Destination Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I bet Merit Life would like to prove that,” Driscoll said. “It would save them a bundle.”

  “I beg your pardon? I was distracted. What was it you said?”

  “Merit Life. If they can prove Vail is alive, they get their two and half million back.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” I said. “Do you know where Merit Life is headquartered?”

  “Sure. Hartford, Connecticut. That’s where lots of insurance companies have their headquarters. Their Canadian affiliate is in Vancouver.”

  “What else have you found out while you’ve been chasing down this story?”

  “The rumor is that Theodora Vail was getting it on with Al Blevin before her husband disappeared.”

  “Do you know that for a fact?”

  “No, ma’am. Scuttlebutt.”

  “Is there any way to prove it?”

  “Not unless you can find a witness to testify to it. But it wouldn’t make much difference. Infidelity is hardly news these days.”

  “Of course, if Elliott Vail was murdered,” I said, “then it would provide a motive.”

  “True.”

  “You mentioned downstairs that Benjamin Vail was arrested for having attacked his stepfather. When did that happen?”

  He chewed his cheek and briefly closed his eyes before answering. “I think it was right after Blevin married Theodora Vail. The police got a domestic disturbance call and went to Blevin’s house. They took the kid off in handcuffs, but Blevin refused to press charges, and the matter was dropped. The story is in one of those clips I gave you.”

  I offered him a soft drink from the suite’s minibar, which he declined.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, closing his notebook.

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve been doing all the talking, but I came here hoping to get a quote from you.”

  “I’d like to be as helpful as you’ve been, Mr. Driscoll, but I’m afraid you know a great deal more than I do.”

  “That’s not what Detective Marshall of the RCMP thinks.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Not directly. I got it from one of the other passengers on your trip.” He flipped through the pages of his spiral-bound pad. “This person said that Marshall enlisted you and a friend of yours—a Mr. Reginald Weems—to help with the investigation. True?”

  “Who said that?”

  “Can’t tell you. Confidential sources and all that. So, is it true? Did the Mounties ask you to help with the investigation? Not exactly standard police procedure.”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer. Obviously, this young reporter had it right and had gotten it from a credible source. It would be another thing to acknowledge it for public consumption.

  “Detective Marshall asked me and Mr. Weems to tell him what we’d witnessed the day Mr. Blevin died, which we did. I’m sure others on the train were asked the same question and cooperated, too.” I looked at my watch. “Now, Mr. Driscoll,” I said, going to the door and placing my hand on the knob, “I’m afraid I have another appointment. I appreciate the job you have to do, and I respect it. I also assure you that I really don’t have anything to offer you—at this juncture.”

  He cocked his head. “ ‘At this juncture,’ ” he repeated. “Does that mean you might have something to tell me at another time?”

  “That’s always a possibility,” I said, opening the door.

  “Promise I’ll be the first reporter you call?”

  “Yes,” I said. “You’ll be the first.”

  “I guess I can’t ask for more than that,” he said.

  “Thanks for your time.”

  “And good luck with your investigation.”

  After he was gone, I dialed Reggie’s room. I was expecting his voicemail but he answered in person.

  “Reggie, it’s Jessica.”

  “Change your mind about joining me at Cin Cin tonight? I was just on my way out the door, but I can wait another few minutes.”

  “No, thanks. I have a dinner appointment soon.”

  “I thought you wanted to be on your own.”

  “Now, don’t get offended. I’ll fill you in tomorrow. But listen; this is important. Do you do any business with Merit Life?”

  “Merit? Sure. I’ve placed a lot of policies with them. Why?”

  “Merit’s Canadian affiliate is the insurance company that issued the policy on Elliott Vail’s life.”

  “It is? I never even thought about who the insurer was. How did you find out?”

  I told him briefly about the reporter’s visit and what I’d learned from him. “Know anyone really well at Merit?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “Think you can find out the name of the investigator working the Vail case?”

  “What are you up to, Jessica?”

  “Just following a hunch.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Theodora Blevin’s driver was parked in front of the hotel when I came down from my room a few minutes before seven. He was a short, chubby man dressed in the requisite chauffeur’s black suit, white shirt, and black tie. He opened a rear door, pressed it closed behind me, got behind the wheel, and pulled away.

  “Lovely evening,” he said over his shoulder as he joined traffic on Burrard Street.

  I agreed. “How long have you been driving for Mrs. Blevin?”

  “Quite a few years, ma’am. Actually, I was Mr. Blevin’s driver until . . .”

  There was no need for him to finish the sentence.

  “You have my sympathies.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  As he turned left on Georgia, I recognized the route. It was the same one our bus had taken on its way to join the Whistler Northwind at the beginning of our ill-fated train trip into northern British Columbia. We drove into Stanley Park, Canada’s largest urban park, designed by the same landscape architect, Frederick Law Olmsted, who’d designed New York’s Central Park, and headed for the Lions Gate Bridge, which would take us into West Vancouver, home to the city’s most exclusive waterfront community. I recalled Marilyn Whitmore’s comment as the train passed through the area that West Vancouver was the richest city in Canada.

