Freight conductor, Terry Preston felt the movement first, the squeaking wheels of the Northern Pacific freight cars as they rounded a curve. He didn’t want to open his eyes; his head was already pounding. Then he felt something drip on his forehead. A drop of water? He groaned.

 “I thought they fixed that leak in the roof of this damn caboose,” he said. He rubbed the drop from his head and opened his eyes. Immediately he stood up. “What the hell?” His hands were red, his shirt and vest had red spots too, blood. He looked at the top bunk, not sure what to expect. Obviously, the blood had come from there. He shook brakeman, Artie Baker’s body and knew immediately the man was dead when he saw his forehead smashed in like a pumpkin. The sight made him vomit into his pillow, which he promptly threw out the caboose’s back door.

 He looked down at the floor and saw a long handle sledgehammer resting on the floor next to his boots. Was that blood on the end of the hammer? He picked it up and inspected it. Other than his coat, he had slept in his black conductor’s uniform. A big man, his knees hurt from carrying 265 pounds on a 5’ 9” frame. He pulled his boots on and noticed a trace of blood on the right one. His head was starting to clear now. He walked over to the two-way radio and called the engineer.

 “Morning Terry,” the train’s engineer said. “I guess you and Artie finally slept it off. I tried calling you guys at least ten times last night. It’s a lucky thing for you birds that we didn’t have problems with the load.”

 In 1960, the conductor and brakeman still rode in the caboose once the train started rolling. Paperwork consumed a lot of the conductor’s time. But both men were supposed to keep an eye on the train, looking for wheel bearings overheating, known as hotboxes. Thanks to some early technology advances, it was a rare event by 1960, but a train could derail if such an incident went unnoticed. The men in the caboose were also charged with looking for shifting weight loads.

 “John, listen to me,” Terry said. “Artie’s dead. I think he’s been murdered.”

 The engineer didn’t respond immediately. “Terry, you guys must have polished off that bottle that Artie brought on board.” Terry was a practical joker sometimes. “But this ain’t funny, Terry. You’re lucky I’m driving this thing and can’t come back there. Otherwise, I’d just kick your ass,” he said. “Put Artie on, I need to go over where I want the caboose uncoupled when we get to Brainerd. They have a new procedure and I want to be sure he doesn’t screw it up.”

 “He’s dead, John. I swear.”

 The line went dead. The engineer immediately called the dispatcher in Brainerd and reported what he’d just heard. Nothing like this had ever happened before in his twenty-seven years of engineering. The very idea that someone might have been murdered on one of his trains made him furious. If Terry and Artie were pulling some kind of prank, neither of them would ever be assigned as crew on one of his runs again. He’d have them both fired if he could. 

 When Northern Pacific 2349 pulled into Brainerd, a railroad detective was waiting. The engineer greeted him. “I’m John Goodhand.”

 “Detective Dalton Dahlberg, and I know who you are, John.” The men shook hands. The detective, a tall man of Swedish descent, looked at his notepad. “So, we have Terry Preston, and the deceased, Arthur Baker, both still in the caboose, right?”    

 “Well, I just got out of my cab. Haven’t been to the caboose, but, yeah, that’s what Terry told me. I told him to stay put and not to touch anything,” the engineer said.

 The two men chatted a while about the conductor and the brakeman while they walked past a line of boxcars. “Kind of a short train,” the detective said.

 “It is. Only twenty-three boxcars.” The cars, every single one of them securely locked, had been sent from Minneapolis to Brainerd for inspection and repair. Brainerd Station was the primary repair depot for Northern Pacific. The train had left Minneapolis just before midnight, arriving in Brainerd at 6:15 a.m.

 When they reached the caboose, the detective said, “Okay, thanks. I’ll take it from here.” Detective Dahlberg explained that no one would be allowed in the caboose until it had been thoroughly inspected.

 A uniformed officer stood on the caboose’s rear platform. “Morning, Collins. Stick around a while. I might need you,” Detective Dahlberg said. He walked up the steps and into the caboose. He found Terry Preston sitting at a table drinking coffee. He had cleaned up some, but never a fastidious man, there was still blood under his fingernails. The late Arthur Baker was lying on his bunk. A blanket covered his body. “Got anymore coffee, Terry?” The two men, both long time railroad employees, knew each other. 

 Terry got up and poured a cup of coffee for the detective. “I don’t know anything, Dalton. I woke up this morning and found him that way.”

 Dahlberg sipped his coffee and looked around the caboose. Besides the bunks and table, there was a small sink, a stove, a refrigerator and a tiny bathroom. There was also a storage closet filled with tools and supplies. Dahlberg noticed a wastebasket sitting under the sink. He picked it up. Using a long screwdriver he’d grabbed from the storage closet, he poked through the debris. He found an empty Jim Beam whiskey bottle. “You boys do some drinking last night?”

 “We did a lot of drinking last night, but I didn’t kill him, Dalton. No way I would do a thing like that.”  

 “I didn’t say you did,” Dahlberg said. “Tell me what you remember about last night.” 

 “This was a milk run, not a lot of freight. Most of the cars are empty because they’re coming here to Brainerd for maintenance. John probably told you that. Considering the condition of some of these cars, and all the railroad crossings along this route, we had to go slow. We didn’t have much to do, so we sat at this table here and shot the breeze.”

 “And had a few drinks?”

 “Yeah, Artie brought a bottle. I guess we got a little carried away. We played gin rummy for a while, but we were both falling asleep. Around 4:00 a.m. we turned in, just after we switched tracks. That’s all I know.”

 “Did you guys have an argument?”

 “Hell no,” Terry said.

 “John Goodhand seems to think you and Arthur didn’t get along, that it was unusual for you two to be scheduled for the same run because of that.”

 Terry shook his head. “John’s like an old washerwoman, always gettin’ into everybody’s business instead of minding his own.”

 “So, you and Arthur were friends, then?”

