In the Public Garden we all oohed and ahhed over the formal gardens, but the swan boats in the pond were the biggest hit with the Fearsome Five. We didn’t ride in them, though. Our guide, a dark-haired pre-med student at Boston University, had other plans for us.
She kept us going at a good pace, telling us something about almost every building we passed. The next big crowd pleaser was the John Hancock Observatory, on the sixtieth floor of John Hancock Tower. From it we could see what seemed like all of Boston and most of Massachusetts. We also took in a multimedia show about Boston’s history.
By then, even Abby and I were slowing down. After touring the John F. Kennedy National Historic Site, our group left the tour and strolled back to the hotel for a little snack (and a little rest).
Seeing Derek at the train station immediately revived everyone, especially when we caught his reaction to the sight of us. He was standing inside a roped-off area in the train station, with what I think of as his “politely interested” expression. But when he saw us, genuine excitement lit up his face. He said something to the short, intense-looking woman with creamy brown skin and short black hair standing next to him, and then headed for the rope, the woman following, stopping every few steps to talk in a cellular phone. “It’s okay,” Derek said to a guard, who had just demanded to see our identification, “they’re with me.”
Magic words. Suddenly, the guard was smiling, unhooking the rope, and almost bowing as he led us to the collection of famous and powerful people waiting to ride the Mystery Train and celebrate the opening of Night Train to Charleston.
“Buddy! David Michael! Linny! James! What are you guys doing here? This is great!” cried Derek.
Mr. Masters hadn’t detached himself from the group he’d been talking to. Instead he’d brought it with him. “Perfect timing,” he declared. “Well, Derek, this should make the trip more interesting. Are you surprised?”
“Yes! This is excellent,” exclaimed Derek. A light flashed, and we all turned to see a photographer squatting nearby. Next to him was a tall, thin, blonde woman with pale skin, wearing a creamy pink silk suit. She was a dead ringer for Stacey, except, of course, she looked older. A tag attached to the lapel of the suit identified her as PRESS.
Derek hadn’t even appeared to notice the flash of the camera. Neither had Mr. Masters or any of the people with him. But the short woman with the cellular phone had. She turned, flipped the phone shut, smiled, and hurried toward the photographer and the reporter. “Jane,” I heard her say. “Jane Atlantic!”
“Let’s get everybody introduced here,” said Mr. Masters.
Derek picked up on this cue like the pro he is and handled the introductions as calmly as any adult.
We met a tall, much-too-thin man with an explosion of rusty hair around a bald spot on the top of his head. The bald spot was covered with freckles. He was Rock Harding, the director.
“They in the business?” he asked Mr. Masters as Derek said our names.
“No, Rock,” said Mr. Masters patiently. “I told you. They’re friends of Derek’s.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Harding. “Nice meeting you, kids,” he added, looking vaguely into the air over our heads. “Ah, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Remind me to tell you what I read about him,” Stacey whispered in my ear.
A round, nondescript man with square glasses, a ruddy complexion, and a receding hairline turned out to be Ronald Pierce, who wrote the screenplay for the movie. He surveyed us through his glasses, said, “Ah, yes, delighted, delighted,” and then appeared to withdraw into a world of his own.
The small, intense woman who herded the photographer and the Stacey look-alike over to us turned out to be the publicist for the movie. Her name was Anne Arbour, and I couldn’t help but compare her to the hyperactive, high-heel-clad, overdressed publicist from Derek’s movie Little Vampires. I decided that Ms. Arbour, who was in khakis, a cropped jacket, and a striped T-shirt, was a big improvement. For one thing, she got my name right the first time she said it, and she sounded as if she meant it when she said she was glad we could be there.
Nevertheless, her eyes kept moving, as if she were always on the alert for the perfect photo opportunity. But then, I’ve noticed that a lot of people who work in movies do that. It’s as if they don’t exist unless they’re in front of a camera — any camera. Meanwhile, the photographer snapped photos, and the reporter, Jane Atlantic, talked into a micro-recorder.
