Murder on the Sugarland Express

by Angie Fox

  Outside the window, Ellis handled the official business while Virginia embraced her youngest son.

  In this case, he deserved it. Beau had not only made it to the next station, he’d run half the way there.

  Help had arrived in the form of police, as well as a transport van Beau had rented for the passengers.

  “I’ll bet we’ll still be on the train for half the night.” Bruce took his wife’s hand. The anniversary couple sat at the table next to me, across from the honeymooners.

  The police needed to question the passengers and staff before releasing us to the hotel Beau had booked in Gatlinburg.

  Still, I’d take an evening on the train over a swim in the river.

  I stepped back from the window.

  Jordan Abel’s plan had almost worked.

  Almost.

  I wore a clean yellow sundress and flats this time as I walked alone toward the back of the train, past the gleaming gold compartment numbers set in lacquered wood.

  A remorseful Dave and Mary Jo had confessed everything to Ellis. I’d also gone back and taken a second look at the lipstick Eileen had given me. It wasn’t just an awful shade of pink-orange. It was a thumb drive case. She’d uploaded the evidence she’d found against the powerful family.

  The story it told had killed her and almost ended my life as well.

  The Abels’ youngest son had learned the business early. He’d managed shipping routes while still in college. And when his parents placed him in charge of them, he took a new approach. The youngest Abel son began selling the route space to a drug runner with ties to his hometown.

  When a set of custom doors shipped to Memphis or St. Louis or even Chicago, they came with a little extra hidden inside the custom containers. It was easy enough to do, since Abel Windows and Doors hired its own distribution staff and manned its own trucks.

  I stopped and ran a finger over the scripted gold number on compartment 2.

  The Abels made money. Lots of money. Dave’s orders increased. Many doors, windows, and parts were bought and shipped precisely as a means of safe, easy delivery for illicit cargo.

  It was all about delivery these days.

  They had money for a vacation home, Dave’s vintage train passion, even trips like this one.

  Until Mary Jo found out.

  A misdirected shipment, her worry about a scratch. It all came out.

  Or so she’d claimed after Ellis arrested her this morning.

  To have their livelihood, their business, tied to drug dealing—well, she was afraid they’d lose it all. The government confiscates the assets of those involved in drug running. Their house, the cars, their retirement—it was all at risk.

  Unless they covered for their son.

  I passed compartments 3 and 4, another luxury suite, this one occupied by the Danvers to celebrate their fiftieth, secure in the knowledge that their legacy was safe.

  Not so for the Abels.

  The last passenger car stood silent as the grave.

  The Abels had removed their son Jordan from the company, but didn’t turn him in. They seized his bank account, which they held jointly with him. They put him up in an apartment in the next town while they cleaned up the mess.

  Dave Abel cut ties with the criminals Jordan had courted. Business went back to normal.

  Life didn’t.

  According to Dave, his son threatened him. He wanted his job and his life back. Dave refused.

  Dave and Mary Jo needed to get away, so they booked a luxury double compartment on the Sugarland Express. It would be an epic journey.

  Jordan wasn’t content to watch them go, to spend lavishly after he’d been sidelined into a tiny apartment, to have a life when he had none. Dave talked about going to the police despite the consequences.

  So Jordan boarded the train as well. Not as a ticket holder. He couldn’t afford it. Instead, he got a job as a porter. He’d trap his parents and force them to give him a share of the business before he departed for good.

  Jordan lied about his qualifications and his past. He presented himself as the perfect applicant.

  I stopped in front of compartment 9.

  Beau had been delighted to give him responsibility for all of us. Of course he hadn’t checked references.

  In handcuffs, Mary Jo confessed how Jordan had hired two of his crooked delivery drivers to leave the rocks on the tracks on the first night. He’d sold her diamond tennis bracelet to pay them, or so he’d claimed. It had been a fiftieth-birthday gift from her husband, and her favorite. Selling it was another way to punish her.

