“You’re right,” said Mal. “No such thing as too much sunscreen. You want me to put some on your back for you?”
“Okay,” said Stephen.
As Mal was spreading sunscreen on Stephen’s shoulders, Jenny Prezzioso joined them.
“I’m tired of sticking my face in the water,” she complained. “I don’t want to get my hair wet.”
“You have a bathing cap on,” said Mal. “I don’t think you need to worry.”
“I don’t want to get my cap wet, either,” answered Jenny. “It’s new.”
Jenny is very neat and fussy about what she wears. Her pale green swimming cap with the ruffled edge matched her splash print pale green and pink tank suit. So Mal wasn’t surprised by Jenny’s statement.
She just nodded.
“We could play Old Bachelor,” suggested Stephen. “Then you wouldn’t have to go back in the water.”
“Okay,” said Jenny happily, plopping down on the towel beneath the umbrella. “You want to play, too?” she asked Mal.
Mal looked at the sun. She looked at her bottle of sunscreen. She looked at Stephen and discovered he was watching her anxiously. “Okay,” she said. “Why not?”
So Mal and Jenny and Stephen played Old Bachelor until lunchtime.
It was fun and she enjoyed herself, but she couldn’t help wondering what was going on with Stephen.
It’s a mystery, she thought and smiled to herself. She’d put that in the BSC notebook so everyone could read it when they got back.
This is a stupid way to die, I thought, almost calmly.
“Move!” shouted Mr. Pierce and flung himself at the door again. He staggered back. The door didn’t budge.
The smoke grew thicker. I grabbed the handle, half-expecting it to be hot from the fire. But it was cool — and unyielding.
“Get down,” I heard Abby order the kids. “You can breathe better if you get down.”
My eyes were stinging. I was taking shallow breaths and trying not to choke. I grabbed the door handle again and yanked hard.
The handle moved in my hand. Then the door slipped open so suddenly that I fell right through it.
I’m not sure, but I think Mr. Pierce stepped on me as he charged through with his son under one arm.
Then I was being helped to my feet and we were hustling along the corridor. We were staying in the first in the line of sleeping cars, which were arranged in order of importance, with the big stars and big shots in the back of the train for security and privacy. As conductors and staff charged by I vaguely wondered if the fire had started in one of those cars.
Then I heard someone say, “It’s a smoke bomb,” in a tone of profound disgust.
I recovered my senses at that. “A smoke bomb?” I said. I was outraged. “Who would do a majorly stupid thing like that? What dimwit would put a smoke bomb on a train?”
A conductor glanced at me.
David Michael said, “Ow!”
I looked down and realized that I was gripping his shoulder way too tightly.
“Sorry,” I said, making my voice calmer.
Stacey said, “Why don’t we go down to the club car while they clean this mess up. I don’t think we can do much here.”
“All right,” I said. “After all, it was only a smoke bomb.”
Linny laughed. “I’m glad it wasn’t a stink bomb.”
That made all the boys go off in gales of laughter. Relieved that they were recovering so quickly, I forced myself to smile as I followed them down the corridor.
Suddenly I stopped and turned to the conductor. “A smoke bomb?” I said.
He nodded. “At the other end of your sleeping car, just inside the door.”
“Whoever did it also locked the door so we couldn’t get out. What was the point of this joke — to scare us to death?” I said.
“I don’t know,” said the conductor, looking worried. “But whoever locked your door had to have had a key. That’s the only way the doors can be locked from either side.”
“A key? Who on this train has keys?” I asked quickly.
The conductor shrugged. “We keep a master set on a latch inside a supply closet in the staff quarters,” he said. “And of course all of the conductors have keys. So do a lot of the other staff.” He shrugged again. “It could have been almost anybody.”
* * *
“So Rock Harding was locked out of the editing room. Reeltime magazine said that it was because his last few movies were duds and the producers of this movie didn’t want to take any chances. So Rock will do anything it takes to make sure this flick flies, because if it tanks, then he’ll never eat lunch in Hollywood again.”