Missing from our welcoming party but conspicuous in the crowd were the two stars of the movie, Benjamin Athens and Elle San Carlos. I didn’t need Stacey whispering in my ear to know that Athens, who has blue eyes and black hair that demanded even my attention, has been dubbed “The Sexiest Man on the Planet” by People magazine, or that he has a reputation for being difficult and out of control. When gossip columns write about the “major new star who apparently travels from hotel room to hotel room with his own personal wrecking crew,” everyone knows it’s Athens.
I just hoped he didn’t decide to wreck the train. At the moment, he seemed to be all charm as the cameras flashed and flashed.
Next to him, Elle San Carlos more than held her own. Not only was she as tall as Benjamin, but her silver-gray eyes and sleek cap of red hair were a knockout combination. She moved with an easy self-confidence and grace that Benjamin didn’t have.
“She got her start as a stuntwoman,” Abby muttered.
I looked at Abby in surprise. Keeping up with the rich and famous is not characteristic of her. Her next words explained it. “Elle was excellent at hoops. An NCAA all-star at Old Dominion in Virginia.”
Trust Abby to have the sports stats on a movie star.
As we watched, Elle’s head turned and the smile on her face suddenly became fake-looking. At the same moment, Ms. Arbour detached herself from our group and headed for the two stars. In another moment, she was herding them, and their attendant photographers toward the steps of the train.
Jane Atlantic was hard on their heels. “Ms. San Carlos!” she called out. “What about your husband? Do you have a comment about the divorce? Would you and Benjamin call this ‘the honeymoon train’?”
Elle kept walking, her shoulders stiff, her head high. Ms. Arbour turned and said, “We agreed before giving you a press pass on the train, Jane —”
Jane snapped, “I’m a reporter. And a press pass on a train doesn’t mean I’m not going to ask hard questions. I’m not here to write fluff. I want a story with some real bite to it!”
“Elle!” a voice cried.
Elle froze, then turned reluctantly. Why, I wondered, had she stopped for that one voice when so many people were calling her name? Ms. Arbour laid her hand on Elle’s arm and spoke.
Elle shook her head and stepped away.
“Uh-oh,” said Derek.
“What?” I asked as Elle stopped in front of an incredibly muscular blond man with brown eyes and an almost military haircut. He was slightly shorter than Elle.
“Elle’s husband,” Derek explained. “Charlie.”
“Uh-oh,” Abby echoed Derek.
We drifted closer, very casually.
Jane gestured frantically at her photographer, who was still taking pictures of our group. He turned and ran toward her.
Charlie reached out and clasped both of Elle’s wrists. “Please,” he said. “Please, Elle. I love you. He doesn’t. He’s just using you for publicity.”
“At the moment,” Elle said, “you’re the one who’s getting all the publicity.”
“I don’t care! I only care about you! About us!”
“We’re through, Charlie.” She pulled her wrists free.
“It’s all his fault,” Charlie cried. “Elle. Wait. Don’t you see … you need me. Tell the truth, Elle. Tell the truth!”
“The truth? We were through before Benjamin,” Elle answered. She turned on her heel and walked away as the cameras flashed and the tape recorders whirred.
“Elle! Elle, wait!” Charlie lunged aft
er her. But two enormous guys in suits that were straining at the seams appeared out of nowhere. Each took one of Charlie’s arms. He struggled against them for a moment, calling after Elle. Charlie was strong, but he was no match for them, and after a moment he stopped fighting.
An ugly look crossed his face. “You’ll be sorry,” he said, and I felt a chill down my spine.
But who was he looking at — Benjamin, or Elle, who had rejoined Benjamin? I couldn’t tell, but I sure was glad he wasn’t looking at me.
The guards led Charlie away, and we said good-bye to Mom and Watson then.
The train itself, an exact replica of the train from Night Train to Charleston, was deluxe. In the compartment Abby, Stacey, and I were sharing were fresh flowers in a little silver vase attached to red-and-silver-wallpapered walls. Heavy red curtains swathed the windows. We even had our own bathroom with a tiny shower!
