Chapter Two: INAPPROPRIATE

  "I enjoyed the comedic scenes about writers and their creative struggles."--David K. Stone Read Chapter One Here 
Inappropriateby Sherry SilverU.S. eBook: iTunes  ARe  Diesel  Kindle  Kobo  Nook  Smashwords  SonyU.S. Paperback: Amazon  Barnes and Noble  CreateSpace  Books A Million
U.K. eBook:  Nook  Kindle  iTunes
U.K. Paperback:  Amazon 
Canadian eBook:  Sony  Kindle  iTunes
Canadian Paperback:  Amazon  Story Summary:By day, Sandra plucks trash off Cocoa Beach, points tourists to the restrooms and sometimes discovers dead bodies. By night, she’s a cozy mystery author wannabe. Sandra has an aversion to cops, one homicide detective in particular. They have nothing in common except pheromones. She was eighteen the first time he kissed her and the last. Five years ago, he answered his cell and ran off to work, leaving her panting on the kitchen table with a hurricane looming.
Lieutenant Hottie is married to his career. He moved up the ranks early and engrossed himself in bringing murderers to justice. Serious relationships are out of the question, he’s too busy and not interested. The only woman he wants is off limits. He has built a wall around his heart and won’t let himself be hurt again.
Sandra is attending a writers conference aboard private rail cars. It was organized by the wife of a popular televangelist. The writers are traveling alongside devout Christians on their cross-country crusade. Sandra's loving but hyper-critical mother has finagled a ticket to ride. The morning before departure, Sandra finds a dead sailor on the beach. On the train, Sandra must keep her lips off Lieutenant Hottie and unmask the murderer before another soul derails. All aboard! 
Chapter Two
As I rose and repositioned my belongings the crowd of writers and crusaders parted. Mom propelled her luggage cart toward me stacked with a green steamer trunk, a three piece Pepto-Bismol pink luggage set, travel ironing board, portable DVD player and a box of groceries. She was dressed in her signature over-sixty-Floridian-chic: a knit twin set embroidered, beaded and sequined with flamingos; matching green Capri's with bugle beading at the hem and pockets; wedge-heeled lime leather sandals; wraparound sunglasses and a lime green visor. She had pulled her blonde hair into a ponytail.
I looked just like Mom with the only exception being she carried a voluptuous extra thirty pounds. The outfit would be very cute on her, if she were over sixty. But she was only forty-six. She had married my dad when she was eighteen and they had five kids in five years. Two sets of identical twin boys then singleton me.
I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t get me sent to my room so I just smiled really big.
Mom blew me a kiss.
“All aboard!” 
I turned my head to see my brother Andy dressed in a navy blue conductor’s uniform. He was a member of the Central Florida Chapter of the National Railway Historical Society. I had forgotten he had volunteered for this adventure. Out of all my brothers, Andy was the kindest to me so at least I wouldn’t have to worry about our sibling bickering drowning out the train whistle.
I was sure he wasn’t any happier than I that Mom had tagged along.
New York Times bestselling horror author, Hazel Hatchet, a.k.a. Hack ‘em up Hazel, shoved past me, her ample hip bumping my arm as she adjusted the straw cowgirl hat over her close-cropped afro. Her long amber and sterling silver earrings swung heavily to and fro. Hazel grabbed the handrail on the green iron steps and grunted. Andy gripped onto her arm and hoisted her aboard.
I stepped back closer to the station and took my first good look at the train. The last three cars were painted or more likely wrapped in a cabbage rose print. Pink orange, yellow and white everywhere. In front of them were several cars plastered with Pastor Eugene Donaldson’s toothy face. “The Crusade of Peace” was painted in gold leaf.
Ahead of those cars were tired brown and gray North American Passenger Railway baggage and passenger cars. I couldn’t see the diesel locomotives.
I marched toward the train dragging my duffle bag.
“Hi, Sandra,” sniffled Weepy Wendy, an anorexic trauma nurse practitioner who had wallowed in the throes of woe the entire time we’d been acquainted. She wrote romantic comedy. “I had such a bad night at work. There is this really mean Dr. Fruiterman and he kept yelling at me. I knocked over a tray of sterile instruments and–”
“Hi, Wendy! I’m so sorry you had a rough night. Life is just not fair. Can’t wait to hear all about your latest work-in-progress.” Oh shoot! Why did I say that? I always found it very uncomfortable conversing with her. I never could come up with the right words to help her feel better. Some people must want to be miserable.
