Loco Motive (29 page)

Marsha's black eyes twinkled. “You think I don't know how to spell it after all those years I helped your granny raise you?”

Randy looked sheepish. “It's a habit. Lots of folks screw it up.” He hurried out the front door.

The cousins exchanged curious looks. “How hard is it to spell ‘Gundy'?” Renie murmured.

Judith nodded. “Not that hard. Stay put.” She went to the counter. “Hi, Marsha,” she said. “How do you spell Randy's name? I should probably have it along with his cell number in case we hear anything from the train staff.”

Marsha studied Judith and Renie for a moment. “Oh, why not? You look like good-hearted souls.” She printed the information on a separate piece of paper and handed it to Judith. “There you go.”

Judith tried not to look surprised when she saw what Marsha had written. She realized the Gundy parent might have been his mother, but she'd never guessed that his father's last name was Kloppenburg.

 

M
arsha was on the phone. The cousins had stepped away from the counter and were standing on the opposite side of the station. Judith put her purse down in one of the chairs for ticketed passengers and people meeting new arrivals.

“Now what?” Renie asked in a low voice.

“Okay, so I'm baffled,” Judith admitted. “We need to talk to Marsha. She looks like the chatty type.”

“Hold it,” Renie said, looking skeptical. “Marsha was not in your original plan. Marsha didn't exist in your mind until five minutes ago. Why are we here, risking a long, cold walk to Williston, North Dakota?”

“It's like war,” Judith said softly but firmly. “Battle plans change. Strategy, and all that. Come on, she's off the phone.”

The cousins went to the counter. “Marsha,” Judith said, wearing a tired version of her friendly expression, “or should I call you Mrs….?”

Marsha chuckled. “Birdspeak, but call me Marsha. I'm a member of the Assiniboine tribe. You're on the Fort Peck Indian Reservation.”

“I knew that,” Renie said, as if she was the brightest kid in third grade.

Judith shot her cousin a baleful glance. “Ignore her. She's a member of the Asinine tribe. You must know Randy's great-grandparents. I'm worried about them. They were taken off the train by a younger couple.”

“I overheard what you said to Randy,” Marsha said. “Don—Mr. Peterson—I've known him forever—was pretty upset.” Her dark eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Poor man. He doesn't know the worst of it. Excuse me.” She turned away, removed a tissue from a small box, and dabbed at her eyes. “Train crews become friends after a while. I've worked here for fifteen years.”

Judith waited for Marsha to collect herself. “You mean Mr. Weevil?”

Marsha shook her head. “No, though that's sad, too.” She sniffled and looked toward the front door. “Here's one of the state troopers. Ask him.”

Judith turned around. J. L. Purvis trudged into the station, the long day's weariness weighing him down so heavily that he looked shorter and leaner since Judith had last seen him in Scuttle.

“Jake,” Marsha called to him. “Can you tell these ladies what happened? I'm going to put on a fresh pot of coffee.”

Purvis didn't act surprised to see the cousins. “Why are
you
here?”

“Why are
you
here?” Judith retorted. “Is this part of your territory?”

“No,” he replied, “but we've got lots of miles to cover in Montana. I'm no stranger in Wolf Point.” He gestured at the vacant chairs. “Sit. I'm beat.”

“Aren't we all?” Renie murmured, but she was the first to comply.

Purvis took his time settling his tall body into the chair. Judith noticed that his uniform and boots were dirty and a bit damp. She
couldn't help but feel sorry for him. He was, after all, a member of Joe's law enforcement fraternity.

“I've done some checking,” Purvis said, removing his hat and speaking quietly.

“You're more than what you seem to be, Mrs. Flynn.”

“Oh.” Judith sighed. “Are you referring to the FASTO Web site?”

“Yes,” Purvis replied. “You should've told me.”

“I don't advertise,” Judith said. “Nor did I create the site. Frankly, I find it embarrassing, especially when people refer to me as FATSO.”

Purvis didn't seem to find the acronym humorous. “You aren't fat,” he said, eyeing Judith up and down. “Skinny women are kind of creepy.”

“What did you want to tell me?” Judith inquired. “Is it the Gundys?”

Purvis moved his head, stretching his neck. “No.” He swallowed hard. “The body of Roy Kingsley, the missing train attendant, was found earlier today by a creek near the train crash.”

