In the Dead of Winter (an Emma Cassidy Mystery Book 5)

by Karen Chester

  Remembering Wayne’s warning about the burst water main, she took the back roads out of town. The route went past a few warehouses, dark and deserted, before crossing the railway that skirted the southern end of Greenville. Eager to get home, Emma stepped on the gas, but as she approached the railway crossing, her cell phone began to play Bohemian Rhapsody. Her heart lifted. Owen was calling her, and she didn’t want to miss his call.

  She pulled over by the side of the road near the raised barriers of the crossing and quickly fished the phone out of her bag.

  “Hello?” she answered the call.

  “Hey, sweetheart.” Owen’s warm voice wrapped around her like honey. “How you doing? Had a good day?”

  “I’m fine. Spent most of the day working on the New Year’s Eve party. I don’t want to give the mayor’s wife any cause for complaint.”

  “You know she’s impossible to please, so you shouldn’t even worry about her.”

  “I try. So, how about you? Where are you right now?”

  “Sitting in a car outside a house, waiting for someone to come out.”

  Emma swallowed. “It’s not someone dangerous, is it?”

  “Well…I can’t talk about that right now.”

  Owen was a dedicated law enforcement officer, and she wouldn’t want it any other way, but she couldn’t help worrying about the dangers he faced so matter-of-factly. “At least promise me that you’re being careful.”

  “I’m always careful, unlike some people I know.”

  She knew he had every right to say that. She had survived in New York for many years without encountering a criminal—except for her business partner, that was—but for some reason since returning to Greenville she had managed to become embroiled in several murder cases. With some of them she had actively involved herself, whereas others she had been an unwilling participant. Despite several harrowing situations, she retained her optimistic outlook. Perhaps adversity made her more resilient, but she knew Owen worried about her.

  “I’m being careful now,” she answered. “I’ve even pulled over on the side of the road to take your call, that’s how careful I am.”

  “Where are you?”

  “At the railroad crossing just out of town.”

  “Just as long as you haven’t stopped on the crossing.”

  “Ha-ha. For your information, I haven’t.”

  “Just checking, honey.”

  She squinted through the windshield that was beginning to mist up. Was that a lump of rags lying on the tracks about fifty yards away from the crossing? With the gathering darkness, the foggy windshield, and the long grass it was hard to make out. It looked like a coat of some kind.

  “Emma?” Owen’s voice broke through her musings.

  “Sorry, there’s something on the tracks, and I can’t make it out.” Leaning forward, she rubbed a fist against the windshield and peered through the circle of cleared glass. “It looks like…” She gasped in disbelief. “Oh my God! It can’t be!”

  At the same time, the lights of the railroad crossing began to flash, and the bell started to ring.

  Chapter Two

  Lights flashed from the police cruisers and the ambulance. People ran up and down with urgent expressions. A hot, metallic smell invaded her. Someone came up and crouched in front of her. The man’s lips moved; he was talking to her, but his voice was drowned by the buzzing cacophony inside her head, and she could only stare at him in a daze. He spoke more pressingly, concern showing in his earnest face, but still she couldn’t decipher what he was saying. Nothing made sense anymore.

  The man leaned forward and picked up an object from the ground near where she sat. It was her cell phone, she realized. The man spoke into the phone for a few moments, then he held it near her ear.

  “Emma, can you hear me? Sweetheart, are you all right?”

  It was Owen, and he sounded frightened. But his familiar voice served to bring everything into sharp focus. She was sitting on the dirt next to the train tracks, she realized, and the man crouched in front of her was Officer Eric Martinez, one of the Greenville policemen. Lifting her head, she made out the hulking shadow of the train, stopped in its tracks, steaming and smelling of diesel oil. But there was another smell, a raw, metallic odor that her primitive brain recognized, a stench that tied a cold knot at the base of her neck.

  “The man…” she whispered, looking at Officer Martinez. “The man on the tracks. Is he dead?”

  She didn’t know why she asked; she knew he was dead. In those horrifying few seconds when she had pulled so desperately on his legs while the train bore down on them, horn blaring, lights glaring, brakes squealing, she’d known there was no time. The wheels of the train had rumbled over the man on the tracks, wrenching him out of her grip. And then the train had rumbled past, screeching to a halt, and in the back draft she had been tossed aside like a dandelion in the wind.

