by Janet Dawson
Mrs. Tatum opened the door. “Goodness, what a to-do. Just children and their high spirits. No need for that man to be so grumpy. But some people are just like that. Yes, I think I’ll have dinner at six o’clock. I plan to retire early. And please don’t worry about getting me to the diner. I can find my way.”
Jill marked a red card for Mrs. Tatum. Then she tapped on the door of bedroom B. She’d met the passenger, Mrs. Loomis, earlier when she’d boarded the train in Stockton. There was no response. She moved to bedroom A. No response here, either. Then Mrs. Loomis, a tall brunette in her thirties, rounded the corner, coming from the front of the train. “Hi, Miss McLeod. If you’re looking for that woman, what’s her name…? Mrs. Tidsdale, that’s it. Anyway, she and her little girl, I just saw them in the lounge. They’re playing cards.”
“Thank you. Actually, I’m making dinner reservations.” When Jill completed a white card for Mrs. Loomis’s seven o’clock reservation, she rounded the corner and started on the roomettes. Number 10 was just past the soiled linen locker in the middle of the car, on her right as she headed forward. The door was closed. She tapped lightly. No response. She turned to go, then the door opened. She found herself face-to-face with the man who had just yelled at Chip. Up close he had a jowly face with pitted acne scars and a hint of black stubble across his jaw. He stared at her with hard brown eyes that reminded her pebbles. “What do you want?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” Jill said, smiling at him. “I’m taking dinner reservations, if you’d care to make one. We have seatings at—”
“I don’t want to eat in the diner. Have the boy bring something to me.”
“Certainly, sir. There is an additional charge of fifty cents for dinner served in your roomette. I’ll see that you get a menu. What is your name, sir?”
“Smith,” the man said, narrowing his eyes.
“What time would you—”
“Seven.” Mr. Smith shut the door in her face.
Jill sighed. All in a day’s work. Usually the passengers were polite, even if some of them could be quite demanding. But there were a few rude ones on every trip. And it seemed Mr. Smith was one of those. She tried not to let them get to her. She made a mental note to herself to see that Mr. Smith got a menu.
“He’s a piece of work, isn’t he?”
The voice came from behind her. Jill turned and found herself face to face with the occupant of roomette nine, a stout, middle-aged woman with brown hair turning gray.
“I introduced myself when he got on the train,” the woman continued, “and he just about snapped my head off. Now, I pride myself on being friendly to everyone, but people like that are just a trial.”
Jill smiled, privately agreeing with the woman. “I’m making dinner reservations. Would you like one, Mrs.…?”
“Mrs. Barlow. And yes, I do want a reservation. For six o’clock. It’s just me, but I’m sure to have some interesting dining companions. I do enjoy talking with people on the train.”
Jill filled out a red card and gave it to Mrs. Barlow. She moved to the next roomette. When she got to the end of the aisle, she found Dr. Kovacs dozing in his roomette, head back against the seat, eyes closed under the lenses of his glasses, a file folder on his lap. As she peered in through the half-closed door, he woke with a start. The file folder slipped from his lap and fell to the floor. He leaned over and grabbed it.
“I didn’t mean to wake you, Professor Kovacs,” Jill said. “But I’m taking dinner reservations.”
“Not to worry,” he said. “I am a light sleeper. But I must say, the rhythm of the train, it lulls one to nap. Dinner reservations, you say?”
“Yes. We have seatings at six, seven, and eight.”
He nodded. “ I would prefer seven o’clock.”
She filled out a white card and handed it to him. Then she continued forward to the Silver Gull, working her way down the row of bedrooms and compartments. When she knocked on the door of compartment F, Mike Scolari opened the door. “Gramps has trouble walking.” He glanced over his shoulder at the elderly man on the bench seat. “He can’t make it to the dining car. We’ll need to eat here in the compartment.”
“I thought as much,” Jill said. “Mr. Lovell, the porter, can bring your dinner to you. Because of your grandfather’s condition, there’s no additional charge for that. I’ll see that you get a menu.”
Loud voices came from compartment B. It sounded as though Mr. and Mrs. Cole were arguing. Jill knocked. Mrs. Cole opened the door, the expression on her face changing quickly from tense to pleasant as Jill explained why she was there and listed the available times for dinner reservations.
