“The veterans work in camps to the north. They like to come down to Key West on their days off, let off some steam, and your sweetheart might have sent that letter when he was here, but they live up on Lower Matecumbe and Windley Keys.”
A line forms on her brow. “Matecumbe. I think I saw that stop on the railroad.”
“There are two ways to get there—the railroad or the ferry. For the ferry, you have to take the highway to No Name Key. The ferry leaves from there, and it takes you up to Lower Matecumbe Key in a few hours. It’s unpredictable—sometimes it doesn’t run, other times it’s late—but God willing, it’ll get you there.”
An unladylike curse slips out of her mouth. “That far?”
Tourists don’t quite comprehend what it’s like down here until they’re faced with it, the islands connected tenuously like a string of pearls, the complication of getting from one place to the next impeded by water, poor stretches of road, and undeveloped areas. The railroad has made it easier, of course, and when the highway’s fully up and running, it’ll be better, but you’re still subjected to Mother Nature’s whims and man’s limitations.
“Unfortunately, it is that far. I used to visit my aunt there in the summers when I was a little girl. There are a couple camps on Lower Matecumbe Key, I think. They built them last year. One up on Windley. The ones who come in here aren’t what you’d call friendly with the locals. They mainly keep to themselves.”
She tucks the letter back into her purse, the pages well-worn and creased as though they’ve been read over and over again. That kind of devotion is pretty hard to discourage.
“Thank you,” she replies. “You’ve been very helpful.”
I know when I’ve been dismissed, but I waver, the faint quiver of her lower lip and the hunch of her shoulders doing the deciding for me. “Word of warning? The camps can be pretty rough. They’re no place for a girl like you. The journey north isn’t an easy one, either.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“I’m sure you can, but no man’s worth chasing if he doesn’t want to be caught. If he came down here to get lost, he doesn’t want to be found.”
She doesn’t respond, but then again, she doesn’t need to. The stubborn glint in her eyes says it all.
I sigh. “If you need a place to stay, you’ll want to do so up on Upper Matecumbe or Windley Key. Lower Matecumbe Key is pretty sparse from what I remember. My aunt has an inn on Upper Matecumbe. Islamorada. Right before you get to the train station. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s clean and cheap. I can give you the name of the place if you’d like.”
A flash of relief fills her green eyes.
The girl hands me a pen and the envelope of her crumpled old letter. I scribble down the address on the back of the envelope alongside the name.
Sunrise Inn.
“Thank you. I’m Elizabeth,” she adds with a belated smile.
“Helen. Where are you from, Elizabeth?”
“New York City.”
The location doesn’t surprise me as much as the distance.
“You’re a long way from home. You come down here by yourself?”
“Yes.”
“You be careful down here. I don’t know what the city’s like, but don’t be fooled by the pretty beaches and blue sky. You can get into a lot of trouble if you don’t know where you’re going, if you trust the wrong person. People are as desperate here as they are all over the country. Desperate people do dangerous things.”
Despite my reservations, I can’t help but admire her courage and tenacity. How many times have I considered leaving, only to be stopped by all the reasons I shouldn’t, all the obstacles in front of me?
Out of the corner of my eye, I spy one of my other tables signaling for me.
“I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes,” I say, loath to leave her.
When I return ten minutes later, she’s gone, change on the table for her meal—including the pie—and a little extra for a tip I doubt she could spare.
Five
Elizabeth
I shade my eyes from the sun, tears threatening. The clouds come and go, providing some respite, but it’s not nearly enough. It was hot inside the restaurant, the fans doing little to cool the place, but now that I’m outside again, the sticky air is nearly unbearable, the breeze not providing much comfort.
How am I going to get to Matecumbe Key?
It’s ridiculous, of course, to be so discouraged by the waitress’s words. I made it all the way from New York City on my own. These last few hours shouldn’t seem insurmountable, but they do.
I was so sure he would be in Key West.
I set down my suitcase on the dusty ground, the weight of it suddenly too much to bear.
A mouse scurries past me, its little tail wiggling in the dirt.
I shriek.
When my parents presented me with the elegant set of luggage on my sixteenth birthday, my initials affixed on the exterior, I envisioned taking the suitcases with me on stately ships, using them on my travels to Europe, Newport, Palm Beach, and the like. I certainly didn’t predict such an ignominious end.
I pull out my change purse, counting the money there again, the mouse long gone. There’s barely enough for food and lodging; adding train fare will likely erase my remaining budget for this trip. Then what? Only one person I know has funds to spare, and I doubt he’ll help me once he learns I’ve run off.
I rummage through my bag, my fingers grazing the diamond ring, searching for my handkerchief—
“Can I help you?” someone asks.
“I’m fine, I—” I glance up, and the man in the gray suit from the train is standing in front of me, peering down at me from an unfairly high perch.
Bother.
My fingers curl around my old handkerchief, and I rub the fabric beneath my eyes, praying my makeup isn’t smearing, my cheeks burning from the indignity of it all.
