Death Deals a Hand

by Janet Dawson

  Jill took a seat at the next table and Miss Brandon sat down next to her. Mr. Peterson had come in from the lounge, bearing a sandwich that he served to a man sitting at another table. Then he moved to Jill’s table.

  “What can I get you ladies?” he asked.

  “Coffee for me, please,” Jill said. “With cream.”

  Miss Brandon looked up at him. “I should like a cup of tea, young man. The water should be very hot. Sugar, of course. And I’d like milk rather than cream.”

  “Certainly, ma’am.” Mr. Peterson left the coffee shop, heading back to the kitchen.

  The young woman at the next table leaned forward, addressing Miss Brandon. “Are you from England?”

  Miss Brandon smiled at her. “I am. And you too, from the sound of it. Though I believe you must have been living here in the States for a few years.”

  The younger woman returned the smile, pushing a blond curl away from her face. “I’m Rose Halleck. This is my husband, Kevin, and our daughter, Polly. I was born in Devonshire, near Exeter.”

  “Hello,” Mr. Halleck said. His smile was tentative, as though he was aware of strangers’ reaction to his injuries.

  “Edith Brandon,” the older woman said. “Born and raised in Hampshire.” Mr. Peterson returned with their order. As Jill stirred cream in her coffee, Miss Brandon checked the temperature of the water in the teapot, nodding with approval. “Good fellow. I can see you’ve had English people on the train.”

  The waiter nodded. “We have, ma’am. Many times.”

  Miss Brandon poured milk in her cup, then added tea and sugar. She took a sip and nodded again. “Ah, just what I needed.”

  Jill looked over at Mrs. Halleck. “Are you a war bride?”

  The young woman took her husband’s hand. “Yes, I am. I was a Land Girl in Devon during the war.”

  Jill set down her coffee cup, curious. “What’s a Land Girl? I’m not familiar with that term.”

  “Women’s Land Army,” Mrs. Halleck said. “We worked out in the country, in the fields, planting and harvesting, all during the war. It was to free up men to fight.”

  “Vital to food production during the war,” Miss Brandon added. “I was a Wren myself, in the Women’s Royal Naval Service. A Second Officer by the time I was demobbed. I spent much of the war in Portsmouth and London.”

  “I was working near the south coast,” Mrs. Halleck said. “I met Kev in ’forty-four, right before the invasion.”

  Polly was wriggling on her chair. Now her father leaned over and spoke to her. “Sit still and finish the pie, Polly Wolly Doodle.”

  The little girl scooped up a small piece of pie, nibbled at the apples and crust, then set down the fork. She reached out, her small hand stroking the fingers of her father’s prosthesis as she announced, “My daddy’s got a fake arm.”

  “Yes, my dear, I see that.” Miss Brandon smiled at the little girl. She glanced at Mr. Halleck, her expression more serious. “Were you injured during the invasion?”

  He shook his head. “No, ma’am. I made it through D-Day all right, and several months after that. But my number came up during the Battle of the Bulge.”

  “He got a Purple Heart.” Mrs. Halleck squeezed her husband’s good hand. “And a Silver Star. We got married in ’forty-five, when he got out of hospital, right before V-E Day.”

  Miss Brandon nodded. “We owe you chaps a great deal, all you young men, those who came back and those who didn’t. Thank you for your service.”

  Kevin Halleck reddened, and the scar on his cheek stood out. “Just did my job.”

  “When did you come to the United States?” Jill asked.

  “January of ’forty-six,” Mrs. Halleck said. “I traveled on the Queen Mary. That was a treat. My goodness, I’d never been on such a great big ship. I was a bit seasick during the crossing, though.”

  “Oh my, yes,” Miss Brandon said. “The North Atlantic can be rough during the winter. I took passage on the Queen Mary in the winter of ’thirty-seven and again in the summer of ’thirty-eight. There was quite a difference in the weather on those crossings. And I took the ship over this trip. I spent a few days in New York before taking the train cross-country. The ship was still in war service when you came over.”

