Murder on the Mullet Express

by Gwen Mayo

  “No,” the first man said as he picked up his hat and put it back on his head.

  The conductor turned to the second man, who was straightening his clothes. “And you, sir? Do you wish to swear out a complaint?”

  The second man stared at the first for a moment, and then said, “No.”

  “Then no more fighting. You,” he pointed to the first man, “ride in this car. And you—” he pointed to the second, “ride in that one. If either of you cause another disturbance, you get bounced from the train, even if we’re riding through a bayou. Have I made myself clear?”

  Both men gave the conductor a curt nod. They glared at each other before they parted ways, and the crowd began to disperse.

  Teddy sighed. “I guess it’s over.”

  “Good. Maybe the train will leave soon,” Cornelia said, continuing to crank the handle. She did another long pan of the train and the station behind it.

  Her companion perked up again. “Hey, did you get all that on film?”

  “Of course.”

  “Your uncle will be so jealous that you got the fight on film and he didn’t.”

  “That’s what he gets for playing with trains. He loves them. Did I ever tell you that he used to have one running around inside his house? It was quite the little marvel. His housekeeper would load his dinner into a steam tray in the top of the baggage car. Uncle pulled a cord at the table and the little train would come chugging out of the kitchen to serve dinner.”

  “Really? He’s never mentioned it. The way your uncle likes talking about his inventions, I’d think he would have a grand time telling me that story.”

  “Don’t ask,” Cornelia said, “unless you are prepared to spend the day listening to him lecture on efficient fuel consumption and the mechanics of heat distribution.”

  Teddy chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Their passenger car was crowded and stuffy in the afternoon sun. The conductor tried his best to sit groups together, but it wasn’t always possible. The two women found a seat to share, but Uncle Percival sat two rows back, next to a teenage boy visiting Dunnellon with the rest of his large family. Fortunately, the professor had his new camera on his lap, which gave them something to talk about.

  Teddy fanned herself with the Homosassa paper. “I hope the heat won’t be too much for the professor.”

  Cornelia smiled. “If he could manage steam engines in Kentucky summers, I think he’ll survive a two-hour train ride. Besides, once we’re moving there should be a breeze from the windows.”

  Passengers filed past them, bags and voices both bumping into Cornelia’s space.

  “Will there be a beach? Then why are we bothering with this place?”

  “If no passengers or freight are allowed on or off the train at some stops, why do they make stops at all?”

  “He has no business keeping it, and I’m going to get it back if I have to pry it from his cold dead hands.”

  “They ought to have paid the railway to make this a non-stop run. Does getting mail on Tuesday instead of Monday really make a difference in a backwater like this?”

  The tripod that Cornelia, once again, had been left to hold got jarred and jarred again. Would she be carrying it for the entire trip?

  She turned to Teddy. “Please set this against the wall next to you before I beat someone over the head with it.”

  Cornelia leaned back in her seat and opened the Gertrude Stein book. It didn’t take long for her to realize Teddy was right; the book was a morass of repetitive phrases. People were listening and loving, regular and pleasant, sometimes gay and sometimes not as gay. Who had decided that this was literature? Cornelia’s idea of literature was Jules Verne.

  Worse, the book was giving her a headache. She had to finish it, though, or Teddy would tease her. Plus, it would be a huge waste of money if no one read it.

  A man swayed past them, gripping the seat backs for balance. His face was pale.

  “That’s one of the men from the fight.” Teddy watched the man with professional concern. When he reached the end of the car, he entered the lavatory.

  “He looks the worse for wear,” Cornelia said.

  “He should. The other fellow gave him quite a sock to the stomach.”

  When the failed pugilist swayed their way on his return trip, Cornelia laid a hand on his arm. “Are you all right, Mr.—?”

  The man forced a smile to his sweaty features. “Janzen, ma’am, Raymond Janzen. Still walking, a good sign. I really need more sitting time, though. Thanks for asking.”

