The Station Master: A Scheduled Death
"Time for Janet Evanovich to take a lesser seat–to move over for
Luisa Buehler…simply enthralling…Buehler has cooked up an excellent dish for
her fans…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…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
"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
"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
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
www.echelonpress.com
Copyright © 2003 by
Luisa Buehler
ISBN: 1-59080-227-6
All rights
reserved. No part of this book may be
used or reproduced in any m
First Echelon Press
paperback printing: 2003
Second Echelon
Press paperback printing: February 2006
10 9
8 7 6
5 4 3
Original Artwork ©
Stacey L. King
Revised Cover Art ©
Nathalie Moore
2004 Ariana Best in
Category Award winner
Printed in
Dedication
The Dominican nuns at
Chapter One
Barely muted by the crash of shattered stone on wood flooring, a
shouted expletive reverberated off the high ceiling of
In that frozen moment in time, I heard a slight rustling sound followed
by a click, click, click. As if on cue a small glass bead rolled out of
the jagged hole and tumbled to the floor.
The spell was broken as quickly as it had been cast. Hurrying forward, I dimly heard the
questioning voices of my friends as I pushed between the two men and bent to
retrieve the tiny bead. Another bead
trickled from the wounded masonry and joined its predecessor on the floor. One more hung on the edge of a gray shard
like a tear poised to drop. I knelt down
to pluck it from the rubble.
The assault on my senses began immediately. A puff of cold, dank air long imprisoned in
the wall pushed against my face in search of freedom. My stomach tightened and the hair on the back
of my neck scraped against my collar. I
wanted to turn away; I was drawn closer.
My jaw tightened and bits of my breakfast rocketed to my throat and
stopped just short of gagging me. Head
pounding, filled with noise and motion, I saw what they couldn't see; what I'd
never forget. Suspended in the dark
hole, as if in a desperate stretch to the light and perhaps the touch of
another, dangled a bony hand.
I screamed and pulled back. The
room seemed to tilt and shift my focus from the gaping hole up to the
chandelier twenty feet above me and back again.
"Gracie, what's wrong?
Grace, what is it?" Strong
arms lifted me to my feet and pulled me back from the fireplace. Someone placed a chair behind my wobbly
legs. I sat down quickly and clamped my
knees together to keep them from shaking.
"Call Ric. Call Ric
now."
"Ric. What are you
thinking? What's…"
"Call him, now. There's
someone in there."
My announcement of entombment caused a minor uproar. Gasps and shouts amid a building crescendo of
questions filled the air around me.
People began pushing and moving.
Don Rakin's soothing voice could be heard moving through the chaos,
calming pockets of people as he moved among them. He was tall, six feet, six inches but his
stooped frame hid his height, as the oversized sweater and baggy khakis hid his
slender build. His pale blue eyes
blinked more than usual even for him. He
was the coordinator of the library move and in that capacity, he took
charge. He asked us to move away from
the crumpled structure.
The pounding in my head diminished.
I looked around. Karen stared at
me. I smiled weakly and saw relief on
her face. Don pushed a glass into my
hands. I sipped the icy water. The clean taste filled my mouth, easing the
tightness in my throat and erasing the cotton dry taste of fear. The gaping hole drew everyone's
attention. Several friends moved closer
to me. Sitting on the chair, I had a
lower sight line. I could see some white
lacy material. My shoulders twitched and
I looked away.
I stared into the water. My
hands automatically sought the chain of yarn I always carried somewhere on my
body. I pulled a bright red length from
my pocket and began a memorized pattern of loops and twists. Immediately the familiar process soothed my
jangled nerves. My adrenaline flow ebbed
and my stomach seemed to retreat to an area closer to my waist. Curiosity overtook my initial fear and I
looked back toward the hole. It wasn't a
pleasant sight, but I had really come unglued.
I usually handled shock better than this histrionic display. For some reason, this felt different. I was still shaking.
"Who's Ric?" A second
shock seemed inevitable.
"What?" I turned to
look at Doreen.
"Who's Ric? You told Karen
to call Ric."
"I told her to call the police," I corrected her.
"You told her to call Ric.
You didn't say anything about police."
My face flushed hot. My head
pounded with renewed ferocity; I turned away from her and walked the length of
the library toward the doors. Ten feet
before the exit I made a sharp right turn, passed the abandoned circulation
desk and stopped at the door to a windowless room housing thousands of
periodicals and magazines shelved on metal racks.
