Railroaded 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  “Marshall?” my mother asked.

  “Uh-huh. And I’m not breathing a word about this to him.” Not yet anyway.

  The three of us walked to the nearest exit sign and, sure enough, there was a door to a stairwell adjacent to it. Concrete stairs, drab gray handrails, and a sign that read, “No Smoking.”

  When we got to the second floor, it looked just like the one below us. Narrow corridors that seemed to branch out in all directions.

  “This is a nightmare,” Roxanne said. “It’s going to take us all night to find those storage units.”

  I rolled my eyes and pointed to a faded sign on the wall. “Look! Just like in hotels. There are arrows indicating the numbers. What’s the first key number, Roxanne?”

  Roxanne fumbled with the keys for a second. “Two-seven-seven-eight. The next one is two-seven-eight-zero. They must be next to each other.”

  “What about the other two?” my mother asked.

  “Two-three-six-nine and two-four-eleven. We’ll be traipsing all over the place.”

  I sighed and shook my head. “Well, we’d better start somewhere. According to this sign, we’re closest to two-four-eleven. Let’s go there first, okay?”

  Not waiting for anyone to object, I charged down the corridor to 2411. It appeared as if there were three garage door sizes in this complex—small, medium, and large. Number 2411 was large, and I had a suspicion the other three units would be as well.

  Roxanne used her key to unlock the unit. Then, using the handle, she lifted the door and stepped back. None of us had thought to bring a flashlight, but the one on my iPhone was all we needed until we could locate the wall switch.

  I expected the unit to have one low-hanging light bulb like the ones in those interrogation rooms on TV, but I was pleasantly surprised to find the unit well-lit with four inset light bulbs. What I wasn’t pleasantly surprised to see was the floor-to-ceiling stacks of boxes everywhere. So many, in fact, that only one person at a time could wedge between them in the tight space Wilbur had left.

  “We can’t possibly stop to open all these boxes,” I said. “Besides, judging from what I can see from here, they all look as if they came straight from the manufacturer. They’ve got the company logos plastered all over them, and the boxes look fairly new.”

  Roxanne walked sideways in the narrow space and eyeballed one of the columns. “Phee’s right. The boxes are unopened. Give me a moment. I’ll try to turn around and see what’s behind me.”

  While Roxanne maneuvered inside the storage unit, I put the satchel on the floor by the unit’s entrance and waited. Meanwhile, my mother took a step forward and nudged a box off to the side. “This one says ‘Bachman,’ and underneath it reads ‘Broan motor.’ The one next to it says ‘Nutone fan motor.’ I don’t think we’re going to find anything incriminating in this storage unit, Roxanne, unless, of course, your late husband was dealing in stolen goods. And there’s no way to tell offhand.”

  I shook my head. “It’s a tremendous amount of inventory to be stolen. And from where? Wilbur didn’t work for any of those companies.”

  Roxanne dusted something from her shoulder and stepped outside the unit. “I’ll tell you where he got that stuff from – our savings. No wonder we couldn’t afford trips to Hawaii like everyone else. Maybe Wilbur enjoyed looking at boxes of gears and fan blades, but I would have liked to see a white sand beach.”

  I picked up the satchel and flung it over my shoulder. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything in this unit that’s going to give us a lead as to who might have killed your husband. Maybe we’ll have better luck with the next one.”

  Ha! Who was I kidding? Number 2369, which was located around the corner on a different corridor, was also piled high and deep with boxes, but, unlike the motors and gears in the first storage unit, this one boasted an endless supply of model railroad landscaping material. You name it—fake grass, fake earth, molds, foam, tunnels, grass mats, and boxes marked “hardscape,” whatever that was. The good news was, two people could stand next to each other in this unit without fighting for breathing space.

  The three of us took turns perusing the boxes in case we “missed something,” according to my mother. I was the last out of the storage unit when I glanced at the lineup of boxes marked “foam.” I must have missed it at first glance, but not this time. It was marked, “Foam Track Glue,” and I suddenly froze.

