Destination Murder (5 page)

I stood and patted the back of my hair, which had gotten mussed when I slept. The coach was empty. All the club members had heeded the call to assembly. I stepped into the aisle and touched the tops of the seats to maintain my balance as I made my way past the lavatories to the club car.

A small but efficient bar divided the club car into two spaces, but it seemed that everyone had crowded into the front half. All the seats were occupied, and the rest of the club members were standing and chatting animatedly by the time I arrived.

I caught snippets of conversation as I slid sideways into the crowd, keeping an eye out for Reggie.

“Up to two years ago, they still had firemen.”

“You’re crazy. They’ve been running diesel since ’98.”

“Did you see that freight go by? A hundred and twenty cars. I counted them.”

“It had a Dash Eight and a Dash Sixty-five on it.”

“Can you believe it? The engine could barely make it through the tunnel.”

“They obviously never went on-site to measure it. Pinckney could tell you. He’s a charter member of the scale police.”

“Ah, Jessica,” boomed out Blevin, reaching through several people to grab my arm and draw me into his circle. “I was afraid you’d think this little do was just for club members and didn’t include you. Let me get you a drink and introduce you around.”

He was full of good cheer as he pressed one hand into my back and gripped a half-empty drink in the other. He pushed me toward the bar, interrupting several conversations to make the introductions.

“I believe you’ve met the Pinckneys and the Crockers.”

“Yes.”

“This is our resident Brit, Winston Rendell. He’s an expert on model train layouts. Writes for
Trains
magazine.”

“We’ve met.”

“Where’s Ben? Benjamin!” Blevin shouted over the tops of heads. “Get Mrs. Fletcher a drink. A Bloody Mary. And get another one for me.”

“I hope you like Bloody Marys,” Deedee Crocker said to me.

“On occasion,” I said, my ears ringing from Blevin’s thunderous drink order.

There seemed to be a tacit agreement among those who were not his fans to put their animosity toward Blevin aside and enjoy the trip. It was either that, or Callie’s Bloody Marys had worked their magic to reduce the hostility enough to put a smile on all the faces. Marilyn and Samantha Whitmore were laughing at something Maeve had said, although from the direction of their gazes I had a feeling it was at Theodora Blevin’s expense. Junior Pinckney was showing off the photos he’d been taking of the party with his digital camera, holding it straight out in front of him so several others could peer over his shoulder. I was impressed with the digital technology that allowed photos to be seen immediately and asked him a few basic questions about it, which he happily answered. Everyone seemed in a better mood; even Hank Crocker’s morose mask had eased as he discussed his favorite topic with other railroad aficionados.

Blevin leaned down and whispered in the ear of a man sitting by the window. The man vacated the seat and Blevin swallowed the last part of his drink before climbing on the chair. He drew a silver pen from his breast pocket and tapped it against his empty glass until he’d caught everyone’s attention.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to the annual excursion of the Track and Rail Club. We have a beautiful sunny day for sightseeing. The Northwind will be coming into Whistler in an hour or so, provided we don’t have to side for any more freight trains. For those of you who’ve never been there, it’s a great little town, plenty to do, lots of shopping for the ladies. And if you guys are not in the mood to carry packages, there are plenty of cafés to relax in while your wives spend your money.”

He paused, obviously expecting a masculine chuckle, but heard only a few feminine groans and hurried on. “I hope everyone received their pins.” He held up the little stainless steel pin Bruce had distributed to all members of our group at the Vancouver station.

“Mine is already proudly displayed,” called out Rendell. He carried a large tan canvas shoulder bag that was covered with souvenir pins. I noticed several other men wearing baseball caps displaying theirs.

“All the guys collect pins,” Deedee Crocker whispered to me. “It’s like a competition to see who has the most. That’s why we never miss a trip, even though Hank can’t stand . . .” She nodded in Blevin’s direction.

“I’d like to especially welcome some first-timers who are with us,” Blevin continued. “Where are the Goldfinches? There they are.” He pointed to the couple who’d raised their hands and led the club members in polite applause. “Gail’s the foamer in that couple. Better watch out, Gail. These guys’ll grill you on your knowledge.”

“I’ll try not to embarrass myself.”

