Kristy and the Mystery Train

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Acknowledgment

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Copyright

  “No,” I said. “No way.”

  “It won’t hurt,” Linny Papadakis argued. “It’s not like anyone’s going to burn one down the middle at a hundred miles an hour.”

  “Excellent,” said eight-year-old Nicky Pike.

  His sister Claire, who is five, puckered her forehead into a ferocious frown. “I don’t want to be burned!” she cried. She paused, thought for a moment, and added, “And I don’t want to be hit, either.”

  “You’re not going to be,” I assured her quickly. Claire has been known to throw a wicked temper tantrum. “Neither is Linny. Or Nicky. Or anyone.”

  The subject was baseball — baseball and books. Linny, who’s nine, had been reading baseball books. In one of the books, he’d read about a ballplayer who used to step in front of pitches. When the pitch hit him, he’d be awarded an automatic walk to first base.

  Needless to say, this was not a strategy I wanted to practice in our league.

  What league is that? Well, I guess you could say we are in a league of our own. I’m the coach of Kristy’s Krushers, a softball team made up of kids ranging from two to nine years old, with an average age of 5.83. The skill level of our team is as broad as the age spread. We play for fun, but that doesn’t mean that we don’t take our fun seriously. At the moment, however, Linny was taking it just a little too seriously, in my opinion. And I could tell by the stubborn look in his eye that he wasn’t going to give up easily.

  Abby Stevenson, my neighbor, fellow Baby-sitters Club member (more about that in a little while), and the assistant coach of the team, said, “Good thinking, though, Linny. You really did your homework.”

  Her praise did not placate Linny. He stuck out his lower lip almost as far as Claire’s and scowled.

  It was a beautiful day in Stoneybrook, Connecticut. School was out, and summer had begun. What better way to start a summer, I had reasoned, than by doing a little of the old ballpark shuffle, bopping to some baseline boogie-woogie, taking myself out to a ballgame. So I had called a Krushers softball practice.

  “Why don’t we work on a little baserunning,” I said. We could stand to improve our base-running, and it was a good way to help the kids use up some excess energy. And maybe prevent a fight.

  Jackie Rodowsky, all heart and a pretty good softball player (in spite of the fact that he has more than earned the affectionate nickname “the Walking Disaster”), said, “Yeah! Baserunning!”

  Several other kids added enthusiastic agreement to my suggestion — but Linny remained stubbornly silent.

  I decided that once he started baserunning, he’d come around. “Linny, you run first,” I said, grabbing the bat. “Now, who wants to field the balls?”

  Several other kids flung up their hands and called, “Me, me, me!”

  In a few minutes, we had our fielders and our runners in place.

  “BatterbatterbatterbatterSWING!” chanted Abby as I raised the bat, tossed the ball in the air, and fungoed the first ball to my stepsister, Karen, at shortstop.

  Whoa. I guess I’d better go back to the beginning and give you a play-by-play.

  I’m Kristy — Kristy Thomas. I’m thirteen years old and I’m in the eighth grade at Stoneybrook Middle School. In addition to being the coach of the Krushers, I’m also president and founder of the Baby-sitters Club (keep reading for more info on that), as well as the oldest daughter in a very large blended family. In fact, I almost have enough people in my family to field an entire baseball team.

  Karen, at shortstop, is my stepfather’s daughter. She’s seven. Her younger brother (my stepbrother), Andrew, who is four, is also a Krusher, as is my younger brother, David Michael. He’s seven, too. Family members who are not on the team include my mother; my stepfather, Watson Brewer; my maternal grandmother, Nannie; my two older brothers, Charlie and Sam; my younger sister, Emily Michelle (who is adopted); our dog, Shannon; our cranky cat, Boo-Boo; other assorted pets; and our resident ghost, Ben Brewer.

  I popped a fly into right field. Nicky circled under it, lost it in the sun, and dropped it off the tip of his glove.

  “Play it out!” I called.

  But Nicky didn’t appear to hear me. He froze, glove outstretched, knees half-bent, his eyes focused on something behind me.

