To no one’s surprise, I got stuck manning the booth. Once again, I tried to convince myself I was upset at being left all alone. Or worried about my father being pulled into an investigation that might involve my old school bully and the mob. Truth was, I resented that they left me out of all the fun.
Since when was investigating fun? Well, it was for Dad. And I wasn’t entirely convinced he didn’t latch onto this noncase while trying to shirk his work. What was there really to investigate? This was simply a matter of an idiot—okay, I winced when I thought of him as that, especially since he was still lying in a hospital bed—rather, a man overestimating his high-wire skills and almost getting himself killed. It was a good sign that he had regained consciousness. With proper care and time to heal, Craig would soon be back to his annoying self. At that I found myself breathing a surprising sigh of relief.
Why two mobsters were roaming the facility, showing an interest in Craig’s booth, was another niggling question. But since I couldn’t move about freely like Dad, with his spiffy new uniform and two-way radio, I could at least—in between customers, that is—keep an eye on the still-closed comic booth and the two now ubiquitous men who seemed to be hovering nearby in shifts.
“Think you can sneak away for lunch?” Jack asked, leaning across the table, upsetting one of Cathy’s precious dolls in the process. “Oh, sorry.”
I got her back on her metal stand without making eye contact. With the doll, that is. I had no problem making eye contact with Jack, who had the dreamiest eyes. “Not sure I can manage lunch,” I said. “Dad’s been pressed into service, and I’m all alone here.”
“Pressed into . . . ? Does it have anything to do with the accident?”
“Long story, but he’s now temporary head of security. And yeah, they’re investigating what happened.” I left out the part about the mobsters since there were too many people nearby who might overhear. I didn’t want to create a general panic. Or get myself launched into Lake Erie wearing cement shoes.
“Can I help?” he asked.
“Aren’t you busy with Terry?” I glanced around, expecting to see him. “Or did he go home?”
“Am I my brother’s keeper?” Jack quipped, but I found the joke far from reassuring. It must’ve shown on my face. “Yeah, he went home. Why?”
“No reason. I just wondered if he, uh, enjoyed the show this morning.”
“I guess.”
“You weren’t together?”
“No, we weren’t together the whole time this morning. Why do I have a feeling I missed more than an accidental fall? Do you suspect him of something?”
“No! I just asked if he had a good time. Don’t read anything into it.”
Jack took a breath and then held it. “Sorry,” he finally said. “Didn’t mean to get overly defensive. I’m trying to find the line myself. He’s my brother and I love him, but he’s also an ex-con. I don’t know how much to trust him and how much to check on him. And now that my big brother is working for me, our whole relationship is in flux.” Jack wasn’t a crier, but he couldn’t hide the huskiness creeping into his voice.
“Family is tough sometimes,” I said. “Always hard to find that balance. Like Dad—I don’t know whether to tie him to his chair or enlist in his cause. Tell you what, though. I feel helpless just standing here. If that offer of help is still good, could you spot me for a quick . . . potty break?”
He saluted playfully, moved behind the table, and then stowed his coat underneath it. “Any instructions?”
I thought of all the carefully prepared charts with various prices, but those would be too complicated for a noob. “Don’t take any lowball offers. Tell them anything less than ninety percent of the marked price will have to be approved by your boss.”
“Yes, boss.”
I kissed him on the cheek and grabbed my purse. “Thank you!”
Despite the fact that I really did need a potty break, I yielded to my curiosity and took the long way around to the restrooms, passing by the spot where Craig landed. The wrecked train layout was roped off but still drew a crowd. I inched forward and craned my neck to get a view over the shoulder of a white-haired man wearing a plaid shirt and suspenders.
“Here.” The man stepped aside so I could get a look. “Such a tragedy. That kind of loss is hard to recover from.”
“It’ll be weeks. Maybe months,” another man said. “Poor Frank.”
“His name was Craig,” I said. “Craig McFadden.”
The man shook his head. “Nah. That’s the idiot that wrecked it. Frank’s the guy that worked for years on this layout and now has to fix it.” He pointed to a man inside the railing.
“Oh,” I said, recognizing his uniform. “You mean Conductor Frank.”
Their smirks led me to believe that I was the only one who had to call him that. I mentally dropped the honorary title, especially since he’d removed his hat and rolled up his sleeves.
Frank was sorting through a box of what looked like, from a distance, herbs and spices. I’d learned my lesson earlier in the day when, hoping to score a good deal on oregano, I discovered vendors were using the same containers to hold rocks, sand, gravel, moss, and grass used to create realistic landscaping in the train layouts. He was readying his repair supplies.
“Years,” said the other man. “He’s been bringing that same layout to the shows for almost ten years now. Adds a little bit more real estate every year. This will never be the same.”
I looked at the complicated layout. As Dad might say, Craig had left quite a first impression: half of a mountain had caved in. Train cars still lay in a twisted wreck on the floor. The bridge looked like the resistance had taken it out.
Frank drew closer and scrutinized the wreckage. He pulled out a tape measure and jotted numbers on a scrap of paper he fished from his shirt pocket.
“How are you gonna fix it?” the man next to me asked.
Frank rubbed his chin. “Don’t think I’m going to. It would never be the same.”
“How many cars did you lose?” someone asked.
“Eight.”
Even over the crowd noise, I could hear the concerned gasp.
“Weird thing is,” Frank continued, “the engine pulling them is just scratched up a bit. But another engine went missing.”
“Valuable?” I asked.