Staring at her hair, my brother helped Wendy up the steps. Once she had boarded he shook his head. Wendy’s frizzy locks were dyed black with thick stripes of white woven in. Think Cruella DeVille on a bad hair day. I shuddered, imagining accident and heart attack victims opening their eyes to see Nurse Wendy standing over them.
I was so excited and anxious to ride the rails again. Andy always invited me along whenever there was a special steam train excursion in the region. He invited the whole family but they all were too caught up in their own egos and imagined troubles to be transported to a gentler time. Even his twin, Matt. They were identical in looks but not personality. That’s how I told them apart. Matt was the 5’10” blond with the sneer. Andy was the 5’10” blond with the twinkle in his eye.
A North American Passenger Railway employee sashayed by with a big brown take-out bag from the Olive Garden. I wanted to mug her. I was so hungry. Maybe I could chat her up and she’d offer me a breadstick.
A loud whistle and thunderous roar sped by on the other track. Must’ve been a freight train though I couldn’t see it because our train was blocking the view.
It was my turn to climb onboard but I backed up and beckoned the next writer to go on before me. I didn’t want to be caught in the aisle behind Weepy Wendy and have to hear about her latest bad luck. She’d make a perfect mate for Matt. What was I thinking? No, please no. I didn’t want to have her sniffling around at every family gathering.
I rolled my eyes as Andy turned on the charm for exotic Matilda Irwin, a.k.a. Tabloid Tilly, an Aussie photo journalist here on some kind of youth working visa. Matilda was of Chinese, Aborigine and probably English prison camp origin. Men seemed to find Matilda irresistible. I couldn’t stand her. I’ll think up a reason later.
I enjoyed an evil grin while she flirted and finally wiggled aboard.
Andy shuffled luggage around, shoving it further away from the door. I was fascinated by the stacks of crap people brought with them. Suitcases and snacks I could understand. But the step ladder, potted Norfolk Island pine tree, fireplace tools, bird cage, litter box, cushioned toilet seat, laundry detergent and chlorine bleach were a bit quirky.
“Sis, why didn’t you tell me Mom was coming?”
“I didn’t know! Honest! She just showed up. This is going to be a miserable trip.” I whined.
“Why? I mean other than the obvious.”
“She doesn’t know I’m a writer,” I whispered. I left my luggage with him and climbed the three steps.
Everyone made a right so I followed them and took a seat midway down a highly polished cherry conference table. I counted sixteen leather chairs.
As the remaining passengers flitted in, no one sat next to me on either side.
Elderly body builder Bicep Betty, of yellow polka dot bikini fame, reposed directly across from me snapping her black bubble gum. Every book she wrote was full of kink and husband homicide. No wonder she was an old maid…and had a cult following.
Most of the faces were familiar to me and I looked forward to becoming acquainted with the newbies.
My best bud, Dina Devers, a moderately successful eBook author, stumbled in last. She wrote steamy romance. I found her books to be hilarious but didn’t dare let on.
The story around town was that Dina didn’t get enough oxygen at birth and as a result, while her intellect was normal, she was freakishly happy and strangely giddy at inappropriate times.
Dina tripped over the hem of her long leaf-green broomstick skirt and grabbed the back of a chair to catch herself. It rolled out and spun to one side. She plopped down in it and giggled, finger fluffing her cute strawberry blonde curls.
I thought it was so weird to find free rolling chairs on a moving train. Somebody might be seriously injured.
“Welcome to the GOOS Express,” Rosemary announced. “I’m so delighted we all could take this little working vacation along the rails.”
The ladies applauded and thanked her profusely. Very excited about the chance to interact with other writers, learn from the speakers and pitch my books to agents and editors, I smiled and clapped.
The whistle tooted twice and the train lurched forward. The chairs jerked sideways. Some of the ladies gasped. I stuck my arms over my head and enjoyed the ride.
A voice broadcast over the public address system: “Good afternoon, ladies. This is your conductor Andrew Faire. We have departed exactly on time at 2:57. Our scheduled arrival in Washington, DC is at 8:46 tomorrow morning barring any unforeseen glitches. You’ll notice the train stop from time to time to allow freight traffic to pass through or to make a regularly scheduled stop for the North American Passenger Railway. Please do not place anything in the toilets but the supplied toilet paper as the plumbing system is very sensitive and if one clogs then all toilets in the car will back up. In the evangelists’ lounge there are over-the-counter pain relievers, sleeping aids, cold and allergy formulas and motion sickness medications available for purchase as well as a limited selection of toiletry items. If we can be of any assistance please don’t hesitate to contact me or my fellow volunteer crew members from the Central Florida Chapter of the National Railway Historical Society:  Big Marc Clinger and Jimmy Tamales. Enjoy your conference.”
