Destination Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

“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!”

  Chapter Four

  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.”

  “I thought so, too. Alvin was a health fanatic, aside from having a little too much to drink now and then. He was a jogger and a regular in the gym.”

  “Mid fifties?”

  “I’m not sure how old he was, but you’re probably about right.” He leaned close. “Do you really think he was poisoned?”

  I said in an equally low voice, “I promised Bruce I wouldn’t talk about that until we get to Whistler.”

  “Why doesn’t he want you to talk about it?”

  “Because he doesn’t want to set people on edge unduly. Besides, he has the railroad’s reputation to protect.”

  “It’d be hard to taint BC Rail’s reputation, Jess. It’s one of the best railroads in North America.”

  “That may be, Reggie, but—”

  I was interrupted by the sudden presence of Benjamin Vail, Alvin Blevin’s stepson.

  “My mother wants to speak with you.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’m so sorry about your stepdad.”

  “Are you coming or not?”

  “I, uh—” I looked at Reggie, who shrugged. I got up and followed Benjamin into the dining car, which was empty except for Theodora Blevin, who sat at one of the tables. She looked up at me with an expression that said, all at once, the emotions and thoughts she was experiencing at the moment.

  “Thank you, Benjamin,” she said, clearly dismissing her son.

  “I’m staying,” he said, taking up a position behind his mother with his arms crossed. He glared at me as if to dare me to upset her.

  “No. That’s all right, dear.”

  “You need me here.”

  “Not right now. Mrs. Fletcher and I have matters to discuss privately.”

  “I want to hear what she says.”

  “We’ll talk later, Benjamin.”

  “But—”

  “Later, Benjamin.” The iron in her voice brooked no argument.

  He left, and I took a chair across from her.

  “I’m sorry about your husband,” I said.

  “It’s just beginning to sink in, the reality of it,” she said, her shoulders slumping as if under the weight of her suffering. “He’s gone. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “One minute he’s standing on a chair welcoming everyone, the next minute he’s on the floor of the club car with his face covered up. It’s so—so barbaric.”

  I said nothing. Had I been summoned to be a listening post while she poured out her grief? I couldn’t imagine why she’d choose me, unless I represented a stranger to her. Sometimes we seek strangers to confide in, content that they don’t have a stake in our lives. Theodora was a woman who didn’t convey emotion easily. In our short acquaintance, I’d seen very few expressions cross her beautiful face. I’d thought her arrogant, but perhaps she needed to protect herself from the unkind words of others. Or maybe she’d grown accustomed to keeping her feelings hidden when dealing with the difficulties in her life—the disappearance of her first husband, a dominating second husband, and a troubled son. In contrast to his mother, Benjamin seemed to have little control over his emotions, either pouting like a child or giving in to angry outbursts.

  “Ever have anyone close to you die like this?” she asked, her eyes focused on the white linen tablecloth.

  “No, not like this, Mrs. Blevin. I was with my husband when he died, but that was in a hospital setting. His death wasn’t unexpected. He’d been ill for a while.”

  She looked up at me. “Alvin had a lot of enemies, Mrs. Fletcher. Powerful, successful men always do.”

  Had she come to the same tentative conclusion as I had, that her husband might have been poisoned? “Do you think someone wanted him dead?” I asked.

  “He wasn’t poisoned,” she said firmly.

  I waited.

  “I know what you’ve been saying. You’ve been spreading that rumor, haven’t you?”

  “I don’t believe in spreading rumors,” I said, deciding now was not the time to tell her what I knew about the effects of various poisons, and one in particular.

  “I heard you tell Samantha he was poisoned,” she repeated, more vehemently this time.

  There was nothing to gain by pointing out that I’d said he might have been poisoned. She was not in the mood to listen. Instead I said, “I don’t know that for sure, but if he were poisoned, it could have been dangerous for her to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Do you know what caused your husband’s death?”

  “It wasn’t poison,” she ground out again. “You’re trying to ruin his reputation.”

  “Perhaps he was allergic to some ingredient in the drinks,” I offered, trying to give her something to hold on to until she was ready to hear the truth.

  “Al wasn’t allergic to anything. He was as healthy as a horse.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “I want you to stop spreading rumors. Haven’t we suffered enough? You’re making it worse. Al was not poisoned.” She picked up a handkerchief and dabbed her dry eyes.

