Twenty-Four

I am not a big TV watcher. It isn’t elitism; I just have terrible reception out at the double wide. However, there was one channel that came in consistently, and that was RNC, a cable channel devoted to reality television. As a diehard people watcher, I have no issue with reality TV other than the scripted feel of it.

That said, there was a show that I’d caught once or twice that always rubbed me wrong. It was called Attenborough PI, and featured Doghn (pronounced “Don,” which was enough in itself to turn me off) Attenborough, “actual private investigator with twenty-three years of experience running his own agencies in three different countries, escaping danger, thwarting criminals, and saving lives and reputations.” He’d been propelled into the national spotlight by solving a high-profile case, and he’d rolled that career move into a TV show. He came across as an arrogant, precious man, and I was looking at him right now, in the flesh.

He appeared smaller in person than on TV, no taller than five-five, with a head so big it looked like he was standing near me even though he was ten feet away. His predominant characteristics were a mustache curled up at the tips and a cherubic pink nose.

“Hello!” He held his hand in the air to quiet the excited murmuring. I couldn’t place his accent when I’d watched his TV show, and it was no clearer in person. It seemed like a Mississippi twang trying to wear a British coat. “Doghn Attenborough. Pleased to meet you all. I hear you’ve had a little trouble. Well, don’t worry, I’m here to help.”

Several people on the train clearly recognized him. Mrs. Berns was not one of them. “Who’s the puffy little rooster?” she asked me, not using her inside voice.

Doghn’s smile slipped, but he glided through the packed car to where she and I were standing with Terry and Ms. Wrenshall. He opened the jacket of his three-piece suit, retrieved a silver case, and flicked out a business card in a signature move that I’d seen him perform on TV.

“Doghn Attenborough, actual private investigator with twenty-three years—”

Mrs. Berns scratched at his card.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“It looks like a couple extra letters fell onto your first name, Don,” she said, “and I was trying to see if they came off. It’ll be mighty expensive to reprint these if not. Maybe some Wite-Out?”

“That is the correct spelling of my name.”

This close, he smelled like Aramis, which is what my high school gym teacher used to wear. I associated the odor with swishy pants, whistles, and incompetence. “You said you’re here to help?” I didn’t add to the question because I wanted to hear exactly what he thought the trouble was. The possible murder of Aimee’s mom? The fact that Aimee and her dad were missing? The gunshot victim back at the Fargo train station? The escaped convicts who may or may not be on the train? The mechanical problem that likely didn’t exist?

He snatched his card back from Mrs. Berns and returned it to the silver case. I wondered if that was the first time he’d ever had to do that. “The missing persons case, obviously.”

“Who’s missing?” I prompted him.

“A father and daughter.”

The rest of the train inhabitants had returned to their conversations, though some appeared to be surreptitiously eavesdropping on Doghn.

“And who called you to help?” I asked. Seriously. The guy lived in Michigan, as far as I knew. Why would the police ask him to come all the way to Montana to help with what looked like a tragic but not particularly unusual missing-persons-possible-homicide case? And how had he traveled here so fast?

“I’m the PI. I’ll ask the questions here,” he said, stroking the tips (swear to god) of his effeminate mustache.

Mrs. Berns harrumphed. “Mira here is a private investigator, too, and so is Terry,” she said, stabbing her thumb at the man who’d been standing behind her, quietly absorbing all of this. “I’m in training. We’re all headed to the PI conference in Portland, so I’m sorry to inform you that you’re not the queen of this ball.”

“Is that so?” Doghn glanced at me with renewed interest before letting his eyes flit to Terry. “Well, we must work together! The more the merrier. Let us first go to the scene of the crime. Porter, deliver my bags to my room!”

Reed materialized behind Doghn, a valise under each arm. He appeared disgruntled at best. We all followed him with various levels of enthusiasm. For my part, I couldn’t wait to hear the story of how Doghn had reached this train and how much he knew. I was also itching to find out what the law would think about him being here to “help,” how he’d found a room on what was supposedly a booked-solid Valentine Train, and most importantly, if he could locate Aimee.

I hoped with every inch of me that he could.