Death Deals a Hand

by Janet Dawson

  Jill saw movement on the far side of the river. She leaned forward, focusing her attention on the bank several feet above the water. Sometimes deer and elk were visible from the train. But this was a real treat. A bighorn sheep, a ram with an impressive set of curved horns, stood on a bluff overlooking the river.

  “Timmy, Polly. Look, it’s a bighorn sheep. Over there.” Jill directed the passengers’ attention to the majestic animal, standing still as a statue on the other side of the river. Passengers craned their heads for a view. The ram obligingly posed for a moment more, then turned and disappeared from view.

  An excited Timmy Shelton wanted to know more about Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep. Jill told him what she knew about the hardy creatures that lived in the rugged mountain terrain. The males battled each other by charging and clashing those curved horns, and the sounds of their battles could echo for miles.

  A whistle blew in the distance, once, twice. Train number 18, the eastbound California Zephyr, was approaching. In a blur of movement, sunlight flashing off the shiny cars, the westbound and eastbound trains passed each other on the parallel tracks. Then the other train was gone, heading around a curve.

  Soon the CZ entered Jackson tunnel, which was over thirteen hundred feet long. As soon as the train emerged from the tunnel, Jill left the Vista-Dome and headed downstairs, walking back through the train. She made a brief stop in her own quarters, then continued back through the sleeper cars.

  In the Silver Falls, Frank Nathan was outside the door of bed room A, carrying an armful of towels. He knocked and Doug answered the door.

  As Doug took the towels from the porter, he glanced at Jill and said, “Hi, cuz.” He looked at the porter and said, “Did you know Miss McLeod is my cousin?”

  Mr. Nathan inclined his head. “No, sir, I didn’t. She hasn’t mentioned it.” The porter stepped back from the door and continued down the passageway.

  “You don’t mind my telling him that, do you?” Doug had removed his tie and opened the collar of his shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, showing the scar that ran the length of his right arm. There was a damp patch on his collar, as though he’d just washed his face.

  “No, not at all.” Jill’s voice took on a teasing note. “I’m surprised you’re here, instead of with Miss Larch.”

  Doug grinned. “Thanks for introducing me to her. I would have introduced myself, of course, but having the Zephyrette do it just puts the stamp of approval on things.”

  “She seems nice.”

  “She’s beautiful.” The look on Doug’s face softened. “And very sweet. I enjoyed talking with her. She went back to the observation car after lunch. She plans to take a nap, or look at the scenery while I play poker with Mr. Fontana. The game starts at two o’clock, in his drawing room. There will be several of us playing.” Doug rolled down his sleeves and fastened his cuffs. “I’m sure I’ve heard Fontana’s name before. Wish I could remember where.”

  “I wish…” Jill paused and took a deep breath. She waited as the porter walked by, carrying some towels over his arm.

  “What?” Doug asked.

  She blurted it out. “I wish I knew why you and your father don’t get along.”

  Doug didn’t say anything. Instead he draped his tie around his neck, his fingers quickly tying a knot.

  “I’m sorry,” Jill said. “It’s none of my business.”

  He sighed. “It’s a lot of things. And it’s complicated.”

  “I figured it must be. Complicated, I mean. When my family was living in Denver, before the war, it didn’t seem that you and your dad were fighting all the time.”

  He shrugged, tightening the knot on the tie. “You were just a kid then. And you weren’t living in that house. You didn’t see every­thing that was going on. I butted heads with Dad all through junior high and high school.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Jill said. “I didn’t know that.”

  Doug’s smile was bitter. “It was always hard being the cop’s kid. It’s a lot like being the preacher’s kid. I was held to a higher standard, all the time. I had to toe the line, be perfect, never get in trouble. Believe me, that got old. I felt like I could never be myself around Dad. Mom was different. We always got along. But things at home were always tense. I was glad when I went to college at Boulder. I needed to get away. Even when I was at the university, I couldn’t please the old man. He didn’t like my gambling and going skiing all the time. But hey, the gambling helped pay for the skiing, and college. It’s a hell of a lot more fun than some of the jobs I had, that’s for sure. I like to gamble and I’m good at it.”

  “I thought when you went off to the Army, you and your dad would make it up.”

