The Mysterious Woman on the Train

By Kay Williamson

David Martin is a young college professor when, on a train trip to Chicago, he realizes he is the only one able to see Rosalind La Page, a resident apparition who makes a ghostly appearance every year on the anniversary of her 1940s murder. After he arrives in Chicago, David reveals his experience to his mother, Kathleen, who tells him he is a Sensitive with a special gift. As David continues to feel Rosalinds presence, he immerses himself in learning as much as he can about her, apparitions, and other paranormal phenomena.

Through dreams and ghostly trickery, it takes Rosalind a year to prod David into investigating the unsolved murder that is keeping her earthbound. When he finally relents, David turns to his mother for help. As the amateur sleuths take on the cold case, Rosalind leads them from the mobster-land Chicago of her past to the culturally rich Austin, Texas, rampant with promises of the future. But as time ticks away, David and Kathleen soon realize that the case may be more difficult to solve than they ever imagined.

The Mysterious Woman on the Train shares the intriguing story of a college professors quest to solve a cold case murder, with help from a ghostly victim and a cast of colorful characters.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 18, 2009
• ISBN: 9781440162060

Kay Williamson

Kay has been published in various literary anthologies, a national magazine, and served as Feature Editor of East Carolina University's weekly newspaper for two years. A former elementary teacher, Kay and her husband, Don, reside in Florida and the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

Book preview

Chapter 1

M y name is David Martin. I teach American literature and creative writing at a college in Oak Crest, Wisconsin. On December 6, I was about to celebrate my thirty-second birthday, and I set out on a journey to Chicago to visit my mother.

M y condo is one hundred and eighty miles from Chicago, and because I hate to drive in that truck and auto infested city, I usually take the train. Now it’s been more than two years since I encountered the mysterious woman on the Chicago and North Western. I’m constantly amazed at all that has happened.

O n the train that day, I brought reading material to keep me entertained for the two-hour trip. Almost an hour had passed before I glanced up from my book and observed a beautiful woman slipping into the aisle seat next to the door. Wearing an elegant black suit, a white silk blouse, black heels, and a black pillbox hat with a veil touching the bridge of her nose, she held her shoulders back in perfect posture. Her auburn hair fell to her shoulders in a pageboy cut, and her lips glistened with ruby red lipstick. Noting her entire outfit seemed reminiscent of the nineteen forties, the thought occurred to me that this interesting-looking woman must enjoy wearing vintage clothing. And I could understand why because she looked great in them.

F ascinated, I watched her open her purse and pull out a magazine. " The Silver Screen ," I mumbled, remembering that I’d seen a copy of that forties magazine in my grandfather’s attic. I smiled inwardly, thinking, that gorgeous creature may be carrying this vintage lifestyle a bit far! " I stared at her for a minute then peered around the car to check on the other passengers. I thought it odd that no one seemed to be paying any attention to the provocative beauty dressed in fifty-year-old attire. I picked up my book and pretended to read while stealing glances at the woman who had captivated me.

S he absently turned a few pages then got up suddenly, leaving the magazine in her seat.

M y heartbeat raced like a love-struck teenager’s. Acting like a complete fool, I couldn’t prevent myself from leaping out of my seat and following her.

I tried not to be obvious when I entered the smoking car, so I sat down in a lounge chair two chairs away from her. At that time, I smoked, and I reached for a package of Marlboros from my coat pocket. I lit up and watched her out of the corner of my eye.

S he pulled an expensive-looking silver case from her purse, took out a cigarette, and flicked her silver, jeweled-encrusted lighter.

I wondered if a boyfriend had given her the case and lighter then felt a bit angry with myself when I felt the green-eyed monster gnawing on my insides. I blew a few smoke rings and tried to appear sophisticated. I desperately wanted to strike up a conversation, but I felt tongue-tied. Her eyes weren’t blinking, and I noticed her faraway expression. I could feel something eerie happening, yet I couldn’t put my finger on it. Once again, I scanned the car and noticed no one observing her. Befuddled, I couldn’t understand why I seemed to be the only man in the car who found this gorgeous woman fascinating.

S uddenly, she stood, stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray, and sauntered towards the door. I decided to wait a minute before leaving, as I didn’t want her to think I might be following her. My nerves tingled with excitement. I felt like an actor playing the part of a detective in a movie mystery.

M oments later, I re-entered my car and took my original seat. Continuing my vigil, I noticed the conductor approaching. Much to my surprise, he passed over the mysterious woman as though he hadn’t seen her, and he collected the ticket from the passenger next to her.