  “Know the history of Lions Gate Bridge?” the driver asked as we approached it.

  “A little,” I said.

  “The Guinness family, the beer people, built it in 1938,” he said. “It cost them six million U.S. dollars. King George and Queen Elizabeth were here to open it officially in 1939. The city bought it back from Guinness in 1963 for six million.”

  “A bargain for the city,” I suggested.

  “I suppose it was,” he said.

  Traffic was heavy once we were on the bridge, testimony to how quickly bridges and highways become obsolete as traffic handlers. On the other side, we turned left and followed Marine Drive until reaching a property surrounded by a high hedge. Two police cars flanked the entrance. The driver got out and punched in a code on a keypad, which activated the gates. We drove through and pulled up in a circular driveway in front of a Tudor-style home where a half dozen other vehicles were parked. He assisted me from the car and escorted me up a short set of steps to heavy wooden double doors and pressed the doorbell. A few moments later the doors swung open and Theodora appeared. She wore a black floor-length sheath with a neckline that hugged her throat, a suitable scrim for the expensive gold jewelry she sported. She flashed a weary smile and said, “Welcome. I’m so glad you could make it. Please, come in.”

  I followed her from the expansive black-and-white marble foyer decorated with sleek, modern black designer tables and chairs through a wide archway to the living room, which was decidedly less contemporary in feel. The furniture was heavy wood and more traditional. The walls were covered with a red fabric, accented with gold, and the expensive Oriental carpets picked up those colors. A fireplace spanned an entire wall, its mantel covered with small photos in gold leaf frames.

  There were five people in the room w
hen Theodora led me in, three women and two men, their dress indicating this gathering had not been billed as an informal one. They had drinks in their hands and were congregated near French doors that led to a patio and garden. They turned at our entrance.

  “My friends, may I introduce the famed crime novelist, Jessica Fletcher.”

  I wished she hadn’t given me billing, but I ignored it and went through the ritual of introductions. A member of the household staff approached and asked if I wanted a drink. “A white wine would be nice,” I told her.

  As I engaged in the requisite sort of conversation between people at a party who’d just been introduced, my eyes went to the wall above the fireplace. A large oil painting of Alvin Blevin dominated the space, and I was reminded of my initial reaction when his widow had invited me to a dinner party. Only a few days had passed since his murder, hardly time enough to grieve but sufficient to plan and execute a social gathering. Of course, with the sort of money his widow enjoyed and the household help it could buy, hosting parties wasn’t especially difficult or time-consuming.

  The others at the gathering represented themselves as being close friends of long standing with both Al Blevin and Theodora. I silently wondered whether they were thinking what I was thinking, that a formal dinner party was premature. Theodora seemed to anticipate such thoughts when she said, “I want you to know that asking you here this evening was not a decision I took lightly. And I admit to a certain self-serving motivation. You were among our closest friends, and I felt a need to have you here, around me, at this dark moment.”

  It was a lovely sentiment. But if true, why was I there?

  Again, Theodora did a bit of mind reading. “I invited you, Jessica, because of everyone who was on that train with Al and me, you obviously have the most reasoned view of what occurred.” She added to her friends, “It was Jessica who first speculated that Al was poisoned. I didn’t believe it—I didn’t want to believe it—but she proved to be correct.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” one of the men said, “considering your career solving murders in your books.”

  I didn’t have a chance to respond because one of the three women, who’d introduced herself as Nancy Flowers and didn’t seem to be connected with either of the two men, said, “Teddy says the police don’t have a clue as to who killed Al.”

  It took me a second to realize she was referring to Theodora. “I’m sure they’re doing everything possible to solve the case,” I said.

  “And you should know, Jessica,” Theodora said. To the others: “Jessica has maintained a close relationship with the police.”

  “What do they have to say?” one of the men, the Blevins’ accountant, asked.

  “Yes, what do they have to say, Mrs. Fletcher?” Benjamin Vail lounged against the arched opening to the living room, his arms folded over his cable knit sweater and his wide-wale corduroy-clad legs crossed at the ankle. I wondered how long he’d been there.

  “Benjamin, dear. You’re late,” his mother said, “and you haven’t changed for dinner.”

  Benjamin pushed off the molding and sauntered into the room. He flung himself into an armchair and looked around at the other guests. “Ah, yes. We must dress for dinner, jacket and tie, or jacket and ascot, like my friend Harvey over here.”

  “Sorry about your stepdad, Ben,” the man called Harvey said. “Terrible shame.”

  “She’s not sorry; why should you be?” Benjamin said, cocking his head toward his mother.

  “Benjamin! What’s wrong with you? Have you been drinking?”

  “Only a little bit.” Benjamin held his thumb and forefinger a half inch apart. “To dull the pain, Mother.”

  Theodora walked across the room and pulled her son to his feet. “I think it would be wise to go upstairs and change for dinner, don’t you?” she told him. “I’m sure you have some dress clothes in the closet.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, flinging an arm over her shoulder and taking her with him as he shuffled out of the room.

