by D. J. Lutz
“Wow, that’s a great story, except the parents–passing–away part. So now it’s just you living and working here?”
“Worked for your grandmother, didn’t it? And she’s one of the smartest people I know. Why fool with a plan that works?”
“Good point. So you bought the train; I love the concept. It’ll be great once the tourist season starts again. I imagine the prize money will help a lot with more remodeling.”
I looked around the caboose. This final railcar held the sleeping quarters in the rear third, the remaining two–thirds reserved for cooking and storage space. Every square inch served a purpose.
“Yes, I have a few more things on my list; upgrades I would like to do to the old car here, but most of the money will buy space on the rail. I have enough coal to last about a month if I make one run a day from Seaview to Chincoteague and back. But the real money goes to Norfolk Eastern Railway. They bought the rights to the line, so I can sit here all day at no charge, but if I fire up the engine and steam out past the town limit, I am forced to pay them by the linear foot.”
“And it isn’t cheap?” I asked.
“Let me put it to you this way, I’ll need at least a half–full train of paying customers each time to break even. Hopefully, I’ll fill more seats; I need to build up a cash reserve. It will take a lot to keep this train wreck moving through the winter. More coal, too. It all costs money.”
“Well, then. Let’s focus on today, shall we? What choice caboose cuisine are you cooking today? I noticed the stoves aren’t lit. Going with sushi? Raw foods? Maybe smoked salmon?”
“It’s all hush–hush for now, Winnie. But I will show you one thing. I’m proud of Cosmo for making it. We’re an item, you know.”
“So I gather. He spoke about you when I was over at the bed and breakfast.”
“Not too much, I hope.” She giggled. “Some things just need to remain a secret, right? Anyhow, hand me that bag of peanuts, will you?”
I reached up to a high shelf and secured the brown paper bag labeled Authentic VA Peanuts. There were many crops grown in the Commonwealth of Virginia, but the most acclaimed—aside from the now out–of–vogue tobacco leaf—was our tiny peanut.
“Ah, going with Asian cuisine, very different, yet somewhat reminiscent of Cosmo’s style.”
I was guessing the ethnicity of Bailey’s menu. She could have been creating in several culinary genres.
“Very different as in atrocious?” Bailey had a look of panic. I didn’t realize she was hoping for my approval.
“No, Bailey. I think a little Far East cooking is a great idea. Anyway, no one has served a true ethnic food yet. Cosmo was close, but it was Tex–Mex wrapped in an Asian package. Yes, I think you should stick with it, Bailey.”
The cook laughed. “You are so funny, Winnie. I never said I was cooking Asian food. Here, let me show you what we’re doing here.” Bailey poured the peanuts, shelled and roasted, into a metal canister. She then added a cup of vegetable oil and a half cup of mixed spices.
I looked at the plethora of wires and hoses hooked up to the canister and knew who was behind this operation. “This has Cosmo’s name all over it. What does it do?”
Bailey just smiled, remaining silent as she opened a circuit breaker box and pulled down the main switch. The lights in the caboose dimmed for a second, and then returned to full brightness as we heard hidden machinery come to life.
“In about ten minutes,” Bailey said, “you will have the most fab peanut butter sauce ever. Care for a drink of watermelon?”
“Excuse me?”
“Here, just try it.” Bailey poured a glass of chilled water, pinkish in hue, and topped it with a small mint leaf. As she handed me the glass, Bailey counted on her fingers.
Being unsure of the drink’s content, I held the glass up to the light of the nearby window. Seeing nothing life–threatening, I took the chance and brought the glass up to my nose and took in a deep breath.
The sweetness of the watermelon was evident; the mint’s light and delicate fragrance danced about. After a test–sip, I chugged down the remaining drink. I opted not to belch for propriety’s sake, but I am sure my long exhale told the truth of my contentment.
“That, my dear Bailey, is a winner! Refreshing, cool, sweet but not too sweet. You are serving this for lunch, right?”
“I’d be foolish not to. It will be a nice complement to the entrée.”
“Which is?”
