couple I'd noticed arguing outside the station? This pair sounded older than the two I'd spotted, but voices are not as good a tell as many people assume.

“I tried to use the bullet,” the man said. “You wouldn't let me.”

The hairs on the back of my neck bristled and I peered around. If I moved forward two inches on the landing, I'd be able to identify them. Then again, they'd be able to see me, and they were talking bullets.

“I'm chugged full of your complaining,” the woman said. “Up to here with it.”

I couldn't resist. I snuck one eyeball to the edge of the landing and peered around, trying to expose as little flesh as possible while gaping downward. I spotted a flash of yellow. That wasn't satisfying, so I peeked even farther before withdrawing, my heart hammering.

The man was literally right around the corner, his back to me. I could have leaned around the landing wall and touched him without moving more than five inches.

“Yeah, well, you're stuck with me, at least until we get the job done,” he said. “Now, I gotta take a leak. I'll meet you at the car with all the windows. I'm getting claustrophobic arguing down here.”

I spun around, planning to climb up and out of there before they spotted me, but I came face to face with the brunette who shared a row with Jed.

“Hey!” she said. “Bathroom's full?”

I nodded in the affirmative—I didn't want the bullet-wielding arguers below to be able to identify my voice—and raced past her,
which was no easy feat in the tight quarters. She'd probably as
sume I was in such a hurry because I had gastrointestinal issues. I could live with that.

Back in Car 8, I considered taking an empty seat and pretending I belonged long enough to get a full eyeball on the couple who'd been arguing, but my heart was still beating faster than it should, and I knew that if they suspected someone had been eavesdropping, my face would give me away. Instead, I hurried forward to the viewing car.

The sun had recently set, but the car was still impressive. The entire roof and walls were made of glass. The world slid off the windows like ink. The chairs here were smaller and arranged to face out so every seat was a good view, and every one of them was taken. A bartender was pouring beers at a counter in the middle of the room. I was impressed by how steady his arms were, even though the train rocked side to side as it moved forward.

Watching the golden stream leave the can and glurg into the plastic cups, I was reminded that I still needed to pee. I made my way down to this car's lower level, not pausing on the steep, angled stairs. There was a mini-café below, along with twelve booths and three bathrooms. One of the bathrooms was free, so I let myself in, studying the shower set-up while I took care of business. It'd be weird to shower in this semi-public place, but if that was your only option, there were worse things.

I was washing my hands when the announcement came over the train loudspeaker. “We're approximately ten minutes from Fargo, North Dakota. If you are a smoker, this will be your time to indulge. The passenger exchange will last twenty minutes, all taking place in Cars Eight and Nine, so don't go far!”

I hurried out of the bathroom. I wanted to be back in my room when the train stopped so I could people watch again. When I reached the second level, I scanned around for Jed and didn't see him. He also wasn't back in his seat in Car 8, or anywhere to be found in Car 9. I walked more slowly through Sleeper Car 10 than I had on my previous two trips through it.

Right inside the door was a tray of cookies that hadn't been there before. They looked like they had raisins in them, but I grabbed one anyway, and then another for Mrs. Berns. The porter for this car had been smart enough to lock up or hide the champagne, but boxes of juice and a coffee tureen surrounded by cream and sugar were arranged behind the cookies. I'd grown up poor, so it was challenging for me to walk past free stuff without filling my pockets, but I consoled myself with the thought that these same freebies were probably available in my car.

Sleeper Car 10, according to the pamphlet, was full of roomettes—four on one side and four on the other. These roomettes were supposedly even smaller than our cabin, if such a thing could be believed, and because of their smaller size, the aisle ran straight through the middle of the car rather than angling to the right like it did in our car. I'd tried to peek in these roomettes earlier, but all eight of them had either a closed curtain or a closed door with the window shade drawn.

I was planning the best way to accidentally fall against one of the curtains so I could check out the spaces when the person in Roomette 4 saved me the trouble by stepping into the hall. He was maybe nineteen; old enough to grow a mustache but young enough for it to be sparse.

He saw me, and his eyes did that weird light up thing they do when you recognize someone you haven't seen in a while. “Hi!”

My cheeks grew hot. I scoured my memory but couldn't find any file on him. He was plain-looking—brown hair, brown eyes, average nose, regular lips—maybe six-two, the spindly mustache his most arresting feature. “Hi?”

