Kristy and the Mystery Train by Ann M. Martin

Author:Ann M. Martin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.
Published: 2015-11-08T05:00:00+00:00

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“So Rock Harding was locked out of the editing room. Reeltime magazine said that it was because his last few movies were duds and the producers of this movie didn’t want to take any chances. So Rock will do anything it takes to make sure this flick flies, because if it tanks, then he’ll never eat lunch in Hollywood again.”

It was a little after seven-thirty and we’d just finished dinner. Stacey was filling me in on Rock Harding, the director of Night Train to Charleston. I’d already heard about “Atlantic’s Antics,” the gossip column Jane Atlantic wrote for the New York Arrow, and how most of Hollywood hated and feared her. She supposedly knew all kinds of secrets about the rich and famous, which was the reason that she was the only reporter permitted actually to stay on board the Mystery Train for the whole trip, and in her own compartment in one of the sleeping cars, while the other reporters were allowed to board only for short rides or to pick up interviews and photo opportunities at prearranged stops along the way. I’d also heard about Mr. Pierce’s big break, selling the script of Night Train after years of teaching. And more about Benjamin Athens’s habit of trashing hotel rooms. He apparently thought it was all a big joke.

I wondered if smoke bombs fell into the same category for him.

We weren’t just gossiping. We were trying to figure out who was behind the increasingly nasty incidents that were plaguing the train. Rock, who would do anything to make his movie a success? Did he think of rubber hands and smoke bombs and anonymous threats as good publicity stunts? Or was Anne Arbour being overzealous in her job as publicist? Were Rock and Anne in it together?

Maybe Jane had manufactured everything so she’d have scoops for her column. Maybe her antics weren’t just confined to the printed page.

I heard shrieks and laughter coming from the middle of the club car and deduced that the game Abby was playing with Derek and his friends, which involved trying to flip a game piece into a little cup in the middle of the board before making a move, was not easy on a moving train, and was a perfect distraction. The boys, at least, seemed relatively unfazed by what was going on.

We were huddled in a window seat in one corner of the club car, taking a break from baby-sitting while Abby kept an eye on Derek and his friends. Since we were technically gossiping, we were naturally whispering. Maybe that’s why we jumped about a mile when a voice from above us said, “Hello. You’re Kristy, right? And … Stacey?”

“Uh, right,” I said, hoping he hadn’t overheard us — not that Mr. Pierce was a suspect. Unless he was a better actor than anyone else on the train, he’d been genuinely terrified when we’d been trapped in the sleeping car. “Hi, Mr. Pierce.”

Mr. Pierce smiled. I was relieved. Clearly, he hadn’t heard us.

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