“Let’s eat at eight o’clock, darling,” Mrs. Cole said, all smiles again as she reached for her husband’s hand. Jill gave them a blue card. Mr. Cole smiled and thanked her. But the upturned mouth didn’t match the expression in his eyes. The newlyweds were evidently having a spat, Jill thought, and she’d interrupted the exchange.
When she knocked on the door to bedroom J, Mr. Washburn opened the door, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He leered down at her. “Hey, honey. Have a drink with me. Got some really good bourbon here.”
Jill glanced past him. An empty bottle lay on the bedroom floor. Mr. Washburn had already consumed a great deal of bourbon. He was weaving from side to side. She held up the binder, inadequate protection. “What time would you like to have dinner, sir?”
“What time are you gonna have dinner? We could eat together. And then come back here for a drink.”
“I don’t know when I’ll have dinner, sir. Let’s see, I could seat you at seven o’clock.” She filled out a reservation card and handed it to Mr. Washburn. He took the card, then grabbed her hand. She pulled it free.
“Can I be of some assistance?” Si Lovell, the porter, appeared, coming from the direction of the linen lockers. He carried an armload of towels. “Do you need fresh towels, sir?”
“No, s’all good, ever’thing fine.” Mr. Washburn backed away and shut the door.
Jill turned and moved toward the porter’s seat and the linen lockers. Mr. Lovell followed, speaking in a low voice. “Is that man bothering you, Miss McLeod? I know sometimes the men passengers get ideas about you young ladies.”
“Thank you for your concern, Mr. Lovell. I can handle it.” She could, but Mr. Washburn was being persistent. “If I need your help… Well, thanks.”
“If you say so.” The porter frowned and stared at the door to bedroom J. “That fellow brought several bottles on board with him. He’s been drinking quite a bit. Both here and in the lounge. I’ll keep an eye on him.”
Mr. Lovell headed back toward the bedrooms. Jill sighed and continued forward, through the dining car, quiet for the moment in the middle of the afternoon. In the Silver Hostel, Mrs. Tidsdale and Emily were in the lounge, seated near the window. Benny, Emily’s brown corduroy teddy bear, perched on the window ledge, his back to the scenery. The ashtray on the table in front of them contained several cigarette butts stained with lipstick. Both Tidsy and Emily had full glasses at their elbows. Emily’s glass contained lemonade, while Mrs. Tidsdale was sipping an amber liquid that looked like Scotch. They each had three stacks of coins—pennies, nickels, and dimes. Tidsy pulled a pack of cards from their box. Emily watched, fascinated, as Tidsy shuffled like a Las Vegas dealer, cards fluttering in her hands.
“The name of this game is seven-card stud. First we each put a penny in the pot. That’s our ante.” Tidsy held the cards with her left hand and tossed a penny into the center of the table. Emily followed suit. “Tidsy’s gonna deal two cards face down. These are called hole cards. You look at your hole cards, but you don’t let me or Benny the Bear or anyone else see them.” Emily picked up each card by its corner and looked. “Now, I deal one card up. You think about how that fits with your hole cards to make up a poker hand. We both bet on what we have. Then I deal more cards. Remember what I told you about poker hands, sweetie. Two pair beats one pair. And…
?”
Emily nodded. “Three of a kind beats two pair, a straight beats three of a kind, and a flush beats a straight.”
“That’s right.” Tidsy dealt the cards. “Ace of hearts to you, three of clubs to me. You have the high card. So bet your ace, sweetie.”
Emily consulted her hole cards again. Then she pulled a penny from her pile of coins and tossed it into the pot. Tidsy did the same. “Call.” She dealt two more cards up. “Seven of hearts to you, possible flush. Deuce of diamonds to me.”
Emily seemed to pick up the nuances of poker quickly. She won the first hand with three eights that outranked Mrs. Tidsdale’s two pair. As the little girl raked in the pot of coins, she grinned. It was the first time Jill had seen the child smile since the trip began.
Mrs. Tidsdale picked up the cards and shuffled them, giving Jill a sidelong glance. “Did you need something, Miss McLeod?”
“I’m making dinner reservations, Mrs. Tidsdale. There’s a Chef’s Special Dinner for families traveling with children, with seatings at four-fifteen and at five. Regular dinner seatings start at six.”
