“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.”
“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 ra
ised 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.”
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