Shadows on the Train (6 page)

Chapter Seven

A Peanut-Butter Voice Creates
a Sticky Situation

I rang up Vancouver General Hospital with advice about Ardle. “Put him near an open window. He needs lots of fresh air. He's a smoker,” I finished ominously.

“But I'm just the receptionist,” the young man on the other end bleated.

“Fine. Put me through to surgery.”

Mother grabbed the phone and hung it up. “Dinah, I promise you we'll check in a while. It's much too soon to—”

Brrring
!

I lunged for the phone again. Mother, Madge and Jack, at the kitchen table knocking back cups of tea, exchanged despairing glances through the Earl Grey-scented steam. Or maybe it was Darjeeling or Ceylon steam. The three of them had become tea fanatics and grew quite tiresome with their discussions of hint of vanilla here, touch of red pepper there and so on.

“
Hello
!?” I shouted into the phone. It's good to take the upper hand immediately in calls, I find.

A feeble croak limped out of the receiver. “Please, Dinah. I'm already ill—no need to deafen me.”

“Mr. Wellman!”

“I can't go to Toronto with you,” my agent rasped back.

“The way I feel, the only trip I'll be taking anytime soon is to the graveyard. Some fool showed up today wanting to be taken on as a client. Guess what the idiot's specialty was.
Whistling
. Like I could get bookings for a
whistler
.”

“How about for
Whistler's Mother
?”

The rasp turned into a growl. “No jokes, Dinah Mary Galloway. This whistling idiot had the flu—and breathed all over my lunch as we chatted. I should sue, I tell ya.
Sue
.”

Mother started up from the table. “Did I hear my name?”

I handed the phone to her. “Hi, Suzanne,” I heard Mr. Wellman hoarsely bark. “You won't believe…”

I fled. Sorry as I felt for Mr. Wellman, I wanted to pore over Dad's envelope some more. Was there any clue to the eighty grand on it? And what had Ardle meant by
a king
who lost his head
?

As I climbed the stairs, a plaintive cry from Madge echoed through the house: “What? I have to escort Dinah, Talbot and Pantelli to Toronto—
alone
?”

“It's not that bad,” Jack told my sister as I sat on my suitcase to force it shut, and he fastened the latches. “I mean, Dinah, Talbot and Pantelli aren't animals.”

Madge looked up from the very tidy, compartmentalized suitcase she was about to close with a slim hand. “Jack, their ages range from twelve to thirteen. You know very well that's the most gruesome possible stage in a human being's life. The age when kids go through,” she shuddered, “transition issues. Emotional changes.”

Then she noticed herself in the hall mirror: slim, porcelain-skinned, and impossibly, for that hot August day, cool and elegant in a sleeveless indigo top and matching Capri pants. She gave a satisfied smile. “I was a model twelve- and thirteen-year-old. Quiet, well-behaved, causing no trouble whatsoever. All the teachers commented on it.”

Jack shot her a fond, exasperated glance. Then, hoisting my case, he frowned. “This feels suspiciously heavy, Dinah.”

I shrugged. “One day they'll make lighter PlayStations, I'm sure.”

“You packed a
Pl
—? Remove it pronto, young woman.”

I frowned back at him. Like, c'mon. A PlayStation was a must-have accessory when traveling. “I'm being restrained,” I defended myself. “I told Pantelli
he'd
have to bring the TV.”

“Not after I phone Mrs. Audia, he won't,” Jack said firmly.

Jack was getting awfully bossy, I reflected, and he wasn't even a member of the family yet. Not officially. In fact, I sometimes wondered how their wedding could ever occur, what with Mother and Mrs. Rinaldi complicating it more each day with their “plans.”

Anyhow, Jack and Madge planned to live, if or when the wedding did happen, in our long-neglected basement. Madge had sketched designs, and she and Jack were renovating the basement bit by bit every day. Their downstairs suite was going to be pretty nice, with French doors opening out onto our lilac-fragrant, blackberry-wild garden. And I was delighted they wouldn't be moving away—yay!

Except at moments like now, when Jack was being unreasonable. “We're talking two PlayStation-less weeks,” I muttered, dragging the machine out. Okay, so the case was now lighter, but no way I'd admit that. “I'll have withdrawal symptoms,” I warned.

