INAPPROPRIATE
By Sherry Silver
Copyright © 2012 by Sherry Silver All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, organizations or locales is entirely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition
Edited by Diane Parkinson
ISBN-13: 978-1470056650
ISBN-10: 1470056658
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
I couldn’t have written this book without the giggles of my critique group (Alleyne, Diane and Robin) to keep me chuffing down the track.
DEDICATION
To Sandra, Andy and Mom
With love to Mikie, Andy and Olivia
BOOKS BY SHERRY SILVER
Fully Involved Fire
Hundred Dollar Bill
Thousand Dollar Pharaoh
The Immaculate Deception
The Master Manipulator
Inappropriate
www.SherrySilver.info
Chapter One
I hate discovering dead bodies.
I shook my head and slammed on the brakes. While leaping out of the golf cart onto the smooth Cocoa Beach sand, I wiggled my fingers into a pair of nitrile gloves. A shiver of fear convulsed up my spine as a fishy dead-human stench wafted through the dawn. I tiptoed over to a bloated young black man face up in a drenched United States Navy uniform, matted with sand.
“Sir, do you need some assistance?” Please roll over and puke or something. “Hey, buddy, you okay?” Nothing. I gave him a little nudge in the ribs with my sneaker. He felt squishy. I shuddered.
The June sun rose pink on the horizon. Red sky was good luck for sailors or something like that. Not for this guy.
This is so not the way I want to begin my last shift before vacation.
I loosened his tie, unfastened a button and placed two of my fingers on his carotid artery. No pulse. He stared past me, big brown eyes with long eyelashes frozen in a peaceful expression. No, not peaceful. The curl of his lips looked as though he had been up to something mischievous. I lowered my face and put my ear to his nose to listen for breathing as I studied his chest. I didn’t see or feel respirations. Up close he smelled like chlorine bleach.
I wasn’t a coroner but it was obvious to me that this guy had been dead for quite some time.
I struggled with the gritty wet material, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt exposing his hairy chest and a gold Star of David necklace. I didn’t find the dog tags I was searching for.
“Rest in peace, unknown sailor.”
I whispered a little prayer for him and pulled off the gloves as I hurried back to the vehicle. After slipping them into the black plastic trash bag, I exhaled, flipped open my blue cell phone and punched nine on speed dial. I glanced at my simulated diamond Tinker Bell watch and wiggled my wrist to make the pixie dust dance under the crystal.
“Cocoa Beach Department of Public Works. What is your complaint?” asked Igor the grouchy dispatcher.
“It’s Sandra Faire. I’ve found a military floater washed up in front of the Copacabana. He’s dead.”
Within ten minutes I was surrounded by three hotel security guys in gray trousers and blue blazers; Andres, the perpetually hung-over lifeguard; Eagle, the hotshot volunteer beach patrolman who always startled the sunbathers tearing around the sand in his ATV; Bicep Betty in the yellow polka dot bikini and matching support hose; six uniformed City of Cocoa Beach cops. And Lieutenant Hottie Hernandez, homicide.
Okay so his first name was William, and not that he was my type…anymore…but my temperature sure soared whenever he met my gaze. I needed to figure out how to reroute those errant hormones. I was through with hot uber good-looking alpha males. Especially this one. No man of mine answered his cell phone during a romantic interlude. Just because there was a category five hurricane looming was no excuse for him to run off to work and leave me panting on the kitchen table.
Well, yeah, we had some other issues. William and I weren’t compatible except when we were making out. His kisses sent me to nirvana. Perhaps it’s just as well the hurricane interrupted us. I had nothing to regret.
We didn’t have anything in common. I was eighteen the first time he kissed me. And the last time. Now I’m twenty-three and he would be thirty soon. I didn’t like cops. They were paranoid, manipulative drama kings. Well, most of the ones in my family tree were.
Hottie was dressed in a black tee shirt, way too tight. I could see the outline of his chiseled abs and the ripple of his deltoids. A badge on a chain hung around his neck, a service weapon and handcuffs tucked into the rear of his deliciously form fitting Levis.
The lieutenant swaggered down and looked over the deceased from a distance as the tide lapped the sailor’s mucky dress shoes. He paced off an area for the uniforms to seal the death investigation scene. Hotel security assisted, offering hot pink umbrellas to shove into the sand to wrap the yellow police tape around.
The lieutenant stopped and squatted before approaching the body, shining his flashlight on the sand with a slow sweeping motion. He led the crime scene photographer to the areas he deemed important. After the initial images were shot, forensics arrived.
The CSI team deployed different colored lights and donned goggles. The photographer changed out the filters on his camera to match the colors the forensic team used.
The lieutenant had a lengthy conversation with the lifeguard then shook his head, scribbled on a notepad, ducked under the police tape and made a beeline for me.
I leaned casually against the umbrella rental stand, twisting an errant strand of pale hair around my finger, determined not to let his deep testosterone voice move me.
He looked down and rubbed his clean shaven chin. His eyes lingered on the finer parts of my anatomy as his gaze climbed to my face and he asked me, “You discover this one?”
I sucked in a deep breath trying not to remember his erotic whispers.
“Did you discover the body?” He repeated.
I nodded.
“Anyone in the area at the time?”
I looked into his smoldering brown eyes and shook my head.
“How long ago?”
I checked Tinker Bell. “About forty-five minutes now. I called in the find at six-thirteen.”
“Did you notice any footprints around the body before you approached it?” He cocked his head to one side and gave my sneakers the once over.
I kicked up one foot so he could see my treads. “Sorry, I forgot to look…”
He frowned and gave me that you’ve disappointed me again look. “Did you disturb anything?”
“I unbuttoned him with gloves on. He was all buttoned up to his chin. I felt his carotid artery. I couldn’t find his dog tags. Oh…and I kicked him in the ribs.”
“Left or right side?”
“Left.”
He scribbled in his note pad. “Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary on the beach in the last twenty-four hours?”
I shook my head. This was why I hated discovering dead bodies. It forced me to collide with the most inappropriate man for me in the whole darned universe. I didn’t want things to get stirred up again. I couldn’t get things stirred up again. On account of what I did during the hurricane.
“Do you know him from anywhere?” he asked.