  “And don’t come down until you’ve had some coffee,” Theodora said as she extricated herself from his embrace.

  I saw her motion to someone in the hall before she rejoined us in the living room.

  “He’s so distraught,” she said, sinking gracefully into the chair her son had just vacated. “He just hasn’t been the same since he got home this afternoon.”

  “Losing two fathers will take its toll on a young man,” Harvey said. “I’ll invite him out on the boat next week. Perhaps that will take his mind off his troubles a bit.”

  “Thank you, Harvey,” she said, reaching over to pat his arm. “That’s very kind.” She gave him a weak smile and straightened in her seat. “Now, where were we?”

  Before we were so rudely interrupted, my mind filled in.

  “Oh, yes. James, I believe you were asking Mrs. Fletcher about the investigation.”

  “That’s right. I was. How are the police coming along?” he asked, turning toward me.

  The others in the room did the same.

  “I’m really not privy to their investigation,” I said, wishing the subject would change. Obviously, Theodora had invited me for precisely this reason, to offer insight into how the police were proceeding in trying to identify the person who’d poisoned her husband. I was annoyed with myself that this hadn’t occurred to me earlier.

  “At least it’s now in the hands of professionals,” Theodora said, her own hands neatly folded in her lap. “The detective on the train was a bumbler.”

  Had she come to that conclusion on her own, or had someone who’d continued on the Whistler Northwind fed her that negative evaluation of Detective Marshall? Did she consider the detective ineffective because no arrest had been made?

  “Teddy was so shocked when the police informed her about the poison,” Nancy Flowers confided when the conversation took a more general turn. “And the press has been so rude, camping out at the base of the driveway until the police insisted they move. It’s so nice to have the police around when you need them.”

  I simply nodded. I was watching for Benjamin’s return.

  “All this must be fodder for your career, eh, Mrs. Fletcher?” Harvey said.

  Usually, I’m hesitant to discuss my writing career, especially with strangers. But when the conversation turned to questions of me on that subject, I was actually relieved to see the emphasis shift from Alvin Blevin’s murder, and I happily answered their questions about how I create my plots, whether I know the ending before I begin, how extensive an outline I create before actually starting to write, and a dozen other areas of interest that invariably come up in such discussions. By the time we were summoned to the dining room, the topic of my writing habits had run its course, and I was happy to sit down at the elaborately set table.

  A chastened Benjamin entered the room shortly after dinner began and took the seat opposite his mother, the one most likely occupied by Alvin Blevin when he was alive. He had scrubbed his face, the skin still red from the cold water and his sandy hair damp at the temples, and had donned a navy jacket and blue-and-white-striped shirt, but no tie, over his corduroy slacks. He took a gulp of the red wine that had been put at his place and said nothing.

  Conversation over a dinner of Cornish hen and wild rice ran the gamut from politics to sports, the weather to the economy, fashion, and popular entertainment, every topic but the deceased. It was as if her friends were shielding Theodora from having to face the ugly reality of her husband’s demise. But we were all aware of the tension between mother and son. The people across from me watched first one and then the other as if spectators at a soundless tennis match.

  Benjamin sat silent throughout the meal, occasionally aiming scowls at Theodora. He barely ate and steadily drank one glass of wine after the other.

  Just before dessert was served, Theodora stood and said, “I want to thank you all for being here tonight. As you can imagine, the past week has been a nightmare for me and for my family. That som
eone could dislike my husband so intensely as to strike him down in the prime of his life is beyond my comprehension. I take great comfort in being at this table with each of you, and I know how much Al would have enjoyed being here, too.” She raised her wineglass. “To Al Blevin, and to the speedy apprehension of the monster who killed him.”

  As we all raised our glasses, I was aware that her gaze was focused intently on me. I managed a smile, which didn’t entice a similar response from the lady of the house.

  Benjamin pushed himself out of his chair and swayed on his feet. He raised a half-filled glass. “Oh, yes. To Alvin, that paragon of virtue, the man who managed to make my father disappear so he could bed my mother.”

  There were gasps all around me.

  “Really, Benjamin. Have a bit of sympathy for your mother,” James said.

  “I have great sympathy for my mother.” He took a sip of his wine and then raised his glass in another toast. “To my mother, who will live happily ever after. Isn’t that right, Teddy?” He sneered as he said her name.

  “That is so hurtful, Benjamin.” Theodora, or Teddy, dabbed at a tear I didn’t see.

  “Here, now, son,” said Harvey, “this is neither the time nor place.”

  Fury blazed in Benjamin’s eyes. “Don’t call me ‘son,’ ” he ground out. “I’m not your son. I’m no one’s son.” He glared at Theodora.

  “What you are is rude and inappropriate,” Theodora said. It was the first time I’d seen real emotion mark her face. “I think you and I are overdue for a talk. I’m sure our guests will excuse our absence for a few minutes.” She folded her napkin, laid it carefully next to her plate, and stood when James held her chair. Every action was controlled, but the turbulence in her eyes belied her restraint. She motioned to her son.