What
people are saying about
The Station Master: A Scheduled Death
"It has come time for Janet Evanovich to take a lesser seat–to
move over for Luisa Buehler, whose characterization, setting, plot and twists
in The Station Master are simply enthralling. If you like your suspense cozy to medium
boiled, Buehler has cooked up an excellent dish for her fans. I highly recommend The Station Master
and this series for its unique sleuth, strong voice, and crisp
storytelling."
–Robert W. Walker, author of City for Ransom
"Cutting-edge cozy. The Station Master is filled with
long-buried secrets, elaborate twists, and nail-biting suspense. Buehler and Marsden just keep getting better
and better."
J.A. Konrath, author
of
Bloody Mary: A Lt. Jack Daniels Thriller
"Grace Marsden returns in Luisa Buehler's
charming The Station Master and proves once again that neither errant
husbands, erstwhile lovers, nor a case of OCD can prevent her from ferreting
out the truth. A skeleton in an antique
trunk is the starting point, but the end result is a fine blend of intrigue,
vivid description, and quirky but compassionate characters. Don't miss it."
Libby Fischer Hellmann
Author, the Ellie Foreman series
The Lion Tamer: A Caged Death
"…a veritable shot of adrenaline. …you are drawn into her roller-coaster
ride…Good job, Mrs. Buehler, The Lion Tamer is
great mystery."
–Roundtable Reviews
"The Lion Tamer: A
Caged Death reminds the reader that sooner or later a mystery
reveals itself no matter how hard the guilty partner tries to bury it. …guilt and regret keep the story moving at an
interesting pace. Buehler has a talent
for creating dimensional characters right down to their daily-living routines
and ever-surfacing emotions. This book
is a keeper."
–Denise Fleischer, gottawritenetwork.com
"…a fast paced mystery that romps
through
DuPage Woman Newspaper Central
Edition
"With her
second book, The Lion Tamer, Luisa Buehler offers us a curious heroine,
a handsome husband, a dashing ex-lover and a skeleton or two. Welcome to the engaging Grace Marsden's
world, where romance and mayhem vie for her attention–much to a reader's
satisfaction and delight!"
–Sharon
Fiffer, author of The Jane Wheel Mysteries
The Rosary Bride: A Cloistered Death
"…a stylishly written novel evocative of Barbara Michaels and Teri
Holbrook. Luisa Buehler presents a fascinating cast of characters, an
engrossing tale of old wrongs, long-kept secrets, and murder."
–Denise Swanson, author of the bestselling
"…a twisty, taut, compelling story of love gone wrong, a
fascinating, haunting tale."
–Carolyn Hart, author of Pulitzer Nominee,
Letter from Home
"My favorite kind of
book–old sins cast long shadows. When a long-dead
woman is found behind the fireplace at
–Barbara D'Amato, author of the Cat Marsala series
Books by
The Station Master: A Scheduled Death
The Lion Tamer:
A Caged Death
The Rosary Bride: A Cloistered Death
The Scout Master: A Prepared Death
Luisa Buehler
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be
construed as real. Any resemblance to
actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely
coincidental.
Echelon Press
9735 Country
Copyright © 2005 by
Luisa Buehler
ISBN: 1-59080-458-9
Paper
ISBN: 1-59080-459-7
E-Book
www.echelonpress.com
All rights
reserved. No part of this book may be used
or reproduced in any m
First Echelon Press
paperback printing: November 2005
Cover Art ©
Nathalie Moore
2004 Ariana Best in
Category Award winner
Printed in
Dedication
To Gerry and Christopher
who are always there, offering love
and practicing patience.
This is
a work of fiction, but like the pearl that grew around a single grain of
sand, this story developed around a modicum of fact. I am grateful to Kris Guill, owner of Jefferson Hill Tea Room, John Reeder, owner
of Book Nook News, and Carl Grumbles, past president of the Lisle Heritage Society
for sharing their stories. A
special thank you to Officer Cindy McNaney of the
Lisle Police for clarification on procedures.
The 'armchair sleuths,'
reference librarians at the Lisle Library, rate high marks and thanks for the
details they gathered. It is in the
details that a story comes to life.
All Aboard!
Magic music of the iron rails humming, engaging the imagination, changing to desire for adventure.
Holidays, honeymoons, and homecomings, each beginning with a ticket to ride. The end of the line is a beginning in reverse…
Unless
the ticket to ride is one way.