“Sentimental, mainly,” he said. “Belonged to my father-in-law. Good thing I insured it. Oh, well, you know what they say. When life gives you lemons . . .”
“If you’re not going to fix it, whatcha gonna do with it?” someone nearby asked.
“Well, the police want me to leave it like this until they take some pictures. But then I was thinking about turning it into some kind of natural disaster. Like a meteor strike. Or maybe stage it like Sharknado or even Mars Attacks. Do you think folks would believe aliens did this? Crash landed, right about . . . there?” He pointed to the exposed chicken wire.
“I have some old flying saucers at our booth,” I said, thinking about a weathered 1950s-era tin model that just might look great embedded into that ravaged hillside.
“To scale?” one of the spectators asked.
Frank put his hands on his hips and smiled. “That’s the silver lining. Who’s to say how big them aliens are supposed to be?” He looked around to see who might be listening. “Now don’t go telling nobody. You know how some folks like to copy. I don’t want anyone beating me to the punch.”
# # #
After pointing Frank in the direction of our booth, my more pressing needs became urgent, so I headed up the aisle toward the ladies’ room. The first stall was occupied, so I made my way to the next.
I’ll admit to tarrying a little. So much had happened that morning, and I’d already spent so many hours on my feet, that the cool, quiet, and calm of the ladies’ room was actually appealing. After washing my hands, I did my best to tame my hair and ran a cool, damp paper towel along the back of my neck.
I had just pushed on the door to leave when I stopped and glanced around. The occupant of the first stall hadn’t budged, and faint sniffles were coming from behind the door.
I took a guess. “Maxine? Is that you?”
After a few more seconds with no response, a toilet flushed and the door opened. Maxine, her eyes red and puffy, barely made eye contact with me as she made her way to the sink. She washed her hands, then splashed cold water on her face.
I gathered several towels from the dispenser and handed them to her.
“Thanks.” She pressed the towels to her face for several moments before taking a deep breath and looking up at my reflection in the mirror. “How bad is it?”
I wasn’t sure if she was talking about her face or her boss’s fall from grace, so I just smiled and lied. “I’m sure everything will be fine.”
She ran more water over the towels and pressed them to her eyes. “He’s not . . . ?”
“Craig’s alive,” I said. “In fact, I heard he regained consciousness. The police were headed to the hospital to try to interview him.” I gestured to a couple of armchairs opposite the sink, probably designed for nursing mothers or train show widows.
After she collapsed into a chair, I angled the other chair so I could better see her as we talked. “I take it things didn’t go as Craig had planned.”
“That’s the understatement of the year.” Her voice grew husky. “I don’t know exactly what he had planned. He’d kept it a secret, even from me. It was his big surprise.”
“And it had something to do with that outfit?”
She nodded, then shut her eyes tight. “He was so proud of that thing. Had it custom made from his drawing.”
“His drawing?” Ah, that was why I hadn’t recognized the costume.
“That was the big announcement. Craig was about to launch his own line of comic books.”
“I didn’t know Craig could draw. Although I guess he was always a doodler in school.” In his books and on the desks and on the bus seats. In ink. And later moved on to spray-painting bridges and railroad cars and industrial buildings. Many of his doodles probably should have carried a warning that they were intended for mature audiences.
“You went to school with Craig?”
“Briefly. Years ago. Before he . . . moved away.” I wasn’t sure how much she knew about his background.
She nodded gravely, as if she understood my euphemism perfectly. “He studied art from one of those correspondence schools. I know most of them are scams, but he learned something. His sketches were amazing. But it’s a hard business to break into. So much competition. I know he was frustrated with the rejections.”
“But apparently he did? Break through, that is.”
“Well, let’s just say that he found an alternate path. He was in the process of working with a local publishing company to put them into print.”
“And that was the character he was dressed up as?” I asked.
She nodded. “Mr. Inferno. Or Doctor Inferno. Something like that. He had trouble finding titles that weren’t being used. I’ve never actually seen his new series. He was very protective of it. But it was all about a superhero who could summon flames at will to fight the bad guys. Very novel approach, and he had such a tragic backstory.”
I smiled politely. It didn’t feel novel. I was pretty sure that just about every comic universe had at least one character who could perform such a feat. Dad could probably name a dozen. On the other hand, we could all probably count our blessings that Craig didn’t descend from the rafters in a giant ball of flames.
“I suppose I should check on Craig,” she said. “Then try to figure out where to go from here. I was so frustrated at being shut down and furious at Craig for not being there to handle things. It just got to be too much. I took off to look for him, to give him a piece of my mind. Then everybody was looking up and pointing, and I saw him . . .” She brushed a tear away.
“But he’s alive. And some more good news,” I said. “Because of a . . . staffing change in security here, you have a green light to reopen your booth. When you’re ready. I could probably find you some help, if you need it.”
She stared at me for several seconds and then sat silently while two women entered the restroom and scooted past us.
She tapped the arm of the chair. “I’m going to assume that Craig would want me to get back to work and check on him later.” She nodded, as if another part of her were agreeing with her own assessment. “Yes, that’s what he would want.”
I pulled open the door and followed her out. As we walked together through the crowded aisles, I spotted the back of Millroy’s head. The pair was still lingering around the comic booth. I took Maxine’s arm. “Did you notice any odd characters hanging around the booth at all?”
“No, but then again, we’ve been pretty busy. And some might even say that most comic book lovers tend to be a little odd. Although, thanks to The Big Bang Theory and all that, it’s the age of the lovable geek. I try not to notice anything off about a customer.
“Unless it’s scary.”