Destination Murder (3 page)

The itinerary had been mailed to me in Cabot Cove and I’d already gone over it, but Reggie seemed determined to explain it to me. We would be three days on the Whistler Northwind and three days in Vancouver. A trip to a local railroad museum was scheduled for the day after our return, as was a club dinner at a local restaurant.

“Oh, almost forgot,” Reggie said. “We’ll be taking BC Rail’s Pacific Starlight Dinner Train our last night in Vancouver. It was up in the air, but I got a call this evening confirming. It’s not on your itinerary.”

“Another train, another meal,” I said. “I hope they don’t have a chocolate buffet on it. It was absolutely delicious, but—”

“A chocolate a day keeps the doctor away.”

I laughed. “I think you mean an apple.”

“Do I? I’ll take chocolate any day.”

We soon left the bar and he escorted me to my tenth-floor suite.

“Sleep tight,” he said.

“I’m sure I will,” I said. “It’s well after midnight on my Cabot Cove clock.”

I dressed for bed and curled up with a bestselling mystery on the couch in the large living room of the suite. But my mind was too active to read. What a shame, I thought, closing the book, that people who share so much, a love of trains and traveling by rail, would have such acrimony within their ranks. I hoped they’d be able to put aside their differences and simply enjoy the three-day journey.

I got into bed and turned off the light. Various images came and went as my eyes began to close, including a fleeting image of the man who’d collided with me outside the hotel. “Jerk,” I said softly, repeating what the person with the helpful shoulder had said. I smiled and turned my thoughts to the excitement of the excursion ahead. Nothing, not rude pedestrians nor squabbling club members, would spoil my enjoyment of the Whistler Northwind, I promised myself before allowing sleep to engulf me.

Had I known, however, that the Northwind would soon be the scene of a grisly murder, I might not have been so eager to take that trip.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“All aboard!”

I hadn’t heard that nostalgic summons to board a train in many years, aside from scenes from old black-and-white movies where a conductor calls out in his best baritone. This day it was announced in stentorian tones by Bruce, the Whistler Northwind’s guest services supervisor. He’d made the rounds of passengers in the small, pleasant station house in North Vancouver prior to our leaving, happily welcoming us, fielding last-minute questions, and distributing souvenir pins: a circle with a W over an N, divided by an arrow. There was a large group clustered around a coffee and pastry bar for those who hadn’t had time for breakfast before leaving the hotel and who couldn’t wait until we were served brunch on the train. Others waited eagerly on the platform outside or wandered through a picnic area where a striking young man, presumably another passenger, sat alone at a table. While I watched, a young woman in uniform came over and sat down with him. She offered him a doughnut.

Eventually, Bruce and his staff rounded us up and we were led to our cars on the Whistler Northwind, where the onboard serving staff stood at attention as we approached, the attractive young men and women smartly dressed in black slacks, white shirts, silver-patterned vests, and straight ties. Hands were extended to help us step up onto the train and into the Summit Coach, which had been reserved for our group, a luxury domed car with tinted glass on the upper portion to mitigate the sun’s rays. Seating was two abreast on each side of the aisle, and we were instructed to choose any of the large, comfortable seats. It was surprisingly modern, considering it was part of a historic train, but the cars that flanked it were of an older vintage. While we waited for last-minute stragglers to arrive, I took the opportunity to explore them. On one end of the Summit was the club car, the Pavilion, which Junior had talked about. It had stainless steel walls and casual seating served by a bar. It was the oldest car on the train, Bruce proudly told me.

“All our cars have seen service around North America and beyond. Your dining car, for instance, was once part of the City of Denver, which ran from Chicago to Denver.”

When I poked my head into the Strathnaver, the original name of our dining car, it was already set for our brunch with immaculate white table linens, gleaming glass and silverware, and vases of colorful fresh flowers. An art deco-style mural depicting scenes from British Columbia, through which the train would travel, was painted in a panel over the windows and ran down one length of the car and up the other. Permanently coupled to it was the D’Arcy kitchen car, a full-service galley with the latest in commercial cooking equipment.