 “I wouldn’t say that, but we weren’t enemies. I mean the guy was a lot younger than me. I’m pushing fifty. Poor slob wasn’t even thirty yet. He was only with NP about four years, if that. We just didn’t have anything in common.”

 Dahlberg got up and called out to the officer who was still standing on the rear platform. “Collins, let’s see what Mr. Preston here has in his pockets.”

 Terry emptied his pockets, pulling out keys, a pack of cigarettes a filthy handkerchief and a thin stack of fifty-dollar bills that had blood on them. “Whoa, what the hell is this?

 “That ain’t my money,” he said.

 “Tell you what, Terry, I’m going to have Officer Collins take you over to our security building while I do a little more research. Let’s see if we can get this cleared up.” Terry reached for his carry bag, but the detective held up his hand. “That stays here. Collins get me someone from the lab. We need to go over the car, take some pictures and get the body out of here.”

 Three hours later, the Northern Pacific caboose had been thoroughly checked out. The lab specialist had swept the floor and collected the sledgehammer and bagged the trash. Arthur Baker’s body was shipped to the morgue. The coroner’s preliminary estimate indicated Baker was killed in the early morning hours, probably between two and five o’clock in the morning. Dahlberg walked into the depot’s main office and spoke to the director. “I just notified the next of kin, Mrs. Larraine Baker.”

 “How’d she take it?” the director asked.

“Same way they all take it. She’s devested, of course.” Dahlberg said, his tone flat. “I’ll pay her a visit later, but first I want to run down to Minneapolis and see if anybody noticed anything strange before 2349 left the station.” 

 “What do you plan to do with Terry Preston?”

 “Hold him until I get a few more answers.”

 

 Word had already gotten around the Minneapolis Depot about Arthur Baker’s murder. Detective Dahlberg interviewed a dozen men who knew Baker. All of them had kind words about the young man, expressing disbelief that he was gone. A few of the men confirmed the fact that there was no love lost between Preston and Baker, but none of them suggested there might be an animosity deep enough to lead to murder.

 One of the men, a brakeman, just like Arthur Baker, said, “This probably don’t mean nothing, detective, but Artie was a gambler. He was up here two nights waiting for the run back to Brainerd. He bet college football and the pro games. Won two grand,” he said.

 “Really? He tell you that?” Dahlberg asked.

 The brakeman smiled and took a long drag on his unfiltered cigarette. “Yeah, showed me too. Got paid in fifties.”

 Dahlberg pulled out his pack of smokes and lit one. The men were standing in the yard and it was cold. “Did he show his roll to anyone else?”

 The man laughed. “What do you think? He hardly ever won. He was always in debt to his bookies in St. Paul. Finally won big for a change. Yeah, he showed off in front of a few of us.”

 Two other workers confirmed what the brakeman said about Arthur Baker’s win. According to the deceased, he was carrying two thousand dollars, in fifties, they said. Dahlberg thought about the money on his ride back to Brainerd. They’d found ten fifty-dollar bills in Preston’s possession. What happened to the other thirty or so bills Baker left Minneapolis with?  

 Back in Brainerd, he went to the small conference room where they were holding Preston. He’d been fingerprinted and, later, when he asked for something to eat, a clerk got him a hamburger. Dahlberg found Preston seated at the table, head down, trying to sleep.  “Wake up, Terry. I need to ask you something,” Dahlberg said. “On your run last night, did Arthur Baker ever mention money to you?’

 “Yeah. He said he won two grand and was going to surprise his wife. Said he couldn’t wait to see the look on her face.”

 Dahlberg was still shivering. The heater in his 1951 Chevy didn’t work right. He poured himself some coffee, wishing he had a shot of whiskey to go with it. “Did he show you the money, Terry?’

 “Not that I recall.”

 “Up in Minneapolis, some of the guys said he was showing around a stack of fifties. You didn’t see that?”

 “No.”

 “Where did you get the fifties that were in your pocket, the ones with blood on them?”

 “Don’t know. I told you already. They’re not mine.”

 Officer Collins walked in and handed a preliminary fingerprint report to Dahlberg. The detective looked it over and said, “Terry, looks like your prints are on the sledgehammer handle.”

 “Well, Dalton, I picked it up this morning, so I guess they would be.”

 “Who took the hammer out of the closet? Must have been you, because your prints are the only ones we can identify for sure.”

 “I don’t remember seeing it last night, or any other night for that matter,” he said. “I need more coffee.”

 “Help yourself. Your wife is here. Can’t let you talk to her right now, though.” 

 “When can I go home?” Preston asked. He put some powdered milk in his cup and stirred it with his finger.

 “A state trooper is on his way over here to place you under arrest for suspicion of murder, Terry. Sorry, can’t be helped,” Dahlberg said.

 “You gotta be kidding me! I didn’t kill nobody. I told you I found him like that when I woke up.”

 “Listen, Terry, you were alone in a caboose with Arthur, and what looks like the murder weapon has your prints on it. There’s blood on your shirt, your vest and one of your boots.” He paused to let it sink in. “And I noticed there was blood under your fingernails when I got to the caboose. Then there’s the fifty-dollar bills, the empty bottle of whiskey and Goodhand, who says you and Arthur didn’t like each other. If that isn’t probable cause, I don’t know what is.”

 “Let me ask you something, Dalton. If I took his money, where’s the rest of it?”

“We’re still looking for it,” Dahlberg said. He sipped more coffee and pulled a cigarette out of the pack. He offered one to Preston, who gratefully accepted. “Terry, my investigation is just getting started. If your memory improves, I want to be the first one to know about it.”

 The Minnesota State Trooper arrived and handcuffed Preston before leading him out to his cruiser. As he was walking toward the door, his wife, Shirley came running to him. “What’s happening Terry?” She turned to the trooper. “Where are you taking my husband?”

 The trooper looked at Dahlberg who had been on his way to interview Preston’s wife. “I’ll take care of this. Please come with me, Mrs. Preston. I’ll explain everything.”

 Terry Preston yelled over his shoulder, “Get me a lawyer, Shirl.”

