The 6:10 to Murder
A Maude Rogers Crime Novel
Linda L. Dunlap
Copyright 2015 Linda L. Dunlap
All rights reserved
No portion of this book may be reproduced, scanned, sold, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
The 6:10 to Murder is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, and incidents are used fictitiously or are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.
Acknowledgments
I am privileged to know some wonderful people, and I thank them for their input. To Carla, as always, thanks for the help. To Billie, your perspective is always good and true. To Larry, thank you for putting up with a cluttered house while I wrote this story.
Special thanks to BuyBookcovers.com for making a cover that fit all my requests. Great work.
Thanks to my editor, [email protected].
And last, to Cyndi Rudd, for formatting and other expert services, thank you, dear niece.
“The truth is rarely pure, and never simple.”
Oscar Wilde
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Prologue
At 5:20 p.m., still far from its destination, the 6:10 p.m. passenger train to Madison, Texas sounded a long whistle blast, as the engine and ten cars passed the crossing on the Missouri-Pacific railroad, just north of the MacArthur, Texas station. Forty miles lay between the stations of those two cities. Working track covered a rough, ugly, mean, and undesirable route through marked-up neighborhoods, with gang graffiti and profanity outlining eastern borders. Every warehouse and factory building’s backside edging close to the rails was decorated with all the marker and paint color mixes of the rainbow.
Passengers on the 6:10 rode with legs outstretched in reclining seats, grabbing a last five-minute nap before arriving at their destination. A few elderly, or overweight, sat with swollen feet in shoes grown tight during too-long periods of sitting. The last comfort stop since Wilk, Texas, was fifty miles ago, a long sit-down without a cigarette break, or a decent restroom. The train’s facilities, okay for the pee that wouldn’t wait, or burgeoning gas explosions courtesy of a dining car burrito, offered little to passengers with ailing backs or sensitive noses.
The final stop in Madison was always appreciated by long-distance riders who bailed as soon as the conductor called the stop and opened the doors. At 6:05, the long blast of whistle near a small switch, two-plus miles from the station told the tale. They were close. All riders should begin to make way to the stairwell, and not forget personal belongings. And please, watch your step.
Samuel Blevins was the six feet, five-inch, Native American engineer driving Engine 99, the giant, metal horse that pulled a load of cars every day, over hundreds of miles of tracks. The 6:10 to Madison was the schedule he’d maintained with an unblemished safety record for the previous two years and ten months, and he was dang determined to keep it that way. The upcoming stop was the end of the line, and he looked forward to it on his daily commute. Samuel’s day ran from 9:00 a.m. until 7:00 p.m., four times each week then off work for three days, a good schedule that left him time to carry a second job at Lowes, directing people in the plumbing section to the parts for their home repairs. He liked both jobs.
The Friday evening traffic at the station lined up waiting for detraining. Car trunks stood wide-open for the deposit of suitcases and bags although the 6:10 was not yet in sight. A few vehicles were parked in the Don’t Park circle, blocking cars whose attentive drivers had followed parking rules. Henry Fonda, (yes, he knew it was the same name as an actor in the last century), the station master and ticket-taker in the station, looked out on the lot and noticed the melee, thinking, What a screw-up, and it will only get worse with horns blasting when blocked drivers try to force their way out of the mess. Every day was the same.
Marge Campbell was pissed off big-time. She had arrived early, followed around in the parking circle, and sat first in line, waiting for Harold, her salesman husband. Gritting shiny, new, white implants gently, Marge huffed her very fine nose at being blocked in by a dark-skinned man driving a yellow cab. He had blatantly broken the rules. Being early bought you some privileges, was what Marge was thinking, as well as wondering how she could get out of the parking lot when Harold finally got there. He couldn’t be blamed for the parking screw-up, but Marge was getting herself worked up and angry with Harold. It was his fault she had to be there to drive him home. If he had stayed in Wilk one more night as planned, she would be home now, curled up in her recliner, with a jar of cocktail peanuts, and a nice bag of chocolate drops in the lap of her one-size-fits all lounge dress.
Even though 99 had slowed to a stop, and switched over to let the fast-moving freight pass, Samuel had the big engine moving again quickly. Out of the corner of his eye, the engineer noticed the end of the split coming at him fast, with unidentified bulk on the left rail, never mind computer readings flashing, “All tracks clear.” The freight was already out of sight, clearing the way for the passenger train to continue on to the station, but the engineer’s years of experience won against what was supposed to have been. Samuel trusted his instincts more than maybe he should, but sometimes listening to what he knew paid off. He sounded the whistle, letting it ride, and started shutting down the engine quickly, because he knew nothing good would come of what lay ahead. He saw it up close as it passed under the wheel, knew in retrospect that what he’d just seen was the lower half of a body lying across the graveled-over ties between the rails. He thought he had seen the rest of the torso off-rail, crawling to safety, just before the wheel severed it, but he couldn’t be sure. Samuel swallowed his spit, wishing he was anywhere other than inside Engine 99.