It was a little after seven-thirty and we’d just finished dinner. Stacey was filling me in on Rock Harding, the director of Night Train to Charleston. I’d already heard about “Atlantic’s Antics,” the gossip column Jane Atlantic wrote for the New York Arrow, and how most of Hollywood hated and feared her. She supposedly knew all kinds of secrets about the rich and famous, which was the reason that she was the only reporter permitted actually to stay on board the Mystery Train for the whole trip, and in her own compartment in one of the sleeping cars, while the other reporters were allowed to board only for short rides or to pick up interviews and photo opportunities at prearranged stops along the way. I’d also heard about Mr. Pierce’s big break, selling the script of Night Train after years of teaching. And more about Benjamin Athens’s habit of trashing hotel rooms. He apparently thought it was all a big joke.
I wondered if smoke bombs fell into the same category for him.
We weren’t just gossiping. We were trying to figure out who was behind the increasingly nasty incidents that were plaguing the train. Rock, who would do anything to make his movie a success? Did he think of rubber hands and smoke bombs and anonymous threats as good publicity stunts? Or was Anne Arbour being overzealous in her job as publicist? Were Rock and Anne in it together?
Maybe Jane had manufactured everything so she’d have scoops for her column. Maybe her antics weren’t just confined to the printed page.
I heard shrieks and laughter coming from the middle of the club car and deduced that the game Abby was playing with Derek and his friends, which involved trying to flip a game piece into a little cup in the middle of the board before making a move, was not easy on a moving train, and was a perfect distraction. The boys, at least, seemed relatively unfazed by what was going on.
We were huddled in a window seat in one corner of the club car, taking a break from baby-sitting while Abby kept an eye on Derek and his friends. Since we were technically gossiping, we were naturally whispering. Maybe that’s why we jumped about a mile when a voice from above us said, “Hello. You’re Kristy, right? And … Stacey?”
“Uh, right,” I said, hoping he hadn’t overheard us — not that Mr. Pierce was a suspect. Unless he was a better actor than anyone else on the train, he’d been genuinely terrified when we’d been trapped in the sleeping car. “Hi, Mr. Pierce.”
Mr. Pierce smiled. I was relieved. Clearly, he hadn’t heard us. He looked, I thought, distracted, a little frazzled. Hanging on to one hand was Daniel, his son, and on the other was Todd Masters.
“I want more ice cream,” said Daniel.
“You’ve had enough,” his father said. Then added quickly to us, “Could you keep an eye on Daniel and Todd for an hour or so? I have an interview.”
“Sure,” said Stacey. She patted the seat next to her.
Todd sat down, and after a moment of mutinous glaring and scowling, Daniel sat down, too.
“Thanks,” said Mr. Pierce fervently, as if we weren’t just doing our job. “It’s a big interview, a feature writer from Screen Team. You know, screenwriters almost never win any attention for the movies they write. At least, not like the stars, or the director. But what would they do without us?” He laughed nervously. “Mime?”
“Good luck,” said Stacey.
“Good luck,” I echoed.
; After Mr. Pierce left, we studied our two reluctant charges. “So,” I said. “What do you guys want to do? Besides eat ice cream, I mean.”
Daniel scowled some more, but Todd said, “I want to go to the observation car.”
“I wouldn’t mind doing that myself,” I said. On the observation car was a high dome made of panes of leaded glass, like a real observation car of the era in which the movie was set. The car was at the end of the train and had a platform for watching the stars.
I jumped up, the train swayed, and I waved my arms around. “Uh-oh,” I cried. “Uh-ooooohhhh.” I pretended to fall on top of Daniel.
That did it. His smile turned to giggles. “Silly,” he said.
“I just hope I don’t fall out of the observation car,” I said.
“Maybe if Daniel holds your hand, you can keep your balance,” said Stacey.
That did the trick. Soon a much happier Daniel was walking with Todd, Stacey, and me to the back of the train. Just as we reached the entrance of the observation car, the train swayed again, let out a long, melancholy whistle, and plunged into a tunnel.