  Thoughts of the ghostly Ben Brewer crossed my mind. Had he come to haunt our team?

  “Nicky!” I called.

  Nicky started to trot in toward home plate. As he reached the infield, he broke into a run down the first base line.

  “Nicky? Nicky, is something —”

  “Hey!” Nicky shouted at the top of his lungs. “Hey! Hey, Derek!”

  When they heard that, the other kids turned and looked, too. Then they all broke rank, running from the field, speeding past me toward the Mercedes-Benz station wagon nudged up to the curb at the edge of the park.

  But I didn’t need to see the Benz to know the score.

  “What’s going on?” asked Abby as we jogged after our truant team.

  “It’s Derek Masters,” I said.

  Abby’s quick. She looked at the Benz, she looked at the crowd of excited kids, and she looked at me. “Derek Masters? As in, Derek Masters the kid TV and movie star?”

  “The very same,” I said. “He filmed his TV movie Little Vampires right here in good old Stoneybrook.”

  Abby raised her eyebrows. “Rats. I thought when I moved to Stoneybrook that I was the most monster star this town had ever seen.”

  I groaned and rolled my eyes. “Derek’s a star, but he’s a cool kid,” I said. By the time I reached the station wagon, the whole team had crowded around it, talking and laughing. I saw Derek’s mother at the steering wheel. She waved at me, smiling.

  “Let me out!” Derek said, laughing himself, as he tried to push open the door of the car. At last, with Nicky’s help, he managed to swing the door open and slide out.

  He and Nicky grinned at each other. Nicky has been Derek’s Stoneybrook best friend ever since Derek moved here.

  “Are you here to make another movie?” Karen asked.

  “How long can you stay?” asked Nicky.

  “You want to practice with us?” asked Claire.

  But before Derek could answer, the back door of the Benz, next to where I was standing, squeezed open. I stepped back, and another boy, who looked about Derek’s age, climbed out.

  “Are you a movie star, too?” I heard someone ask.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Everyone be quiet for just a minute and let Derek answer.”

  Derek flashed his big-screen grin. Even though he is just a kid, you can see that he has what people call star quality. “Thanks, Kristy,” he said. “Nicky, everybody, this is Greg Raskin. He and I are in school together in California. Greg, this is Nicky, my Stoneybrook best friend. And Kristy, world-famous baby-sitter. And my other Stoneybrook friends.”

  Greg might not have been a star, but he had the same sort of advanced self-confidence that Derek exhibited. He was just slightly taller than Derek, with straight brown hair cut long, almost chin length. He had brown eyes and was dressed in baggy shorts, a blindingly pur
ple T-shirt, and surf shoes.

  “Hi,” he said. “I’m glad to meet you.”

  “Are you going to play ball with us?” asked Claire again.

  Greg grinned at Claire. “I’d like to,” he said, “but I think Derek and I have other plans right now.”

  Derek nodded. “I called your house, and your mother said you guys were all here,” he said to Nicky. “So we stopped by to tell you the news.”

  “What news?” asked Karen, her blue eyes growing huge behind her glasses. “You’re going to make another TV movie in Stoneybrook?”

  Shaking his head, Derek said, “No, I’m afraid not. But I just finished a Hollywood movie. It’s called Night Train to Charleston. It’s about a murder on a train. I play a runaway who’s hidden aboard the train. I see something that proves the woman who is framed for the murder isn’t the murderer. Unfortunately, the murderer also sees me.”

  “Awesome,” said Linny.

  “I hope so,” said Derek modestly. “It’s a big part, and this is a major motion picture. Anyway, it premieres in Charleston, South Carolina, next week. And as part of the publicity for the movie, the entire cast and crew is going to ride on a special train, with sleeping cars and a dining car and everything set up to look like the one in the movie. It’s going from Boston to Charleston. We’re also going to reenact a few scenes on the train.”

  “Cool,” said Linny.

  “That’s not the best part. The best part is that I can take a couple of friends along. So I wanted you to come, Nicky.”

