Railroaded 4 Murder Read online

  Vickie stumbled to the ground and the sweater got caught up in her hair. By that time I was only a few feet away.

  “What’s going on?” I shouted.

  “This crazy woman attacked me for no reason.” Vickie got to her knees and tossed the sweater off to her side, where Cecilia promptly picked it up.

  “Everything all right?” Marshall was a few yards away and moving quickly toward us.

  “No!” we all replied in unison. After that it was anyone’s guess at what was said. Cecilia kept shouting what sounded like “murderess,” while Vickie returned the favor with a few retorts of her own. Those retorts might or might not have consisted of four-letter words, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “It’s over,” Cecilia said to Vickie. “I know who you are. You’re the woman who met me at Bagels ’N More to claim the gold charm. When I stood next to you a few minutes ago I noticed that birthmark by the side of your eye. It looked familiar, and then I remembered where I’d seen it. Nice touch with the wig and tinted glasses. You were having an affair with Wilbur and it went south, didn’t it? So you wanted revenge and set up Roxanne to take the blame. Murderess! Heathen murderess!”

  “You’re wrong. Completely wrong and a bit unbalanced, I might add. That’s why I ran when you accused me. I didn’t murder Wilbur Maines. I was trying to find out who did. That’s why I showed up in disguise at the restaurant. Darn it. I should have used concealer on that beauty mark.”

  Marshall and I exchanged glances while Vickie continued to speak directly to Cecilia.

  “Wilbur’s death wreaked havoc on our club. Overnight the club members became suspicious of one another. The G-scalers thought someone in H/O scale did it and vice versa. When I saw the posting about the gold train charm I was positive it belonged to his killer. You see, I’d heard rumors about him having an affair and doling out tokens of affection to his lover. I figured he jilted her and she got even. Same theory you had, but obviously with a different suspect.”

  Cecilia shook out her sweater and put it on. “So, that was all an act at the restaurant?”

  Vickie nodded. “Not my proudest moment, but yes. I tried to get a reaction from that blond tap dancer, but no go.”

  “Excuse me,” I said to Vickie. “If it was all an act, how come you knew the inscription on the charm?”

  Vickie took a deep breath. “It was a darned good guess. Wilbur made a play for me, and at the time he used that expression. It stuck with me. Once I got the first words out, I knew I was in the clear. What an awful waste of time, not to mention the aftermath. I only wanted our club to go back to the way it was. Friendly. Inviting. Enjoyable.”

  “I’m sorry about throwing my sweater over your head,” Cecilia said to Vickie. “And calling you a heathen murderess.”

  “I suppose that was understandable, given the circumstances. I guess my performance at Bagels ’N More was pretty convincing. Maybe I should join the theater group.”

  Oh yeah. You can ask my mother. Ghost sightings, a body on the catwalk . . . I bit my lower lip and grimaced. “Um, only if you’re looking for more drama. And no pun intended.”

  “Okay, ladies,” Marshall said. “Now that we’ve got all that settled we’d better get back to the train run before it’s over.” Then he looked directly at Vickie. “Next time you decide to track down a murderer, please don’t. No sense putting yourself in danger.”

  “I’ll second that,” came a familiar voice from a yard or so away. It was Nate, and he strode toward us, rubbing his chin. “Thought there might be some trouble here, but I was mistaken.”

  With that, the five of us speed walked back to the train tracks in time to hear another announcement. “Hooray for the Midnight Run!”

  Cecilia wormed her way to where my mother, my aunt, and the book club ladies were standing, while Marshall, Nate, and I opted to plant ourselves a few yards away with a direct view of the large garden track. Miraculously, no one stood in our way. The Thomas the Tank Engine, as well as the other smaller exhibits, was still bursting at the seams with kids. Of course there were scads of them where we stood as well.

  Another train horn sounded and the Midnight Run kept going. The engineer’s cabin moved past us, followed by passenger cars, dining cars, freight cars, and tank cars. It was endless, with no caboose in sight. A sweet, smoky smell permeated the air as the faux locomotive steam drifted from the train. Mega-Steam Smoke Fluid. I remembered Tracee’s conversation with Big Scuttie about her purchase at Hobby Bench. Suddenly, my mind reverted back to the morning when I discovered Wilbur’s body.