I glimpsed my reflection in the window in the top half of the door to
the room. My shoulder length, dark brown
hair seemed more tousled than usual even for me. Lavender eyes with flecks of gold and an
expression of fear, maybe panic, something not normal, stared back at me. I pushed the door and moved past my
image. The area I was in was referred to
as the stacks. I stopped to take a deep
breath. My lungs filled with the
delicious smell of old and new words blending and living on paper. The saying, 'so many books, so little time'
caused a smile. I inhaled deeply again
and continued to walk through the stacks for another twenty feet before I
reached the exit. Now I was in an alcove
at the back of the building. In the
1940's, there had been three small dormitory rooms and a hall with direct
access to the Sisters' dining room and the college chapel. During a renovation of the area, the two
rooms at the far end had been remodeled into a reading room for the nuns. A long narrow hallway led to the remaining
old dorm room. The door and part of a
wall to that room had been removed to make a study alcove for students in Power
Hall. The long hall and partial room
made half a cul de sac. Students used it as a shortcut from the dorm
to the library or to the chapel. No one
ever studied in there. The room had
never been comfortable; it had always been the coldest spot in the building.
Felt fine to me. Right now this
was what I needed, a haven from that terrible scene in the library. Not many people traveled all the way down
this corridor anymore. They usually cut
through closer to the Sisters' reading room.
College legend persisted that a lonely spirit haunted the alcove and
nearby hall. As far back as the forties,
students talked about seeing a beautiful girl in a flowing, white dress
carrying a luminescent white rosary in her hands walking into the room at the
end of the hall. That section of the
building housed the oldest dorms. No one
had been assigned to those rooms in years.
Even after the renovation students still claimed that they saw the
beautiful specter in fancy dress enter the alcove. She always carried the shimmering white
rosary draped over her clasped hands, as though in prayer. Some said they called out to her and followed
her but when they flipped on the light, no one was there. I had heard all the stories when I was a
student here. By that time, girls had
named the ghost the 'Rosary Bride.' No
one I knew ever saw her; no one I knew ever came here alone.
My fingers found the rough texture of my yarn and began to work the
ends round against themselves and back again over the middle while my mind
tried to deal with what had happened in the library. For the umpteenth time, I mentally thanked my
mother for providing me with a simple way to calm my nerves and focus my
thoughts.
During my early childhood, my mother had recognized the constant
braiding, plaiting, and twisting of anything I could grab as the behavior of an
obsessive-compulsive personality. I
braided an assortment of string, dandelion stems, rubber bands, twist ties, and
ribbon. Mostly, I twisted my hair to the
point where clumps of it would come out.
My mother became frantic when I had no fewer than three bald patches
about the size of nickels. At that
point, she ch
Until now. So, why was I sitting
alone being stressed? I was also an
alumna of
Traffic had been nonexistent this morning when I zipped eastbound on
the Eisenhower Expressway. Even the
'Hillside Strangler,' the bottleneck at the merge had posed no threat to my
schedule. The drive through River Woods
on familiar side streets brought me here in no time. I parked near the Fine Arts Building and
followed some other blue jeans clad 'thirty-something's' into Lewis Hall.
This morning the lobby outside the old library served as a staging area
to tag, feed, and direct the alumni work force.
We formed a ready group gathered by flyers, phone calls, and guilt
tactics by class agents. The alumni
office decided that a liturgy should precede the breakfast. Mass at
The Chapel smelled of polishing wax and well oiled wood. Mixed with those smells was a touch of
mustiness that lived in every old building with a past. Three-foot thick stone walls kept the Chapel
cool and quiet. The cacophony of college
life seemed to stop at the heavy oak doors, as though the concept of sanctuary
existed for all who entered. I never
forgot the peacefulness I felt each time I stopped in for a chat with God.
My husband, Harry, and I often drove in from our home in Pine Marsh, a
Western suburb near
The mass this morning had been even more special since I shared it with
women I hadn't seen in ten years. The
occasion had mushroomed into a working reunion of sorts. Some alum had decided to stay a few days and
were sharing hotel rooms or bunking with old friends still living in the
area. Friendly smiles and quick nods
crisscrossed the intimate chapel. 'Pass
the peace,' our term from college days, took longer as we moved among the pews
and hugged seldom seen classmates. I saw
Karen Kramer across the chapel and moved to join her after the final
benediction. We had shared all of our
English classes together and had discovered we were kindred spirits.
Karen who was blessed with a tall, slender, athletic build was my
physical antithesis. She wore her curly,
dark blonde hair very short. Dark brown
eyes, framed by large tortoise shell glasses gave the appearance of wisdom,
wit, and intelligence. I always teased
her and told her without her glasses she'd be just a blonde. She really was the only one with whom I had
stayed close - we were best friends.