 Detective Dahlberg walked Mrs. Preston back to the room where her husband had been.            She was wearing a housedress and had a kerchief on her head to cover the bobby pins in her hair. He introduced himself and offered her a cup of coffee. “No thanks. Mind if I smoke?” She asked.

 “Go right ahead. I think you should know it doesn’t look good for your husband, but I’m not sure it’s an open and shut case. Something just isn’t quite right here. My fingertips aren’t itchy.”

 Mrs. Preston took a drag and let out the smoke. “What the hell does that mean?”

 “I don’t work many homicide cases, Mrs. Preston. Mostly I handle theft. People like to take things out of boxcars, like radios, TVs even stoves and refrigerators. Anyway, I can always tell when I have my man because my fingers start to itch. That’s how I know I’m close.”

 “You don’t need no itching fingers or a fortune teller for that matter, to tell you my husband didn’t do this,” she snorted. “I’m married to the man twenty-nine years. He doesn’t have it in him.”

 “Let’s hope you’re right. Let me ask you, have you and your husband been having any financial problems?”

 The woman’s eyes grew wide. “That’s really none of your business, but to answer your question, we’re fine. We’ve always lived within our means.”

 “Thank you,” the detective said. “Do you need a ride home? Officer Collins can take you.”

 Nope, I have our car. When can I see my husband?”

 

 Detective Dahlberg spent what was left of the afternoon jotting down notes, making a list of his next moves. It had been a busy day and he was tired. A single man, he had grown used to being lonely. On the way to his second-floor apartment, he stopped for a quick bite at the town’s Italian restaurant and ordered a pepperoni pizza. Amy, his waitress, was a vivacious sort with longish red hair and a crooked smile, which Dahlberg really liked. He was sweet on Amy, but she had a boyfriend, the young Italian immigrant who did the cooking. Dahlberg, who had recently turned forty, was shy with women. He didn’t date much. He thought Amy was too young for him anyway.

 When she brought the pizza, she lingered after carefully placing it on the table. She glanced at the kitchen and saw Mario was watching. “He’s so jealous,” she said.

 “Of an old man like me?”

“You’re not so old.”

 “Too old for you, I’m afraid.”

 “I’m older than I look. I’m probably too old for Mario.”

 “Maybe we can go dancing sometime,” Dahlberg said, his voice so low he wasn’t sure she heard him.

 “Amy there’s another order waiting for you here,” Mario said, his accent unmistakable. 

Dahlberg lifted a slice off the tray and put it on his plate.

 “I’ll be right there, Mario,” Amy said. Then she turned back to the detective. “Poor Mr. Preston. He comes in here with his wife almost every Saturday night. Nice people.”

 In a small town like Brainerd, news traveled fast. “Did you know Arthur Baker too?”

 “Sure did. He came in here with his wife a lot lately. And she always paid the bill.”

 “Amy, the food is getting cold, let’s go.” Mario again.

 “I’ll be right back,” she said. She delivered the food to a couple sitting a few tables away and came back to the detective. “You ever meet Artie’s wife?”

 “No, but I plan to see her tomorrow if she’s up to it,” Dahlberg said.

 Amy laughed. “Up to it? Artie was a drunk and a gambler who never won. He probably stole the five grand he was carrying,” she said. “Larraine is probably doing a jig right now.”

 “Who told you it was five thousand?” Dahlberg asked.

 “It’s all over town.”

 “I see.” The detective smiled. He didn’t bother to correct her.

 

Dahlberg got to his four-room apartment and noticed immediately that it was cold. He paid the couple who lived on the first floor to take care of his furnace, but they probably forgot. The fire was almost out and it was going to be a cold night, dipping into the teens. He shoveled coal into his furnace and patiently, banked it.

 When Dahlberg woke up the next morning, the first thing he did was head for the cellar to put more coal in the furnace. It was snowing, and he didn’t want to come home that night to a freezing cold apartment again. But when he opened the cellar door, he met Mr. Eklund, the man who occupied the first-floor apartment. “I took care of it this morning, Dalton. Sorry about yesterday, but, Arthur, the guy that was murdered, his wife is Myrna’s niece.”

 “Is that so? Is Myrna up? I’d like to speak with her?”

 “What about? I don’t think she knows anything.”

 “I’m just looking for a little background before I speak with Mrs. Baker.” Mr. Eklund led the detective to his apartment and offered him a cup of coffee. The aroma of fresh baked cinnamon rolls filled the kitchen.

 Myrna Eklund was wearing a robe and slippers and walked with a pronounced limp. “My husband says you want to talk to me.”

 “You saw your cousin Larraine yesterday. How would you describe her demeanor?”

 “Demeanor? You mean how is she holding up? She’s doing lousy, cried all day.”

 “I see. Do you think she’d be up to meeting with me today?”

 “Oh, right. You’re working this case,” Mrs. Eklund said. She noticed the detective eying her cinnamon rolls. “Here; have a cinnamon roll before your eyes pop out of your head.” She put two of them on a small plate and handed it to him. “I’m sure Larraine would like to talk to you. She wants to know who did this.”

 “She and Arthur, they had a good marriage?”

 “As far as it goes, yeah.”

 Mr. Eklund was standing next to the stove. “Artie was a nice guy, reckless with his money though.” Myrna shot a look at her husband. “He liked to gamble is all I’m saying.”

 Dahlberg nodded. “Your cinnamon rolls are wonderful, Mrs. Eklund. I won’t take any more of your time.” He went back to his apartment and finished getting ready for the day. He filled a laundry bag with clothes that needed washing and took them with him.  

 Rather than call Mrs. Baker, he decided he would drive to her apartment after he checked in at the depot office. His car wouldn’t start. He asked Mr. Eklund for a jump, but the older man’s car wouldn’t start either. He had to walk a mile in three inches of snow to the depot, cursing the weather under his breath.

 There was a report on his desk about some missing kerosene heaters taken from a Northern Pacific Railroad boxcar. According to the line’s conductor, they were short a dozen heaters. He sighed. The missing heaters would have to wait. Officer Collins walked into his office carrying evidence bags.

