Destination Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “We’ll hold him here until we arrive.”

  Bruce thanked him and started back into the Apollo. He stopped, turned, and said to me, “Coming, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  I looked back at the members of the Track and Rail Club, who were shouting at each other. Detective Jillian had his hands in the air, trying to calm everyone down. “If it’s all the same to you,” I said, “I’d just as soon spend the rest of the trip someplace else.”

  “Sure,” he replied. “Go on up to the next car.”

  “I’ll stay with you,” Reggie said.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate that.”

  “We did good, Jess, didn’t we?”

  I smiled. “Yes, Reggie. We did good.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Reggie and I stayed in the other car until Vail had been led away and the others had exited the train and were on the bus back to the Sutton Place Hotel. When Bruce escorted us down to the platform, Detective Christian Marshall was waiting. “Need a ride to the hotel?”

  “That would be nice,” I said.

  When we arrived at Sutton Place, a television van was already parked in front. I suggested we enter through a door leading into the Gerard Lounge, where we would be less likely to run into the press or members of the Track and Rail Club. The room was relatively empty and we settled in a corner booth as far removed from the bar and main entrance as possible.

  “Will you join us for a drink?” Reggie asked Marshall.

  The detective checked his watch. “I’m officially off duty now, so a drink would seem to be in order.”

  Once we’d been served and I’d relaxed a bit, Marshall raised his glass of Canadian Club on the rocks and said, “Well done, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Reggie said, “only you’ve got to tell me how you knew that the chef they called Karl was really Elliott Vail.”

  Marshall nodded that he, too, wanted an answer.

  “It never made sense to me that Elliott Vail had disappeared and that his remains had never been found,” I said. “A view obviously shared by the Merit Life Insurance Company. That led me to wondering why he would fake his death.”

  “Money,” Reggie said.

  “That’s the usual motivation,” I agreed. “Vail’s life was heavily insured, it’s true, but he wouldn’t have been able to collect, would he? After all, presumably he was dead. Unless—”

  “Unless he had an accomplice,” Marshall put in.

  “Yes. His wife was the one who would benefit, so he needed her cooperation if they were going to be rich. It wouldn’t be the first time something like this has happened,” I said. “A husband with a big insurance policy conspires with a wife, his beneficiary, to fake his death, goes into hiding, waits it out until she collects from the insurance company, and they meet up somewhere far away, Europe, South America, wherever, to enjoy the spoils of their scheme.”

  “But Theodora married Blevin,” Reggie said.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Theodora double-crossed her husband. She seduced Blevin and convinced him to use his influence to persuade a judge to declare Vail dead. Blevin was so besotted, he divorced his wife and married Theodora, leaving Vail high and dry.”

  “Boy,” Reggie said, “that must have really ticked Vail off.”

  “Enough to want to kill,” I said.

  “To kill Blevin,” Reggie said. “To get even.”

  “I don’t think so, Reggie,” I said. “I believe Vail intended the poisoned drink for Theodora. When he served the drinks at the club reception, he turned the tray so the Bloody Mary was in front of her, but Blevin took it instead. Vail, masquerading as Karl, couldn’t grab it away without raising suspicion. It wasn’t what he intended, but I don’t think he was sorry. He left the car immediately after that and never returned.”

  “I see,” Reggie said. “Sure, that makes sense. But you still haven’t said how you knew Vail was on the train, pretending to be a chef.”

  “I wasn’t positive—until I saw him again on the Pacific Starlight Dinner Train. There was something familiar about Karl, but I didn’t realize what it was until I saw the man in the photos—Elliott Vail—at Theodora’s house, and the photos you downloaded on your computer from the club’s Web site. A man can change his features with plastic surgery, but facial expressions, the eyes, and the way he stands are habits of a lifetime. What convinced me that Vail was indeed alive was remembering the face of a man who bumped into me on my first day here. The photos, together with a vivid recollection of that man’s face, tipped the scales. When I saw him again tonight, he took off his hat, revealing the light roots of his dyed hair, and I put it all together. I realized he wasn’t going to settle for his failed attempt to kill Theodora on the Whistler Northwind. He was determined to make a second attempt on his double-dealing wife.”

