HARDY BROTHERS? OH, I REMEMBER reading about you online,” said Frank’s latest crush as she tucked a strand of her blond wig behind her ear. “How can we help? I mean, besides keeping things under wraps.” She was standing between the old man with the spray tan and the college student who’d been seated across from us during the show. The flapper filled out the suspect lineup.
“You were the only ones out of your seats at the time Trent went missing,” I explained.
“Besides the bootlegger, who we’ll speak with later,” Frank interjected.
When I’d gone to retrieve the bootlegger, he’d been onstage. The flapper was clearing away cups and refilling mugs, and could afford to step away without causing a ruckus. Apparently, besides serving refreshments, the actors were also responsible for cleanup when they weren’t dishing out dialogue.
“For now,” I announced, “we’d love to pick your brains. You might’ve seen or heard something that helps us figure out this mess.”
The flapper glanced at the elderly passenger and fussed with a strand of her hair.
“I’m not exactly sure I can be of much help,” he admitted, his red cheeks showing through the orange tan caked over his wrinkly face.
“We know where you were,” Chet said with a nod and a wink.
“Chet, don’t be creepy,” I whispered.
He winced. “Sorry!”
“That’s right. The restroom.” The man cleared his throat and cracked a smile, revealing perfect porcelain veneers. “I was in there for a while. I reckon you would be too if you’d devoured your dessert as quickly as I did.” He let out a nervous chuckle, dabbing at his forehead with an embroidered handkerchief. “I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.” Between his three-piece wool suit and having to admit he’d been sick in front of complete strangers, it was no wonder the man was sweating bullets.
Frank sighed. “What’s your name, sir?”
The old man unbuttoned the top of his shirt and fanned his blotchy neck. “Heath Crowley. I came with my sister and her grandson. He’s not feeling all that well himself.”
Frank jotted down a note. “We hope you feel better. You can head back. And again, we’d really appreciate it if you could keep this all confidential.”
The flapper forced a smile. “So sorry for the trouble, Mr. Crowley.”
Mr. Crowley gave her a pained smile. “It’s no problem.” He gulped. “Secret’s safe with me, gentlemen. Good luck in your search.” He ran his hand through the little wisps of what looked like wiry hair plugs, then hurried out of the car.
“What about the rest of you?” I asked. “Anyone see or hear anything odd?”
They exchanged glances, clearly waiting for the others to start.
“I can go first,” the flapper finally said. “I was in here. Me and Sebastian—the bootlegger—usually hang out in the library car while Trent follows us out and then goes on ahead to scream. Today was no different. We watched Trent pass through to the dressing rooms like always.”
Interesting. I made a mental note to check if the bootlegger could corroborate her story.
“But then Trent didn’t scream like he was supposed to.”
“You don’t say.” I gave her a look, encouraging her to keep going, but she clammed up.
“How about you?” Frank asked the girl in the purple lace dress. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name. Did you notice anything strange around the time Trent left the car?”
“I’m Marigold.” She grinned at him. “I was in here. I needed to stretch my legs.” She flashed the flapper a sympathetic smile. “It wasn’t that the show was bad…”
The flapper chewed her bloodred bottom lip and looked down at her heels.
“Please!” cut in the college student. “We all needed a break.”
“And what’s your name?” I asked, giving her my full attention.
She wore a cheery put-on smile. “Karen,” she replied, wringing her black-leather-gloved hands. “Can I go now? I’d rather be back in there watching the show than in here being grilled by two… what did you two say you were… ‘sleuths’?” She snorted.
“Anyway, it wasn’t that the show was bad,” Marigold continued, “but I wanted to check out the gift shop. I was in here for a while, I guess. It’s a maze in here. But I didn’t see anything out of the norm.”
The flapper studied the segments of bookcase walls, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
Karen looked from the flapper to us and shook her head. “We didn’t see anything unusual, okay?” She placed a protective hand on her sequined purse. “And if I had my phone on me, I’d call an Uber to pull up alongside this moving train.”
Marigold gave an uncomfortable little chuckle.
“Gents.” The flapper looked at the others, then back at us. “Can we talk? Privately?”
“All right. This was fun,” Karen said. “Come on, Marigold.” She spun to leave.
“Actually, can you two please wait here? This will only take a second.” Before they could object, I waved the flapper to follow me, and navigated around a bookshelf, with Frank and Chet on our heels. I was pretty sure nobody could overhear us there. I glanced back to see Karen and Marigold chatting with Ravi.
As I reached the wall, I pulled up short. The shelves on either side were filled with antique baby dolls and leering ventriloquist dummies staring down at us with glossy eyes. I shivered. The library car could give our local haunted bookstore a run for its money. On the wall was a framed map of the train’s trek winding up and down the coast of the bay.
The flapper spoke so quietly, I had to rely on my lipreading skills. “I didn’t think to mention it earlier, but I saw Ravi poking around this afternoon. He was one of the first people aboard, which is odd because he’s usually one of the last on. Well, apart from Biff, who’s always late. I thought it was strange. And there was something else.”
Karen poked her head around the bookshelf. “Seriously, I’m heading to my seat now.”
“One second.” I turned back to the flapper. “You were saying?”
She looked nervously from Karen to me, and bit down on her lip. She clearly didn’t want an audience, at least not now. “Sorry, I…?”
“There was something else?” Frank prompted.
“Oh. Just that I was aboard early to pay respects to Mr. Mayhem.”
“What do you mean? Who’s Mr. Mayhem?” The name sounded vaguely familiar.
