Shadows on the Train by Melanie Jackson Read Free Book Online Page B

they were oblivious to my barfing noises. Hmm. I must be slipping.
    They didn’t hear, either, the rhythm-and-blues set that was the sound of Jack’s cell going off. Ever helpful, I grabbed it from the hall table.
    â€œPsychiatric ward,” I said into it.
    â€œI beg your—is this Jack French’s number?” inquired a female voice, smooth and gravelly at the same time, like creamy peanut butter with chunks.
    In my opinion, the very-much-engaged Jack French should not be receiving calls from women with chunky peanut-butter voices. “Who are you ?” I demanded.
    â€œIs this—” The voice faltered. “This isn’t Madge, is it? Er—oops, wrong number.” Click!
    My disapproval rating of Jack shot way up. I narrowed my eyes at him, not that he noticed. He was still in tender-gaze mode with Madge.
    Whom all at once I felt very protective of. Jack was keeping Peanut-Butter Voice, whoever she was, a secret from Madge. Fine behavior for a fiancé. Poor Madge!

Chapter Eight
    Jack and the Beanstalk
    I did a mini tap dance on the white marble floor of Pacific Central Station. Above me the spindly hands of the brass and glass clock tucked themselves together over the six. Almost time to go! I pictured the vast spaces of Canada we’d be traveling through—dramatic Rockies, prairies with their endless skies—and picked up the pace of my tap dance.
    Uh-oh. Mother, having tearfully hugged Madge good-bye for the ninetieth time, was turning amid sobs to me again. Enough was enough. I dodged behind the clock.
    Passengers filed past, toward the departures sign and the platform beyond. Some of them hurried, brushing against me crossly for being in their way. The sleek, stainless steel Gold-and-Blue would be carrying three hundred passengers in all.
    Including one rough one. My left arm was yanked backward. “Ow,” I protested and glared round, massaging my shoulder.
    The colored rope of my knitted rainbow purse, made by Madge for me last Christmas, flopped to the ground. The purse itself was gone. Snatched!
    â€œPickpockets everywhere,” sniffed a beanstalk-tall conductor, whom an indignant Jack more or less tackled about my missing purse. The conductor wrinkled his long nose and flapped his rubbery lips. “One has to be careful ,” he admonished, looking way down at me as if it were my fault.
    â€œWhat did you have in the purse, Dinah?” questioned Madge, clutching her own tan bag covered with black C ’s—for Chanel, her favorite designer—closer to her.
    â€œTravel essentials,” I mourned. “A Deathstalkers comic. And the Block Watch for Dummies book I’m writing.”
    â€œI’ll check the Lost and Found,” Mother suggested.
    â€œOnce the thief realizes there’s nothing valuable inside, he or she will toss the purse away,” Madge said witheringly.
    I almost retorted. But then, remembering Peanut-Butter Voice, I laid a soothing hand on her arm. “I’m sorry our departure has to be like this, so upsetting for everyone. I’m sure you’ll find the trip itself relaxing.”
    Jack, busy berating the conductor, stopped to gape at me.
    â€œIt’s—it’s okay,” Madge said weakly. At the train, Beanstalk forbade Jack’s accompanying us on board to say good-bye. “Rules,” Beanstalk informed us haughtily.
    â€œNo!” Madge exclaimed in dismay. Deprived of a whole extra minute together, she and Jack clutched each other. Gad, you’d have thought they were parting for three decades, not three days .
    Then, to my own dismay, they began smooching.
    â€œJack, how will I bear it—”
    â€œMadge, I’ll miss you madly—”
    Thinking of Peanut-Butter Voice, I snorted.
    Jack tore his gaze away from Madge and looked at me, puzzlement glinting in his gray eyes.
    â€œDinah!” Mother called loudly. I hate when she does that: everyone looks and