  That night, Jordan was waiting for his parents when they returned to their room. He’d stopped the train and disabled the radio. He asked them to sign a contract giving back his share of the business as well as the entirety of the money he’d earned illegally. Then he’d disappear from their lives for good.

  Dave refused. He didn’t have that kind of liquid cash. Plus, Jordan didn’t deserve it, especially after he’d tried to blackmail his own father and break his mother’s heart.

  Jordan was angry and frustrated, and then he ran into Stephanie.

  She recognized him. In fact, she’d broken up with his brother only after Jordan’s crimes nearly spelled disaster for the business. The Abels had tightened their belts when it came to their sons, which meant no more trips to the islands paid for by the company. No more fancy dinners. Stephanie had dumped Ron and gone in search of bigger fish.

  But she claimed she still loved him. She believed he was holding out on her, refusing to treat her well because he’d been taking her for granted. She used Beau to taunt him.

  When Stephanie saw Jordan working as a porter, she had too many questions. And she’d never been the subtle type.

  The reporter, Eileen, had noticed immediately and invited Stephanie to talk.

  Stephanie had swiped Jordan’s skeleton key in order to check Eileen out.

  That was the end of Stephanie.

  Mary Jo saw Jordan leave Stephanie’s compartment. She’d been up, looking for Dave, who hadn’t been able to sleep. She saw the body. She stepped in the blood.

  After that, Dave and Mary Jo must have truly feared for their lives. Jordan had become unhinged. It was getting harder to cover up. But if they turned him in for murder, he’d also go down for the drugs, and so would they.

  I reached the last compartment, number 10, the one I’d shared with Ellis.

  The Abels had to have been doubly nervous with a police officer on board. Jordan, too. He hadn’t planned on that.

  But he did have a backup plan after the first one failed. He’d already arranged for a second blockage on the tracks, this one above the river. He cornered his parents one last time and threatened to send the entire train backwards, careening toward the river, if he didn’t get his way.

  A crying Mary Jo described how Dave had signed the contract.

  It would have been done and over if Eileen Powers hadn’t found Mary Jo and asked her about her bloody heel.

  Eileen had been taking pictures at the bon voyage party in the lounge car. She had a picture of Mary Jo wearing white silk shoes with a pointed toe and a square heel.

  Jordan told his father he killed the reporter because he loved his mother and couldn’t bear to see her hurt.

  I might have gotten off with a bloody-heels-in-the-suitcase warning if I hadn’t walked in on the murder scene and begun rifling through those files.

  I looked out the back of the train, bare now without the caboose.

  I would have been dead if it hadn’t been for Virginia Wydell, who could not have been more thrilled when she saw the porter taking what she’d presumed to be Ellis’s large black bag out of our room.

  Assuming Ellis had decided to spend the rest of the trip sleeping in the caboose without me, Virginia located him in Eileen Power’s room, processing the scene. She offered her love and support. That alone was enough to tell Ellis that something was horribly wrong.

  He ran to the caboos
e. He watched from the window as Dave shoved it down the hill, with me on top.

  Ellis ran down the long, steep hill, with Dave close behind. Unbeknownst to either of them, Virginia grabbed her gun and followed.

  Ellis saw Jordan take me under and jumped in after us.

  Dave grabbed a large tree branch, ready to take Ellis out, but Ellis was already in the river, swimming toward the place where I went down. When I popped back up again, he grabbed me and took me to the shore while Virginia secured Dave.

  Ron, meanwhile, had fled the scene. Police apprehended him several hours later in the woods.

  Dave and Mary Jo had believed that only their youngest son had gone bad. Ron had boarded the train with his parents, who wanted a family trip with their “golden child.” But Ron had come on board to aid his brother’s cause.

  Jordan had never reported Ron’s involvement in the smuggling operation, and he wouldn’t if Ron helped him get what he deserved.

  It was Ron who sabotaged the radio. On the way back, he hid behind the counter in the bar car when he heard me coming. While he crouched in the shadows, his large frame dislodged the bottle that had come rolling toward me.

  Then Ron had returned to the dining car in time to be counted among the stunned passengers.