  Cornelia went back to parsing text about hunters who weren’t hunters when, once again, the unfortunate man came up the aisle again, faster this time. He disappeared into the lavatory and did not emerge for a while.

  His face was ashen now. Not a good sign.

  The train stopped in Dunellon, and the Professor lost his young companion. His new seatmate became Mr. Janzen, who had decided to move closer to his now-preferred lavatory location for the remainder of the trip. Cornelia made a mental note to seek him out again when they arrived in Homosassa. Someone should urge him to seek out a physician. There was a chance he was bleeding internally.

  They reached their destination in the early evening. The passengers marveled at their surroundings as they stepped onto the platform. They stood within a circle of electric light in almost cavernous surroundings. Stalactites of Spanish moss dangled from the tallest live oaks Cornelia had ever seen. Branches covered the town in a dark umbrella. Beneath the sound of released steam, she heard frogs croaking. A glint of water shone through palm fronds.

  Professor Pettijohn pulled his watch from his pocket and checked it against the clock in the station. He nodded with satisfaction. "Right on time. Admirable, considering the number of extra passengers on today’s run."

  “Not many street lamps for a planned city of 100,000 people,” Teddy said. “Shouldn’t the train station be on the White Way they’re building?”

  “The station was here first,” Uncle Percival said. “We are in Homosassa, not the new development. We'll see that tomorrow."

  Cornelia wasn’t interested in railways or street lights. The place was wonderful, mostly because it was the end of the line. She needed a break from traveling.

  Her enchantment was broken seconds later by the glare of automobile lights. A line of cars and a few carriages waited outside the station to take them to their respective hotels. Uncle Percival had booked them into the Riverside Lodge for three nights. This was the first stop on his itinerary. The professor planned to be in St. Petersburg by February fifth—his birthday—to see the construction on the new pier. Only an engineer would enjoy viewing construction work as a birthday activity.

  Teddy took her arm. “Look, there’s the man from the fight. He must be glad to be off the train.”

  Jerked back to the present time, she searched the crowd for Mr. Janzen. There he was, being helped into a car by Peter Rowley and a young man who followed him into the vehicle. Good, he wasn’t traveling alone. Perhaps the West Coast Development Company had a doctor available, if there wasn’t one in the old town.

  “Riverside Lodge” consisted of a large Victorian house on the waterfront, five long log buildings set back amongst the trees, and a general store on the dock. Uncle Percival had secured rooms for them on the first floor of the main house. Cornelia stowed her bag in the room and went back to help Teddy with hers. Despite Teddy having to freshen her makeup, the two women were ready for dinner long before Uncle Percival appeared in the lobby. He had taken the time to bathe, change suits, and groom his short snowy beard.

  The meal was served al fresco by the river. The scent of citronella oil and camphor battled with the deep earthy aroma of the river. Although the stone patio extended the full length of the lodge and all the way to the river, the trio was unable to locate a free table.

  “Pardon me,” a male voice said, “If you would like to sit with us, you’re welcome to.” The speaker was a slender man who
appeared to be in his early forties. Next to him sat a woman of similar age, presumably his wife.

  “That’s very gracious of you,” Teddy replied. They made their way to the table.

  “William and Rosemary Carson,” the man said. “We hail from Virginia. And you are—?”

  “Percival Pettijohn, retired professor. This is my niece, Cornelia Pettijohn, and her friend Teddy Lawless. We drove down from Kentucky. Unfortunately, our car broke down outside of Ocala.”

  “Mr. Rowley rescued us,” Teddy said.

  “He must run a full-service operation,” Carson said, adding a chuckle.

  “What did you teach, Professor?” Rosemary Carson’s heavy brown hair was pulled back into a French twist. The torchlight gave it a gold-red cast.

  “Mechanical engineering. I began teaching at the University of Kentucky when it was still the Kentucky Agricultural and Mechanical College. Back then I was the engineering department.”

  Cornelia watched him subtly adjust the volume on his hearing device with the amplification control in his breast pocket. It was probably hard to sort out one conversation with so many going on around them.