  “I’ll be interested to see BC Rail’s report on his background, as bogus as it might come up,” Marshall said.

  “Bruce told me that ‘Karl’ signed on just before the trip,” I said.

  “Vail must have known Blevin couldn’t resist a T and R Club trip on the last run of the Whistler Northwind,” said Marshall.

  Reggie and I both gasped. “Oh my,” I said. “The last run. What a shame.”

  “I was afraid of that,” Reggie said. “They’ve been losing money on passenger trains. Freight is much more profitable. How did you find out?”

  “Driscoll wrote about it in this morning’s paper,” Marshall said.

  “Driscoll!” I said. “I owe that young man a telephone call.”

  Reggie sat back in the leather booth and fingered the silver souvenir pin we’d all been given at the start of our three-day trip. “Hang on to your pin, Jessica,” he said. “Looks like it just became a real collector’s item. Might be worth a lot of money someday. Speaking of which—money, that is—I was sure Theodora had killed Elliott. But then I thought she might’ve killed Blevin, too.”

  “Which wasn’t a bad supposition, Reggie,” I said. “Until I was confident in my own mind that the chef, Karl, was actually Elliott Vail, I suspected several others, too.”

  “Who? Jenna?” Marshall asked.

  “Why would she suspect Jenna?” Reggie asked.

  “Because she’s Blevin’s daughter by his first marriage.”

  Reggie shot forward in his seat.

  “I know,” I said, “it surprised me, too.”

  “Did Benjamin know?” Reggie asked. “Junior said they were an item.”

  “I believe she told him,” I said. “It must have been difficult for him to know. He was never happy with his mother’s marriage to Alvin Blevin. He must have felt torn when Jenna revealed her secret.”

  “So, who did you suspect?”

  “Winston Rendell was at the top of my list, but I must admit that his rudeness to me may have influenced that placement. According to my friend George Sutherland of Scotland Yard, Rendell’s position as a writer for the most popular magazine of train enthusiasts brought him into contact with a lot of wealthy people. He began to present himself as someone with insider knowledge, a real wheeler-dealer. As a result, he hooked a lot of investors into the scheme of refurbishing old steam engines and consequently lost a lot of money when Blevin, who’d apparently agreed to go into business with him, backed out. When Blevin reneged, it left Rendell with tons of inventory in the form of rundown steam engines and no way to pay for them.” I looked at Reggie. “I hope his book is a success, because he needs the money to repay his debts.”

  Reggie laughed. “You’re a very generous woman, Jessica.”

  “And now, gentlemen, I trust you will excuse me,” I said, struggling to stifle a yawn. “This lady is very tired. I would like to go up to my suite and soak in a hot tub.”

  “I’d say you deserve that soak, Mrs. Fletcher,” Marshall said, motioning for a check.

  I promised to keep in touch with Detective Marshall, and we parted at the door to the lounge.

  “I really like him,” Reggie
said as he escorted me to the elevator.

  “So do I,” I said. “A good man.”

  “You know, Jess, I’m really happy that I helped bring a murderer to justice.”

  I smiled and patted his arm. “As well you should be.”

  A week after returning to Cabot Cove, I received a call from Detective Marshall. Elliott Vail had confessed to everything: his staged death from the Whistler Northwind, his attempt on Theodora’s life that misfired, and his second attempt to kill her on the Pacific Starlight Dinner Train. The Brandy Alexander she almost drank was laced with strychnine, from the same type of rat poison that Elliott, a.k.a. Karl the chef, had hidden on the train.

