Destination Murder (16 page)

“How long have you worked on the Northwind?”

“Why would you want to know that?”

“Were you working for the Northwind when Elliott Vail disappeared?”

He startled. “No, ma’am, but I certainly have heard about it. Do you think the two deaths are connected?”

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“That’s a scary thought,” he said, laughing softly. “
I’m
not sure I’ll want to keep working on this train with that kind of stuff going on. Speaking of work . . .”

“Of course. I’ve kept you. My apologies.”

“No problem. But I don’t want them to come searching for me. We have a pretty tight schedule to keep. If I can help you again, let me know.”

He placed two more vases on the remaining tables and left the car.

I stared out the window watching the passing scene. We were paralleling a broad stream, a tributary of the Fraser River. Along the banks, reeds and other boggy grasses swayed in the steady breeze, which painted ripples on the pale green surface of the water. Small brown ducks took flight when the engineer blew the train whistle, flapping away from the noisy animal snaking through the countryside. Overhead in the clear sky, an eagle wheeled. Intruding into my thoughts, as we glided by this pastoral landscape, were two disquieting questions:
Who killed Alvin Blevin? And why?

An image of Theodora Blevin came to mind. Was I foolish in discounting the widow herself? Many an errant husband had been killed by a jealous wife. Too, Blevin was a very wealthy man. Money was another potential motive. There had been suggestions, notably by Maeve, that Theodora might have killed her first husband. Did she fit the description of a serial killer? Benjamin had hinted that Blevin was responsible for his father’s death, but that could have been wild speculation. He didn’t like his stepfather. What had been his relationship with his father? Elliott’s demise had been labeled a suicide, but could it have been a murder? I had been truthful when I’d said I didn’t know if these two deaths were related. But if they were, was the same person responsible for both?

Maeve was working on her needlepoint when I returned to my seat and slid in next to her. I was puzzled by her rendezvous with Winston Rendell the night before. Perhaps Junior was justified in his jealousy. Perhaps she had indeed had an affair with Alvin Blevin. Was Winston Rendell her new paramour? If so, she hadn’t been very happy with him from what I’d witnessed. But somehow, I didn’t think their encounter was what it seemed to be superficially. Maeve was a pretty woman and aware of it. She dressed carefully and in a way to show off her figure, but she didn’t wear anything that could be called provocative. She impressed me as an open and direct person, rarely watching what she said. Instead, what was on her mind came tumbling out before she could think better of it. Too, she struck me as being content in her marriage, if not completely delighted with her husband. Was I not seeing her clearly? I’d been fooled by people before, and I probably would be taken in again. Of course, as Reggie had pointed out: Who really knows what goes on between a husband and wife?

“How did you enjoy the Hills ranch last evening?” I began.

“What? Oh, fine. Just fine,” Maeve said. “Ah took a nature walk this morning with Deedee Crocker. She was showin’ me all the wildflowers. Very pretty.”

“Beautiful countryside,” I said.

I hesitated to delve into her personal business but took the plunge anyway. “Maeve, I saw you with Winston Rendell last night. You looked upset.” I stopped, hoping she’d fill in the blanks I’d left for her. She didn’t disappoint me.

She frowned and her lips formed a hard line. “It’s Junior’s fault.”

“What’s Junior’s fault?”

“He’s so jealous, it makes other men think there’s something going on there.”

“What do you mean?”

“He talks about his suspicions. You heard him. Hints I had an affair with Alvin Blevin. Preposterous. Now, Alvin did pay me attention, mind you. He was very complimentary, but always the gentleman. And ah’m a lady, and a faithful one. I’ve told Junior that over and over, but he persists in his accusations.”

“So Rendell overheard Junior talking and decided to flirt with you?”

“That’s the way it appeared to me. Junior went to take pictures of the horses after dinner, and Winston asked if I’d like to take a walk. At first I thought he was just being pleasant. Ah like to flirt a little—what Southern woman doesn’t?—and I like it when men are attracted to me, but I don’t draw them on, if you know what I mean.”