“Ladies, if you will open your folders you’ll find the packet with our speaker schedule,” said Rosemary. “Unfortunately, our keynote speaker Tony O’Rourke, the New York Times bestselling author of sixteen police procedurals including The Naked Detective, has been unavoidably detained. He hopes to join us later in the trip, although that shall pose a problem with sleeping accommodations. We only have allotted room for two speakers per day. They each travel with us until the next big hub stop.”
I perused the schedule:  Orlando to DC to Chicago to Albuquerque to Los Angeles. I couldn’t wait to dip my big toe in the Pacific Ocean for the very first time.
Rosemary opened a cardboard box and passed hardcover copies of Tony O’Rourke’s latest release down the table. I nearly squealed. My favorite author. He was the reason I became a writer. I took one and flipped to the back and searched the last few pages then the first few. No photo or any about the author page.
I envisioned a white-haired portly recluse clad in a golden smoking jacket with leather patches on the elbows. He relit his pipe as he navigated the narrow path to the desk through a jungle of ceiling-high crumpled white paper. He hunted and pecked on an old Remington typewriter in his family’s dank Irish castle. Tony O’Rourke, gifted genius. My idol.
“Nevertheless,” Madame President Rosemary continued, “Our first speaker is aboard, Anna Deerstalker. A science fiction author and online writing coach. She will present a workshop on the richness of conflict, precisely at 6:00 P.M.”
I glanced at Tinker Bell. It was nearly 3:30. I shook the pixie dust as I flung my hand in the air and waved.
“Yes, do you have a question?” asked Rosemary.
“When is dinner served?”
“There is not time to prepare and serve a formal meal this evening. There will be hors d’oeuvres available throughout the trip in the parlor car at the end of the train. Feel free to indulge yourselves.”
My stomach burned. I hadn’t ingested anything today but the three Hershey’s Kisses I snatched out of the candy jar on Igor’s desk. That’s what I get for skipping breakfast, and then the darned floater set me behind schedule so I didn’t eat lunch. I should call the lieutenant about that soon…
 “Ladies, we have a few rules here. No smoking, alcohol or recreational drugs allowed. No wireless internet devices. No cell phones,” said Rosemary.
Dina raised her hand.
“Yes?” asked Rosemary.
“What about our portable word processors?”
“Of course you can keep whatever technology you use to write. Laptop computers, electric typewriters, word processors, etc. Just be sure you disable any wireless connections. We have much work to do.”
She held the cardboard box up. “I’ll pass this along. Empty all banned items into the box.”
I watched incredulously as the ladies sucked up to her and thought it such a good idea to help us focus on our craft. No way would I store my phone in the box. I’d just pretend I didn’t bring…
The Pink Panther jazzed from my shorts pocket.
Everyone looked at me. I sighed and pulled my phone out. I missed the call. Mom. I switched it off and gingerly placed it in the box. Just as well, I didn’t need Mom pestering me.
Then I remembered what had happened that morning. Waves lapping the happy corpse crashed in my mind. As the box slid down the table past me, I said, “No, wait. I need my phone. I discovered a dead body today and the police may need to contact me.”
The business car fell silent except for the chug-a-chug of the train.
Bicep Betty blew a big black bubble, popped it with her pen then whispered to Tabloid Tilly. Tilly locked eyes with me as she fondled her camera. There was something witchy about that girl from down under and I didn’t trust her. I kept my composure, glanced down at Tinker Bell and shook some pixie dust.     
“Sandra, you really do need to get a proper job and stop cavorting with the underworld.” Rosemary voiced what some were no doubt thinking.
“That poor lost soul. I’ll bet no one stops to think about how terrifying it must be for the victim in the horrific moments before being murdered,” Weepy Wendyboo-hooed.
“Of course we do,” Pat-the-Pirate squawked. “We all do. We’re writers.” 
Pat wasa popular historical adventure novelist with a ruddy wrinkled face, wooden leg and a glass eye.
Dina kicked back her chair and clopped over to me. “Who, what, where, when and how? Do tell!”
“I discovered him washed up on the beach this morning. In front of the Copacabana—”
“It was Ricco!”  Dina blurted.
“Ricco?”  I asked.
“You know, Tony shot him because he was jealous Ricco had made a move on his girl Lola at the Copacabana.”
I grinned and shook my head. “I didn’t find any yellow feathers in the sand. You should audition for the show where you need to know the correct song lyrics.”
I turned toward the others. “Anyhow, he was a good-looking young sailor and I’ve probably revealed more than I should have.”
