Read Online Shadows on the Train by Melanie Jackson - Free Book Online

ones. “We’re planes with engine trouble. Whoa, we’re falling straight down the mountaaaiiiinnn…!”
    â€œKer-ash!” I shouted. I removed my sweater and tossed it on a nearby seat, the better to free up my arms for enjoying the plane-in-peril experience.
    â€œBLEECCHH.”
    Pantelli was barfing into the lid of his Treevial Pursuit box. “I knew coming up to the observation dome was a mistake,” he said glumly.
    A rubbery, stem-like forefinger zoomed toward Pantelli’s face. “ You are a mistake,” Beanstalk informed him, in a tone dripping with icicles.
    All three of us jumped. Beanstalk sure moved stealthily, like some sort of mobile elastic band.
    Sniffing, the conductor surveyed Talbot and me with equal scorn. “Plane trouble, indeed. More like brain trouble.”
    Beanstalk ordered everyone out of the observation dome. “Evacuate!” he commanded pompously. “Cleaning crew!” he called down the stairs.
    â€œBut I aimed and shot squarely in here,” Pantelli objected, showing Beanstalk the box lid and its, er, contents.
    Back in the games car, we jammed into the booth with Madge and jabbered about Beanstalk’s unreasonableness. “A tiny barfing incident,” I complained.
    Talbot, grimacing down at the lid Pantelli was holding out, said, “Maybe it’s time to get rid of that. I’m not sure we need forensic evidence.”
    Madge was occupied in staring at her laptop, which she’d plugged into an Internet outlet. “No messages from Jack,” she said mournfully, as Pantelli trotted off to drop the box lid in a garbage can. “I can’t understand it. I mean, we’ve now been apart for seventeen hours and twenty-three minutes. This isn’t like Jack.”
    Talbot, Pantelli and I shrugged at each other. These lovebirds were a whole different breed. “Repeatedly clicking Get Mail won’t help,” I advised Madge.
    â€œTons of messages from Mother and Geneva Rinaldi, though.” Madge clicked on one. “They’ve appointed eight new bridesmaids. Here’s what Geneva says: ‘Matilda French of Charlottetown insists on lime green bridesmaids’ dresses, the better to show off her new, Emerald City-themed arm tattoos.’”
    With a sigh, my sister took up her sketchpad again. I slid her laptop in front of me to check my own e-mail. Specifically for an update from Mother about Ardle.
    He’s too weak to do more than mumble, but his color’s improved , she’d written . The doctors are hopeful.
    I bashed out a message to Mother with questions to ask Ardle. Make him tell you who the king is, I wrote. And no, I don’t want to explain what I’m talking about.
    Talbot and Pantelli had got chess pieces from a steward and were already jockeying pawns and knights on the chessboard tabletop. “Wanna play?” Talbot invited. “You and I could take on Pantelli, master chess player of Lord Bithersby elementary.”
    â€œNo, that’s okay,” I said. Chess, I thought. That involves a type of king. But Ardle could have been referring to almost anything. Chess king, card king—even Alaska king crab. Maybe Ardle was chasing a valuable recipe!
    But there was no chess piece, card or recipe in the envelope, I reminded myself. Which brought us back to the elk stamp. Was the elk possibly considered the king of the Canadian north?
    Right, Dinah. The elk .
    Still, you never could be sure. I Googled “elk” and “stamp.”
    Did you mean the Elvis Presley Commemorative Stamp? Google asked helpfully.
    â€œI have no idea,” I replied out loud in a cross voice. Elvis: another king I hadn’t thought of.
    Talbot and Pantelli, engrossed in their game, didn’t hear. Madge, doodling wildflowers in her sketchbook, cast me a brief sad-eyed glance. She had the Jack blues. Noticing that I’d typed “elk,” she began drawing one. A