“Really?”
“He said something along the lines of no woman being safe in the deceased’s company.”
“I hadn’t heard that,” I said. “Blevin was certainly a handsome man, very sure of himself. Rich and powerful, too. I wouldn’t be surprised that some women would be attracted to him.”
Marshall grunted, and I took that to mean he agreed.
He stood at the rear window, his back to me, and looked out at the tracks growing narrow behind us. My mind wandered. He reminded me in some ways of my dear friend from London, George Sutherland, a Scotland Yard inspector I’d met many years earlier when in England as a guest of the then reigning queen of mystery writers, Dame Marjorie Ainsworth. I’d been Marjorie’s weekend houseguest when she was brutally stabbed to death in her bed, and Inspector Sutherland was dispatched to the scene. We’d gotten to know each other during that investigation and had remained fond friends ever since, interested perhaps in more, although neither of us had taken steps to advance that possibility.
I’m always curious about people’s lives outside their work. Detective Marshall had bought gifts for his grandchildren. I wondered what this RCMP detective’s life was like when he wasn’t investigating murders in British Columbia. Did he have a wife? Did they discuss his cases over dinner or on Sunday drives?
He turned and for the first time gave me a soft smile. “You will, of course, keep me informed of anything you might overhear that would have bearing upon this unfortunate incident.”
“Of course I will. And I trust you’ll let me know once you’ve received word on the autopsy.”
His smile widened. “This is a new experience for me,” he said, “having a murder mystery writer as an unofficial partner.”
“I’ll try to be as helpful as I can,” I said.
He left the club car and I followed, but as I passed the lavatories, the door to one of them opened and Maeve Pinckney appeared, her eyes red rimmed.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” she said, but there was a quaver in her voice. Before I could offer anything, she walked quickly down the aisle toward our seats.
What’s that all about? I wondered. Behind me, the other lavatory door opened and Junior Pinckney emerged.
“Is your wife all right?” I asked him. “I saw that she’s been crying and—”
“Maeve? She’s fine. She’s a real waterworks, cries over Hallmark commercials, for God’s sake. Don’t pay any attention to her.”
What an insensitive comment, I thought as I walked down the aisle, intending to speak with Maeve to see whether there was anything I could do for her. But Detective Marshall had beaten me to it. She’d taken my seat against the window; he filled the seat she usually occupied. I stopped halfway down the car and stood at one of the windows. I was taking in the passing scenery when Jenna came on the PA.
“Lunch is about to be served,” she said. “We’ll be reaching the Fraser Canyon soon, one of the most spectacular sights on the trip. And we’ll be passing the ginseng fields, the most profitable legal cash crop per acre grown in British Columbia.”
“I wonder what the illegal crop is,” Reggie said, coming up behind me.
“I’d rather not know.”
“Share a table, Jess?”
“Love to.”
As we waited in the aisle for others to leave their seats and file into the dining car, I asked Reggie, “Was Blevin a womanizer?”
My Cabot Cove friend guffawed. “Al Blevin was notorious for getting whatever he wanted,” he said. “But that’s another story. Come on, I’m famished. I hear the chicken potpies are to die for.”
As it turned out, Reggie’s rave review of the chicken potpie wasn’t misplaced. It rivaled the best from my friends’ kitchens back home.
But food wasn’t my preoccupation of the moment. My natural instinct to know about people had kicked in and was running in high gear. It didn’t matter whether Blevin was poisoned or not, at least not for the moment. I was now determined to find out as much as I could about his obviously controversial life. This need to know is a common curse among writers, at least the ones with whom I’m friendly. While the characters in my novels are creatures of my imagination, they’re often based on real people I’ve known or heard of, properly disguised, of course. My fascination with asking “what if” was now operating full-time.
