“We’ll be closing in a few minutes,” the woman behind the counter told me when I entered.
“I won’t be staying long.”
“Hello, Mrs. Fletcher,” Marshall said.
“Hello,” I said, sliding onto the stool next to him. “Just happen to be here?”
He laughed. “Actually, I thought you might just happen to be here. How did the meeting go?”
“Unfortunately, just another opportunity for everyone to vent their dislike for Al Blevin—and, I think, for each other. You’re here because of the meeting?”
“In a manner of speaking. I had a feeling you’d be here. Thought I’d stick around to see. Anything new you can give me?”
I told him about my encounter with Samantha at the Capilano Suspension Bridge.
“She’s a very sick young woman,” I said, “but I don’t think she’s a murderer.”
“So I can cross one off my list.”
“I would say so. Now, turnabout is fair play. Do you have anything new you can share with me?”
“Well, we’ve got patrols keeping an eye on the Blevin house. But then you would know that since you were there for dinner last night.”
“My goodness, your network is efficient,” I said. It made sense to me. The police always look first at the spouse when there’s a murder. I had suspected that her phone was tapped when the Vancouver police contacted me. “You’re very clever, you know. Theodora’s friends think she has the police guarding her house to keep away the press.”
He smiled.
“Oh, so that’s why you’re here. It has nothing to do with me, really. Theodora just came here for the meeting and you’re tailing her, aren’t you?”
“Got to close up,” the waitress said.
Marshall dropped money on the counter and picked up his hat from the stool next to him. “Going back to your hotel?” he asked as we walked into the lobby.
“I see you don’t want to answer my question.”
He winked and put on his hat.
The elevator doors opened, and Reggie, the Goldfinches, and Winston Rendell appeared. Detective Marshall walked away without saying a word and left the building.
“Share a cab back to the hotel?” Reggie asked the Goldfinches.
“Thanks, no,” Martin said. “We have another appointment. Hell of a board meeting.” He laughed. “Is it always like that?”
“Fortunately, no,” Reggie said.
The Goldfinches started to leave but stopped when I asked Reggie, “Was Elliott Vail active in the club?”
“Yes, he was,” Reggie said.
“He was on the board, wasn’t he?” Gail said.
“That’s right,” Reggie confirmed.
Winston Rendell joined the Goldfinches as they left the building. “Care to make a comment for the record? I’ve already interviewed the new president.”
Reggie and I stood under the building’s overhang as we waited for a taxi.
“What was Detective Marshall doing here?”
“I think he’s keeping tabs on Theodora.”
“No kidding. What did I say to you this morning? It’s got to be her. Do you think—”
“What I think is that we don’t really need your friend at Merit Life to reveal the name of the investigators looking into Elliott Vail’s disappearance.”
“Oh? Why?”
“Because I think they’ve been traveling with us ever since the Whistler Northwind left Vancouver.”
“What do you mean?”
“The newcomers, Gail and Martin Goldfinch. If I’m not reading the signs wrong, I’d say they have an interest far beyond old trains.”
Chapter Eighteen
The light on my phone was flashing when I walked into my suite at the Sutton Place. The first message was from the reporter, Gene Driscoll, and I returned his call immediately.
“Hi, Mrs. Fletcher. I got the info you asked for.”
“Good. What did you come up with?”
He sounded as though he was reading from a list. “Blevin was married three times before his marriage to Theodora Vail. The first one was twenty-two years ago. Number two was twenty years ago. His third wife was the one he divorced to marry Mrs. Vail. That marriage took place nine years ago.”
“Were they all amicable divorces?” I asked
“Except for the last one. They really fought it out in court. She—his wife at the time—she went after everything he had. They eventually settled out of court, the terms sealed.”
“What about children?” I asked, making my own notes.
“There was that kid from the short-lived first marriage.”
“And?”
“His first wife didn’t contest the divorce. They were young; the marriage only lasted two years. He signed over rights to the kid, no visitation, no involvement with her at all.”
“It was a girl?”
“Yeah. Her name was Tiffany. I looked her up on the Internet. No luck.”
“What was the mother’s maiden name? Maybe she took it back and gave it to her daughter.”
“Never thought of that. You’d make a good investigative reporter, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Thank you.”
“I might have that information here. Let me see.”
I heard the rustle of papers on the other end of the line.
“Yes, her maiden name was Carroll. I’ll try inputting Tiffany Carroll into the Internet and let you know.”
“See if there are any pictures of her, too,” I said.
He laughed. “You want a lot, Mrs. Fletcher. A picture? I’ll see what I run across.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I suppose I was reaching.”
“That’s okay. I understand. Anything else I can do for you, Mrs. Fletcher?”
His question sounded snide, and I couldn’t blame him. I’d taken advantage of him in a sense; I’d turned his visit to me into a one-way street that benefited me more than him. On the other hand, I didn’t have much to offer him in the way of the quotable comment he’d sought but had promised to call him first should I come up with anything newsworthy.
“Have you looked into Blevin’s will yet?” I asked.
He laughed again. “Have you been talking with my editor?”
I could picture him shaking his head. “I really appreciate all your efforts, Gene. You’ve been very helpful.”