  “All right!” Nicky shouted. “Yyyesss!”

  “I know you’ll have to ask your parents,” Derek said. “I’ll call you tonight with all the information.”

  “That’s great, Derek,” I said.

  “I think so, too,” he said.

  Everyone started talking at once then, and Abby and I watched and listened as Derek fielded questions like a pro. After a few minutes Mrs. Masters leaned across the seat and said, “We’re on kind of a tight schedule, Derek. We better go.”

  “We’re glad you stopped by,” I said to Derek. “Nice to meet you, Greg. ’Bye, Mrs. Masters.”

  “Talk to you tonight, Derek!” said Nicky.

  Practicing softball after that wasn’t easy, and not just because all the Krushers were distracted by Derek’s visit. I have to admit, I couldn’t stop thinking about his news, either. When practice ended, I was almost glad it was over.

  As I gave everybody the postpractice pep talk and promised to schedule another practice soon, my eyes met Abby’s. I knew she and I were thinking the same thing.

  We had some very interesting news for the Wednesday meeting of the Baby-sitters Club later that afternoon.

  “This meeting of the Baby-sitters Club will now come to order, and do I have some news for you!” I said, all in one breath.

  “We, Kristy. Do we have some news for you,” Abby corrected me.

  The clock read exactly 5:30, and the seven regular members of the BSC were gathered, as usual, in Claudia Kishi’s room. Claudia is the vice-president of the BSC, one of the original members, and the only one of us who has her own telephone line.

  That’s why we meet in her room. Her phone line is our business number, which makes it easier for clients to reach us, and it also means that we don’t annoy anyone by tying up a family phone with club business.

  But I better begin at the beginning. The Baby-sitters Club (also known as the BSC) is a group of nine people (plus an honorary member) who all love to baby-sit: me; Claudia; Mary Anne Spier, our secretary; Stacey McGill, our treasurer; Abby, our alternate officer; Jessica Ramsey and Mallory Pike, our junior officers; and Shannon Kilbourne and Logan Bruno, our associate members, who take any overflow business we have. Shannon and Logan weren’t there that afternoon because associate members don’t have to attend every meeting. And our honorary member, Dawn Schafer, wasn’t there either, because she’s moved to California, where she’s in a West Coast version of the BSC called the We Kids Club. But the rest of us were present. It’s one of the rules. Regular members have to attend meetings, which are held from five-thirty until six every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon. Clients know they can reach us then to set up baby-sitting jobs, so it’s top priority for all of us to be present — unless one of us has something else important to do, such as baby-sit.

  I thought up the Baby-sitters Club one night when I was listening to my mother phone sitter after sitter, trying to find someone to take care of David Michael. That’s when it hit me: Wouldn’t it be great if parents could make just one phone call and reach several sitters all at once?

  I told my idea to my best friend, Mary Anne, and my other good friend, Claudia (we’ve all known each other practically our whole lives). Claudia told her new friend, Stacey, and we organized the BSC. It was clearly a brilliant idea (I don’t believe in false humility) because in no time we had more work than we could handle. Dawn soon joined us, followed by Logan, Mallory, Jessi, and Shannon.

  When Dawn moved back to California, we quickly realized we needed another full-time baby-sitter on board. At about the same time, Abby and her twin sister, Anna, moved in down the street from me. We asked both of them to join the BSC. Anna decided not to, but Abby accepted and became our newest member.

  Besides regular attendance at meetings, we have a few other rules. We pay dues once a week, on Mondays. The dues go toward Claudia’s phone bill, our baby-sitting supplies, and gas money for my brother Charlie, who drives Abby and me to meetings. Members also have to keep our BSC notebook up-to-date, and keep up-to-date on what’s in it. We write about each and every baby-sitting job in the notebook, and everybody reads it once a week. That way, we stay on top of changes in the lives of our regular clients — who has learned to roller-skate, or who has developed an allergy — and we can pick up new ideas and coping strategies, too.