“And we have a celebrity aboard,” Blevin went on, to my consternation. “I hope you’ve had an opportunity to meet the famous mystery writer, J. B. Fletcher. She’s asked us all to call her Jessica. She’s a guest of Reggie Weems, head of our New England chapter. Let’s give a warm welcome to the charming Jessica Fletcher.”

There was another round of polite applause, but Blevin was losing his audience as people again started talking among themselves.

“Let me conduct a little club business before we get back to socializing,” Blevin shouted over the hum of voices. “Elections are coming up. The current slate has been nominated again. So far there’s no opposition. I’m flattered, but competition is good for democracy.”

“Yeah, right,” Hank Crocker muttered behind me.

Blevin went on, “If you want to run, get ten names on a petition and send it in to headquarters. I promised not to use this time for any electioneering, but let me just say that you’ll soon be receiving your dues bills in the mail. Once again, the administration has kept the dues at the same level. We haven’t had an increase in two years, while all the other clubs have raised their dues every year. I checked. That’s it, folks. Once we get to Whistler, you’re on your own till tomorrow morning. The Westin has a fabulous buffet breakfast. We’ll all meet up there.”

Blevin climbed down from the chair. Theodora joined him. She still wasn’t smiling, but she seemed to have dropped her frosty demeanor. She brushed off some imagined lint on her husband’s shoulder.

“Hard to keep them focused when they’re drinking,” he told her.

“You were just fine.”

“Didn’t Ben get you that Bloody Mary yet?” he asked me.

“That’s all right,” I said. “I’ll go to the bar myself. I might just have a glass of wine instead.”

Jenna, now wearing white gloves, was serving hors d’oeuvres. She extended a tray in our direction. There were two pieces left on it. “Liver pâté on toast,” she said.

“My favorite,” Blevin said, flashing her a smile and a wink that caused the young woman to blush. He took the two and offered one to his wife.

“You know I hate those things,” she said, turning away.

“No, thanks,” I said when Blevin held one out to me.

“My gain,” he said, popping them into his mouth.

There was a break in the crowd around the bar and we slipped into the space.

Callie held up an empty bottle of vodka. “Sorry, folks, I’ve just run dry. I would have sworn I’d stocked enough.” She rummaged around the shelves below the bar and pulled out a bottle. “Wait, there’s a little left in this one.”

“Callie claims to make the best Bloody Marys this side of the border,” said Blevin. “I make a helluva Bloody Mary myself, so I’ve been trying to pry her secret recipe out of her.”

“You’ll never get it, Mr. B,” Callie said, “or I’d be out of a job.” She poured her special Bloody Mary mix into a tall glass and upended over it the bottle of vodka she’d just found. “It may be a bit strong,” she said. “There was more left than I thought.”

“I can handle it,” Blevin said.

“Coming through,” said a man wearing kitchen whites and holding aloft two bottles of vodka. He was older than the other staff—probably in his thirties, to their twenties—and wore wire-rimmed spectacles. His dark hair was confined by a white kerchief tied beneath his ponytail and worn low over his brow. We moved to make room for him at the bar, and several others pressed in to take our place.

“Thanks, Karl,” Callie said, taking the bottles from him.

He remained at the bar, his back to us, as Callie continued making drinks.

“Now you’re going to taste something special,” Blevin said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.

“Al?”

“Yes, dear?”

Theodora hesitated, as if she’d forgotten what she was going to say. “Oh, yes. Mrs. Fletcher said she wanted a white wine,” his wife reminded him.

“That’s all right,” I said. “I don’t mind.”

“Callie says this is yours, Blevin,” Junior said, holding out the glass. “Hey, watch it, Crocker. I almost spilled this all over you.”

“Sorry,” Hank said, pushing past him.

“I’ll take that,” Karl, the kitchen worker said. He continued to face Callie as he took a small round tray holding a Bloody Mary and a white wine off the bar and held it out for Theodora.

“Thank you,” she said, lifting the Bloody Mary.

Karl turned his back to the Blevins and extended the tray to me. “You asked for white wine, didn’t you?” he said, rotating the tray so the wine was closest to me.

“Yes, thank you,” I said, taking it.