The nightmare hardly came anymore. Mornings dawned sweet and rested, most
mornings. Not this one. The gut-wrenching fear, the prickly sweat tore
me from a sound sleep. I slipped from
under the covers to the floor panting through the residual panic of the
nightmare, hoping I wouldn't wake Harry.
My
breathing calmed. I gently lifted my
side of the covers and slid between still warm sheets. I lay awake waiting for the time to pass and
my nightgown to dry.
"We fly home in three days, Grace. It's time.
We can't hide here any longer."
The pain at the thought of home still gripped my heart. It was crazy to think rushing off to another continent would heal me. I feared leaving; afraid that the healing joy I'd felt these past months would vanish if I crossed borders. My mind had created a 'Brigadoon' and now I panicked at the prospect of crossing that bridge back to my life.
"Grace? I said we're leaving in three days. Is there anywhere else you want to visit
before we go? Any church jumble you
haven't plundered? Any brass rubbings
you've missed?"
My
husband's attempt at gleaning a smile from me failed miserably. I hated myself for the topsy-turvy emotions
that plagued me even during idyllic outings with Harry and his family. They had been patient and loving through
these past months.
Harry
and I arrived on their doorstep with one day notice and one suitcase. The maniac who once had been Harry's friend,
but who had stalked me with deadly intent, had destroyed our home. Harry's parents, William and Dorothy Marsden,
swept us into their hearts and life in the blink of an eye. They had readied the entire upstairs for
us. We slept in Harry's old room and
used his sister's adjacent bedroom as a sitting room. Both rooms had been left as they had been all
those years before. H
Tears
welled up in my eyes and my hands sought the comfort of a length of yarn tied
to my belt loop. I kept my eyes on my
hands while I looped and braided ten series of knots hoping the routine would
calm my nerves and give me time to master my emotions.
Harry
tipped my chin up and looked into my eyes.
"Pansy
purple," he pronounced. He leaned
forward and brushed his lips against my cheek.
Even
without the tears my mood would have been apparent. My personal physiology reacts to high emotion
by changing the color of my eyes from a lavender shade with gold flecks to a
deep pansy purple hue. My personal
barometer makes it difficult to lie or hide much. Everyone who knows me can read me like a
book.
"Gracie,
please. We have to put this behind
us. We did it once before. We can do it now."
Harry
turned his cornflower blue eyes away from my face and glanced out the window
past the flower boxes attached to the sills bursting with color and tumbledown
charm in the form of Verbena, Petunia, and Celosia. His gaze continued across the neatly
manicured lawn to the stone pillars at the macadam road that marked the Marsden
entrance.
"It's
lovely here, no doubt old girl, but it's not our
home. We need to make peace with where
we belong. Only way for that to happen
is to go home, Gracie. And what about
those job offers? People are waiting on
you, love." He teased me now. "You would make a wonderful event pl
Harry's
emphasis on planning brought a smile
to my face as I remembered the countless birthday parties, prom parties, school
events that I had pl
"Even
Barb sent you a letter about joining her on some project."
Our
neighbor in Pine Marsh had mailed me a notice about a position for an event pl
"Yeah,
everyone thinks I ought to get a job.
Even Karen suggested I look into teaching a writing class at
Trinity. Does my unemployed status annoy
people?" I was being facetious
since my full time job was writing children's books. I had finished the fourth in my "Mick
the Monster" series shortly before our lives had been slammed into the
Twilight Zone by a maniac bent on revenge.
"People
care about you. They love you. I love you.
That's why we need to go home.
"Why? We can stay here, not this house, but in
Arundel or maybe
Harry
placed two fingers against my lips to halt the torrent of wishful thinking
spewing from my mouth. I took his hand
in mine and kissed the top. His hands
had been burned in the explosion that damaged our house.
They had
healed remarkably well especially after we arrived in Arundel. A great aunt, Mildred, knew a lady friend who
bottled the most marvelous honey from healing bees. I scoffed at the story. Harry's response had been different. My cosmopolitan husband listened and followed
her instructions. It was imperative that
he travel with her to the hives and thank the bees for their help. I stood in amazement as my world traveled,
high tech gadget guy, agreed to drive an hour then walk the three miles to the
recluse's cottage to thank the bees.
Harry told me the bee lady knew the honey would work because the bees
'voices' grew hearty in the hive when Harry thanked them.