  “Same ship I was on going over in ’forty-three,” her husband added. “The Grey Ghost, they called it. Sure wasn’t fancy like it was in those days before the war. They had us packed onto that ship like we were sardines. I was sleeping in a cot on one of the decks, and they had some of the guys in hammocks in the swimming pool. It was drained, of course.” He shook his head at the memory. “And seasick! Oh, my. The way that ship rolled, I was sick as a dog. You see, I was born and raised here in Colorado. Until I shipped out for England, I’d never been on anything bigger than a rowboat.”

  “Your Colorado is very beautiful,” Miss Brandon said. “I so enjoy looking at the scenery. Where do you live now? And where are you bound on your train journey?”

  “We live in Denver,” Kevin Halleck said. “We’re heading for the Western Slope. That’s what we Coloradans call the west side of the Rockies. We’re going to visit my aunt and uncle. They have a farm near Grand Junction. We should get in there before four o’clock.”

  “At three forty-seven,” Jill said, finishing her coffee.

  “And I get to see the cows,” Polly said. “I wish we lived on a farm.”

  Mrs. Halleck shook her head and laughed. “Oh, not me, sweetie. I had enough of farming during the war. Finish that last bit of pie, and we’ll go up to the dome in our car and look at all the pretty mountains.”

  Polly picked up her fork again and conveyed the last of the apple pie to her mouth, chewing. She washed down the pie with the rest of her milk, leaving a smear of white around her lips. Mrs. Halleck wiped the little girl’s mouth with a napkin as Mr. Halleck fished his wallet from his pocket and paid the check, handing the money to Mr. Peterson, who had come to check on the passengers in the coffee shop.

  “No change,” he said. “Come on, Polly Wolly Doodle. Let’s go.”

  The little girl waved at Jill and Miss Brandon, then followed her parents as they left the buffet-lounge car. “Pretty child,” Miss Brandon said. “A great many of our English girls married American servicemen. Talking about the war reminds me of something you’ll find interesting. I met Agatha Christie back then.”

  Jill’s eyes widened. “Did you? How wonderful. Please tell me about it.”

  “She volunteered during both wars,” Miss Brandon said. “In the first one, she joined the VAD, you know, the Voluntary Aid Detachment, and worked at a hospital in Torquay, which is where she was born and later had a house. After the VAD, she qualified as an apothecaries’ assistant and worked in a dispensary. A pharmacy is what you call that here in the States. During the second war, she volunteered again and worked at the dispensary in University College Hospital in London.”

  “That must be how she found out so much about poisons,” Jill said. “She uses them often in her books.”

  “I expect so. That’s when I met her. I was collecting a prescription at that very dispensary. It was a treat, I must say.” Miss Brandon took a sip from her cup. “The tea was most refreshing. I believe I’ll go back up to the dome.”

  “Yes, you should.” Jill looked out the window. “We’re heading into several beautiful canyons. If you’ll excuse me, I should make my rounds.”

  “Lovely talking with you,” Miss Brandon said as both women left the coffee shop. “I’m sure we’ll be fast friends by the end of the journey.”

  Chapter Eight

  The California Zephyr slowed as it moved through Byers Canyon. Jill climbed the stairs to the Vista-Dome of the Silver Scout, the first chair car. Lunch service had started and several seats had been vacated by passengers who had gone down to the dining car. Jill moved to one of the empty seats near the front and sat down, looking over the top of the baggage car to the engines ahead. The Colorado River, ice edging its banks, was
to her left, on the south side of the tracks, and beyond that, sedimentary rock rose in cliffs. Looming to the north, on her right, were the steep granite walls of the gorge.

  The seats across the aisle were taken by a young couple in their twenties, holding hands as they looked at the scenery. The woman beckoned to Jill. Her voice had an accent that said she was from somewhere back East. “We’re not moving very fast. Is it because of the canyon?”

  Jill nodded. “Yes. The train goes slower because of the terrain, which is very rugged. And it’s also for safety reasons. There are some really tight curves through here.”

  “Do you get rockslides in these canyons?” the man asked.

  “Yes, we do. In winter and spring. The rocks freeze and thaw, and they become loose and fall onto the tracks. Usually the rocks are small,” Jill added in a reassuring voice. “Mostly pebble-sized, or perhaps as big as a grapefruit.”

