“Want me to pick you up later?” Joe was more than her partner; he was a friend and could tell she was having worse than a bad day.
“No, I’ll catch a ride with someone. Tell you about it later.” She lowered her eyes, not wanting Joe to see she was scared.
“Okay, see you back at work,” he said, and drove away.
The room was a meeting room or a dining room, whatever need was greater. The small group that met in the Assembly of God building every day at noon posted a sign that said they were not affiliated with the church and that all that was required was the desire to stay off alcohol in all its forms. Maude sat down and waited for someone to ask her to fill out a membership card or pay some dues. She had never been to a meeting before and was uncomfortable with her situation. Finally several more people showed up and formed a circle. As they began to talk, Maude decided she didn’t belong there. She had a job, had family, friends. Her drinking hadn’t changed her life that much. Looking around the room, she searched for Bob Eberhart and, not seeing him, began to get out of her chair to leave.
A young woman of about twenty-five leaned over and whispered in her ear.
“It’s right down the hall. First door to your right.”
“What?” Maude asked, trying to keep her voice low.
“The bathroom. Down the hall. First right.”
“Oh. Thanks,” she told the girl. “Going for coffee.” Maude had noticed the big pot surrounded by people waiting for a cup. She went for it and stood with her cup in hand, noticing the hodgepodge of people attending the meeting. Finally her turn at the pot came and she poured the cup and loaded it with sugar. The day screamed for it.
She listened to people talk about alcohol troubles, some of them sounding familiar, others completely foreign in their depravity. Finally the meeting was over and she left, the voices going over and over in her mind. They were not her kind of people, she thought. She could stay away from booze by herself. She wasn’t sick. A short walk back to the office helped to clear her mind as the headache receded, and her rationalizations continued. The pamphlets they gave her were too small to read as she walked; they would wait until later. Wondering what happened to Eberhart, Maude walked through the Homicide door and spotted Joe.
“Hey, Joe,” she said, tapping him on the shoulder as she passed his desk. “Did you see a report from the coroner?”
“Yeah, it’s there on your desk. How you doing?” he asked with genuine concern.
“Better, I think. Listen,” she said, studying the printout, “I want to look at this then take a ride to the Amtrak station, see if they have a new stationmaster. Maybe get some answers to questions about Eve Devine’s murder. You going?”
Joe checked the time on his watch.
“Can’t go, partner. Personnel needs me to sign some papers to get my kids covered by health insurance. My ex lost benefits when she lost her job.” His tone was grim as he remembered the visit from his ex-wife. “She’s not the same woman I married,” he said thoughtfully. “I’m seeing her for a while today, for coffee. I hope for our kids’ sake she doesn't pull the same stuff.”
“We all change, Joe. It’s our nature to be jackasses,” Maude said, the report in her hand. “When you got married you were both kids. Sounds like you grew up straight, but her trip took a side road.”
“Yeah, I’m seeing more and more the life she’s leading is bad on my boys. Not anything I can do about it. They don’t want to talk to me. The Christmas and birthday presents I send them come back, refused by recipient.”
Maude looked him over, saw the pain, and decided to leave it alone. God knows she had enough of her own.
“Well, you go take care of your insurance, then when you get back, write up the report on what we found this morning and the conversation we had with the owner. Avery. Okay?”
“Sure, sorry about not riding out with you. You going to be all right?” Joe was concerned. Maude hadn’t been right all day.
“I’ll be fine,” she said, hoping it was true.
The air had cooled some, with a wet front on the way. So much rain had already fallen in August the weather guys were saying the summer was a drought breaker. Even the lakes had come up some, taking pressure off the people needing water downriver. Maude drove through the rain, straight to the train station, hoping she had made it before the daytime employees went on break. The need had subsided some, just enough to make her feel almost human again. Problem was it came in waves—one minute she was fine, the next she was seeing things that were doubtful. Hazing in the distance, ripples across her near vision, almost indistinct, yet still there, were unusual and a little scary. So far there were no signs of pink elephants crossing the road. She was trying hard to keep from falling into a blue funk, but, convinced it was mind over matter, the problem began to be more manageable and less foreign. She could do it, just as long as it didn’t get any worse. Later she remembered, anything coming too easily never amounted to much in the long run.
