Murder on the Sugarland Express

by Angie Fox

  As I stood, the lounge car rattled on the tracks. My stomach dropped as the train began to inch forward.

  “There. See?” Dave coaxed, attempting to comfort me.

  It didn’t work.

  I pressed a hand against the glass, watching the ghost as he watched me. He grew smaller as the train gained speed.

  “Too late,” I murmured. And I could have sworn I saw the mysterious man nod in grim agreement.

  Chapter 11

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Frankie glide toward the back of the train and through the wall.

  Not so fast.

  He kept his face hidden behind the ghostly sheet music and probably thought I wouldn’t make a scene following him.

  He’d be wrong.

  If I wanted to figure out what was going on around here, I had to get on his tail right quick.

  “Excuse me,” I said, standing so fast that I rattled the wineglasses on the table in front of us. “I need to fetch my…wrap.” Good thing I’d left it in the room. “I’ll be right back,” I said to Ellis, who had already begun to rise.

  I could certainly handle Frankie, and given the opportunity, Ellis might learn something more from the Abels. Both Dave and Mary Jo had remained in the dining car during the sabotage, but Dave seemed to have a better idea than anyone how this train worked. I’d also seen them trading stories with several of the passengers after the incident in the dining room. Their knowledge on both counts could prove valuable.

  Ellis caught my drift. “I’ll be right here,” he said, sinking back into his chair. “Maybe we can figure out what’s going on.”

  God bless my man and his mad detective skills.

  Meanwhile, I hurried out of the lounge car in pursuit of the mobster.

  Frankie was moving fast, but thanks to luck and a pair of low heels, I caught up with him halfway through the first passenger car.

  His opaque gray body fuzzed at the edges, from stress, no doubt. And he’d gone transparent to the point where the warm light from the hallway sconces shone down through his head and chest.

  “Frankie,” I hissed, mindful of the passengers who had retired for the night.

  He whipped around, eyes wide. “Will you stop badgering me? I’m in crisis mode.”

  Yes, well, it wasn’t all about him. “Molly is worried sick.” He hesitated, and I caught up with him. “She’s sitting in that lodge room you made, crying her eyes out.”

  He dropped the bravado. “Holy smokes.” He ran a hand through his hair and checked his watch.

  “Does that thing even tell time anymore?” I asked.

  He dropped his arm. “Works just as well as it did the day I died,” he said, getting defensive, “if I remember to check it.” Ghosts didn’t usually worry so much about minutes, or even years passing. “I care about time for Molly.”

  Oh brother. I supposed that was sweet.

  “I gotta go see her,” he said, backing up. “If it’s safe.”

  “What do you mean, ‘if it’s safe’? What’s happening with you?”

  “I’ll explain it to Molly.” He turned and hurried toward the back of the train.

  I followed hot on his heels. “Does it have something to do with that ghost I saw outside? The one in the suit? I saw how you hid from him.”

  Frankie passed through the door between cars and I shoved it open after him.

  He whirled on me, forcing me to dodge him in the small space, his desperation a living, breathing thing. “That suit is a federal officer tasked with tracking the mob.” He sneered at my surprise. “We call him the Trap because you never see him coming.” He jabbed a finger at his chest. “Only I did. I spotted him and I ain’t about to let him collar me.”

  “Okay, stop,” I said, trying to take it all in. “How do we know he’s even after you?”

  “He didn’t get on this train looking for me, but he’ll recognize me. I’m sure he’s seen my mug shot. I made the top fifty wanted list right before I died.”

  He said it as if it were an accomplishment.

  “I don’t think he’s chasing you,” I insisted. There’d be no way for him to know we’d be on this train, or that Frankie would be out of Sugarland, where he’d been haunting the past eighty plus years.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Frankie pulled out his gun and checked the bullets, as if the man would pop up from the tracks below us. “When he sees me, he’ll nab me.” He slammed the chamber of his gun closed. “The guy never forgets a face.”

  Well, maybe he wouldn’t know Frankie if his mug shot hadn’t been plastered up in every police station from here to Chicago.

