Destination Murder (11 page)

“Have you received the results of the autopsy yet?” I asked.

“Not yet,” he answered, starting to pace. “I’m talking to everyone who witnessed Mr. Blevin’s death. So please don’t feel I’m singling you out.”

“I understand.”

“I just want to go over what it was you saw and heard to make you suspect a poisoning. And I’d also like you to give me an idea of the relationships you’ve observed, those you think might have had a grudge against the deceased.”

I noticed that he avoided using the word “victim.”

“I can only tell you what people have said to me, but I don’t want to throw suspicion on anyone. After all, you’re not even sure a murder has taken place, are you?”

“That remains to be seen.”

“My argument, exactly. I’m uncomfortable pointing fingers.”

I watched as he walked back and forth like a lion trapped in a too small cage. He was a man who found it difficult to hold still. Perhaps the act of moving paralleled the pace of his thinking. He stopped briefly and looked at me, his broad shoulders hunched forward, fists shoved in his jacket pockets.

“Let’s just stick to what you saw and what you heard before Mr. Blevin became ill.”

“All right. I walked into the party late, after it had already started.” I described for him how Alvin Blevin had introduced me to members of the Track and Rail Club, how he’d made his announcements to the crowd, and how he’d insisted I try Callie’s Bloody Mary. I stopped and felt myself grow pale.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you feel well?”

“I just realized that one of the drinks Alvin Blevin consumed might have been originally meant for me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I mean, he was intent upon my sampling the drink Callie is famous for. I had said I’d just as soon have a glass of wine, but he was insistent. When the waiter brought the drinks on the tray, there were two glasses, one with wine and the other a Bloody Mary. Mr. Blevin pushed the Bloody Mary into my hands, but Mrs. Blevin was adamant that I have the wine.” I shivered. “I drank the wine, and he drank the Bloody Mary.”

“Do you think that was what caused him to get sick?” he asked.

I barely heard the question. How close had I come to swallowing the drink intended for Alvin Blevin? To being poisoned myself? My heart beat rapidly and I felt a cold sweat coming on.

“How well do you know the people on this train, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Except for Reggie Weems, I never met any of them before a few days ago.” I pulled a handkerchief out of my jacket pocket and patted my brow. “I can’t imagine that
I
was the intended victim. It makes no sense.”

“I agree,” he said.

“I think I’d like to sit down.”

“Please. I didn’t mean to be rude. I just think better on my feet. Why don’t you sit here?” He led me to an upholstered barrel chair, and I sat slowly, retracing in my mind the sequence of events of the afternoon in question.

“You know,” I said, “Benjamin also brought him a drink.”

“How many drinks did Mr. Blevin consume?”

“I’m not sure. He had a half-empty glass when I arrived, and he took the Bloody Mary from the waiter’s tray, and Benjamin—that’s his stepson—gave him another. I only saw him sip one, however. Later, when he was lying on the floor, I overheard his wife say to him that three drinks were too much. So perhaps he drank them all, but I can’t say for sure.”

“What was his demeanor before he became ill? Was he in a good mood, a bad mood?”

“He seemed very cheerful to me.” I concentrated on the scene and began to let go of the tension that had gripped me at the prospect of having escaped death by poison. “The others around him seemed to be cheerful as well, although when Mr. Blevin tried to make up with Hank Crocker, Mr. Crocker rebuffed him.”

Marshall took a step back so he could see into the front half of the car, where the Crockers had been seated. “They’re gone,” he said. “Tell me about that.”

“Mr. Blevin said three years was a long time to hold a grudge. Mr. Crocker responded that Blevin was getting away with murder and then walked off.”

“What was he was referring to?”

“I haven’t the faintest notion,” I said. “I have no firsthand knowledge of their history. Reggie Weems told me only that Hank Crocker objected to the way Alvin Blevin ran the club and together with others had instituted a lawsuit against him. You’ll have to ask Reggie—or Hank—for more details.”

He pulled a spiral pad from his breast pocket and made a note in it. “What about the other passengers at the party? I heard he got into a fight with someone.”

