Destination Murder (9 page)

Whistler was still bustling when I returned from my ride up the mountain. The square I’d visited earlier was even more congested, thanks to the attraction of a performance by street musicians. I was hungry and perused menus outside the many restaurants and cafés on the square’s perimeter. I chose a place called Araxi, and as I was about to enter, I spotted a familiar face. It was my Whistler Northwind fellow passenger Marilyn Whitmore. Her daughter was not with her.

“May I join you?” I asked, indicating the empty chair at the outdoor table she occupied.

“Yes, of course,” she said. “Are you enjoying your afternoon?”

“I took the gondola up Whistler Mountain.”

“I could never do that,” she said. “I have an appalling fear of heights. That’s why I like trains. I avoid planes whenever possible.”

“I actually enjoy flying,” I said as a waiter delivered a menu and took my drink order, a glass of red wine. “I have my private license.”

“Oh?”

“It’s ironic, really. I have a license to fly, but I don’t drive.”

“That’s funny.”

“Where’s Samantha? Is she shopping?”

“I left her back in the room sleeping. The shock was too much for her, I’m afraid.”

A nurse shocked over someone dying?
I thought. But I didn’t express my surprise. Instead I asked, “Did the police interview you?”

“If that’s what you can call it,” she replied with a wry smile. “Just a few questions. You?”

“The same. They don’t seem especially concerned at this juncture about Mr. Blevin’s death.”

Her eyebrows arched. “But they will be if you have your way?”

“I don’t consider it ‘my way,’ ” I said. “Whatever the truth is will be good enough for me.”

My wine was delivered. Marilyn held up her glass, which contained something undoubtedly more potent than my cabernet. “To a pleasant rest of the trip despite what happened this afternoon.”

I raised my glass in a halfhearted response and we drank.

She looked out over the square, and a thoughtful expression appeared on her face. “Sad, isn’t it,” she said, “that some people die and few people care.”

“An old friend of mine says that when you’re dead, all bets are off, even for the most reviled of people.”

“Like Alvin Blevin.”

Since she’d decided to enter this area of discussion, I said, “I gathered from comments made by some members of the club that he wasn’t especially popular.”

She sighed as she said, “That’s a gentle way to put it.”

“Some of the complaints seem to be about how he ran the club, that he was too dictatorial. Do you feel that way, too?”

“It may sound callous, but if someone killed Al Blevin, I can’t say that I’m sorry. He wasn’t a nice man.”

A shadow crossed the table and I looked up. The waiter apologized for interrupting our conversation. “May I tell you about our specials?”

We placed our orders, and talk shifted to more mundane topics: her favorite restaurants in Vancouver, the wonderful service on the train, the bears who lived on the mountain. Throughout our meal, I tried to keep my mind from racing back to murder. I wanted to talk more about Blevin with Marilyn, to find out why she didn’t like him, who else didn’t like him, but the opportunity had passed. Of course, if the autopsy proved Blevin had indeed been poisoned, I could raise the topic again
.

While outwardly I advocated awaiting the results of the postmortem before commenting on the cause of Blevin’s death, inwardly I had no doubt about its nature. I had studied too many books on methods of murder and had sat in too many lectures on forensic investigation to question what had been obvious to me. A murder had taken place. But how long would it take the Mounties to come to that conclusion? A week? Reggie and I could be on our way back to the States by then. If the autopsy and chemical analysis of the glasses proved me right—and I was sure they would—the information might come too late for me to be involved in the questioning. Was I willing to leave the inquiries solely in the hands of the Canadian authorities? They were fully competent, of course, but then I was already on the scene, and I knew all the potential suspects. I could be very helpful to the Mounties, couldn’t I?

While I was musing about the investigation, a school choral group assembled in the square in front of the restaurant, and Marilyn and I listened to the a capella singing, charmed by their sweet voices. When the group had finished their miniconcert and dispersed, Marilyn said, “I’d better get back and see how Samantha is doing.”

“I hope she’s feeling better,” I offered.

“Samantha is—well, she’s fragile, has been ever since her father died. She wasn’t able to save his life, and she took it particularly hard.”

“How did he die?”