  Doug’s mouth tightened. “We didn’t. And I don’t like to talk about the war.”

  Jill glanced at the scar visible below her cousin’s cuff. “But you got a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star. Your sister told me that. She said you were a hero.”

  He shook his head and checked his appearance in the mirror. “Not me, cuz. The guys who didn’t come back from Riva Ridge and the Po Valley, they were the heroes.”

  Doug reached for his jacket and put it on. Then he picked up a slim leather wallet, opened it and checked the contents, his fingers fanning a sheaf of greenbacks in an assortment of denominations. He was carrying a lot of cash. He closed the wallet and tucked it into the jacket’s inside pocket.

  He smiled again, putting on his cocky face. “C’mon, enough of this serious talk. Walk with me back to the observation car so the game can begin. I’m feeling lucky today.”

  They stepped into the corridor and came face-to-face with Miss Grant, who had just rounded the corner from the passageway leading to the roomettes. “Good afternoon.” Doug ratcheted up his considerable charm, smiling at the older woman. Then he tilted his head to one side. “Pardon me, you look familiar. Have we met before? I’m Douglas Cleary.”

  Miss Grant stared at Jill and Doug, her expression startled behind the large harlequin glasses. She didn’t say anything at first. Then she shook her head and pulled her oversized handbag close to her, as though using it as a shield. “No, we haven’t met. I don’t know you.”

  “My mistake.” Doug nodded politely, then stepped aside and let Miss Grant pass. He watched as she walked forward, in the direction of the lounge car. Then he and Jill walked the other way. When they went around the corner, they stopped again. Frank Nathan had just opened the door of the soiled linen locker, blocking their way. The porter smiled politely and deposited several towels in the locker. Then he shut the door and stepped past Doug and Jill, heading forward toward the bedrooms.

  “I notice she didn’t introduce herself,” Doug said. “But you know her name. What is it?”

  “Miss Cora Grant. She’s traveling in one of the bedrooms just down the corridor from you.”

  Doug thought for a moment. “Grant. Cora Grant. I have seen her before, I’m sure of it. Now, where was it?” He snapped his fingers. “Chicago, that’s it. It was the fall of nineteen forty-one, right before the war started. I spent a week in Chicago with a college pal. We went to a nightclub and restaurant downtown, several times. The food was good, and so was the show. What was it called?” He frowned slightly as he searched his memory. Then his face brightened. “The Bell Tower. That’s it. That’s where I saw her, at the Bell Tower.”

  “She was a customer there?” Jill asked.

  “Nope. A singer. The headliner, in fact.”

  “Miss Grant?” Jill shook her head in disbelief. “A singer? She says she’s a librarian, from Aurora, Illinois.”

  “Maybe she’s a librarian now, but when I saw her in Chicago, she was dolled up in a slinky red dress, cut down to here.” Doug pointed at the middle of his chest. “And her skirt was slit on both sides. She was showing a lot of leg, singing and dancing some red-hot number.” He smiled at the memory. “She had a good voice, too. Reminded me a little bit of Jo Stafford.”

  “A singer.” Jill’s face turned
thoughtful. “As a matter of fact, Miss Grant does have a good voice. Earlier today I heard her singing in her bedroom. I complimented her, and she just clammed up. But Doug, I can’t image it’s the same woman. You must be mistaken.”

  Jill had trouble reconciling the image Doug painted, of Miss Grant in a red dress, singing and dancing and showing off her legs. How could that be the woman on the train, middle-aged, wearing dowdy clothes and glasses that hid her face? On the other hand, now that she thought about it, Miss Grant didn’t look like any of the librarians Jill knew. It was as though the woman had costumed herself to look like the stereotype of a librarian. What if this was an act, intended as a disguise? But why would Miss Grant do that?

  “It’s her, all right,” Doug said. “She called herself Belle La Tour. Which is French, or close enough, for bell tower. A stage name, of course, what with the name of the nightclub. There was a chorus line, too, eight good-looking, long-legged gals called the Belles. The band was called the Bellringers. Like I said, they were good. The saxophone player was smokin’.”