“Cool, huh?” asked a voice from the doorway. It was Derek. “We’re next door.”
“All of you?” I gasped.
“Nah,” Derek said. “Nicky, Greg, James, and I are in the compartment on one side of you, and David Michael, Linny, and Buddy are in the compartment on the other side of you. Todd’s best friend, Daniel Pierce, and Daniel’s father, Ronald — he’s the screenwriter, remember? — are in the compartment just past Linny and Buddy. Todd and my dad are on the other side of my compartment.”
“Good,” said Abby, her tone faintly relieved.
I knew why. Nine kids in the same compartment offered an almost unlimited potential for mischief.
“Let’s go check out the rest of the train,” Derek said. “And find something to eat. It’s way past lunchtime and I’m starved.”
We found the dining car with no trouble. At the entrance to it, an attendant was handing out the programs for the mystery scenes that would be acted out on board. I took mine without looking at it. I was too busy taking in the surroundings, from the heavy tables and chairs in dark wood that matched the paneling, to the snowy white tablecloths and the silver and china that gleamed everywhere.
“Those aren’t real gas fixtures,” Derek said, pointing to the globes of frosted glass that lit the car. “They’re electric.”
“I’m relieved,” I said.
The maître d’ asked our names, checked her list, and then escorted us to a long table set up at the end of the dining car. “Welcome to the Mystery Train,” she told us. “Your waiter will be with you shortly.”
David Michael gave her a frightened look. “What if you just want a snack?” he said, his voice almost squeaking.
“You can order whatever you like,” said the maître d’, smiling at him reassuringly. “And of course we have a snack bar, referred to on the Mystery Train as the club car. There’s a layout of the train in your program.”
David Michael sank back in his chair, looking relieved.
I raised my program, opened it … and a small white piece of paper fell out with a single line photocopied onto it.
THE TRUTH WILL COME OUT — THERE’S NOTHING YOU CAN DO TO STOP ME.
Across from me, James said, “Here, what’s this?” as a small strip of white paper slid out of his program.
Everyone had received the same message.
“I guess it’s a fake clue,” said Derek, sounding faintly puzzled. “You know, arranged by publicity to help put everybody in the mood. Anne’s the one in charge of this trip.”
The waiter arrived and handed around menus.
I took mine, but I didn’t open it. I sat there, menu in one hand, scrap of paper clenched in the other.
A piece of paper that wasn’t supposed to be in the program.
How did I know that? Because I was staring at Anne Arbour. And Anne Arbour was staring down at an identical piece of white paper. Her eyes had narrowed and her lips thinned to a furious line. She rose abruptly, crumpled the piece of paper in her fist, then strode angrily out of the dining car.
I knew then that we hadn’t been given a phony clue. We’d been given a real threat.
But what did it mean? And even more important, I thought …
Who was it meant for?
“Everyone, save your clues,” I said.
Fortunately, none of the kids asked any questions. And although Stacey and Abby gave me looks that said they would have a few questions later, they held their peace for the moment.
I stuffed my clue in my pocket and everyone else followed suit. Then our waiter glided over to us. As we gave him our orders, the train rolled smoothly out of the station, a lot more smoothly than Anne had when she stalked out of the dining car. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want any of the kids (particularly Derek) to worry, but I had a distinctly uneasy feeling.
“This is not the New York City subway,” Stacey joked. “I can tell because nobody fell down or made any unintelligible announcements.”
“I can tell because this doesn’t look like any train I’ve ever been on. If Mom could commute to work on a train like this, she’d love it,” said Abby.
“Commute? I’d like to live on this train,” Stacey answered.
“May we have anything we want to eat?” Daniel Pierce asked. Daniel turned out to be a smaller, stockier version of his father, except that his curly brown hair wasn’t receding and he didn’t need glasses.
I did a quick mental review of the instructions Mr. Masters had given us. Basically he had said, “You’re in charge. We’re here if you need help.”
“Yes,” I said to Daniel.