“Boss, here’s what we swept up from the caboose. Doesn’t look like there’s much to work with.”

 “Empty the contents of the first bag on my table,” Dahlberg said. He walked over to it and started rummaging through the bits and pieces. He saw screws, nuts, a tiny nail and the whiskey bottle and its cap. There was half of an old wine cork and a playing card, the nine of diamonds. Hidden beneath the card was a piece of jewelry. He picked it up and took a closer look. He reached over to his desk and grabbed a magnifying glass. He saw a gold colored square, with five stones of various sizes. Each stone had a different shape. Three stones were turquoise in color, one was red coral, the other dark green. “Collins, what do you make of this? Ever see anything like it?”

 “No, but it looks like a cufflink, with the back end broken off.”

 Dahlberg looked through the items on the table again, moving his hand slowly through the small pile. Nothing. “The dirt from the caboose’s floor. Is it in the other bag?”

 “Yes sir.”

 “Well, unless you were planning to eat it for lunch, dump it on the table, Collins.” It was quickly obvious that the cufflink’s clasp wasn’t hidden in the dirt. He took another look at it and stuck it in his pocket. “Don’t they sweep the caboose at the end of every shift?” Dahlberg asked.

 “Supposed to.”

 “Who worked the shift just before the one Preston and Baker were on?”

 Collins smiled. “I had a feeling you were going to ask that. Miller and Deese worked it.”

 “They here now?”

 “Nope. Left an hour ago for Minneapolis.”

 “Okay, talk to both of them when they get in. You know what I want, right?”

 “You want to know if they swept the caboose after their last shift.”

 “You just might be catching on, Officer Collins.”

 

Detective Dahlberg stepped outside the depot and saw that except for a few flurries, the snow had stopped. It was cold, and he didn’t want to walk to Mrs. Baker’s place. He got Collins to drive him in a patrol car to his apartment so they could jumpstart his car. That done, he gave Officer Collins an assignment. “Since you’re out, do a little reconnaissance and see if you can find out where those missing kerosene heaters are.”

 By then it was lunchtime. Amy was still on his mind, so he stopped by the restaurant and was treated to a smile. “Back so soon? Must have missed me, detective.”  

 “Could be. Where’s your boyfriend today?” 

 “Mario? He’s working tonight, but I think he’s two-timing me, so who knows where he is. Maybe

I should put you on the case.”

“Not my line of work. I thought you said he was the jealous type.”

 “He is. That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t run around on me.”

 Dahlberg smiled. “I’ll have an eggplant parmigiana sandwich and a Coke, please.” When Amy returned with his sandwich, he said, “You never answered me last night when I asked you to go dancing.”  

 “You didn’t actually ask me, Dalton. You said, ‘Maybe we could go dancing sometime.’”

 “You heard me then. Wasn’t sure you did, but you’re right. I wasn’t specific because I don’t know when the next dance is.”

 “Saint Andrew’s has one the third Saturday of every month,” Amy said.

 “So, this Saturday, then. Want to go?”

 “No, I have a boyfriend,” Amy said. She laughed and walked into the kitchen.

 The detective sat there, feeling the blood rush to his face. He swore he’d never come to this restaurant again. But when she brought him his check, Amy had a piece of Italian cheesecake for him. “On the house,” she said. “If Mario and I break up, maybe you can ask me again.”

 

Lunch over, Dahlberg finally drove over to the Baker home, a three-story building with two apartments on each floor. The Baker’s lived on the second floor. Larraine Baker didn’t answer when the detective knocked. He could tell someone was home though, so he knocked again, more persistently this time.  “Who is it?” She asked.

 “Detective Dahlberg, Mrs. Baker. I need to ask you a few questions.”

 “Can you come back an hour from now? I’m not dressed or anything.”

Dahlberg looked at his watch. “Mrs. Baker, it’s important that we talk. Could you put a robe on so I can ask a few questions?”

 “My hair isn’t even done and I have to put my makeup on,” she said.

 “I’m going to make a quick phone call. I’ll be back in ten minutes.” Annoyed, he went downstairs and walked across the street to a soda shop. He called the office to check in. It was a quiet afternoon. He checked his watch again and decided to give Mrs. Baker a few more minutes. Standing near the shop door, he looked out the front window at the snow-covered streets.

 With one exception, he hated the winter months. He started ice fishing when he was a boy and it soon became a lifelong passion. He glanced at his watch and then up at the Baker’s apartment building door just in time to see a young man with a familiar face walking down the steps. “Why, it’s Mario the cook,” he said aloud.

 He watched him walk quickly to his car, a black and white, two-door Ford, looking from side to side as if he were concerned that someone might see him. Even with the heavy, black leather jacket Mario was wearing, Dahlberg could see that the man had an upper body not dissimilar to that of a weightlifter. What was Mario the cook doing in the apartment building? Did he live there? He waited until Mario was in his car and gone. Then he crossed the street and entered the building. He knocked on the first apartment’s door and waited.

 A man in his seventies answered. “Afternoon. What can I do for you?”

 “I’m looking for the building superintendent.”

 “You found him.”

 Dahlberg introduced himself. “Does a man named Mario, a cook at the Italian restaurant on Norwood Street, live here?”

“Never heard of him,” the man said. 

 Dahlberg thanked the man and headed up to the second floor.

 “Come on in detective. Mind if I finish putting my makeup on while we talk? I have to meet with Mr. Charles at the funeral home.”

 “That’s fine. I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “May I call you Larraine?”

 “Please do. I heard you arrested Terry Preston.”

 “Yes. Let me start by asking you when was the last time you saw your husband?”

 “Four days ago, just before he left for Minneapolis.” She was putting rouge on her cheeks.

 Did your husband ever mention Mr. Preston to you?”

 “I suppose so. I know they didn’t get along that well. Artie thought he was a real taskmaster, a stickler for even tiny details.”

 “Were you aware your husband was carrying a significant amount of money when he boarded the train for Brainerd?”

