---------------------

"Which one of you killed my husband?"

The passengers aboard the Amtrak lounge car were shocked by the question. Surely he wasn't dead! No one else seemed even to be injured in the "dog pile" that resulted from a few people losing their balance as the train progressed through the tunnel. Of course, the loss of power had caused it to be pitch black inside the car. But by now the power was restored, they were out of the tunnel, and everything should have been back to normal. But a man was lying on the floor and his wife, Tami, was kneeling next to him.

"Maybe he's just unconscious," Ethel said as she touched Tami gently on the shoulder.

Tami looked up at Ethel through her tears. "He's not breathing." Ethel choked up in instant sympathy. Suddenly, at a most inappropriate time, Ethel sneezed.

"Gesundheit," was heard from an unknown source.

"Thank yo- yo- . . . Achooo!" she sneezed again. "Oh, excuse me." Ethel quickly grabbed a tissue from her pocket, then refocused. "Are you sure he's not breathing?"

A deep voice answered, "That's the way it looks." The man in the tweed jacket, Professor Gray, reached toward Tami. "I'm sorry, ma'am." As he leaned over the body, his hand brushed against George's beard. "Any pulse?" the Professor's former gin player joined him. With his tanned, callused hand, Joe gently reached for the wrist of the man on the floor. "Wait, I thought you're supposed to check for a pulse on his neck," said Wendy Kim, gracefully pushing her way through the stunned crowd. Her large red bag slid down her shoulder as she leaned in. It fell to the floor.

A tight circle was now formed around George. Tami, The Professor, Joe Wordsworth, and Wendy Kim were the close perimeter. Ethel Collins still stood with one consoling hand on Tami's shoulder and the other hand holding a tissue to her nose. Though curious, the rest of the passengers in the car quietly kept their distance. Then, one of them spoke, "Say, maybe we should stop the train. Isn't there an emergency cord to pull or something?"

The bartender answered "Stop the train? Out here in the middle of nowhere? We wonÍt be near to any towns for about . . . let's see, forty seven minutes."

The crowd was digesting that fact when their attention turned to the door. They recognized the Amtrak uniform the man entering the car was wearing.

"Hey, Pete," the man said to the bartender. He didn't have to look far to see the small circle of people, or to notice the unusually quiet crowd. "Excuse me." The train official tried to make his way into the circle, but no one seemed eager to budge.

"What happened here?"

After a very brief pause, several people started talking at once. Many were saying the same words and phrases, but not in unison. The newcomer tried to take in the explanations of a blackout, the tunnel, people falling down, and the fact that someone was believed to be dead. As he listened, he managed to get closer to the body and attempted to determine if there was any hope.

"Have you tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation?"

Tami shook her head, then glanced at the other members of the small circle. They each gave a barely audible negative response, then Joe Wordsworth said, "I'm afraid it's too late for that now." Tami suddenly stood up. "I don't feel well, I think I'd like to go to my compartment."

The assistant conductor seemed puzzled. "Just a minute. I've had a little training, and we should at least try," he said, taking hold of George's chin. But as he did, the beard on George's face shifted in his hand. "What the . . .?" he exclaimed. He pulled a little harder and the entire fake beard came off. "Look at this." He held it up, and the other passengers peeked over the small circle. They looked at the beard, then down at the face now revealed.

"Hey!" said a tall lanky man. "That's, uh, oh, what's-his-name. You know, uh . . ."

A freckled face redhead chimed in, "Oh-my-God, you're right! It is him! I saw him in person, a long time ago. He gave a workshop at our mandolin camp. Of course, he wasn't so famous then. Back then, he played a lot more than he sang. Oh, I can't believe it! And now he's . . he's . . ."

Every person on the car was staring at the unfortunate man on the floor. Many now recognized him, but the assistant train conductor was not among those who did. "Would someone, just one someone, please tell me who this is?" he asked.

The redhead took a deep breath and answered. "He's only the most famous country singer in the world. Or, was. Haven't you heard of George Jordan?"

To Be Continued