Nobody heard me. Jack and Madge, holding hands, had one of those sweetheart-only, glued gazes going that normal people find extremely annoying. Jack was saying, “I, by contrast, was not a model twelve- or thirteen-year-old. Adults despaired of me until a couple of teachers inspired me to think about what I could be, as opposed to what I was. Yup, I used to be pretty beastly, all right. Then look what happened: The beast ended up with the beauty.”

Amazingly they were oblivious to my barfing noises. Hmm. I must be slipping.

They didn't hear, either, the rhythm-and-blues set that was the sound of Jack's cell going off. Ever helpful, I grabbed it from the hall table.

“Psychiatric ward,” I said into it.

“I beg your—is this Jack French's number?” inquired a female voice, smooth and gravelly at the same time, like creamy peanut butter with chunks.

In my opinion, the very-much-engaged Jack French should not be receiving calls from women with chunky peanut-butter voices. “Who are
you
?” I demanded.

“Is this—” The voice faltered. “This isn't Madge, is it? Er—oops, wrong number.” Click!

My disapproval rating of Jack shot way up. I narrowed my eyes at him, not that he noticed. He was still in tender-gaze mode with Madge.

Whom all at once I felt very protective of. Jack was keeping Peanut-Butter Voice, whoever she was, a secret from Madge. Fine behavior for a fiancé. Poor Madge!

Chapter Eight

Jack and the Beanstalk

I did a mini tap dance on the white marble floor of Pacific Central Station. Above me the spindly hands of the brass and glass clock tucked themselves together over the six. Almost time to go! I pictured the vast spaces of Canada we'd be traveling through—dramatic Rockies, prairies with their endless skies—and picked up the pace of my tap dance.

Uh-oh. Mother, having tearfully hugged Madge good-bye for the ninetieth time, was turning amid sobs to me again. Enough was enough. I dodged behind the clock.

Passengers filed past, toward the departures sign and the platform beyond. Some of them hurried, brushing against me crossly for being in their way. The sleek, stainless steel Gold-and-Blue would be carrying three hundred passengers in all.

Including one rough one. My left arm was yanked backward. “Ow,” I protested and glared round, massaging my shoulder.

The colored rope of my knitted rainbow purse, made by Madge for me last Christmas, flopped to the ground. The purse itself was gone. Snatched!

“Pickpockets everywhere,” sniffed a beanstalk-tall conductor, whom an indignant Jack more or less tackled about my missing purse. The conductor wrinkled his long nose and flapped his rubbery lips. “One has to be
careful
,” he admonished, looking way down at me as if it were my fault.

“What did you have in the purse, Dinah?” questioned Madge, clutching her own tan bag covered with black
C
's—for Chanel, her favorite designer—closer to her.

“Travel essentials,” I mourned. “A Deathstalkers comic. And the
Block Watch for Dummies
book I'm writing.”

“I'll check the Lost and Found,” Mother suggested.

“Once the thief realizes there's nothing valuable inside, he or she will toss the purse away,” Madge said witheringly.

I almost retorted. But then, remembering Peanut-Butter Voice, I laid a soothing hand on her arm. “I'm sorry our departure has to be like this, so upsetting for everyone. I'm sure you'll find the trip itself relaxing.”

Jack, busy berating the conductor, stopped to gape at me.

“It's—it's okay,” Madge said weakly. At the train, Beanstalk forbade Jack's accompanying us on board to say good-bye. “Rules,” Beanstalk informed us haughtily.

“No!” Madge exclaimed in dismay. Deprived of a whole extra minute together, she and Jack clutched each other. Gad, you'd have thought they were parting for three decades, not
three days
.

Then, to my own dismay, they began smooching.

“Jack, how will I bear it—”

“Madge, I'll miss you madly—”

Thinking of Peanut-Butter Voice, I snorted.

Jack tore his gaze away from Madge and looked at me, puzzlement glinting in his gray eyes.

“Dinah!” Mother called loudly. I hate when she does that: everyone looks and realizes it's
my
maternal unit being so embarrassing. She panted up to us and thrust my now-strapless rainbow purse at me. “Found it on the floor!”

I checked inside. Nothing missing. Since I rarely carried a purse, I was in the habit of storing really valuable stuff, like money and my school cafeteria card, and now Dad's envelope, in pockets. I slipped my hand in a sweater pocket and clasped the envelope. Yup, still safely there. Whatever
was
there that a thief would want.

