Destination Murder (12 page)

“Was Blevin married at that time?”

“Might have been. Or between marriages.”

“How many times was he married?”

“Three that I know of, not including Theodora.”

“Any children?”

“I never saw him with a kid, but if he does have any, I imagine they’d live with the mother. Maybe Junior knows. Ask him.”

“I will.”

Maeve saw us looking at them and gave us a wave, which I returned.

I shook my head. “I certainly don’t know Maeve very well, but I simply cannot imagine her taking up with Alvin Blevin.”

Reggie grinned. “Remember what Henry Kissinger answered when he was asked why so many women were attracted to him?” He adopted what passed for an imitation of Kissinger’s accent: “Vimmen love power!”

“Not this voman,” I said, laughing and standing. “We should be getting close to 100 Mile House soon, shouldn’t we?”

“Right. But first we have to cross over the infamous Fraser Canyon. It’s a sight not to be missed.”

A few minutes later, Jenna’s voice came over the PA to herald the train’s approach to Fraser Canyon. Her announcement woke many of those whose heads had started to droop following a satisfying lunch, and there was hustle and bustle as people stood in the aisle or kneeled on their seats to get a better view. We’d been paralleling the Fraser River for a while. Now we were about to begin the breathtaking crossing of the canyon. We were on a long curved section of track that afforded a view ahead of what looked like an elongated, spindly trestle held up by match-stick legs.

“It doesn’t look as though it can support us,” I commented to Bruce, who’d entered the car carrying his ubiquitous clipboard and cell phone.

He laughed. “Oh, it can support us, Mrs. Fletcher. Always has.”

Spaces next to the windows on the scenic side were all taken, so I wandered into the vestibule, where, no surprise, Junior was hanging out the upper half of the door, baseball hat on backwards, digital camera trained on the unfolding vista. He wasn’t the only one there. Hank Crocker, a video camera in his hand, was trying to push Junior aside. But Junior wasn’t budging.

“Move, damn it!” Crocker barked.

“I was here first,” Junior said, not turning.

“You’re always here. Come on, stop hogging the door.”

“Go to the other side. The view is just as good.”

“If it’s just as good, you go.”

It was getting nasty. I decided to move into the dining car, where I could sit and enjoy the view from one of its windows.

In the small foyer that led into the dining car, a figure was pressed against the window, his back to me. These windows didn’t open. There was no breeze to ruffle Benjamin’s hair, no fresh air tainted with the slight smell of oil that the train gave off. It occurred to me that this portion of the trip could be exactly why Benjamin Vail had continued on the Northwind while his mother returned home to mourn her second husband. Had he never seen where his father had disappeared? Had he wondered all these years what had happened to send Elliott over the edge? Did he worry, as so many children of suicides did, that he had contributed to his father’s demise by some word or deed? His was not a pleasant personality, but my heart went out to Benjamin as he strained against the glass, struggling to see where his father had died.

I passed through the foyer without lingering, careful not to disturb the young man’s privacy at such a difficult moment, and paused next to the service cabinet. At the far end, Karl was setting the tables with fresh linen. I stepped into the car and heard a voice with a distinct British accent. Winston Rendell came into view. He was speaking into a cell phone and pacing along the wall.

“. . . of course I’m sure,” he said. “The bastard is bloody well dead, and good riddance.”

Before I could back away, he turned and saw me. His expression went from surprise to anger. “I’ll call you later,” he said into the phone, slipping it into his pocket and forcing a smile at me.

“Enjoying the view, Mrs. Fletcher?” he said.

“I haven’t seen very much of it but—excuse me.”

I returned to the vestibule, where Hank Crocker and Junior Pinckney continued to jockey for position at the half-open and prized place by the door. Hank spotted me and said to Junior, “Let Mrs. Fletcher have some time here.”

Junior snorted as he considered Crocker’s suggestion.

“No, that’s all right,” I said.

Hank gave Junior a little shove away from the door and followed him to the opposite side, leaving the space at the door unoccupied. Although I wasn’t especially keen on standing in the rush of air coming through the open upper portion of the door, I appreciated the gesture and went to where they’d been standing. At first, I stood back a few inches from the door, uncomfortable doing what they’d been doing, leaning on the closed lower portion and extending their heads through the opening.

