by Sandra Balzo
Chapter Five
'You're absolutely sure the train was on time,' I said to Pavlik much later.
'Logs, conductor, engineer, passengers--even the chef in the dining car. They're all in agreement.'
'I don't understand. It's as if I lost ten minutes of my life.'
'Alien abduction?'
'Funny.'
We were sitting on the back stoop of my little house, watching sheepdog Frank water the trees and bushes. He'd been cooped up much longer than usual that day. It had taken me only about twenty minutes to get home, mostly because I walked it. Sarah and I drove to the depot together earlier, but she'd left without me. Not that I minded. The walk was definitely preferable to sitting in the re-routed traffic.
Pavlik pulled in just as I let Frank out the door, but not even the arrival of my dog's best friend could stay the furrier from the not-so-swift completion of his appointed rounds. Frank lifted his leg on my peony bush, sniffed twice, and diversified to a birch tree.
Frank had been testy ever since Eric came home for a week after final exams, only to return to his job in Minneapolis for the summer. Somehow, in the sheepdog's mind, I was to blame for this.
On the one hand, I was glad Eric was working, but I missed my son. I'm sure Frank did, too, only, in his pique, he had substituted Pavlik. Fickle, thy name is sheepdog.
Frank finished his circuit, sat down next to Pavlik and licked himself.
Pavlik scratched the dog somewhere in the vicinity of his ear. With all Frank's hair, a person would need GPS to locate specific body parts.
'You probably just lost track of time, in your excitement.' He sneaked me a dirty grin. 'Did I understand Sarah is your new partner?'
I lifted my chin. 'Don't underestimate Sarah. I think she'll be great.'
'What I think is that the two of you will drive each other nuts. It's going to ruin your friendship.'
'Such as it is,' I mumbled under my breath.
'You have to admit,' Pavlik insisted, 'that Sarah is your closest friend, other than Frank and me.' The dog leaned into the sheriff's knee and slid down to the ground with a 'harrumph'.
I considered Pavlik more than a friend--with or without benefits. Still, I didn't think it was a very good time for a where-is-our-relationship-going talk. In my experience there was no better way to send a potential life-mate running for the exits.
Wish I'd known that when I was dating Ted. A twenty-minute 'We need to talk' could have saved me twenty years. On the other hand, then there'd have been no Eric and that was unthinkable.
'If Sarah and I are truly friends,' I said now, 'we'll be able to withstand anything. Even working together.'
'Spoken like a woman who has never gone into business with a friend.'
'And a man who has,' I said, slipping my arm into his.
He ran a thumbnail across the palm of my hand. His fingers were long and sensitive. Pavlik should have been the pianist instead of prissy-Christy.
He said, 'I just remember what it was like when I was promoted in the sheriff's office. Suddenly my friends were reporting to me. It gets tricky.'
'Well, Sarah wouldn't be working for me or vice versa. We'd be partners.'
'You don't think she'll order you around?'
'No.'
Pavlik snickered. 'She already does.'
'Sarah facilitates.'
He looked at me.
I squirmed. 'OK, she nags.' I was willing to take a whole lot of nagging from Sarah in order to get my hands on that train station.
'She owns the depot,' I heard myself whining.
Pavlik laughed. 'You sound like a little girl who wants a pony for Christmas.'
I nodded at Frank, who had resumed his ablutions, lying on the ground, back paws waving in the air. 'Already got one.'
'Sarah didn't seem too broken up by her uncle's death. I assume there was bad blood?' Pavlik said it casually.
'Why do you think that?' I asked.
He grinned. 'Answering a question with a question is my shtick, remember?'
'Think of me as a fast learner.' I leaned my head against him, but didn't add anything. It was another tactic I'd learned from Pavlik. Don't rush to fill the silence. Let it just sit there. And molder.
Finally, Pavlik sighed. 'OK, you win. So how about a different question: Know of any reason Mr Eisvogel might have wanted to end his life?'
I sat up. 'Suicide?'
'You're doing it again.'
'Why would you think he killed himself?'
'And again.' Pavlik shook his head. 'Could you just answer a question?'
'Can you?'
Pavlik's voice lowered. 'The train was on time. Eisvogel knew what the train schedule was, yet he apparently drove on to the tracks and stopped.'