“I’ll be back in touch,” he said, and hung up.
I sat on the couch and looked at the notes I’d made during the conversation. I’d written “Tiffany Blevin” and crossed it out and substituted “Tiffany Carroll.” Not that seeing the name in black and white provided me with any insight or corroborated a potential theory I’d conjured. But at least I’d confirmed that Blevin had had a daughter, who would be about twenty-two years old. I was now regretting that I hadn’t brought my computer along. But when I wasn’t working, my laptop was not a customary part of my luggage, which meant finding someone who did carry such things.
That person was Reggie, who never traveled anywhere without his computer. I called his room.
“I was just about to call you,” he said. “My buddy at Merit Life just got back to me.”
“And?”
“He wouldn’t give me any names. All he’d say was that the guy was—”
“Guy? The investigator is a man?”
“Well, now that you ask, I’m not sure if he specified whether the investigator was a man or a woman.”
“I was expecting the investigator to be a woman.”
“Gail Goldfinch.”
“That’s right. I was certain she was investigating Vail’s disappearance for the insurance company. But I could be wrong. It could be Martin. It makes sense. They could have paired up a male investigator, Martin, with a woman who happens to know a lot about trains. Pretty clever, if my assumption is correct.”
“I bet you’ve put your finger on it. But what led you to the conclusion that they’re insurance investigators, Jess?”
“More
a hunch than a conclusion, Reggie. There’s just something askew with them.”
“I remember you told Detective Marshall that they didn’t act like a married couple.”
“Exactly. And she casually tossed out the two-and-a-half-million-dollar figure as the payout to Theodora Blevin, as though she knew precisely what it was. And she was right. At dinner last night, one of Theodora’s friends said she was the beneficiary of two and a half million dollars. And today, Gail knew Elliott had been on the club’s board.”
“But how does knowing this help solve Blevin’s murder?”
“It may not, but I’m always more comfortable knowing the true identities of people around me. Reggie, you have your laptop with you, don’t you?”
“Sure, my ink-jet printer, too. I’ve been checking and printing out my e-mail.”
“A favor?”
“Of course.”
“Does the Track and Rail Club have a Web site?”
“Of course. We’ve got our meeting schedule up there and minutes of the board meetings, although I think we may have to edit the latest ones. We’ve got photos of the members’ model train layouts, the history of the club, lots of things.”
“Any old photos of club members?”
“Probably. Who are you looking for?”
“I’d love a couple of pictures of Elliott Vail and, ideally, some older shots of Alvin Blevin.”
“If they’re up there, I can get ’em for you. I’ll do my best. By the way, Jess, I’ve been thinking about Marshall shadowing Theodora.”
“Yes?”
“Do you think maybe the police have been following everyone, including you and me? I’ll bet they have the whole TRC under surveillance.”
“Perhaps,” I said, amused by Reggie’s enthusiasm for being an object of police scrutiny.
Reggie hesitated. “Um, there’s something else I wanted to say to you.”
“What’s that? Is something wrong?”
“I’m sorry you had to witness that scene at our board meeting. It was embarrassing. A lot of us foamers are just big kids at heart. I guess that’s both good and bad.”
“Well, the bad was certainly on display today, but that doesn’t include you, Reggie. You are always a gentleman. Oh, my goodness, look at the time. I have to get ready for dinner.”
I’d just finished dressing when the phone rang.
“Mrs. Fletcher, it’s Gene Driscoll again.”
“Yes, Gene.”
“I did a little further checking on what we discussed and on that daughter Blevin had with his first wife.”
“Tiffany Carroll?” I said.
“I actually found someone by that name, but she lives in Ontario, not BC—at least she graduated from high school there. But Carroll’s a much more common name than Blevin, so she may not be who you’re looking for. Anyway, I don’t know why she’s of such interest to you, but I figured I’d pass along what else I learned.”
“I appreciate that,” I said, sitting at the desk and uncapping a pen. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”
Once that call was completed, I dug out of my purse the card Detective Marshall had given me and dialed his direct line. He answered on the first ring.
“Jessica Fletcher, Detective,” I said. “I think you might be interested in some conclusions I’ve come to, and I’ve been told the Pacific Starlight Dinner Train serves an excellent dinner.”
Chapter Nineteen
The heralded Pacific Starlight Dinner Train operated by BC Rail, which also ran the Whistler Northwind, was the final event of the Track and Rail Club’s annual meeting. The next morning, everyone would be heading for Vancouver Airport and flights to various parts of Canada and the U.S. or, in Winston Rendell’s case, to London.
Our arrival at the train station was festive. A nine-piece swing band called Night Train led by a baritone saxophone player and featuring an attractive female singer played popular standards such as “Night and Day,” “Cheek to Cheek,” and “Take the A Train.” A few couples started dancing on the platform, and others clapped their hands in tempo with the infectious music. A photographer snapped photos of each person or couple as they entered the station house; it had all the trappings of boarding a luxury cruise ship. The pictures would be developed and for sale at the conclusion of the three-hour trip.