I shook again, exaggeratedly slow with a wide-eyed expression.
“Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be in touch.” And with that formal tone, he strutted over to the hotel security guards kibitzing near my golf cart.
I smoothed my bright white Department of Public Works tee shirt down over my red uniform shorts as I passed them. They were discussing the evangelical Christian service held last night in the Copacabana ballroom. Pastor Eugene Donaldson was a modern thinking, feel-good preacher very popular with the locals and tourists alike. He had led prayer breakfasts at the White House during both Slick Willie’s and Dub-yah’s terms.
I chimed in, “The sailor was Jewish. There is a Star of David around his neck. He wouldn’t have attended.”
William rolled his eyes and glared at me.
I hated when he did that. Just because I wasn’t a cop didn’t mean I couldn’t solve crimes…or sort out which leads were dead ends.
I climbed back into the golf cart and waved to Andres, the lifeguard. He smiled and waved back. I guess the guy was good looking if you liked suntanned guitar playing Euro-blonds without muscles. I didn’t. I didn’t like his sing-song German accent either. And I especially didn’t like guitar players anymore…because of Hurricane Alfredo.
I went on about my job, puttering down the beach, stopping to pick up a piece of petrified palm trunk, a glass grape juice bottle and a deflated football. I plucked them with a mechanical snatcher device. I don’t know if it has an official name but I called mine Monkey. After two years at this job I was pretty efficient. I could do it all from the driver’s seat. Snatch it and drop it into the trash bag and go along my jolly way.
The theme to “The Pink Panther” jazzed from my shorts. I stopped and dug my phone out. My mother’s picture smiled on the caller I.D. I inhaled and answered. “Hi, Mom.”
“Sandra, are you still intending to climb aboard that train of fools?”
“They aren’t fools, Mom. They’re very nice people.”
She sobbed, “You’re being kidnapped by that cult and I’ll never see my baby again.” She launched into one of her motherly speeches about how everything I do is inappropriate.
Mom was so disappointed in me. My four brothers were cops working under my dad, the police commissioner. But I toiled as a sanitation engineer and public relations specialist for the Department of Public Works. Translation: I picked up the trash left on the beach and told the tourists where the public restrooms were located. At least the uniform was cute.
What Mom didn’t know was by day I collected garbage but by night I was an infamous cozy mystery author. I wrote under the pen name of Dixie London. And I didn’t have a thing published. I had written almost twelve books…well, the first three or four chapters of twelve different books. Okay, so I was more like an infamous cozy mystery author wannabee. But I had fun. I belonged to the Global Order of Scribes pronounced “goose” for short. The international convention was transpiring in Morocco this week.
Rosemary Donaldson, wife of televangelist Eugene Donaldson, was the president of our local chapter. I couldn’t stand her, the snobby fakey flake. She arranged to have a little writers conference of sorts aboard three private railcars hooked onto the back of her husband’s crusade train, which was hooked onto the back of a regular North American Passenger Railroad train.
Of course I could set my feelings for her aside and grace the authors with my presence long enough for a two week free vacation aboard the private rail cars. The Donaldsons’ were wealthy so I knew this would be a first class to-do. The Agatha Christie birthday shindigs she hosted at her mansion were always loaded with fat shrimp, alligator tar-tar and a white chocolate fountain. Maids and cabbage roses everywhere you turned in her gaudy museum. Even the ceilings were painted with rose murals. Last time I tucked two pieces of her toilet tissue into my pocket to show Mom. It was printed in full color, embossed and scented with roses. Mom wasn’t impressed. She told me it would cause bladder infections.
“Mom—Mom—Mom!” I finally got her to stop ranting. “I told you it’s not a cult. I’m not going as one of the devout followers of Pastor Donaldson. Rosemary invited our mystery readers’ book club to tag along. We’ll be segregated from the fanatics. We have our own private cars and we’ll be reading and discussing books…and knitting.”
Mom loved knitting so I just threw that in.
“Really, knitting?”
“Uh-huh. A couple of the ladies are involved in the knit-a-scarf-for-a-serviceman charity. We’ll be knitting up a storm for those brave Americans.” I was great at making things up.
“Oh, well why didn’t you tell me? What time do we leave? I’ll need to finish the laundry…”
“No!” I cleared my throat. “No, Mom. You can’t go. The train is already filled to capacity. You needed to reserve a compartment ahead of time.”
“Nonsense. I’ll bunk-in with you.”
“No can do. I have a roommate. Dina.”
“Oh…Dina. How is she? Is her Aunt Beverly recuperating as well as can be expected?”
Dina Devers was the only friend I had who Mom approved of.
“Dina and Aunt Beverly are doing just fine. I’ll let her know you asked about them. I gotta go, Mom. Got to finish up by noon today.”
“Come see me before you leave.”
Yeah, right. So you can jump in the backseat and stow away. “I’ll try. Gotta run. Bye.” I closed my phone and stuffed it back inside my pocket.
I drove along the beach. Two guys stood knee deep in the surf, fishing. An early jogger trotted by. I smacked my forehead and took my foot off the gas. If Lieutenant Hottie had any follow-up questions for me I wouldn’t be available. I should have told him I’d be leaving on the GOOS Express this afternoon. Could this be a dilemma? He didn’t tell me not to leave town or anything. And I just reported the body. I wasn’t technically a witness…or suspect. And besides, it was a routine death investigation. I was confident the autopsy would show he had drowned. Poor guy. He had looked so young and fun loving. I resolved to live like every day was my last and chase my fondest dreams.
The sailor probably was on shore leave, rented a speed boat with his buddies, got drunk and fell overboard. Yeah, that’s it. He seemed really happy by the smirk frozen on his face. I ought to open a detective agency. And I could hire my writing pals as operatives. An all woman force. Nobody would suspect us of spying on them. We’d make a killing. I giggled at my pun.
I peeked at Tinker Bell, shook up her pixie dust, looped around and did a U-turn. It was time to stop by the dumpster and then check-in with Igor.
A crowd of tourists had gathered at the crime scene as the police carted off the corpse. I sighed. Great, they were noshing donuts and drinking Starbucks. More trash for me to collect later on.
The lieutenant stood down along the shoreline running his fingers through his short dark hair. Perhaps I should stop off and let him know I’d be leaving town. I slowed down and threw my hand up. He didn’t notice me so I kept going. I decided to call him from the train.