  “The ‘suicide’ was planned,” Marshall said. “He made his jump when the train slowed down just before crossing Fraser Canyon and had a car, clothing, documents, and whatever else he needed stashed at one of the ginseng fields nearby. He made his way to Chile, where a plastic surgeon altered his appearance, and he settled down to wait. And you were right. The scheme was for him to hook up with Theodora in Chile once the two and a half million in insurance had been paid and establish a life together again. Theodora threw him a big curve by marrying Blevin and pocketing the insurance when it finally came through. When Vail realized what she’d done, he had to find a new identity and a way to support himself. He dyed his hair, took a job as a chef—and plotted his revenge.”

  “Will Theodora face charges for her involvement in the attempted fraud?” I asked. “Are there grounds to prosecute her?”

  “We have only Vail’s accusation that they planned it together,” he responded. “Had she gone through with meeting up with him, that would have linked her to the scam. As it stands, everything is circumstantial, probably not enough to bring charges. But we continue to explore it.”

  “If she’d gone through with the plan and met Vail in Chile, Blevin would be alive today,” I said.

  “Yes, bad luck for Mr. Blevin. Mr. Vail is one very angry man, as you can imagine. If he hadn’t been driven by that anger to make the second attempt on his former wife, he could have gone back to Chile, or anywhere else for that matter, and we might never have known who poisoned Blevin.”

  “What about Benjamin?” I asked. “Didn’t he recognize his own father despite the plastic surgery?”

  “He claims he didn’t know anything about his father’s presence on the train, or if his mother knew the suicide was faked. Frankly, I’m not sure whether I believe him, but there’s little to go on. He was protecting his mother before and he’s still protecting her. If I might be allowed to indulge in your ‘what if’ game, I can’t help but wonder whether it was Benjamin who switched glasses and saw to it that Blevin drank the poison, not his mother.”

  “Interesting,” I said. “You may be right. He certainly hated his stepfather.”

  “And I may be wrong. That’s the problem with your ‘what if’ game. It’s useful if it pans out, as it did with Mr. Vail. Otherwise, it remains a game, albeit an enjoyable one. Are you working on a new book?”

  “I’m about to be,” I said. “I’ve already started playing my game.”

  “Well, I hope it leads you to a smashing plot and a satisfactory ending. And by the way, I’ve got regards for you.”

  “From whom?”

  “Gene Driscoll. He says he’s up for an award for his front-page series on the Blevin murder, and he credits you with helping to make it so good.”

  “He’s a talented young man,” I said. “Please return the greetings and say hello to Detective Jillian as well.”

  Fall arrived in Cabot Cove, and then winter, an especially harsh one. I settled in to write my next novel, taking time off only for an enjoyable holiday season with my good friends. But I often thought about those members of the Track and Rail Club I’d met, and wondered how they were doing. Reggie continued his involvement in the club and was elected president, defeating Hank Crocker by a landslide. We met for lunch one day in February, and I got to ask about some of them.

  “Samantha Whitmore?” he said when I raised her name. “Marilyn had her admitted to a mental hospital, I’m told. I guess she was sicker than anyone realized.”

  “I’m not surprised,” I said, “but I’m sorry for both of them. Do you ever hear from the Pinckneys?”

  “Yes. You won’t believe this. Maeve got tired of Junior’s accusations of infidelity and divorced him. He’s given up the auto parts business and is hiring himself out as a photographer and consultant on model train layouts.”

  “The scale police at work.”

  “Exactly. And how about this?” Reggie said, relishing having juicy gossip to pass on to me. “The judge who declared Elliott Vail dead after only three years was indicted for bribery. Blevin had paid him off to hasten the process. Merit Life has sued Theodora for the two and a half million they paid her. Oh, and I brought this for you.”

