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His wife suddenly perked up. “Are you one of those, oh-what-do-they-call-them? Archaeologists? You know, the ones who are discovering all those tombs over in Egypt? Oh dear, what do they call that place—?”
“Valley of the Kings,” her husband supplied, but then pointed out, “Obviously, if he were he would be over there in Egypt rather than on this train.”
She pursed her lips, but ignored him to wait expectantly for Sam’s answer.
“‘Fraid not, ma’am.” Sam grinned with falsehood and said, “Nothin’ nearly as valuable.” At this last remark he shot a glance at the woman across from him, ignoring the fact Harold Radford sat waiting for him to continue.
“Interesting,” Harold finally said, clearing his throat and apparently unaware of Sam’s obvious interest in his copper-haired companion.
Sam took advantage of the lull in the conversation to finally ask her, “I’m sorry, ma’am, you look awfully familiar. Have we met before?”
Her jaw twitched, showing his words alarmed her, but the eyes she momentarily darted in his direction, were lifeless. As cold as ice.
That was it, he thought. That was what they resembled. They were as cold as blue ice.
“No.”
One word. Hardly enough to detect an Irish accent. Which wasn’t necessary as it turned out he received all the confirmation he required from Allison Radford.
“I hardly think so, Mr. Michalski. Moira James has been in Canada only a short time. She emigrated from Ireland recently.”
Moira James? Well that didn’t surprise him. He hardly expected the notorious killer to walk around using her own alias. He feigned surprise which he could have saved for the woman, Moira, didn’t bother looking his way.
“How do you like this side of the pond?”
He was just a little surprised when she chose to ignore him. Not the friendliest creature. Or, apparently, big on decorum.
Sliding his attention to Allison Radford, he wondered what she thought of the woman’s lack of manners. However, she suddenly appeared more interested in the cleanliness of her silverware than the lack of civility of her companion.
“Where is it you originate, Mr. Michalski?” Harold asked.
“Sam, please.” He smiled at the man. “I’m a native of Oklahoma.”
“That would explain the hat,” he commented, eyeing the garment still perched on Sam’s head with disdain. “Out here in the East we generally remove our hats at the dinner table.”
Sam paused, then with a sarcastic twitch of his lip, reached up and removed the offending garment. “My apologies. Not use to such chivalry where I come from.”
“Perfectly understandable.”
Sam didn’t allow the underhanded insult to ruffle him. “So, where you folks from?”
“Toronto.”
“Fine town.”
“A city, Mr. Michalski,” Harold corrected.
“Right.” Sam nodded, then glanced back at the woman across from him. Her attention still glued to the window. “Where you folks headin’?”
“Calgary.”
Sam’s brow rose. “What’s out there?”
“I’ve accepted a solicitor post in a very prestigious law firm.”
“Ah, you’re a lawyer.” How convenient. “What kind?”
“I specialize in real estate.” He reached into his vest pocket and retrieved a card. “If you’re in the market for property, I’ll be happy to represent you.”