T hen something unbelievable happened. The woman I’d been surreptitiously watching, crumpled to the floor and simply disappeared! For a split second, it felt like hundreds of tiny spiders were crawling up and down my spine. Chilled to the bone, I stood up yelling and pointing to the spot where she’d fallen. She’s gone. The woman in that seat just disappeared. Didn’t anyone else see her? Oh, my God, I thought. They think I’m hallucinating. Maybe I am! Terrified of what I’d seen and afraid the conductor might think me crazy, I sat down and glanced around at the shocked expressions on the faces of the surrounding passengers. One man placed his arm around the woman sitting next to him as if to shield her from me.

T he conductor rushed to my side and patted my arm reassuringly. It’s okay, son, he said. Don’t be afraid. It’s only Rosalind La Page. It’s the anniversary of her death. Killed, she was, in that seat on December 6, 1946—shot by a slight man wearing a long black coat, sunglasses, and a hat pulled down low over his face. He escaped by jumping from the platform connecting the next car. The police searched but never caught up with him. I understand it’s an unsolved case. Her ex-husband, suspected of being a small-time Chicago mobster, was and still is the prime suspect…though he could be dead by now since it’s been fifty years since the murder. You see we always keep Rosalind’s seat empty on the anniversary of her death, and once in a while a person can see her ghost. You must have the gift, son.

The gift? My ears echoed the pounding of my heart. The thought that I might be able to see another ghost at another time seemed almost as frightening as what I’d just witnessed.

T he conductor pronounced, Several newspaper reporters have interviewed the passengers who have seen Rosalind. Would you like to get in touch with one?

No! No thank you. The sooner I forget the experience the better. Look, I think I could use a drink. I believe I’ll go back to the club car. Thanks for telling me about Rosalind. People were staring at me curiously, and I wanted to get away as fast as I could.

B ack in the club car, I no longer had a beautiful woman to intrigue me. I raised my glass in a silent toast, leaned back, and closed my eyes. The vision of Rosalind crumpling over and disappearing would not go away. I had a strong feeling the vision would always be with me.

T hough I didn’t order another drink, I remained in the club car in a semi-stupor until the train arrived in Chicago. Somehow it didn’t surprise me to see foreboding black skies and cold drizzling rain when I stepped off the platform. The atmosphere seemed to fit my presentiment.

A fter hailing a taxi at the train station, I tried in vain to pull myself together. I could never hide anything from my understanding and intelligent mother, Kathleen. I expected she would most certainly pick up on my peculiar mood.

By the time I arrived at her condo, I’d made up my mind to confess all. My dad died shortly after my birth, and since I am her only child, I could hope she’d not scoff and threaten to lock me away.

M other received me warmly with a birthday greeting and a tight hug. She took my overcoat then sat me down in front of the warm, glowing fire.

Now, David, she said with a sympathetic look. Tell me what this is all about. Has someone broken your heart at last?

M y mother has uncanny ESP. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that I have what the conductor called the gift. No, Mom, I sighed. I don’t have a broken heart. I’m sorry to say I don’t even have a steady girlfriend.

Then what is it, dear?

R eluctant to begin my incredible story, I played for time. Yes, I did have a rather unsettling experience on the train. Would you mind fixing me a vodka and tonic? I forced a smile. I think you might want one for yourself also. I needed a bit of alcoholic courage before I recounted my ghost story.

M other’s eyebrows elevated a fraction. You relax. I’ll be right back.

I gazed into the burning embers and tried to think of sunny days on my grandfather’s farm, but Rosalind’s beautiful face kept appearing.

Here you are, David. Mom handed over my drink and held hers up for a toast. Here’s to another successful teaching year and someone just right for you entering your life.

Thanks, Mom. I took a large gulp and thought about her toast. Someone had entered my life, all right, but I’m not sure my mother would approve of Rosalind. I watched her settle down in her favorite chair in front of the fire.

I drew a deep breath and plunged in. Do you believe in ghosts?

Why do you ask, David? Have you seen one?

H er expression appeared serious, and she wasn’t making fun of me, so I felt a bit more courageous. I looked directly at her and managed a wobbly smile. As a matter of fact, I have. I encountered a beautiful ghost on the train this afternoon, and I’m still in shock.

S he grinned. Oh? Since it is December sixth, I bet you witnessed the murder of Rosalind La Page.