Stopping the multi-ton locomotive and ten subsequent cars quickly took time, but Samuel worked fast. The squealing of the rails and the push of backward acceleration moved the standing passengers from one place to another, validating Isaac Newton’s law of inertia, but due to the slow speed of the train, no one was really hurt inside the cars. Pain in Samuel’s gut spread to his chest during the ordeal and sent him searching his pockets for antacids to soothe the burn. He knew the tragedy was not his fault, but it hurt knowing his accident-free run was over.
Chapter 1
Maude Rogers hated Fridays; they brought nothing good to anyone in police work. A case started on the last day of the work week tended to go on through the weekend. She especially hated Fridays on a call weekend, which meant she was sure to be tied up all the way through, like it or don’t. The day had been quiet. After working an old case with her partner Joe Allen until around four o’clock, she finally shut the paperwork down about five, and headed for the women’s restroom. A little primping meant looking in the mirror to see if there was greenery between her teeth, or ketchup on the side of her face. As it was, the mirror reflected her blue eyes and smo
ky blonde hair, a new color she had tried from the Kroger grocery store close to her house. She poked at the freckles across her nose, wondering why a grown woman still had them. A little lipstick on her still-full mouth would have helped her appearance, but Maude Rogers didn’t go in for pockets full of make-up. Maybe she should carry a lipstick as a concession to getting older, but a few swipes in the morning was as far down the road as she intended to go. Five-feet-nine, and on the thin side, she still managed to stand straight even though a recent birthday had brought her closer to the sixty mark. I’ll just have to do, she thought, straightening the collar on her blue, polo shirt.
Going to the local watering hole for a Gilbey’s and tonic or two before going home would have been nice, but her on-call status put the quietus to that thought. Even so, a decent cup of coffee sounded good after drinking department swill all day. Most bars kept the pot on, and changed the coffee regularly if cops were known to frequent them.
“Joe,” she said loudly over the noises of the other detectives at their desks, “Want to go get a cup or a beer?”
“Nah,” he said, “got a date. Something you ought to try.”
“Maybe I will,” she said lightly. “When pigs fly home to roost, I’ll do just that.”
He laughed and left the room with the other detectives gathering their gear and filing out of the offices.
“Hope you have a good weekend, Maude, with no calls.”
“Fat chance of that,” she said, shaking her head, sliding arms and shoulders into a dark blue, hound’s-tooth-print blazer that had hung on the back of a chair all day. “Really fat chance. Thanks anyway.”
The door had just closed behind the others when the phone rang.
“Homicide, Maude Rogers,” she responded, the desk phone dangling from her hand as she hurriedly straightened her desk for the weekend. A voice from dispatch told her a call was on the line and could she look into it, for most of the uniformed officers were in the middle of shift change. Sighing a little, Maude said to patch the call through. Immediately, a young-sounding voice asked to speak to a detective.
“This is Homicide, Maude Rogers speaking, what can I do for you?”
“It’s my mom,” the voice whispered, sounding close to tears. “She didn’t pick me up from school and she’s not home. I’m scared.”
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Jacob. My name is Jacob.”
“What’s your mom’s name?” Maude asked.
“Her name is Eve Devine. I’m really scared, Mister. I think she’s hurt and can’t come home.”
Maude was taken aback for a minute. “It’s detective, son, Detective Rogers.” Dang, she thought. Do I sound like some old-fart man? Can’t this kid tell by my voice I’m a woman?”
Vowing to work on her telephone delivery, she asked Jacob if he was alone, or with a school attendant, but he got quiet and didn’t answer.
“How about your daddy? Can he come and pick you up?” she asked, hoping for a way out.
“No, I don’t have a daddy. Somebody killed him when I was little.”
Jeez, she thought. Did this kid ever get a break?
“Okay,” Maude said. “Never mind that. Tell me where your mom is supposed to be. Where does she work? One more thing: is there any adult you can call?”
“Yes,” the small voice choked. “I can stay with the lady upstairs where we live. My mama works at the grocery store—the one on Peach Street.” With that, the phone connection was lost and the voice disappeared from the line.
She tried calling back several times, but there was nothing but static on the line, not even a busy tone. Finally, she shrugged tiredly and accepted the duty. Coffee was sounding better and better, even the thick black stuff that sat in the bottom of the pot. Sighing, she poured a cup while wondering about the kid. He had sounded frightened, but not confused, sure that his mom was in trouble of some kind. A quick Google search showed five grocery stores on busy Peach Street: three small gas station convenience stores, one major grocer, and one vegetable market that sold bread, milk, and a few imported spices.
The first three she called were rude, the answerer getting off the line quickly. One said he was busy and asked what the hell she wanted; another quickly denied anyone named Eve Devine ever came into the store, so how could she work there; and the third hung up before Maude could identify herself. A clerk at a major grocer situated on 334 Peach Street answered the phone and replied to Maude’s request.
“The store manager is out—be back in about fifteen minutes, so you need to call then.”