I intended to ask Reggie more questions about Blevin’s love life over lunch, but the Goldfinches joined us and had questions of their own, not about Blevin but about Elliott Vail’s disappearance three years ago. I only half listened while Reggie related what he’d told me earlier, but my interest picked up when Martin asked, “Had Mrs. Vail been having some sort of a relationship with Blevin before her husband disappeared?”
“That was the rumor,” Reggie answered, “but you can’t prove it by me.”
Gail Goldfinch chimed in with, “There must have been a lot of insurance money involved.”
“Why do you assume that?” Martin asked.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Just the way she looks and carries herself.”
“Al was loaded,” Reggie said. “She didn’t need to bring money into the relationship.”
“Still, two and a half million dollars wouldn’t hurt, would it?”
I’d been silent during the exchange. Now I joined the conversation. “I wonder what was said in the suicide note.”
“Oh, was there a suicide note?” Gail asked. But there was something in the tone of her question that didn’t sound genuine to me.
“Was it ever made public?” Martin put in.
“Not that I know of,” Reggie said. “I asked Al about it once. He told me the court proceedings and decisions were sealed by the judge.”
The subject was dropped for the rest of the meal, and topics shifted to talk of old trains and the passing scenery. The Goldfinches excused themselves after a dessert of double chocolate truffle cake, leaving Reggie and me alone at the table.
“Nice couple,” he said. “Always good to have new blood in the club.”
“There’s something odd about them, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
“They look pretty normal to me.”
“Reggie,” I said, changing the topic, “I asked you before lunch about Al Blevin’s reputation as a womanizer.”
“Doesn’t matter, does it,” he said, “now that he’s dead?”
“Do me a favor and satisfy this naturally curious mystery writer.”
He laughed. “Going to base a book on this?”
“His death is intriguing, is it not?”
“Especially if he was poisoned.”
“Even if he wasn’t.”
He nodded toward a table at the opposite end of the dining car, closest to the coach car. Maeve and Junior Pinckney were in the process of vacating it. Reggie leaned close. “It’s not the sort of thing that I ever noticed,” he said, “but Junior there has hinted that he caught his wife in a compromising position with Blevin.”
“Oh? When was that?”
“A few years back.”
“Before Elliott Vail disappeared.”
“Yeah. Sure. It would have been five or six years ago.”
“Was Blevin married at that time?”
“Might have been. Or between marriages.”
“How many times was he married?”
“Three that I know of, not including Theodora.”
“Any children?”
“I never saw him with a kid, but if he does have any, I imagine they’d live with the mother. Maybe Junior knows. Ask him.”
“I will.”
Maeve saw us looking at them and gave us a wave, which I returned.
I shook my head. “I certainly don’t know Maeve very well, but I simply cannot imagine her taking up with Alvin Blevin.”
Reggie grinned. “Remember what Henry Kissinger answered when he was asked why so many women were attracted to him?” He adopted what passed for an imitation of K
issinger’s accent: “Vimmen love power!”
“Not this voman,” I said, laughing and standing. “We should be getting close to 100 Mile House soon, shouldn’t we?”
“Right. But first we have to cross over the infamous Fraser Canyon. It’s a sight not to be missed.”
A few minutes later, Jenna’s voice came over the PA to herald the train’s approach to Fraser Canyon. Her announcement woke many of those whose heads had started to droop following a satisfying lunch, and there was hustle and bustle as people stood in the aisle or kneeled on their seats to get a better view. We’d been paralleling the Fraser River for a while. Now we were about to begin the breathtaking crossing of the canyon. We were on a long curved section of track that afforded a view ahead of what looked like an elongated, spindly trestle held up by match-stick legs.
“It doesn’t look as though it can support us,” I commented to Bruce, who’d entered the car carrying his ubiquitous clipboard and cell phone.
He laughed. “Oh, it can support us, Mrs. Fletcher. Always has.”
Spaces next to the windows on the scenic side were all taken, so I wandered into the vestibule, where, no surprise, Junior was hanging out the upper half of the door, baseball hat on backwards, digital camera trained on the unfolding vista. He wasn’t the only one there. Hank Crocker, a video camera in his hand, was trying to push Junior aside. But Junior wasn’t budging.
