Sneak Peek at the fourth installment in a Roaring Twenties Mystery!
October 1924 - Somewhere in the Rocky Mountains
I expected a lot of things from a luxury train ride through the picturesque Rocky Mountains at the cusp of winter - fine dining, spa treatments, and majestic sunsets. What I didn't expect at two o'clock in the morning was a shrill scream, echoing from three cars away.
Pausing at the vestibule door, I wondered if exhaustion played tricks on me. Music and frivolity into the wee hours had left me drained and delirious. Maybe it was just my imagination inventing a problem to avoid reality – a phantom woman in distress.
Aaaaah!
Okay, that I definitely did not imagine.
My heel caught on a notch in the wooden planks as I swiveled to the corridor between the cars, thankful modern trains did not leave passengers exposed to the harsh elements. I kicked off my slingback pumps. They would only slow me down as I ran headlong into danger.
My stocking feet padded across the plush burgundy carpeting lining the floor of the entertainment car. As far as I knew, I was the last passenger awake. Aside from the screamer who halted my long trek back to my private cabin.
Anticipation bubbled in my gut. Moments like this were why I needed to carry a gun. The team spent countless miles searching for the thief plaguing the Rocky Mountain Peaks Express and here I was, about to find him, alone in the middle of the night.
I scooted through the empty spa and beauty car to the lounge that led to the dining section the origin point of the scream, by my estimate. The locomotive picked up steam as we descended sharply into a valley. I stumbled through the darkness, grasping for the intricately carved handrail for support. The boss spared no expense in constructing the luxury line.
As I crept into the dining room, a cold mountain breeze wafted through an open window carrying a hint of pine and cedar. Tiny snow flurries fluttered in the low lantern light. The quiet, peaceful scene placed every sense on high alert. Something was amiss.
My eyes adjusted to the muted lighting and I caught a shadow racing for the vestibule to the next car. My brow furrowed as I recognized the newspaperman in his distinct Australian bushman clothing. For a man in his fifties, his swift gait surprised me.
“Roberts!”
His white beard flashed in the moonlight as he crossed by a window. He didn't bother looking back. Was he running from or to something?
"Help!" A meek voice cracked through the silence, halting my pursuit. The dining car attendant dropped a tray of teacups with a shatter.
My gaze jerked to the corner booth with velvet padding and heavy wooden carvings. A black and white terrier yipped and hid under the table. A cold knot twisted in my stomach as I held onto a chair for balance.
“We need to call for a doctor,” the attendant said.
I reached for the old woman’s lifeless hand, confirming my fears. The wealthy widow couldn’t be saved. Tears clouded my eyes as I processed the scene with a new sense of urgency. I spent the day getting to know Louise Lyons and clearing her from suspicion. Now she was dead. Murdered.
My jaw tightened as I glared at the vestibule door left ajar from the reporter’s quick exit. The body was still warm. The attendant’s scream likely chased off a killer.
“Phoebe, did you see what happened?”
Her eyes glazed as if seeing me for the first time and she flailed. Her balled fists swung wildly, fighting for her life.
I sidestepped her attack and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.”
She shrieked. “Who are you?”
“Penelope van Kessler.” My heart raced. “Why did the newspaperman run?”
Tears flowed. “He killed her.”
“Stay here.” I spun the brooch pinned to my blouse, snapping three pictures with the hidden miniature camera. With a flick of my eyebrow, I resolved to catch the coward who did this to her.
I raced to the vestibule between the dining car and the kitchen hallway. The newspaperman had a head start but only by a minute. The scene unfolded quickly and I didn’t waste a second. Suspect pursuit was ill-advisable for a proper lady but I never cared much for convention.
What’s your plan when you catch the reporter, Penelope? You’re unarmed and he just finished killing a woman.
I ignored the mocking voice. I was half the man’s age and strong. I could hold my own against him.
My jaw tightened and determination sparked through my body. Roger Ray Roberts – Triple-R – wrote a scathing newspaper article about the dangerous travel aboard the Express, disparaged the W&J Southwestern Railroad, and harbored resentment against my boss. A likely suspect to sabotage the line. My assignment on the trip was to watch him. I took my eye off the ball and he killed a woman.
I hurtled through the interior doors to the children’s car, where games and activities entertained youths during the daytime hours. Triple-R made a break for the exit.
“Stop!”
The coward continued to flee.
Snagging a slingshot, I loaded a marble and fired wide left. “That was a warning shot. The next one won’t miss.”
His hands rose into the air and I closed the gap. I traded in my slingshot for a weapon better in close combat – a sharp metal piece from an erector set used to build skyscrapers. The perforated metal strip was ten inches long, sharp, and would do in a pinch.
“Don’t move a muscle,” I growled.
The killer spun to me with blood-stained clothes. His wild white hair fell into his face as his signature Teddy Roosevelt hat plummeted from his head. “You don’t need the weapon, Penelope. I’m not going anywhere.”
His voice? What happened to the Aussie accent? And why did it sound familiar?
“Forgive me if I don’t take your word for it. Seeing as how you fled a murder scene.”
“Not quite how I remember it.”
My eyebrows knit together. “Why did you kill her?”
“I had nothing to do with her death.” His hand glided to the railing as he swayed. He edged closer, his piercing blue eyes glowing through the moonlight. Something about the man didn’t sit right with me.
I remained steady as the locomotive chugged through a switchback. Dark pine trees reached over the railroad tracks and scratched the windows. I shook the daze and pointed the metal piece at him. “Another step and I’ll gut you.”
“Fair enough. We can speak civilly from this distance.”
“Don’t act all meek and harmless minutes after killing an old woman. I won’t be next.”
“What am I going to do? You’re the one with the weapon. I’m unarmed.”
My pulse hammered as the gravity of the situation caught up with my impulsiveness. You caught the man. Now what? Danger continued to loom. I was in over my head and I needed to find Tobias. At this hour, he and Margo were likely asleep in their cabin. Only one car over.
“Start walking.”
Triple-R frowned. “But you told me not to move.”
I lunged and poked him in the gut with the metal rod. “Now.”
“Ouch. Watch where you point that thing. You could take out an eye.”
I prodded him again, bothered by the softness of the blow. “Are you wearing padding?”
“One too many pudding cups will do that to an old man.”
I grabbed him by the beard and pulled. “You aren’t Triple-R. Who are you?”
“I didn’t need that skin attached to the glue anyway.” He rubbed his face as red seeped across his cheeks.
“Stop delaying and tell me who you are. Why are you disguised as Roger Ray Roberts? What’s your grift? Why did you kill Louise?”
“You have it all wrong, Penelope.” He yanked off the white wig, revealing wavy blond hair, and opened his shirt to remove the layer of padding. Without the elaborate costume, his youth showed.
“Do we know each other?”
“In a manner of speaking. Though we haven’t been properly introduced.” A half grin spread and his eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’m Bentley, Jack Bentley.”
My throat constricted and my mouth suddenly went dry. That explained why I recognized his voice – a dreamy radio baritone. We spent the last few months speaking only on the telephone. A man of wit and intelligence. I daydreamed about meeting the handsome reporter since our first conversation. The only attraction I felt since the death of my dear David.
Serves me right for fantasizing like a lovesick schoolgirl. He turns out to be a killer.
“Why did you do it, Jack? Why did you murder Louise Lyons?”
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