  Guns weren’t the solution. “You can’t shoot him,” I said.

  “Yeah,” Frankie said, thinking, “he’d just come back mad.”

  Not my point.

  My temples were starting to ache. I brought a hand up to massage them. I understood this was hard for him. I shouldn’t lecture. I shouldn’t judge.

  I shouldn’t have brought a dead gangster on my vacation.

  Still, I had to say it. “It would have been so much easier if you’d lived a better life.”

  “What fun would that have been?” he asked, with no trace of guilt.

  Okay. We’d think about this logically. We still stood between cars. The train rocked hard to the side, and I placed a hand onto the soft rubber bumper to steady myself. “What’s this guy even doing on board?”

  “He went over a bridge on some bad rail trip,” Frankie ground out. “We considered it a stroke of luck at the time.” He slammed open the ghostly door behind him, as if it were the train’s fault. “He was onto us.”

  “How so?” I asked, keeping up with him.

  “The fellas and I had a big deal going right before I bit it,” Frankie said, passing through the door and into the next car, walking and talking.

  “I remember,” I said, following. He hadn’t given me details on their supposedly big score. He never gave details. But he’d told me a little.

  “Yeah, well, the Chicago boys were sloppy. The Trap had an entire task force after us.” He glanced over his shoulder. “If he catches me, he’ll lock me up.”

  I stopped him. “Maybe in 1929, but not now. There has to be a statute of limitations on…whatever you did.” Frankly, I didn’t want a list.

  Frankie rolled his eyes. “You act like time matters.”

  “Think about it another way,” I challenged. “If this Trap guy did find you and lock you up, I could just take your urn back to my house. Problem solved.”

  Frankie was grounded to my property. He’d be forced to return with me…and then I’d be sheltering a fugitive.

  Oh boy. I wasn’t sure if that was a good idea, considering I was dating the law.

  “He’d find me,” Frankie insisted. “He’d probably put me under house arrest at your place.” He shuddered. “I’d be there for the rest of your life at least. Then who knows who I’d have to live with after that.” He stopped and turned to me. “Worse, once they have the guards assigned and they see what a sweet place you have, they could decide to turn your entire property into a prison for ghosts. I’d be sharing my shed with convicts!”

  My ancestral home would be the Alcatraz of the spirit world.

  Frankie drew close. “I’m telling you, this could be the end of life as we know it. This guy is relentless. And smart. He thinks funny, always one step ahead,” he added as the officer himself opened the door at the back of the car.

  “Holy smokes,” I whispered under my breath.

  Frankie hung his head. “I’m dead,” he muttered.

  It was the man I’d seen outside on the tracks. Same dark black suit. Same short, fat moustache, curled at the ends. His attention veered to Frankie.

  He knew.

  The Trap gave no reaction when he saw us, other than a slight upward tug at the right corner of his mouth. At the same time, he made no attempt to hide his study of the gangster, his hooded eyes under dark brows assessing, evaluating.

  I
might as well break the ice.

  “Oh, hello,” I said as if I’d just seen him, as if we were running into each other after church instead of in the hallway on a haunted train, where I was the only one living.

  My grandmother had always taught me, when in doubt, manners count.

  The investigator’s moustache twitched. “Miss,” he responded, touching the brim of his hat.

  He spoke with an accent.

  “Are you French?” I asked, ignoring the elephant in the room. Or in this case, the Frankie.

  “Belgian,” he answered, his words crisp. “I am Special Investigator Julien De Clercq.” He walked toward us slowly, in no hurry as he tightened the noose. “I died on this train.” His attention returned to Frankie. “You did not.”

  Frankie remained frozen in place. He kept his profile turned to the officer and then slowly lowered the brim of his hat over the bullet hole in his forehead.

  The gangster was well and truly trapped. He couldn’t cut and run without me and his urn, and I couldn’t escape the moving train.

  Besides, even if we wanted to flee the scene, we still had Ellis up front and Molly waiting in the caboose.