'He stopped on the tracks?'
Pavlik looked threatening.
I figured I'd pushed the sheriff's envelope as far as I could. 'No, I don't know of any reason Kornell would have for committing suicide.'
'I understand his wife died just last week,' Pavlik said. 'Did he seem despondent?'
'Despondent?' I shook my head. 'Not in the least. The only thing he seemed concerned about was his wife's wi—' I stopped.
But not soon enough. 'Her will?'
'Yes.' Like it or not, I was back to filling the silence.
'What about her will?' Pavlik shifted so we were nose to nose.
Frank grunted at being disturbed and switched legs. There'd be no help, distraction-wise, from that quarter.
'You know, what she left him.'
'I know what a will is, Maggy. What did she leave him?' Pavlik peered at me. 'Or should I ask about what she didn't leave him?'
Damn. The sheriff had me. I couldn't lie outright. I wasn't even sure why I wanted to. After all, Kornell Eisvogel's death was an accident. Or, at worst, a suicide. What it wasn't, though, was a murder. Which meant that I wouldn't be getting myself--or any of my friends--in trouble.
'The depot,' I said. 'It wasn't part of Vi's will. She and Sarah owned it halfsies somehow and, when Aunt Vi died, the whole thing went to her niece Sarah.'
As I spoke, Pavlik's cellphone rang. He flipped it open. 'Sheriff here . . . Yes? . . . Yes . . . Damn! . . . No, OK. And thanks.'
He closed the phone carefully, like it was a particularly sharp-bladed pocketknife.
'Don't tell me,' I said.
Pavlik didn't. He pulled his notepad from his jacket pocket and jotted something down.
I gave in. 'OK, so tell me.'
'The Buick's gas line had been disconnected. Someone tampered with the car so Kornell Eisvogel would stall.'
On the railroad tracks.
Chapter Six
'Wait a second,' I demanded. 'Couldn't the fuel line have "disconnected" in the crash?'
'You saw the car,' Pavlik said, standing up. 'The train T-boned it at the doors. The rest was pretty twisted, but intact.'
Unlike Eisvogel. 'Are you saying someone wanted the Buick stuck on the tracks? How could they be sure of achieving that?'
'The car would start and run until the gas was out of the line. Someone who knew what they were doing might be able to predict it by micro-measuring the fuel required.'
'And predict a train would come at that moment as well?'
'Trains have schedules. And we know this one was on time.'
'But no one could know when Kornell would . . .' I stopped.
'What?' Pavlik asked. Frank begged for a belly rub by pedaling all four paws in the air, but his good friend was otherwise occupied.
I tried to be logical. And chronological. 'The clock in the depot. If somebody knew what Kornell's routine was, it could have been set back to make it seem like it was eight-oh-three, when it was really eight thirteen--just two minutes before the train would barrel through the Brookhills stop.'
Pavlik yielded to my groveling dog. If writhing on his back, rather than his stomach, could be considered 'groveling'. But I did get the impression my favorite sheriff was weaving what I'd gue
ssed into what he'd established.
Pavlik said, 'That would explain your "lost ten minutes". But for you to be right, that same somebody had to go back into the station and reset the time before my team and the other responders got there.'
'Which makes the killing of Kornell Eisvogel diabolical.'
'Or at least a little goofy.' Pavlik's hand abandoned Frank's belly to draw his car keys from a pocket. 'There are easier, more certain ways to kill a person. Eisvogel was an old man. The killer could have hit him in the head or shot him through the heart.'
'But then you'd be sure it was homicide, a murder to be investigated.'
Pavlik shrugged. 'So shove him down the stairs. Or in front of a bus.'
'Yikes,' I said with a shiver. 'Remind me never to get on your bad side.'
'Too late,' Pavlik said, kissing the top of my head. 'And speaking of late, I'd better go.'
I stood up. 'Already?'
'Already? It's nearly midnight and I have an early meeting.' He cupped my face in the hand without the keys. 'I'd like to see you tomorrow, but not at one of my crime scenes, capice?'
'You're not Italian.' I ignored his 'understand?'
