Mystery Writer's Mysteries Box Set 1-3

by Becky Clark

  I eased around my pillar, hidden from his view. I prayed he’d come around behind me. As soon as he moved in that direction, I took off at a sprint toward the train. I knew the sudden movement would draw his attention to me and away from the girlfriends. And maybe it would draw the girlfriend’s attention, too, and they wouldn’t be caught by surprise by the Braid if he decided to accost them.

  I raced up the steps of the first train car, thankful it was unattended, expecting to travel back several cars and jump out again where I’d be less exposed. If I timed it right, I could disappear back into the station or veer toward the light rail trains or the underground bus terminal.

  Fighting the crowded aisles from the first car to the second, I earned more than a few expletives along the way. “Sorry!” I said to all of them, but I knew they did not accept my apologies. Fighting to open the door between car two and car three, I was just about to put all my effort into it, when I saw the Braid fighting his way through the crowd in car three right toward me. He didn’t even bother with apologies to the people I knew were cursing at him and his rudeness.

  I turned around to make my way back through car two, which was even more crowded now. It seemed everyone who had been finding their seats earlier had now commenced opening all of their carry-on luggage to extricate everything they needed for the duration of their trip.

  I glanced backward. The Braid was almost to the door between the cars. There was no way I was getting through that crowd in front of me. Just then a woman emerged from the restroom. She barely got out before I pushed past her and dove inside. “’Scuse me! Emergency!” She didn’t need to know what kind of emergency it was. She could use her imagination, but it probably wouldn’t include the Braid. I slammed the door and locked it behind me. I leaned on it to catch my breath.

  I heard angry voices, recognizing the Jersey Shore accent of the Braid. I couldn’t hear whom he was arguing with. It might have just been a cranky traveler, but I hoped it was a train employee who would throw him off.

  Suddenly the train lurched, knocking me into the sink, almost literally. If there had been water in it, my butt would be soaked. I reached across the toilet and opened the tiny porthole window. The train was backing out of the station. The Rockies in the distance slowly inched by.

  Seems I was headed for destinations west. How soon would they kick me off? Would they at least wait until the next station? What would happen when they discovered my credit card was maxed out and I couldn’t buy a ticket even if I wanted?

  The train was creeping along, but I didn’t dare leave the safety of the restroom since I had no idea if the Braid was still on the train or not. If he was, I knew he’d be waiting right outside this door. Thinking he was leaning on the other side of it made me scramble closer to the window. The restroom was minuscule, but at least with the window open I was getting a hot breeze and a picturesque view. My personal observation car.

  I wondered how long I could sequester myself in here before someone jimmied the door open. The rail yards were a part of Denver I never saw. As we picked up speed, I knew we had cleared the station and were officially on our way.

  I kept my fingers crossed that the Braid had been thrown off before we left Union Station and that I could jump off at the next stop. I decided to make the best of my unfortunate situation and tried to get comfortable. With my feet on the closed toilet seat, I was able to perch on the edge of the insufficient counter running around the sink and gaze at the Colorado landscape pass by the window.

  I called Ming to report another Braid sighting. The connection was bad and I felt I had to whisper, in case the Braid was listening at the door. Eventually, I got Ming to understand who I was and why I was calling. He told me he had no information for me.

  “Would you tell me even if you did?”

  He either pretended he didn’t understand me, or he really didn’t. Either way this conversation was over, but not before I heard the words “active imagination” through the static.

  The handle on the door jiggled, immediately followed by loud open-palmed banging. My heart seized and I covered my head with my arms.

  “I’m in here!” I yelled, embarrassed by my overreaction. “Might be awhile.” I didn’t know if they heard me, but the jiggling and banging stopped. I went back to gazing out the tiny window. The hot air felt good on my face, but wasn’t refreshing. I wondered where exactly the next stop was and how I was going to explain to Ozzi I needed him to pick me up there.