An enormous twittering arose ahead of us. “Dear me…gracious…”

Mrs. Chewbley, who'd agreed at the last moment to be our substitute chaperone, was wedged in a train door with Beanstalk. Her large, flowered-print bag was jammed between them.

“Madam, please!' Beanstalk snapped, trying to wiggle free.

Madge, trim and pretty in a navy jacket and skirt, mas–saged her forehead as if a headache were developing. “Of all the people to replace Mr. Wellman as my co-chaperone,” she sighed. “A woman as disorganized as
that
.” Madge waved her left hand at the piano teacher. She waved it for quite a while, earning odd looks from passersby—but I knew it was because she liked admiring the twinkles of her diamond engagement ring.

“Shhh, Madge,” Mother admonished. “Edwina's doing us a favor. Besides, being able to use Mr. Wellman's ticket gives Edwina a chance to travel. I don't think she could afford this on her own.”

Mrs. Chewbley was now chirping advice to Beanstalk on how best to unstick themselves. “It might be best if you relaxed, young man. So long as you remain tense, we're likely to stay stuck in this doorway for hours.”

Pantelli and Talbot, who'd arrived just after us, staggered up. As well as their suitcases, they were weighted down with a Softie Toilet Paper carton (Pantelli) and a guitar case (Talbot). People paused during boarding to laugh loudly at the toilet paper carton. “I have
leaf samples
in here,” Pantelli informed them coldly. “I'm a dendrologist.”

“A denture-ologist? Excellent,” exclaimed a plump, salt-and-pepper-haired, pink-cheeked woman fanning herself with a
Welcome to the Gold-and-Blue Train Company!
brochure. Drawing back her lips, she displayed askew upper dentures to Pantelli. “I could use your help with these, sonny. I made the mistake of knocking back a pound of saltwater taffy yesterday and warped 'em.” With the tip of her tongue, she shoved the dentures more firmly into place—
click
!

Pantelli ignored her. “Try a crowbar,” he suggested to Mrs. Chewbley and Beanstalk. Along with his interest in trees, Pantelli fancied himself a logical, problem-solving scientist. “What we need here is some leverage.”

“What we need here is some dieting,” complained Beanstalk, with an unkind glance at Mrs. Chewbley's stomach. He then glared angrily at Jack, who was shaking with laughter.

“I've worked out a plan,” Talbot announced. Grasping the flowered-print bag's handle, he leaned back. “Heave!” he shouted and began to pull. “HEAVE!”

The flowered-print bag came away in his hands, the zipper breaking open to disgorge the contents, including a red flannel nightgown, at least a dozen romance novels with shapely fainting women on the covers, and boxes and boxes of chocolate creams.

Inside the train, Beanstalk got a proper look at Madge for the first time. His long face softened into a silly smirk. “Ooo, a young lass like you shouldn't have to carry heavy items,” he cooed—and removed the small black and beige Chanel case from her hand.

Talbot and Pantelli, huffing and puffing with their suit–cases, glared at Beanstalk. “How about helping us young lads?” Talbot inquired.

The conductor curved his rubbery back forward and down until he was eyeball to eyeball with Talbot. “As assistant head conductor, I am authorized to eject from the Gold-and-Blue any juveniles who create trouble.”

“Talbot doesn't create trouble,” I objected as Talbot's face burned. “You aren't a very good judge of character, mister.”

Beanstalk swung toward me, so I bolted down the cor–ridor to Madge's and my compartment. And goggled. Gold armchairs, tucked against a midnight blue wall edged with gold trim, faced a huge picture window.

“Hi, Di,” Pantelli called from his and Talbot's compart–ment across the passageway. They'd pulled out their mattress from the wall and were testing it for use as a trampoline.

“Ow!” Talbot banged his head on the ceiling. “Now I understand why gymnasts are short,” he said ruefully. “Hey, guys, want to play Monopoly?”

“Never mind Monopoly,” Pantelli replied and pulled a forest-patterned box from his duffel bag. Beaming, he held it up. “How 'bout a game of Treevial Pursuit?”

“Um…I think I'll check on Mrs. Chewbley,” I said. Humming “Black Socks,” I trotted down the passageway. Their voices floated after me.

“Thanks, Pantelli, but I'd rather sit and admire the scenery.”

“Talbot,
we're still in the station
.”