Destination Murder (26 page)

That person was Reggie, who never traveled anywhere without his computer. I called his room.

“I was just about to call you,” he said. “My buddy at Merit Life just got back to me.”

“And?”

“He wouldn’t give me any names. All he’d say was that the guy was—”

“
Guy?
The investigator is a man?”

“Well, now that you ask, I’m not sure if he specified whether the investigator was a man or a woman.”

“I was expecting the investigator to be a woman.”

“Gail Goldfinch.”

“That’s right. I was certain she was investigating Vail’s disappearance for the insurance company. But I could be wrong. It could be Martin. It makes sense. They could have paired up a male investigator, Martin, with a woman who happens to know a lot about trains. Pretty clever, if my assumption is correct.”

“I bet you’ve put your finger on it. But what led you to the conclusion that they’re insurance investigators, Jess?”

“More a hunch than a conclusion, Reggie. There’s just something askew with them.”

“I remember you told Detective Marshall that they didn’t act like a married couple.”

“Exactly. And she casually tossed out the two-and-a-half-million-dollar figure as the payout to Theodora Blevin, as though she knew precisely what it was. And she was right. At dinner last night, one of Theodora’s friends said she was the beneficiary of two and a half million dollars. And today, Gail knew Elliott had been on the club’s board.”

“But how does knowing this help solve Blevin’s murder?”

“It may not, but I’m always more comfortable knowing the true identities of people around me. Reggie, you have your laptop with you, don’t you?”

“Sure, my ink-jet printer, too. I’ve been checking and printing out my e-mail.”

“A favor?”

“Of course.”

“Does the Track and Rail Club have a Web site?”

“Of course. We’ve got our meeting schedule up there and minutes of the board meetings, although I think we may have to edit the latest ones. We’ve got photos of the members’ model train layouts, the history of the club, lots of things.”

“Any old photos of club members?”

“Probably. Who are you looking for?”

“I’d love a couple of pictures of Elliott Vail and, ideally, some older shots of Alvin Blevin.”

“If they’re up there, I can get ’em for you. I’ll do my best. By the way, Jess, I’ve been thinking about Marshall shadowing Theodora.”

“Yes?”

“Do you think maybe the police have been following everyone, including you and me? I’ll bet they have the whole TRC under surveillance.”

“Perhaps,” I said, amused by Reggie’s enthusiasm for being an object of police scrutiny.

Reggie hesitated. “Um, there’s something else I wanted to say to you.”

“What’s that? Is something wrong?”

“I’m sorry you had to witness that scene at our board meeting. It was embarrassing. A lot of us foamers are just big kids at heart. I guess that’s both good and bad.”

“Well, the bad was certainly on display today, but that doesn’t include you, Reggie. You are always a gentleman. Oh, my goodness, look at the time. I have to get ready for dinner.”

I’d just finished dressing when the phone rang.

“Mrs. Fletcher, it’s Gene Driscoll again.”

“Yes, Gene.”

“I did a little further checking on what we discussed and on that daughter Blevin had with his first wife.”

“Tiffany Carroll?” I said.

“I actually found someone by that name, but she lives in Ontario, not BC—at least she graduated from high school there. But Carroll’s a much more common name than Blevin, so she may not be who you’re looking for. Anyway, I don’t know why she’s of such interest to you, but I figured I’d pass along what else I learned.”

“I appreciate that,” I said, sitting at the desk and uncapping a pen. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

Once that call was completed, I dug out of my purse the card Detective Marshall had given me and dialed his direct line. He answered on the first ring.

“Jessica Fletcher, Detective,” I said. “I think you might be interested in some conclusions I’ve come to, and I’ve been told the Pacific Starlight Dinner Train serves an excellent dinner.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

The heralded Pacific Starlight Dinner Train operated by BC Rail, which also ran the Whistler Northwind, was the final event of the Track and Rail Club’s annual meeting. The next morning, everyone would be heading for Vancouver Airport and flights to various parts of Canada and the U.S. or, in Winston Rendell’s case, to London.