Part of me was relieved not to have to talk to him face-to-face. If Lieutenant Hottie were to make a late night visit to my little studio apartment…to discuss the case, I wouldn’t be home to answer the door…wearing something entirely inappropriate.
* * *
At exactly 1:47 P.M. I checked-in at the Orlando North American Passenger Railway station and dragged my huge cerulean blue rolling duffle bag outside. Missing one wheel, it fought me the whole way. I set my chambray blue hard plastic cooler on top of it and looked around the platform.
The crusaders sported primary and pastel colored leisure suits and church appropriate dresses. The African, Asian and Cuban-Americans carried the style off well enough. However, the European-Americans who had baked thousands of hours in the Florida sun, resembled shriveled dates.
Rosemary Donaldson waved me down to the rear of the train. My tummy jittered with excitement. And hunger. I couldn’t wait to gobble the fancy food. I took a deep breath and plodded through the throng of elderly passengers.
“Hi, Rosemary.”
We fake kissed the humidity near both cheeks. I tried not to cough in the perfume haze engulfing the raven haired, liposuctioned, botoxed pastor’s wife dressed in white patent leather boots, striped over-the-knee socks, a ruffled plaid fuchsia miniskirt and an orange low-cut sweater. She had the body for the outfit but at her age and considering her husband’s holy profession…jail bait tart was not a good look.
“We can board any minute now. Here’s our itinerary,” she said in her high-pitched nasally voice and offered me a floral motif pocket folder with a thick stack of papers inside. I let go of my suitcase handle and accepted it. The suitcase plopped down onto the concrete with a resonating thud. The cooler’s lid didn’t dislodge, thank goodness. I squatted to pick them up.
“Sandra, I’m so glad you talked your mother into joining us,” said Rosemary.
I shut my eyes tight, scrunched up my face and clenched my fists, hoping I hadn’t heard correctly. Before I stood I asked, “Pardon? What did you say?”
“Your momma stopped by my house this morning with a trunk full of yarn and knitting needles. She volunteered to teach the crusaders to knit.”
Chapter Two
As I rose and repositioned my belongings the crowd of writers and crusaders parted. Mom propelled her luggage cart toward me stacked with a green steamer trunk, a three piece Pepto-Bismol pink luggage set, travel ironing board, portable DVD player and a box of groceries. She was dressed in her signature over-sixty-Floridian-chic: a knit twin set embroidered, beaded and sequined with flamingos; matching green Capri’s with bugle beading at the hem and pockets; wedge-heeled lime leather sandals; wraparound sunglasses and a lime green visor. She had pulled her blonde hair into a ponytail.
I looked just like Mom with the only exception being she carried a voluptuous extra thirty pounds. The outfit would be very cute on her, if she were over sixty. But she was only forty-six. She had married my dad when she was eighteen and they had five kids in five years. Two sets of identical twin boys then singleton me.
I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t get me sent to my room so I just smiled really big.
Mom blew me a kiss.
“All aboard!”
I turned my head to see my brother Andy dressed in a navy blue conductor’s uniform. He was a member of the Central Florida Chapter of the National Railway Historical Society. I had forgotten he had volunteered for this adventure. Out of all my brothers, Andy was the kindest to me so at least I wouldn’t have to worry about our sibling bickering drowning out the train whistle.
I was sure he wasn’t any happier than I that Mom had tagged along.
New York Times bestselling horror author, Hazel Hatchet, a.k.a. Hack ‘em Up Hazel, shoved past me, her ample hip bumping my arm as she adjusted the straw cowgirl hat over her close-cropped afro. Her long amber and sterling silver earrings swung heavily to and fro. Hazel grabbed the handrail on the green iron steps and grunted. Andy gripped onto her arm and hoisted her aboard.
I stepped back closer to the station and took my first good look at the train. The last three cars were painted or more likely wrapped in a cabbage rose print. Pink orange, yellow and white everywhere. In front of them were several cars plastered with Pastor Eugene Donaldson’s toothy face. “The Crusade of Peace” was painted in gold leaf.
Ahead of those cars were tired brown and gray North American Passenger Railway baggage and passenger cars. I couldn’t see the diesel locomotives.
I marched toward the train dragging my duffle bag.
“Hi, Sandra,” sniffled Weepy Wendy, an anorexic trauma nurse practitioner who had wallowed in the throes of woe the entire time we’d been acquainted. She wrote romantic comedy. “I had such a bad night at work. There is this really mean Dr. Fruiterman and he kept yelling at me. I knocked over a tray of sterile instruments and–”
“Hi, Wendy! I’m so sorry you had a rough night. Life is just not fair. Can’t wait to hear all about your latest work-in-progress.” Oh shoot! Why did I say that? I always found it very uncomfortable conversing with her. I never could come up with the right words to help her feel better. Some people must want to be miserable.
Staring at her hair, my brother helped Wendy up the steps. Once she had boarded he shook his head. Wendy’s frizzy locks were dyed black with thick stripes of white woven in. Think Cruella DeVille on a bad hair day. I shuddered, imagining accident and heart attack victims opening their eyes to see Nurse Wendy standing over them.
I was so excited and anxious to ride the rails again. Andy always invited me along whenever there was a special steam train excursion in the region. He invited the whole family but they all were too caught up in their own egos and imagined troubles to be transported to a gentler time. Even his twin, Matt. They were identical in looks but not personality. That’s how I told them apart. Matt was the 5’10” blond with the sneer. Andy was the 5’10” blond with the twinkle in his eye.
A North American Passenger Railway employee sashayed by with a big brown take-out bag from the Olive Garden. I wanted to mug her. I was so hungry. Maybe I could chat her up and she’d offer me a breadstick.
A loud whistle and thunderous roar sped by on the other track. Must’ve been a freight train though I couldn’t see it because our train was blocking the view.
It was my turn to climb onboard but I backed up and beckoned the next writer to go on before me. I didn’t want to be caught in the aisle behind Weepy Wendy and have to hear about her latest bad luck. She’d make a perfect mate for Matt. What was I thinking? No, please no. I didn’t want to have her sniffling around at every family gathering.
