Destination Murder (6 page)

“Well, I’m glad it wasn’t just my imagination,” I said, relieved that Reggie had seen Rendell’s comments in the same light I had.

“Weems! Have you seen this?” Junior Pinckney elbowed past Rendell and shoved his camera in front of Reggie.

“Look at this, Jessica. Junior’s got a shot of us boarding in Vancouver.”

“How nice,” I said.

“Give me your e-mail,” Junior said, “and I’ll send it to you when we get back to town.”

“I’ll be happy to do that,” I said.

“Junior takes pictures of every train he rides on.”

“Been doing it for more than twenty years now,” Junior said.

“So Maeve was telling me. I also heard someone say you’re a charter member of the ‘Scale Police.’ Is that another hobby?”

Reggie nearly choked on his drink at my comment, but Junior looked abashed.

“Did I say something wrong?” I asked.

“No, not at all,” Junior said. “There are those of us for whom precision is more important than it is for others. I’m not ashamed to admit to being a stickler for accurate scale.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“It has to do with running model trains, Jessica,” Reggie put in. “You know, the big model train layouts with elaborate landscapes.”

“If you’re really an expert, when you create a model layout you try to duplicate the route of an actual railroad,” Junior said. “That means not only the trains, but the environment in which they operate. For it to look realistic, the terrain is done to scale. If you’re working on an HO layout, for instance, the ratio is one to eighty-seven; the trains are one eighty-seventh real size.”

“Ah, so a tunnel on the model landscape has to be one eighty-seventh the size of the tunnel along the route of the railroad you’re copying,” I said.

“Exactly,” Junior said. “Everything in the surroundings is done to scale, every building, hill, road, tree, rock; all the features should be identical to what you’d see if you took the actual trip yourself.”

“That’s impressive,” I said.

He smiled. “Yes, it is.”

“Every rock?” I asked Reggie after Junior had moved on to talk to another train buff.

“That’s why they call him the scale police,” Reggie said. “He goes on-site personally, with a bunch of cameras hanging around his neck, and measures everything he sees. He even had a custom software program made for his Palm Pilot to plot all the elements going into his model. Once, I heard, he hired a surveyor to confirm the height of foothills for a layout he was working on.”

“I never realized model railroading was so exacting,” I said.

“It isn’t for everyone. Lots of people are just in it for the fun. But in any hobby, there are always people who become obsessed with the details. I’m afraid a lot of rail fans fall into that category. And they can really get hot if someone challenges the way they do things. You’d be amazed at the politics in these clubs.”

“Are you thinking of Al Blevin now?” I asked.

“You don’t want to be on his wrong side,” Reggie said, dropping his voice. “He’s not above cheating if there’s someone standing in his way.”

As if Reggie had had a premonition of things to come, Al Blevin’s voice thundered over the buzz of the crowd: “Get out of my way!” His face was a livid red as he glared at Winston Rendell.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Rendell returned.

“Al, you’ve had too much to drink,” Theodora said, gripping her husband’s arm. “Let’s go sit down.”

Blevin’s shoulders twitched. He raised his fists, but crossed them in front of his chest. “You’ve been attacking me behind my back. Don’t—think—I don’t know it.”

“Now, why would I do that?”

“Don’t you shout at me!”

“You’re the one who’s shouting, old man.”

The club members turned toward the altercation, conversation dying away.

“It’s too noisy in here. I’m getting out.” Blevin began to push toward the door. Marilyn Whitmore stood in his way. He stared at her, his eyes growing larger, his mouth in a grimace.

“What do you want, Al? Must everyone jump to your tune? Just walk around me.”

The train took a curve, wheels squealing, and entered a tunnel. The light in the club car dimmed momentarily until the electric lights above the windows flickered on. Blevin reared back his head. His shoulder twitched as if he were trying to snap out a punch, but his arms stayed fixed, crossed on his chest. Another spasm shook his body and he fell backward. His head glanced off a table, knocking over a glass and spilling the remains of Callie’s specialty across the lapels of his immaculately tailored tan jacket and down the front of his pristine white shirt.