  As if to illustrate, a handful of golfball-sized rocks tumbled down the slope just to the right of the tracks. The young couple looked impressed at the timing of the rock fall.

  “Nothing to worry about,” Jill told them. “Those rocks are really small.” Large rocks on the rails were dangerous, of course, and could lead to derailments. But that didn’t happen very often.

  Though it was early April, winter lingered here at the higher elevations. Snow was visible on the ground and in places high above the train, on the canyon wall, tucked in the crevices and ledges. As Jill looked out the window, a few snowflakes descended from the sky. Was the wind blowing snow down from the ledges above, or was it actually snowing? Snowing, Jill decided. The flakes, lazy at first, were coming down faster. Springtime in the Rockies, she thought.

  The train passed a small waterfall that was now a sheet of ice. Then it moved around a curve and headed out of Byers Canyon, into a wide meadow covered with snow. “This area is called Middle Park,” Jill told the passengers across from her. “Park is a term for valley. Here in Colorado we have three big mountain valleys, North Park, Middle Park, and South Park.”

  The train went through a small town called Troublesome that wasn’t really a town any more. Next was a larger town, Kremm­ling, but the California Zephyr didn’t stop here.

  “We’ll be entering Gore Canyon next,” Jill said. “To my mind, it’s one of the most beautiful canyons on the whole route. And since there are no roads around here, the train is the only way to see the canyon—unless you want to hike in.”

  The Silver Lady moved into upper Gore Canyon. The passengers in the Vista-Dome leaned toward the windows, craning to see, exclaiming over the beauty on the other side of the glass windows with their three-hundred-sixty-degree view. The Colorado River was visible on the left side of the train, in places just a few feet below the rail bed. The river’s banks were rimed with ice and snow. In the center of the river, water ran dark blue and gray, punctuated here and there by whitewater as it coursed over rocks. On both sides, the canyon walls rose a thousand feet.

  Beautiful and remote, Jill thought. She looked down at the water, still cold and covered with ice in places, though it was April. It had been colder still last December. The events of that night were never far from her mind. She had been on an eastbound run of the California Zephyr, due into Denver on Christmas Eve. A passenger had been murdered and she herself had discovered the body.

  Then, as the train made its way through this very canyon, rocks fell from the steep canyon walls, one of them landing on the Vista-Dome in the first chair car, breaking the glass. Another boulder, the size of a grand piano, had landed on the tracks in front of the train. The engineer had put on the brakes, barely stopping the CZ in time. The train’s brakeman had climbed a telegraph pole to tap into the line and a track crew had been dispatched to blow up the boulder so the smaller pieces could be pushed off the tracks. In the meantime, Jill and several passengers had treated other passengers, most with minor injuries.

  Jill shook herself, dispelling her mood. She left the Vista-Dome and went downstairs, walking back through the train. The conductor’s office was at the rear of the second chair car, the Silver Mustang. It was a compartment on the right side, with a bench seat and a desk. Jill stopped to say hello to the conductor, Homer Wilson, who was talking with the brakeman, a man named Eddie Brown. Both men were nursing cups of coffee.

  “A pleasant trip so far,” Jill told them.

  “Good, I like to hear that.” Mr. Wilson took a sip of coffee. “There’s nothing unusual in the train orders. It’s snowing now, but not very hard. And they’ve had snow in Glenwood Springs.”

  After chatting for a few minutes, Jill decided it was time for lunch. She headed back through the third chair car and into the Silver Chalet, where all the tables at the coffee shop were taken with passengers who had ordered lunch from the limited menu. She made her way past the lounge and her own quarters and entered the dining car, walking to the steward’s counter.

  Mr. Taylor looked up. “Are you ready for lunch, Miss McLeod? Take this table.”

  The table for four was near the public address system. It was as yet unoccupied. Jill took the window seat. She poured herself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table and examined the lunch menu. The entrées included lamb chops, sautéed fish and cube steak. None of these appealed to her, but the sandwich plate did. It was $2.90 and included soup or a fruit cup, a hot roast beef sandwich with brown gravy, whipped potatoes, and a choice of dessert.