We were assigned tables in the various dining cars that made up the train. Our car, the Apollo, was attractively decorated in orange tones. The drapes had a fruit design, the chairs were brown with tiny orange dots, and the carpeting was also brown. The tables were covered with crisp white linen and set with heavy silver-plate utensils. A small vase with fresh yellow flowers sat in the middle of each table. The lights were dimmed, casting a flattering glow over everyone as we took our seats.
My table had evidently been designated for the single members of the party. I sat with Marilyn Whitmore, Reggie Weems, and Winston Rendell. I’d been surprised to see Marilyn there. She looked haggard, and I was sure she had had a difficult afternoon, but I wouldn’t ask her about Samantha while others were present. The table across from us held the Crockers and the Goldfinches. Behind me were the Pinckneys. Their tablemates had not shown up yet.
I looked out my window and saw Bruce make a hurry-up gesture to unseen people. The engineer gave three short blasts of the train whistle and we started to move. As we did, the car door opened and Theodora Blevin entered, followed by Benjamin.
I had to hand it to Theodora. She was dressed immaculately and made her entrance as though arriving for an awards show. None of the rancor of the past week, or the cloud of her husband’s murder, seemed capable of dampening her composure. There was also, I acknowledged to myself, a hefty dose of arrogance involved. She greeted everyone as she passed, and she and her son took the two empty chairs at the Pinckneys’ table.
Benjamin Vail wore a black suit, black shirt, and white tie, something one might have expected John Travolta to wear in a gangster movie. His hair was wet and slicked back, darkening the sandy strands and completing the dramatic brooding image he was so obviously trying to project.
But Theodora and Benjamin weren’t the only unexpected arrivals that evening. Callie, our bartender on the Whistler Northwind, appeared through a door that led to the train’s kitchen. She was carrying a small pad and pen and had a serving tray tucked beneath her arm. As she made her way through the car taking drink orders, passengers warmly welcomed her. Callie, more than anyone else on the staff, had reason to suffer as the maker of the fatal Bloody Mary someone had spiked with strychnine. She arrived at our table as the train gained speed leaving the station, gave us a pleasant hello, and wrote down our orders. At the same time, Bruce’s voice came over the PA: “Welcome aboard the Pacific Starlight Dinner Train, ladies and gentlemen. Our travel time each way will be approximately an hour and a half. We’ll enjoy dinner on our way up the coast, spend forty-five minutes at the turnaround, where there’ll be dancing, and then have our dessert, coffee, and after-dinner drinks on the return trip to Vancouver. Settle back, relax, and enjoy the scenery.”
Hearing Bruce’s voice over the intercom brought me back to the Whistler Northwind, where Jenna had made most of the PA announcements. She lived in Vancouver, according to Detective Marshall. If Callie was working the dinner train, was Jenna scheduled to work, too?
My question was answered when our drinks were served. Instead of Callie delivering them, Jenna appeared carrying a tray. The smile that had greeted us on the first day of the Whistler Northwind trip, which had vanished following Alvin Blevin’s poisoning, had not returned. She looked as though she would rather be anywhere but on that train. She managed a hello as she served our drinks, but I was aware that her attention was focused beyond me, on Benjamin. There was apprehension in her wide blue eyes, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d dropped the tray and bolted. Where she would have gone was another matter. We’d left North Vancouver and were now moving along West Vancouver’s Gold Coast, albeit slowly. I assumed we’d be passi
ng Theodora Blevin’s house, although I doubted I’d be able to identify it from this vantage point.
Jenna finished serving the drinks and left the Apollo car.
“To the Whistler Northwind and to the continuation of passenger rail travel in North America,” Reggie said, raising his glass.
We followed suit.
“To the end of an incredible week. I’m glad it’s over,” Hank Crocker said in his familiar growl.
His comment prompted discussion of the week and whether others agreed with him. I took in the comments while looking to the door through which Jenna had exited. She’d left it open, affording a view of the kitchen, where two men in chefs’ whites, one of them Karl from the Northwind, labored over dinner.
My focus was drawn back to the dining car when Theodora stood and asked for everyone’s attention.
“I know this has been a stressful week for all of you. It certainly has been for me. But I’ve always been a person who looks for good to come from evil. I suppose you could say I live a glass-half-full philosophy. I know how much the Track and Rail Club means to all of you, as it did to Al, rest his soul. He would be very proud to be here and see the looks of gratitude on your faces at what I have to announce.”
I took a quick survey of the others’ faces and saw puzzlement mixed with disdain. Hank Crocker scowled, eyebrows tightly knit, fists clenched on the tabletop. Winston Rendell had taken his unlit pipe from his breast pocket and chewed on its mouthpiece. Marilyn sat stoically, eyes fixed on the drink in front of her. There was silence inside the car as Theodora continued.
“I was hoping the lawyers would allow me to say what I wish to say this evening, and they have. What a perfect setting for the announcement I’m pleased to make. As many of you know, Al was an extremely successful businessman.”
A soft, involuntary groan escaped from Marilyn Whitmore.
“And he was a generous man, too. For years the club has benefited from his donation of space in the building that bears his name. Well, I am pleased to announce that Al has left to the Track and Rail Club one million dollars.”
Destination Murder Page 20