  We also have a record book, in which we keep track of our jobs and schedules. Mary Anne is in charge of that (she’s never, ever made a mistake). Recently we began a mystery notebook, too. When we found ourselves involved in yet another mystery (while we were on what we thought would be an ordinary winter ski trip), we realized that we needed a central place to keep track of clues.

  Each BSC member also has a Kid-Kit. Kid-Kits (invented by me) are basically cardboard boxes that we decorate and fill with things such as old puzzles, books, and toys. We use some of our dues to replenish the kits as needed, adding stickers or markers or paper. We don’t take the kits to every job, but they are super icebreakers with new charges and perfect when a child is sick in bed or stuck inside due to bad weather.

  That’s about it. Pretty simple, isn’t it? We don’t need a lot of complicated rules because we are so good at what we do. In fact, we hardly ever have to try to drum up new clients. Our excellent reputation brings us all the business we can handle.

  I think one of the reasons we work so well together is that we are all so different. Our differences cause problems sometimes, but they also mean that we have fun. And we are unbeatable at solving problems (and mysteries).

  For example, Mary Anne and I are best friends and we couldn’t be more different. Physically we look similar. We are both short (actually, I’m the shortest person in our class) and have brown hair and brown eyes. And we both live in blended families.

  But I’ve always lived in a large family. My father left us when David Michael was little. Back then, we lived in a small house on Bradford Court, next door to Mary Anne and across the street from Claudia. Charlie, Sam, David Michael, and I all had to pitch in and help out, and I learned to be responsible and to speak up for myself early on.

  Not long ago, Mom met Watson Brewer. They fell in love and got married, and we moved away from Bradford Court … into a mansion. It’s true. Watson is a real, live millionaire, and his house has plenty of room for everybody.

  Mary Anne, on the other hand, lived alone with her father for many years, because her mother died when Mary Anne was a baby. Mary Anne’s f
ather was extremely strict and treated her like a child, even when she wasn’t one anymore. He insisted that she wear pigtails and little-girl jumpers, for one thing. But she finally convinced him she had begun to grow up, and he agreed to give her room to make more of her own decisions, from how she wore her hair to more important things.

  Which proves that although Mary Anne is very shy and very sensitive (unlike me), she is also stubborn (like me, as any of my friends will tell you). It wasn’t easy to make her father see that she was growing up, but she did. Now she has a trendy new haircut, a kitten named Tigger, and even a boyfriend — Logan Bruno, our fellow baby-sitter.

  She also has some new family members. Not long after Dawn Schafer moved here, she and Mary Anne discovered that Dawn’s divorced mom and Mary Anne’s widowed dad had been high school sweethearts. The girls reintroduced them, and before long, Dawn and Mary Anne became stepsisters! So Mary Anne and her dad left Bradford Court, too, to move in with Dawn and her mom.

  Now Mary Anne lives in a possibly haunted house, with a real secret passage and a barn, near the edge of town. Dawn doesn’t live there anymore, though. She realized that she missed California too much, so she went back to live with her father. We all miss Dawn, and we stay in touch as much as possible.

  Mary Anne misses Dawn the most. After all, Dawn was not only Mary Anne’s stepsister but her other best friend. I admit, I was jealous when they first became friends, but once I got to know Dawn, I couldn’t help liking her.

  Dawn is basically easygoing, though she has a stubborn side, too. She is tall and has pale blue eyes and bleach-blonde hair. She likes surfing and sunshine, has two holes pierced in each ear, and is a vegetarian. She doesn’t eat sugar or junk food very often, and she’s made us all realize how important it is to recycle and not let people wreck the environment.

  The BSC has another tall, thin, blonde, health-conscious member: Stacey. She’s our treasurer because she’s a math whiz. Her real name is Anastasia Elizabeth McGill (but you better not call her that!). She was born and raised in New York City.

  Stacey’s parents are divorced, and her father still lives in New York. Like Mary Anne, Stacey had to convince her parents to ease up on their overprotective routine. Their concern stemmed from a different cause: diabetes.