I rolled my eyes as Andy turned on the charm for exotic Matilda Irwin, a.k.a. Tabloid Tilly, an Aussie photo journalist here on some kind of youth working visa. Matilda was of Chinese, Aborigine and probably English prison camp origin. Men seemed to find Matilda irresistible. I couldn’t stand her. I’ll think up a reason later.
I enjoyed an evil grin while she flirted and finally wiggled aboard.
Andy shuffled luggage around, shoving it further away from the door. I was fascinated by the stacks of crap people brought with them. Suitcases and snacks I could understand. But the step ladder, potted Norfolk Island pine tree, fireplace tools, bird cage, litter box, cushioned toilet seat, laundry detergent and chlorine bleach were a bit quirky.
“Sis, why didn’t you tell me Mom was coming?”
“I didn’t know! Honest! She just showed up. This is going to be a miserable trip.” I whined.
“Why? I mean other than the obvious.”
“She doesn’t know I’m a writer,” I whispered. I left my luggage with him and climbed the three steps.
Everyone made a right so I followed them and took a seat midway down a highly polished cherry conference table. I counted sixteen leather chairs.
As the remaining passengers flitted in, no one sat next to me on either side.
Elderly body builder Bicep Betty, of yellow polka dot bikini fame, reposed directly across from me snapping her black bubble gum. Every book she wrote was full of kink and husband homicide. No wonder she was an old maid…and had a cult following.
Most of the faces were familiar to me and I looked forward to becoming acquainted with the newbies.
My best bud, Dina Devers, a moderately successful eBook author, stumbled in last. She wrote steamy romance. I found her books to be hilarious but didn’t dare let on.
The gossip around the beach was that Dina didn’t get enough oxygen at birth and as a result, while her intellect was normal, she was freakishly happy and strangely giddy at inappropriate times.
Dina tripped over the hem of her long leaf-green broomstick skirt and grabbed the back of a chair to catch herself. It rolled out and spun to one side. She plopped down in it and giggled, finger fluffing her cute strawberry blonde curls.
I thought it was so weird to find free rolling chairs on a moving train. Somebody might be seriously injured.
“Welcome to the GOOS Express,” Rosemary announced. “I’m so delighted we all could take this little working vacation along the rails.”
The ladies applauded and thanked her profusely. Very excited about the chance to interact with other writers, learn from the speakers and pitch my books to agents and editors, I smiled and clapped.
The whistle tooted twice and the train lurched forward. The chairs jerked sideways. Some of the ladies gasped. I stuck my arms over my head and enjoyed the ride.
A voice broadcast over the public address system: “Good afternoon, ladies. This is your conductor Andrew Faire. We have departed exactly on time at 2:57. Our scheduled arrival in Washington, DC is at 8:46 tomorrow morning barring any unforeseen glitches. You’ll notice the train stop from time to time to allow freight traffic to pass through or to make a regularly scheduled stop for the North American Passenger Railway. Please do not place anything in the toilets but the supplied toilet paper as the plumbing system is very sensitive and if one clogs then all toilets in the car will back up. In the evangelists’ lounge there are over-the-counter pain relievers, sleeping aids, cold and allergy formulas and motion sickness medications available for purchase as well as a limited selection of toiletry items. If we can be of any assistance please don’t hesitate to contact me or my fellow volunteer crew members from the Central Florida Chapter of the National Railway Historical Society: Big Marc Clinger and Jimmy Tamales. Enjoy your conference.”
“Ladies, if you will open your folders you’ll find the packet with our speaker schedule,” said Rosemary. “Unfortunately, our keynote speaker Tony O’Rourke, the New York Times bestselling author of sixteen police procedurals including The Naked Detective, has been unavoidably detained. He hopes to join us later in the trip, although that shall pose a problem with sleeping accommodations. We only have allotted room for two speakers per day. They each travel with us until the next big hub stop.”
I perused the schedule: Orlando to DC to Chicago to Albuquerque to Los Angeles. I couldn’t wait to dip my big toe in the Pacific Ocean for the very first time.
Rosemary opened a cardboard box and passed hardcover copies of Tony O’Rourke’s latest release down the table. I nearly squealed. My favorite author. He was the reason I became a writer. I took one and flipped to the back and searched the last few pages then the first few. No photo or any about the author page.
I envisioned a white-haired portly recluse clad in a golden smoking jacket with leather patches on the elbows. He relit his pipe as he navigated the narrow path to the desk through a jungle of ceiling-high crumpled white paper. He hunted and pecked on an old Remington typewriter in his family’s dank Irish castle. Tony O’Rourke, gifted genius. My idol.
“Nevertheless,” Madame President Rosemary continued, “Our first speaker is aboard, Anna Deerstalker. A science fiction author and online writing coach. She will present a workshop on the richness of conflict, precisely at 6:00 P.M.”
I glanced at Tinker Bell. It was nearly 3:30. I shook the pixie dust as I flung my hand in the air and waved.
“Yes, do you have a question?” asked Rosemary.
“When is dinner served?”
“There is not time to prepare and serve a formal meal this evening. There will be hors d’oeuvres available throughout the trip in the parlor car at the end of the train. Feel free to indulge yourselves.”
My stomach burned. I hadn’t ingested anything today but the three Hershey’s Kisses I snatched out of the candy jar on Igor’s desk. That’s what I get for skipping breakfast, and then the darned floater set me behind schedule so I didn’t eat lunch. I should call the lieutenant about that soon…
“Ladies, we have a few rules here. No smoking, alcohol or recreational drugs allowed. No wireless internet devices. No cell phones,” said Rosemary.
Dina raised her hand.
“Yes?” asked Rosemary.
“What about our portable word processors?”
“Of course you can keep whatever technology you use to write. Laptop computers, netbooks, word processors, etc. Just be sure you disable any wireless connections. We have much work to do.”
She held the cardboard box up. “I’ll pass this along. Empty all banned items into the box.”
I watched incredulously as the ladies sucked up to her and thought it such a good idea to help us focus on our craft. No way would I store my phone in the box. I’d just pretend I didn’t bring…
The Pink Panther jazzed from my shorts pocket.
Everyone looked at me. I sighed and pulled my phone out. I missed the call. Mom. I switched it off and gingerly placed it in the box. Just as well, I didn’t need Mom pestering me.