“Try this.” The chef handed me a wooden spoon with a dollop of the homemade peanut butter.
Again, I crinkled my nose with two quick sniffs of the spoon’s cargo. And just as I had enjoyed the refreshing aroma of the beverage, I enjoyed the olfactory avalanche caused by the spices used in the peanut butter. Perhaps I underestimated the skill of this young competitor.
I complimented Bailey on the recipe, and then walked back to the dining car to prepare myself for the meal. Once I found a seat at the end of the car, I realized what had just happened.
Bailey Babbitt, a girl who appeared to be so innocent, one with a sob story that’d make a cemetery’s stone angel cry, wasn’t as naïve as everyone thought. No, far from it.
I had just spent twenty minutes alone with a suspect, and what did I have to show for it? Nothing.
Soon enough, the judges arrived. After most of them had made it up the stairs and had found their own seats, Drake and his one–woman camera crew arrived.
As Drake stood to make his usual remarks, we found out today would not be like the day before. Not even close. With the flair of a circus barker–turned–preacher, Drake began what he hoped would be his best performance.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as we begin a new day with a new competitor, I would like us to take a moment to remember that one of our own, Pierre St. Pierre, is no longer with us.”
Turning to face the camera, he continued in a much more somber tone. “Today, I shall ask that we have a moment of silence, after which we will move on to Bailey Babbitt’s lunch offering.”
The dining car fell uncomfortably silent. After thirty seconds of people shifting around in their seats, coughing, sniffling, and looking around hoping to find something to push life forward, Drake broke the tension.
“It’s no secret that the killer is still on the loose. This morning, the VCID ruled the cause of death as shock caused by massive blood loss due to a single knife wound in the lower back, left side.”
Judges looked at each other, their faces blanched. Grimsby’s graphic description of the crime only became worse as he continued.
“And given the fact that the only people in the area at the time of the murder were the competitors, it is with a sense of danger, intrigue, and dare I say risk, that we today dine in the abodes, the veritable lairs of the last two suspects. Ladies and gentlemen, I make no guarantee as to our own safety today, but I promise you this: today’s episode will be one you will not soon forget.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. The man was playing to a future television audience, trying to build suspense and ratings at the expense of every decent cook in town. The only way Grimsby could have added more melodrama was if he had brought in someone to play old soap opera music on an equally old pipe organ.
Lunch couldn’t have come quick enough for me. With Grimsby rattling on about nothing in particular, I wondered if the dining car came equipped with barf bags.
A small bell rang. A hand appeared from within the side of the curtain; it pulled the eggplant purple velour back to show a dark passageway leading to the caboose. Cosmo, dressed in black trousers and a starched white button–down shirt topped with a bow tie, side–stepped to the center of the door. A comically fake handlebar moustache framed his smile.
As for our host, there was still no sign of Bailey. Her partner steadied his gait by latching on to the aisle–side chairs as he walked forward. We were all certain he would lose his balance and drop the tray full of tallboy cocktail glasses he was carrying.
The rays
of sunlight from the windows bent as they pierced the glass and reflected off the ice cubes. A panorama of rainbows appeared on the interior walls of the dining car. I inspected my drink’s bouquet with a quick sniff and knew right away what sloshed about inside the glass.
Giving Grimsby a quick, insolent look, Cosmo said, “Ladies and others, let me offer you a refreshing drink. This is a watermelon spritzer, perfect for waking up those taste buds before you start your afternoon meal. Please sip, don’t gulp. And remember, you will want to save room for the picnic basket to be served next.”
As slurping sounds of happiness echoed throughout the dining car, telltale clinks of ice cubes signaled that glass upon glass were being emptied, regardless of the warning. Cosmo, as he was returning to the rear galley, stopped and said he would get another tray of refills. I wasn’t positive, but I thought I heard him say under his breath that Bailey would need to step it up before someone loses a hand.
Minutes later, the second round of watermelon spritzers arrived, and by the time Cosmo finished, he was thankful the main course was on its way. The bell rang again, and like Pavlov’s dog, everyone turned to see what would come next through the curtain. Even though I had tasted a sample of the savory peanut sauce, I had no idea what was to be served.