“If he did, I didn’t witness it, unless they were referring to his altercation with Winston Rendell.”

“What happened there?”

“It was strange. People were socializing. Then, without any provocation I was aware of, Blevin began yelling at Rendell to get out of his way. That was the first symptom, really. But it wasn’t until he complained about the noise that I began to suspect something was really wrong.”

“How’s that?”

“Well,” I said, thinking back to what I’d learned about strychnine poisoning, “it takes about ten to twenty minutes before the effects of the poison show up. Restlessness, irritability, and anxiety are early symptoms.”

“Really, Mrs. Fletcher, there are many reasons why a person could be irritable that have nothing to do with poison,” he said.

“You’re right, of course. At first I didn’t think anything of his confrontation with Winston Rendell, except perhaps that Blevin was a very rude individual. But later, when he talked about it being too noisy, I began to suspect foul play. Sensitivity to light and sounds are hallmarks of strychnine poisoning. And his convulsions were practically by the book.”

“You told me before that you used strychnine in one of your mysteries. What made you choose that particular poison?”

“It’s not a difficult substance to obtain, really. It’s a common rodenticide.”

He raised an eyebrow at me.

“Gardeners use it,” I said, “for killing mice or rats or moles.”

“Wouldn’t someone taste that in his drink?”

“Not if the drink had a really strong flavor of its own. Callie’s Bloody Marys certainly qualify there. Blevin himself commented on how spicy they were.”

He thought for a moment before asking, “What do you know about that couple from the South, Mr. and Mrs. Pinkeye?”

“I think you’re being funny, Detective. Their name is Pinckney,” I said. “Maeve and Junior.”

He ducked his head, but I caught a hint of a grin. “Yes, the Pinckneys. I asked the husband for his real name, and it was something like Beauregard Jubal Pickett Pinckney, Jr. ‘Junior’ is easier.”

“No doubt,” I said. “He certainly is a rabid fan of railroads. I don’t think he’s left his post at the open door in the vestibule except to eat.”

“So I’ve noticed. He told me Mr. Blevin was quite the ladies’ man.”

“Really?”

“He said something along the lines of no woman being safe in the deceased’s company.”

“I hadn’t heard that,” I said. “Blevin was certainly a handsome man, very sure of himself. Rich and powerful, too. I wouldn’t be surprised that some women would be attracted to him.”

Marshall grunted, and I took that to mean he agreed.

He stood at the rear window, his back to me, and looked out at the tracks growing narrow behind us. My mind wandered. He reminded me in some ways of my dear friend from London, George Sutherland, a Scotland Yard inspector I’d met many years earlier when in England as a guest of the then reigning queen of mystery writers, Dame Marjorie Ainsworth. I’d been Marjorie’s weekend houseguest when she was brutally stabbed to death in her bed, and Inspector Sutherland was dispatched to the scene. We’d gotten to know each other during that investigation and had remained fond friends ever since, interested perhaps in more, although neither of us had taken steps to advance that possibility.

I’m always curious about people’s lives outside their work. Detective Marshall had bought gifts for his grandchildren. I wondered what this RCMP detective’s life was like when he wasn’t investigating murders in British Columbia. Did he have a wife? Did they discuss his cases over dinner or on Sunday drives?

He turned and for the first time gave me a soft smile. “You will, of course, keep me informed of anything you might overhear that would have bearing upon this unfortunate incident.”

“Of course I will. And I trust you’ll let me know once you’ve received word on the autopsy.”

His smile widened. “This is a new experience for me,” he said, “having a murder mystery writer as an unofficial partner.”

“I’ll try to be as helpful as I can,” I said.

He left the club car and I followed, but as I passed the lavatories, the door to one of them opened and Maeve Pinckney appeared, her eyes red rimmed.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” she said, but there was a quaver in her voice. Before I could offer anything, she walked quickly down the aisle toward our seats.

What’s that all about?
I wondered. Behind me, the other lavatory door opened and Junior Pinckney emerged.

“Is your wife all right?” I asked him. “I saw that she’s been crying and—”

“Maeve? She’s fine. She’s a real waterworks, cries over Hallmark commercials, for God’s sake. Don’t pay any attention to her.”