J
udith's worst fears for Roy were confirmed. “Was he murdered?”

Purvis nodded. “Afraid so. That's why headquarters sent for me.”

Marsha seemed to have her emotions under control. “I can hardly believe it,” she said, leaning across the counter. “Roy was a fine man.”

“That doesn't keep people from getting murdered,” Purvis said.

“How was he killed?” Judith asked.

The trooper hesitated before answering. “Stab wound, up close and personal. He was your sleeping-car attendant, Mrs. Fat—Flynn. Sorry. I mean…I'm sorry about a lot of things about now.”

“Of course,” Judith said. “Do you think it happened on the train?”

“Probably, but we can't be sure,” Purvis replied. “He was found late this afternoon by some kids who were horsing around near the train wreck site.”

A memory gnawed at Judith. “How far was that creek from the tracks?”

Purvis looked up at the ceiling panels. “Not far, but out of sight from the train. It was almost dark when the kids found him. They live around there. The other attendant, Jax Wells, told us you were one of the last people who saw him.”

“True,” Judith said. “That was around nine. He seemed quite chipper.”

“You didn't hear or see anything suggesting trouble?”

Judith shook her head. “No. Though…” Whatever reference she'd heard or seen about Roy remained elusive. “If he wasn't seen after nine or even nine-thirty, he must've been killed on the train. We were ahead of schedule at Essex. Did Jax agree with the time of his disappearance?”

“Yeah, she did.” He reached inside his jacket. “After ten a.m., the train made stops at Browning, Cut Bank, Shelby, and Havre. Except for Havre, they were quick ones. But Roy wasn't seen outside at any of those places. He might not have gotten off if he didn't have to assist passengers in your sleeper.”

“I got off at Shelby to use my cell,” Judith said, “but Jax was the only attendant on the platform. We didn't go out through our sleeper because we were going to get some snack items from the bar.” She paused as Marsha announced that the coffee was almost made.

“Black,” Purvis said. “Strong.”

“That's how I do it,” Marsha said as Mr. Peterson returned.

“Are we leaving?” Renie asked, getting up from her chair.

The conductor gave a start. “Excuse me? Oh—no. We have another problem.” He turned to Marsha. “Do you know the Rowleys?”

Marsha looked disgusted. “From way back. What now?”

“We can't find Mr. Rowley,” the conductor said. “His wife swears she doesn't know where he is and doesn't much care.”

“I don't blame her,” Marsha said, “though I can see why she'd drive a man to drink. Uh-oh—here she comes. Watch out. She's on the warpath.”

Irma Rowley stomped through the doorway, loaded down with belongings. “Go ahead,” she said to the conductor. “If that drunken skunk of a husband is still on the train, take him all the way to Chicago and dump him off in that big lake they got back there.”

“Ma'am,” Mr. Peterson called to her, “come back. Please.”

“Please yourself,” Irma said over her shoulder, opening the other door. “I'm half froze and I'm going home to build me a fire.”

The door swung closed behind her. Marsha shook her head. “The last time Irma did that, she burned down half the house. It's a bad idea to set off a fire in the living room when you don't have a fireplace.”

Mr. Peterson looked helpless as he spoke to Marsha. “Do you think Mr. Rowley got off ahead of Mrs. Rowley?”

“Who knows?” Marsha responded. “Nothing they do surprises me.”

Purvis had gotten to his feet. “If she reports him missing, I can put out an APB, but he has to be gone forty-eight hours before we do it.”

The conductor seemed at a loss. “I've had them on this route before. They have family in Missoula, so they board around seven-thirty a.m. That gives Mr. Rowley a long time to drink himself into a stupor, especially on this trip with the delays. I hate to think of him wandering around in the dark. He could get hit by a car or fall in a creek. The Amtrak police can find him faster than I can.”

The elusive remark suddenly came back to Judith. “Get them on it ASAP,” she said, standing up. “Mr. Rowley may be in danger.”

Both men eyed her curiously. “I agree,” Mr. Peterson said. “It's cold—”

“No.” Judith interrupted. “The threat to Mr. Rowley is from Roy's killer.”