  A waiter arrived at their table with a tray of sweaty glasses and a carafe of water. He set the glasses down carefully. “Welcome to Homosassa. May I bring you some other beverages while you study the menu? Lemonade, iced tea, coffee?”

  The professor pointed at the menu. “What’s this mullet spread?”

  “A local favorite, sir, a Homosassa special,” the young man replied. “Cream cheese blended with smoked mullet, a type of fish caught in the river over there. It comes with crackers.”

  Uncle Percival nodded. “I’d like to try some. It will fortify me enough to read the rest of the menu.”

  “Make that two orders,” Carson said. “We could also use some fortification.”

  Cornelia and the Professor chose to drink lemonade, while Teddy and the Carsons ordered the iced tea.

  The spread was delicious. The professor ordered another helping to share with his companions, plus red snapper for himself. Carson chose the venison, while the ladies united on the duck with marmalade sauce.

  Hellos arose from a nearby table. Peter Rowley had joined some of his customers for dinner. Tonight, he looked overheated in his dinner jacket. Cornelia was sympathetic—the only thing harder than traveling with a crowd was herding them.

  “Rowley,” William Carson called, “The conductor on the train told me that mullet wasn’t a fish.”

  The land agent grinned. “Oh, he did, did he?”

  “Well, is it a fish or not? It certainly tastes like fish.”

  Rowley pulled back the empty chair at their table, sat in it. “It depends on if you’re scaling one or paying a fine for fishing out of season.”

  “Fishing out of season?” Carson looked amused.

  “Yes. Some young fellas down in Tampa got caught fishing for mullet out of season. Their attorney argued that they hadn’t broken any laws, because mullets weren’t really fish.”

  Even Cornelia was curious now. “On what basis?”

  “Because mullets have gizzards. No other fish, at least any the judge knew about, have ‘em. Only birds have gizzards, so the lawyer argued that mullet had to be a type of bird.”

  “The gills and scales didn’t make a difference?”

  “They got off without having to pay the fine.”

  Carson laughed. “That was some sharp lawyer!”

  Rowley turned to better face the other man. “Are you a sportsman, sir? Hunting, fishing?”

  “I’ve done a little hunting in my time.”

  Rowley waved his arm in an expansive gesture. “This area is a real paradise for hunters and fishermen. Ducks, quail, doves, turkey, black bear, some deer. All varieties of fish. The tarpon, the black bass, the crevallo—”

  “And mullets,” Teddy said. “Or do those count as waterfowl?”

  “They pull mullet up by the netful here,” Rowley replied. “Remember the train you came in on? When it leaves at six thirty tomorrow morning, the flatcar will be loaded with bins full of nothing but ice and mullet. That’s why they call it the Mullet Express.”

  Uncle Percival yawned.

  “I’m sorry,” the land agent said, taking his cue. “I’d forgotten how late it was. See you—” he addressed the diners “—see all of you bright and early tomorrow. I’ve got plenty to show off.”

  “I don’t know if buying a house here would be wise,” Teddy said as she hung her dresses in the wardrobe. “It’s not nearly as built up as the brochure suggested.”

  “We haven’t seen where they’re building yet. Besides, not everything needs to be built up,” Cornelia replied, unrolling her stockings. “Quiet is its own tonic.”

  “This is even more isolated than Fisher’s Mill. Only one store, no library, no sign of any nightlife—”

  A shriek from the shared bathroom interrupted Teddy’s litany. The nurses dropped their respective projects and rushed to the door.

  When Cornelia opened it, a young woman fell backwards into her arms. The girl screamed, and it was clear that she was the source of the first cry.

  Cornelia stood her back on her feet. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s horrible!” she managed.

  “That’s hardly helpful,” she snapped, and left her for Teddy to manage. Cornelia stepped into the frame of the bathroom door.

  The opposite door was also open. An older woman with salt-and-pepper hair stood there, scanning the room with frightened eyes. The chamber behind her was strewn with clothing and hatboxes.

  “Careful,” she said, “there’s a creature in here.”