“Heart attack. Samantha blames herself for not being there. She was late coming home. Thinks if she’d been able to do CPR, he would have lived. It’s nonsense, of course. He had a weak heart. She couldn’t do anything about that. But she doesn’t see it that way. The therapist suggested we get away for a while. I was hoping this trip would help her to relax and give her a new outlook, but . . .” She shrugged.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “It must be difficult for you as well.”

“She’ll be right soon enough. I think Al’s death just brought it all back.”

She was about to leave the table when Detective Marshall came to the railing separating the dining area from the square. He’d changed into casual clothing and carried packages.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said. “Enjoy your meal?”

“Very much,” I said. “It looks like you’ve done a little shopping.”

He grinned. “Picked up a few things for the grandchildren. Always do when I’m away. Well, have a good evening.” He gave us a small, awkward bow and walked in the direction of the hotel.

“He evidently believes you,” Marilyn said.

“About what?”

“About Blevin being poisoned.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “but I’ve decided that until there’s something tangible to support my theory, I’m considering Mr. Blevin’s death to be nothing more than an unfortunate accident. I enjoyed having dinner with you and our conversation, Marilyn.”

“We’ll have lots more time to continue it,” she said. “See you in the morning.”

I stayed behind at the table for a few minutes before heading back to the hotel. I knew I’d only half meant what I’d said. My intentions were good.
I should consider Alvin Blevin’s death to be of natural causes unless proved otherwise. I shouldn’t race to conclusions before proof is placed before me,
I told myself. Yet, back at the hotel, I found two uniformed Royal Canadian Mounted Police officers stationed at each end of the hallway. Their presence reinforced the impression that my observations were being taken seriously.

 

 

 

 

 

 

As I approached the hostess’s desk outside the hotel’s Aubergine Grille the following morning, a pile of newspapers caught my eye. Smiling out from the front page of the
Vancouver Sun
was Alvin Blevin. The photo had been taken on a golf course; he wore casual sports clothes and held a club. The headline above the picture read PROMINENT VANCOUVER ATTORNEY DIES. I picked up a copy and read the brief story, bylined by someone named Eugene Driscoll. He’d obviously had little information upon which to base his piece. He reported that Blevin had died of a presumed heart attack on the Whistler Northwind shortly before its arrival in Whistler and went on to say: “Famed mystery writer Jessica Fletcher is aboard the Northwind. Efforts to reach her and other passengers traveling with Mr. Blevin were unsuccessful.” An autopsy was pending, Driscoll wrote. A capsule history of Blevin’s professional life followed.

“One for breakfast?” the receptionist asked, after returning from seating another party.

“Yes, please.”

We were on our way across the large dining room toward a small table near a window when Maeve Pinckney extended her hand from where she sat with her husband, Junior. “Sit with us,” she said.

Junior was wearing his ubiquitous backwards baseball hat and a maroon sweatshirt with GEORGIA TECH in white across the chest. A copy of the newspaper was unopened on the table.

“I assume you saw this,” Maeve said, pointing to the Blevin story.

“I just picked it up.”

“Big-shot Blevin gets his picture on the front page,” Junior said, finishing what had been a tall stack of pancakes, sausage and bacon, and hash brown potatoes.

“I think we should be a little respectful of him, Junior, now that he’s dead,” his wife chided gently. She seemed to choose her words carefully when addressing her husband, as though saying the wrong thing, however innocuous, would provoke him.

“I didn’t like the man, Maeve. You know that. He always had his eye out for you, and don’t think I didn’t notice you fixin’ your hair or makeup whenever he was around.”

“You’re just imaginin’ things, Junior, although it’s nice to think of you as bein’ jealous after all our years together. It’s very flatterin’. Isn’t that right, Jessica? Alvin was just trying to be charming to all the ladies. He never paid me any extra attention.”

Junior’s answer was to pick up the paper and turn to the sports section.

“How are you feeling?” I asked her.

“I’m just fine. Why do you ask?”

“I was concerned when you fainted,” I said.

“Silly ol’ me,” she drawled.

Junior grimaced as he said, “Maeve’s the only person on the train who thinks Blevin was a good guy. He charmed the pants off her.” He shook his head and resumed reading.