Our arrival at the train station was festive. A nine-piece swing band called Night Train led by a baritone saxophone player and featuring an attractive female singer played popular standards such as “Night and Day,” “Cheek to Cheek,” and “Take the A Train.” A few couples started dancing on the platform, and others clapped their hands in tempo with the infectious music. A photographer snapped photos of each person or couple as they entered the station house; it had all the trappings of boarding a luxury cruise ship. The pictures would be developed and for sale at the conclusion of the three-hour trip.

We were assigned tables in the various dining cars that made up the train. Our car, the Apollo, was attractively decorated in orange tones. The drapes had a fruit design, the chairs were brown with tiny orange dots, and the carpeting was also brown. The tables were covered with crisp white linen and set with heavy silver-plate utensils. A small vase with fresh yellow flowers sat in the middle of each table. The lights were dimmed, casting a flattering glow over everyone as we took our seats.

My table had evidently been designated for the single members of the party. I sat with Marilyn Whitmore, Reggie Weems, and Winston Rendell. I’d been surprised to see Marilyn there. She looked haggard, and I was sure she had had a difficult afternoon, but I wouldn’t ask her about Samantha while others were present. The table across from us held the Crockers and the Goldfinches. Behind me were the Pinckneys. Their tablemates had not shown up yet.

I looked out my window and saw Bruce make a hurry-up gesture to unseen people. The engineer gave three short blasts of the train whistle and we started to move. As we did, the car door opened and Theodora Blevin entered, followed by Benjamin.

I had to hand it to Theodora. She was dressed immaculately and made her entrance as though arriving for an awards show. None of the rancor of the past week, or the cloud of her husband’s murder, seemed capable of dampening her composure. There was also, I acknowledged to myself, a hefty dose of arrogance involved. She greeted everyone as she passed, and she and her son took the two empty chairs at the Pinckneys’ table.

Benjamin Vail wore a black suit, black shirt, and white tie, something one might have expected John Travolta to wear in a gangster movie. His hair was wet and slicked back, darkening the sandy strands and completing the dramatic brooding image he was so obviously trying to project.

But Theodora and Benjamin weren’t the only unexpected arrivals that evening. Callie, our bartender on the Whistler Northwind, appeared through a door that led to the train’s kitchen. She was carrying a small pad and pen and had a serving tray tucked beneath her arm. As she made her way through the car taking drink orders, passengers warmly welcomed her. Callie, more than anyone else on the staff, had reason to suffer as the maker of the fatal Bloody Mary someone had spiked with strychnine. She arrived at our table as the train gained speed leaving the station, gave us a pleasant hello, and wrote down our orders. At the same time, Bruce’s voice came over the PA: “Welcome aboard the Pacific Starlight Dinner Train, ladies and gentlemen. Our travel time each way will be approximately an hour and a half. We’ll enjoy dinner on our way up the coast, spend forty-five minutes at the turnaround, where there’ll be dancing, and then have our dessert, coffee, and after-dinner drinks on the return trip to Vancouver. Settle back, relax, and enjoy the scenery.”

Hearing Bruce’s voice over the intercom brought me back to the Whistler Northwind, where Jenna had made most of the PA announcements. She lived in Vancouver, according to Detective Marshall. If Callie was working the dinner train, was Jenna scheduled to work, too?

My question was answered when our drinks were served. Instead of Callie delivering them, Jenna appeared carrying a tray. The smile that had greeted us on the first day of the Whistler Northwind trip, which had vanished following Alvin Blevin’s poisoning, had not returned. She looked as though she would rather be anywhere but on that train. She managed a hello as she served our drinks, but I was aware that her attention was focused beyond me, on Benjamin. There was apprehension in her wide blue eyes, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d dropped the tray and bolted. Where she would have gone was another matter. We’d left North Vancouver and were now moving along West Vancouver’s Gold Coast, albeit slowly. I assumed we’d be passing Theodora Blevin’s house, although I doubted I’d be able to identify it from this vantage point.

Jenna finished serving the drinks and left the Apollo car.

“To the Whistler Northwind and to the continuation of passenger rail travel in North America,” Reggie said, raising his glass.

We followed suit.