The friendly atmosphere in the Chapel spilled out into the second floor
of Lewis where we enjoyed coffee, chitchat, and croissants. The old library was soon to become a
beautifully detailed study hall. The
room had a twelve-foot ceiling all around the perimeter with a center ceiling
that peaked to twenty feet. Ten
chandeliers divided the long room and provided basic illumination.
Studying there had always been a romantic, brooding experience. It seemed all the English majors studied in
the Library. Science majors labored in
well-lighted areas. They probably
realized the damaging effects to one's vision from squinting at badly
illuminated pages. I thought it was
necessary to read Wuthering Heights
in the atmosphere of a dimly lighted, drafty Great Hall. I believe I understood the ambiance of the
English novel because of this old library.
The alcoves created by the lower bookshelves, had since been fitted with
spot lighting, which wrecked the mood, but saved the vision.
My team, Karen Kramer, Doreen Ripler, and Marietta Doyle, was assigned
bookcases #16-#20, next to the fireplace.
I had always tried to sit near the fireplace and had often imagined what
it would have been like to study by the light of a blazing fire, reading about
Heathcliff and Cathy searching for each other on the cold unforgiving moor
while I sat warm and safe until only the red-hot embers in the heavy metal
grate remained.
That fantasy had never happened since the fireplace sat empty and cold
throughout the four years I attended
Some workmen were already chipping around the front of the mantle. The stonework with the original inscription
was to be removed and affixed in the new library's foyer for the dedication in
two weeks. The ceremony was pl
We worked in friendly closeness exchanging small talk on kids, careers,
and significant others. Our task was to
remove the books from each shelf, wipe them off with a specially treated cloth
designed to clean and hydrate the covers.
The next step was to shelve them on rolling carts to be taken to the new
library. After ninety minutes, we were
ready for a break and Karen offered to go for coffee.
During that entire time we had been subjected to the constant bickering
of the two men hired to relocate the mantle.
They argued about the process they should use. They argued about the tools they would need. They cursed the bricklayer since apparently
the original installer had taken no shortcuts.
He had mortared and cemented every inch of the structure not just the
contact points. The argument escalated
into a shoving match as a small crack in the firebox widened into a gaping hole
when one worker lost patience. Each
blamed the other for the damage. The
final culpability was laid at the feet of the original artisan for doing too
good a job. He obviously had never
intended this fireplace to be moved. Had
he known its secret?
My heartbeat kicked into high gear as I remembered the 'secret' I had
glimpsed in the crumbled masonry. The
memory spun my thoughts to another anomaly, namely, the 'Rosary Bride.' I shivered.
"Dammit, Grace, you came in here to think about seeing Ric again,
not fifty year old ghosts." I
lectured myself aloud. "Why did I
tell Karen to call Ric?" I
continued speaking to no one.
"Maybe he won't be on duty.
Maybe he'll assign someone else to investigate. Why did I ask for him? Can't start again. I don't want to be here."
I couldn't keep my thoughts sorted and suddenly I knew why. The room was freezing. I don't know how but in the last ten minutes
it felt like the temperature in the alcove dropped at least twenty degrees. The deep cold seemed to make the room
brighter as though the frigid surfaces reflected the light more intensely. There was something else too. No, someone else. I had the uncanny feeling that someone was in
the alcove with me. That was impossible.
A slight sound, a rustle like lace against lace seemed close by. A freezing chill moved slowly down my spine to
my lower back until I couldn't move my legs.
Goose bumps erupting on my arms were the only movement my body could
manage.
I heard a soft sound like someone expelling breath to form the hard
'gr' of my name. I felt frozen to the
chair. I didn't want to see her if I
couldn't run. I sat perfectly still and
waited. The sound came again. This time stronger, not a distant motor
kicking on, not a door swishing shut down the hall. It was my name.
"Grace? Are you all
right?"
Karen's voice and my scream sounded simultaneously.
"My God, Grace, what is it?
You look like you've seen a ghost."
How could I tell Karen she wasn't far from the truth? "Nothing. You, ah, startled me. I was thinking."
"You're shivering. Let's go
back to the library. It's freezing in
here. I was worried about you," she
said as she took both my hands.
"Wow, your hands are like ice.
Here, take my sweater."
Karen insisted on bundling me up in her woolly Pendleton. The sweater was a classic, and a shade of
ivory that happened only to very old and very expensive wool.
"What made you come here? I
wouldn't have walked down this far if I hadn't seen the light blazing from the
room. You know I never liked walking
down this hall. Even now, it gives me
the creeps. C'mon let's go."
What did guide my steps? Or who? Today had begun without a hint
of the events that would shatter the calm of a beautiful fall day and challenge
my resolve to keep my marriage intact.