Tidsy grimaced. “I can’t possibly eat dinner at four-fifteen or five. I usually eat at seven, but in this case I think six o’clock would do. After dinner I can get Emily all tucked in bed. What time do you usually go to bed, sweetie?”
Emily, who was dividing her coins into stacks, looked up. “Eight. But if it’s not a school night, Stella would let me stay up till nine.”
“Let’s split the difference and say bedtime at eight-thirty.” Tidsy shuffled the cards one last time and set them on the table, reaching for another cigarette from the pack tucked into her nearby purse. She stuck a cigarette into her red-lipsticked mouth and opened the matchbook on the table. “Oh, bother, I’m out of matches.”
“Use my lighter,” said a man’s voice.
Jill, who’d been filling out dinner reservation cards for Mrs. Tidsdale and Emily, looked up from her binder, and saw Mr. Paynter, the dark-haired man traveling on the Silver Gull. He held out his Zippo, the top flipped open, its flame burning brightly. Mrs. Tidsdale smiled, a predatory look in her wide blue eyes. She took his hand and pulled it toward her, igniting the end of her cigarette. She inhaled and then expelled smoke.
“Thanks. I’m Grace Tidsdale.”
“Neal Paynter,” he said, returning her smile.
Tidsy leaned back in her chair and ran one hand through her blond curls. “Join us, Mr. Paynter. Do you play poker?”
“Usually for higher stakes than pocket change.” He sat down next to Mrs. Tidsdale. “Looks like your daughter is winning, Mrs. Tidsdale.”
“She’s not my daughter.” Tidsy crossed her legs, showing a shapely calf. “Emily and I are traveling together, in the Silver Palisade. I’m instructing her in the fine art of seven-card stud. What car are you in, Mr. Paynter? And who are you traveling with?”
“The Silver Gull,” he said, lighting a cigarette of his own. He inhaled and then blew out a stream of smoke. “Bedroom A. I’m traveling by myself.”
Mrs. Tidsdale laughed, a silvery tinkle. “Indeed. Shall I deal you in?”
“Perhaps later. After Emily’s tucked in bed.” Mr. Paynter signaled the steward with one hand, smiling at Jill. “I’ll have another gin and tonic. I’d like a dinner reservation, too. Seven o’clock would be fine.”
Jill made note of the reservations and gave out the cards. She heard voices and footsteps coming down from the Vista-Dome, then the Finch girls and George Neeley entered the lounge, clustering around Mrs. Tidsdale and Emily.
“Can we play cards?” George asked.
Mrs. Tidsdale took a drag from her cigarette. “You know how to play poker?”
“Sure I do,” George said. “My brother taught me.”
“How about you girls?” Mrs. Tidsdale asked.
“I can pick up anything fast,” Nan said. “My sister, too. My mother is teaching us how to play bridge.”
“Fine, I’ll instruct you in the fine art of poker. What’s your name, sweetie?”
“I’m Nan, and this is my sister, Cathy.”
“I’m George,” the boy chimed in.
“Great. You kids got any money on you?” Mrs. Tidsdale asked.
“Cathy and I have some quarters,” Nan said.
George shook his head. “I don’t have any but I could ask my dad.”
“Never mind. I’ll give you a stake.” Mrs. Tidsdale stubbed out her cigarette and pulled some singles from her purse, then signaled to the steward. “Bring us more change, please, and a round of lemonade for the kids. We need a bigger table. Grab that booth over there.”
Three people had just vacated the booth on the opposite side of the lounge. Nan, Cathy, and George claimed it as the steward picked up empty glasses and wiped off the table. He took Mrs. Tidsdale’s bills and headed back to the bar. Mrs. Tidsdale and Emily transferred the cards and their coins. They settled in as the steward delivered the gin and tonic to Mr. Paynter, who’d claimed the seat Mrs. Tidsdale had just vacated. Then the steward brought change and lemonade for the children. Mrs. Tidsdale began shuffling the cards. “Okay, the name of this game is seven-card stud. Everybody ante up a penny.”
Mrs. Clive swept into the lounge, heading for the bar. Then she stopped and looked down her nose at the group clustered around the table. “Are you teaching those children to gamble? With money? That’s disgraceful.”
“Put a lid on it, sister. Mind your own damn business.”