  “I’m sorry,” Martinez said. “He is.”

  She stared at the lump caught between the train and the tracks. People were swarming about, bending over with flashlights, their grim expressions reflecting the horrific situation. The train had dragged the victim some twenty yards away from her…but still close enough to make out the dead man’s legs, the cracked leather boots she’d gripped and tried so desperately to move… Bile rose in her throat, and she turned away just in time to throw up in a clump of bushes.

  When she recovered, Martinez was talking with Owen on her phone. A paramedic came up to her. He had already checked her for injuries a few minutes ago, and now he placed a white blanket around her shoulders and gave her a bottle of water. She rinsed out her mouth and gulped down water, wondering if she would ever get rid of the horrible tang at the back of her throat.

  Martinez handed her phone back, and she listened to Owen for a few minutes. She didn’t take in much of what he was saying, but his voice pulled her back from the edge of hysteria. She told him she was okay. Eventually the call ended.

  As Martinez helped her to her feet, her gaze fell on a glass bottle half-hidden by a clump of weeds. It was a bottle of whiskey, almost empty, and, judging by its appearance it looked like it had recently landed there.

  Emma pointed at the bottle. “That—that might have been his.”

  Martinez frowned and nodded. “Yeah. A bottle of whiskey on a cold night. That’s enough to make any man fall over and pass out.”

  “Yes, but why here?” Her brain ached as it slowly began to work again. She glanced back at the railroad crossing some fifty yards away. “Why didn’t he stumble over the tracks at the crossing? What was he doing wandering along the tracks?”

  “Drunk people do a lot of stupid things, Emma.”

  “Yes.” She shivered and swallowed, her raw throat stinging. “He must have really hit the booze hard because he was completely out of it. I—I shouted and screamed at him. He groaned a bit, but he didn’t have a clue what was going on. I pulled on his legs, but he was too heavy for me to move. And the train was c-coming so fast, and I c-couldn’t do anything.” The horror of it all was beginning to creep up on her again.

  Martinez patted her shoulder, the big cop a little awkward. “You did the best you could. It’s not your fault.”

  “But if I’d been stronger I could’ve picked him up maybe…”

  “You don’t want to go thinking like that.”

  She blinked up at him. “But who is he?”

  Martinez cleared his throat. “We don’t know yet, but I’m sure we’ll identify him soon enough.”

  She forced herself to look at the remains of the man, wondering whose bleak task it would be to remove the body from under the train. Other officers paced along the length of the tracks, peering about with their flashlights, and the realization that they were searching for more remains almost turned her stomach again. Further away, a middle-aged man in overalls sat on the ground, pale with shock, a blanket also over his shoulders. The train driver, she deduced. Poor man. He would have nightmares for a while. Like h
er.

  Out of the darkness, a blessedly familiar figure came running toward her. Emma had seldom seen Becky look so rattled. She flew toward Emma and Officer Martinez, her unbuttoned coat flapping open to reveal she still had her diner apron on, and flung her arms around Emma.

  “Oh God, Emma! You poor girl!” She ran her hands over Emma, as if searching for injuries.

  “She hasn’t been hurt,” Martinez offered.

  Becky gripped Emma’s frozen hands, her own hands not quite steady. “Thank God. Owen called me and told me what happened.” She glanced over her shoulder at the corpse and let out a sigh. “Poor man. What a horrible way to go,” she murmured.

  “We don’t know who he is,” Emma said. It was beginning to plague her, the not knowing. Someone might be waiting for this man to return home—a wife, a child, a friend. They would wait in vain, and then in the morning maybe, they would contact the police and be told the terrible news.

  “It’s early days,” Martinez said. “The ME hasn’t arrived yet. We’ll know more soon.”

  Becky spoke to the police officer. “Eric, I’m taking Emma back to the diner. Is that okay with you?”

  Martinez shuffled his feet. “Uh, sure. We might have to ask her a few questions, though.”