  “That’s a long time ago, Doug. Twelve years. Are you sure she’s the woman you saw at the nightclub?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ve got a good eye for faces. Besides, I got to see her up close. She showed up at the bar after the first set. My buddy and I bought her a drink. She sat at our table for a while, until some guy objected. Her boyfriend, I figured. Then she went backstage.”

  “Describe her.”

  “Tall, about five ten, with blond hair and big brown eyes. I’d say she was in her late twenties then.”

  Jill looked back in the direction Miss Grant had gone. “So she’d be forty now, or maybe in her early forties. Miss Grant looks likes she’s about forty-five or so. She’s tall and she has brown eyes. And brown hair, though it could be dyed. It’s certainly easy enough for a woman to color her hair. But it’s a stretch to think she’s the same woman, just because she resembles that singer you saw more than a decade ago. I’m guessing the woman in the nightclub didn’t have a scar on her face.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  They began walking again, down the passageway between the roomettes. “When I was having lunch with Miss Grant and a couple of other passengers,” Jill said, “Miss Grant said she worked in the library in Aurora. One of the other women asked her whether she worked in the building on Benton Street. Miss Grant acted flustered, as though she didn’t know the location of the building. Surely if she is a librarian she would. If she isn’t, why would she pretend to be a librarian?”

  “She has something to hide,” Doug said. “She wouldn’t be the first to reinvent herself.”

  “Or maybe she’s hiding from someone,” Jill said, more and more intrigued. “Someone on the train. But we can’t be sure that Miss Grant and Belle La Tour are the same person.”

  “Even if I say they are?” Doug’s tone was teasing.

  “I need a second opinion,” Jill said. “Mr. Clark, the porter in the dome-observation car, he’s from Chicago. I’ll ask him if he’s ever heard of Belle La Tour, or a nightclub called the Bell Tower.”

  “Are you always this inquisitive?” Doug asked.

  “I shouldn’t even be discussing another passenger with you,” she said. “But yes, I am inquisitive. Especially if something appears to be out of the ordinary. And if I have a feeling it’s important.”

  She did have the feeling, though she wasn’t sure why.

  They entered the vestibule of the sixteen-section sleeper and made their way through the car, where the man who had been playing solitaire earlier that day flagged down Jill, asking a question about dinner in the dining car. Doug waved and continued walking. Jill assured the passenger that she’d soon be taking reservations, then she headed back to the next car, the transcontinental sleeper.

  As she walked down the passageway, a bedroom door opened and Mr. Fontana stepped out. Then he turned, standing in the doorway of the room. He was talking with his usual booming voice, and Jill could hear every word he was saying. He sounded angry, and his fist struck an impatient tattoo against the wall.

  “Dammit, Art, you’re acting like an old woman. It’s late in the game to be having second thoughts.”

  Mr. Geddes, his New York accent flavoring his words, spoke from inside the bedroom, his voice raised, with an edge. “So I’m cautious. I didn’t get where I am today by taking crazy risks. We’re supposed to be partners, Vic. Equal. But you’re always calling the shots, telling me what to do.”

  Fontana snapped back, angry at being challenged. “You wait a goddamn minute —“

  “No, you wait, let me have my say,” Geddes interrupted. “You say you want me in on this deal. Well, that means I get a say. I go into a deal, I’ve got my eyes open and all the details. Makes sense to look before I leap. This guy in San Francisco, Charley Holt, I don’t know him from a hole in the ground. How well do you know him?”

  “Charley and I go back a long time,” Fontana growled. “We did business during the war, before he went out to California. And we made a pile of money.” His tone turned wheedling. “There’s such a thing as being too cautious, Art. I’m telling you, this liquor deal is worth millions. All we have to do when we get to San Francisco is sign on the dotted line. What I don’t need is for you to get cold feet when we’re this close to signing off on the deal.”

  Art Geddes spoke again, his voice lowered now, so that Jill couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  Mr. Fontana waved his arm. “Get a grip. You worry too much.” He turned in the doorway, a scowl on his face. Then he saw Jill and pasted on a broad smile. “Afternoon, Miss McLeod. We must be getting close to Glenwood Springs.”

  “Yes, Mr. Fontana. We’ll be at the station soon.”

  “Glenwood’s a great town,” Mr. Fontana said. “I’ve stayed at the Hotel Colorado several times. Sure did enjoy soaking in the hot springs. It’s been a while, though.” He glanced at his watch, then threw words over his shoulder. “Get a move on, Art. Poker game starts at two. And I’m feeling lucky.”