  I was positive I’d detected the aroma of cinnamon rolls that morning, but I’d attributed it to being hungry. Now I smelled it again. Stronger this time, but the same cloyingly sweet smell. Then my stomach tightened, and I recalled something else Tracee had said. Something about the woman who’d purchased the tap shoes from the Resale Shop. The volunteer who sold the shoes said the woman resembled Aunt Bee from Mayberry R.F.D.

  Only one Choo-Choo Chick fit that description, and in an instant I was certain I knew who murdered Wilbur. And it wasn’t with Roxanne’s old tap shoe. My stomach was now churning and my hands began to sweat. It was as if bits and pieces of unrelated information somehow gelled in my mind, forcing me into a conclusion that made absolutely no sense. Still, in my mind it was irrefutable. Even if I was unsure of the motive.

  By now the caboose had made its appearance as the train continued on for its second run. The delicious scent of vanilla and cinnamon wafted by, and one by one I studied the faces in the crowd until I spotted the killer. I figured if Cecilia could make a blatant accusation, so could I.

  In retrospect, I should have said something to Marshall or Nate, but my adrenaline kicked in and next thing I knew, I skirted to the front of the podium where Evelyn, Grace, and Montrose were standing. I had to do something before I lost my nerve.

  “It was the Golden Spike,” I shouted over the train’s horn. “That’s what killed Wilbur. Not his wife’s tap shoe, although that was a pretty good touch. Hmm, as I recall, weren’t two of you in Wilbur’s house last fall on club business? Yes, that was a side conversation at the club meeting I attended. Real easy to use the guest bathroom and then sneak into the master bedroom to plant the shoe in Roxanne’s closet.”

  “What on earth are you babbling about?” Montrose asked.

  “Yes. What?” Grace added.

  “I think you know. In fact, I’m positive of it. Ever hear of something called Touch DNA? It’s the process forensic teams use to extract the teeniest, tiniest bits of human cells from objects that come in contact with them.”

  Evelyn let out a strong huff of air and crinkled her nose. “We most certainly do not know.”

  “Let me extrapolate for you.” I took a quick breath and looked around. No one was paying any attention to us. “Regular cleaning solutions don’t remove DNA evidence. They water it down, making it harder for a determination, but it’s still there. People think antibacterial cleansers can do the trick, but they’re mistaken. Truth is, only anti-DNA cleaning products like those erase-and-replace sprays that are touted on the internet can really get the job done.”

  Then I looked directly at Grace. “Is that why you waited until the painting and shelving crew had completed their work in the model railroad museum room to clean the Golden Spike at such an ungodly hour? Well, it doesn’t matter, because right now the Golden Spike is on its way to the Maricopa Crime Lab.”

  Boy, when I lie, I really lie.

  Without saying a word, Grace took off as if someone had set her clothing on fire. She thundered through the crowd and into the parking lot.

  “What just happened?” Montrose asked.

  “Other than having one of our esteemed club members accused of murder?” Evelyn snapped.

  I didn’t wait to continue the conversation. I made a beeline for the parking lot.

  “Phee!” Marshall shouted from behind me. “What’s going on?”

  “Call Bowman and Ranston,
” I screeched. “Grace is the killer. She’s on her way over to the Model Railroad Club. Hurry!”

  “Got it!”

  In that instant I knew beyond all doubt I had made the right choice in my decision to marry Marshall Gregory. He trusted my judgment, and that was all there was to it. Grace got into a light-beige Hyundai and steamed across the parking lot. Only by now, the ground resembled an obstacle course. Popcorn was strewn everywhere. And not little bits of it. Handfuls. Fistfuls. Like tiny pellets of hail after a storm. Only this storm was entitled “The Grandkids.”

  Grace’s car skidded across the lot as she headed to the Beardsley Road exit, but she didn’t make the turn. Instead, her car swerved to the left and bounced over one of those long, concrete parking-lot barriers for handicapped vehicles. The tires were still spinning when Marshall and I got there, and I immediately noticed the pink license plate holder in the shape of a pig that read, “Iowa Born and Raised.”