Mrs. Clive turned red and clamped her mouth into a tight, indignant line. She sniffed, and drew herself up like a snake about to strike. Then she did an about-face and left the lounge.
Mr. Paynter, nursing his gin and tonic, threw back his head and laughed. “I guess you told her.”
“She needed telling. Damn busybody.” Without missing a beat, Tidsy began dealing the cards. “Okay, let’s play poker. Ten for Nan, deuce for Cathy, trey for George, Emily gets a jack, Tidsy gets a seven. Emily, you’ve got the high card. Bet your jack.”
“I bet a nickel,” Emily said. With a flourish, she tossed her coin in the center of the table.
Chapter Eight
Jill left the Silver Hostel and continued forward, making dinner reservations in all the chair cars. Then she walked back to the dining car and gave the steward the count of passengers who would be eating dinner in the diner. After she was finished, she returned the binder to her compartment and walked back through the train to the Silver Solarium.
The lounge was full of passengers, looking out at the canyon and the river below. She went up the stairs to the Vista-Dome. Every seat was taken. Mr. and Mrs. Cole sat close together in one pair of seats, holding hands. If that was an argument Jill had interrupted earlier, the couple’s spat had evidently been short-lived. At the very front of the Dome, Mrs. Benson sat on the left, with Chip and Emily Charlton, while on the right, Mr. Benson and Billy leaned forward, looking down at the snow-covered slopes and the river, flowing between icy banks.
“Hey, kids, look at those bridges.” Mr. Benson pointed. “The railroad bridge goes over the river, and the highway bridge goes over both. How high is that?”
“The highway bridge is about two hundred feet above the bridge we’re on,” Jill said as the first engine rumbled onto the span.
Jill stayed in the Vista-Dome until the train passed the second set of bridges. Then she went downstairs to the lounge where Dr. Kovacs stood with the Constanzas. “I enjoyed your performance in Cavalleria Rusticana,” the professor said. “And La Traviata, of course. I’ll be in Chicago for a week after New Year’s. Will you be performing there?”
“I’m giving a concert at the Civic Opera House,” Mr. Constanza said. “The first Saturday in January.”
“Wonderful. I’ll put that on my calendar.” Dr. Kovacs took out a slim leather-bound notebook and reached for a pencil from the nearby writing desk.
“I’m so glad we took the train,” Mrs. Constanza told Jill. “These Sierra Nevada Mountains are
beautiful.”
“Wait till you see the Rockies,” Jill said.
She heard two excited voices talking at once and looked up. Billy and Chip Benson were coming down the steps from the Vista-Dome, their parents behind them. “Slow down,” Ed Benson said, “and don’t jump.” But Billy, a few steps from the lower level, had already launched himself, landing with a thump on the floor. Chip followed, emulating his older brother, but he stumbled and fell. He screwed up his face, getting ready to cry.
The professor leaned down and picked up the little boy, setting him on his feet. “There you are, young man. No harm done.”
“I told you not to jump, sport.” Mr. Benson knelt and put his arm around his younger son. “Are you hurt?” Chip shook his head. “Okay, then, no need to cry.”
Norma Benson ruffled Chip’s dark hair and wagged a finger at her elder son. “Billy, don’t do that again. Chip wants to do everything you do, and I don’t want him to get hurt.”
Ed Benson straightened and turned to the professor. “You’re Dr. Laszlo Kovacs, right?”
“Yes, that’s my name,” the professor said. “Have we met?”
“We have, but you probably don’t remember me. Staff Sergeant Ed Benson. I worked on the Hill during the war. So did my wife. Only she wasn’t my wife in those days.”
Mrs. Benson smiled and stepped away from the stairs. “I was Private Norma Sanchez, a WAC, working in the motor pool. I drove you to Santa Fe and back a few times.”
“I’m sorry,” Dr. Kovacs said. “I don’t remember either of you. It was such a busy time, and so many people there on the Hill.”
The professor glanced up, his features tightening as he saw Rita and Clifford Cole descending the stairs from the Vista-Dome. Arms entwined, the Coles walked to the rear of the lounge car and stood looking out the windows at the back. Dr. Kovacs gazed at them for a few seconds and frowned. Then he turned and nodded to Jill and the Bensons. “If you’ll excuse me.” He left the lounge, walking forward toward the sleeper cars.