  I also wondered what it meant that all three girlfriends came to Union Station. Were none of them harboring Lapaglia? Or were they curious as to what I had planned? Planned, however, wasn’t quite the right word. My plan, such as it was, didn’t go much further than seeing who showed up, then confronting the girlfriend who hadn’t showed up.

  I stared out the window, a bit hypnotized by the rhythmic clattering of the wheels on the tracks. As the train slowed a bit around a curve, I saw a huge billboard for a resort. It had a drawing of a rustic-looking cabin and the tagline, Lose Yourself in Lost Valley—escape for a day, a week, or a month. It listed the amenities, which seemed quite appealing, especially the spa and daily happy hour. I’d love to go there.

  With a jolt, I realized that every time Lapaglia took the train to and from Denver, which Annamaria said he did a lot, he saw this sign, maybe more than one, if train billboards were the same as highway billboards.

  Did Lapaglia finally take the sign’s advice?

  Seventeen

  After lots more rhythmic clattering, some more banging on the restroom door, and perhaps a bit of nodding off on my part, I felt the train rumble and screech to a stop. I couldn’t see the name of the station due to some ancient cottonwoods drooping leafy branches over the sign. I knew I had to get off the train here, though.

  Unsure if the Braid was on the train with me or not, I opened the door a crack and peeked out. A swarm of people wearing matching blue baseball caps with “Anderson Family Reunion” stitched across them crowded the aisle, clearly gathering their belongings to disembark here. I tugged my blue I Heart Denver cap down as low as I could and hurried to join them. I insinuated myself between two pre-teen girls and an older woman, perhaps their grandmother. The two pre-teens held hands and were fidgety with excitement. I suspected they were cousins who didn’t get to see each other very often, because why would you be that excited with your sister?

  The older woman struggled with a suitcase. She said, “Brianna, would you help me get this down?”

  “Let me get that for you.” I sprang to her side, lifting down the bag and using it to shield my face from the Braid, should he be nearby.

  “Why, thank you so much!” she said. I ushered the two girls in front of me and she followed behind. I hurried off the train behind the two girls who took off after some other members of their group already waiting in a knot by the door into the station.

  I dropped the suitcase next to them and yanked open the door. The older woman called, “Thanks again!” and waved at me when I turned my head. I waved back then ducked inside the station. The ladies’ room was just inside and I zipped into it, locking myself in the stall nearest the door. Lots of women came in and out. The other two toilets flushed, sinks ran, hand dryers whirred.

  But soon it was silent and I knew I was alone. I realized I had better avail myself of the facilities just in case. How inconveniently stupid to have been locked in two separate restrooms for hours and not take the opportunity to do some availing.

  I crept out of the stall, washed my hands and face, and then inched open the restroom door, peering out with one eye. Nobody. I stepped around a dry erase sandwich board sign handwritten with arrival and departure times next to a huge faux ficus tree. I checked the clock on the wall. The train had continued on its journey ten minutes ago.

  I didn’t hear any voices but wasn’t convinced the Braid wasn’t skulking around here somewhere just like I was. I squinted through the plastic leaves of the ficus but didn’t see anyone. War
y, I noted all the exits.

  I took one cautious step and then another. Still nobody. No voices. In front of me stretched two rows of rustic wooden benches, ornate arms bisecting them at regular intervals. Antique-looking light fixtures hung from the ceiling, fan blades rotating lazily. An empty fireplace broke up the wall to my right, ash and soot stains crawling on the brickwork in all directions. Beyond the benches was a curved archway with dark wood trim around it.

  The whole room harkened back to the Old West. I took a few more tentative steps, fully expecting the Braid to jump out at me. But he didn’t. Either he got off the train before it left Denver, or he didn’t see me get off here and was on his way west to Seattle. I was glad I had thought to close the door of the restroom when I hustled off the train. Maybe he thought I was still there.

  Feeling more confident, but still a tad jumpy, I made my way through the archway toward the ticket office. Hanging above the window was a carved wooden sign that read “Lost Valley Station.”