'But as you may recall, I am a cunning linguist.' He kissed me on the lips, taking his time. How was it that hours after his morning shower, Pavlik could still smell like soap and aftershave?
'Old joke,' I managed, 'but I like the thought beneath it.'
'Me, too.' He pulled back. I was still standing on a step and Pavlik on the grass, so we were eye-to-eye. 'But you didn't answer my question.'
'I'd love to see you tomorrow.' I sounded chirpy, even to me.
'But not while looming over a dead body, understood?'
Stubborn male. 'Understood.' I was fairly certain I could keep that promise. After all, who stumbled over a corpse two days in a row?
'Great. I'll call you in the morning and we'll figure out what to do.' Another quick kiss and he was gone.
Frank sat up and looked at me.
'I know,' I said. 'I was hoping he'd stay over, too.'
I opened the door and Frank brushed past me and into the house, managing to sniff disdainfully at my jeans and ballet flats. It had been a long day. Pavlik may have managed to stay fresh, but I sported a fine sheen of sweat melding a patina of dust from the railroad bed.
'OK, so maybe I wasn't at my most alluring,' I admitted, following the dog inside. 'But you didn't exactly impress. What was all that licking about?'
Frank didn't bother to answer. Instead, he padded through the living room and into the kitchen. He bypassed his full water dish and nosed the empty food bowl.
'Sorry,' I told him. 'The vet says you'll get fat if I leave food out for you all day.'
Frank eyed me. When he turned away again, he laid one big, furry paw on the rim of the full water dish and flipped it.
'Petulance does not become you,' I said, grabbing a roll of paper towels.
The sheepdog apparently had forgiven me by the next morning, because I woke up pinned to the mattress by his head resting on my back.
'Get off me,' I said, struggling. 'The phone is ringing.'
Frank lifted his head to listen. I seized the opportunity to wriggle out from under and lunge for the phone.
'Hello?' Waiting for an answer, I pulled at the back of my T-shirt, which was sticking to me. I came away with a palmful of canine slobber. 'Oh, for God's sake—'
'Don't get your undies in a bundle,' Sarah's voice said, 'I was just taking a snort of coffee.'
'I wasn't talking to you,' I said. 'The "for God's sake" was directed at my chronically salivating hound.' Frank was asleep again, now drooling on my pillow instead of me.
'You have to stop talking to that dog,' Sarah said. 'You treat him like a person.'
Actually, I treated him better than I treated most persons. But then, he didn't give me nearly as much shit.
At least the figurative kind.
'Listen, Maggy,' Sarah said. 'I want to meet with my cousin Ronny, the contractor, to talk about renovations at the depot.'
'Cousin? You mean Kornell Eisvogel's son? Isn't that a bit cold? His father died yesterday.'
'We have only a little more than three months to opening. Nobody else would do it in that time. Besides, you heard Kornell. There was no love lost between the two of them. It was step-mom/Auntie Vi who Ronny loved.'
Which explained why Sarah refused to call her aunt's husband 'uncle', but had no trouble referring to Kornell's son as 'cousin'. She actually liked Ronny.
'But we talked about this just yesterday--your being a new partner and all. We haven't had a chance to formalize the agreement or even—'
'Do you want to open Uncommon Grounds in the depot?'
‘Yes, but—‘
'Then this a limited time offer.' Sarah looked at her watch. 'And it's going, going—'
'What time are we meeting your cousin?'
We settled on shooting for ten a.m. but when I pulled up in my Ford Escape, Sarah was already waiting in repose on the depot's porch.
'You're late,' she said, heaving herself out of the recliner.
'No, I'm not.' I held up my cellphone. 'It's ten on the nose.'
'Then Ronny is late.' Sarah dug in her pocket and came up with the skeleton key.
'Thirty seconds,' I said. 'He probably has things to do. His father died yesterday.'
'So did my uncle.' She turned the key in the door. 'And I'm here on time.'
'Right. Now play the uncle card. Yesterday you didn't want anything to do with him.'
'Yesterday he was a live pain in the ass. Today,' Sarah palmed the door open with a flourish, 'he's just an unpleasant memory.'
I can't claim to understand Sarah. But then, if I ever could, I'd really be worried.
A change of subject seemed in order. 'How much have you told your cousin?'