“Mr. Mayhem.” She blinked her glue-on lashes at me. “You don’t know?”
“Know what?” Frank and I asked at the same time.
Chet looked at us incredulously. “Seriously, guys?”
Suddenly, Marigold appeared beside us. So much for privacy. “Mr. Mayhem was the original owner of this train. Back in the 1920s.” She pointed at the framed map on the wall, where a track branched off from the main line and continued to snake along the coastline, before ending at an unfinished bridge. “That’s the bridge the train almost plummeted off. Legend has it that Mr. Mayhem jumped from the train and rerouted its course… at the terrible cost of his own life. Hit by the train he saved. Today marks the anniversary of his death. It’s why I booked my ticket. I’m hoping to see his ghost.”
“Talk about unsettling,” I said.
“And confusing,” Frank added. “How would he have had time to jump off, race ahead of the train, and move the switch?”
I shrugged. “Guess that’s why it’s called a legend.”
“Hey, I need to get back to the show,” the flapper announced after an uneasy moment. “My next scene is coming up.”
Frank gulped, his eyes flitting to Marigold as his face flushed. “Thanks for, uh, talking with us.”
We followed the others around the corner and watched as they exited the gift shop.
Marigold hesitated at the door. “For what it’s worth, this is typical of Trent.”
“Trent has a habit of going missing?”
“Oh, he’s famous for making a scene,” she said, a smile playing on her lips.
Frank’s eyes widened. “Wait, you know Trent?”
Marigold fidgeted with a loose thread on her dress. The car was quiet except for the clacking of the train and the occasional shudder of shelves. “I go to school with him,” she finally said.
Something about Marigold seemed familiar. Her oval-shaped face. Her unforgettable green eyes. But I’d never seen either her or Trent at Bayport High. “Here in town?”
“Nope. Summit, New Jersey.”
“So you and Trent are both conveniently in Bayport on the same train?”
“Yeah. He’s kind of a big deal at our school.”
“Why’s he such a big deal?” Frank asked, sounding defensive.
“Well, he’s the star of every play. I guess that comes with experience. He’s also kind of a live wire. Something probably ticked him off during the show and he needed to take a walk, get some fresh air. Maybe the door got locked accidentally. I seriously wouldn’t sweat it.”
“If Trent was locked out, then why isn’t he banging to be let back in?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Maybe he decided to lie down. Who knows? Like I said, he’s kind of a loose cannon.”
“What’s your definition of ‘loose cannon’?” Frank asked.
“One time Trent got so mad at some kid, he put rats in his locker.” Marigold shuddered.
“Ahh, that kind of loose cannon. Got it.”
“Look, I hope you find him.” Catching Frank’s eye, she broke into a dazzling smile before spinning around and vanishing back into the performance car.
“Even if Trent locked himself out of the dressing room car, that still doesn’t explain where the keys are, and why everyone’s phones have mysteriously disappeared.” I sighed. “It feels like we’re no closer to finding him.”
“I wonder if maybe Marigold’s right and Trent’s a wild card.” Frank was still beet-red. “And what about the flapper? She wanted to tell us something else, and I don’t think it was about Mr. Mayhem.”
“Yeah,” Chet said. “She was acting so nervous. Not acting. Ugh. You know what I mean.”
“Not nervous,” I corrected. “Frightened.”
“Maybe Mr. Mayhem’s ghost put her on edge,” Chet joked.
“Wait. Who’s Mr. Mayhem again?” I asked. “Is it weird I’m not intimately familiar with this story?”
“Easton Mayhem?” Chet shook me. “Everyone knows Easton Mayhem.”
Frank grinned. “Apparently not everyone.”
“I learned all about him when I was reading up for tonight,” Chet explained. “Got to have juicy nuggets for the subscribers, right? Anyway, didn’t you see that log statue of the man looming over Trainsville before we left?”
Frank nodded. “Oh yeah. Couldn’t miss it.”
“Enlighten us, Morton.” I was getting impatient.
“Mr. Mayhem is revered as one of the few long-lost heroes of Bayport. Like Marigold mentioned, the story is that he died trying to save his passengers when the train almost veered onto the wrong track and off the unfinished bridge. The route was abandoned and the bridge was never finished. I’m not sure why. But rumor is that there’s an… otherworldly… reason no one’s dared touch that track.”
I grimaced. “Yikes. Spooky.”
“That’s not all,” Chet continued. “Legend has it this very train is haunted.”
Frank rolled his eyes. “And how is that gonna help us crack the case?”
“Good point,” I said. “I’m gonna go talk to the bootlegger. His name’s Sebastian, right? He was one of the last people to see Trent before he disappeared. Maybe he knows something we don’t.”
Frank gave me a thumbs-up. “And I’m gonna go find the keys to get us into the rest of the train. We haven’t really given this car a thorough search”—he lowered his voice—“and with any luck, I’ll find out what Ravi was really doing aboard early today.”
“And I’m gonna… try again to convince Ravi to subscribe to my channel,” Chet said.
I ignored my fame-seeking friend and flashed my brother a grin. “Game on. I can’t wait to solve this case.”
“What do you mean you’re solving it?”
“Bet’s still on.” I waggled my eyebrows. “If I figure out what’s going on, you have dish duty and garbage duty the rest of the summer—and you have to pay me back for my ticket.”
“Fine, but you’ll be eating your words.”
I opened the door, then turned. “Keep telling yourself that, bro.”
Chet slow-clapped. “Not bad!” He looked from me to Frank and back. “Epic! You guys should really consider auditioning for the next murder mystery train production!”