RHATZ!” THE BOOTLEGGER PROCLAIMED, shaking his fist. “Detective Parrot goes missing, and everyone thinks we did it! It’s a bunch of phonus bolonus, if you ask me.”
“Oh, it’s a bunch of hotsy-totsy!” the flapper replied.
I eyed the bootlegger from my chair. How in the world was I supposed to question him mid-scene? The mafia mama blocked my view, pouring coffee from a silver pot into china cups that sloshed their contents into little saucers, which sloshed their contents onto the tiny tables.
Meanwhile, the flapper ducked behind the kitchenette mid-car and reemerged with a tray of glasses. She handed them out and stopped at the booth right behind me.
“Hi, Mr. Crowley,” I heard her whisper. “Again, we’re terribly sorry for tonight’s inconveniences. Here’s a ginger ale to settle that stomach of yours.” Over my shoulder, I caught her handing him a glass of translucent liquid. It looked as still and as silty as rusty tap water.
“Thank you.” He took a tentative sip, grimaced, and put on a jolly smile. Then he drew out a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead, which was beaded with sweat.
“Stick ’em up!” Biff hollered from close by, making me start and whip around to face the action. He circled the aristocrat, the faux old-timey clunker pistol in his hand aimed at her.
“It’s the least we can do for Trainsville’s biggest patron,” I heard the flapper whisper, waving him off.
I turned back around and noticed that Mr. Crowley’s sister and grandson were no longer in the booth.
Mr. Crowley chuckled. “Can I have some napkins, too?” he asked. His handkerchief was now crumpled on the table, completely soaked through.
“Of course, Mr. Crowley!” The flapper pinched a handful of gold cocktail napkins from the tray and placed them on his table. “And if there’s anything else you need, please let me know.”
He bobbed his head, dabbing the napkins across his perspiring brow.
So Mr. Crowley was Trainsville’s biggest patron.
The flapper noticed me, and her face flushed. “What are you doing in here?”
“Working,” I whispered, before swiftly spinning back around to the show.
“I said, where’s my cabbage?” the bootlegger shouted from down the car.
I was surprised to see all eyes were on the flapper.
“Ugh! It’s my line!” I heard her mutter. She cleared her throat and set her tray down on Chet’s empty chair. “Oh no. What’s my line?” She fished her script pages from the top of her dress and skimmed until she found the right spot. “Wouldja quit being such a wet blanket!” she projected to the car.
“Hi, Mr. Crowley.” I flashed him my winning grin.
“Why, hello there again, young man,” he replied, his ice-blue eyes crinkling at the corners.
“I hope your stomach’s feeling better. And your sister’s grandson’s too.”
Mr. Crowley wiped at his brow again and cringed. “Unfortunately, the bug is back.”
Judging from the way he kept swaying and glancing over at the bathroom, I knew I didn’t have much time before he’d have to excuse himself. “I’m sorry to hear that. Hey, are you excited to see a historic train like this one back up and running?”
Mr. Crowley chuckled. “I love these old trains. They’re part of Bayport’s rich history. They should see the light of day.”
“Is that why you’re the museum’s biggest patron? To keep its restoration efforts alive?”
He cupped a hand to his stomach. His smile was wavering. “Oh, my donations alone can’t keep Trainsville’s restoration program running, but they certainly help.”
“It must be nice knowing these murder mystery shows are cash cows, then.”
“Murder mysteries and children’s birthday parties are utterly frivolous, but I do suppose Trainsville needs all the money it can possibly get.” That’s what Chet had said. Mr. Crowley’s eyes flitted to the bathroom again, then back to me. “Alas, I can only donate so much.” He took another sip of soda and grimaced. “That is foul. If you don’t mind.” Then he stood and bowed into the bathroom.
When I returned my focus to the stage, the bootlegger, Sebastian, was mere feet away, and I instantly homed back in on my goal of getting him to talk. “Psst,” I whispered.
Sebastian looked down his wide-set nose at me, eyebrow arched.
“Can we have a quick word?” I asked.