“Afraid to look down, Mrs. Fletcher?” Rendell said from behind me. He’d come from the dining car and was now a foot from my back. “Fear of heights?”

“No,” I said, closing the gap in front of the door and placing my hands on the ledge. I leaned forward, poked my head out into the wind, and peered down into the canyon and at the river that appeared to be miles below. The view was spectacular; the train had slowed and was barely moving, giving passengers more time to appreciate the dramatic scene.

Suddenly, the closed bottom portion of the door gave way and swung out, taking me with it. I was doubled over on it, my stomach the fulcrum point, my head and torso jutting from the train, the tips of my shoes barely maintaining contact with the edge of the vestibule floor. Below was Fraser Canyon, so distant and menacing, its muddy river and harsh terrain beckoning as it allegedly had done to Elliott Vail three years ago. The train jerked forward and the door swung wider; my feet left the metal edge of the floor. In another moment the door would bang backwards into the side of the train and I would be knocked off, tumbling hundreds of feet down into the jagged rocks and churning water.

I screamed; the rush of air carried away the sound.

“Help!”

I felt a tugging on my skirt, then hands on the waistband, pulling me and the door back toward the vestibule. Those same hands then grasped my shoulders and completed the task of bringing me to safety.

“Oh—thank heavens, you—were here,” I said to Samantha Whitmore as I slumped against the wall of the vestibule, shaking, taking in gulps of air.

“That was close,” she said, pulling me farther away from the door, which was still unlatched. “Are you injured? Are you feeling pain anywhere?” she asked as she ran her hands up and down my arms and examined my eyes. Even through my shock and confusion, I realized that this was a Samantha I hadn’t seen before, solicitous and capable.

Bruce, the Northwind’s guest services supervisor, hurried in from the coach and came to my side. Keeping one hand on my shoulder, he slammed the bottom half of the door shut and jiggled the handle. “I saw you through the window,” he said, shuddering. “This has never happened before, I promise you. These doors are always locked. I check them myself.” He returned his full attention to me. “Are you all right?”

“I’m—yes, I think I’m all right—shaken but otherwise—okay.” The words came out in short bursts as I struggled to catch my breath. “I thought—”

“Yes?”

“I thought Mr. Rendell—he was right behind—me—when it happened.”

“Did he—? Are you saying—?”

“No. Don’t misunderstand.” I tried to draw in a deep breath. “It’s just that he was here when it happened.” I looked at Samantha. “I assumed
he
was the one who grabbed me.”

“There was no one behind you when I came along,” Samantha said.

“Did you do anything to the door to make it open like that?” Bruce slammed his hand on the door to test the lock.

“I don’t think so. Mr. Crocker and Mr. Pinckney were at the door before they made room for me.”

I looked across the vestibule, but the two men who’d been battling each other for the best view had abandoned their posts and disappeared.

“I’ll talk to them,” Bruce said.

“Yes, do that. I’m feeling a little better,” I said. “I think I’ll return to my seat.”

“Of course. Can I get you anything? Coffee or tea or a brandy?”

“No, nothing. Wait, yes. Maybe a cup of tea.”

“Right on it.” He rushed away.

“You almost died,” Samantha said, her concern now turned to pique, “and he offers you tea.”

“Samantha, I can’t thank you enough.”

She raised her hands as if to ward me off, took a step back, and shook her head. The disturbed expression was back in her eyes. “Don’t have to,” she muttered, turning to leave. “Didn’t want another death on my hands.”

Alone in the vestibule, my back to the wall, I took a shaky breath. I’d said I wanted to return to my seat, but I wasn’t actually certain my legs would support me yet. I turned my head and looked intently at the latch.
Who loosened that door? Was it Rendell? He was right behind you,
I told myself as I replayed the scene in my mind.
He taunted you, and you foolishly leaned closer to the door to move away from him. Had he released the latch and walked away so he could claim that he wasn’t there when I fell to my death? If so, why? He was introduced to me as a colleague, a fellow author, yet he’s consistently made disparaging remarks about my writing. Surely his resentment of me couldn’t justify murder. There must be something else I’m missing.
I ran a trembling hand through my hair. I’d obviously interrupted an important phone call, and he hadn’t been happy. But was what I’d heard enough to tempt him to murder me?