  “What’s the matter, Phee?” my mother asked. “Did you see a mouse? My God! Is there a mouse in there? We should have brought Streetman with us.”

  Perish the thought. “No. No mouse. But there’s a box marked ‘Foam Track Glue.’ Maybe that’s the stuff that was on those rocks, not nail polish. And maybe foam track glue doesn’t require a glue gun, like the stuff they use for printed circuit boards.”

  “Glue guns? Circuit boards? What are you folks talking about?” Roxanne asked.

  I bit my lip and spoke softly. “When Deputy Bowman placed you under arrest, did he mention the evidence they found at the crime scene?”

  “He mentioned my tap shoe. Good grief. I haven’t used those tap shoes in years. I’m far too advanced for full cleats. I thought I disposed of those old shoes months ago, but lo and behold, there was one of them in my closet. The mate to the murder weapon. Bowman couldn’t believe it either. He said he originally thought Wilbur’s death was due to shock from some sort of electrical malfunction, but the coroner’s report said otherwise. Why? What does this have to do with glue guns?”

  “Probably nothing,” I said, “but the tap shoe wasn’t the only evidence at the crime scene. They found a screwdriver and some rocks with a coated substance that might have been glue or even clear nail polish.”

  Roxanne immediately held her hands in front of her face. “If it was clear nail polish, I’m off the hook. I only use shades of coral or red. Do you think the gooey substance might have come from that foam track glue? The boxes here are still sealed, but any of those Model Railroad Club members probably have the stuff in their garages.”

  I nodded. “Could be. Anyway, we need to get going. It’s late already and we still have two more units to check out.”

  “Did they find out where that screwdriver came from?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Most seasoned tap dancers carry screwdrivers around with them. Especially if they’re going to practice. Those cleats loosen all the time and have to be refastened constantly. I don’t go anywhere without my little Phillips head. Here, see for yourself.”

  She opened her bag and began to move her hand around. “Oh no. This can’t be. It’s missing. My screwdriver is missing. So help me, God, if the screwdriver they found by Wilbur’s body happens to be the one I use for my tap shoes, I’ll be arrested and tried for murder before anyone can blink an eye.”

  CHAPTER 19

  “We won’t let that happen,” my mother said. “We’ve got two more storage units and we’re bound to find something. Come on. Lock this one up and let’s get going.”

  Roxanne didn’t say a word. She closed the corrugated garage door, locked the unit, and followed my mother and me to the corridor where the wall arrows pointed to the unit numbers.

  Numbers 2778 and 2780 were down the corridor to the left. By now I was exhausted. Unfortunately, unless Wilbur had stored a few comfortable chairs in one of those units, I wasn’t going to get any rest anytime soon.

  We started down the corridor toward 2778 just as I thought I heard footsteps somewhere else on the floor. “Shh! You hear that? We’re not the only people in here tonight. Those footsteps seem to be coming from the corridor adjacent to this one. We’d better walk softly, just in case.”

  “In case what?” my mother asked. “I’m pulling out my Screamer if anyone makes an unwanted move toward me.”

  The Screamer was a small device Myrna had purchased when she was positive there was a killer lurking around the Stardust Theater. My mother and the rest of the book club lad
ies did the same. So far, my mother’s device had only been activated by accident, and the result was that Streetman peed on her floor.

  “Other people are going into their units, too.” I said. “We don’t want to be noticed, that’s all. Put away that device before you set it off by accident.”

  Then my mother turned to Roxanne and showed her the Screamer. “You really should buy one of these. No one should be without one.”

  “Enough with the Screamer,” I said. “Keep moving.”

  We trudged down the corridor to number 2778, where we discovered Wilbur had amassed so many cartons of HLW Power Packs that he could have started his own business. Only he hadn’t. At least as far as Roxanne knew. Apparently, the rumors of Wilbur being a hoarder were more than substantiated by tonight’s find.

  “This is awful,” Roxanne said when we left 2778 and went to the unit directly across from it. “I was hoping we’d find something. Anything. Anything at all that would get me off the hook.”