The power went out.
“Oh!” gasped Daniel, and he clutched my hand more tightly.
“No sweat,” I said cheerfully. “The power always goes out when the train goes into a tunnel, remember?”
“It’ll come back on when we leave the tunnel,” said Todd. “Right?”
“Right,” said Stacey. “And the tunnel has lights in it, so we’re not completely in the dark.”
This was true. The lights of the tunnel flashed by in a dim strobe effect that brightened the car, then plunged us into the dark over and over again. It was pretty spooky, in my opinion, but I didn’t say so.
Suddenly Daniel’s grip tightened even more. “Do you hear someone?”
We fell silent. Then I heard a voice from the other end of the car. It sounded angry.
“Shhh,” I hissed. Then I said, “Daniel, Todd, stay here. Don’t move.”
Stacey and I crept quietly forward.
The voice grew louder. “You cretin. You’re early. You shouldn’t be on this train. I should be on this train.”
The other figure neither moved nor spoke. Bright, dark, bright, the tunnel lights flashed by. The open door between the glassed-in area and the raised platform of the rear deck thumped rhythmically against the wall. The dark silhouettes of the two figures, swaying to the rhythm of the train, were erased and reappeared time and time again as the tunnel lights flashed by. We could hear much better than we could see.
The voice continued, rising hysterically. “I’m going to tell people the truth, do you hear me? The truth you can’t live with!”
The shadows made everything seem to move. Did the silent figure turn? Did it step away? Or did it have a chance to move before the speaker screamed?
We plunged out of the tunnel. At the same moment the speaker suddenly seemed to rise in the air, out over the railing of the observation deck, and plunge down, down, down.
“No,” Stacey whispered. “He just pushed that guy over the rail!”
I gasped as the second man turned. Was he going to come after us? Catch us? Push us out of the train, too?
My knees went weak. Automatically, I checked over my shoulder to see that Todd and Daniel were still safe.
The man ran forward, but along the outside walkway of the observation car.
The train whistled again.
Or was it the long, drawn-out scream of a dying man as he fell out of a train to his doom?
The whistle — or maybe it was the scream — stopped. And as the lights came on, I thought I heard a faraway splash in the water that glinted below the trestle we were passing over.
We couldn’t have stood there for more than a moment. Then we rushed forward to the observation platform. The protective railing was shoulder height on Stacey and much too narrow for anyone to slip through by accident.
Then something hit my legs, hard. I stifled a scream as I realized it was Daniel, followed by Todd.
“I want my dad,” said Daniel, not quite hysterically.
Daniel’s father, I thought wildly. What if it were Daniel’s father who … no, it couldn’t be.
But I found myself clutching Daniel’s hand as hard as he was clutching mine.
We peered through the railing into the darkness. The glint of water was gone, and the train rushed off the bridge and into a curve.
“He’s gone,” Stacey said in a stunned voice.
“Help!” I screamed. “Help! Somebody help us! Man overboard!”
But who was going to hear us at the very back of the last car on the train?
Jane Atlantic, that’s who. No wonder she knew so many secrets, I thought. Her hearing was excellent.
She burst into the observation car, ran to the deck, and stopped short when she saw us. “You,” she said. “What’s going on?”
I glanced at our two baby-sitting charges and said, “An accident. There’s been an accident.
“A man,” I continued, trying to remain calm. “A man went over the railing.” I pointed with my shaking free hand.
Ms. Atlantic’s eyes glittered strangely, I thought. But she said calmly, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” said Stacey. “We’re sure.”
Daniel suddenly wailed, “I want my daaaad.”
“I’ll go find the conductor,” said Stacey. Then she bolted from the observation car as if she couldn’t stand being there another moment.
“What happened?” asked Ms. Atlantic.
I shook my head. I glanced down at Todd’s and Daniel’s pale, scared faces and tried to signal to Ms. Atlantic that she should wait to ask questions until they were gone.
“What were you doing here?” Ms. Atlantic demanded.