 “No, Artie was usually broke. If it wasn’t for my job at the hardware store, I don’t know how we would ever eat, or pay the rent.”

 “So, you weren’t aware that he had a lot of money on him?”

 “Well, I know it now, detective. A friend told me he had about eight thousand dollars on him.”

 “Do you believe that?”

 “Sure, why not. My friend told me he won it gambling. He finally won something and then he died.” She put lipstick on and smoothed it with her fingertip. “Isn’t that why Terry Preston killed him?”

 “We don’t know that yet, Larraine. And I have to say, the amount he was carrying seems to grow by the hour.” Dahlberg who was standing in Larraine’s bedroom doorway took a step back when she stood up. She was a very pretty young woman, the type that always got second looks and was used to it. Long legs, ample bosom, her face made up perfectly to enhance her beauty. Only her clothing gave away her modest social standing.

 “Whatever it is, when will I get the money, detective?”

 “When the case is closed, most likely after a trial.”

 She reached for her handbag. “A trial, really? The only man in that caboose with my husband was that Preston fella.” Dahlberg didn’t respond. “I need to go. Is there anything else?”

 “Do you know Mario, the cook at DiVincenzo’s Restaurant?”

 For the first time, Larraine Baker’s face showed signs of distress. She hadn’t expected a question like that. “Well, Artie and I have been to DiVincenzo’s so I’m sure I’ve seen him there.”

Dahlberg smiled. “How about here, this morning?”

 Larraine. Baker frowned. “That’s none of your business, detective.” She was recovering now. “What can that possibly have to do with my husband’s murder?” She walked past Dahlberg to her front door, opened it and waited.

Dahlberg, picked up his fedora and walked out of the apartment. Before he headed for the stairwell, he said, “Nothing, I hope, Mrs. Baker.”

 

Dahlberg got into his Chevy and pushed the starter button. Nothing. He went back to the apartment building and knocked again on the superintendent’s door. “I need a jump start. Think you can help me?” Once he got moving again he drove straight to the gas station. The owner, Gus Olsson, was a friend and fellow ice fisherman. He installed a new battery and the men made plans to fish as soon as Gull Lake froze over. They both planned to buy new ice fishing rods before the season started.

 Dahlberg enjoyed the brief respite from the case. There was something about Larraine Baker’s attitude that bothered him. He could understand that maybe she wasn’t in love with her husband, but she showed no signs of remorse, beyond the way she cried when he called her the day Artie was murdered. On the way back to his office he drove past the town’s lone jewelry store. He slowed down and made a U-turn. The store’s owner was busy looking through the Christmas lights and decoration he would hang in a couple of weeks.

 “Detective Dalton Dahlberg, don’t tell me. You finally found a girl who can stand your ugly mug.”

 The detective laughed. “It’s not hard to see why your store is always empty, Harry.”

 “Holidays are coming. Business will pick up, Dalton. Good to have a little company this afternoon.”

Dahlberg pulled the cufflink face out of his pocket and handed it to the jeweler. “Ever see one like it before?”

 “Can’t say that I have. It sure is different. Where’s the clasp?”

 “I don’t know. We found this on the caboose where Baker was killed. Keep that to yourself.”

 The jeweler nodded. “Terry would never wear fancy jewelry like this. No way.”

“Could be there’s no connection, but if I can find out where it was bought, it might be useful.”

 Harry took another look at it, holding it under a magnifying glass this time. He turned it over and took a long look. “It looks like gold gilt metal to me,” he said.

 “What’s that?”

 “A thin layer of gold’s been spread over the metal to make it look nice.”

 “You know who does that kind of work?”

“I don’t, Dalton, and I’ll tell you what. If you really want to know, go to Chicago. I don’t think even the jewelers in the Twin Cities will know much about this.”

 

Back in his office, the detective perused train schedules between Minneapolis and Chicago. The trip would take too long. He fingered the cufflink for a while. Suddenly, he reached for his organizer and flipped to the page he wanted. His sister and her husband, Jack Frisco, lived in a Chicago suburb.  Jack had some connection to the jewelry business.  

 Frisco was pleasant and quickly agreed to help. Dahlberg mailed the cufflink with instructions to his brother-in-law. He could only hope it didn’t get lost in the mail. Then, of course, he realized that the little piece of jewelry might mean nothing. He’d have to wait a week, maybe longer, to get an answer.

 When he got back from the post office, Officer Collins was waiting for him. He was smiling broadly. “I know what happened to the kerosene heaters, boss, but you aren’t going to like it.”

 “Did you recover them?”

 “Not yet. There’s something you need to know.”

 “Fine, spit it out, kid.”

 “I went over to the Gull Lake Fishing Emporium, at lunchtime, looking for a new ice chisel. I see these heaters and I ask Jerry about them.”

 “What did he say? Dahlberg had a queasy feeling in his stomach. Jerry Mitchell, the emporium’s owner, was another ice fishing buddy. He frequently joined Dahlberg and Gus Olsson on the lake. 

 “He said they just got in. But when he went to talk to another customer, I did a quick check on the serial numbers. They match the missing heaters. Sorry, Dalton.”

 The detective looked at his watch. Almost 4:30. He still had his hat and coat on. “Thanks Collins, good work.” He stood there for a moment, thinking. “I’ll take it from here.”

 “Sure, Dalton, whatever you say. By the way, Terry Preston made bail. Want me to keep an eye on him?”

 “No, he’s not going anywhere. Did you remember to ask Miller or Deese if they swept the caboose?”

 “Yeah. Deese called me from Minneapolis. He was with Miller. They don’t remember.”

  

The detective drove to The Barn, a diner he liked. He slid into a booth. He ordered a hot turkey sandwich and mashed potatoes with gravy. When the waitress arrived with his food, he realized how hungry he was. He took a bite of turkey and heard his name. “Dalton Dalberg, railroad detective, eating all alone.” It was Jerry Mitchell. “That’s not right.” The man walked over with his wife, Anne and said, “Mind if we join you?”