The fifth was a vegetable market, and a clerk said they had three employees: Debbie, Jane, and Willie. Finally, Maude stepped outside to light a cigarette, the nicotine soothing her nerves somewhat. Tired, irritable, and ready to go home, she was determined to get answers to her inquiries before leaving.
The coffee was worse than she remembered, but she sipped it for a while then tried the major grocer again, catching the store manager, a fellow named Howard Funk, on the fly. She identified herself and her reason for calling.
“Yes, Detective Rogers, we have an employee on the day shift whose name is Eve Devine. She was out of town today; never came to work at all. I really must go. I have a load of ice cream waiting on the forklift.”
“Know where she went?” Maude asked, ignoring the remark about the man’s hurry. She grimaced after swallowing the last of the coffee, the grounds sticking to her lower lip as she put down the cup.
“She said she was taking the train to Bisbey to see her sister, and would be back this evening. I don’t know anything about her personal life, though. She’s scheduled to work tomorrow.” Funk sounded sincere.
“Know anything about her kid?” Maude asked.
“Kid? Didn’t know she had one, but that fits with other stuff I don’t know about her.”
“Yeah, kid sounds young, seven or eight, worried about his mom. Said he’s at school alone, but he has an adult who can come get him, someone he can stay with.”
“Detective, I can give you her address if you let me call you back at the police station. Privacy, you know. Give me time to put this ice cream away.”
“Sure,” Maude said, understanding that the manager was protecting himself against a lawsuit for giving his employee’s home address. “Call me at this number. Or look it up. Homicide Division, Madison.”
Several minutes later, the phone rang and the store manager began the conversation with a question.
“Homicide? Is Eve hurt?” The man seemed sincerely concerned.
“Don’t know. I pulled the duty this weekend, and a kid called here looking for his mom. Probably a false alarm. Give me that address anyway. Do you have her next of kin listed anywhere?”
“Let me check her file. Let’s see. Lives at 220-A Sycamore Street. Says here to call EMS in case of emergency; no family mentioned except a sister, an invalid in a rehab center in Bisbey. Guess Eve didn’t figure on getting any help from her. Sorry I can’t tell you anymore. She’s a real private person, doesn’t talk about her personal life, as you can see. Can’t believe I didn’t know she had a kid.”
“Know the name of the rehab place?” Maude asked, just before closing her book.
“Yeah, I do have that. Don’t know why, but she left the name with her supervisor yesterday. Said she could be contacted at the Happy Hills in Bisbey, a retirement and rehab place, government cases, people with no money. I had an aunt lived there. Treated her pretty bad. Cheetos and dry ham sandwiches for Sunday dinner.”
“Got the phone number?” Maude asked.
A few minutes later, she shut down the call, more puzzled than before she spoke to Funk.
The prospect of working during the late evening became abhorrent when the weather changed from hot to hot and humid, and the sun lowered itself to the horizon. The mugginess of the evening finally gave way to liquid, with a light sprinkle of late summer rain working its way across Madison streets. The steering wheel on Maude’s city car was
damp from the moisture in the air and the oil left behind from barehanded driving. Dang, she thought, I hate sticky.
Maude had lived most of her life in the same house where her grandmother raised a family, but she never learned to love the Texas heat as some did. During the first fall “norther,” she would sit on her porch with a drink, light an unfiltered cigarette, and revel in the cool wind. That wasn’t the case as she drove her city car away from the Cop Shop, headed toward 220-A Sycamore. The light rain had mixed with oil on the street, giving motorists a slick driving and braking surface. Car wipers worked overtime, clearing the accumulated goop of smashed bugs and dust off long-dry windshields. The city car was no better than the rest. She stopped driving and got out with a handful of paper towels to wipe the oil blowback from her own windows.
220-A Sycamore presented as one-half of a wood-sided duplex built in the 1980s, complete with a brick chimney at the roof, a small, fenced backyard for the obligatory pet, and a carport big enough to hold a compact. Trash stood at the front stoop awaiting the weekend pickup. From her car, Maude eyed the house, hoping to see a family dog in the window, or a cat leaching out from under the pier and beam foundation of the building in search of its evening meal. Except for the trash, the house appeared deserted, its overall appearance suffering from neglect and the effects of the summer heat.
The sidewalk was broken in several places, with crumbled concrete on the sunburned grass offering an uneven surface for walking, but she gingerly stepped aside and covered the distance to the house without incident. The door was faded green wood, trimmed in white, and alongside the hinged area, the paint was peeling one of its many coats. Looking around the neighborhood, she noticed most of the houses were duplexes, possibly rent houses. The young voice on the phone had been less than truthful about having someone upstairs to watch over him. The one-story building was all that was there.
Knocking produced no response, even after several taps with her baton. There was either no one home, or someone inside couldn’t, or wouldn’t, answer the door. Maude had a decision to make. Should she leave the residence and go about her business, or check the door to see if it was unlocked? The cry for help from the young voice earlier in the day had heightened her senses. Something about the whole scenario didn’t smell right.
The 6:10 To Murder (The Maude Rogers Crime Novels Book 3) Page 1