Driving in, she noticed a few cars parked in the lot. Maude looked at her watch and knew it was too early for the crowd to begin gathering for pickup. The 6:10 was at least two hours away from the station. She had found out the runs continued, even after Eve Devine was killed: hers wasn’t the first body to be found on the Missouri-Pacific rail lines, nor would it be the last. Something about the rails drew people to the small line of steel, it was a come-on to the down and out. Sometimes they lay down voluntarily, feeling the vibration in the rails as metal bumped wood, carrying the engine closer and closer to the end of a journey, the sleeper’s journey from breath to what lay beyond. Men who worked the cars and the engines could never figure the attraction-such an ugly way to die.
“Maude Rogers,” she said, her extended hand shaking slightly, “Homicide, wonder if you have a few minutes?”
The man at the other end of the handshake said he was the temporary stationmaster, Walter Weems, and he was headed toward the stack of tickets that lay behind a newly installed glass panel. “Bulletproof,” he told her. “How can I help? I just got here.” Weems eyed the counter behind the glass. “If you can make this quick, there’s a lot of work to do.”
“How well did you know Henry Fonda?” she asked, needing a cigarette almost as much as she needed answers.
“I knew him, though not well—came down here a couple of times over the last year for an audit. Normal procedure for us. Henry was a good man, joked and laughed with everyone. Can’t understand why someone would kill him.”
“That’s what we intend to find out, Mr. Weems. Did he ever talk to you about his personal life?”
“No, mostly what I remember about the man was his name. You know…the actor in Hollywood.”
“Uh-huh. Is there anyone in this station I could talk to that might have known if Mr. Fonda had any recent threats or disagreements with anyone?”
“Probably Freddy, that guy over there in the corner. He’s been around a while. Helps out, gets people on the train, cleans up. Other than him, the conductors, and the porters on the train, there isn’t anyone. Small operation, these stations.” Weems had settled a little, not as worried now about the work to be done.
“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Weems. I may have other questions later. In the meantime, I’ll speak to that fellow Freddy. If you think of anything else, give me a call,” she said, passing him a business card. “You can talk to my partner, Joe Allen, if I’m not there.” Weems nodded disinterestedly and entered the now safe room to begin a lengthy recount of tickets versus income over the past forty-eight hours. He could see it was going to be a nightmare.
Freddy ‘English’ was a pool player and cleanup man. One he did because it provided the money for him to do the other. His pool skills were widely known in Madison—even Maude had heard of the man and some of his wins. A little bent over from life, he was busy manipulating a broom as though spinal curvature was something other people had. His body moved rhythmically, back and forth, swinging the broom in a classic
pendulum movement, moving trash from behind the rows of seats and near the water fountain.
“Help you, ma’am?” he asked her, not moving his lips. Maude wondered how he did that. “Be done here in just a minute.”
She stepped back and walked outside, taking a minute to light up her second unfiltered for the day. The nicotine from the tobacco made her woozy for a minute; her head and stomach both seemed to be on the same merry-go-round. Still, she wouldn’t get another cigarette until late evening—four a day was her limit. One before bed, and three others for the day. Probably still get cancer, she thought. Waited too late to cut back. All this getting rid of bad habits might make her live longer, but at what price? She shook her head at what she believed to be foolishness. Of course she wanted to live as long as the Good Lord gave her, but a life of pain was not what she called living. There had to be a compromise somewhere.
Toward the end of her unfiltered, Freddy came outside with a cup of coffee for himself and one for her. She stood gazing at the double tracks where the passenger and freight trains bypassed one another on their way to multiple destinations. Something was still bothering her about the day of the murder, some piece of information that got by without being looked at closely. She looked at her notes but couldn’t find anything.