  “Creature? Where is it?”

  “In the bath. A reptile or a snake.” The woman shuddered.

  “Let me look.” Cornelia slid into the room, eyeing the crevices and corners with suspicion. At any moment, she might need to jump back if it were a poisonous snake.

  The first and second corners were empty; a toiletry bag obscured the third. A strong chance of enemy action there. The fourth corner was hidden by the tub. She glanced over the top.

  A small lizard blinked up at her. It was probably a gecko. Cornelia leaned on the edge of the sink and reached for the bath towel. She flung it over the creature, bundling the reptile inside.

  “Coming through!” she shouted, carrying the wad of fabric into a hallway crowded with curious guests. “Out of the way, or I’ll drop this lizard down someone’s trousers!”

  The crowd parted like the Red Sea, and she charged through the exit and onto the grounds. One snap of the towel, and the unwanted guest skittered into the bushes.

  “I wouldn’t come back if I were you,” she warned the gecko. “They might make you into a change purse.”

  The night manager, a Mr. Hoyt, was busy trying to calm his guests. “I’m very sorry, ma’am. I’ll check the room myself before you go back in.”

  “I demand another room! Better yet, another hotel!” The woman with salt-and-pepper hair sounded bold, but her hands trembled.

  “Ma’am, you can do what you think best, but I don’t have any open rooms, and I don’t think any other hotels in the area have an empty room, either.”

  Cornelia sighed and looked at Teddy, who was trying to hide a smile. “If you’d like, I could check the bathroom regularly for varmints.”

  “That would be very kind of you, Mrs.—?”

  “Miss. Cornelia Pettijohn.”

  “I’m Helen Minyard, and this is my niece, Kathleen Burnell. We’re indebted to you.”

  I caught a lizard, not a rattlesnake, Cornelia thought, but merely replied, “It’s a small price to pay for everyone’s peace of mind.”

  Later, after everyone had returned to their rooms, Teddy and Cornelia pushed the two single beds together.

  “That was so funny,” Teddy said. “All that fuss over a gecko.”

  “I remember another girl who made a similar fuss in San Juan. She was quite upset about a gecko.”r />
  “That wasn’t a gecko; that was an anole. He puffed up his sac and made a pass at me, the masher.”

  “But you screamed just as loud.”

  “And you came to my rescue. I don’t recall dropping into your arms the same way, though.”

  “No, you already had me just where you wanted me.”

  They both laughed.

  Chapter 3

  Breakfast was hearty. Biscuits, eggs, pancakes, sausage, grits, and all the orange juice the visitors could hold, courtesy of the West Coast Development Company.

  “They’ve gone to some expense on our behalf,” Teddy said. “I assume they’re expecting a good return.”

  “We’ll see,” replied Cornelia. “I’ve learned a lot about swampland since Uncle began researching Florida.”

  “Where is he?” Rosemary Carson asked. In daylight, the chestnut tones in her hair were more evident. “Doesn’t he need breakfast?”

  “Apparently not, although he did ask me to save him a sandwich. He woke me before dawn to have me drag the tripod out so he could take some early morning films.”

  Their first full day in Homosassa turned warm quickly. A crowd sporting broad-brimmed hats and straw boaters surrounded Peter Rowley and the young blond man at his side. They were assembled on the sidewalk by the river. A launch boat idled at the dock, steam engine hissing and sprinkling the boat's striped awning with cinders.

  It was good that Uncle Percival was off exploring. They could do without a repeat of the delay at the train station. He was a dear, but she could just picture him taking the engine of the boat apart while the passengers waited.

  Once everyone was on board, the boat puffed out onto the water. Their guide and salesman, Peter Rowley, stood near the prow.

  “Happy Groundhog Day, everyone!” As usual, Rowley’s grin was fixed in place. “No winter here: that old groundhog never sees his shadow in sunny Florida.”

  Cornelia thought the statement was ridiculous. Bright light cast the darkest shadows. Everyone else, though, nodded and smiled blandly.