Mr. Peterson and Purvis gaped at her in astonishment. Renie spoke up. “I don't know exactly what she means, but you better believe her.”

The conductor balked. “I'm employed by Amtrak and follow company rules. I'll have to get clearance before proceeding with a search by our police.”

“Hold on,” Purvis said. “I agree with Mrs. Flynn.” He turned to Judith. “Did you see Mr. Rowley on the train?”

“Yes,” Judith replied, “but earlier in the day. If he got off along the route, Mrs. Rowley should know. Check with her first. And,” she went on somberly, “make a thorough search of the train before we leave Wolf Point.”

Mr. Peterson was turning red. “Now just a goldarned minute, Mrs. Flynn. Who are you? A major stockholder in Burlington Northern Santa Fe?”

“No.” She glanced at Purvis. “You explain to Mr. Peterson. I never promote myself as a sleuth. It just happens. Encountering bodies, that is.”

Purvis reluctantly gave in. “Let's talk in private.” He gestured at Marsha, who'd been watching with fascination. “Is the restroom unlocked?”

“No,” she replied. “I'll get the key. You know all about the vandalism we have around here.” She shook her head. “Kids!”

As Marsha went to fetch the key, Purvis scowled at Judith. “If you know who killed Roy Kingsley, you'd better say so right now.”

Judith felt uncomfortable. “I can't. I'm not quite sure. There are at least three possibilities, but I need more information.”

“This better not be some kind of humbug,” Mr. Peterson muttered. “Thirty years with the railroads, and I've never been in a mess like this.”

Purvis didn't comment on the conductor's rueful sentiments. Instead, he had a question for Judith. “It'd help if you'd give us a hint.”

“I can't. Not yet.” Her expression was contrite. “I'm sorry.” Marsha brought the key and handed it to Purvis. “Here you go.”

“Thanks.” The trooper looked again at Judith. “Well? What's your next move? I can't cut you a lot of slack at this point.”

Judith, in turn, looked at Marsha. “Let's put it this way,” she said, her gaze shifting back to Purvis. “Marsha may have the key in more ways than one.”

 

C
offee?” Marsha asked.

“No caffeine this late for me,” Renie responded.

“No, thanks,” Judith said. “I'd get wired, too.”

Marsha picked up the mug she'd placed on one of the empty chairs. “I need to stay alert.” She settled in between the cousins, shrewd black eyes fixed on Judith. “So you think I know something about who killed Roy. That sounds unlikely—but interesting. Are you really a detective?”

“No,” Judith replied, “but my husband is. He's a retired police officer who works part-time in the private sector.” She smiled ruefully and glanced in the direction of the restroom, where Purvis was filling in Mr. Peterson about FASTO's track record as an amateur sleuth. “Skip my background. Purvis will vouch for me.”

Marsha nodded. “Okay.”

“Good,” Judith said. “What I need is background on people you may know. Let's start with Randy Kloppenburg.”

“Randy?” Marsha was aghast. “That boy wouldn't hurt a fly.”

“You're probably right,” Judith said, pausing as Purvis and Mr. Peterson came out of the restroom.

The trooper tossed the key at Marsha; it landed in her lap. “Thanks. We're giving the train another look.” The two men hurried out of the station.

Judith didn't miss a beat. “Marsha, who's Randy's father?”

If the query surprised the other woman, she didn't show it. “His pa's dead, has been for years. That's why his granny, Ella, raised him. She's gone; so's her husband, Chet.” Marsha shook her head. “That family's suffered way too much.”

Renie spoke up for the first time. “Chet? As in Chet Huntley?” Marsha nodded.

“Another Montana native son.”

Renie nodded. “Wayne said the name of Willie's original bodyguard reminded him of someone on TV.
The Huntley-Brinkley Report,
I'll bet.”

“Chet,” Judith echoed. “Chester. Mrs. Gundy asked her husband where Chester was. Mr. Gundy told her he was in Wolf Point.”

Marsha frowned. “He is—in an urn at the cemetery. Chet passed away about five years ago. He worked for Willie. Now they're both gone.”

Judith played along with the charade. “You must've known Willie quite well if he came here for the annual rodeo.”