What an odd question. “Daniel and Todd wanted to look at the stars from the observation car,” I said woodenly.
“The stars … oh,” said Ms. Atlantic. She sounded disappointed.
Seeing my expression, she held up her hand. In it was a white piece of paper. “I guess you didn’t send me this, then?”
“What is it?”
“A note. It says, ‘If you want some real news, meet me in the observation car at eight PM sharp.’ ”
Just then, the train screeched to a halt, throwing us all off balance. By the time we regained our footing, the door at the far end of the car had banged open. I led Todd and Daniel down the steps and back into the interior of the car as Stacey and the conductor came to meet us. Behind them, Anne Arbour, Mr. Masters, and Mr. Pierce crowded forward. Mr. Masters scooped up Todd and Mr. Pierce knelt by Daniel.
“Anne, if this is some kind of publicity stunt …” began Mr. Masters. His eyes were angry, although he kept his face calm. Standing up, with Daniel in his arms, Mr. Pierce was pale and sweaty and breathing hard.
“It’s not. I want to know what’s going on here,” she demanded.
“An accident,” I said, looking at the two boys.
Mr. Pierce and Mr. Masters were quicker than Ms. Atlantic. They exchanged a look. Then Mr. Pierce said, “I’m going to put you two guys to bed. But hey, what about a little ice cream first?”
“Okay!” said Daniel. He looked a bit less scared.
“Me, too!” cried Todd.
“Me, three,” said Mr. Pierce. “Let’s go.”
When they’d left, Stacey and I told our story. The conductor made us repeat it. Then Mr. Masters, Anne, and Ms. Atlantic peppered us with questions.
“It’s impossible,” said the conductor. “You’d have to have superhuman strength to lift an adult over that railing.”
“I think the excitement has made your imaginations go overboard, not a passenger,” Anne said to us.
“I know what I saw!” I cried.
“We’re not making this up,” Stacey said, almost shouting.
“If you said you saw someone go over, then I believe you,” Mr. Masters interceded. He turned to the conductor. “The first thing to do is take a h
ead count. See who’s on the train.”
The conductor’s radio crackled to life. He listened, then said, “We’re not quite in the middle of nowhere. The cops are here.”
“This is going to ruin the schedule,” Anne wailed. She scurried away to do damage control.
“Let it,” said Jane Atlantic. I looked over and saw that excited glitter in her eyes. I also realized that in her hand she clutched her tape recorder, and that it was running.
An hour later, everyone, every single person on the train, had been accounted for. As Stacey and I sat in the club car, at the center of a group of accusing eyes, the police reported no signs of anyone in the water beneath the trestle near the tunnel. They assured us that they would continue to search, but it was plain that they didn’t expect to find anyone.
When the police had left the train, Anne hissed at us, “Good going, kids.”
I felt my face redden, and I saw Stacey’s head jerk back as if she’d been slapped.
Jane Atlantic laughed. “Relax. All publicity is good publicity, right, sweetie?”
Anne turned on her heel and stalked away. Still smiling her unpleasant smile, Ms. Atlantic followed her.
“Kids,” muttered Benjamin in disgust. I decided that he was an ugly jerk, no matter what the magazines said. And I was never going to see a single one of his movies.
Except this one, of course.
Mr. Masters put his hand on my shoulder. “Mistakes happen,” he said. “Let’s forget about it, shall we?”
Muttering and gesticulating, everyone gradually dispersed.
Abby said, “Next time you decide to witness a murder, could you wait until I’m around?”
“You do believe us, don’t you?” asked Stacey.
“Of course I do,” said Abby. “We just have to figure out how to prove it.”
Abby’s calm assumption that we were right and everybody else was wrong made me feel a little better.
“Evidence,” I said. “We need evidence.”
“Scene of the crime,” said Abby.
“Right. I’ll check it out now.” I started to turn, then paused. “Stace? You coming?”
“I’ll stay here and give Abby some help settling the kids down. They’re kind of wound up.”
Kristy and the Mystery Train Page 5