H er remark shocked me almost as much as Rosalind’s ghost. Mom, you mean you know about Rosalind’s ghostly appearance on the train every year on the anniversary of her murder?

Actually, I read a lengthy article about Rosalind in last Sunday’s paper. Knowing you were taking that particular train, I wondered if you or someone might see her. How excited you must have been. She settled back in her chair. Do tell me all about it.

S urprised at my mother’s calm reaction, I gave her an account of my ghostly train ride, and once again felt tiny spiders crawling up and down my spine. I noticed my glass slightly shaking as I brought it to my lips. Going through the details of my macabre experience had once again unnerved me.

How very interesting, David, and especially the conductor’s comment about you having the gift. She pursed her lips then said, Perhaps you have."

I had to restrain myself from jumping up and waving my arms. What on earth do you mean? I can’t believe you believe in ghosts, psychics, mediums, or any of that ridiculous stuff. (I would have used the crap word, but avoided it out of respect). You’ve never mentioned those subjects, and I’ve certainly never given any credence to any of that…that malarkey! The chills down my spine had been replaced with leaping tongues of anger. I didn’t want any part of any psychic gift.

M om reached over and patted my leg. David, I know your reaction to your experience is scary, and I’m sure anyone would feel unnerved and puzzled. But do you realize what you’ve just said? You’ve just proclaimed you don’t believe in something you actually experienced. Does that make sense?

A s usual, my mother could analyze a problem and present it to me without making me feel too much like the fool I can sometimes be. I sighed. I know, Mom. No doubt I’m in denial, but I do not want to believe even for a moment that I have special gifts, whatever that means!

It means you are a Sensitive and can see what most people can’t. I’d think you might be grateful to know you have that rare quality.

I slapped my forehead and hoped it might jar some rare quality right out of my head. Mom, you can’t be serious. And if I am a Sensitive, why haven’t I had other ghostly experiences?

S he glanced at the ceiling for a few seconds. You most likely haven’t had those experiences because you haven’t been in the presence of an apparition.

I finished the rest of my drink and set my glass on the coffee table. Folding my arms defensively, I glared at my sweet mother. You seem to know a lot about the paranormal, Mom. When did you develop such an interest? I noticed her proverbial cat-that-swallowed-the-canary expression.

I hate to shock you further, David, but your grandfather was a Sensitive.

T his time I did jump up from my seat, and standing with my back to the fireplace, I wagged my finger. Then why in God’s name haven’t you mentioned all this to me before?

There are many reasons, but mainly because I didn’t want to upset you if you didn’t have the gift. Why make you uncomfortable from being on the lookout for apparitions? I know this is all upsetting, but I think in time you’ll get used to—

Stop! If I hear those two words again, I think I’ll scream! Watching copious tears threatening to spill, guilt spread through me like scorching embers from a high school bonfire. I rushed over and pulled her up from her chair. Hugging her tightly, I whispered, I’m so sorry. I’m taking out my anger and frustration on you. It’s not your fault. You had no control over my genetic pool. I pulled back and smiled down at her. Well, actually you did, but you couldn’t help it. I wonder what a psychic cell looks like. I hoped my little joke would make her smile.

T he joke worked. She smiled back and said, That’s an interesting question. Perhaps we can find the answer on the Internet!

Will you forgive me, Mom? I can be such a jerk at times. You’re the best mother any son could ask for. And I really meant those words.

S he squeezed my arm. There’s nothing to forgive. I understand your frustration.

Good. Now, let’s drop this conversation for the time being. What have you planned for this evening?

H er eyes instantly lit up. Since it’s your birthday, I thought we’d go to your favorite restaurant.

You mean The Bon Bon?

Yes, and we have a reservation for seven. Since you’re wearing your good suit, you won’t have to change. However, I do.

I glanced at my watch. You get ready. I’ll relax here by the fire.

Okay. I won’t be long.

S till feeling miserable, I sat down and gazed at the fire. This time a vision of my grandfather appeared in the embers. I pointed my finger at him. So you passed the gift on to me, huh? And all those years I thought you were perfectly normal. Suddenly, I knew I’d never feel normal again.

T houghts of my grandfather surfaced. I had adored the huge, kind man, who was widowed. After my mother and I moved to Chicago, I spent most of my summers on his large farm. When he died, eight years ago, he left us with an empty space in our hearts and a sizable sum in our bank accounts. Mother quit her high school teaching position, bought a nice condo, and now spends most of her time volunteering at various charities and taking college courses. There was enough money for me to complete my doctorate with enough left over for a sizable savings account. I still missed him. I had a million questions to ask about my grandfather and his psychic gifts, but I dreaded to hear the answers.