  After that, Ron spent most of his time holed up in his room, reading an Agatha Christie novel.

  Amazing how one could be so close to the truth, yet have no idea.

  I shuddered. It was over. Perhaps now the Sugarland Express could finally find peace.

  * * *

  The next morning, I carried a plate of sausage and eggs to a table Ellis had secured on the patio of the hotel in Gatlinburg.

  He smiled and stole a link before I’d even put my plate down.

  “I see you worked up an appetite,” I teased.

  The poor guy had been up half the night assisting the local police. We hadn’t gotten to bed until almost two in the morning.

  “Happy to oblige.” He winked, and it took a minute for me to realize he was talking about what had happened after he made it back to the room. I’d been so happy that we were safe, whole, and occupying a normal-sized bed that I hadn’t let him sleep too much.

  He downed the sausage in two bites. “Your cooking is better,” he said, meaning every word.

  He was lying, but I loved him for it. “I am looking forward to getting home,” I admitted.

  I missed it.

  Despite the hour, I’d called Melody last night, figuring she’d want to hear the latest and know why I’d never called her back after that first day. She’d been shocked and confessed that she’d hoped it meant I was enjoying my vacation too much to worry about solving a mystery.

  Maybe next time.

  I’d cut halfway into my first sausage link when I heard my name called out over the parking lot beyond the dining patio.

  “Verity!” Lauralee waved from behind a gaggle of kids.

  Oh, my goodness. I dropped my fork and knife on the plate. “What’s she doing here?”

  Ellis grinned. “I figured you could use a little love from Sugarland.”

  I dashed out to the parking lot, where I found Lauralee, Hiram, Ambrose, and George. Plus Tommy Junior walking my little skunk, Lucy, on a leash homemade from six colors of potholder bands.

  “Y’all!” I exclaimed, rushing for them. Lucy wriggled with joy as I picked her up. Ambrose clasped my leg. Hiram and Ambrose stroked Lucy. Lauralee gave me a monstrous hug in greeting. Tommy Junior, at age seven, was too cool for it all, but that was all right. “I don’t think I can take it,” I said, raising my head as Lucy burrowed hard against my neck and shoulder. My little skunk had a red ribbon hanging from her collar. “What’s this?”

  “She won!” George shouted with glee.

  Tommy Junior reached up to pet her. “We entered her in the Kennel Time Best Dog Contest up at the park.”

  “And she won?” I asked, bending down with her so the kids could pet her, too. “Those judges may need glasses,” I said, with a wink to Lauralee.

  Lucy smelled like peach shampoo, and she wore a pink bow behind one ear.

  “There was no rule against entering skunks,” Lauralee pointed out. “In fact, there was a banner that said welcome one and all.”

  Leave it to my friend to take that to mean skunks, too.

  “Third place is quite impressive,” I told the boys. Even if only two dogs entered.

  “Third in the Smallest Pet category,” Tommy Junior announced proudly. “I walked her to the measuring stand myself. She stood very tall. Just like I told her.”

  Lucy looked at me with her round little skunk eyes, as if daring me to debate it.

  “That’s wonderful,” I said to the boys. “It’s obvious she had a great time.”

  Tommy the showman grinned back at me. “She did.”

  I handed her to him and he snuggled her tight.

  It was obvious the boys had done wonderfully with her. And this had been their test to see if a pet was right for the family. I nudged my friend on the arm. “So does this mean you’re getting a dog?” I asked under my breath.

  She laughed. “Tell her, Tommy.”

  “No dogs for us, Miss Verity,” he said, with the seriousness of a judge handing down a verdict. “We want a skunk.”

  * * *

  I brought Lauralee and the boys (and yes, Lucy) back to the table to celebrate.

  We ordered the boys all-you-can-eat servings at the buffet. Lauralee showed Ellis my award-winning skunk’s new leash. I spread homemade strawberry jam on my toast and shared a smile with Ellis, all the while thanking heaven for the little things.