The crowd gasped as their president went into a convulsion. His eyes bulged open, face by turns crimson and then blue as his body denied him oxygen, and pink again as the throes of the spasm released its hold on him.

“Come on, everyone, get out of here and make some room for him,” Reggie said, herding people from the car.

They moved cautiously past the prone Blevin.

“Geez, he must have had a snootful.”

“I think he’s having a heart attack.”

“No, it looks like a stroke.”

“My cousin had epilepsy. Maybe that’s it.”

“Did anyone take first aid?”

“Callie, call for help.”

“I did.”

“I hope there’s a hospital in Whistler.”

“How far out are we now?”

“Don’t just gawk at him. Someone help him.” Theodora’s face was ashen, but she backed away from her husband’s prone figure. “Samantha, you’re a nurse,” she said. “Please do something or he’ll die.”

“No! I won’t,” Samantha shouted. She hugged herself and rocked back and forth as she stared at the stricken man.

The train emerged from the tunnel and sunlight flooded the car. Blevin’s body began to tremble again. He arched back till his body was curved like a bow, only his head and feet touching the floor. His face was drained.

“Give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation,” someone said.

Samantha staggered forward and frowned down at Blevin.

“Don’t do it,” I said, gripping her arm. “He may have been poisoned.”

“Poisoned?” Maeve gasped and slid down into a faint.

The word triggered a stampede among those who hadn’t left yet. They rushed out of the car. Junior leaned over his wife, fanning her face with a railroad map.

“He’s going to die. He’s going to die,” Samantha chanted to herself.

“You must have seen patients have convulsions before,” I said, putting my hand on her shoulder.

“I won’t do it,” she repeated. An odd light filled her eyes. She shrugged me off and ran from the car.

Blevin’s body shuddered, and he lay limp on the floor. He drew in air through his teeth and color flooded back into his face. Theodora gingerly knelt by his side. She tapped softly on her husband’s shoulder and his eyes met hers. “Look what they did to you. Your nicest shirt,” she said, wiping the sweat off his brow and then blotting the red stain on his shirt with a napkin. “You’re going to be just fine,” she said, a quaver in her voice. “You’ll see. You just drank too much. Three Bloody Marys, Al. We’re going to laugh about this next week.” Her son, Benjamin, sat at a table near the bar, his arms and legs crossed, body hunched forward, staring silently at his mother and stepfather.

“Jessica, where did Samantha go?” Reggie whispered.

“She left.” I shook my head, wondering at her strange behavior. How could a nurse turn her back on someone in need?

“What do we do now?”

“The only thing we can do till medical help arrives,” I whispered back, “is keep him warm and quiet. And close the drapes near him. He may be sensitive to light.”

“Sensitive to light? How do you—?”

I walked over to where Callie stood behind the counter, wringing a bar towel. “You said you called for help?” I said softly.

“I did, I did,” she stammered, “but he can’t have been poisoned, Mrs. Fletcher. I made his drink myself. No one’s ever gotten sick before. Maybe it’s just an allergic reaction. I put in a lot of horseradish this time. Do you think that did it?”

“
Shh.
It’s not your fault.”

Reggie shrugged out of his jacket and laid it across Blevin’s chest.

Jenna, who’d been serving hors d’oeuvres only thirty minutes ago, rushed into the club car, holding a first aid kit. Bruce was close behind her. The young woman’s face turned ashen when she saw Blevin lying on the floor. She sank into a chair.

“We called for an ambulance,” she whispered. “There’ll be one waiting in Whistler.”

“How long will it be?” Theodora asked, adjusting Reggie’s jacket over Blevin.

“We’re almost there,” Bruce said. He took the first aid kit from Jenna, propped it on a table, and snapped open the latch.

A long whistle sounded as the train rounded another curve, the shrill squeal of the wheels rending the air. Blevin’s body lifted off the floor as another convulsion gripped him. Theodora scrambled away from him and climbed into a chair. The screech of metal on metal reverberated in the car, now emptied of all but a few of the club’s delegation.

