The Great Circus Train Robbery (3 page)

“Not another seed spitting contest! That was disgusting.”

“It’s an essay contest for kids ten to fourteen. About steam trains. Dad found it on the web. If I write the essay, he’ll take me to the Springfield train show.  That’s a big one.  And if I win—”

“You get to ride the Orient Express through Europe.”

“How’d you know?”

“You do? Really?”

“Just kidding. But I do get to ride the Durango and Silverton in Colorado next spring. It’s a steam train, a real one. They keep stopping to fill up with water to make the steam. Dad’ll come with me—I mean, even if I don’t win the contest. You go up this long valley through miles of wilderness. Sometimes you’re on the edge of a cliff—you see wild elk, wolves and grizzlies down below. And if the train leaps the track—whee-ee...” He flung up his arms, did a cartwheel and fell flat on the ground. He grabbed his neck with his two hands and gagged, then did a slow agonized death on the grass.

It was all so ridiculous, she wasn’t going to react. But she would like to ride that train. “If I pay, can I come along?”

He jumped up. “If you help me research the trains. I’m going to the library at ten tomorrow morning. Ms. Delores has some books for me.”

“She does? Okay then, I’ll go with you. We’ll start the spying at noon. You can do your spying from two to three, and I’ll take over again till five.”

“What do you mean,
my
spying? Spying is your idea.” Spence went back to his train. He was getting more difficult to talk to these days. He didn’t go along with her ideas the way he used to. It might have something to do with the fact that he’d grown a quarter of an inch just this last month and she hadn’t grown at all. Soon he’d be her height—and then what?

“My
spying then.” She’d guessed she’d have to give in to him a little. “So I’ll be at your house at a quarter-to-ten. I mean it’ll be your essay, but I’d like to ride the train through those wild places. I’ve got some money saved up.”

“Well, okay to the spying,” he said—with reluctance. “But I’ll have to ask Dad about the Colorado trip. It might be a ‘men only’ thing.”

“Then when you get to be a
man,
you can go. See you tomorrow. Ta-ta.” She waved a limp wrist and skipped lightly away.

WEDNESDAY

5

ZOE MAKES A BARGAIN

Ms. Delores had been a librarian at Branbury Public Library for twenty-nine years and this was her last,” she informed the children. “Thirty years and I’m done.”

“Then what will you do with yourself?” Zoe asked.

“Oh, sit around and drink tea and read all the books I never had time for. Go out to lunch with friends. Do church work—just so I don’t have to move around too fast.” She slapped her right hip and chuckled.

She was a robust, pink-cheeked woman with wispy brownish-white hair, round wire-rimmed glasses and a big smile for everyone. Today she was wearing blue slacks and a light blue short-sleeved cotton shirt that revealed her smooth white arms. She had an inherited gene called Charcot Marie Tooth that gave her weakness in her feet and hands, she said, but never kept her from working. And she loved to work with kids.

“I got my first library card in first grade,”  she told the children after she’d settled them comfortably in her tiny office that was filled with family photos.  “My twin sister and I would walk to the library and once a week we’d check out four books. We’d each read our own and then swap.”

“Did you have a TV back then?” Zoe asked.

“Oh, yes. I’m not
that
old! Mother got her first TV when we were in sixth grade—your age,” she said, grinning at them, “but she only let us watch it one hour a day.”

“That’s all I get to watch now,” Spence said. “After I can prove to Mom I’ve done my homework.”

“She’s a wise woman, your mom,” Ms. Delores said.  She cleared her throat. “Now I’m not supposed to just sit and chat. You’re here to talk about steam trains, Spence.”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s this contest I’m entering.” He showed her a printout of the contest.
An essay about any aspect of the age of steam,
Ms. Delores read aloud,
its history, operations, landscapes, romance; its classic model trains.

“Model steam trains,” Spence clasped his hands as if he was praying. “That’s what I mostly want to write about.”

Zoe was more interested now that there might be something romantic about steam trains, other than the coal steam that polluted the air. Was that what she’d smelled in the enemy’s house? Did Boomer have a steam train down there? Had he scalded his victim with steam?

Spence was looking with dismay at the three large tomes the librarian had put in his lap. One of them,
The Story of American Railroads,
looked to be at least a thousand pages. The other two were almost as lengthy.