Then I remembered what had happened that morning. Waves lapping the happy corpse crashed in my mind. As the box slid down the table past me, I said, “No, wait. I need my phone. I discovered a dead body today and the police may need to contact me.”
The business car fell silent except for the chug-a-chug of the train.
Bicep Betty blew a big black bubble, popped it with her pen then whispered to Tabloid Tilly. Tilly locked eyes with me as she fondled her camera. There was something witchy about that girl from down under and I didn’t trust her. I kept my composure, glanced down at Tinker Bell and shook some pixie dust.
“Sandra, you really do need to get a proper job and stop cavorting with the underworld.” Rosemary voiced what some were no doubt thinking.
“That poor lost soul. I’ll bet no one stops to think about how terrifying it must be for the victim in the horrific moments before being murdered,” Weepy Wendy boo-hooed.
“Of course we do,” Pat-the-Pirate squawked. “We all do. We’re writers.”
Pat was a popular historical adventure novelist with a ruddy wrinkled face, wooden leg and a glass eye.
Dina kicked back her chair and clopped over to me. “Who, what, where, when and how? Do tell!”
“I discovered him washed up on the beach this morning. In front of the Copacabana—”
“It was Ricco!” Dina blurted.
“Ricco?” I asked.
“You know, Tony shot him because he was jealous Ricco had made a move on his girl Lola at the Copacabana.”
I grinned and shook my head. “I didn’t find any yellow feathers in the sand. You should audition for the show where you need to know the correct song lyrics.”
I turned toward the others. “Anyhow, he was a good-looking young sailor and I’ve probably revealed more than I should have.”
Clear packaging tape screamed like fingernails on a chalkboard as Rosemary sealed the box. Chico, her Cuban-American pool boy/hairdresser/paid companion, carted it off. With my phone inside. My plea hadn’t impressed her.
“Ladies, please begin your daily writing. If you did not come prepared, or if your writing apparatus is packed in your luggage then help yourselves to one of the journals on the credenza. Pens and sharp pencils, too. No more chit-chat please. We need a silent and peaceful atmosphere for our muses to run wild and free.”
I plodded over to the credenza and selected a very high-end journal bound in pink leather. I decided to use a pencil so I snatched a metallic gold number two. I gazed out the window at the cumulonimbus clouds layering themselves in the sky. It looked like rain.
I returned to my seat, opened the journal and wrote on the inside of the cover:
The Case of the Adorable Plumber
By Dixie London
At the top of the first page I wrote:
It was a dark and stormy afternoon in Fredericksburg, Virginia. More American lives had been lost here in the Civil War than in any other town in any other war. As I climbed out of my old brown pickup truck, thunder exploded like a Union soldier’s cannonball…
I was surprised how easily the words spewed forth. I had no life-long interest in the Civil War and had never visited the battlefields and cemeteries of Fredericksburg, but I had done my homework. I loved learning new things, which I passed along to others through my books. Well, I would pass them along once they were published. But I had to finish one of them first. Perhaps The Case of the Adorable Plumber might just be my break-out novel.
The clickty-clacking of the train, the white noise of the air circulating system and the sound of some of the other ladies typing orchestrated a very stimulating melody.
I was way into chapter three when my stomach began growling out loud. I really needed to get to those hors d’oeuvres. I glanced at Tinker Bell. 5:41. I shook her pixie dust as I stood and pushed my chair under the table. “Do we select our own rooms?” It felt good to stretch my legs. I wiggled my toes inside my sneakers.
Rosemary and the other writers looked up and then checked their watches. “My, how time flies when you are lost in your own little personal writing bubble. All right, ladies, I think we should wrap it up now.” She sorted through some papers on the table. “I have a list here. The crew has delivered your luggage to your compartments.” Rosemary shuffled papers. “Sandra Compartment A. Wendy is in B. Betty you get Compartment C. Pat…”
Great! We each get private rooms. Or broom closets. I wondered how large and opulent they were. As Rosemary droned on with our room assignments, images of fairytale castle bedchambers danced in my mind. Yeah, I knew we were on a train and only so much can be done in limited space but still I had high hopes.
“Your rooms are right through the door near where you came in.” Rosemary motioned toward it. “Make sure you grasp the handrails in the vestibule between the train cars. We don’t want anyone getting injured here on the GOOS Express, now do we…?”
When she finally finished, I blurted, “Where are the hors d’oeuvres?”
“They are in the last car. In the parlor area next to the restroom. Help yourselves. I do hope you like the selections.” Rosemary flashed her porcelain white teeth stained with fuchsia lipstick.
That was the cue for everyone to give her their deepest gratitude. We did. Then we headed for our compartments.
I stepped into mine. Darn. It wasn’t a fairytale castle bedchamber. But the retro Art Deco opulence was very tasteful.
It had mahogany paneled walls, a brass sconce and a little oscillating fan up in the corner near the ceiling. There was a small wash basin and mirror near the pocket aisle door. A wall-length oval window on the outside wall was flanked with a plush red velvet arm chair and a large red velvet sofa which apparently converted into a bed at night. The light scent of roses wafted in the air. Rosemary was great with details.
My duffle bag was stuffed almost under the sofa. I noticed an unfamiliar tapestry carpet bag stowed upon a shelf above the chair my cooler was tucked under. A newspaper stood crisply folded in a vertical holder on the window and two bottles of water glistening with condensation beckoned in the cup holders.
I counted three doors.
I smiled and tried the door apparently leading into the next compartment. Locked. Good. I didn’t need Weepy Wendy boo-hooing in at all hours. I opened the closet door. There was a stepladder folded inside. I shut the door.
I rubbed my arms and glanced up at the little fan. I’d have to figure out where to switch it off.
I pivoted and opened the bathroom door. And screamed.
So did the lady sitting on the toilet.
Chapter Three
I retreated to the corridor and checked the lighted sign above the door. Compartment A. And that sure did look like my suitcase and cooler.
I reentered the room, leaned down and tugged my duffle bag out. Yep, Sandra Faire was clearly written in blue gel pen on the luggage tag.
The bathroom door opened.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anyone was using the bathroom in my compartment,” I said, blushing.