 Jerry Mitchell was the last man he wanted to see, but he welcomed them to sit with him. “Please go ahead and eat while your food is warm, Dalton,” Mrs. Mitchell said. “I’m glad we ran into you, actually. Do you really think Terry Preston could have killed Artie Baker?”

 Jerry quickly broke in. “Now what did I tell you about that, Anne?”

 “Well, a lot of people are asking the same question. If you ask me, Dalton, you should be looking at his wife. That woman is, well, I won’t use the word in public, but it starts with a W.”

 Jerry rolled his eyes. “Sorry Dalton. I thought we could give you some company. Anne don’t mean nothing by it.”

 Dahlberg put some mashed potatoes on his fork and ate them. “Anne, tell me why you think that about Larraine Baker.”

 Mrs. Mitchell looked around before she spoke, lowering her voice. “She got around when her husband was on a run. Everybody knows that.” The Mitchell’s ordered from the menu before Anne continued. “Two weeks ago, she came to church, alone mind you. In walks this greaseball and he just happens to sit next to her. I saw the whole thing. As if their meeting was a coincidence.”

 “She means the Eyetie, the one that works at DiVincenzo’s,” Jerry said. 

 “Unhappy people run around sometimes,” Dahlberg said. “That doesn’t make them murderers. But if it makes you feel better, I haven’t decided for certain that Terry did this.”

 “I’m glad to hear that,” she said. The three of them chatted while they ate, the subject of the Baker murder dropped. When they finished eating, Mrs. Mitchell excused herself to use the restroom. The detective saw his opening.

 “Jerry, I heard you got a shipment of kerosene heaters in, about a dozen. Am I right?”

 “Yeah, Collins was looking at them. You need one? I’ll give you a good deal.” He laughed.

“I guess you can afford to. Someone gave you a good deal, no?”

 Mitchell’s face grew wary. “What do you mean?”

 “Tell you what, Jerry. We go back a long way. Tonight, by midnight, those heaters are going to be dropped off on freight platform 23. And whoever sold them to you is never going to darken your door again.”

 “You saying they were stolen?”

 “You saying you didn’t know?”

 Mitchell held up his hands. He could see his wife headed back to their table. “I’ll take care of it.”

 “This is a onetime deal, Jerry, understood?”

 “Understood.”

 

The next morning, a Saturday, Dahlberg woke up late. He knew immediately that Mr. Eklund had forgotten to put coal in his furnace again. He got up, put on some work clothes and went to the cellar. While he was shoveling it occurred to him that the Saint Andrews’ dance was that night. By the time he banked the furnace, he made up his mind. He would go to the dance. He told himself that it would be a good chance to see if Larraine and Mario were there together, now that Arthur was dead. But he also knew it was unlikely. He thought maybe Amy would be there alone. 

 He spent the day going through his usual Saturday routine, cleaning his apartment and shopping for groceries. He finally went to the laundromat, too.  That afternoon he drove to the railyard to check out platform 23. Jerry Mitchell had lived up to his word. The stolen heaters were on the platform. Still, he would have to keep a watchful eye on his friend.

 The dance started at eight o’clock. He got there at 8:30 and was surprised to see so many people there. Having grown up in Brainerd, he knew most of them. The dance was being held in the church auditorium, which was often used for wedding receptions too. He walked around the perimeter of the hall until he reached the bar. He ordered a beer and watched people dance.

 When Amy walked in with Mario, he saw them hang their coats and head to the dance floor. Amy looked pretty in a deep green dress. She was wearing a colorful bracelet on her wrist, something Dahlberg never noticed before. When the band took a break, he walked over to her as soon as Mario headed to the bar. The young man didn’t see him. “Hello, Amy. Nice to see you outside DiVincenzo’s.”

 “And you, Dalton. Did you bring a date?” Dahlberg laughed. He was staring at her bracelet. “You like my bracelet? Pretty colors, they’re rhinestones. Mario gave it to me.”

 “Very nice,” Dahlberg said. “Well, here he comes now. I’ll leave you two to enjoy the evening.”

 “Don’t go, Dalton. Mario has some business he has to take care of. He’ll be leaving soon.  Since we’re both here, the least we can do is have a dance together.”

Dahlberg nodded and walked back to the bar.

 He watched Amy and Mario talk, wishing he could hear what they were saying.  Then Mario kissed her goodbye and walked off.

 Dahlberg walked back to where Amy was standing. “I thought you said he was the jealous type.” 

 “Not lately. I think he wants to break up with me.”

 “How do you feel about that?”

 “Let’s dance and see if you can figure out the answer.”

 Dahlberg was very happy he decided to go to the dance. He and Amy danced the rest of the night together and then he drove her home. She didn’t invite him in, of course, but she gave him a quick kiss on the lips when they said goodnight. She also gave him her phone number.

 

 Dahlberg kept himself busy catching up on a few other cases he’d been working on. He also spent time when he could, walking along the tracks that ran between Brainerd and Minneapolis, looking for Arthur Baker’s missing cash. Each side of the tracks was covered with tall brush and weed plants, making it hard to find anything that might be valuable.  Even with help from police officers from the towns along the one hundred twenty-mile route, he came up empty. On Thursday of that week he received a call from his brother-in-law, Jack. “Hey, Dalton, I might have something for ya. A jeweler friend of mine knows a guy who deals in imported stuff. That cufflink was made in Italy.”

 “Really? Could they have been made in France, or Germany?”

 “Nope, according to my guy, only the Italians are using that process. Hope that helps.”

 Frisco agreed to send the cufflink back to Dalton special delivery. Suddenly, Dahlberg had another suspect and possibly, a motive. After he’d said goodnight to Amy, on a hunch, he had driven by Larraine’s apartment. Sure enough, Mario Mastronardo’s Ford was there. Maybe they wanted Artie out of the way. The money would be a nice bonus. Things were beginning to add up. Mario was familiar with the freight runs between Minneapolis and Brainerd. No doubt he knew the train stopped to switch tracks. And if Larraine gave Mario Artie’s schedule, he would know he was on the run that night. That the two men on board got drunk was an unexpected break. Although he had his doubts, he had to consider the possibility that Larraine was involved.