“The deadline is September 15,” he said. “I can’t read all these books and then write the essay in less than a month!”

“That’s why I’m here,” Zoe said, picking up the
The Age of Steam.”
I’ll read it and report back.  You can just read what interests you.  Like the chapter on model trains, right?”

“Yeah, thanks, that’s what I’ll do.”  His face brightened.  “Look. What I wanted to show you, Ms. Delores.”  He pulled his red baggage car out of a cloth sack.

The librarian cried with delight and stroked the roof of the rail car. “Lovely! Oh, and I know that Billings Brothers Circus. Our mother used to take us to see it. Why, I wanted to be one of those aerial artists. I’d dream about flying through the air!  Though in reality—oh my.”   She gazed down at her weak ankles, and then laughed.

“I’m going to try for a job this weekend,” Zoe said. “The circus uses locals to take tickets. I do a little juggling, too.”

“A very little,” said Spence, who, unfortunately, had seen her drop a ball or two that very morning.

She threw him a stern look. “I’m working on it, Spence. I can juggle three balls, easy. When you saw me this morning I was trying four balls.”

“The adopted niece I told you about has already arrived,” Ms. Delores said. “She’s a clown. Her boyfriend is a dog trainer. Would you really like to meet her?”

“I’d love to!” Zoe was thrilled. She imagined herself in a hot pink leotard holding a big hoop for dogs to jump through, while the crowd clapped and cheered.

“Dad says they shouldn’t make animals do that,” Spence said, his nose flaming red. “It’s abusive. The dogs want to be back in their own homes, sleeping in their dog beds.”

They were all quiet a moment. Ms. Delores patted Zoe’s arm. “I’ll see that you meet my niece,” she said softly. “I’ll give you a call.” She raised her voice. “We’ll check out those books now, shall we, Spence?”

“Hold out your arms,” Spence told Zoe when they were ready to leave. “I want this read by Monday.” He dropped a large tome into her arms. “With careful notes, please.”

“Wait a minute,” she said, “I’ll need at last two weeks to read that. Boomer may strike at any time. It’ll be on your conscience if I’m just sitting around reading a book about old trains and somebody
dies.”

“If you want my help,” Spence said, looking her in the eye. “If you want to come with me and Dad to the Durango and Silverton…”

“Okay,” she said. “Okay, I’ll read it. But give me a week at least. There’s a circus this weekend, too.”

“It’s a bargain,” he said, and stuck out his hand.

She slapped her hand against his and sighed.  “Two o’clock. That’s when you take over the watch today.  Unless Boomer goes off in his car before that—and I’ll call you. Then you can meet me by his basement door.”

Before he could argue, she ran out of the library with the weighty
Age of Steam.
Maybe she could pay Kelby to read it. But no, she didn’t want Kelby along on the Durango and Silverton. Plaguing her the whole way? Pretending to leap into a valley full of wolves and grizzlies? Pretending to push
her
into that death valley?”

“I’ll read it,” she thought grimly. “But only if it doesn’t interfere with my
mission.”

6

DIRT, ROCK, AND WEBS FULL OF DEAD FLIES

“He’s a strange man, that Juniper Boomer,” Mrs. Elwood said as Zoe was leaving the house after lunch to pick up the pie basket—Boomer was to leave it on the front porch. “Have you ever heard of a name like Juniper? Why, juniper is a tree!” Her mother giggled. “Oh, and take Spence with you when you go. Just in case.”

Just in
what
case, Zoe wondered. The remark made her fearful. Especially ten minutes later when she was alone, hiding in Boomer’s backyard with a notebook, an empty pie basket, and
The Age of Steam.
She had a view of the garage and driveway so she could see when—if—he left the house. She couldn’t follow his movements inside the house because the shades were down. Did he suspect that someone might be watching him? That, of itself, was suspicious.

So she spent the time skimming her copy of the train book that was mostly, she discovered, full of photos and illustrations. She could easily finish it in a week and take notes besides. She copied down the following:

A 19th-century philosopher compared the locomotive engine to a dragon snorting fire. It clattered and smoked and roared and destroyed the peace of the countryside. The trains were always getting wrecked. One wreck in a Pennsylvania cornfield left 70 people charred and dead.

Hmm. That was sad. Zoe was unhappy with these dangerous steam trains.