A beautiful little woman…and I mean little…the shortest little person I’d ever met stuck her dark-chocolate hand out. “Hello, I am Mary Agnes Starr. You must be my roommate, Sandra Faire. Jesus loves you,” she said in a sweet southern accent.
“Yes he does. Thank you. And Jesus loves you, too.”
Mini Mary Agnes wanted to shake. I kept eyeing the bathroom and the sink near the door. I didn’t want to shake until she had washed her hands so I tugged the cooler out and then opened the lid.
“I brought iced teas. You want one? Go ahead and wash up. There is a little bar of soap and a fluffy hand towel on the sink. I’ll make us drinks.”
“Caffeine is blood from the devil,” said Mary Agnes as she climbed into the chair. Her fluffy cloud-white dress could have fit one of those Just My Size Barbie dolls. She was very small boned and thin. Like a living breathing doll. The eyelet lace billowed over my cooler. She swept the angelic fabric aside.
I replaced the lid on the cooler. “I should empty this water in the sink and find some fresh ice.”
“Close the compartment door,” her voice cracked.
“Why?” I asked, creeped out. I wanted to run. We would just see about this. No way would I share a compartment with a complete stranger with poor personal hygiene. There must have been some mix-up. Dina and I had signed-up to room together. We were going to brainstorm three novels for each of us as we drifted off to sleep lulled by the rocking of the locomotive.
“Close it,” Mary Agnes whispered with an air of desperation.
I did. But I made sure not to clasp the latch and opened the gold silk drapes on the corridor window fastening them to the wall with Velcro.
As I turned toward the frightened woman, I asked, “What’s wrong?”
“Mobsters are here! I spilled my purse in the parking lot and my marbles rolled under the tire of a red limousine.” Mary Agnes wrung her hands. “I was crouching down to retrieve them…and I heard their plans.”
She’d lost her marbles all right.
“I heard this one muscle-headed guy say, “We’ll take care of Donaldson…”
“What makes you think there is anything sinister in that?”
“Because as I quietly dropped my marbles back into my purse a bunch of receipts and candy wrappers rattled. They jumped out of the car and the muscle guy pointed a gun at me and growled something like, “You didn’t hear anything, girlie.”
“This is a scene in your W-I-P, isn’t it?” I grinned.
“What?” Mary Agnes asked.
“You’re a writer. Your work-in-progress. The book you are writing.”
“Miss Faire, I am no purveyor of fiction. I read only of the scriptures. I am on a mission from God to save your heathen soul.”
I felt faint. My vacant stomach wailed. “I have to eat. Now. Low blood sugar.” Lord Jesus, save me from this kooky missionary. Amen.
I exited the compartment and dashed down the aisle not stopping until I entered the Victorian parlor car where my chapter mates were noshing. It contained four oxblood leather arm chairs flanking two small tables and a round stuffed sofa at the end. The kind I had seen in hotels. The peach paisley upholstered center was solid and you could walk around it and sit anywhere and lean back on the coordinating peach chenille cushions.
Windows on three sides offered panoramic vistas. I noticed the emergency brake and a fire extinguisher clearly labeled on the wall near the door. I peeked outside and saw a sheltered observation deck. Rain poured down beyond it. This was the last length of the locomotive. Nothing but tracks behind us.
In time with the cadence of the train I walked to a credenza near the restroom and grabbed a plate. Unfortunately, the other writers had scarfed nearly all of the hors d’oeuvres. A small amount of pâté and caviar remained. No crackers. I had an aversion to liver and fish eggs. I sagged in grave disappointment. I would have thrown up from malnourishment had I anything in me to actually come up.
“Captain Sparrow, bring me my rum!”
I snapped my head around to see Peetie-the-Parrot perched on Pat-the-Pirate’s shoulder. She always brought him to our meetings. He was a Solomon Island Eclectus, a medium sized parrot. Lime green with red and turquoise under his wings. All males of his species looked like this. The females were red with purple and turquoise. His beak looked exactly like candy corn. Boy would I love to jump inside a giant bag of candy corn and eat my way out. My tummy screeched.
I made myself a cup of hot tea and plunked in four sugar cubes. I took two in a napkin to munch on.
I weaved through the crowd, looking forward to chatting with Pat and Peetie but Contest Carly was petting the parrot by the time I got near them.
Carly, a tatooed late twenty-something Philippine-American award winning unpublished author, was coming close to snatching Rosemary’s contest-slut tiara. Neither was published but at least Carly’s three novel length manuscripts were complete. Rosemary had only penned one chapter which she had paid a high priced New York editor to critique. I resented her gall, entering professionally edited work in contests for unpublished authors.
I noticed Dina pacing by the back door. I couldn’t wait to switch rooms with whomever they had erroneously paired her with.
Sniffling approached. My shoulders hunched, I wished myself invisible. Harry Potter could do that with his invisible cloak. He could also cast spells. Boy would I enjoy casting a few. I popped a sugar cube in my mouth and sucked.
“Do you know Hazel just received an eight digit contract with Fathom Publishing?” Weepy Wendy asked me.
“That’s wonderful.” I half turned to her, smiled and made my way over to Dina.
Wendy followed me. I tried not to groan.
“It’s just not fair. The top writers get all the money. I’ll never be discovered.”
This was my cue to hug poor pitiful Wendy. Instead, I said, “You’ll do it, Wendy. It’s your turn next. You are a very brilliant author. Just wait…and as a matter of fact since Hazel is here on the train what a golden opportunity…”
“What do you mean?” She sounded timidly hopeful.
“Stick to her like glue. Study what Hazel does. Her methods. When does she write? What inspires her? What does she do to stimulate her muse? Trail her. Stick by her side.”
“You really think that might help?”
“Absolutely,” said Dina. “Now don’t waste a minute. Why, I’ll bet you’ll learn her secret! Don’t forget to keep it to yourself…until you’re bumping Hazel off the bestseller list!”
Wendy smiled for the first time in my memory. She trotted over to Hack ‘em Up Hazel, who was slurping an oyster out of its shell.
“Dina, I’ve got to get something substantial in my stomach. Somebody has to have something edible on this train. Follow me.”
She did.
We headed north past our compartments and crossed the threshold into the business car.
“I have the roommate from Hell. We have to switch,” I whispered over my shoulder.
