Foul Deeds: A Rosalind Mystery (22 page)

“Most people probably aren't even on board yet, and I'm travelling first class myself. It would be worth something to me if I could get a look at them—just a quick look.”

He gave in. “Sure—just a quick look. Follow me.”

Ah, the language of tips.

We boarded the train, turned to our right and went through the heavy door at the end of the car. The bedroom unit doors wer
e all closed to the corridor. He knocked on the first door we came to. There was no answer, so he opened the door and showed me the “bedroom.” It was a double, with everything very compact and tidy. No surprises. A high, recessed shelf for luggage and a little closet. A private sink and toilet. Wall sconces, a nice reading light and a heavy blind on the window.

“Very nice. I'll definitely book one,” I said as we stepped back out into the corridor. I was almost knocked over by the unmistakable, intoxicating scent of Chanel. I looked down towards the other end of the car but there was no one in sight. “And where's the dining car for these passengers?”

“Just the next car up that way,” he said. “Or you can have a meal brought to your bedroom.”

“Could we see that car too?” I asked, starting to walk towards the far end, hoping my nose would help me pinpoint which bedroom the scent was coming from. My pulse was racing.

“Sure,” he said. “Why not.”

“You lead,” I said, letting him pass me, so I could take my time.

“Is there a smoking car?”

“There used to be, but not any more. You have to step off the train at certain designated stations.”

The scent was definitely stronger about halfway down the car, but it remained strong as we walked along to the other end. We passed through the doors of the two adjoining cars and entered the dining room. He waited while I looked it over. The tables were set with silver, china, and glassware on crisp linen.

“Very nice,” I said. “Like something out of another era. Comfortable too.” I sat down at one of the tables so that I was looking back towards him. I glanced out through the window.

That's when I saw her. She was standing on the platform with her back to the entrance of the car, smoking a cigarette. I would know that coat anywhere.

“We should probably go. This car isn't really open yet.”

“Of course,” I said “but this has been great. I think I've got all the information I need.”

He opened the door again, and as we moved between the two cars another porter was on his way up the step from the platform, carrying a medium-sized leather suitcase and a matching vanity case.

“Hey, Mick buddy. How ya doin,” he said, then turned and went into the bedroom car. We followed. “Here we go—G7,” he said. He opened the compartment with a key and went in with the luggage. I paused and looked in as I was passing. The waft of Chanel came straight out of the room to greet me. This room was bigger than the one I'd been shown, and there was a little armchair by the window.

“Gosh, this one's bigger,” I said to Mick.

“Yes, that's called a suite.”

“Lovely. I'll have to remember that—G7.”

I made note of the car number as we left it.

We continued on, passing through two more cars until we got to the first-class coach. There were still many of the comfortable-looking plush seats available. I looked at my watch. It was 11:30. “I really appreciate your help,” I said, handing him a twenty-dollar bill.

“Thanks! Just let me know if you need anything else,” he said.

“I will. It's Mick, right? You don't have a cellphone I could use just for a minute, do you? A local call.”

“No problem,” he said, handing me his phone. “Just dial the number and then push send.”

“I'll just step out on the platform.”

He opened the door and we stepped down. I looked back along the platform, but Greta was no longer standing outside. I stood apart and dialed McBride.

“It's me.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm the redhead with the first-class ticket to Truro.”

“What?”

“I'm on the train. The Ocean. It leaves for Montreal at 12:30. Guess who else is on this train? I just saw her on the platform smoking. She's in Suite G7, Car 3204.”

“She's on the train? Now how on earth did you figure that out?”

“It was just a hunch…”

“That must be what I pay you the big bucks for.”

“That's why I can afford to give very large tips to porters who let me look in cars that are off limits and loan me their phone when I need it,” I said rapidly in a half-whisper. “So quick, what should we do?”

“Well, our friend Arbuckle is still at the airport. I spoke to him about ten minutes ago. They discovered that Greta King was booked on a 1:20 flight to New York. So, he's out there with a couple of officers waiting to apprehend her.”

“My god, she's so wily. Okay, how about this? Call him back and tell them to drive to the VIA Rail station at Truro. The train must get in there at 1:30 or so. Wait—I'll ask the porter—”

I asked Mick and he told me the train was scheduled to arrive at 1:38.

“Okay, did you hear that? 1:38. The airport is almost halfway to Truro, so they've got plenty of time to get there. In the meantime, how about you make your way down here pronto and join me.”

“I was about to suggest that very thing,” McBride said.

“You've got about a half an hour to get here. I'll be in car number…” I turned and looked for the number, “3207.”

I clicked the phone shut and returned it to the porter.

He must think I'm really weird, I thought, watching him walk away. A woman with a first-class ticket to Truro who gives twenty-dollar tips but doesn't own her own cellphone. I guess they meet all kinds in this job.

I got back on the train and chose a seat. There were plenty. An attendant immediately brought me a
Globe and Mail
and asked if I'd like a beverage or something to eat. I ordered a ginger ale and sat back to wait.

As on many previous occasions, McBride arrived just in the nick of time. The train was huffing and puffing and getting ready to roll out when he finally appeared, entering from the far end of the car. The car was only half-full of travellers, mostly businessmen busy ordering drinks.

“God, I forgot you were a redhead. I thought I had the wrong car.” He dropped into the seat beside me. “It kind of suits you.”

“I'm glad you think so. I want to look good for the task ahead, but most importantly, I don't want to show up in Truro with bad hair. So is Arbuckle meeting us there?”

“Yes, though he's feeling a little dubious about your so-called hunch. He left a lieutenant at the airport just in case Greta does show up for that flight to New York.”