Instead of the tall, lanky Cosmo, however, a much shorter and more feminine figure appeared. It was the chef du jour, Bailey Babbitt. She was wearing a uniform similar to that of her co–conspirator Cosmo—and she also sported a fake mustache. I prayed it was not the same hair piece, but vowed to not think about it again. If that were possible.
Another silver platter balancing act. This time, however, there were no tall pieces of glassware defying the laws of physics. I noticed several small packages, each wrapped in wax paper, tied with colored ribbon. The tails curled, making for a frilly lunchtime present.
“In keeping with the picnic theme, I have prepared a classic, almost iconic piece of picnic fare, the humble peanut butter sandwich.” Bailey gave a slight bow, raising back up with a hopeful expression.
Her face changed when she heard the low mumblings of discontent. Comments echoed off the hard maple floorboards.
Bailey went into damage control mode. I had to give her props for perseverance.
“But as you will see—and please open your packages now if you have not already done so—this is not your ordinary sandwich. This was one of my mother’s favorites: the Peanut Butter Pickle Banana Crunch Sandwich. Complementing the homemade peanut butter are a few slices of fresh banana, a drizzle of honey, and a special topping of potato chips and pickles! Sweet, creamy and smooth on the one hand; crunchy, salty and tangy on the other. Perfect for an outing to the lake, the woods, the beach, or even on a train ride back into history. Please enjoy. Dessert will be forthcoming, surprising, and delicious. I promise you.”
Bailey, to my surprise, succeeded in quelling the uprising. The negative comments had stopped and now the only sounds being heard were the crumpling of wax paper. Soon enough you could hear everyone speaking about the amazing concept of adding pickles and potato chips to a sandwich.
I wondered if anyone else noticed that so far, nothing had actually been cooked. Sure, making the peanut butter with all the extras was a nice touch, but I had always equated cooking to the scientific process of adding heat to ingredients to create something new worth eating. Maybe I had become a food snob, a dreaded foodie, and it had taken Bailey Babbitt and her deluxe PB with no J sandwich for me to realize it. All I had ever done to a peanut butter sandwich was to add bacon—back in my meat–eating days.
As we finished eating, Cosmo returned to clear away the discarded wax paper and twisted, knotted clumps of ribbon. He stopped long enough to catch everyone’s attention, asking if anyone would care for some chocolate.
Who wouldn’t want chocolate?
Cosmo pointed his index finger up as if to tell the diners to wait one more minute. He then checked his pocket watch. A few wild hand and arm signals later, we understood he would be right back with his partner, Bailey.
If my single–moustache theory was to be proven true, I would soon know. The answer came unexpectedly, when to everyone’s surprise, both Bailey and her sous chef Cosmo returned on a tandem bicycle.
Laughter and clapping erupted as the two period actors rode the bike up and down the narrow aisle. Cosmo was in the back providing the pedal power and Bailey sat in front, steering with one hand and tossing out wrapped desserts with the other.
I caught my tasty treat as the two eccentric cyclists tooled by a second time. With the anticipation of a child opening her first Christmas present, I tore through the tape holding the four corners of the three–by–three–inch cube.
As the sides unfolded, I found myself face to face with a nice, dark, chewy fudge brownie. After the first bite, no one cared about the theatrics. Every diner enjoyed the dessert course. Nary a crumb remained.
As the lunch presentation drew to a close, the two cooks came out from the caboose once more. Holding hands, they bowed in response to the vigorous applause from the judges. A gentleman above all else, Cosmo pulled away from Bailey, his hands upturned to present her as the mastermind of the entire lunch experience. He then joined in the applause. I then remembered what the young female chef had said. Her lunch may not be as fancy as the others, but it would be the most memorable experience of the week. She was correct.
And as much as I loved my grandmother’s cooking, I realized that she may not win the Saucy Skillet trophy this year. Regardless, I wanted—almost needed—to see how Bailey made those delicious brownies.