“Mine seems delightful. A lovely little old lady called Norah. She’s napping.”
I grunted. “Must be nice.” I was so tired.
“Are you jealous of Hazel?” Dina asked.
“Nope. She’s a very sweet lady. And talented, hard working and I hope she enjoys every penny they’ll give her. I just love how she writes her guys. It’s almost like she has secret inside information on how the male psyche operates.”
After we dodged the rolling chairs in the conference room we made it to the dining car. It had been prepped for breakfast with little boxes of cereal perched on each table.
I plopped down in a booth, grabbed a box of Special K, ripped it open and gobbled it using my fingers. I washed it down with the tea.
“My mom asked about your Aunt. How is she?” I inquired.
“Working me day and night. I’m so glad her friend Marvin is moving in to help her while I’m away.” An evil smirk morphed onto Dina’s face. “He has no idea what he’s getting himself into. If you ever have to have surgery for carpal tunnel syndrome do not have both wrists repaired at the same time.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’s absolutely helpless with both hands and arms bandaged. She can’t get the dressings wet and she’s in a lot of pain. I have to wax her moustache, shave her pits and wipe her nether regions.”
My brother the conductor appeared. “The cereal is for tomorrow.”
“I’m starving. What did you eat?” I asked.
“The crew had pizza.”
“Is there any left?” I devoured it in my mind.
He shook his head. “Sorry. Hey, I’ll bet Mom brought snacks. She’s two cars ahead. Walk through the baggage car and then she’s in the next sleeper car, Compartment H.”
“Thanks!” I was halfway down the aisle before Dina caught up with me.
“Don’t get so far ahead. Do you think we should tell your brother about the red limousine?”
I stopped and whipped around. “You saw the limo, too?”
“Yeah. And those guys looked sinister. They were yelling at a midget.”
“She’s a little person. Midget is an insult. Jeeze, Dina, don’t you know anything about being politically correct?”
“Whatever. How do you know about the midget?”
“She’s my roommate, Mini Mary Agnes. She is really upset. Said they threatened Donaldson.”
“The reverend or Rosemary?” Dina asked.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Let’s tell your brother.”
“My brother since he’s the conductor or my brother since he’s a Cocoa Beach cop?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. I guess so. He’ll probably poo-poo it away.”
We entered the baggage car and squeezed down the aisle cluttered with boxes of Bibles and crates of food. I crinkled my nose. This car smelled like a sour mop. I stopped and scanned the area but didn’t see a crow bar. It figured. I was standing in a refrigerated food Mecca yet couldn’t access even a crumb.
I scraped the side of my ankle on a crate of cantaloupes and groaned. Mom’s green steamer trunk was next to it near the door to the sleeper lounge car. We turned the doorknob, stepped through the vestibule, opened the opposing door and entered.
This car appeared to be the mirror-reverse of ours. I heard Christian rock music accompanied by acoustic guitars. My stomach churned as my pulse raced…remembering. I wished every acoustic guitar in the world had washed away with the hurricane.
The silver silk drapes were drawn open on all of the compartments. They were empty. I shoved Dina in front of me and reluctantly headed for the tunes.
Joel Donaldson, the surly nineteen-year-old son of the reverend and Rosemary, played piano. His dad and Andres the lifeguard strummed guitars as Rosemary sang. Surprisingly, they sounded pretty good. Mom clapped to the rhythm. I caught her eye and cocked my head toward the door.
She popped up and rushed us back to her compartment. I slid the door closed. The air conditioning drowned out the music.
“Sandra Marie Faire, where have you been? Why didn’t you tell me you discovered another dead man? I forbid you to work at that job one more day. Do you hear me? Why haven’t you been answering your phone? Did you lose it again? You had it this morning…”
When her interrogation let up so I could get a word in edge wise, I said, “Rosemary confiscated all of our phones and electronic devices which contact the outside world.”
“Why on earth would she do a thing like that? Will it disturb your reading? Have you been talking loudly on the phone again disrupting everyone around you? I’ve told you time and again. You don’t realize how loud you are speaking into the phone—”
“Mom, no. It’s not me. I have no idea what gets into Rosemary’s craw with her rules but since she’s footing the bill we all complied with Her Highness.”
“Wash your mouth out. Speaking of such a beautiful, good woman that way.”
“Mom, do you have any food? I’m starving.”
She touched my chin and looked my face over. “Sandra, you really need to eat regularly. You are going to get constipated and that will lead to diverticulitis and heart disease.”
“Mom, the food?”
“Sit down. You too, Dina. Hello, by the way.”
“Hi, Mrs. Faire.” Dina smiled and sat next to me on the royal blue velvet sofa.
Mom flipped open a suitcase and placed a cloth napkin on each of our laps. Then a hard unbreakable white plate. She dealt low-carbohydrate pumpkin seed bread, lean turkey breast, Muenster cheese and romaine lettuce slices. Then she pulled out a baggie with balsamic vinaigrette and snipped the corner with her manicure scissors. She drizzled the dressing.
I was already eating my top slice of bread before she finished.
As we gobbled the sandwiches, she said, “Lieutenant Hernandez phoned me. He was unable to reach you and has further questions regarding the homicide.”
I swallowed hard. “So the medical examiner has ruled it a homicide? Not an accidental drowning or suicide then?”
“Yes. How could you run off and not tell the police where you were going?”
I finished my sandwich and burped. Mom handed us each a bottle of water. I cracked the lid and guzzled half.
“The police commissioner and four of his officers know my whereabouts. The lieutenant found me. No biggie.”
“Sandra. That is such an immature, cavalier attitude. You are an adult. Act like one.” She took my napkin and wiped some dressing from my chin.
I handed her my plate and she gave me a banana.
Dina finished her sandwich and rinsed her plate in the sink. My mom took it and dried it with the white terry hand towel. “Did you get enough to eat? Would you like a piece of fruit? I have blueberries, oranges, apples and bananas. The bananas need to be eaten before they go soft. None of my kids will eat soft bananas. I always have to make banana nut bread with them.”
“You make the best banana nut bread, Mom.” I wished I had some now.
Dina looked at her watch and said, “It’s after six! We’re late for our first workshop.”