Of all the people to see me so low, why did it have to be him?
“I’m fine,” I repeat more forcefully this time. “Thank you,” I add, because Mother always taught me that good girls are polite girls, even if my interest in being “polite” is only marginally more than my interest in being “good.”
At best, hopefully, it will see him on his way.
“You don’t look fine,” he points out rather inelegantly.
“Thank you for that observation. But I am.”
I wait for him to excuse himself.
He doesn’t.
“You can leave,” I say, “polite” and “good” firmly abandoned.
“You weren’t so eager to be rid of me earlier.”
Is that a smirk on his face?
“I was bored,” I reply. “A long train ride will do that to you. Everyone goes a little crazy when they’re cooped up for so long.”
“Bored? Hardly. You had your fair share of admirers.”
“You can hardly call them a fitting conquest.”
“So you had to collect more?”
“Why is it that when men approach women as conquests to be won they are lauded, but when women decide to go on a hunt of their own, they’re branded as too aggressive, too eager, too greedy? Your sex didn’t corner the market on ambition. Or a love of the chase.”
He laughs, surprising us both, I think.
“You have a point there. Speaking of conquests, where’s your friend from the train? Still mesmerized by the fish in the ocean?”
So he was paying attention earlier.
“He’s elsewhere. Now please go. We’ve made the requisite small talk; we’ve danced around insulting each other. I don’t have time for this, and as much as it pains me to disabuse you of any illusions you had, I really wasn’t interested in you for anything other than an opportunity to pass the time.”
But he doesn’t g
o. Instead he leans against the porch railing next to me, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“Well, then, now that we’ve established you aren’t hopelessly in love with me, you can satisfy my curiosity as to why you’re standing out here at one of the hottest times of day, wearing the same dress you had on earlier on the train, your bags beside you, looking utterly lost. Are you waiting for someone?”
“No, I’m not waiting on anyone. I came here alone.”
Why won’t he go away?
“You’re joking. I assumed you were visiting family . . . friends . . .”
“I came down here to find someone,” I answer after a beat. “I thought he’d be here, and he isn’t. So now I’m leaving. You should do the same.”
“So if he isn’t here, where is he?” he asks.
I consider lying or refusing to answer altogether, but I’m too tired to be bothered, so the truth comes out instead.
“Lower Matecumbe Key, I think. Or Windley Key. I—I don’t know, exactly. We lost touch. But I’ve come to understand that’s where the veterans’ camps are.”
“He fought in the war?”
“Yes.”
“Those camps—that’s no place for someone like you.”
“I can take care of myself,” I repeat for the second time today.
If they only knew what my life was like back home; Key West is no match for New York City. A girl doesn’t survive these days without learning to keep her wits about her.
“I’m sure you can take care of yourself, but Matecumbe is hours away. You have a journey ahead of you.”
“I am aware of that. I’ve made it this far from New York. What’s a few more hours?”
“A great deal down here. How do you propose to get there? The train won’t run anymore tonight.”
A sharp stab of disappointment fills me. “Are you sure?”
“Last train left the station an hour ago.”
“There’s always tomorrow, then,” I say with false cheer. Surely, there’s a local shelter where I could stay. Not ideal, but I can think of worse possibilities, and it would hardly be the first time I’ve considered such an option.
As his gaze sweeps over me, his eyes narrowed slightly as though he can see the wear in my clothes as plain as day, he is likely realizing the tightness of my bodice has little to do with an attempt to play the coquette and far more to do with the fact that the gown was made for me years ago.
“Do you have a place to stay tonight?” he asks bluntly.
“I’m fine.”
He shifts back and forth, his brow furrowed—
“I have a car.” He gestures toward a Studebaker parked up the road. “I’ll take you to Matecumbe Key.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not. We don’t have much time if we’re going to catch the ferry, though. Are you interested?”
“You were unforgivably rude to me on the train earlier and now you want to help me?”
“I don’t like being toyed with. Haven’t the patience for it. On the train, you wanted a mouse to play with. Now we’ve established we have absolutely no romantic interest in each other, I think I can manage a good deed or two, and you definitely could use the help.”
He reaches into his breast pocket and shows me a badge.
Agent Sam Watson. Federal Bureau of Investigation.
“You work for the government?”
“I do.”
I’m not sure if that’s a point in his favor or not, though likely not. I assess the risk of getting into a car with a strange man, the waitress’s earlier admonition to be careful down here ringing in my ears. Despite what others may say, I’m not entirely reckless. But, still, there’s the inescapable fact that I have next to no money and I need to head north as quickly as possible.
Besides, considering who is coming after me, I could do worse than the company of a federal agent. Hopefully, even Frank would pause before going after a government man.
“I’m Elizabeth,” I say, the decision made. There’s a risk to leaving with him, but a greater one to getting stuck here.
His lips curve.
“No Eliza?”