“To the end of an incredible week. I’m glad it’s over,” Hank Crocker said in his familiar growl.

His comment prompted discussion of the week and whether others agreed with him. I took in the comments while looking to the door through which Jenna had exited. She’d left it open, affording a view of the kitchen, where two men in chefs’ whites, one of them Karl from the Northwind, labored over dinner.

My focus was drawn back to the dining car when Theodora stood and asked for everyone’s attention.

“I know this has been a stressful week for all of you. It certainly has been for me. But I’ve always been a person who looks for good to come from evil. I suppose you could say I live a glass-half-full philosophy. I know how much the Track and Rail Club means to all of you, as it did to Al, rest his soul. He would be very proud to be here and see the looks of gratitude on your faces at what I have to announce.”

I took a quick survey of the others’ faces and saw puzzlement mixed with disdain. Hank Crocker scowled, eyebrows tightly knit, fists clenched on the tabletop. Winston Rendell had taken his unlit pipe from his breast pocket and chewed on its mouthpiece. Marilyn sat stoically, eyes fixed on the drink in front of her. There was silence inside the car as Theodora continued.

“I was hoping the lawyers would allow me to say what I wish to say this evening, and they have. What a perfect setting for the announcement I’m pleased to make. As many of you know, Al was an extremely successful businessman.”

A soft, involuntary groan escaped from Marilyn Whitmore.

“And he was a generous man, too. For years the club has benefited from his donation of space in the building that bears his name. Well, I am pleased to announce that Al has left to the Track and Rail Club one million dollars.”

The silence was broken by a few surprised gasps and other expressions of pleasure. I knew about the million-dollar bequest to the Track and Rail Club because during one of our phone conversations, Gene Driscoll had told me the beneficiaries of Blevin’s will, thanks to someone he termed “a good source inside the probate court.” My only question was whether Theodora would go on and name the other beneficiaries. I doubted she would.

She read from a card: “Al specified in his will that the money be used to further the appreciation of railroads and the role they’ve played in opening up the vast North American continent to exploration and development.”

She looked up from the card and took us in. When no one made a move, she said, “I’m sure we’d all like to thank Al for his generosity.” There was a smattering of polite clapping.

“That’s really great,” Reggie said after Theodora had resumed her seat and Jenna and another server brought us our appetizer, smoked salmon with avocado and vodka mousse, accompanied by dark bread and a sun-dried tomato spread. “Who ever figured he’d leave a million to the club?”

“A guilty conscience,” Marilyn said under her breath.

“I suppose he left the grieving widow the rest,” Rendell said, almost loud enough for Theodora to overhear. “Or her kid.”

“You should join the club, Jessica,” Theodora called to me from where she sat. “Al would be so pleased to have a famous writer as a member.”

“Good idea,” said Reggie. “I’ll sign you up.”

“I’ll have to think about that,” I said, my eyes again on the open door to the kitchen, where I could see Jenna helping prepare salad plates.

We’d been given a choice upon boarding of salmon or beef Wellington as a main course. I chose the beef, and it was as good as I’d anticipated. As cynically as Theodora’s announcement had initially been received, it did serve—along with a tasty dinner, it seemed—to lighten spirits. Callie kept our wineglasses filled, and a general sense of celebration set in, enhanced by music coming through the speakers—oldies sung by Eddie Fisher, Frank Sinatra, Peggy Lee, Sammy Davis, Jr., Doris Day, and others of that musical era. We enjoyed our dinners, and conversation became lively. Before I knew it, we were slowing down as we approached the place where the train would be turned for the trip back to Vancouver. The tables had been cleared, and the staff was off getting dessert ready. As we pulled into the small station known as Porteau Cove, the sounds of the band that had played for us in Vancouver wafted into the Apollo dining car. I asked Bruce how they got there before us: “They pile into cars and drive up here in time to greet us,” he replied. “They can drive a lot faster than the train goes.”

I joined everyone on the station platform, where a joyous atmosphere prevailed. The band provided toe-tapping music, which had couples up dancing. The attractive blonde singer had been given names of couples celebrating anniversaries or individuals with birthdays and announced them to applause.