  Nate stood off to the side, cell phone in hand. From the look of things, he was texting someone, and I figured it had to be Bowman or Ranston.

  Lucky for Grace the airbag didn’t deploy or she might have been injured from the impact. Marshall pulled the door open and asked if she was all right, but before he finished, I leaned in and announced, “It’s over. Don’t make it worse.” Yep, the catch-all phrase used by every crime-drama cop known to TV viewers.

  “Tell her to stay put!” Nate shouted.

  Marshall and I stepped back as he rushed over to the car. Leaning his elbow against the top frame of the driver’s side door, he spoke slowly, enunciating every word. “Right now there’s enough circumstantial evidence to have you arrested for the murder of Wilbur Maines. In less than an hour it will be concrete evidence. You can choose to cooperate with the sheriff’s deputies when they arrive on the scene or not. Your choice. But rest assured, they have a solid case.”

  Then he gave me a nudge. “Nice work, kiddo, but we had this, you know.”

  CHAPTER 38

  Grace rested her head on the steering wheel and sobbed. I reached into my pocket, pulled out a crumpled Kleenex, and handed it to her. She dabbed her eyes, blew into the tissue, and all but choked on her words. “Wilbur Maines was the most despicable human being to set foot on this earth. Fussy, petty, and relentless. He made mountains out of molehills, and by doing so, destroyed careers and households.”

  Iowa Born and Raised. My gosh! The Sherrington reprimand letters? Was that the motive?

  “I thought I’d never cross paths with that worm once I retired and moved to Arizona, but I was wrong. When I joined the Model Railroad Club, I recognized him immediately.”

  “And that’s when you devised an ingenious plot to murder him?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call it murder. It was more of a plan to knock him out of commission for a while. And get his wife to take the blame. It was serendipitous really. I happened to go into the Resale Shop last fall to mill around for bargains. That’s when I saw those tap shoes for sale. I knew immediately whose they were because the initials were stitched into the tongue of the shoe. I also knew I had a business meeting with Montrose and Wilbur a few days later at Wilbur’s house.”

  My pulse quickened. I was right! I was right with my hunch. “So you planted a shoe in Roxanne’s closet and held on to the other one.”

  “Uh-huh. It was only a matter of time. And that time came in late March. It was a Friday night, and I arrived early for bingo at the social hall. Roxanne was still there, following a dance practice. She was in such a hurry to get out, she left her little screwdriver sitting on one of the chairs. Call it my ah-ha moment, but in that second I knew I had everything in place to get even with her wretched husband.”

  A siren hit my eardrums. “I think the deputies will be pulling in here any second. Maybe you should wait and give them your statement.”

  Grace balled up the tissue and leaned back. “My statement is that I didn’t murder Wilbur Maines. He kind of died on his own. After I clocked him over the head.”

  “Psst!” Nate said to me. “I need a word with you and Marshall. Ms. Svoboda isn’t going anywhere.”

  I stepped away from the car, as did Marshall.

  “We had Grace dead to rights,” Nate said. “When I met with Roxanne this morning we went over the timeline. She didn’t see anyone or anything out of the ordinary when she dropped her husband off at the train exhibit. But she did recall the tail end of the conversation that woke him up in the first place. According to her, Wilbur said something like, ‘Yeah, yeah, damn circuit board. By the way, got your special wood polish for the showcase. You and Evelyn can thank me later.’ Special wood polish. It had to be Grace who made the call.”

  Out of the blue Evelyn whizzed past the three of us and charged over to the car where Grace was still seated. Evelyn’s arms flailed and she seemed almost out of breath. “The Golden Spike? You used our precious Golden Spike to kill Wilbur Maines? You desecrated our pride and joy? Why, that’s unconscionable. Absolutely unconscionable. What were you thinking? That replica should never have been tampered with.” Then she took a step away while still muttering, “The Golden Spike. Our precious Golden Spike.”

  Then Nate started to walk back to the car, when all of a sudden Evelyn brushed past him and was now face-to-face with Grace. “Why couldn’t you have used a crowbar? Or one of those tire things from the trunk of your car?”