He looked away, eyes fixed on the “musical performance” taking place. (The aristocrat was giving life advice to the flapper via a song, croaking out lyrics about the importance of… a fire extinguisher?) “Sure,” Sebastian finally mumbled out the side of his mouth. “What’s up?”
“Did you notice anything unusual before Trent went missing?” I asked.
“Well, me and Alyssa—the flapper—were in the library car and watched him go on ahead to the dressing rooms. Same as always.”
Sebastian’s recollection did match the flapper’s….
“Did you notice anything strange? Is there anything I should know about Trent?”
Sebastian’s eyes were still focused on his fellow castmates, but he tensed.
Across the aisle, Charlene and Murph were watching me like hawks. A few other passengers glanced over in my direction as well. I did my best to ignore them all. For some reason, Marigold couldn’t seem to take her eyes off me. Suddenly, I recalled what she’d said about Trent’s unpredictability.
“I’ve heard some things about him, but I’m hoping you can elaborate.”
Sebastian removed his cap and started wringing it nervously. I purposely kept quiet, determined not to break my gaze as I waited him out. “So, you know about the inheritance, right?”
Inheritance? What inheritance? Now we were getting somewhere!
“I was hoping you could help me fill in the blanks?” I murmured. I could be a pretty good actor too, when I put my mind to it.
What is going on? Charlene mouthed to me.
The couple in the booth opposite me were also eyeing us. One shushed me. But I was closing in on answers! I chanced another question. “What about the inheritance?”
Sebastian’s eyes darted left, then right. “Only that Mr. Mayhem left all his money to his granddaughter. The fortune passed to her daughter, Trent’s grandmother, who recently kicked the bucket, so now Trent’s filthy rich. We’re talking millions.”
Talk about a bombshell! But why in the world would a teenager with a larger-than-life fortune be working as an actor in a terrible theater production? “I didn’t know Trent and the Mayhems were related,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady as I processed the wild revelation.
“Yep.” Sebastian shoved his cap back on, his dark eyes obscured by the brim’s shadow.
I scooted to the edge of my chair. “Does anyone else know? The other actors, I mean?”
He gave a barely perceptible nod. “Trent didn’t want people knowing, but word still got around, of course. You can’t keep secrets in the theater.” Before I could ask anything else, the aristocrat finished her song and summoned Sebastian to her side.
He swaggered away down the aisle, delivering his next lines about a “soup job.”
I stared at my dumbfounded reflection in the dark window, trying to work out what it all meant. I needed to find Frank—and not just so I could brag to him that I was clearly the better detective. If Trent was distantly related to Mr. Mayhem—and sitting on an enormous fortune!—suddenly his disappearance had a sinister whiff to it. I stood and wriggled toward the library car. I was almost there when a hand grabbed my wrist.
“Do you really think you can keep running around and it won’t raise a few eyebrows?” Murph asked.
I glanced back at the other passengers, and sure enough, most of them were staring at us.
“Murph, not now.”
“I mean, how can this junk seriously still be going on?” He wasn’t nearly as quiet as he thought he was. “No one even likes this show! We have an actor missing!”
The train car fell silent. Now everyone was looking our way. Even the actors.
“Oh my gosh!” cried a man. “An actor’s gone missing?”
“Oh! Was the bad play a ruse and this is the real mystery?” a girl asked hopefully.
“What happened?” a concerned voice rang out.
“We’re looking into it,” Biff said quickly. “Everybody, stay calm.”
“Is this some kind of joke?” another passenger called out.
Well, cat’s out of the bag, so I might as well go with it.
“Has anyone seen the actor who plays the detective or a set of keys?” I yelled. “Or cell phones? Did anyone sneak theirs aboard?”
My questions were met with a carful of shaking heads.
“I wish,” someone muttered.
It’d been worth a shot.
The train car rumbled both from the tracks and voices filled with concern and doubt. Half the passengers were panicking. The other half didn’t seem to buy the breaking news.
I shot Murph an annoyed look. “Nice going.”
He cringed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
I shook my head, then stormed out before he could finish.