  I tried for a carefree laugh that sounded a little too high-pitched, even to my ears.

  “He’s with me,” I said of the suddenly mute Frankie. “We’re on vacation. We had no idea about what happened all those years ago. I’m so sorry for your…situation.” I halted before I stepped in it, but De Clercq had already focused his attention back on my mobster.

  “I’ve only just returned to this train,” he said, distracted, drawing closer to Frankie. “You look familiar.”

  That was it. We were done.

  Frankie nodded, his jaw working. “I hope so. I worked in the St. Louis office.”

  Oh no he didn’t.

  “Bootlegging Division,” Frankie added, warming to his role. “Racketeering. Illegal weapons,” he added with relish, as if he’d enjoyed his job, which I supposed he had. He leveled his gaze at the lawman. “I’m betting we’ve been on some raids together.”

  Not on the same side.

  “Badge number 118. Frankie Lawson,” Frankie said, holding out a hand.

  My throat went dry. Impersonating an officer? It would never work. The only thing Frankie knew about lawful, decent, virtuous types was that he wasn’t one of them.

  De Clercq left him hanging. “I’ve seen that name on reports,” he said slowly. I could see the wheels turning. He didn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it. Frankie had said it himself. This guy was a brilliant lawman. No gangster in his right mind would try to get closer to him.

  Which, come to think of it, explained our problem in a nutshell.

  De Clercq raised a finger and pointed it to Frankie’s forehead. So much for covering it up. “You get that on a raid?” he asked, referring to the bullet hole.

  Frankie shook his head. “Jealous girlfriend,” he quipped, and they both shared a laugh. “Right after Carter Dugan and I busted the guys who shot up ‘Jelly Roll’ Hogan’s house.”

  “I remember that,” De Clercq said, warming. “Old Jelly Roll ended up a state senator.”

  “You can’t get ’em all,” Frankie said, shaking his head as De Clercq nodded.

  Wait. No. This could not be working for him.

  It was as if he was used to lying and cheating and getting away with it, which I supposed he always had, but this was a bad idea on about fifty different levels. And of course, I couldn’t say a word or I’d get him arrested—which he deserved, by the way.

  “Glad to have a lawman of your caliber on board, Lawson,” De Clercq said, holding out his own hand this time. Frankie shook it. “Can I have a word?” The officer glanced at me. “In private?”

  Because I was the problem.

  “She follows me everywhere,” Frankie groused. “Ignore her.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sure,” I said to the guy who had insisted on joining me for this trip.

  De Clercq looked me up and down and then withdrew his attention as if I didn’t exist anymore.

  “I’d like your opinion on a case,” he said to Frankie, who didn’t care about any cases I’d ever worked to solve. “We’ve had a murder in compartment 9.”

  Oh, my goodness. “Yes. I walked in on the scene,” I said, stepping forward, eager to learn more. Maybe I could help. Yes, I’d promised myself I’d stay out of ghostly business this trip, but I couldn’t just ignore what had happened to that poor dead girl.

  De Clercq held up a hand. “Miss, please. Leave this to the professionals. Otherwise, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” He turned to the mobster. “After you,” he said, leading Frankie inside compartment 9. Frankie!

  The gangster treated me to a jaunty wink. Then he walked straight through the closed door behind De Clercq, leaving me behind in the hallway.

  Frankie was in and I was out.

  I rested my hands on my hips, trying to absorb that turn of events.

  I shouldn’t care. I wasn’t supposed to be looking at the ghostly side anyway. But it still burned my rear.

  Frankie didn’t earn it. He didn’t deserve it. He wouldn’t even know what to do with the opportunity. I was the one who should be helping the ghost investigator.

  I blew out a breath. If I thought about it logically, it was just as well, seeing as my ex-fiancé and his girlfriend were probably dead asleep after that exhausting bout of enthusiasm I’d heard through the wall earlier. I certainly didn’t want to knock on the door and tempt Beau to answer in his boxers, or worse. I should just leave the ghosts to it. But for someone to pick Frankie—Frankie—over me to solve a murder mystery!