I stuffed my banana peel in the chrome trash slot under the sink. It pinched my finger. I kissed Mom’s cheek. “Thanks for the snack. Love you.”
She kissed me back. “I love you, baby dumpling.”
How embarrassing. She called all her kids baby dumpling. It was fine in private but it embarrassed me in front of Dina.
Mom followed us to the baggage car. I needed to persuade her to return to the crusaders. She thought I was in a book readers club. She didn’t know this was a conference for writers. She would never approve. Not that she approved of much of anything I did anyhow.
“Mom, we’ve gotta go. We’re late.”
“I heard you. Hold on a minute.” She stopped at her steamer trunk and popped the lid open. “Pick a color. Both of you.”
We looked at the sea of crayon colored wool. I selected a multicolored rainbow skein. Dina plucked out a shimmery black one.
Mom handed us each a set of small wooden needles. “These should be perfect for the scarves. Let me know if you need more. Now I must go back to the crusaders. They are starting a rummy 500 tournament.”
“Good luck, Mom. Have fun.” I hurried down the aisle.
“Thanks for the food, Mrs. Faire…and the yarn and needles.”
“Tootles, girls.”
Dina whispered, “What’s with the yarn?”
“I told Mom we were reading and knitting scarfs for the military.”
“Why?”
“Because she’d have a cow if she knew I was a writer.” I heard the door to Mom’s car open as we entered the conference car. I exhaled.
I quietly slipped into the first available seat at the table and plunked my yarn and needles into my lap.
The end of Dina’s yarn had snagged the door latch and pulled her back. She stumbled. Everyone looked. “I’m fine. It’s nothing. Go on.”
I trotted back and untangled her. We took our places at the conference table. The writers passed us the handouts and I found the spot the speaker expanded on.
Anna Deerstalker said, “Exterior conflict can be as simple as a husband lamenting, ‘Cereal again?’ This could set his long-maligned wife off on a murderous rampage.”
I glanced around the table. Everyone was taking notes. Including Hack ‘em Up Hazel. This made me very curious. Why would a bestselling author need pointers in conflict? Odd indeed. I feigned a sneeze and tossed my pencil down the table. It landed on Hazel’s notes.
“God bless you,” said Weepy Wendy and Contest Carly.
“Gesundheit,” said Pat-the-Pirate.
I thanked them, begged their pardons and walked over to retrieve my pencil. Hazel flipped her notes over before I could read them. Drats. I returned to my seat.
Anna Deerstalker droned on, “There is also internal conflict in the cereal example. The husband knows he shouldn’t eat the sugar laden carbohydrates but he has a powerful sweet tooth…”
I doodled little moons and stars on my conflict worksheet. The cadence of the train rocked my body. My eyes glazed over. I tried to focus on the conflict—I really did but all I could think about was evicting the mini-missionary, stretching out in my bunk and sleeping soundly all night.
The train blasted its whistle through a grade crossing. The engineer really laid on the horn as he applied the brakes. My eyes flew open.
Anna Deerstalker asked, “Who would like to share her conflict diagram with us?”
I must’ve dozed off. I hoped I hadn’t snored. Please don’t pick me.
Bicep Betty stood. Her gnarled hands gripped the table for support. “Midge would be rid of her poor excuse for a husband before the night was through. She held him at gunpoint with a shotgun, forcing him to lie naked face down on the floor where she had broken a case of wine bottles and tied him spread eagle between the radiator and the coffee table…”
I shook my head and cringed. I didn’t want to hear the rest. Make her stop. All of her stories unfolded like this. She didn’t need help with conflict. She needed help with her twisted mind.
Dina worked on the tangle of black yarn, rolling it into a ball. I removed mine from my lap, fished out the end from the inside of the skein and circled the yarn into a precise tight little sphere. I loved the colors. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple. Just like the rainbow. I tuned Bicep Betty out.
Rosemary rushed in. “So sorry, ladies. I’m wearing two hats on this retreat. The crusaders insisted I sing for them.” She took a seat at the end of the table.
Tabloid Tilly read her conflict next. My ears perked up until I didn’t hear any juicy celebutaunt gossip. She finished quickly. Fine by me.
Anna Deerstalker asked for questions. Nobody had any. Rosemary thanked her profusely for her time and wonderful information. The ladies and I applauded. My yarn ball rolled off of my lap. I set the skein on the table and chased after it. Unfortunately, it had wrapped around the shoe on Pat-the-Pirate’s wooden leg as she tried to rise. She tripped onto the floral carpet.
“I’m so sorry, Pat! Are you all right?”
Contest Carly and Weepy Wendy helped her into a chair. I extracted the yarn and she pulled her black polyester pant leg up, adjusting her wooden leg. Yep, it really was wooden. Pat- the-Pirate indeed. No, that wasn’t nice. She was a lovely lady. Poor thing. Life wasn’t fair.
I skulked back to my seat re-rolling the ball as I went. The skein fell to the floor. I gave it a good yank to hoist it up. A metal ball chain slithered out of the end. What in the heck? I flopped it onto the table and extracted dog tags.
Dog tags?
Chapter Four
Holy smoke ‘em if you have ‘em. Dog tags were hidden inside my skein of yarn. The dead sailor’s tags were missing. These are his. I just know it. Why are dog tags stuffed inside my mother’s yarn?
As I flipped them around to read the name, I heard the clang and whoosh of the doors opening behind me. I stuffed the dog tags back into the skein, picked up the ball, knitting needles, my handout and pencil and glanced innocently at the reverend and my brother. They were walking and whispering and didn’t acknowledge me. I jumped out of my seat. It rolled back, bouncing off the wall and back to the table. I slipped past them and made a dash for compartment A.
I arrived and fastened the door behind me. Good, Mini Mary Agnes was gone. I heard the toilet whoosh. Oh poop. Now what?
I flipped the lid off my cooler and shoved the yarn inside, stuffing the loose tangle down into the water. I replaced the lid just as the bathroom door slammed into my back. I winced and rolled out of the way as best I could in the confined space.
Mary Agnes huffed and offered her unwashed hand to help me up.
I instead grabbed the ladder on the converted bunk bed and hoisted myself up, kicking the cooler under the chair all in the same swift movement. I heard the water sloshing.
“God punishes those who sin.”