  My heart clutched a bit. If this was Lost Valley, maybe I could check out the resort and see if Lapaglia did wind up there. It was a long shot, but it made a certain kind of sense. As much sense as anything did these days.

  On the other side of the ticket window, a man rested his legs on a desk, blue jeans and cowboy boots crossed comfortably. He leaned back in his chair, fingers interlaced behind his head. I softly cleared my throat but he didn’t move. I tapped my fingernail on the counter. Unsure, I struck the silver bell.

  The poor man jumped and almost fell from his chair. “Dang! Where’d you come from?”

  “I’m sorry. I was on the train that just came in.”

  He stood, brushed off his embarrassment, and straightened his chair before coming to the window.

  “Can I get a cab out to the resort?”

  “Why don’t you just take their shuttle?” He pointed out the sign. “It’s the only thing out here.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Why didn’t you get on the shuttle with that nice family going out there?”

  “It was full.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  I blushed at my stupid lie when I already had a stupid truth at the ready. “It left when I was in the restroom.”

  Now it was his turn to blush. He reached for the phone and mumbled, “I’ll call out there and tell him he’s got another passenger. Shouldn’t be too long.”

  I thanked him and walked to the front of the station to wait, but was driven inside after about five minutes by extreme heat and aggressive flies. Flies with no understanding or concern for my personal space. Autonomous gangsters bent on the total destruction of my unflappable serenity. Flies so committed to my discomfort they had surely raised their tiny fists and swore an oath.

  After many minutes of contemplating the probable futility of investigating the Lost Valley Resort, and a near-decision to simply take the next train back to Denver, the door to the station whooshed open. A pale, well-groomed man who looked like he just stepped out of the pages of Newly-Transplanted Cowboy Monthly called out a greeting to the train agent, then walked toward me with his hand outstretched. In his other hand he carried a small paper bag with the Lost Valley Resort logo printed on it.

  “Alan Fraser, owner of Lost Valley Resort. Hear you need a ride.”

  “I’m Charlee Russo and I do. I’m sorry to drag you all the way back here.”

  He handed me the bag. “I’m sorry to hear about your troubles.”

  Confused, I opened the bag. Inside was an assortment of over-the-counter remedies, Pepto-Bismol, Imodium, Midol, ibuprofin. Heat crept up my neck and settled in my face. The train agent must have told him I was in the restroom for an inordinately long time. I couldn’t very well explain I was hiding, so I swallowed my humiliation and simply said, “Thanks.”

  He followed me toward the exit but said, “Let me just grab your luggage.”

  “I don’t have any.” Seeing the bewilderment on his face I added, “I like to travel light.”

  “We have a gift shop at the resort, in case you find you traveled a bit too light.” A smile played on his lips, almost hidden by his reddish goatee and mustache. “Shall we?” He swept an arm toward the door.

  “Can I ask you something first?” I said, digging in my bag. I pulled out the picture of Lapaglia. “Do you know this man? Would he happen to be staying at your resort?”

  He didn’t even look at the photo. “I can’t divulge my guest list. We have a very strict privacy policy. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Sure. I get it.” Don’t like it, but I get it.

  He walked a step-and-a-half ahead of me so I was able to study him without being rudely obvious. The population of the world would be completely self-conscious if they knew how many writers studied them for traits for our character files.

  Alan Fraser was not what I expected in an owner of a rustic western resort. Red thinning hair, first of all. I couldn’t name one ginger cowboy. No cowboy hat. Jeans with a razor-sharp crease right down the center of each leg. How do you even do that? Ornate western-style shirt with too many sequins, probably mail-order from someplace in Thailand instead of the iconic Rockmount Ranch Wear store in Larimer Square in Denver. And worse yet, two-toned wingtips instead of boots.

  As if he could read my mind, at the van he motioned me up the stairs and said, “I’m from Manhattan.”