  This was all I needed. Good company, good food, laughter. Love. I was just about to slice into a sausage link when Frankie shimmered into view next to an ornamental evergreen in the parking lot.

  I’d really been looking forward to that sausage link.

  “Excuse me, it appears I’ve got a meeting with a wiseguy,” I said to the adults at the table, reaching over to give Lucy a scratch as I stood.

  The wiseguy in question shot me a slight grin, and that was all the warning I got before he hit me with his power. The prickling energy washed over me, making me catch my breath and almost miss the step down off the curb into the parking lot.

  After this, I was going to insist he unplug me for a month. Maybe three.

  He glided ahead, leading me to a secluded alley just off the lot.

  “How very mobster of you,” I said, ducking into the cool shade between the buildings.

  He lit up a cigarette, inhaled, and blew it out. “I’m glad you’re not dead.”

  Please. “Who else do you think took your urn to the hotel?” It wasn’t like he could go far without me.

  Molly shimmered into view at my side. “We didn’t know what was going on after that porter stole the bloody heels out of your compartment,” she said, immediately making me feel bad for my attitude. I swore sometimes Frankie wore off on me.

  “You weren’t anywhere,” Frankie said, smoke curling out his nose. “And I’m telling you, we looked.”

  “They had me in the caboose,” I told them both.

  “Oh!” Molly drew a hand to her mouth, then leaned in closer. “We were wondering where that went.”

  Frankie shook his head. “I liked that caboose,” he mused. “You’re not so bad, either.”

  “Thanks,” I told him. “I’m glad you’re not in jail.”

  He grinned. “Yet.” Molly punched him on the arm as he took a drag. “I gotta tell you, it ain’t bad being the law.”

  “You sure fooled that investigator.” Molly giggled.

  De Clercq took form behind the mobster. “You might think so, but you’d be wrong.”

  Frankie spun around and pulled his gun on the officer.

  De Clercq merely held up a hand to ward off the attack. “If I were going to arrest you, I’d have done it when we first met, Mr. Franklin Rudolph Winkelmann.”

  Heavens. “You knew
all along?” I asked him. He hadn’t said a word.

  He looked me up and down as if I were a simpleton for asking. “I recognized him the moment I saw him on the platform.” He made a slow walking study of my reluctant housemate. “Frankie the German is a legend. A master criminal. He also takes a very clear mug shot photo.” De Clercq stopped at his side. “He’s slick. He’s crafty. He was just the kind of man I needed to help me solve the case.”

  Molly made doe eyes at her favorite mobster.

  Frankie fought back a grin. “I get that a lot,” he said, keeping an eye on the officer. If De Clercq made any sudden moves, I had a feeling he was going to get shot in the kneecap for sport.

  “I would not fail again,” De Clercq said. “The stakes were too high.” He clapped Frankie on the shoulder. “I meant it when I said you deserve a commendation. It will go to the newest special officer in the Chicago bureau, undercover agent Frankie Smokes.”

  “It’s a good name.” Frankie nodded, taking a drag.

  “You’re so brave,” Molly cooed.

  Wait. So he lived a life of crime, avoided arrest by impersonating an officer, and basically tripped his way through an investigation, and we were celebrating that?

  “He’s not in trouble?” I asked. Not that I wanted him arrested or anything, but, “You’re not going to do anything about the smuggling, the shooting, his entire previous life of crime?”

  “That is the problem with the living,” De Clercq said, “they are always so shortsighted.”

  “I tell her that all the time,” Frankie said, offering his lit smoke to the investigator.

  De Clercq took it. “What good would jail do?” he asked, taking a long drag. “As it stands, Frankie the German is trapped in a house with you.” He raised his brows. “That is punishment enough.”

  “It sure is,” Frankie agreed.

  “I can agree with that,” I told them both.

  De Clercq stubbed out the cigarette on the ground. “I may need you again,” he said to Frankie, his gaze finding me as well. He knew. He had to know. “I’ve been tasked with yet another impossible case, this time in your own hometown of Sugarland.”