28514.png

I sat across the table from my mother at the exclusive Bon Bon restaurant, savoring the flavors of my asparagus berry salad. I particularly like this restaurant because of its reputation for excellent food, atmosphere, and decadent desserts. I suddenly felt lucky. Though I had been raised without a father, my mother had played the part of both mother and father with the help of my grandfather. They had showered me with love and attention and tried to instill good values. Mother’s voice broke my reverie.

You seem a million miles away, dear. Are you thinking about Rosalind?

Actually, I was thinking about how lucky I am. You and Grandpa treated me much better than I probably deserved.

S he grinned. Stop feeling guilty about this afternoon, David.

I grabbed my napkin and took a swipe at the salad dressing drizzling down my chin. I wasn’t feeling guilty—just grateful to be sitting in my favorite restaurant awaiting my piece of six-layer chocolate cake. Do you know when this restaurant opened?

M om appeared pensive for a moment. I believe it was built in the thirties. The first owner was a member of a mob, but the restaurant has changed hands and has been remodeled several times. Why do you ask?

I didn’t want to tell my mother I’d just experienced an eerie feeling and felt Rosalind’s presence might be looming in the background. I’m just curious. Do you suppose there were ever any mob killings on the premises—you know with machine guns spraying bullets into the unfortunate people eating from fine silver and china?

David, have you been looking at those old movies on TV again?

I confess I have. Somehow I’m drawn to those old thirties and forties movies. I held up my hand. Now don’t try to make anything out of that. I swear to you I’m not a reincarnated mobster.

M other laughed. I’m glad you’re developing a sense of humor about the many aspects of parapsychology.

I’m trying! I lifted my champagne glass and forced myself not to drain every drop. I didn’t want my mother to know how frightened I felt. Appreciative to be surrounded by people, I glanced around the room and realized I no longer felt Rosalind’s presence. Could it be the champagne? Perhaps alcohol prohibited ghosts from contacting people. I could lose my teaching position if I stayed on a champagne drunk for any length of time. I suppose I’d have to learn to deal with my ghostly problems in a sober state; but not tonight!

You seem far away again, David.

I didn’t want to answer so I changed the subject. In the lobby, I noticed a guest register. I’ve never noticed it before. Has it always been there?

Yes, I believe so.

I wonder how far back it goes.

M other shook her head. I don’t know. If you’re interested, we could take a look on our way out. Does this have anything to do with Rosalind?

O nce again the marching spiders chilled my spine. If this kept up, I’d have to start carrying a hot water bottle or a thermos of hot coffee. Yes, my interest in the register does have something to do with Rosalind, I told my mother. If the register goes back to the forties, Rosalind’s signature could be there and perhaps her husband’s also.

According to the article in the newspaper, Rosalind took back her maiden name after her divorce from Rodger Paoletti, who was suspected as being a small-time mobster.

T he waiter approached with our food. For once, I preferred to drink instead of eat, but I didn’t wish to upset my mother. I inhaled the tantalizing aroma of stuffed pork tenderloin, hoping it would perk my appetite.

28523.png

A n hour later, I swallowed the last bite of my six-layered chocolate cake. It was as delicious as I remembered. Probably because I’d threatened to disown her if she had, Mom mercifully had not instructed the waiter to sing Happy Birthday .

S he picked up the check and grinned. You’re worth every penny.

Pretty steep, huh? I suppose we could buy fifty or more TV dinners at the same cost.

M other pulled out her credit card from her purse. You’ve hit it pretty close.

Okay, I’m treating you here on your birthday.

B efore she could answer, a tall, still-handsome, graying middle-aged man stopped at the table. Kathleen, how nice to see you, he said. His smile revealed beautiful white teeth. They appeared to be his own.

Hello, Tom. I’d like for you to meet my son, David. David, this is Tom Scott.

I shook Tom’s offered hand, wondering if he might be a special friend of mother’s. She’d always been a bit secretive about her relationships with men, though I was never sure why. Glad to meet you, Tom.

Nice to meet you, too, David. Your mother has spoken about you often. She’s immensely proud of you, you know.

I could feel myself blushing and didn’t know quite how to answer. Thanks. I’m extremely proud of my mother also.

And so you should be, Tom answered, turning towards my mother. I’ll see you in class, Kathleen. Hope to see you again, David, he said, walking away.

I grinned and rolled