“Well…” Marsha hesitated, apparently choosing her words carefully. “Now don't go around saying I didn't admire Willie. I did, for all the risks he took. He made something of himself. But once he got rich and famous, he forgot the so-called little people. Oh, I know celebrities have to protect themselves from crazy fans, and of course he wasn't young anymore. The rodeo's the biggest in the state, maybe the best in the country, if you ask folks around here. Willie's name sold tickets, even if he didn't do the crazy stunts like in the old days. He'd mostly ride out on his horse and wave at the crowd.” She shook her head and chuckled. “The past few years he got to dressing up like old Western heroes—Buffalo Bill Cody, Wild Bill Hickok, the Earp brothers. I figured he'd show up next as Calamity Jane.”

“So,” Judith remarked, “he didn't mix and mingle with his fans?”

“That's right.” Marsha made a face. “Like so many big shots, he forgot who helped him get to the top. Plenty of us were fed up with him. But,” she went on more softly, “now he's gone and I'll miss him. He might've acted like he was some kind of god, but he was all Montana, larger than life, risking his neck, daring the weather, racing against the wind. There may not be many people
living in this state, but the ones who do got more grit than anybody in the other forty-nine. They have more heart, too.” Again, she paused. “The problem with Willie was his heart got smaller when his head got bigger. It's a crying shame.”

“That's a very perceptive description,” Judith said. “It must've been hard for Chet Gundy to work with him.”

Marsha sipped her coffee. “Chet could hold his own, a real feisty guy, willing to take risks, too. Not as daring as Willie, but who is? Brave, too. As a bodyguard, he took on all comers.” She nodded to herself. “But underneath, Chet had a bigger heart. That's how it got broken. They told us it was an aneurysm, but I don't believe it. Just like Ella, he couldn't live with the heartbreak that finally blew him down like a Chinook wind roaring over the prairie.”

Judith continued putting pieces together. “What broke his heart?”

Marsha leaned back in the chair. “Let me go back to Randy. His mama, Lynne, was Chet and Ella's younger daughter. Lynne and Rob had Randy a few years before they tied the knot.” She sipped more coffee and cleared her throat. “Rob worshipped Willie. He dreamed of being the next daredevil champ, and like lots of folks around here, he drove like a maniac on our long, empty stretches of road. Ten years ago come February, Rob and Lynne were driving home from Dripping Springs. It was dark and Rob didn't see the black ice. He skidded, crashing head-on into a semi. Rob was killed outright and Lynne was left a helpless invalid. The only good thing was that Randy wasn't with them.”

Judith was moved by the tragedy, but her priority was the living. The gold band's
RK
could be for Robert Kloppenburg, but
JG
didn't fit Lynne Gundy.

After a long pause, Marsha continued. “Chet's wife, Ella, didn't last long. She never had good health. Within a year, she withered away. I still marvel at how Dottie's coped. I'd like to see her, but I won't be a pest.”

Judith felt she'd lost the story's thread. “Dottie?”

“Oh!” Marsha looked embarrassed. “You don't know who I mean—Chet and Ella's older daughter. When she went to work for Willie she called herself Pepper. More showbizlike, and that red hair. Her real name's Dorothy May.”

Judith nodded. “Sorry. ‘Dottie' didn't click right away.”

“It wouldn't if you met her recently,” Marsha said. “I heard she was getting off with Willie's remains, but Don—Mr. Peterson—told me she's going on to Chicago. That poor girl has been through so much. She'll always be Dottie to me, though I never saw much of her after she went off to the police academy.”

Judith gaped at Marsha. “She's a cop?”

“She was, but she quit after her pa died to take over as Willie's bodyguard.”

Judith noticed movement and sounds outside. “The train may be about to leave,” she said. “Was Rob's grandfather a local?”

Marsha turned sour. “Another one with big ideas and a head to match. He and Willie…oh, skip it. You'd better go.”

All three women rose from their chairs as Mr. Peterson entered, holding his railroad watch. “Five minutes, ladies,” he said before speaking directly to Marsha. “We found Mr. Rowley. He was out cold in a vacant sleeper.” His gaze veered in Judith and Renie's direction. “The local police are taking him home.”

“Wait!” Judith cried. “Did Purvis talk to him?”

“Given Mr. Rowley's almost mummified condition, it was impossible,” the conductor said tartly.

“Somebody had better sober him up quick,” Judith declared.