Those
bees deserved Harry's heartfelt thanks and mine too. Within weeks of using the honey salve, the
tops of his hands had grown smooth and supple.
The tightness and pain he had lived with had lessened.
"I
want to go back to the bee lady and thank her bees." I looked up at Harry and tried a true smile.
"I've
already thanked them, darling."
"I
want to thank them for helping you and I want to ask her if I can thank her in advance
for someone else." I stood up and
walked to the window. With my back to
Harry I lobbed my request over my shoulder.
"Karen sent me a note on things back home. She mentioned that Ric is still in
rehab. The department is forcing him to
retire on full disability. She says the
therapy isn't going well; so much scar tissue.
I thought I'd bring home the honey for him to try."
Ric
Kramer, my best friend's brother, had been injured in the same blast that hurt
Harry. Ric owed his life to Harry. An awkward balance since Ric and I had once
been close. Each time Ric reentered my
life my marriage seemed to suffer from the encounter. I now mentioned Ric for the first time in three
months. I felt I needed to act now. I turned to catch Harry's reaction.
"Of
course we'll bring him the honey. I'll
ring Aunt Mildred this morning and arrange the outing. Wait until you see the bee lady, Gracie. It's like she's from another time; like when
those Druids you're so fond of telling me I'm related to ran amok."
He left
the room to call his aunt from the kitchen, the only room in his parents' home
with a telephone. Harry's good humor at
my suggestion surprised me. The line
from the Snoopy comic strip ran through my head, 'You're a good man, Charlie Brown.' A good man indeed. Six foot tall, a trim, athletic build, blond
hair streaked platinum from summer sun, and a dazzling smile. A young Roger Moore, of the Simon Templar
era, my friends had decided when I first met Harry. His crystal cut English accent nailed their
choice.
Harry
walked toward me from the kitchen.
"Aunt Mildred says we can motor out there tomorrow with her. She'd like a visit with Morgana."
"The
bee lady's name is Morgana? Wasn't she
Merlin's nemesis?"
"I'm
joking, darling. Her name is Maeve
Flood. Thought 'Morgana' would amuse
you."
My
husband's sense of humor still escaped me at times.
"Maeve? Doesn't sound like an English bee lady. I thought her
name would be something like Hyacinth or Minerva."
"I
think it's a perfect name for her; a touch exotic for the English recluse. She's one of those 'inner sight' people,
according to Aunt Mildred," he added.
"Some people think she's a bit odd, talking to the bees and all,
but I found her charming. She was
thrilled to find out I lived in
Harry's
infectious smile didn't touch my heart.
I kept thinking about the fairy tale Hansel and Gretel and the
witch in the woods.
"I
told Aunt Mildred what you wanted to do.
She thought that refreshingly generous of you. She doesn't think your thanks will be enough,
but the honey will still help somewhat."
Harry's face grew somber.
"Maeve told her before that only the person who needs the healing
or someone who loves that person can thank the bees."
I'm
certain my eyes flared purple as I realized what Harry implied. The mere mention of Ric a few minutes earlier
had wedged him between us again. I felt
guilty for feeling that I qualified.
"I'll be sincere and hope for the best with the bees."
"Don't
worry. I'm certain the bees will hum
beautifully for you."
His
quiet voice reminded me again that he has never felt truly certain of my heart
of hearts since that time so many years ago when I found comfort in another
man's arms and heart. After being told
that Harry was dead; I had turned to Ric.
"Harry,
please. Then you thank the bees. You saved his life. That should count for something with the damn
bees." My voice faltered.
"Don't
insult them or they won't help no matter how much you uh, care for the good
Inspector Kramer. They may have scouts
sucking nectar from the petunias, checking you out." Harry waved his hand toward the window box
where a bee busily visited each bloom.
My
husband's mood shifted as quickly as a stray cloud across a beaming sun. His mood swings had swelled and crested about
eighteen months after his 'return from the grave.' The doctors had warned me and his family that
his mind was trying to balance itself from the horror he'd been through after a
South American gang he was trying to break kidnapped him. Harry had lived a different life before our
marriage; a life I didn't suspect until he disappeared on a 'business' trip to
I
recognized this adjustment and decided not to belabor the point. "All right then. Let's sneak past their sentry into the
kitchen and put some lunch together for a picnic. I'd like to walk to the ruins you showed me
last month."
"Excellent
idea."
"What's
an excellent idea?" Dorothy Marsden
walked into the room from the kitchen.