  She waved at one of the waiters. “What’s the soup today, Mr. Scoggins?”

  “Navy bean,” he said. “It’s really good, Miss McLeod. Had a cup of it myself.”

  “Oh, good. Thanks for the recommendation.”

  “And we’ve got that floating island dessert you like so much.”

  “I do love floating island. I’ll save room for that.” Jill reached for the heavy silver stand holding the menus and meal checks. She marked her choices, selecting the soup to go with her sandwich. Then she handed the check to Mr. Scoggins.

  Miss Margate, looking like a bright exotic bird in her cranberry-colored dress, strode into the dining car, coming from the direction of the sleeper cars. She paused at the steward’s counter, and Mr. Taylor pointed her to the table where Jill sat. Miss Margate pulled out the chair next to Jill and sat down, smiling. “Good afternoon, Miss McLeod. My goodness, I’m hungry. There’s something about train travel that makes me want to eat.”

  “The food in the dining car is quite good,” Jill said.

  “Yes, it is.” Miss Margate opened the luncheon menu. “Oh, lamb chops. I’ll have that.” She reached for a menu check. Then she looked up as another sleeper car passenger joined them. It was Miss Grant. She took the chair opposite Jill.

  Miss Margate gave her a cheery smile. “Hi, I’m Avis Margate. I’m San Francisco bound. How about you? Where are you going?”

  Miss Grant looked at her dining companions over the top of her harlequin glasses. She seemed reluctant to respond. Then she said, “Cora Grant. I’m going to San Francisco, too.” She reached for a menu, looked it over, then filled out a menu check.

  Now the steward seated a fourth person at their table, an elderly woman in a black dress with white cuffs and collar, who took the chair next to Miss Grant. The woman looked her dining companions over and then spoke to Jill in a reedy voice. “Good afternoon. I’m Mrs. Higbee. You’re the Zephyrette.”

  “Yes, Jill McLeod. And this is Miss Margate and Miss Grant. They’re both traveling in the sleeper cars.”

  “I’m in the coach section,” Mrs. Higbee said. “I’ve been visiting relatives in Denver. Now I’m going home. I live near Provo, Utah.”

  “I’m heading for San Francisco,” Avis Margate said. “So is Miss Grant.”

  “I visited San Francisco once.” Mrs. Higbee sniffed loudly, as though she had detected a bad odor. “I didn’t care for it at all. Such a big, noisy place. And all those different people, if you know what I mean. Chinese, Mexicans and colored people. And who knows what else. I am j
ust not a city person. Give me a small town any day. I like to know who my neighbors are.”

  Miss Grant didn’t say anything. The librarian seemed economical with her words, but Mrs. Higbee more than made up for it. She talked nonstop while she looked at the menu. She finally chose a chilled fruit salad and a tuna fish sandwich, and marked her menu check, handing it to the waiter.

  Mrs. Higbee turned to Jill. “Now I’m curious about something. And I’m just going to butt right in and say it.”

  Uh-oh, Jill thought.

  “Why aren’t you married?” Mrs. Higbee continued. “In my day, a girl your age would have a husband and several children. You seem like a nice young woman. You should be married and raising a family, not riding around on a train, working and encountering all sorts of riffraff.”

  Jill smiled politely and framed an answer. She’d certainly heard the question before, but not as boldfaced and up-front as Mrs. Higbee had posed it.

  Miss Margate laughed. “Marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  Mrs. Higbee looked shocked. Miss Grant allowed herself a grim little smile, as though she agreed with the sentiment.

  Jill spoke up, giving the answer she’d given so many times over the past two years. “Working on the California Zephyr is a wonderful way to see the country. And it’s a great way to meet all sorts of people.”

  Nice people, too, most of them. Overwhelmingly so, in spite of the occasional bad apple. She suspected Mrs. Higbee’s definition of riffraff included anyone who wasn’t from her small town and small social circle.

  “Well, I’m not sure I’d want to spend a great deal of time with some of the people I’ve encountered on the train,” Mrs. Higbee said. “Foreigners! These days, with the Communists everywhere, you just can’t be too careful. And people who sit in the lounge and drink all the time, all during the trip.”