“Nonsense,” Blevin said, lifting the Bloody Mary from his wife’s fingers, and the wine from mine and switching them. “You won’t know what you’re missing until you’ve tried this.”

“All right, you’ve convinced me,” I said, resigned to drinking a Bloody Mary.

“Al, don’t be so boorish,” said Theodora. “Let Mrs. Fletcher have the drink she wants.” She took the cocktail from my hand, placed it back on Karl’s tray, and held out the glass of wine.

I’d somehow gotten myself in the midst of a tug-of-war between Theodora and her husband. “I don’t really care what it is,” I said. “I’m not that much of a drinker.”

“Take your wine,” Theodora commanded.

I reluctantly took the wine, silently resolving to stick to club soda for the rest of the trip.

“And you can have this,” Theodora said, handing her husband the Bloody Mary and placing his empty glass on the tray.

“Karl, I need more celery,” Callie called from the bar.

Karl, who’d moved away from us, turned, and deftly negotiated the crowd of drinkers on his way out of the car. Theodora frowned after him.

“Here, I got you the drink you asked for,” Ben said, coming up behind his stepfather.

“Oh, good heavens,” muttered Theodora.

“Looks like we have an embarrassment of riches,” Blevin said, taking the glass from Ben in his free hand. He took a taste and called over his shoulder, “Wow, Callie, that is some spicy Bloody Mary. Really clears the sinuses. Great drink.” He looked at me. “If you change your mind, Jessica, we’ve got plenty to go around now.” He held up both drinks.

“I’m just fine, thank you, and I think I see Reggie over there. I’ve been meaning to ask him a question. You’ll excuse me, won’t you?” I stepped aside so Marilyn and Samantha could get by and walked toward Reggie, thinking that the Marx Brothers would have generated a lot of laughs with the drink routine that had just taken place.

Contrary to his promise, Blevin had begun making the rounds of the room, electioneering. He buttonholed club members and bragged about how well the club was doing under his diligent management.

“C’mon, Hank,” I heard him say in his best hail-fellow-well-met voice. “Can’t you let bygones be? We both want what’s best for the club. I’ve been talking with a business associate who’s looking for a good accountant. I can put a good word in for you.”

“You can’t buy me like you’ve bought everyone else, Blevin. Your only interest is what’s best for you, not the club.”

“Three years is a long time to hold a grudge, Hank.”

“Three years is a long time to get away with murder,” Crocker said, pushing through the crowd to the other end of the car.

I found Reggie standing next to Rendell, who was showing off the pins that covered his tan canvas bag.

“This one was the Denali Star up in Alaska. And these are, let me see, oh, right, the Mount Hood in Oregon, the Cumbres and Toltec in New Mexico, the Eureka Springs in Arkansas. This is the Blue Train from South Africa. Real luxury, that one. Do you have this one? It’s the Acadian. Runs through your state, Maine.”

“I have that one, of course—Montreal to St. John—but I left mine at home. Jessica, glad you’re here. Have you met Winston?” Reggie said, drawing my attention away from Blevin, who was now frowning down at Junior. “Winston writes for
Trains
magazine. Been reading him for a couple of years now. This is the first chance I’ve gotten to meet him. As writers, you two must have a lot in common.”

“We met earlier,” I said, turning to him. “And I believe you mentioned you’re working on a book.”

“I am indeed,” he said.

“How interesting,” I said. “What sort of book?”

“It’ll be a history of railroads in British Columbia, including this one. Probably wouldn’t interest you,” he said, smiling. “It’s really for people more knowledgeable. About trains, that is. A bit technical. Don’t have to pander to the layman. After all, I’m not writing commercial fiction.”

This was the second time Winston Rendell had referred to my writing in less-than-flattering terms. I wasn’t sure if he intended to be insulting or simply didn’t have any idea how rude he sounded. But I was determined not to allow his rebuff to offend me. “Even so,” I said, “I’d be very interested to hear what you’ve learned from your research. Perhaps you can educate me.”

“Don’t really have time for that. Excuse me.” He lifted his empty glass, nodded toward the bar, and walked away.

I raised my eyebrows at Reggie.

“Must be jealous,” Reggie said. “He obviously hasn’t been as successful with his writing as you have. Don’t pay him any attention. I never realized he was such a snob.”