  Expecting more of the same in unit 2780, I resigned myself to the fact that Roxanne better have a damn good attorney. The key went into the lock effortlessly and Roxanne lifted the large garage door, but instead of finding mounds of cartons from every model railroad manufacturer in the business, we found ourselves staring at a rusty, four-drawer file cabinet shoved against the wall, a rickety wooden chair, and eight or nine water-stained cartons marked MISC.

  “Maybe we’ll find what you need in here,” my mother said to Roxanne. “Those cartons look as old as the hills, and there aren’t many of them. Might as well see what’s inside.”

  What was inside those cartons wasn’t worth the time it took for us to go through them. At least not in my mind. They were jam-packed with old motors, wires, gears, and a few unopened bottles of Mega-Steam Smoke Fluid. I remembered Big Scuttie mentioning something about using pine and peppermint smoke fluid for train demonstrations because it smelled better than the regular old oil the club used. Again, no earth-shattering findings. That left the rusty file cabinet, and without a key we’d be out of luck.

  By now I felt as if I’d taken a thirty-three-hour flight to Singapore, but instead of looking forward to a classy hotel and fabulous Chinese cuisine like the characters in Crazy Rich Asians, I’d be lucky to get home to a TV dinner and a Coke. It was jet lag all right, but without the rewards. I could tell my mother was tired, too, because she wasn’t as talkative as usual.

  “Maybe you can look around the house for the key,” she said to Roxanne, “and we can come back then.”

  Roxanne walked over to the file cabinet and stared at it. “It’ll be too late.” Then, without saying another word, she dragged it out from the wall, one side at a time. Surprisingly, the woman had more strength than I’d realized. “I know my husband’s tricks. He always kept an extra key to his desk by taping it underneath the front drawer. File cabinets, even old relics like this one, come with two sets of keys. I’m sure he’s got one taped behind it.”

  Without waiting for my mother or me to respond, Roxanne reached in back of the file cabinet and bent down. “I knew it! I knew it! We hit pay dirt and it better pay off.” Like a madwoman, she unlocked the top drawer and pulled it out. “I have no idea what this crap is, but it better mean something. Looks like a bunch of file envelopes with numbers on them.”

  I walked to where she was standing and peered into the open drawer. “Maybe you should pull out the other three drawers to see if anything stands out.” Or how much paper crap there really is.

  “Good idea.” Roxanne pulled out the other three drawers one at a time and shrugged. “The bottom one’s a bust. Look! Nothing but old copies of Model Railroader magazine and some old railroad calendars dating back at least a decade.”

  “What’s in the middle two?” my mother asked.

  “Third one down has unused file envelopes, and lots of them.”

  Then she reached into the second drawer down. “Well, I’ll be darned.”

  “What? What?” my mother all but yelled. “What did you find?”

  “Some old photos from when Wilbur used to work for Sherrington Manufacturing in Iowa. Goodness. He had a full head of hair back then.”

  “That’s it?” I asked. “Old photos?”

  “Uh-huh. And old paper clips and pens. Probably dried up by now.” Roxanne shoved the photos into my hand. “Looks like office photos. All taken the same day, judging by the clothing they were wearing. Wilbur was in middle management back then. Got promoted from his engineering position.”

  I glanced at the faded color photos and handed them back to her. Nothing earth-shattering, but still better than no photos at all. Then, I reached out my hand again. “You know, maybe there’s someone in your late husband’s past who could have been responsible for his death. We should look these over. Along with those numbered file folders from the top drawer. Think they can all fit in the satchel?”

  Roxanne pulled out a hefty handful of folders and gave them to me. “They’ll fit. Cram them in.”

  True, there were only nine or ten folders, but they were cumbersome. I had just shoved the last one into the satchel when I heard footsteps again. Closer this time. “We should really get out of here. No reason to stay.”

  In seconds Roxanne pulled the garage door down and locked it. Then, two things happened at once. The sound of the air circulating in the building stopped and everything went dark. Make it three things. My mother screamed.

  “The power went out, that’s all.” I hoped she wouldn’t scream again. “I’ve got the flashlight on my iPhone. We’ll have enough light to get down the stairwell and out of here.”