  He handed me a copy of the magazine in which Winston Rendell had written an article about the BC Rail trip. It was filled with the murder, of course, as well as observations about the rancor and divisions within the Track and Rail Club, the allegation about Blevin having misused club funds, and the fight over his model railroad layout. According to Rendell’s piece, which I read at home later that afternoon, the club had moved out of Blevin’s building and used most of the million he’d left it to buy a modest building of its own in Minneapolis. The model layout was dismantled and housed in crates in the event it would be dispatched for display at club chapters around North America. To date, according to Reggie, it hadn’t been. Rendell subtly hinted that he’d figured out who’d killed Al Blevin before anyone else had and had been instrumental in breaking the case. He never mentioned my name.

  As Reggie and I were getting ready to leave the restaurant after lunch, he handed me something else, a manila envelope.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “All the information on this year’s Track and Rail trip. The Orient Express. I know you’ve always wanted to take that trip, and here’s your chance. It’ll be great, Jess. The plans are really falling into place, and as club president, I’ve been able to . . .”

  I let him finish and took the envelope home with me, promising to seriously consider accompanying him on the junket. But I knew I wouldn’t. I’d had enough excitement during the Vancouver trip to last me a lifetime—Alvin Blevin’s gruesome death, hanging over the door on the Whistler Northwind while crossing the Fraser Canyon, and getting away from the demented Samantha on the Capilano Suspension Bridge. At this juncture in my life, I was perfectly content having the characters in my novels face danger, suffer death at the hands of murderers, and wrack their brains trying to solve those murders.

  Still, it was tempting. Maybe I’d feel differently about it in a month or so, when the book was done and the urge to travel bubbled up in me. What if I were to go on the Orient Express and—? What if that trip were to—?

  “What if I make myself a cup of tea and forget about such things for now,” I said aloud as I headed for the kitchen.

  Which was exactly what I did.

  Turn the page for a preview of

  Jessica Fletcher’s next adventure

  A VOTE FOR MURDER

  Coming in hardcover in October 2004

  from New American Library

  “The White House?”

  “Yes. A reception there.”

  I was enjoying breakfast at Mara’s Waterfront Luncheonette with my friends Dr. Seth Hazlitt, and Cabot Cove’s sheriff, Mort Metzger. It was a gloomy early August day, thick gray clouds hovering low over the dock, the humidity having risen overnight to an uncomfortable level.

  “When are you leaving?” Seth asked after taking the last bite of his blueberry pancakes, Mara’s signature breakfast dish at her popular eatery.

  “Day after tomorrow,” I said.

  “I don’t envy you, Mrs. F,” said Mort.

  “Why?”

  “August in Washington, D.C.? Maureen and I were there about this time last
year. Never been so hot in my life.”

  I laughed and sipped my tea. “I’m sure the air-conditioning will be working just fine,” I said.

  “Ayuh,” Seth said. “I don’t expect they let the president sweat a whole lot. Or U.S. senators for that matter.”

  Warren Nebel, Maine’s junior senator, had arranged for my trip to Washington. He’d invited me to join three other writers in our nation’s capital to help celebrate a national literacy program at the Library of Congress. I’d eagerly accepted, of course. And when Senator Nebel included a reception at the White House on our first evening there, my heart raced a little with anticipation.

  I don’t believe that anyone, no matter how sophisticated, worldly, well connected, or wealthy, doesn’t feel at least a twinge of excitement when invited to the White House to meet the president of the United States. I am certainly no exception. It wouldn’t be my first time at the People’s House, although it had been a few years since my last visit. Adding to the excitement were the writers with whom I’d be spending the week, distinguished authors all, some of whom I’d been reading and enjoying for years, and I looked forward to actually shaking hands and chatting with them. Writers, with some notable exceptions, tend to be solitary creatures, not especially comfortable in social situations. I suppose it has a lot to do with the private nature of how we work, sitting alone for months at a time, sometimes years, working on a book, with only spasmodic human interaction. Those who break out and become public personalities often end up so enamored of the experience that writing goes by the boards. I’ve always tried to balance my life between the necessary hibernation to get a book done, and joining the rest of the world when between writing projects. That was my situation when I received the invitation from Senator Nebel—a book recently completed and off to the publisher, and free time on my hands. Perfect timing.