  He’d better be taking good notes.

  As if.

  I paced the hall.

  He’d better be sorry.

  Who am I kidding? Frankie is never sorry.

  He’d better be loud, at least.

  I tried to listen through the door, plastering my ear up against the slick, cold wood.

  Silence.

  At this rate, the only person who would get an earful would be me if Virginia happened to wander down the hall, or if Beau opened the door.

  No such luck. Instead, De Clercq himself caught me as he glided through the wall next to me.

  “A nosy one, you are,” he said, pausing in the hallway.

  “I’ve been known to use that to my advantage,” I said, a bit haughty as I faced him. “I’ve solved several tough cases.”

  Despite the protests of a certain gangster.

  De Clercq turned to my buddy instead. “Well, Frankie, that’s all we know,” he said, keeping an eye on me. “One dead girl, one crumpled note, and my investigation outside revealed no footprints, no evidence of outside entry or escape. The killer is still on this train, just as I suspected nine decades ago.”

  “Very interesting,” Frankie said in the detached tone he got when he wasn’t listening. “However, we must consider this,” he added, holding up a finger. “I am on vacation.”

  “You are here for a reason!” De Clercq snapped. “I don’t know why you boarded the mortal train and I don’t care. You’re with us now and you will help me solve this case.”

  “I’ll partner with you on the investigation,” I said to the detective.

  He ignored me.

  “The murdered girl is back,” he said to Frankie. “I’m back. And so far, I’ve encountered three other passengers, all of whom I suspected as potential killers before our fatal crash. Each of them was connected to the dead girl in some way. Each of them has been drawn back as well, and I’m convinced one of them is the killer. We have two days to solve this murder and free the ghosts of the original Sugarland Express before our train goes over the bridge again and wrecks. You realize it has nowhere else to go,” he added ominously. “I failed in 1929. I need to solve it now. If I can’t, I fear we’ll be doomed to play out this murder over and over until justice is served.”

  How horrible.

  “I need you,” the det
ective continued. “The clues usually come together so easily for me. In this case, I am blocked. I need your unique point of view, Officer Lawson,” he said to Frankie. “After all, you are the man who busted Egan’s Rats in St. Louis.”

  Frankie waved him off. “Their liquor was lousy anyway.” Then he quickly corrected, “They would have gone down without us.”

  “Help me solve this case,” he pressed, “and you’ll be saving us all.”

  Frankie considered it for a moment. “Well, when you put it that way,” he said, holding out his hands. “Sure. Why not?” He took a step toward the rear of the car, then another. “All for one and one for all, right?” He pointed a finger at the detective. “If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll start in the caboose. Work my way up.”

  De Clercq gave a short nod. “If you think it wise. In the meantime, I’ll question the conductor about the scrap of paper I found on the body,” he said, dissolving away, as if they had a plan.

  Frankie saluted him and did a little dance through the back door toward his girlfriend and his fake lodge.

  “Now you just wait right there,” I ordered, stopping him short. I think I surprised him. “It’s bad enough to lie to the police.”

  “Investigator,” he corrected. “And it’s called hiding in plain sight.”

  I caught up with him. “He cares about that girl and the other trapped ghosts.” I couldn’t imagine reliving a deadly wreck over and over, every time the new Sugarland Express went out. “We need to save those people from a terrible afterlife.” De Clercq seemed smart. If he could bring the killer to justice, he could put the ghosts to rest. “He needs help solving the case.”

  Frankie raised his brows. “Which you said you’d stay out of because you’re on vacation.”

  Come now. “It’s not like I can enjoy my vacation when it means five people will die over and over again.”

  Frankie started heading for the caboose again. “You made it quite clear that you didn’t want to see ghosts.”

  Seriously? I kept pace with him, holding onto my temper by a thread. “If you wouldn’t keep blasting me with your power, I wouldn’t have seen any of this. I never would have met the original conductor. I wouldn’t have walked in on a body. Ellis and I would be happy in compartment 9, and my biggest worry would be about my jerky ex and his mother.”