 He called Officer Collins to come into his office. “I think it’s time we check out the cook at DiVincenzo’s. See what you can find out about him,” he said.

 Collins asked, “You want me to talk to that waitress, Amy? I think she goes out with him.” 

“No, I’ll talk to her. You check out his records; where he was before he got to Brainerd and how long he’s been in the area, things like that. Start with his employer. Do it tomorrow morning when Mastronardo isn’t working.”

 “Anything else?”

 “Yeah, Terry told me they went to bed right after they switched tracks. Let’s make sure they did the switch that night.”

 “The engineer would know. I think he’s in the breakroom. About to make a run to Minneapolis I think.”

 Dahlberg stood and stretched, then headed to the breakroom. He caught John Goodhand just as he was leaving. “Hey, John, I have a question for you,” he said.

 “Make it quick. We pull out of here in ten minutes.”

 “This won’t take long. I just need to know about that night Arthur Preston was killed. Did the train make any stops that night?”

 “Once we start rolling, we don’t make stops unless we have to. But there is one stop about half way to Brainerd at a switching station. We change tracks there.”

 “You stopped that night?”

 “Yeah, it’s routine.”

 “How long?”

 Goodhand looked at his watch. “Gotta go detective, but if you come out to the engine with me, I’ll check my log book.”

Dahlberg cursed under his breath. It was another cold day, flurries and wind, but he followed the engineer out to the track where GP 2349 was waiting. The men climbed aboard and Goodhand picked up his logbook. “We stopped at 3:59 a.m. It took nineteen minutes. Why?”     

 “Thanks.” The detective ran back to his office, shivering all the way. “Damn, I hate the cold,” he said.

 “How can you ice fish if you hate the cold so much?” Collins asked him.

 “By being dressed for the occasion.”

 

 Dahlberg called Amy that night and asked if he could pay her a visit. “I just need to ask you some questions about the case I’m working.”

When he got to her apartment, she let him in. “My father is visiting from Wisconsin. I hope you don’t mind,” she said.

 “Not at all. I want to ask you about Mario. Has he been back to Italy since you’ve known him?”

“As a matter of fact, he did go to Italy in June to see his parents.”

 “The bracelet you were wearing at the dance, did he give it to you when he got home?”

 “Yes, he bought it in Italy. He took me to a movie and gave it to me when he dropped me off.” Amy glanced at her father, who was listening intently. Dahlberg assumed that she probably didn’t want him to know that Mario had been alone with her in the apartment.  

 Dahlberg pulled out a photo he’d taken of the broken cufflink. “Amy, have you ever seen this before?” 

 “Mario has cufflinks just like that.”

 “Thank you. Nice to meet you,” he said to Amy’s father. He was excited, but he knew enough to move slowly, plan his next move carefully. His fingers were itching. He was getting close.   

 Suppose they searched Mario’s apartment and found the other cufflink? Would that be enough to arrest him and take him to trial? Maybe, he thought. After all, it was highly unlikely that anyone who worked for the railroad, or had occasion to ride in that caboose, would have a cufflink like the one they found. If what he now suspected was right, the cufflink probably broke when Mario hit Baker with the sledgehammer. 

 But without fingerprints on the weapon, or the cufflink, and without a clear motive for the crime, it was a longshot they could get a conviction. The next morning, he got a subpoena to search Mario’s and Larraine’s apartments and to check their bank records. Maybe one of them had been foolish enough to deposit the $1,500 in a bank account.

He wasn’t surprised when that didn’t pan out and Collins was unable to find any evidence that Mario Mastronardo had done anything wrong, either in Italy or the US.

 “What’s his work history? Where did this guy work before DiVincenzo’s?” Dahlberg asked.

 “I was just about to tell you, boss. Mastronardo was a brakeman for the Northern Pacific Railroad for about six months, a couple of years ago,” Collins said.

 “I don’t remember ever seeing him, do you?”

 Collins shrugged. “He worked out of Minneapolis. Probably knew Terry Preston and Arthur Baker, but he only worked with Baker one time according to the dispatcher up there.”

 “Why did he leave?”

“No reason. He just stopped showing up for work.”

 “Right now, everything hinges on that damn cufflink,” he said to Collins. “I can go ahead and search their apartments, but I’d like to wait a bit on that.”

 “What for?”

 “I’m going home and get my ice fishing clothes. I suggest you do the same.”

 “We gonna go ice fishing?”

 “No, but we’ll want to keep warm. Get back here right away. We’re taking a ride to the switching station.”  

 “What do you think you’re gonna find there?” Collins asked.

 

 When they got to the place where the train switched tracks, Dahlberg and Collins estimated where the caboose would have been located while the train was stopped. They moved into the brush on the north side of the tracks, back far enough so they couldn’t be seen. “This is about where somebody would hide, waiting for the train,” Dahlberg said. “Look for any evidence that someone might have camped out recently, even if only for a couple of hours,” he said. The men took off in opposite directions.

 It wasn’t long before Collins called out for his boss. “Hey, Boss, I might have found something.”

 The detective walked over to where Officer Collins was standing. On the ground he saw a white pizza box and two empty Coke bottles. “Did you touch the bottles?”

 “Of course not. How can you ask me a question like that? I’m not stupid, you know.”

 Dahlberg smiled at Collins. He had always been a bit tough on the younger man. Sometimes, like now, unnecessarily so. “Sorry, kid. You’re a good cop. Bag the bottles and let’s take the box too.”

 “The box doesn’t have any printing on it, but maybe DiVincenzo’s uses the same kind of box,” Collins said, pleased by the compliment.

Dahlberg smiled again. “You keep this up, I’m gonna have to worry about keeping my job.”

 On the way to the office, they stopped at a regional center where Minnesota State Police could check the bottles for fingerprints. “We’ll get you the suspect’s prints later today, tomorrow at the latest,” Dahlberg told the lab technician.