Could Bailey have killed her own uncle? At this point I knew she had motive, but the cooking and presentation alluded to more naïveté than guilt. Maybe I was reading too much into it? People said my parents were cynical and jaded; perhaps I had inherited the same traits.
Drake and his ever–increasing ego pushed everyone out of the dining car. He said they needed time to set up at the Cat and Fiddle and could not, in his words, dilly dally around some old train car. Talk about looking a gift horse in the mouth. I couldn’t believe he was dismissing the awesome lunch and performance art we had just witnessed.
But to his point, the contest had to go on. Everyone agreed to meet back at six that evening. I had just five hours to tell Velma about today’s simple yet outstanding lunch and hope we could—or as I should say, Velma could—deliver an even more spectacular meal, an easy task, as long as she wasn’t in handcuffs. As I was saying my goodbye to the chef, I noticed Grimsby flip open his phone and call Captain Larson.
17
It wasn’t too far a walk across the rail yard from the Southern Comfort to Front Street. With a few spare minutes, I stopped by the ice cream store to say hello to the owner, intending to sample an ice cream waffle sandwich. However, the sound of an ambulance’s siren caught my attention.
Gazing up the street, I saw a large white box–like vehicle with blue and red lights flashing, racing along the street and making a beeline for me. The driver was waving, trying to get my attention. Up to that point, I had felt fine and, unless someone had just learned Bailey’s brownies contained something other than chocolate, I did not understand why the ambulance was approaching me.
As the vehicle slowed and pulled alongside the curb, the driver rolled down the passenger side window and leaned over, asking, “Are you Winnipeg Kepler?”
My eyebrows raised and my jaw dropped. I stammered, “Yes?”
“Get in the back, hurry!”
I ran around to the double doors in back. The attendant inside had just opened the doors, allowing me to see the patient, my grandmother, strapped to a gurney; she had an assortment of wires, electrodes, and tubes attached to her body.
“Holy bah–joh–lee!” I said, jumping into the van as it pulled away. “What’s going on here? Grandma, can you hear me? What’s wrong?”
The emergency medical technician answered, But I ignored him as Velma lifted her one free arm and motioned fo
r me to come closer.
“I’m okay; just a little chest pain,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the sound of the sirens. “I told them to stop and pick you up if they saw you.”
“Chest pains? Grandma, we need to get to the hospital right away!”
Seeing my grandmother fade back into unconsciousness, the EMT transmitted the woman’s vitals to the hospital’s emergency department awaiting for our arrival.
“Grandma?” I exclaimed. “Are you okay? Is she okay?” Unfairly, I was holding the poor technician personally responsible for the health and welfare of my grandmother.
“We should be at Eastern Shore Memorial in a few minutes,” he said. “Her heart is still beating strong. I think she took a nap? All the vitals are looking good.”
“But there’s something wrong, otherwise she would not have called you, right?”
“She didn’t call. Doc Jones called us.”
“Will he meet us at the hospital? Doc Jones has been the family doctor for years.”
The technician laughed. “Doc Jones has been everyone’s family doctor for years. He retired about five years ago. Said he didn’t want to pay another month’s rent for an office he never used.”
“So he can’t practice medicine anymore?”
“Oh no, he can still practice. In fact, all the doctors at Shore regard him as the authority on just about everything. He just doesn’t have an office now. Only makes house calls when he feels like it. Your grandmother was lucky he stopped by for lunch when he did.”
I held my grandmother’s hand, watching her chest rise and fall, a comforting sign the lungs were still working. Time passed, although I had no concept of how much, thanks to the adrenaline racing through my system.
The ambulance jostled front to back to front again as it came to a stop in the rear of the small county hospital. Ubiquitous red and white signs clamored that we were now at the Eastern Shore Memorial Emergency Department.
The doors swung open as the crew extracted the gurney and my grandmother along with it. As they wheeled her through the bay doors, I sprinted around to the waiting room, looking for a receptionist to see what else had to be done. I slid my finger through my phone’s contact list. I would have to call my parents, too.