"Good
morning, mum." Harry planted a
dutiful kiss on his mother's cheek.
Dorothy beamed at her son. She
appeared to have grown more animated and younger with each passing day since
our arrival. Her soft gray eyes gleamed
and her gentle mouth seemed less pursed.
Dorothy wore her silver hair in a soft chin-length bob. Even her hair shimmered as though lit from
within with its own light source.
I knew
my presence wasn't the cause of her metamorphosis. Harry's effect wasn't limited to his
mother. William Marsden seemed to also
have strengthened in his son's presence.
William had suffered a heart attack several years earlier, when the
erroneous news of his son's death had reached him. Each time we visited since Harry's rescue,
William had seemed buoyed by the time we spent with them. This visit had lasted much longer. I'm sure they felt as though their son had
moved back home.
"Gracie
and I are planning a walk to the ruins."
He smiled at his mother.
"First, we are planning to cop the
I
laughed at his bill of fare. Harry could
snack all day and never gain an ounce. I
came from a corned beef and pasta genetic coupling. My mother's lean, Irish genes were most
apparent in three of my brothers. My
father's Morelli genes settled in me and my older brother Mike Jr. He looked exactly like our father. We always pushed away from the Morelli tavola well before our siblings Joseph, Glen, and Marty.
"I
thought you'd want to enjoy the day outdoors so I had Mary pack a hamper for
you. You'd best check if the pickles are
in there." Dorothy's soft voice
filled with warmth as her maternal instincts were satisfied.
Mary, a
local lady who worked in the neighborhood for several older couples, would come
in and do housework and some cooking.
She had been a godsend when William had first become ill.
"Pickles
are gone. Ate the last one last
night," William Marsden said from the front porch. Posed in front of the window box, he looked
every inch the English Cottage Gardener.
For the umpteenth time I wished for my camera.
Dorothy
chided him. "Then you've eaten half
a jar of pickles, William, cause that's what I put up
after supper. Your blood pressure will
be sky high and I won't be rushing you off to hospital when you faint
away."
"Nonsense,
I'm fit. I have this minute returned
from a brisk walk into town and back.
I've been to the chemist. They've
one of those blood pressure machines.
Took my turn. 132 over 80. Shows what you know."
He
certainly did look fit. William Marsden,
at seventy something, looked like an older version of
Harry or rather Harry a younger version of William. He was not quite as tall as his son, but
every bit as ramrod straight. At his
age, his build was trim and his bright blue eyes as clear as a mountain
stream. I smiled as I recognized Harry
thirty odd years from now.
"Sorry,
son. I left those olives H
"I'd
best check to see what else you've devoured.
Your appetite hasn't been this hearty in years. I'll have to remind Mary to buy an extra hen
for tonight's supper." Dorothy
finished her sentence more to herself as she bustled into the kitchen.
"Your
mother loves fussing over the two of you.
She's planning some sort of dinner tomorrow night for the only people
left in Arundel who haven't met you, Grace." William stepped into the room and removed his
lightweight fedora. His close-cropped
gray hair bore the slight indentation of his hatband. He ran his hand over his hair. "Come to think, that dinner is a
surprise. Your mother will have my hide
if she finds out I let it slip. Be
surprised when she tells you. There's a
good pair. I'd best be back to my
chores." He smiled as he turned to
leave.
William's
chores, I had discovered, consisted of walking their Yorkie,
Duncan and puttering in his vegetable garden.
I vowed to follow him around and take pictures of his garden. My dad planted a garden every year. I'd have to show him people plant things
other than tomatoes, bell peppers,
A
thought occurred to me. "You
haven't told them we're leaving, have you?"
"Not
yet. I didn't want to spoil the fun
they're having fussing over us. I was
going to try to tell them tonight."
"Try
to tell them? We're leaving in three
days, Harry. I thought I was the last to
know."
"I've
had a hell of a time telling anyone. I
knew you'd be nervous about going home and I knew they'd be disappointed that
we're leaving. We have to go home."
It
almost sounded like a question. I shook
my head in resignation. "Yes, we
have to go home. We'll tell them tonight
after supper, but before your mom starts playing the piano and we all start
singing. I couldn't do it then."
"Agreed." Harry put his arms around me and rested his
chin on top of my head. I snuggled into
his arms.
A good man indeed.
A loud
crash from the kitchen broke the mood and our embrace.