Jenna stared, transfixed, as Blevin’s lips curled back in a grotesque grin. His eyes bulged from their sockets and his arms twitched. His skin took on an odd pallor under his tanned complexion, and a blue tinge crept into his face.

The train straightened and the wheels ceased their strident sound. But it was too late.

Junior, who’d pulled Maeve up onto a chair, looked at Blevin and pointed to Bruce’s kit. “I don’t think that’s going to do you any good anymore,” he said. He picked up his camera and took a few fast photos of the scene.

I marveled at how callously he was able to view the misfortune of his colleague.

Reggie walked to where Blevin lay and gazed into his sightless eyes. He leaned down and pulled his jacket up over Blevin’s face. Theodora moaned.

Jenna gasped and began to sob.

“My God,” Callie cried hoarsely from behind the bar. “He’s dead!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bruce had instructed one of the staff to escort Mrs. Blevin to another car and to send someone back to stand by the door to the club car to bar anyone from entering until we reached Whistler. Callie started to collect glasses where passengers had left them, but I asked her to leave them untouched.

“Why?” Bruce asked.

“In case they become evidence,” I replied.

“Evidence? Of what?”

“I’m not a medical expert,” I said, “but until the cause of death has been determined, the police will want everything to be left as it was.”

“Mrs. Fletcher thinks Mr. Blevin was poisoned,” Callie whispered.

“Preposterous,” Winston Rendell said from the entrance. “This isn’t a scene from one of your novels, Mrs. Fletcher. The man obviously died of natural causes.” Rendell had barged back into the club car he’d abandoned earlier when Blevin first fell ill. I wondered if he’d come to check that Blevin had indeed died.

“You’re probably right,” I said to him, “but wouldn’t it be better to err on the side of caution?”

Bruce agreed with me and the club car was left untouched by the staff. Of course, passengers filing out earlier could have disturbed or even moved items, but that was beyond anyone’s control, certainly mine. I hoped I was wrong about the cause of Alvin Blevin’s death and would gladly acknowledge that I was, should it prove to be so. But my instincts told me Al Blevin’s death was no accident. I even thought I knew the poison which had taken his life. That knowledge didn’t make me happy.

With everyone else gathered in the coach, I stood near Bruce in the club car as he talked on a cell phone with someone from Whistler.

“We don’t know what happened to him,” he said. “It appears he had a heart attack or possibly a stroke. But we”—he glanced at me—“but we decided to not touch anything in the car where it happened.” He placed a finger in his opposite ear from the one to which the phone was pressed, listening to what was being said. “Why?” he said in response. “Because one of our passengers, a Mrs. Fletcher, suggested—well, she isn’t sure the death was the result of natural causes.” After a few additional exchanges, he concluded the conversation and slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket.

“Could I speak with you for a moment?” he asked, escorting me back into the coach. He indicated a place removed from the others. Small groups had formed throughout the car, and people were nervously chattering about what had just occurred.

“Yes?” I said when we’d taken two empty seats.

“Until it’s determined how Mr. Blevin died,” he said, “I’d really appreciate not having the possibility of his being poisoned spread around to other passengers.”

“I understand,” I said. “It’s obviously supposition on my part. It’s just that—”

He interrupted me. “I’m sure you have valid reasons for suspecting poison, Mrs. Fletcher, but from the standpoint of the train and BC Rail, it would be better if—”

I placed a hand on his arm and smiled. “I understand perfectly, Bruce. No more talk of poisoning until the medical folks have their say.”

“Thank you.”

Along with the shock and horror at having someone drop dead in the midst of a party, speculation was rampant in the car, my cautionary remark to Samantha having been overheard and then repeated by Maeve. Since Junior had taken the seat next to his wife where I had sat before, I looked around for an empty space. Reggie patted the chair next to him and I took it.

“Unbelievable,” he said.

“Tragic,” I said.

“I’ll bet people are sorry for all the nasty things they said about Alvin.”

“People express the way they feel, and no one can ever forecast someone’s sudden demise. He appeared to me to be in pretty good physical shape.”