“Well, detective, ma’am, what can Freddy help you with?” His brown eyes danced, as though he knew a secret and was busting to tell it. Maude looked him over closely, wondering what filled a man with so much energy.
“Wonder what you can tell me about Henry Fonda and the day that woman was killed?”
“That woman was looking for trouble. I saw her that morning, had evil in her eye. Old evil, seemed to me. Henry was being his nice self, just talking, and she got up in his face,” Freddy said. “No call for it. Henry was making small talk, and she nearly tore him a new one. Sorry, ma’am. My language gets its own mojo going. Hard to control it.”
“Okay. I have my days too.” She sipped the cup he handed her, grateful for the heat of the coffee, if not for the taste.
“Yes, ma’am, I believe this might be one of your bad ones,” he said, his bent back leaning against the doorjamb as he patiently waited for what came next.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“The need seems to be on you, ma’am. Seems to be a right burden for you.”
She relaxed then, tired of hiding the truth. The craving for a drink was there every minute. “Does it get better? It doesn’t seem worth what it takes.”
“Ma’am, I’m considerable older than you, though I doubt I have seen as much. The drink gets a terrible hold on you, but it does not have to be master. Keep that thought. It helps me to keep it away.”
Maude looked at the man closely, grateful for the words of wisdom. Funny, she thought, I must be getting soft in my dotage. “I’ll remember that,” she said. “Back to the woman, anything strike you wrong about her?”
“Let me think. My memory’s not as clear as it used to be. Takes me a minute to call it back. Seems she was real concerned about folks looking her in the eye. Like she didn’t want to be noticed too close.” Freddy coughed then leaned over a little more, worrying Maude he was going to tumble to the concrete walkway.
“That was the part with Henry. Him being friendly, and her telling him to mind his beeswax. Something was off about all that.”
“Freddy, had you ever heard of Eve Devine before that day? Would you have known her if you saw her?”
“No, ma’am. I sure didn’t. Why, she could have been anyone.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of, Freddy. Just that. Thank you for your cooperation,” she said, turning to leave.
“Why yes, ma’am, detective. And if it gets where it wants to be master, get to a meeting. That’s how I do it.”
She shrugged, not at all sure about those meetings. They seemed to her to be nothing more than a group of people talking about their troubles. She couldn’t imagine how they might help her.
Sitting in the car after leaving the stationmaster, Maude looked at her notes again from the day of the murder, trying to remember what got her attention. She had spoken with the woman in the parking lot, a Marge Campbell, 3226 Winding Way. The woman had mentioned a man out jogging with his dog, running across the tracks! Those were the words that had niggled and nagged Maude since first she heard them. There must have been something distracting her not to follow up. Using the car’s GPS unit, she programmed the address and began driving to the Campbell residence.
A doghouse was positioned in the yard near the front door where a very large Rottweiler lay on the grass, enjoying the coolness of the evening. There was daylight for another couple hours, but the heat of the day had dissipated some. Without making an appointment, Maude took her chances that someone would be in the house. She had a need to know what Marge Campbell had seen.
The dog ran to the extent of his chain, the deep woof of the animal an indication of what he would like to do to her. She hadn’t had but a couple of dog bites through the years, working in the field, but they were enough to make her remember the pain involved. Staying to the right of the steps, she knocked on the front door, certain someone inside the brick house had heard the dog. They probably hoped she would go away and not disturb them during the dinner hour.
Knocking again set the dog off once more, his loud chuff warning her away from the door. Convenient way to discourage door-to-door vendors, she thought. Finally the door was opened by a thin, elderly man in his sixties or early seventies.
“Yes,” he said, when he saw Maude. “May I help you, miss?”
She liked the miss, almost made her feel young again.
Pulling her shield, Maude introduced herself and asked to see Marge Campbell.
“You must be Frank, Marge’s husband,” she said after consulting her notes.