He held out his hand. “Name's Chad. Are you in this car?”

Relief swept over me, followed by annoyance. Why'd he give me the look if we didn't know each other? “I'm in this car at this moment.”

He glanced around, unsure if I was joking or heading to my room. I wasn't going to let him off the hook until I remembered that I wanted to see inside a roomette.

“Actually, I'm a car over. Mind if I peek in your room? I'm curious what exactly a ‘roomette' looks like.”

He stepped aside and gave me the “be my guest” gesture.

I glanced into his space. I couldn't make that whistle noise people use to express wonderment, so instead I made the sound I figured that whistle would make.
Phooo-eee
. “They sure named it right.”

It was set up exactly like the room Mrs. Berns and I were sharing, minus any floor space, closets, or bathroom. In fact, it was like our room but dropped into the trash compactor on the Death Star, every spare bit of juice squeezed out of it, leaving only the two pieces of furniture. Well, it was like that if you were a geek who loved Star Wars. Otherwise, it was just a roomette.

He shrugged. “It's not much, but I call it home, at least until Portland. That where you're going?”

My head was stuck in his tiny space, so I didn't realize how close he'd been standing to me. His body spray smelled like sugar and ox testicles.

“That general direction.” I flashed him a tight smile and made as wide a berth as the cramped space allowed before heading back to my cabin.

Eleven

The people-watching at the
Fargo train station was more of the same, as far as I was concerned. Mrs. Berns and I surveyed the crowd from our second-story room, pulling a reverse zoo-creature act. Tiny snowflakes were dancing toward people wearing winter gear, hugging their goodbyes, and lining up to board the train. The only remotely interesting character was a guy skimming the perimeters, smoking like his life depended on it, wearing an army-issue coat that reminded me of my dad's fatigues, which he'd sold at a garage sale twenty years earlier.

It wasn't his jacket or the fact that he wasn't wearing a hat or mittens that held my attention, though these were noteworthy. It was his expression, which landed somewhere dark between anger and excitement.

“Let's go eat.”

I turned my attention toward Mrs. Berns. By the time I looked back outside, the guy in fatigues was gone. “Our reservation isn't for another half an hour.”

“It'll take us some time to get there, and who eats that late at night anyhow? I thought this was
Ameri
Train, not
FancyPantsEuro­
Train. Those cookies you gave me echoed when they hit the bottom, that's how empty my stomach is.”

I stared outside again. I might never know if Fatigues got on the train. “Okay,” I said. “I'm hungry too.” And pretty excited to see the dining car. I had yet to make it that far in the train, but I'd seen enough reruns of
The Wild Wild West
growing up to know what to expect: curtained windows and plush couches in the anteroom; a lot of brocade and Victorian lamps, white-tablecloth tables lining the actual dining car; maybe a touch of impossibly sexy James West to keep things exciting, or—more in line with my luck—some second-string Artemus Gordon.

“It's not going to be like
The Wild Wild West
,” Mrs. Berns said, closing our door after I stepped outside. “I promise you that.”

My mouth swung open. “How'd you know that's what I'd been thinking?”

“Like I've told you before, you're easier to read than a billboard.” She started leading the way toward the dining car. “Also, you just giggled and whispered ‘James West' under your breath. Get a hold of yourself.”

Good advice.

I followed her toward the dining car, both of us fighting to stay on our feet as the train careened and lurched out of Fargo. We were definitely moving faster now that we'd left all signs of civilization behind. I found myself unable to argue when she passed through Car 10 and declared the roomettes so small that she wouldn't have room to change her mind if we'd ended up there, stopped long enough to grab Jed in Car 8, proceeded through the viewing car (congested with a line snaking up from the cafeteria) through Coach Cars 6 and 5, and to the end of the line at the dining car.

At least, Jed and I stayed at the end of the line. Mrs. Berns elbowed her way to the front, soon out of sight.

“It won't work,” the man in front of me turned to say. “They don't have any free tables. Even if you have a reservation, you have to wait until someone passes through here until there's room to go in there.”

Not much to say to that. I got comfortable, asking Jed to fill me in on his day. He was telling me about the new card game he'd learned, an adult form of Go Fish called BS, and I was about to ask him to reveal the secret he couldn't tell me about back in Battle Lake, when Mrs. Berns returned, eyes triumphant.