“Eliza to my friends only,” I lie. “The waitress at the diner recommended an inn near Islamorada. She said it was a good place to stay.”
“What’s the name of the place?”
“Sunrise Inn.”
“I usually stay at the Matecumbe Hotel, but I know it. You’ll be in between the camps there. I’ll see you safely to Matecumbe. You have my word.”
“Your word as a government man?”
“My word as a gentleman.”
“Why are you helping me?”
He shrugs. “I’m going that way anyway. Besides, I bet you’ll get into trouble if left to your own devices, and maybe I don’t want that guilt on my conscience.”
“I am perfectly capable—”
He makes an impatient noise. “I’m sure you are, but a girl by yourself at night in a place like this with nowhere to go isn’t exactly prudent. Especially if you have as little money as I bet you do. I’m happy to do what I can to help. Are you planning on staying at this inn?”
“Yes.”
He glances up at the sky, the clouds threatening once more. “If we’re going to leave, we should do so soon. I have business up in Upper Matecumbe Key, and I’ve already spent too much time lingering here. Besides, they’re predicting rain this evening, and I’d rather not get caught in a storm.”
“What business?”
“I’ll tell you about it on the drive. Are you coming?”
Suspicion fills me.
“If you were headed to Matecumbe Key anyway, why didn’t you get off at the station in Islamorada? Why come all the way down to Key West to turn back around and go north?”
“For one, because my car was down here. Secondly, I was told a man I needed to see would be down here. I missed him. He’s headed up to Matecumbe Key. I don’t want to miss him again, so I can’t exactly sit around and wait. Leave or stay, it’s no matter to me, but if you’re coming with me, you better tell me now.”
“Fine. Thank you.”
He smiles. “Smart choice.”
Infuriating man.
Sam takes my bag without a word, carrying it toward the Studebaker. He opens the door for me with one hand, and once I’m settled in the creamy leather seat, he lifts my suitcase into the car’s trunk before coming around back and climbing into the driver’s seat.
He starts the car, and we head on our way.
Does Frank realize I’ve left New York? Has he sent his men after me? He probably doesn’t lose much, and I shudder to think of his reaction when he realizes he’s lost a fiancée.
If Frank’s people do figure out that I bought a train ticket to come down here, at least their search will be contained to Key West and not where I’m truly headed. Unless, of course, he realizes who I’m looking for. Hopefully, by then, though, we’ll be long gone.
It’s good to put some distance between Key West and me, to fall off the map.
“Where are you from?” I ask when Sam maneuvers the car onto the road.
“Are we to make small talk now? I thought we were fellow passengers by necessity—yours—rather than choice.”
“True, but you already know I bore easily. Besides, I figure I should know a thing or two about the man with whom I am to share a car—and ferry—for several hours.”
He sighs. “I’m from Jacksonville, Florida. Born and bred.”
I wrinkle my nose as I remember the tiny town Mr. Flagler’s railroad passed through, the scenery offering little to recommend it.
I lean closer. “And what does a man like you do in Jacksonville?”
“You can stop the femme fatale act, you know. You aren’t very good at it, and now hardly seems t
he time.”
“Not very good at it—” My cheeks heat.
“Relax, gorgeous. I’m not saying you’re not a stunner; but I’m not a boy, and I haven’t fallen at a woman’s feet in a very long time. I have no intention of doing so anytime soon. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, do you? Or is it your way of getting the upper hand when you’re nervous?”
That wretched man.
“Fine. What do you do for the FBI?” I ask, my tone flat, the purr removed, my body language infinitely less inviting.
A smile tugs at his mouth. “I investigate things.”
“What sorts of things?”
A pause. “Criminal things.”
“Bank robbers, and the like?”
“No, not bank robbers.”
“Gangsters, then,” I guess.
He doesn’t confirm or deny it, which I take as confirmation enough.
“Are there many gangsters in Key West?”
We certainly have them in New York, but I confess, I’d always envisioned the Keys as a sleepy little place, hardly a hotbed of criminal activity.
“There are several worrying smuggling routes.”
“So you’re here on business, then? Not pleasure.”
“Yes.”
“That sounds dangerous—chasing gangsters.”
“Sometimes. Most of the time, it’s fairly tame—a lot of desk work.”
“Do you like it?”
The men of my acquaintance devote their lives to business, to making money, and I can’t imagine one of them choosing such a path. They’re more inclined to skirt the law than defend it.
“It’s a job.” He pauses. “Yes, I like it.”
“There must be a measure of certainty in it. People will always commit crimes.”
“Yes, they will.”
It might not be the most glamorous job, but in this climate even I can appreciate the benefits of such security.
“And you like catching them?”
“I like bringing them to justice. Enjoy knowing there is one less danger on the streets. There’s a sense of relief that they will answer for their crimes.”
He has that look about him, the straitlaced do-gooder. There’s a slight edge, though, and I suppose you cannot spend your days pursuing criminals without getting down in the muck and mire, too.
The Last Train to Key West Page 5