I took a deep breath and blew it out. My hammering heart had slowed a little, and I thought my legs might hold me now. I entered the coach and slowly made my way down the aisle. I had almost reached my seat, where Maeve Pinckney was working on her needlepoint, when Hank Crocker stopped me. “Enjoy the view?”

“I, ah—”

“This is where he went off,” Crocker whispered.

“Pardon?”

“Vail. He must have been really desperate to take a plunge like this.”

“All suicides are acts of desperation,” I offered, feeling a little light-headed; I grabbed a seat-back for support.

“I never bought it,” he said, his voice low. “Didn’t make any sense. He wasn’t the kind of guy to kill himself that way. Elliott was not a very physical guy, you know? I’d figure him to take some pills or stick his head in an oven. Jump from way up here? Nah. And how come nobody saw him go, you know, from a window or something? Everybody’s looking out the window at this point in the trip.”

But Bruce had been the only one to see me dangling over the gorge. Or was he the only one?

“Excuse me,” I said, and slid past Maeve into the security of my comfortable chair.

Jenna brought me a cup of tea.

“Bruce said to tell you it’s ginseng. From British Columbia. Our ginseng is considered the best quality in the world, the most beneficial.” As she spoke, she flipped the catch holding the little table flush with the seat-back in front of me—
Just like an airplane
, I thought absently—and put down the teacup and saucer.

Being seated, and drinking the hot tea, helped calm me, although I needed two hands to lift the cup to my lips. Maeve, ignorant of my ordeal, chatted on about how halfway into a train trip, she always began to get bored, and how nice it was to have me to talk to, to while away the hours. Of course, her needlework was a compensation. She had many beautiful pillows to show for her train time, and whenever I was in Atlanta, I must stop by and visit with her and Junior, and she would take me on a tour of her completed projects.

I listened with half an ear, but her conversation required no response except the occasional “Hmmm.” When I finished my tea, I let my head fall back and closed my eyes. Maeve continued talking a little longer and then stopped. I could feel the movement of her hands as she worked rapidly on the stitches for her next pillow.

With my eyes closed, the image of being suspended over the yawning chasm roared back into my mind. One awkward movement and I would have hurtled to my death. My body would be lying dashed against the rocks instead of sitting safely in a plush seat as the train rattled along toward its next stop. Odd scraps of thought floated through my brain. I was grateful I’d kept up with my exercise program. I’d needed all my stomach muscles to keep from sliding off the swinging door. I felt my toes curl tightly from the tension and made a conscious effort to relax them, thankful that I hadn’t lost my shoes—or my life.

Horrifying as it was, I forced myself to relive the experience, to concentrate on the details. Mentally, I retraced my steps from the time I’d entered the vestibule until Samantha pulled me back from the brink of death. Even if a motive wasn’t clear, Winston Rendell hadn’t been the only person with the opportunity to tamper with that lock. Junior and Hank had been competing for the best view. Had one of them released it accidentally? Purposely? No, it didn’t make sense. They had no reason to want to harm me. Who
would
have a reason? Benjamin had been there, too, only steps away. I had thought him completely involved in seeing where his father had died, but could there have been a more sinister explanation for his presence? And there was my savior, Samantha, a disturbed young woman with an unpredictable personality. She’d said she didn’t want another death on her hands. She could have been referring to her father. Or she could have been referring to Blevin. Had she truly happened by? Or had she created the situation from which she’d rescued me?

I wrestled with more questions. Should I tell Detective Marshall about what happened? Would he think I was trying to make my case more dramatic? Was this simply a potentially tragic accident that fortunately had ended happily? Was it a warning to “butt out” as Benjamin had instructed me on the top of Whistler Mountain? Or did someone want me out of the way—permanently? I was raising the specter of murder. Was the murderer trying to kill the messenger?