Himalayan Hazard

Chapter Nine

“Mom,” I shouted, at the same time elbowing her in the stomach.

“She’s kidding,” I assured the young train worker. He hadn’t shown up at work today knowing he’d have a dead body and a crazy small-town news anchor to deal with, and Mom’s attempt at humor was definitely not helping to ease the tension this time.

Mom said nothing, so I continued chatting nervously, even going so far as to raise my hands to show we meant the young man before us no harm. “We were the ones who discovered the body. Dad went to tell your boss while we stayed here to make sure no one would disturb the scene. You work in the dining car, right? I think I saw you there earlier. What’s your name?”

He stepped back into the room, his shoulders sloped forward defensively or perhaps in defeat. “Yes, that’s me. My name is Dan, and I’m just trying to do my job and—you know—not get murdered.”

“Aren’t we all?” Mom said, and I elbowed her in the ribs again.

“I’m Angie, and I’m a private investigator back in Maine. The deceased is Rhonda Lou Ella Smith. I met her earlier today. Perhaps you saw us together in the dining car.”

Dan nodded, even chanced a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I did.”

Good. This was good. Now that he recognized me, he relaxed enough to hold a rational conversation and to stop accusing me and mom of murder.

“I’m trying to piece together what I can, so I can hand things over to the cops when they arrive,” I continued, motioning toward the planner in mom’s hands and then showing him the phone in mine. “Was she there a long time before I came in or a long time after I left? Did you notice anything unusual about her?”

Dan took the phone from me but didn’t do anything with it other than hold it at his side. It seemed to further relax him, though. After all, most murderers wouldn’t hand over evidence that could likely convict them.

“I don’t know,” he said after a slight pause. “She seemed normal enough. Weird, but normal.”

“Weird how?” I pressed, keeping my eye on the phone. I would need that back at some point.

“She kept talking to her cat like it was a person. I noticed people looking at her funny, but I thought it was kind of nice. Who’s to say cats can’t understand us, right?”

“Sure,” I said dismissively, happy Mom kept quiet on that one. While she thought revealing my secret pet-whispering ability would make for a great human-interest story, she at least respected that I’d prefer not to let the world in on my strange power. “Did you notice when she arrived in the dining car or when she left?”

“She came in right when we left the Bangor station,” Dan said, then nodded in confirmation. “I remember, because she was my first customer and it was just the two of us until you arrived a short while later.”

“Did the two of you talk?”

“Just enough for her to place an order. It was a big one.”

“Could you tell me if—?”

The door swung open again, and in marched my father. The two cats followed him inside, and then a fourth figure joined us in the private room. Dad shut off his phone—not needing it now that Dan was here with his lantern—then made his way to Mom’s side.

The cats stayed quiet, watching us from near the doorway.

I couldn’t quite make out who the new person was, given that the brim of his hat cast his face in creepy shadows. But then he opened his mouth to talk, leaving no doubt as to his identity.

“Wow,” he said on the wings of a dramatic exhale. “You read about it. You write about it. But you never think you’ll actually stumble upon a real-live murder mystery. And on a train. This is so Agatha Christie!”

“Easy, Tolstoy. There’s been a murder here. Show some respect for those of us who didn’t make it,” my father warned, wrapping his arm around Mom’s waist protectively.

“Who’s this guy?” Dan asked, swinging his light closer to the writer who’d invited himself into this intimate scene.

“The name’s Melvin Mann. Remember it, because one day soon you’ll see it at the top of the New York Times Bestsellers list.” I couldn’t be sure given the current lighting situation, but I think he actually made jazz hands to punctuate his expression.

Oh, brother.

“Well, Melvin,” I said slowly, trying not to gag on my words. “This is a crime scene, not Grand Central Station. I think it’s time you went back to your seat.”

“Oh, really? What gives you any more right to be here than I have?” He crossed his arms over his chest and stepped deeper into the room.

“Because I’m a P.I. That’s why.” Would I really need to establish that with each new person who arrived? Apparently.

He leaned forward, making himself several inches shorter so he could look me right in the eye. “Prove it.” His words smacked of condescension. Not only did this guy think he was better than everyone else, but he also seemed to think I was worse. Infuriating.

“What? I can’t prove it beyond my word.”

He straightened back to full height. “Show me a business card or something.” Right, because it was impossible to create cards that read anything you wanted them to.

Case in point, Melvin pulled a stack of cards out of his pocket with a flourish and handed them around. “See, Melvin Mann, novelist. Now show me yours?”

“I don’t have any business cards on me. Sorry.” I would have turned out my pants pockets, if I had any. He seemed the kind of guy to appreciate overwrought gestures, like purple prose in real life.

He jabbed a finger at me so hard it would probably be a bruise. “Ah-ha! See, I knew you were just pretending.”

My father rushed to my side and stared at Melvin so ferociously that the other man couldn’t help but take a step back.

“Look, we can stand here arguing until the killer finds us, too,” my dad said, not taking his hard eyes off the writer for a second. “Or we can work together to solve this thing.”

“Oooh, I like that,” Melvin said, steepling his fingers in a far too sinister fashion for my liking. “This is wonderful inspiration for the mystery story arc of my novel.”

I held in a sigh, an eyeroll, and a groan all at once. “Earlier you were asking me about suspicious characters, so why don’t you go find some?”

“I wasn’t asking about the characters. I have my characters on lock, thank you very much. I was asking about synonyms.”

“Just do what she says, JD Salinger,” my father growled, taking another threatening step forward.

Melvin stood in place; a smile snaked across his face. “You think calling me by classic novelists’ names is an insult, but it’s really quite the opposite.”

Dad did not hold back the choice words he had in response to that.

I turned to Dan, ready to put this whole macho showdown—or whatever the heck it was—to rest. “Can you go check in with your bosses? See if we can get the train moving again or the police sent to our location. Something. Anything to help.”

“Can do,” he said, offering a thumbs up and a smile. At least he was more cooperative than Melvin Mann. The haughty writer would be a liability in this investigation, no doubt.

“Great. Thanks so much.” I pushed them both toward the door. “Oh, and one last thing. Please keep the other passengers in the dark about this. No need to start a panic.”

“In the dark,” my mom said with a chuckle. “Good one.”

I swear, even if she and Nan weren’t related by blood, sometimes it was simply impossible to ignore the similarities they shared. Mom was far more pragmatic and a lot more normal than either Nan or me, but she belonged with us all the same.

We were a family, and nothing—not even newly exposed secrets—could change that.