“Mind if ah join you?” Maeve Pinckney asked after I’d returned to the Summit Coach and settled into a window seat near the front.

“Please,” I said.

After she was seated, I asked, “Where’s your husband?”

“Junior? Probably out takin’ pictures of the train with some of the other foamers.”

“Foamers?”

“Railroad buffs. You know, they foam at the mouth over choo-choo trains.” She laughed, shook her head, and pulled out needlepoint she’d already started. “Won’t see much o’ Junior for the next three days. He’ll be hangin’ out the door between cars the whole trip. I guess you could say ah’m a train widow.”

“You don’t seem to mind,” I said.

“Ah’m used to it by now, Jessica. I’ve been on more damn trains over the past twenty years than I can keep count of.” She turned to her needlepoint, leaving me to observe other passengers as they chose their seats. Hank and Deedee Crocker, the couple from Pittsburgh I’d met the night before, sat a few rows back, across the aisle from us. I noticed that Theodora Blevin, whose entrance had sparked heated comment at the chocolate buffet, had taken a window seat and piled hand luggage on the seat next to her, perhaps to keep anyone else from joining her. Her husband sat in a seat behind her. Next to him was the handsome young man I’d seen at the picnic table, who I judged to be in his mid twenties.

There were three long blasts on the whistle, and as the train shuddered and started moving forward, those passengers who’d been taking pictures and exploring the adjoining cars spilled through the door to find their seats. The club had reserved the entire car, but with only half the seats taken, there was plenty of room to move around.

After safety instructions were read, much like on an aircraft prior to takeoff, we were truly on our way, and people began to leave their seats and mingle in the aisle. I excused myself to Maeve and went to the opposite side of the car to take in the passing scenery from that vantage point. The train moved through a busy rail yard with multiple tracks, emerging into an industrial area with a view of the city across Burrard Inlet, a body of water that separates North Vancouver from the municipal center.

Reggie joined me. “All settled in, Jess?” he asked.

“Oh, yes. The seats are very comfortable.”

Even though the places around us were empty, Reggie glanced left and right to ensure we were alone before nodding toward where the Blevins sat and saying softly, “See the young guy next to Alvin?”

“Yes?”

“Theodora’s son by her marriage to Elliott Vail. Name’s Benjamin.”

I kept a smile to myself. Reggie was known back home in Cabot Cove to be an inveterate gossip. If you wanted to know what was going on in town—what was
really
going on—ask Reggie.

“I noticed him at the station before we left,” I said. “He sat outside at one of the picnic tables.”

“He’s one of those brooding types,” Reggie said conspiratorially. “You know, like all the young male models you see in magazines and catalogues.”

I sighed. “I suppose knowing that your father disappeared and has never been found can take a toll on a young man.”

Our conversation was interrupted as the staff arrived carrying trays of champagne flutes and glasses of orange juice. Once everyone had been served, Bruce proposed a toast: “To each of you and your journey on the famed Whistler Northwind.” With that, the staff passed through the car clinking glasses with us, creating a festive atmosphere as the engineer gave another sharp blast of the train’s whistle.

I went to the vestibule linking the coach and dining cars. The top half of the exterior door on either side was open, allowing people to lean out and take in the scenery from that windy perspective. Maeve’s husband, Junior, was where she said he would be, head and shoulders jutting out through the opening, camera in hand, an Atlanta Braves baseball hat worn backwards on his head. I didn’t want to disturb his reverie, and when I turned away, I found myself face-to-face with Alvin Blevin.

“Enjoying yourself, Mrs. Fletcher?” he asked. Unlike everyone else on the train, who’d dressed in casual clothing, Blevin wore an expensively tailored single-breasted tan blazer, white shirt, and club tie.

“Very much,” I said. “And it’s Jessica.”

“Lovely old train, isn’t it, Jessica?”

“Old, but nicely refurbished. Our coach looks brand-new inside.”

“That’s because it is. They’ve mixed old and new cars on the Whistler Northwind. But the dining car goes back to nineteen fifty-three.”

“I have a lot to learn about trains.”