“Our table is ready,” she said.

The man in front of us swiveled, his mouth a perfect O. “How'd you do it?”

She pointed at a black plastic square that she'd taped to her wrist. “Diabetic. I have to eat regularly.”

He nodded in understanding and made room for us to pass.

When we were away from that gentleman and threading our way through the tight crowd, I grabbed her wrist and held it up for scrutiny. “The boom box reading light!” Fastened to her wrist, it looked like a walkie-talkie watch, or, if you didn't examine it too closely, a medical device. “Where'd you get the tape?”

“Old ladies are always prepared,” she cackled. “And thanks for the reading light. Turns out you were right about me needing it.”

Twelve

The dining car did
not disappoint. It was crowded, with ten four-tops lined on the left and twelve on the right, all but one packed full. Each table was covered in a white linen cloth with a vase of fresh pink and yellow carnations near the window, perched between the salt, pepper, and sugar packets. White napkins held metal silverware. Outside, North Dakota passed by as it should: under the cover of night, its endless flat fields of white transformed into an exciting alien landscape through the magic of moonlight and shadow.

“Right this way.”

The host appeared harried, and I didn't blame him. People from all sides asked him for more as we passed down the aisle—more butter, more wine, more dessert. The world would be a better place if everyone had to spend a week working in food service—two weeks if they were under the impression that 10 percent was a good tip or that waitresses thought it was charming when middle-aged men stopped them with a tray full of food and commanded them to “smile!”

We were led to the single open table.

“A white tablecloth!” Jed glanced in dismay at his
When hell freezes over, I'll snowboard there, too
crewneck. “I should have worn my nice t-shirt.”

I patted his back and indicated the rest of the train. “No one else is dressed up. You're fine.”

I sat in the far seat near the window. Jed sat next to me and Mrs. Berns across from me. I grabbed the plastic menus from underneath the sugar ramekin and passed them each one. Our choices were simple: steak, chicken, fish, pasta, or the nightly special.

“It's just like being back in the nursing home,” Mrs. Berns grumbled. “If dessert is pudding, I'm outta here.”

I pointed at the bottom of the menu. “Cream puffs, ice cream, or cheesecake.”

“Lemme see that.” She pushed the expand button on her reading light. The light unfurled like an arm and automatically clicked on when it reached its full extent, illuminating her menu. “Well I'll be. And a wine list too. Guess we're staying.”

“And this seat is for you.”

All three of us looked up in surprise as the host extended his arm, indicating that the man behind him should sit next to Mrs. Berns. She darted her hand out to the seat, her reading light still extended. “I don't eat with strangers,” she said.

The host made a Droopy dog face. “I'm sorry, but every seat must be taken. That's how it works on the train.”

“Well, lemme see him,” Mrs. Berns said reluctantly, trying to peer around the host. “If he's cute, he can stay.”

The man stepped out. He was maybe six feet tall, thick in the middle, his hair wet-looking and slicked back. He was wearing a thin gray suit, no tie, white dress shirt open at the collar. He smelled like a car salesman—specifically, stale cigarettes and a waxy cologne. My eyes dropped to his hands. You can tell a lot about a person by how they maintain themselves below the wrists. His fingernails were longish but clean, perfect white crescent moons at the end of strong, long fingers. No yellow cigarette stains on his pointer fingers. The only ring was gold, and on his pinky.

I had one thought:
cop
.

He extended the hand I was staring at. “Terry Downs.”

“Nope,” Mrs. Berns said, swatting down his hand. “You'll need to move on. Cute or scoot is the rule here.”

I felt bad for him with his hand out, so I shook it. “Mrs. Berns,” I said, “I don't think we have a choice. Mr. Downs doesn't have anywhere else to sit.”

Mrs. Berns blew a breath out with such force that her bangs flew away from her face. “Fine.” She held her menu up so it formed a wall between her and the new arrival and talked pointedly to me. “What're you going to have?”

I glanced at Terry. He didn't seem to mind Mrs. Berns's behavior. Realizing I was caretaking the man when I'd only just met him, I made a conscious decision to let him fend for himself and to shift my full attention to my friends. “A salad, and maybe the fish?”

Mrs. Berns shook her head. “Fish?” She tapped her finger on the window. “You see any lakes out there?” Then she indicated the entire train car. “Do you see any ovens? Honey, don't order the fish. Our bedroom and our bathroom are the same room. Do you get what I'm saying?”