  With a jaunty salute, he walked toward the rear of the train. Jill followed Mr. Fontana back to the Silver Crescent. He went into his drawing room and she went upstairs to the Vista-Dome. She took a vacant seat and was joined a few minutes later by Uncle Sean.

  “Did you have a good lunch?”

  “Sure did. I’ll probably be taking a nap soon, but I wanted to get a look at Glenwood. Your aunt Hazel and I went there a time or two, stayed in the Hotel Colorado.”

  The train headed into the outskirts of the picturesque town of Glenwood Springs. On the north side of the Colorado River was the Glenwood Hot Springs resort, with its huge swimming pool. Jill had vacationed at the resort with her family several times over the years. The smaller pool was kept at a temperature of about 104 degrees, while the large pool was somewhat cooler, around 90 degrees. On this early April day, steam rose from both pools.

  On the hill above the pools was the impressive brick and sandstone bulk of the Hotel Colorado. Modeled after the Villa de Medici in Italy, the hotel was the first in the area to be lit by electricity. When the hotel had opened, it featured a courtyard fountain spraying skyward some 180 feet, and a spa and swimming pool with medicinal hot springs. During the war it had been a naval hospital.

  Jill pointed out the hotel to the nearby passengers. “The Hotel Colorado has had lots of famous visitors. President Theodore Roosevelt stayed there, and so did President William Taft. The movie actor Tom Mix was here in Glenwood Springs during the nineteen-twenties when he was filming a movie.”

  “I saw that one,” Sean said. “The Great K&A Train Robbery. Back in nineteen twenty-six, it was. Capone used to stay there, at the Hotel Colorado.”

  “Really? Al Capone? I didn’t know that.”

  Her uncle nodded. “Yeah. Capone and some of the other Chicago gangsters. The Verain brothers, and a guy they called Diamond Jack Alterie.”

  The whistle blew as the California Zephyr approached
the Glenwood Springs station. The station had been built in 1904, its architecture matching the design of the Hotel Colorado and the building in front of the hot springs resort. Jill excused herself and went downstairs, heading for the vestibule of the Silver Crescent, where the porter waited.

  The train came to a stop at the station. The platform had been cleared of snow, and people were waiting to board, or to meet arriving passengers. Jill felt the chill in the air as the porter unlocked the door, lowered the stairs, and stepped down to the platform.

  Jill looked out and smiled as she saw four familiar faces. “Why, it’s the Carsons.”

  Chapter Ten

  Miss McLeod!” Audrey Carson exclaimed, returning Jill’s smile. “You’re our Zephyrette? What a coincidence.” The Carsons were from Sacramento. Stanley Carson was a tall man with dark hair who used a cane and walked with a limp, the result of a wartime injury. Mrs. Carson was a pleasant, down-to-earth woman whose blond hair just touched the shoulders of her gray wool jacket. They had two children, a girl and a boy. Twelve-year-old Gail was an avid reader and no doubt had brought a stack of books to read during the journey. The boy, Ricky, was seven and he loved trains. The Carsons traveled frequently on the California Zephyr, visiting relatives in Chicago. Jill had traveled with them several times in the past. During an earlier trip, Jill had learned that Mr. Carson was an attorney, and that Mrs. Carson had volunteered with the Red Cross during the war.

  Lonnie Clark stepped down to the platform and took train cases from Mrs. Carson and the two children. He set them on the floor of the vestibule and offered his arm to Mrs. Carson as she went up the steps. “You’re in the first two bedrooms, ma’am.”

  “Do I have to share a bedroom with her?” Ricky complained, sticking his hands in the pockets of his plaid jacket. “She stays up late reading.”

  Gail fiddled with the end of her blond ponytail. “He talks in his sleep.”

  Their father fixed them with a stern look. “We will discuss the sleeping arrangements later.”

  When all four of the Carsons had climbed into the vestibule, Mr. Clark reached for his step box, then raised the stairs. The conductor called, “All aboard.” The porter shut and locked the door. The train whistle blew and the California Zephyr began to move, leaving Glenwood Springs right on schedule.