“Ah, Mr. Gregory, can I have a moment of your time?”

 

The cook was behind the counter of the Dining Car. Sweat pooled on his forehead as smoke rose from the grill behind him.

 

“I’m busy, Cross. What do you want?”

 

Gregory was a man of at least 50 and just over six feet tall. His beard was well-kempt, but completely grey. He wore a white chef’s vestment that was now stained with grease and ketchup.

 

He turned back to the grill as I spoke, “I’d like to ask you some questions, if you don’t mind.”

 

His spatula rang out as he scooped a pile of scrambled eggs from the grill, setting the steaming plate next to me. 

 

“What do you want to know–and those aren’t for you, Cross.”

 

I pushed the plate away from me, saying, “I prefer sunnyside up, anyways. But I would like to ask you about a sandwich I saw sitting on the counter just after the shots had been fired. It can only be assumed that you had some role in assembling those ingredients.”

 

“That would be correct.” 

 

I could barely hear him over the sizzle of bacon and ham. Raising my voice, I said, “Oh, and for whom was it intended?”

 

“Franklin Reid.”

 

“Ah! Was he in the Dining Car around the time of the shots?”

 

“No. I was headed for bed and the bastard caught me in the Passenger Car. He was poking his head outside his door when he requested a sandwich be brought to him. I was so tired, I could have strangled the little man right then and there, but I returned to the Dining Car and started making the damn sandwich.”

 

“An interesting way to phrase it, Gregory, especially in light of the night’s events.”

 

“I tell it like it is, Detective.”

 

“And you never finished making that sandwich, did you?”

 

“No.”

 

He turned off the grill. The sudden silence was thick as the aroma of grease and sweat that filled the narrow car. When he turned back to me, something in his face had changed. The gruff exterior was gone, suddenly replaced by newfound vulnerability.

 

Stepping close, his eyes swept up and down the empty space. "You have to help me, Cross." His voice had dropped to barely a whisper.

 

I leaned forward to meet him, asking, “Is something the matter?”

“Yes….and I’m scared.”

 

The eggs were still steaming beside me. “What is it, Gregory?” 

 

“It’s about the shots. I know who was involved…and more than that too.”

His sharp nose was now no more than a foot from my own. 

 

“My god, tell me, man. Who fired the shots?”

 

With raised eyebrows, he shot from his lips, “Mrs. Stanton!”

 

“What?! How do you know?”

 

“It’s the sandwich, Detective. When I was making it, she came into the Dining Car surprised to see me. She must have assumed I would be off-duty–as is normally the case–because when she entered, Emilia was with her…at gunpoint.”

 

“What?!”

 

“Yes. Mrs. Stanton had a gun to Emilia’s back and was ushering her toward the Baggage Car.”

 

“Did she say anything to you?”

 

“She was furious. I explained I was making a sandwich, but she told me to drop everything and return to my quarters.”

 

“Did you?”

“Yes. But not before I saw her take Emilia to the Baggage Car.”

 

“Was Emilia in good health at that point?”

 

“Oh, Detective….that’s the part that haunts me. No, she was bleeding from her nose and forehead. It looked like she had been beaten.”

 

“How appalling. Poor girl. What else can you tell me?”

 

“Only that Mrs. Stanton had a gun in one hand and was struggling with a heavy suitcase in the other.”

 

“Very strange. Do you know what she was up to?”

 

“Not the first clue, Cross.”

 

“What did you do after hearing the shots?”

 

“I stayed in the Staff Car like a good employee. Mr. and Mrs. Stanton had been arguing at dinner. I did not want to leave and risk crossing her when she was in such a foul mood–and in a foul mood with a loaded gun.”

 

“Wise. Thank you for your cooperation, Gregory. If you need anything, come find me.”

“I will, Detective.”

 

As I walked away, the sizzle of meat again filled the room.