I did, but I really wanted the fish. She had a point, of course, one I hadn't thought of. Everything we were going to eat on this train had potentially been here since New York, and it would come microwaved. Pasta is always your best bet in such a situation. But there was something about someone telling me I couldn't have something that made me want it a million times more. “I bet it'll be fine,” I said quietly.

She held eye contact, her eyebrows raised in a
really?
I held my ground.

“I'm gonna get the peanut butter and jelly and some French fries,” Jed said.

I glanced over. “I think that's the kid's menu.”

He nodded happily. “I know! I almost didn't see it.”

“Chicken for me,” Mrs. Berns said, studying the menu. “It'll taste as good as chewing on my own leg, but at least I won't be painting the toilet brown all night.”

“All right,” I said, cutting her off before she got her steam up. Once she started talking about poop, she really committed. “So, Mr. Downs, did you get on in Fargo?”

He glanced at his watch, a thick gold affair so cheap-looking that it almost appeared bronze. “Yup.”

“Where're you traveling to?”

He set his menu on the table and studied all three of us before speaking. Up close, he had a definite Nick Nolte vibe going on. “I'm traveling to—”

“Portland,” Mrs. Berns finished for him.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he glanced at her sideways. “And how do you know that?”

She shrugged. “Lucky guess. And Mira here and me, we're private investigators.”

I groaned inwardly. This would not end well.

Terry gave her his full attention. “That so?”

“Yes, it is.” She dug in her purse and pulled out the flyer for the PI conference and beamed her wrist lamp on it. “International gathering. Maybe you've heard of it?”

He chuckled, a deep raspy sound that threatened to become a cough. “Heard of it? I'm going to it.”

“You're a private investigator, too?” Jed asked, his voice awed. When I'd told him I was taking classes to get my PI licensure, he'd treated me like I'd just told him I was secretly Wonder Woman. I had to love his admiration for all things he was unfamiliar with.

Terry reached into the inside pocket of his jacket as if to pull something out but stopped himself. “I am. Have been for ten years. My partner usually goes to the cons, but he had family issues this year, so I'm going out. Hate to fly, so here I am.”

“I hate to fly, too,” I said.

“That's official, then,” Mrs. Berns said. “Two dumbasses at one table. That's over quota.”

He smiled at her. His teeth were surprisingly white. I sniffed again, discreetly—definitely cigarette smoke, and for sure coming from him. He must use whiteners and wash his hands frequently.

“You think it's stupid not to fly?”

Mrs. Berns clicked her wrist lamp back into place. “Yes. I also think most dogs have four legs, the sun rises in the east, and Dick Sargent was the best Darrin on
Bewitched
.” She glanced up at the waiter who had just approached our table. “Looks like it's time to order.”

“Reed!” I said, recognizing the temporary porter who had made our dining reservation for us. “Long day for you?”

“Not too long,” he said, smiling. “Car Eleven, is that right?”

“Not me,” Terry said. “I'm coach class. All the cars were taken by the time I booked.”

“I'm coach class too,” Jed said.

“All right,” Reed said, pulling three slips of paper out of this apron pocket. “Three separate bills. Ladies, you order what you like. Everything but liquor is included in your room, and that includes desserts.” He smiled at Mrs. Berns.

“I see what you're doing,” she said, winking. “Trying to play to the weaknesses of an old lady and charm her into your bedroom.”

My eyes widened. Reed played it cool and winked back at her. “You let me know if it's working, you hear?”

She smiled. “Will do.”

The four of us ordered and were about to settle back into conversation when a ruckus toward the rear of the dining car caught our attention. I turned to see Ms. Wrenshall yelling at Reed. The other three people at her table, strangers to her I presumed, appeared mortified.

“I did not order chocolate ice cream! I ordered vanilla, and a cream puff warmed up to go!” In her white furry dress coat and black pantsuit, I thought she looked a bit like a cream puff to go herself. And it might have been Mrs. Berns's reference to
Bewitched
, but I noticed Ms. Wrenshall also resembled Agnes Moorehead, the actress who'd played Endora on the show.

Reed was making placating gestures toward Ms. Wrenshall, but because he was using his inside voice, I couldn't make out what he was saying.

“She looks like trouble,” Terry said matter-of-factly.

The three of us did not disagree.