“Move, damn it!” Crocker barked.
“I was here first,” Junior said, not turning.
“You’re always here. Come on, stop hogging the door.”
“Go to the other side. The view is just as good.”
“If it’s just as good, you go.”
It was getting nasty. I decided to move into the dining car, where I could sit and enjoy the view from one of its windows.
In the small foyer that led into the dining car, a figure was pressed against the window, his back to me. These windows didn’t open. There was no breeze to ruffle Benjamin’s hair, no fresh air tainted with the slight smell of oil that the train gave off. It occurred to me that this portion of the trip could be exactly why Benjamin Vail had continued on the Northwind while his mother returned home to mourn her second husband. Had he never seen where his father had disappeared? Had he wondered all these years what had happened to send Elliott over the edge? Did he worry, as so many children of suicides did, that he had contributed to his father’s demise by some word or deed? His was not a pleasant personality, but my heart went out to Benjamin as he strained against the glass, struggling to see where his father had died.
I passed through the foyer without lingering, careful not to disturb the young man’s privacy at such a difficult moment, and paused next to the service cabinet. At the far end, Karl was setting the tables with fresh linen. I stepped into the car and heard a voice with a distinct British accent. Winston Rendell came into view. He was speaking into a cell phone and pacing along the wall.
“. . . of course I’m sure,” he said. “The bastard is bloody well dead, and good riddance.”
Before I could back away, he turned and saw me. His expression went from surprise to anger. “I’ll call you later,” he said into the phone, slipping it into his pocket and forcing a smile at me.
“Enjoying the view, Mrs. Fletcher?” he said.
“I haven’t seen very much of it but—excuse me.”
I returned to the vestibule, where Hank Crocker and Junior Pinckney continued to jockey for position at the half-open and prized place by the door. Hank spotted me and said to Junior, “Let Mrs. Fletcher have some time here.”
Junior snorted as he considered Crocker’s suggestion.
“No, that’s all right,” I said.
Hank gave Junior a little shove away from the door and followed him to the opposite side, leaving the space at the door unoccupied. Although I wasn’t especially keen on standing in the rush of air coming through the open upper portion of the door, I appreciated the gesture and went to where they’d been standing. At first, I stood back a few inches from the door, uncomfortable doing what they’d been doing, leaning on the closed lower portion and extending their heads through the opening.
“Afraid to look down, Mrs. Fletcher?” Rendell said from behind me. He’d come from the dining car and was now a foot from my back. “Fear of heights?”
“No,” I said, closing the gap in front of the door and placing my hands on the ledge. I leaned forward, poked my head out into the wind, and peered down into the canyon and at the river that appeared to be miles below. The view was spectacular; the train had slowed and was barely moving, giving passengers more time to appreciate the dramatic scene.
Suddenly, the closed bottom portion of the door gave way and swung out, taking me with it. I was doubled over on it, my stomach the fulcrum point, my head and torso jutting from the train, the tips of my shoes barely maintaining contact with the edge of the vestibule floor. Below was Fraser Canyon, so distant and menacing, its muddy river and harsh terrain beckoning as it allegedly had done to Elliott Vail three years ago. The train jerked forward and the door swung wider; my feet left the metal edge of the floor. In another moment the door would bang backwards into the side of the train and I would be knocked off, tumbling hundreds of feet down into the jagged rocks and churning water.
I screamed; the rush of air carried away the sound.
“Help!”
I felt a tugging on my skirt, then hands on the waistband, pulling me and the door back toward the vestibule. Those same hands then grasped my shoulders and completed the task of bringing me to safety.
“Oh—thank heavens, you—were here,” I said to Samantha Whitmore as I slumped against the wall of the vestibule, shaking, taking in gulps of air.
