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suppose we could use an extra body.’ Now to Riordan. ‘Though I have to tell you, it’s not going to be glamorous. You’d be less consultant, and more go-fer.’
    Riordan looked thrilled at the prospect of becoming 'an extra body,' lackey-level or not. But before she could answer, Art Jenada, close personal friend that he was, walked over and clapped Chitown on the shoulder. ‘Gotta go, but hope to see you around, Ward.’
    ‘Oh, same. Definitely.’
    Art, computer under his arm, headed around the corner toward the platform door or maybe the restroom. Our neighbor’s prostate had been giving him fits lately and he seemed to spend more time in the men's room than the shop itself. Just the week before, I'd nearly locked Art in at closing-time, thinking he'd gone when he'd merely been going. And going and going.
    Deirdre Doty set her empty cup on the counter. ‘That was wonderful, Ms Thorsen. And it did warm me right up.’
    The parka she still was wearing inside the seventy-two degree store might have had something to do with it, too.
    Deirdre Doty might not be a fashionista, but I liked her. Chitown talked a good game, but I sensed it was this woman who got things done.
    ‘Please, call me Maggy,’ I said, clearing her cup. ‘And it was a pleasure.’
    ‘Same here. Ward –’ she turned to her boss – ‘I need to make some calls and it will be easier from the hotel. If I take the car, can you get a lift?’
    Both Kate McNamara and Elaine Riordan lit up like incoming runways at a rural airport.
    ‘That’s not a problem,’ Kate started.
    ‘I’d be more than happy to drive you,’ Riordan said, then hesitated. ‘We’d just have to walk to my car at the Historical Society. Or maybe I could go get it and—’
    ‘Well, good then,’ Doty said and took her leave, jingling out our front door.
    The platform door opened simultaneously, probably Art Jenada finally leaving. But, as a result, cold air again roared through the temporary wind tunnel.
    Bringing with it, an unfiltered version of our atmospheric enemy.
    The now undeniable smell of decaying flesh.
     

Chapter Four
    ‘Maybe it’s the missing concierge,’ Sarah muttered as we trailed Ward Chitown, Kate McNamara and Elaine Riordan out onto the platform to investigate.
    At Chitown’s suggestion.
    ‘ Consigliere ,’ I corrected. ‘And thirty-year-old bodies don’t smell much.’
    ‘You’d be surprised. I dated this one guy when I was twenty-seven. He didn’t believe in showering and—’
    I held up my hand. Amazingly, for once, it silenced her. ‘Smells to me like this godawful odor is coming from beneath our feet. Sarah, how do we get under the depot? Maybe a crawlspace?’
    I assumed there wasn’t a full basement or cellar under the depot because I’d never seen an interior depot door that could lead to one. Which, in itself, was fairly unusual in Wisconsin. The snow and ice, freeze and thaw of bitter winter weather required building footings to be safely below the frost line – four feet in our part of the state. Once at that depth, you might as well dig another yard or so and have a basement for protection against our other deadly weather fiend, the tornado.
    Sarah and I were still standing on the loading platform. The other three had taken a right and gone down steps that led to a sidewalk and eventually to the parking lot behind our depot.
    Immediately in front of us were train tracks and, to our left, the platform morphed into a quaint, railed porch that wrapped around on the building, streetside.
    In spring and summer, patrons would be seated outside here enjoying our food and drinks. Now, though, the tables and chairs were interlinkingly chained by twisted steel cable, like we were afraid they’d escape. Or, more likely on a day like this one, be blown miles away.
    I shivered as a gust of wind out of the north scoured my face. The good news was that my face included my nose, and the fresh air alleviated the smell for a moment.