  “Tonight?” Becky frowned with displeasure. “Can’t that wait until morning?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.” Martinez adjusted his belt, looking uncomfortable.

  Becky let out a sigh. “Where’s Sherilee? Isn’t she on duty today?”

  “Sherilee’s in New Mexico. She’s got the whole week off.”

  Sherilee Ackerman, also an officer with the Greenville Police Department, had a habit of rubbing Emma up the wrong way, but no one could deny she was good at her job, and surprisingly Emma found herself wishing the astringent cop was around tonight. Despite their differences, Sherilee was good in a crisis.

  “Too bad,” Becky said as she began to usher Emma away, her arm wrapped comfortingly around Emma’s shoulders. “Well, I guess we’ll see you around,” she said to Martinez.

  Emma made no protest as Becky led her back to Emma’s car, put her in the passenger seat, and started the engine. Oscar, Becky told her, had driven her out to the crossing after Owen had called her.

  The journey back to the diner took just a few minutes. When they parked outside, Emma saw there were two customers inside being served by Abigail.

  “Oh, damn.” Becky hesitated as she cut the engine. “I didn’t really think. Are you up to facing other people? Do you want me to drive you home instead?”

  Emma shook her head. Now that they had left the scene of the accident, exhaustion was washing over her, and the warmth and lights of the diner beckoned her. “No. I just want to sit down and warm up for a while.”

  “Okay. We’ll go inside, and I won’t let anyone pester you.”

  When Emma limped into the diner, Becky hovering anxiously behind her, she was relieved to recognize the two customers sitting together at a table in the middle of the diner. One of them was a good friend, Stacey, who worked at the town council, and the other was Hazel, the mayor’s secretary, whom Emma had met several times during her work with the New Year’s Eve fundraiser.

  Upon noticing her entrance, Stacey immediately jumped up from the table and hurried over, her expression filled with concern. “We just heard the news from Abigail. Oh, it’s so terrible. That poor man! And you, Emma. How awful for you!” She put her arms around Emma and gave her a comforting squeeze.

  Behind her, prim and proper in a pencil skirt and mauve sweater, Hazel added her own murmurs of shock and disbelief. After a few moments, Becky, taking charge, brushed aside the two women and led Emma to a booth in the corner.

  “Abigail,” she addressed the young waitress who stood by, her eyes wide with excitement. “Tell Oscar to heat a bowl of tomato soup for Emma.” Turning to Emma, she picked up her hands and frowned at the dirt smeared across her palms. “Are you sure you’re not injured?” she asked, her voice sharpening.

  “I’m sure.” Emma gazed at her grimy hands. “It’s just dirt from...from the ground and…” And mud off the soles of the unknown man’s boots. “I should wash up in the bathroom.”

  Becky made to accompany her, but Emma waved her away and crossed the diner to the bathroom, conscious of everyone watching her and trying not to look unsteady on her feet. After she’d washed her hands, she called Owen again, and a few minutes’ conversation with him left her feeling comforted and more herself again. Returning to the dining space, she saw Becky was huddled with Stacey, Hazel, and Abigail, all four talking in low murmurs. When they noticed her, they quickly broke off and ushered her to the table.

  Oscar emerged from the kitchen with two bowls of soup and placed one of them in front of Emma.

  “I’m sorry about your ordeal,” he said solemnly, his pale blue eyes fixed on her. “And I’m sorry about the man who died.”

  “Thank you, Oscar,” she said.

  “I’ve flipped the ‘Closed’ sign. No one will disturb us,” Becky said as she sat opposite Emma. She cast an enquiring look up at Oscar. “Who’s the second bowl for?”

  “You.” Stooping, he pushed the bowl toward his employer. “You look like you need it.”

  “Oh. Well, thank you, Oscar.” Becky looked a little taken aback.

  Abigail jumped up to fetch two soup spoons for them.

  “Why, you must have seen the gory details too,” Hazel exclaimed, slipping into the seat next to Becky. “How remiss of us. You’re traumatized as well.”

  “No, I’m fine.” But as Becky picked up her spoon, everyone could see her hand wasn’t completely steady.

  Stacey took the seat next to Emma, while Abigail and Oscar leaned against the neighboring table.