“I saw her. Unless she has a twin sister with the same coat, she's on this train. But it's wise for him to cover all the bases. Besides, after that magic trick she pulled last night, I'm not convinced she's human. She may very well appear in more than one place at a time.”

“I told him that in the several years we'd worked together, you'd had many hunches that were right on the money.”

“Wow, you admitted that? Have you been in therapy or something?”

“You know, that wig really affects your personality.”

“I know it does. I feel much edgier, feisty in fact. I'm sure it'll wear off. It's just that I'm completely wound up about what's going to happen in an hour. Is there a plan?”

“Of course there's a plan! What do you take me for?”

“There's no plan, is there?”

“No, but we'll figure it out. I know this much—Arbuckle is going to be in contact with the conductor and the engineer and they're going to hold the train until we have her in custody. Presumably it will be up to us to know exactly where she is when we arrive in Truro, so that they can get her off the train without incident. We don't want any frantic, last-minute chase scenes.”

“No, we don't. Alright. That sounds good. You gave Arbuckle the car number and the suite number, so they'll be very clear on where to get on the train.”

“Yes, Roz.”

“You know, she'll likely be stepping off the train for a cigarette, which would be ideal. They can just scoop her right off the platform. On the other hand, what if she's crashed out in her little bed, planning to sleep all the way to Campbellton or Rimouski. I mean, she's been pretty busy. She's probably exhausted.”

“Well, then we have the conductor knock on her door, wake her up and ask to see her ticket.”

“So when do we start to look for her?”

“We don't want to do anything that would alert her to the fact that she's being watched, so I'd say as late as possible.”

“And what about all the people that are planning to get on in Truro? Do they hold them in the station until she's taken off the train?”

He gave me that long-suffering look to let me know I was taxing his patience. “I think we can safely leave that part to Arbuckle. He'll likely work things out with the station master.”

“When are you getting your cellphone back? We really should be coordinating this with him.”

“Roz. Chill. Read the paper.”

“You're right.” I tried to relax. I leaned back in my first-class easy chair and closed my eyes. I tried to concentrate on breathing deeply.

The conductor came along and said, “Tickets!” and I jumped.

He looked at my ticket. “Truro. That's the next stop,” he said.

“I know.” I said. “1:38. Are we going to be on time?”

“Should be pretty close.”

The attendant then announced that the first sitting for lunch in the dining room would commence promptly at one o'clock.

I looked at McBride. “That's it,” I said. “That's where she'll be. I'd put money on it.”

McBride and I decided to split up.
We waited until 1:05. I entered the dining car first. The front section was quite full and Greta was not at any of the tables. I looked down towards the opposite end of the car and there she was, sitting at a table by herself, facing towards me in the direction in which the train was moving. She didn't even look up from her menu as I walked past her and took a seat at the last table in the car, just behind her, facing her back. My table was smaller and didn't have a window, so I was hoping no one would join me. An animated crowd of women travelling together spilled in, taking the three remaining empty tables in the middle of the dining car. They were a hearty bunch, laughing, eyeing the waiter, and calling to one another between tables. I gathered from their voluble chat they were writers heading off to a retreat at an abbey somewhere in New Brunswick.

When McBride entered next, the dining car was crowded. So far, so good. He appraised the situation and moved towards Greta. She shifted a little in her chair.

“Mind if I join you? The car seems to be full.” He could be quite charming, and was managing to appear rugged and sophisticated at the same time. I stared down at my plate so as not to freak him out.

“Of course,” she said, and gestured gracefully to the chair opposite her.

Good breeding. There's nothing like it.

“How's the menu?” he asked, flipping his open.

“Standard fare in disguise.”

“In disguise?” he repeated. The word had sent my stomach into a spin. But it was just paranoia.

“Oh, all these exotic descriptions,” she said. “I find it hard to know what to choose. What will you have?”

“Hmm. I see what you mean. Well, I'm looking for something light.”

“Is it too early for a cocktail? Would you like a drink?”

Excellent, I thought. The longer this lunch takes, the better.

“I'm on the wagon, I'm afraid. But I'd be happy to buy you a drink. I'll have a soda or something. What would you like, a white wine?”

“No, I'll have a Scotch.”

“Neat,” I said to myself.

“Neat,” she said.

The waiter came by and McBride said, “We'll be ordering in a moment, but we'd like to start with a cocktail. Scotch neat for the lady and I'll have a sparkling water—whatever you have.”

“San Pellegrino, sir. Would you like the bottle?”

“Sure.”

The waiter moved on to me, and I pointed to the clam chowder on the menu.

“Cup or bowl?” he asked

I pointed to the word “bowl.” I didn't want Greta to hear me speaking in case she recognized my voice, but I needn't have worried. She was now laughing out loud at something McBride said and seemed not the least bit aware of me.

“That comes with a warm bread roll, ” the waiter said.

I nodded and smiled, and he left me. He had plenty to keep him busy.

The clutch of writers in the middle of the car had ordered a bottle of wine for each table and were off to a rollicking start to their New Brunswick getaway.

“I hope they're not going all the way to Montreal,” Greta said, as their laughter began to increase in volume.

“I heard them mention Moncton,” McBride said.

“That's a relief. They'll be gone before dinner. Where do you disembark?”

I closed my eyes. What would he say?

“I'm just going as far as Sackville…”

“That's a pity,” Greta said.

My god, I thought. She's flirting with him.

“I have some business at Mount Allison University,” McBride added.

“Oh I see—you teach.”

“No. I'm a consultant. It's environmental stuff. They have an asbestos problem in one of their buildings.”

“Really? How unfortunate.” The waiter set the Scotch down and filled McBride's glass from the bottle of San Pellegrino.

“But what about you?” he asked. “Your destination is Montreal?”

“Cheers,” she said, holding up her glass.