“That was close,” she said, pulling me farther away from the door, which was still unlatched. “Are you injured? Are you feeling pain anywhere?” she asked as she ran her hands up and down my arms and examined my eyes. Even through my shock and confusion, I realized that this was a Samantha I hadn’t seen before, solicitous and capable.
Bruce, the Northwind’s guest services supervisor, hurried in from the coach and came to my side. Keeping one hand on my shoulder, he slammed the bottom half of the door shut and jiggled the handle. “I saw you through the window,” he said, shuddering. “This has never happened before, I promise you. These doors are always locked. I check them myself.” He returned his full attention to me. “Are you all right?”
“I’m—yes, I think I’m all right—shaken but otherwise—okay.” The words came out in short bursts as I struggled to catch my breath. “I thought—”
“Yes?”
“I thought Mr. Rendell—he was right behind—me—when it happened.”
“Did he—? Are you saying—?”
“No. Don’t misunderstand.” I tried to draw in a deep breath. “It’s just that he was here when it happened.” I looked at Samantha. “I assumed he was the one who grabbed me.”
“There was no one behind you when I came along,” Samantha said.
“Did you do anything to the door to make it open like that?” Bruce slammed his hand on the door to test the lock.
“I don’t think so. Mr. Crocker and Mr. Pinckney were at the door before they made room for me.”
I looked across the vestibule, but the two men who’d been battling each other for the best view had abandoned their posts and disappeared.
“I’ll talk to them,” Bruce said.
“Yes, do that. I’m feeling a little better,” I said. “I think I’ll return to my seat.”
“Of course. Can I get you anything? Coffee or tea or a brandy?”
“No, nothing. Wait, yes. Maybe a cup of tea.”
“Right on it.” He rushed away.
“You almost died,” Samantha said, her concern now turned to pique, “and he offers you tea.”
“Samantha, I can’t thank you enough.”
She raised her hands as if to ward me off, took a step back, and shook her head
. The disturbed expression was back in her eyes. “Don’t have to,” she muttered, turning to leave. “Didn’t want another death on my hands.”
Alone in the vestibule, my back to the wall, I took a shaky breath. I’d said I wanted to return to my seat, but I wasn’t actually certain my legs would support me yet. I turned my head and looked intently at the latch. Who loosened that door? Was it Rendell? He was right behind you, I told myself as I replayed the scene in my mind. He taunted you, and you foolishly leaned closer to the door to move away from him. Had he released the latch and walked away so he could claim that he wasn’t there when I fell to my death? If so, why? He was introduced to me as a colleague, a fellow author, yet he’s consistently made disparaging remarks about my writing. Surely his resentment of me couldn’t justify murder. There must be something else I’m missing. I ran a trembling hand through my hair. I’d obviously interrupted an important phone call, and he hadn’t been happy. But was what I’d heard enough to tempt him to murder me?
I took a deep breath and blew it out. My hammering heart had slowed a little, and I thought my legs might hold me now. I entered the coach and slowly made my way down the aisle. I had almost reached my seat, where Maeve Pinckney was working on her needlepoint, when Hank Crocker stopped me. “Enjoy the view?”
“I, ah—”
“This is where he went off,” Crocker whispered.
“Pardon?”
“Vail. He must have been really desperate to take a plunge like this.”
“All suicides are acts of desperation,” I offered, feeling a little light-headed; I grabbed a seat-back for support.
“I never bought it,” he said, his voice low. “Didn’t make any sense. He wasn’t the kind of guy to kill himself that way. Elliott was not a very physical guy, you know? I’d figure him to take some pills or stick his head in an oven. Jump from way up here? Nah. And how come nobody saw him go, you know, from a window or something? Everybody’s looking out the window at this point in the trip.”
But Bruce had been the only one to see me dangling over the gorge. Or was he the only one?
“Excuse me,” I said, and slid past Maeve into the security of my comfortable chair.
Destination Murder Page 9