“Yes, I am.” He nodded. “Please come in, detective. Marge is in the den, watching television.”
“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said. “I have a couple of questions. It won’t take long.” Maude was trying to be as polite as possible. Calling on people in the evenings made some unhappy. She smiled, even though her mouth hurt doing it. About the time Marge came to the door, Maude’s stomach rumbled and growled loudly enough others could hear it.
“Sorry, no lunch,” she said by way of explanation.
Marge had her lounge dress on, covering the wrinkles in her skin caused by the Naugahyde couch. She had a bright smile across her face when she approached Maude.
“Have you come to tell me what’s been done about the parking?” she asked.
“The parking?” Maude asked, confused. “What about the parking?”
“Why, officer, at the train station where those dark-skinned men drive their taxis and disturb other drivers. They just won’t obey the rules. I thought that was why you had come. Remember? I asked for the police to make them obey the rules.”
Marge was consistent if she was anything. She also remembered her grievances. Maude was hoping the woman’s memory would serve her well in other ways.
“Mrs. Campbell—” she began.
“Oh, my, just call me Marge, like all my friends do,” Marge said, headed for the couch, motioning for Maude to follow. “Sit down, honey, you look like you could use some rest. FRANK,” she yelled, “BRING SOME ICED TEA. He’s a bit hard of hearing,” she said in a stage whisper. “Now, if my complaint wasn’t what brought you here, what did?” she asked Maude, her large face red from the exertions of walking and yelling at the same time.
“Marge, when I spoke to you on the day of the incident at the train station, you told me you had seen someone crossing the parking lot earlier. Do you recall telling me?” Maude asked, taking the sweating glass of tea from Frank’s hand. She nodded her thanks, and drank it quickly, enjoying its cloying sweetness.
“Why yes,” Marge answered, her own tea at half-full already. “I saw a man crossing the parking lot and he had a dog with him.”
“Do you remember a
nything about the man,” Maude said, “any description of him? Or the dog, what kind was it?” She emptied the tea glass and set it down, just as Frank refilled it from a pitcher. He caught her eye, a worried look crossing his face as he poured her tea. She had a feeling Frank read a lifetime of her troubles from that one glance.
She turned her eyes back to Marge and waited for her answer—the otherworldly feeling that someone had seen into her soul strangely uncomfortable.
“Well, as I recall, he was not a tall man. Kind of scrawny as I remember, had that flat-top kind of hair cut that the soldiers wear. But he wasn’t no soldier. Didn’t have that look about him. He was kind of sneaky, if you know what I mean?”
“You got all that from a quick look as he ran across the lot?” Maude asked, shaking her head, not disbelieving, but acknowledging most people wouldn’t have paid attention.
“Oh yes, I study people,” Marge said, and slurped the last of the tea from her glass.
“And the dog?”
“Why he looked to be a mutt, not much more than that. No pedigrees, either one of them. Seemed out of place. They ran across the tracks, like the fellow wanted someone to notice him. Kind of slow, making sure he was in the line of cars. Maybe he was looking for someone. I couldn’t say.”
“Thank you folks for your hospitality,” Maude said, standing, her right leg asleep from sitting. “Sorry to bother you,” she said again, moving toward the exit. Frank walked with her, stepping out on the porch, closing the door behind her. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a worn copy of Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions, a small book, well used, the pages dog-eared.
“Ma’am, I don’t mean to get in your business, and the last thing I want to do is upset you, but you have the look of a person in need, and I want to give you this if you’d like to have it. We call it the little book, and it has helped many. Should you decide you don’t want it, please give it to someone, don’t throw it away. By passing on the solution, we get one day closer to eliminating the problem.” With that, Frank Campbell turned and walked back in the house, leaving Maude with more questions than she’d had in the beginning. After tucking the book into her jacket pocket, she began the drive home, more than a little perplexed.
The 6:10 To Murder (The Maude Rogers Crime Novels Book 3) Page 9