  Before Grace could answer, Evelyn grabbed the sleeve of Nate’s shirt. “I’m pressing charges for the destruction of property. Or unlawful use of property, whatever works. Write that down. I’m pressing charges.”

  “We’re not law enforcement, ma’am. You’ll need to take that up with the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office, but frankly, Ms. Svoboda will be facing other, more salient charges.”

  The siren sound was all but on top of us, and I spun my head to look down Beardsley Road. Sure enough, a vehicle with red and blue flashers was headed our way.

  Marshall approached Evelyn and motioned for her to calm down. “You’ll have plenty of time to file a complaint. Right now I strongly suggest you head back to the train track and let the deputies do their job. I’m sure you don’t want to get caught up in any of this.”

  “I suppose you’re right. But it’s not over.” Then, she tromped over to Grace’s car again. “I hope you realize this will put poor Olga over the edge. And she trusted you, too. Took all that time to show you how to wire a train’s circuit board. And how did you repay her? By violating the sanctity of our Golden Spike replica.”

  With that, Evelyn brushed some loose hairs from her brow and marched across the parking lot as if she was going into battle.

  “That doesn’t look good,” I said to Nate and Marshall. “She could get the crowd into an uproar. Right now they have no idea what’s going on here. For all they know, Grace has a flat tire or something.”

  “Good point,” Marshall said. “How about if you go back there and get that rumor started? We’ll do our best to speed things up with Bowman and Ranston.”

  “Tell Bowman my mother has Streetman with her. Point to the crowd and tell him you think that’s her and it looks like she’s on her way over here. They’ll read Grace her Miranda rights and scurry her off in their car in a hurry. Bank on it.”

  Unlike Evelyn, who tromped all over the scattered popcorn in the parking lot, I walked with caution but took long strides. Once back in the crowd, I found my mother. “Hmm, I think Grace got a flat tire or something. But don’t worry. Nate and Marshall are helping her.”

  “How much help does she need?” my mother asked. “Looks like they called the posse.”

  “Yeah, well, maybe Grace will need to have the car towed. Newer models don’t have spare tires, or even those donut things.”

  My two-second conversation with my mother worked. She immediately began to spread the rumor of a flat tire to anyone and everyone within a three-foot radius. That was, until Montrose Lamont had a side conversation with my uncle Louis. And
while I prayed they were talking about music or gigs or whatever musicians talked about, I had a sinking feeling they weren’t.

  My worst nightmare was confirmed when Montrose pointed to the parking lot and my uncle Louis announced, “Think they’re going to arrest her?”

  My aunt Ina, who was only a few feet away from her husband, responded with a resonating, “Who? Who? I must have missed something.”

  “You didn’t miss anything.” Then I looked at the crowd.

  Thankfully, most of the people were still focused on the large, garden-scale train making its run around the tracks. The kids were getting restless, as evidenced by whining, moaning, and tossing more popcorn. This time at one another. I wondered how long it would take before the crowd focused its attention on the parking lot and not the Midnight Run.

  Next thing I knew, Montrose answered my uncle’s question. “Oh, they’ll arrest her all right. I heard it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

  Wonderful. I’ve now become the horse’s mouth.

  I wasn’t sure quite what to do or say at that moment, but it didn’t matter. Everyone in a four-foot radius heard him loud and clear. And they all had something to say.

  “Who’s getting arrested?”

  “Wilbur’s killer!”

  “Who is it?”

  “Don’t know. It’s not on my Facebook feed.”

  The voices in the crowd got louder, and if I thought the kids were antsy, their grandparents were worse. I decided to try a new tactic. One I’d learned from my mother and my aunt. Say something loud enough and people will believe you. I took a deep breath and did my own pointing at the parking lot. “Who wants to help Grace with her flat tire? I’m sure those deputies have other things to do.”

  Suddenly, the crowd turned back to the train track and the pounding in my chest subsided. The train horn sounded again, followed by another announcement. This time by Big Scuttie. “Thank you, folks, for remembering Wilbur Maines and giving him the send-off he deserved. We’ll have one more run around the tracks before calling it a night. Get your popcorn while you can, and don’t forget those hot dogs.”