Maeve frowned. “Now, Junior, I think we’ve had enough conversation about Alvin Blevin, may he rest in peace. We’re on vacation, and you get to take pictures of all the trains with your new digital camera. Junior is a wonderful photographer, Jessica. You should have him show you some of the photos he’s taken.”

Junior peered at me over the newspaper. “I’ve got two sixty-four-megabyte cards. Lets me take almost three hundred pictures. Camera’s got a built-in zoom. Thing’s a monster. Can’t buy a better one. I can take pictures clear as a bell from three inches away to fifty feet. I’ll show it to you when we’re back on board.”

“Thank you,” I said, smiling to myself that Maeve had managed to distract her husband and smooth the waters.

She delicately dabbed her lips with her napkin. “You should eat, Jessica. It’s a wonderful buffet, part of our package.”

“I will in a moment,” I said, sipping my coffee.

I looked to the room’s entrance and saw Detective Marshall being led to an empty table next to the window. He wore the same suit he’d had on the day before and carried a briefcase. Maeve followed my gaze and said, “He’s still here.”

“Yes, he is,” I agreed.

Junior looked over the top of the newspaper again. “Don’t know why they’d have the police involved,” he muttered. “Blevin dropped dead, that’s all. Happens all the time.”

I looked at Maeve, whose expression was hard to read. She was a pretty woman, subtly made up to accent her beauty, although she needed no artificial enhancements. It was also apparent that she had a voluptuous figure, a classic hourglass shape that was only partially contained beneath the full clothing she wore.
Had her obvious charms attracted Alvin Blevin?

I excused myself and went to the buffet. Reggie had just entered the restaurant and joined me.

“Sleep well?” he asked.

“So-so,” I said, placing a variety of fresh fruit on my plate. “You?”

“Was awake most of the night. Couldn’t get Blevin out of my mind.”

“I understand,” I said, adding a yogurt and a blueberry scone to my breakfast.

We were at the end of the long buffet table when he said, “I thought Benjamin Vail was supposed to go back to Vancouver with his mother and the body.”

“No, he said that—”

“You talked to him?”

“Yes. Yesterday.”

“You did? How did that happen?”

“It’s a long story, Reggie. Where did you see him?”

“Out in the courtyard this morning.”

“We’d better get to the table and eat this before the bus leaves for the station,” I said. “I’m sitting with the Pinckneys. Would you like to join us?”

“I’ve already taken a place with the Goldfinches,” he said.

“Then I’ll catch you later.”

My meal was interrupted several times when a few other members of our group stopped by the table to say good morning and to ask whether there was anything new about Blevin’s death. I occasionally glanced over at Detective Marshall. He seemed engrossed in whatever he was reading, which appeared to be papers taken from his briefcase.

I finished my breakfast and was about to leave when Maeve stopped me with “His son doesn’t seem too upset with his death.”

“What son?” I asked.

“Blevin’s stepson,” Junior said. “Benjamin.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The way he acts,” Maeve said. “Tell her, Junior.”

“I saw him this morning, outside. I snuck out for a smoke and—”

“Junior still smokes now and then,” Maeve said, wrinkling her nose at an imagined odor of tobacco.

“I’ve cut way down,” he said in defense. “Anyway, I went outside to have a cigarette and I saw the kid with Jenna.”

“Jenna from the train?”

“Yeah. The cute one.”

Maeve leaned close to me. “Junior says they looked lovey-dovey.”

“You’d think he’d show a little more class,” Junior said, standing and motioning for Maeve to join him.

“Comin’?” Maeve asked me.

“I’ll be right along.”

I was almost sorry to get on the bus and leave Whistler. It would have been nice to spend a few leisurely days there, exploring the quaint village and enjoying the hotel’s amenities. All the seats were taken in the front of the bus, and everyone was strangely quiet. I walked down the aisle toward the back, where I could see a few empty rows. But when I reached the first one, I realized it was already occupied. Benjamin Vail, in a green-and-white-striped shirt and well-worn jeans, sat slouched down, his head turned toward the window, his pea jacket and carry-on bag thrown in the seat beside him. I moved to the next row and sat down.