‘I—‘
'Helllloooo?' A slight man of about forty stuck his head in the door. 'You here, Cuz?'
Who calls anyone 'Cuz' anymore? Ronny, though, did look like a throwback of sorts. Slicked back hair, cleats on the heels of his shoes, comb in the back pocket of his too-tight jeans, bulge in the center-front of them. Oh, and a cardigan sweater.
West Side Story meets Mr Rogers.
The metal cleats made click-clack noises as Ronny crossed the wooden floor. I almost screamed 'You're going to scratch up the surface,' but managed to restrain myself. After all, if he did damage the wood, he could fix it. Secondly, it was hard to imagine any more damage than already had been done to the planks over the last century and a half.
Ronny gave Sarah a hug. She kept her elbows locked and air-kissed, but it still was the closest thing to a physical expression of affection I'd ever seen from my friend.
Ronny turned to me. 'You must be Maggy. I'm Sarah's cousin, Ronny Eisvogel.'
I took his hand. 'Thanks so much for coming out here to meet with us. This can't be the easiest time for you.'
Ronny's face saddened. 'First Auntie Vi, who was so good to me, and then my father. He and I weren't close, but it's hard to have both your parents pass inside a week.'
'Probably means we're next.' Sarah, Plain-spoken and Tall.
I assumed it was a joke, but I thought I knew what she meant. Parents and grandparents are a buffer between death and us. Once they're all gone, Sarah's logic was unavoidable: We'd be next.
'It's a good thing nobody else got hurt,' Ronny was saying. 'My father shouldn't have been driving.'
'Could your dad have had car trouble?' I was thinking about the disconnected fuel line.
'Beyond it being crumpled by a train at ramming speed?' Sarah asked.
Ronny apparently knew Sarah too well to take offense. A lifetime of her might do that. 'The last time I checked, the Buick was running fine,' Ronny said. 'In fact, my father took, like, fanatical care of his car.'
'Better than he treated most people,' Sarah grumbled.
'Maybe.' Ronny let that lie. 'But he managed to keep the thing up and r
unning for nearly thirty years.'
'I understand you're a contractor,' I said, hypocritically wanting to steer the conversation away from speculation on the subject I had broached. So on to my thing: The new Uncommon Grounds. 'Has Sarah explained the time crunch we're under?'
'Yeah, but it's very workable.'
'We already have a kitchen here.' I led him behind the ticket windows and through a door.
The kitchen looked to be fairly new, if renovated within the past twenty years qualified. It was arranged, though, for a short-order operation. Griddle for eggs and bacon in the morning. Burgers and grilled cheese at noon. Baskets to cook French fries and onion rings in hot oil. A blender for shakes, and a soft-serve ice cream dispenser.
'You had a coffeehouse, right?' Ronny surveyed the room. 'You thinking of expanding, like maybe into a restaurant?'
'And actually cook?' He might as well have asked if I was going to leap feet first into the deep fryer. Sarah wasn't the only one who lived on carryout. 'No, we need to stay with what we know. Coffee and pastries. Maybe packaged sandwiches and soup down the line.'
'But we're not going to pull all this equipment out, are we?' Sarah picked up a fry-basket. 'What if we change our minds?'
'I don't see it.'
My partner bristled at my offhand rejection, so I tried to soften it. 'We'll have mostly commuter traffic. People heading to work in downtown Milwaukee. They're not going to be coming back here for hamburgers, fries and a shake at noon.'
'No,' Sarah said, rubbing her chin. 'But maybe they'd like a hot breakfast sandwich.'
'True.' I looked at the griddle. 'We'd have to find someone who can cook.'
'Anyone can cook eggs,' Sarah said. 'Even me.'
Before I could raise an objection (such as, 'what about your real estate business?'), she continued. 'And we shouldn't forget the evening rush. There must be something we can sell them.'
'A nice glass of red wine,' I said. 'But we'd need a liquor license.'
Sarah pursed her lips. 'Just a limited one, though. Beer-and-wine type.'
Against my will, I was getting sucked into the possibilities. Then, 'Wait! I've got it.'
'What?' an eager Ronny said. He seemed as excited about this as Sarah and I. I like that in a contractor.
'We could sell prepared foods,' I suggested.