Clear packaging tape screamed like fingernails on a chalkboard as Rosemarysealed the box. Chico, her Cuban-American pool boy/hairdresser/paid companion, carted it off. With my phone inside. My plea hadn’t impressed her.
“Ladies, please begin your daily writing. If you did not come prepared, or if your writing apparatus is packed in your luggage then help yourselves to one of the journals on the credenza. Pens and sharp pencils, too. No more chit-chat please. We need a silent and peaceful atmosphere for our muses to run wild and free.”
I plodded over to the credenza and selected a very high-end journal bound in pink leather. I decided to use a pencil so I snatched a metallic gold number two. I gazed out the window at the cumulonimbus clouds layering themselves in the sky. It looked like rain.
I returned to my seat, opened the journal and wrote on the inside of the cover:
The Case of the Adorable Plumber
By Dixie London
At the top of the first page I wrote:
Chapter One
It was a dark and stormy afternoon in Fredericksburg, Virginia. More American lives had been lost here in the Civil War than in any other town in any other war. As I climbed out of my old brown pickup truck, thunder exploded like a Union soldier’s cannonball…
* * *
I was surprised how easily the words spewed forth. I had no life-long interest in the Civil War and had never visited the battlefields and cemeteries of Fredericksburg, but I had done my homework. I loved learning new things, which I passed along to others through my books. Well, I would pass them along once they were published. But I had to finish one of them first. Perhaps The Case of the Adorable Plumber might just be my break-out novel.
The clickty-clacking of the train, the white noise of the air circulating system and the sound of some of the other ladies typing orchestrated a very stimulating melody.
I was way into chapter three when my stomach began growling out loud. I really needed to get to those hors d’oeuvres. I glanced at Tinker Bell. 5:41. I shook her pixie dust as I stood and pushed my chair under the table. “Do we select our own rooms?”  It felt good to stretch my legs. I wiggled my toes inside my sneakers.
Rosemary and the other writers looked up and then checked their watches. “My, how time flies when you are lost in your own little personal writing bubble. All right, ladies, I think we should wrap it up now.”  She sorted through some papers on the table. “I have a list here. The crew has delivered your luggage to your compartments.” Rosemary shuffled papers. “Sandra Compartment A. Wendy is in B. Betty you get Compartment C. Pat…”
Great! We each get private rooms. Or broom closets. I wondered how large and opulent they were. As Rosemary droned on with our room assignments, images of fairytale castle bedchambers danced in my mind. Yeah, I knew we were on a train and only so much can be done in limited space but still I had high hopes.
“Your rooms are right through the door near where you came in.” Rosemary motioned toward it. “Make sure you grasp the handrails in the vestibule between the train cars. We don’t want anyone getting injured here on the GOOS express, now do we…?” 
When she finally finished, I blurted, “Where are the hors d’oeuvres?”
“They are in the last car. In the parlor area next to the restroom. Help yourselves. I do hope you like the selections.”  Rosemary flashed her porcelain white teeth stained with fuchsia lipstick.
That was the cue for everyone to give her their deepest gratitude. We did. Then we headed for our compartments.
I stepped into mine. Darn. It wasn’t a fairytale castle bedchamber. But the retro Art Deco opulence was very tasteful.
It had mahogany paneled walls, a brass sconce and a little oscillating fan up in the corner near the ceiling. There was a small wash basin and mirror near the pocket aisle door. A wall-length oval window on the outside wall was flanked with a plush red velvet arm chair and a large red velvet sofa which apparently converted into a bed at night. The light scent of roses wafted in the air. Rosemary was great with details.
My duffle bag was stuffed almost under the sofa. I noticed an unfamiliar tapestry carpet bag stowed upon a shelf above the chair my cooler was tucked under. A newspaper stood crisply folded in a vertical holder on the window and two bottles of water glistening with condensation beckoned in the cup holders.
I counted three doors.
I smiled and tried the door apparently leading into the next compartment. Locked. Good. I didn’t need Weepy Wendy boo-hooing in at all hours. I opened the closet door. There was a stepladder folded inside. I shut the door.
I rubbed my arms and glanced up at the little fan. I’d have to figure out where to switch it off.
I pivoted and opened the bathroom door. And screamed. So did the lady sitting on the toilet.

U.S. eBook: iTunes  ARe  Diesel  Kindle  Kobo  Nook  Smashwords  SonyU.S. Paperback: Amazon  Barnes and Noble  CreateSpace  Books A Million
U.K. eBook:  Nook  Kindle  iTunes
U.K. Paperback:  Amazon 
Canadian eBook:  Sony  Kindle  iTunes
Canadian Paperback:  Amazon