  “I wonder who this dead man could be,” Hazel said, touching the buttoned-up collar of her shirt with fastidiously manicured fingernails. “And what was he doing wandering by the railway tracks on such a cold night?”

  “He must be a tramp,” Abigail piped up, sounding breathless with excitement. She was a perky twenty-something-year-old, who wore her auburn hair in two pigtails and sometimes appeared more interested in reading her gossip magazines than serving customers, but Becky seemed to have a soft spot for her. “Maybe he was a train hopper. You know, those hobos who hitch rides on freight trains. Maybe he was waiting to hop on a train, got drunk, and passed out on the tracks.”

  Becky looked thoughtful. “Well, that track is only used by freight trains nowadays. I don’t think Greenville’s had a passenger train for decades. So you could be right, Abigail.”

  The waitress nodded, looking eager. “Some people do it just for fun, but a lot of them are homeless hobos.”

  Emma spooned up the tomato soup, grateful for its spicy sweetness, and thought about Abigail’s theory. It was a good theory, she had to admit. The man’s full-length jacket and boots had looked worn and frayed, so he didn’t seem well off.

  “Now that I think about it,” Emma said, “I do remember the distinct smell of alcohol on the man, and there was an empty bottle of whiskey next to the tracks. Rollins Tennessee Whiskey, if I recall correctly.”

  “There you are, then.” Abigail nodded. “An alcoholic hobo.”

  Becky bit off a retort as her hand holding the spoon trembled and hot soup splashed over her fingers. Exclaiming, Hazel instantly jumped into action, grabbing a bunch of serviettes and wrapping them around Becky’s hand.

  “Are you okay?” Hazel asked before casting an accusing glance at Oscar. “That soup is way too hot.”

  “I—I’m sorry,” the cook stuttered, spots of crimson mottling his ghostly pale cheeks.

  “I’m fine,” Becky hastened to assure them both.

  Hazel gingerly peeled back the serviettes and peered at the reddened skin of Becky’s fingers. “Hmm. You’ll have to be careful with this. Keep an eye on it in case it gets infected.” She shot another censorious glare at Oscar who responded by scuttling back to the kitchen, his
thin, gangly limbs making him look like a skittish foal, a hunted expression on his long face.

  “I was just clumsy,” Becky said, extricating her fingers from Hazel’s grip. “Oscar wasn’t to blame.”

  Hazel scrunched her lips together. “No, the person to blame is that careless hobo who passed out on the tracks and got himself killed!” she burst out. “What a senseless death!”

  Emma sat back, taken aback by the sudden outburst from the usually unflappable secretary. Beside her, Stacey shifted in her seat, clearly also surprised by her colleague’s reaction.

  “Abigail, you may as well go home now,” Becky said to her waitress who was still lounging at the nearby table. “And tell Oscar he can go too.”

  “Oh. Okay.” The waitress seemed disappointed at being dismissed, as if she feared missing out on something interesting, but then she sauntered away, untying her apron as she headed for the kitchen.

  Stacey cleared her throat. “Maybe we should go too, Hazel, unless—” she turned anxiously to Emma “—you want me to drive you home?”

  Emma smiled at her friend as she squeezed her hand. “Thanks, but I’m fine to drive myself home—”

  A soft tapping at the front doors had them all swiveling their heads around to see Officer Martinez peering through the glass. Becky unlocked the door, and the officer walked up to Emma. After preliminary questions about her well-being, he took a seat at the table and asked her, now that she was in a calmer frame of mind, to tell him the exact sequence of events. She gathered her thoughts and told him everything she remembered, speaking steadily throughout. The three other women around the table were silent, only wincing when she recounted the more grisly details.

  “You didn’t see anyone else?” Martinez asked once he had finished scribbling in his notebook. “Any cars on the road in either direction, maybe while you were on the phone to Owen?”

  “No, there were no other cars, and I didn’t see anyone. Although, it was pretty dark out there beyond the street lights. I guess there could’ve been someone lurking in the shadows.” Like a witness unwilling to respond to her cries for help, perhaps. The idea chilled her. “Have you identified the man yet?” she asked.