 As soon as they got back to Brainerd, with the help of Brainerd’s police squad, they executed the search warrants. They found nothing that might be incriminating in either Mastronardo’s apartment or Larraine Baker’s place.

 “Now what?” Collins asked.

 “I need to have another conversation with Mrs. Baker. Bring her in. Pull her out of work if you have to.”

 Twenty minutes later he was sitting in the conference room where he’d interviewed Terry Preston. He invited Officer Collins to sit in. “Larraine, are you aware that you’re not Mario Mastronardo’s only girlfriend?”

 “Who says I’m his girlfriend?”

 Dahlberg pulled out his notebook and read his notes to her from his surveillance after the Saturday night dance. “I saw him at the dance that night. He was there with Amy, the waitress he works with.”

 “So what? Why aren’t you searching her place then? Maybe because she’s your girlfriend too?”

 A sudden chill went down the detective’s spine. Larraine was right. They should search Amy’s place too. And he would, but he was not finished with Larraine yet. “Did you and Mario ever talk about marriage?”

 “He did. I told him he was crazy. I was married after all.”

 “Did you consider getting a divorce?”

 “Mario kept asking me to do it. He was kind of pushy about it, but you know perfectly well divorce isn’t easy to come by. Besides, I didn’t want one.”  

 “But as a widow, you would be free to marry, right?”

 “Oh, just a minute now, Detective Dahlberg. Are you suggesting that Mario murdered my husband so I’d be free to marry him?”

 Dahlberg pulled out the photo of the cufflink and showed it to Larraine. Her eyes grew wide. “Ever see this before?”

 “Mario has cufflinks that look like that, why?”

 “We found one of them on the caboose where your husband was murdered.”

 Larraine started to cry. “I don’t believe this. I got my husband killed. I told Mario right off that we weren’t going to get serious, but that stupid guinea went and fell in love.”

“Did he ever suggest harming your husband in some way?” Collins asked.

 “No, nothing like that that, but he used to get really angry when we couldn’t see each other because Artie was home.”

Dahlberg nodded. “Now this is important, Larraine. Did you ever tell Mario what Artie’s schedule was?”

 “All the time.”

 

 After Dahlberg’s interview with Larraine was completed, he made a call to the DA’s office to get another search warrant. He went to Amy’s place while the search was conducted, but, given his budding relationship with her, he decided to stay in the living room while the search was conducted. Forty minutes later, Collins walked into the living room, a quizzical look on his face. He had an envelope filled with fifty-dollar bills, some with blood on them. “Do you think Amy could have been involved in Baker’s murder?”

 “Not possible. Where did you find the envelope?”

 “Behind the mirror in her hallway.” Dahlberg’s fingers were itching again.

 “You sure Amy’s in the clear?” Collins asked?

 “Collins, why would Amy want Artie Baker dead? So her boyfriend could marry another woman?”

 Late that afternoon, Mario Mastronardo was arrested at the restaurant by two officers of the Brainerd Police Department.   Dahlberg accompanied them to the police station where Mario was fingerprinted and taken into custody.  When the prints turned out to be a match with the prints found on the Coke bottles, Dahlberg was pleased. Terry Preston was off the hook. Mario continued to maintain his innocence, but the judge considered Mario a potential flight risk, and he was held without bail.   

 Mario, who had no money for a top-flight trial lawyer, was assigned a public defender who did his best to ensure a fair trial.  But the evidence of his guilt, although mostly circumstantial, was just too strong.  The prosecutors presented a clear motive for the murder, and Larraine's testimony that he wanted to marry her was the final devastating nail in the coffin.  

 After only an hour of deliberation, the jury returned with a guilty verdict. The judge, who was frequently impatient with the public defender’s tactics, sentenced Mario to life in prison, and Mario was led away in handcuffs.  

 

 The day the verdict was announced, Detective Dahlberg and Officer Collins went to DiVincenzo’s for a late lunch. The place was nearly empty, but Amy was there and she sat with them. The owner made them a large pizza.

 “One thing I don’t understand boss, is why you weren’t satisfied that Terry Preston was guilty. I mean the day the murder happened, you had what looked like solid evidence that he did it,” Collins said.

 “Terry Preston goes to church with his wife every Sunday. He’s never even had a parking ticket. I checked. Besides, he’s not a regular, but I’ve seen him out on the ice a few times with his pole.”

 “Sure, but he could have had a bad moment. He was drinking and he and Artie didn’t get along.”

 “I know that Collins, but keep in mind that the man didn’t really have much of a motive.  If we’d have found the entire two-thousand in his pocket, maybe I would have been satisfied.”

 “Well, Mario was one smart cookie. He almost got away with it,” Amy said.

 “The broken cufflink did him in I guess,” Collins said.

 “Well, it pointed us in the right direction, that’s for sure. But finding the Coke bottles with his prints went a long way to getting a conviction. His prints weren’t found on the money or the broken cufflink. And we never did find the other cufflink.”

 “We were lucky that Amy and Larraine could testify that he had a pair like the one we found in the caboose,” Collins said.

Dahlberg asked for the bill, but the owner refused, saying it was his treat. “I have to give Mastronardo some credit, though,” Dahlberg continued. “With the exception of the Coke bottles, his planning was meticulous. He hid out in the weeds waiting for the train. He climbed aboard and nailed Baker.” He sipped some of his Coke. “And, he figured, correctly, that Terry would be charged for the crime. He wanted Artie out of the way so he could marry Larraine.”

 “If he was in love with Larraine, why was he going with me too?” Amy asked.

 “For starters, he wasn’t what you would call a gentleman. And, as much as I hate to say it, maybe he thought you were useful. Seeing you was a way to cast doubt on his motive if things got dicey.”

 “My, my, Dalton. You managed to kill two birds with one stone,” Amy said. “You put a murderer away and eliminated your competition.”

 Dahlberg smiled. “We should go dancing sometime.”