  Not sure what the correct response was, I decided no response was probably best. Anything I said would come out judgmental, perhaps even rude, even though that wouldn’t be my intent. If he were a character in a book, I’d appreciate the juxtaposition and wonder if the author was planting some sort of foreshadowing image in my head, or drawing subtle attention to something dubious about him, or maybe just messing with me. Good thing he wasn’t a character in a book, I guess.

  I stepped into the van and took a seat in the second row.

  Alan Fraser had the radio turned low to a twangy country station. The way he hummed along and quietly sang incorrect words out of sync perfectly illustrated his Manhattan-ness. He seemed to be trying on this cowboy persona and it didn’t fit very well. It reminded me of when I used to stagger and scuff around in my mom’s high heels as a child.

  He turned from a paved road to a rutted dirt road. We bumped along and I watched the silvery-green rabbitbrush, the low-slung sumac with their orange-red berries, and the occasional purple flowering sage pass by. He shifted gears and the van struggled as the terrain rose in elevation. Before long, we rounded a bend and the semi-arid landscape morphed into something more befitting the Colorado mountains. Stands of pine trees and aspen stretched in a patchwork panorama before us.

  As we traveled, we chatted politely. He told me about falling in love with Colorado and trying his hand at innkeeping. I told him I wrote mysteries. I hoped he would slip up and say, “What a small world! I have Rodolfo Lapaglia staying here, too,” but no such luck. All he said was, “I enjoy a good mystery” without mentioning any of mine.

  He slowed the van as we came upon a driveway to the left. He turned and we passed under a huge ranch sign spanning the entrance. A massive log was anchored across the top of two equally massive logs set deep into the ground on either side. The words “Lost Valley Ranch” cut from shiny black metal dangled from chains.

  It looked decidedly more western and rustic than Alan Fraser ever could. We drove another half-mile or so and he pointed out the horseshoe pits to the right and beyond that, a chuckwagon heading across the prairie. It was the most bucolic thing I’d seen since we left the Lost Valley station twenty minutes or so earlier.

  “Chuckwagon supper tonight. Barbecue, beans, cornbread, a nice pinot noir, the works. Sign up and they’ll find you a nice horse to ride out there.” He turned to look at me. “You ride?”

  I hadn’t been on a horse since I plodded around in a circle on the back of a sad swayback at the Renaissance Festival. Her ennui had seeped upward through the saddle and settled in my eight-year-old bones. By the time we’d made the requisi
te six laps, I had nodded off twice. “Not really.”

  “We also have a hayride that goes out there.”

  That sounded worse. I never understood the allure of a hayride. Hay is uncomfortable, pokey and itchy, full of dust and pollen and possibly hantavirus. Its only purpose around humans was to make them sneeze. But I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. He was only trying to be helpful to his guest. “Maybe. I just sign up?”

  “Yes’m. At the front desk.”

  That yes’m sounded like something he’d been practicing.

  He parked the shuttle van under the portico in front of the resort which, up close, looked much more stylish than rustic. We remained outside, walking to the end of the main building, and he pointed in the direction of the cabins while he listed the amenities—all electric, wifi-enabled, air conditioning, room service—the patio area with outdoor kitchen and propane grills if I wanted to cook any of the fish I caught, and the huge, very inviting kidney-shaped pool with hot tub.

  When he finished, he escorted me to the front desk, introduced me to Maggie, the clerk, then clicked his wingtips together, doffing the nonexistent hat on his head. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Enjoy your stay.”

  I watched him go with a bemused smile then turned to Maggie. “Wingtips?”

  Eighteen

  She laughed. “Yep, wingtips every day. Says boots hurt his feet. But he’s the nicest guy I’ve ever worked for.”

  “Probably because his feet don’t hurt.”

  “Ha! Probably.” She brightened up her efficient hospitality face and started clicking her computer keyboard. “So ... checking in?”

  “Um ... not really. I don’t have a reserva—”

  “Oh, please don’t worry about that. It’s the middle of the week. We have cabins available.”