  My voice might have sounded calm, but the truth of the matter was I was shaking like the proverbial leaf. Thoughts of deranged killers popped into my head like the ones that appeared in every Halloween movie. I pictured one of them waiting for the opportunity to land blows on our heads and send us flying down the stairwell. Oddly enough, that sounded better than being stuck in a dark elevator. Although I doubted the elevator door would even open.

  Then I had an idea. “I’ll stand with my back to the stairwell and inch my way down while the both of you walk in front of me.”

  “Why?” my mother asked. “What good will that do?”

  I wasn’t about to mention killers or maniacs, so I went with something that sounded almost logical. “Better lighting.”

  As it turned out, I didn’t need to use my phone. The stairwell had backup lighting. Dim, but visible enough. I figured the building must have a backup generator of sorts for emergencies like this one.

  “Probably an electrical outage,” I said as we walked down the stairs. I was the last one down, with Roxanne in front, followed by my mother. I still plastered myself against the wall, moving sideways and glancing up from time to time to make sure we weren’t being followed.

  “Probably an electrical outage?” my mother repeated, only this time as a question. She followed it with, “As opposed to what? Someone who deliberately turned off the power so they could do to us what they did to Wilbur?”

  I kept my voice low. “Don’t be ridiculous. No one even knows we’re here. Except, of course, for Cecilia. And Shirley. And probably the book club ladies by now.”

  When we emerged from the stairwell the corridor was pitch-black. I supposed only the stairwells required emergency lighting.

  “No problem,” I said, “I can manage my iPhone and this satchel.”

  Suddenly more footsteps sounded from the rear of the corridor where we were standing. Footsteps and a dry cough that sounded vaguely familiar. Whoever it was must have found another stairwell to the ground floor. Again, those dry, coughing sounds. It was too familiar. Where had I last heard a cough like that? “Come on, ladies, let’s move quickly.”

  I could see the illuminated “EXIT” sign a few yards away, and another corridor that opened up into ours. The coughing came from behind us and seemed to be getting louder. Worse yet, it was joined by the sound of someone clearing their throa
t. Not one of those polite, muffled sounds, but one of those incessantly annoying, phlegmy sounds I associated with waiting rooms in doctors’ offices.

  “Hurry up!” I shouted, this time not worried about keeping my voice low.

  The “EXIT” sign was fast approaching, and if we hurried, we could be out in the open before whoever was behind us caught up. I aimed the phone’s flashlight straight ahead and kept moving. Roxanne and my mother were in front of me, but even though they walked at a brisk clip, it wasn’t fast enough to escape the thundering footsteps behind us. Or prevent the catastrophe that followed seconds later. Too bad the Three Stooges couldn’t have used it in one of their routines. And worse yet, I couldn’t line up the events in order if I wanted to because everything blurred.

  “I’m here for you!” It was a raspy man’s voice, and not altogether unfamiliar.

  Then Roxanne screamed. Louder than that device my mother carried with her. Someone bumped into me and I dropped my phone. The only light was that “EXIT” sign, and it was a good five or six yards in front of us.

  I wasn’t sure exactly what happened, but when I bent down to retrieve my phone, the person who was at my back stumbled and fell over me. The fake glasses slid off my face and most of my hair had slipped out of the rubber band.

  “It’s Wilbur’s killer!” Roxanne screamed.

  “Where? Who? Damn it. I’m not running in the dark.” It was another man’s voice, but not up close. Thankfully. Again, a voice that wasn’t totally unfamiliar.

  “Where’s that satchel?” my mother bellowed. “Hit him over the head with it, Phee! Now. While he’s on the ground.”

  I couldn’t have hit anything or anyone if I wanted to. The satchel was looped around my arm, and it was as cumbersome as could be with all those files stuffed into it. Besides, I was fumbling to find my phone.

  “If you can’t hit him, kick him,” my mother continued. “Before his accomplice gets here.”

  “I’m almost on the ground. How can I kick someone when I’m on the ground?”