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George Jordan? Once again, the passengers in the lounge car were stunned. What a trip this was turning into! They had endured a total blackout on a train speeding through a long tunnel and the shock of someone dying during that blackout. And now it turned out that the deceased and possibly murdered man was a very famous country singer and mandolinist.

Ethel Collins could not believe it. This was the second time she had seen a famous mandolinist die. The first time had been at her very own boarding house. It had taken her a long time to get over the death of Giuseppe Tremolorio. She was just beginning to feel that things were back to normal when she decided to make this train trip. "I think I had better sit down," she said to no one in particular.

The Amtrak official took a cue from her. "Good idea. Let's all get comfortable. I don't think anyone should leave this car."

His words stopped Tami at the door. She turned back to him and sobbed, "but I can't stay another second! I have to get out of here!"

"I'm very sorry ma'am. Very sorry, but please, I must ask you to stay."

Ethel chided herself. She had been thinking only of herself, while this young lady had lost her husband. Ethel's energy returned with a motherly instinct as she hopped back up and went to Tami.

"You poor dear, I can't imagine how hard this must be for you." She gently took Tami's elbow and guided her to a small table. The rocking motion of the train caused both ladies to miss a step, and Tami landed hard in the chair. As she did, she caught her breath and seemed about to reach down to the floor. Ethel suddenly sneezed again, and Tami sat still.

Ethel said, "Oh, excuse me. I'll bring you a glass of water." As she walked the short distance to the bar, her foot slipped out from under her. If she had not been so close to the bar, she would have fallen down. "Oh, dear, what was that? Ethel peered down at the floor. She saw what looked like a piece of thin, round metal. She started to reach for it, but it rolled away as the train went around a curve. So, she turned her attention back to caring for Tami.

As soon as Tami seemed settled, the questions started. The Amtrak official apologetically asked if she was indeed the wife of the deceased. Was he really the most famous country singer in the world? Why was he wearing a beard? Why wasn't he on a private jet instead of a train? Did she know why anyone would want to kill him? Had he received any threats?

Tami slowly sipped water as the questions came. Her sobbing had stopped, yet she provided no answers. It was the redhead, a dedicated fan, who filled in the blanks.

"George Jordan may not have been the most famous country singer in the world, but he was on his way. He had to wear a disguise in public, or he would have been pestered by mobs of fans. He never flew, he was scared to death of planes, but he liked trains. I can't believe I didn't recognize him sooner, even with the beard and hat. I met him a long time ago, before he was famous, at a mandolin camp, and I have all his CDs. Remember his first big hit? "I'll Take the Thorns If You'll Be My Rose." But I can't imagine why anyone would want to kill him!" She stopped to take a breath.

The Amtrak official looked at his pocket watch and sighed. "Still over half an hour before we reach the next town. Let's get as much information as possible. First of all, was anyone else acquainted with George Jordan? I mean, other than hearing him on the radio?" He looked around the car and saw only blank faces. As he looked at Joe he said, "Or his wife?"

Joe averted his eyes for a second, then looked back and said, "What do you mean by that?"

"It was just a simple question, Mr. . . ?"

"Wordsworth. Joe Wordsworth."

"Mr. Wordsworth. You were kneeling next to Mrs. Jordan when I arrived. And so were you." He looked at the petite woman in the striking dress. She clung to the large red bag over her right shoulder. "And you," He pointed to the professor.

"How do you do? I am Dr. Gray, professor of music history."

"And I'm Wendy Kim. Perhaps you've heard of me? I design clothes."

A look of surprise appeared on the official's face. "Yeah, I have heard of you. My wife is always dieting, saying she will buy an original Wendy Kim when she loses 10 more pounds. Glad to meet you, I'm William Billingsway. But you can call me Bill."

Bill extended his hand for a handshake. Wendy accepted, but as she shook his hand, her bag slid down off her shoulder. She was struggling with it when a sudden jolt of the train caused her to lose her footing. The bag fell to the floor, some of it's contents spilling out. A ball of thin, shiny yarn rolled out. One end was attached to something inside the bag. The rest it took life of it's own as it careened around under tables, unravelling as it rolled. Several people, though trying to help, made matters worse by getting some of it caught around their ankles and in their shoe buckles. It was soon a multi-colored tangled mess.

Bill reached for the bag, saying to Wendy,"Here, let me help you with that. Maybe we can untangle it from this end."

The designer's reaction was unexpectantly harsh. "No! Don't!" She pulled the bag away.

"Oh, excuse me. What's the matter. Do you have secret designs in there? Think I'm some kind of industrial design spy?"

The attempt at humor did not get the desired result. The people trying to untangle themselves from the yarn stopped and stared when Wendy Kim replied coldly, "It's my bag. Don't touch it!"

To Be Continued