What an insensitive comment,
I thought as I walked down the aisle, intending to speak with Maeve to see whether there was anything I could do for her. But Detective Marshall had beaten me to it. She’d taken my seat against the window; he filled the seat she usually occupied. I stopped halfway down the car and stood at one of the windows. I was taking in the passing scenery when Jenna came on the PA.

“Lunch is about to be served,” she said. “We’ll be reaching the Fraser Canyon soon, one of the most spectacular sights on the trip. And we’ll be passing the ginseng fields, the most profitable legal cash crop per acre grown in British Columbia.”

“I wonder what the illegal crop is,” Reggie said, coming up behind me.

“I’d rather not know.”

“Share a table, Jess?”

“Love to.”

As we waited in the aisle for others to leave their seats and file into the dining car, I asked Reggie, “Was Blevin a womanizer?”

My Cabot Cove friend guffawed. “Al Blevin was notorious for getting whatever he wanted,” he said. “But that’s another story. Come on, I’m famished. I hear the chicken potpies are to die for.”

As it turned out, Reggie’s rave review of the chicken potpie wasn’t misplaced. It rivaled the best from my friends’ kitchens back home.

But food wasn’t my preoccupation of the moment. My natural instinct to know about people had kicked in and was running in high gear. It didn’t matter whether Blevin was poisoned or not, at least not for the moment. I was now determined to find out as much as I could about his obviously controversial life. This need to know is a common curse among writers, at least the ones with whom I’m friendly. While the characters in my novels are creatures of my imagination, they’re often based on real people I’ve known or heard of, properly disguised, of course. My fascination with asking “what if” was now operating full-time.

I intended to ask Reggie more questions about Blevin’s love life over lunch, but the Goldfinches joined us and had questions of their own, not about Blevin but about Elliott Vail’s disappearance three years ago. I only half listened while Reggie related what he’d told me earlier, but my interest picked up when Martin asked, “Had Mrs. Vail been having some sort of a relationship with Blevin
before
her husband disappeared?”

“That was the rumor,” Reggie answered, “but you can’t prove it by me.”

Gail Goldfinch chimed in with, “There must have been a lot of insurance money involved.”

“Why do you assume that?” Martin asked.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Just the way she looks and carries herself.”

“Al was loaded,” Reggie said. “She didn’t need to bring money into the relationship.”

“Still, two and a half million dollars wouldn’t hurt, would it?”

I’d been silent during the exchange. Now I joined the conversation. “I wonder what was said in the suicide note.”

“Oh, was there a suicide note?” Gail asked. But there was something in the tone of her question that didn’t sound genuine to me.

“Was it ever made public?” Martin put in.

“Not that I know of,” Reggie said. “I asked Al about it once. He told me the court proceedings and decisions were sealed by the judge.”

The subject was dropped for the rest of the meal, and topics shifted to talk of old trains and the passing scenery. The Goldfinches excused themselves after a dessert of double chocolate truffle cake, leaving Reggie and me alone at the table.

“Nice couple,” he said. “Always good to have new blood in the club.”

“There’s something odd about them, but I can’t put my finger on it.”

“They look pretty normal to me.”

“Reggie,” I said, changing the topic, “I asked you before lunch about Al Blevin’s reputation as a womanizer.”

“Doesn’t matter, does it,” he said, “now that he’s dead?”

“Do me a favor and satisfy this naturally curious mystery writer.”

He laughed. “Going to base a book on this?”

“His death is intriguing, is it not?”

“Especially if he was poisoned.”

“Even if he wasn’t.”

He nodded toward a table at the opposite end of the dining car, closest to the coach car. Maeve and Junior Pinckney were in the process of vacating it. Reggie leaned close. “It’s not the sort of thing that I ever noticed,” he said, “but Junior there has hinted that he caught his wife in a compromising position with Blevin.”

“Oh? When was that?”

“A few years back.”

“Before Elliott Vail disappeared.”

“Yeah. Sure. It would have been five or six years ago.”