  I realized I was sitting with a woman who’d just lost her husband, and I didn’t want to sound combative. “Everyone’s understandably on edge,” I said gently, and smiled. “I’m perfectly willing to sit with you for as long as you wish, but perhaps you’d prefer to be alone at a time like this.”

  I stood.

  “Stop spreading that stupid rumor!” she growled, venom in her voice.

  I said nothing, simply left the car and rejoined Reggie, who stood talking with Bruce and Callie. Other conversation in the car was muffled and somber.

  “We’re pulling into Whistler,” Bruce said.

  “I’ll be glad when we’re there,” said Callie, who’d been crying. Her eyes were puffy and red, and tears had streaked makeup on one cheek. “Having his body in the next car is spooky.”

  “Almost there,” said Bruce, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Where’s Jenna?”

  “I don’t know,” Callie said. “Why can’t we go faster? I just want to get off the train.”

  It did seem as though we were traveling at a snail’s pace, although this wasn’t a sudden phenomenon. I’d noticed since leaving North Vancouver that the Whistler Northwind was not about to set any speed records. But that was the whole point—wasn’t it?—a leisurely three-day journey on a classic train with every possible comfort, much like a luxury cruise ship, taking in the beauty and majesty of British Columbia. To go any faster would be to violate the very premise of the trip. And there were other passengers in the coaches up front, passengers who were unaware of the tragedy that had taken place in the car reserved for the members of the Track and Rail Club. Speed wouldn’t help Al Blevin, not anymore. Still, I knew what Callie was feeling. I’m sure we all shared her desire to reach Whistler and get away from the train, away from the dead body in the club car.

  After an interminable half hour, Whistler station came into view and the train slowed to a stop. I looked out my window and saw an ambulance. Standing in front of it were a young man and woman dressed in long white lab jackets. Close to them were men wearing what I assumed were law enforcement uniforms. A heavyset man in a suit leaned against the ambulance. Beyond them were two cars parked side by side, one a patrol car with RCMP stenciled on its door. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police, I thought. The “Mounties.” All I knew of that famous organization was from stories read in childhood, old movies, and photos of its officers in their distinctive brilliant red-and-black uniforms and wide-brimmed hats. I took another look at the uniformed officers. No red jackets and black pants on them. They wore drab gray shirts and blue trousers with a yellow stripe down the sides. But their hats were the familiar shape.


  Bruce led Benjamin to the dining car to join his mother, and the door was shut behind them. BC Rail’s onboard host returned to the coach car and used the public-address system: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve arrived in Whistler. Because of the unfortunate tragedy we’ve experienced, I’m going to ask you to gather up your belongings and follow me off the train as quickly and orderly as possible through this door. A bus is waiting to take you to the hotel where you’ll be spending what I’m sure will be a comfortable night. Your luggage has been transported ahead of us by truck and will be in your rooms when you arrive. Please refer to your itinerary regarding any events planned for this evening and detailing how and where we’ll meet in the morning for breakfast and for the bus bringing us back to the train. Thank you for your cooperation.”

  Once everyone was standing in the aisle, Bruce motioned for us to begin leaving. Reggie and I were the first to enter the vestibule. Bruce had already gone down the steps and stood on the platform with the uniformed officers, the man in the suit, and the two medical technicians. Reggie started down, but Bruce stopped him by raising his hand. We waited while our guest services supervisor continued to confer with the police. Finally, he looked up at us and said apologetically, “You’ll have to go back inside. The police want to speak with everyone.”

  Reggie and I turned and informed the people behind us of the change in plans. There was much grumbling and griping, but eventually everyone was reseated and the two medical technicians entered the car. Bruce escorted them to the club car, where Blevin’s body lay. Jenna entered the coach and took up her accustomed post in the front. She was very pale and clutched her black binder and the microphone to her chest.

  Next to come aboard were the two uniformed RCMP officers and the large man who was obviously in charge. He seemed even bigger once inside, his tall, square frame filling the doorway. He asked Jenna for the microphone, which she handed him. After a false start as he searched for the ON button, he spoke into it. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Detective Christian Marshall, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Sorry for any inconvenience, and I’ll try and detain you for only a brief period.”