One night in 1876 the Pacific Express fell 150 feet through a bridge and burned on a frozen creek. All 88 passengers fell with it to their deaths. The chief engineer who’d called the bridge safe, blew his brains out.

Did she really want to ride the Durango and Silverton?

But then she came to a poem by William Rose Benét who wrote

Then, as on wings of chance,

I plunge the night
—

Pullmans, you spell romance

And snug delight.

That was better. There was nothing romantic, though, about lying on her belly in this weedy, rooty yard. She flipped over on her back, hearing an engine revving up. Why, it was the green car backing out into the driveway! And she’d forgotten to bring the walky-talky. Scrambling up, she raced back to Spence’s house and flung a stone at his window.

Unfortunately, his room was over the music room where she could see his mother nodding at a small boy who was murdering a piece by Mozart. Fortunately, Mrs. Riley’s back was to her and the boy’s head so close to the page of music he could almost lick it. So when Spence came to his upstairs window she waved her arms and frantically pointed down the street. “Gone,” she mouthed, “Come quick!”

He waved at her, smiled, and held up
The Story of American Railroads,
but he didn’t come. And Boomer would be halfway to town by now, doing his errands, and then he’d come home and hang out the rest of the day—and they’d never get in.

So she tiptoed up to Spence’s room while the boy below continued to mutilate Mozart, and grabbed her friend’s arm. “He’s gone out,” she said. “Come on!” When he kept his nose in the book, she said,
“If
you
want my help with your essay. I’ve already got a whole page of notes. Good stuff.
If
you
want to read them.”

That got him. They hurried over to Boomer’s, pulled up the creaking cellar door and scrambled down the crumbling stone steps that were hung with cobwebs. “No recent bodies through here anyway,” Zoe said, “or it would’ve taken the cobwebs with it. So maybe we’re in time.” She was pleased with her Nancy Drew sleuthing. “Shut the door,” she called to Spence, who was stumbling behind.

The door fell with a crash. “It got my head! Oww...”

“Shush.”

“Why? You said Boomer’s gone.”

“Someone might be here. You never know.”

The cellar looked like it had been dug out of dirt and rock. Hung with webs full of dead flies, it was more underground cave than cellar. There was the usual furnace and hot water heater, but the floor was clay dirt, and anything—any
body
—could be buried beneath. She pointed down and lifted an eyebrow at Spence.

“I’m not digging,” he said, crossing his arms.

“Whisper, please.”

“I’m not—”

“I heard you. Just look for
signs
of digging. Or places where the rock might’ve been removed in the walls.”

“It’s not all rocks,” Spence hissed back. “First you dig a big hole and then you line the dirt sides with fieldstone and mortar. I know for a fact. My grandfather has a basement like this.”

“Uh-huh. Well, just start looking.” Upstairs she heard a thump. Spence started for the outside steps; she grabbed his sleeve. “It’s just the cat.” At least there might be a cat. She held Spence’s gaze. Stick to your guns when you believe in something, her father always said, and she was sticking.

They tapped and rubbed and stuck their fingers in crevices. They breathed in the stench of mice and mold.  Once she saw a dead rat and bit her lips hard to keep from crying out.  But saw no sign of a human body. “He’s not dead yet,” she concluded.

“He?”

“Or she. You know what I mean. The generic he.”

“The what?’

“Never mind. Just follow me.” She started for the rickety wooden steps that led to the rooms above. “Come on,” she urged when he held back.

“This is crazy. Either we get shot or we get arrested for trespassing.”

“Have faith. I’ll go up first and case the joint.” She’d heard that phrase on one of her dad’s thriller videos, it revved up her courage. She crept upward and shoved open the door to the house. She blinked in the sudden light—she’d encountered a pair of green eyes.

She cried out—then fell back a step when a hand grabbed the seat of her pants.

7

MYSTERIOUS MESSAGES ON THE E-MAIL

“Oh, it’s you. Let go!”

“I was only trying to rescue you,” Spence said.

“I don’t need rescuing. It was the cat that startled me.” It was a huge green-eyed cat, big as a dog. A Maine Coon cat probably, with an enormous black-striped furry tail and paws like a tiger. She’d heard of that breed that would even retrieve a ball. Maybe it could talk and tell her where the body was hid.