Stacey added quickly, “But not just dessert.”
Daniel grinned. “Okay,” he said. Although the menu was enormous, the food of choice turned out to be pizza (although the pizza toppings were what I considered to be Hollywood-style, such as goat cheese and marinated shrimp). We opted for one kid-style, with extra cheese; one with pepperoni and sausage; and one vegetarian, at Greg’s request.
“You’re a vegetarian?” asked Nicky, staring hard at Greg.
“Yeah,” said Greg.
“Like Dawn,” said Nicky.
Derek explained to Greg, “She’s one of the Baby-sitters Club people, only she lives in California now.”
“Is everybody in California a vegetarian?” asked Nicky.
“Not really,” said Greg, unruffled.
For a moment, I wondered if Greg and Nicky weren’t going to get along. After all, it isn’t easy for a person’s two best friends to meet for the first time (and I could remember all too well how much I had disliked Mary Anne having both me and Dawn as best friends, at first). I resolved to keep an eye on the situation, just in case.
The doors to the dining car kept opening and closing, and delicious aromas kept pouring out. Various waiters soon followed, dressed alike in black pants, white T-shirts, and black cutaway vests. The vests were embroidered with the words NIGHT TRAIN TO CHARLESTON across the back and the word STAFF, in smaller letters, above a movie logo on the right front panel.
The waiters brought out all kinds of trays and bottles and dishes, including silver trays covered with high silver domes. Although the train swayed from side to side, sometimes tipping sharply as we rounded a curve, the waiters moved as surefootedly as cats. Their look-alike costumes gave the process the air of a choreographed dance.
“Very classy,” commented Abby as she watched one of the silver-domed trays go by on its way to the other end of the dining car. “But somehow, I don’t think that’s our pizza.”
“What do you bet it comes in a silver pizza pan, though,” said Stacey.
The dining car was full by now. At the far end, Benjamin Athens sat at a table with Mr. Masters, Jane Atlantic, and another member of the press.
Nearby, Elle was smiling and laughing, talking to Rock Harding and some other people I didn’t know. Anne had returned to fill the empty seat she had so abruptly vacated, and I thought her watchfulness held a new element: fear.
I also noticed that Benjamin kept glancing in Elle’s direction, as if he wished she were at the tab
le with him. Elle, however, didn’t seem to notice.
It was funny to be sitting at an elegantly set table, waiting to be served lunch, while houses and roads and shopping strips streamed by the windows outside. Even more unreal was the cast of characters. Who would have ever thought, when I came up with the idea for the Baby-sitters Club, that I would one day have a baby-sitting job on a train full of movie stars, headed for Charleston, South Carolina?
The waiter refilled our water glasses, never spilling a drop, and handed around our sodas.
“These glasses are heavy,” said Buddy.
“They’re weighted at the bottom,” explained the waiter. “Most of the china and glassware is specially weighted to help prevent it from tipping or sliding when the train moves.”
“Cool,” said Linny.
“Cool,” echoed David Michael.
The boys immediately began to check out the rest of the things on the table. The sugar bowls (which were filled with little cubes of sugar wrapped in paper that read NIGHT TRAIN TO CHARLESTON) were weighted, too, and so were the salt and pepper shakers.
“Check it out,” Buddy cried. “The table even has a raised edge on it.” Sure enough, under the tablecloth, we could feel a thin raised edge.
“I guess that helps keep the plates from sliding off,” said Derek.
“Check this out,” said Greg. “I think that’s our pizza.”
We all turned to watch the three enormous pizza trays (silver toned, but not silver) being carried toward our table.
The waiter put them down with a flourish.
We leaned forward expectantly.
Over at her table, Elle jumped up from her chair so quickly that, even as heavy as it was, it went crashing backward. She began to scream.
She wasn’t the only one. Anne leaped up, too, holding her napkin to her lips, her face ashen.
When I saw what was wrong, I wanted to scream along with them.
The waiter had raised the lid of his silver-domed dish to reveal, nestled in a bed of carrots and potatoes …