He flashed a big smile. “Don’t get caught up in it like us, Jessica. A simple hobby can become an obsession. Say, they’ll be serving brunch soon. I’d be pleased if you’d join our table.”

“I’d be delighted.”

I stood just inside the coach car and did a fast mental count of the number of people in our party. I estimated I was one of thirty people, which didn’t fill even half the car. According to Reggie, vacationers occupying other cars on the train had no connection to the Track and Rail Club.

“A shame,” a man from behind said.

I turned to the voice.

“What’s a shame?” I asked.

“The number of people with us this trip,” he said in an unmistakable British accent, extending his hand. “Winston Rendell,” he said, “and no need for you to introduce yourself. I’m well aware of who you are, Mrs. Fletcher. One can hardly escape your name. Your reputation as a writer of popular mysteries is as firmly entrenched in England as it is here and in the States.”

“I’m flattered,” I said, not entirely sure I should be. “Rendell? Any relation to Ruth Rendell, one of your famous mystery writers?”

“Afraid not. Frankly, I prefer the crime novels of Baroness P. D. James, but they both have such command of the language—so literary, almost not like genre writing at all, don’t you think?”

“I love their books,” I said, wondering if his intention was to insult me by grouping me with “genre” writers.

“Researching your next whodunit,
Murder on the Whistler Northwind
?”

“Oh my, no.” Ignoring my suspicion that Mr. Rendell was not exactly a fan, I changed the subject and explained why I was with the group. “Is this a smaller turnout than usual?”

“So I’m told. The numbers on these trips have been dwindling year after year. Of course, that doesn’t reflect interest in trains. The club membership continues to grow. But—” He looked past me to where Blevin stood next to his wife’s seat and lowered his voice. “There are rumbles of bad leadership, I’m afraid,” he said. “T and R used to be a democratic organization, as it should be. But some felt it belonged to them and took a rather dictatorial approach to leading it.”

“But here
you
are,” I said, “all the way from England.”

“Ah, but for reasons other than communing with fellow railroad buffs.”

“Other foamers?”

“You’re learning fast. Yes, quite right. I’m here on business.”

“Are you in the railroad business back in England, Mr. Rendell?”

“In a manner of speaking. I’m researching a book. You see, I’m an author as well, Mrs. Fletcher, perhaps not as celebrated as you, but with a measure of respect in my field.” He again looked past me. “You’ll excuse me, I’m sure. There’s someone I must speak with. I hope we have another opportunity to converse. Perhaps you’ll join me for the brunch?”

“Thank you, but someone else has already invited me,” I said, grateful I could decline.

“My loss, then. Another time, I hope.”

I watched him move up the aisle, deftly navigating the train’s slight swaying movement, and disappear into the club car, where the bar was located. A man of dubious charm, I thought as I entered the coach car.

The train chugged slowly through North Vancouver, paralleling the coastline. Leaving the industrial section behind, it parted residential neighborhoods; apartment buildings and houses hugged the tracks on precious real estate affording a view of the water. As the train slid into West Vancouver, along the beach, lush greenery shielded elegant homes from the curious eyes of passersby. As the skyline of downtown Vancouver across the water faded from view, the shore-front properties grew larger and the homes farther apart.

“Those are multimillion-dollar estates,” a woman standing in the aisle said.

“I don’t doubt it,” I replied.

“West Vancouver. It’s the richest city in Canada,” she continued. “We haven’t met yet. I’m Marilyn Whitmore.” She placed a hand on the shoulder of the young woman in the aisle seat. “And this is my daughter, Samantha.”

“Pleased to meet you,” I said, introducing myself.

The mother was a handsome woman with strong, square features, short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, and judiciously applied makeup. The daughter was a younger and larger version of her mother, their facial characteristics very much alike, although Samantha wasn’t wearing any makeup. Two things were immediately apparent about her. She was obviously physically fit, broad-shouldered and with well-sculpted bare arms ending in large hands with thick fingers. And her expression was vacant, especially her eyes, unnaturally placid and lacking in affect, as though she might be on some sort of tranquilizing medication.