Page 5 of Death on a Scottish Train

When the train made it back to the Sea Isle station, I stood next to Mara and Abigail doing my one job of the evening. We handed small gift bags to the travel writers and bloggers who had joined us for the ride.

Inside was a replica of the engine and a pamphlet that gave the history of the train.

As they disembarked, the guests had been extremely complimentary about the ride. And while everyone had told Mara it was a great success, the words didn’t seem to help the lines of strain across her forehead.

Once the last passenger was off the train, she turned to Abigail and me. “Will you two help me search the station? I can’t imagine he’s still there. He’s probably at home, but I won’t sleep tonight if we don’t check. I was angry earlier, but I’m worried now that something might have happened to him. No one was more excited about the train launch than he was.”

“Of course,” Abigail and I said at the same time.

“I’ll help too,” Jasper offered as he came up carrying some of the catering trays. “I’ve already offloaded most of my equipment.”

She gave us a tight smile. “Thank you.”

Inside the station, we each took a corner. While Mara searched the ticket booth area, Jasper checked the area with the tea and treats cart.

Abigail went into the restrooms, and I went through a door that led to a small office. I flipped on the light to find it empty and incredibly tidy. There wasn’t a speck of dust or a paper out of place.

I was about to turn off the light and return to the center room of the station when I noticed a skinny door at the back of the office.

It was latched on the outside, and I undid it. When I did, something thumped inside.

Nerves clawed at my throat. As neat as everything might have been, it didn’t mean there weren’t mice hanging out. I wasn’t a big fan of them.

I closed my eyes and whipped open the door. When I blinked, I was surprised to find a very dead man staring back at me.

“What in the …” I’d been expecting a mouse, not a corpse.

His eyes were wide open, and his toupee had slipped to the side of his head like a strange furry cap.

He was dressed in a trench coat, and a fedora had fallen down to cover his shoes. It must have been a costume of sorts harkening back tothe days of 1930s film noir. The sickening scent of vomit and death had gathered around him in the tight confines of the broom closet.

Why had he gone into the closet to throw up? It didn’t make sense. Nor did the bluish tint to his lips or the yellow haze in the whites of his eyes. It appeared he’d been quite sick in the small closet.

His pupils were dilated, and rigor had just begun to set in, so he had to have been killed in the last few hours. Though I’d need to take an internal temperature to be more accurate.

“Em, where are you?” Mara called out.

“Uh. In the office,” I said. “Don’t come in here, though. I don’t want to contaminate the crime scene.”

“Crime scene?” Mara screeched. “What? No. Please tell me he isn’t dead. I’ve had such awful thoughts about the man tonight.”

“Well, I don’t think you were alone. He appears to have been quite ill, but I need my kit.”

“On it,” Abigail said. I never really had to ask her to do anything. She was incredibly adept at anticipating anything I might need. Whether that was coffee or the tools of the trade.

“I’ll drive her down and back, I’ve got my delivery van,” Jasper offered. “I don’t suppose it was from natural causes?”

“I can’t comment,” I said. “You know how Ewan is, and speaking of whom, I need to call him.” But the answer was no.

“Is it the storyteller?” Mara asked.

“I think so.”

“Let me look. I can handle it. I promise,” she said.

I wasn’t so sure about that, but we would need some form of identification one way or another.

“Stand at the door and lean in,” I said. I glanced back to find her doing what I’d asked. I moved so she could have a clear view.