I thought perhaps Maeve did “draw men on,” but I wouldn’t say that.

“Anyway, he starts talking about Alvin and asking how close were we? I got real hot—angry, I mean. Ah told him I never had an affair with Alvin Blevin, don’t know about his personal life, and to stop asking me about him. Then he starts asking about you.”

“Me?”

“Yes. What did we talk about while we were sitting together? Did you ask me questions about Alvin Blevin? I said: ‘That’s enough. I told you ah’m not interested in Alvin Blevin. Our little walk is ending.’ And then he grabbed me.”

“Grabbed you?”

“He pulls me in and tries to kiss me, says I should be sweet to him and he’ll be sweet to me. He can buy me nice things. That’s when I ran.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she sniffed delicately. “If Junior didn’t make those comments, none of that would’ve happened.”

My guess was that it would be a while before Maeve accepted an invitation from another man to take a walk. And perhaps that was just as well. I patted her hand and she gave me a watery smile.

Jenna entered the car and took the microphone as the train chugged away from the station.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, forcing a modicum of gaiety into her voice. “Did everyone have a pleasant stay at 100 Mile House?”

There were murmured expressions of assent.

“We’ll be serving lunch in an hour or so,” she said. “In the meantime, sit back and enjoy the scenery and the ride. This area of the country is known for its wildlife. You might spot deer or a bear. We’ve seen them before along this route. And eagles, lots of bald eagles.” She quickly replaced the mike in its holder on the wall and disappeared into the dining car.

The narrow channel I’d been gazing at when I was in the dining car had been replaced by a beautiful lake. It was too bad I was preoccupied by the murder. This could have been a lovely, relaxing journey. The British Columbian countryside was rough and beautiful at the same time. I marveled at the men and women of an earlier century who had matched their grit against the rugged landscape, seeking their fortune in the gold mines buried in the Cariboo territory. I would have enjoyed concentrating on the natural history and the human one, appreciating the gentle glide of the train as it followed the storied gold rush trails. But this trip had a different focus. And it was too late now to turn my mind to the original center of attention.

Most of the passengers were standing in the aisle admiring the view. Junior had come in to announce that he’d caught a shot of a bald eagle lifting a fish from the water with its sharp talons. He offered to show the picture to anyone interested, but they’d have to meet him in the vestibule; he was going back to scan for more eagles.

It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen Reggie Weems this morning. I rose from my seat and glanced around the coach car. No sign of him. I excused myself to Maeve and strolled back to the bar car where I was surprised to see Reggie deep in conversation with Detective Marshall. I was about to leave when Reggie motioned for me to join them.

“ ’Morning, Jess,” he said.

“Please, have a seat,” Marshall said, indicating a chair next to him. “Mr. Weems and I have been discussing some logistic matters.”

“Like how to make sure we don’t lose anybody once we get to Prince George,” Reggie clarified.

“Do you think that’s a possibility?” I asked.

“It’s always a possibility that a murderer might wish to separate himself from the crowd,” Marshall said.

“Or herself,” I offered.

“Yes, of course,” said Marshall.

“I understand you and a colleague checked everyone’s travel itineraries,” I said.

Marshall nodded. He looked as though he hadn’t slept much; large, dark circles surrounded his eyes. “That was accomplished last night,” he said. “All seems in order. But that is not to say that someone—anyone—might not decide to alter their plans in order to avoid further scrutiny.”

I wondered why the detective had taken Reggie into his confidence, in a sense had made him part of his team. Marshall evidently sensed what I was thinking because he said, “Mr. Weems appeared to be in charge of this junket. I’ve asked him to lend some insight into the unfortunate death of Mr. Blevin.”

“I’m really not in charge,” Reggie said. “I just—”

“No matter,” Marshall said. “I would be less than honest if I didn’t admit I need some help in this investigation. Mrs. Fletcher has already weighed in—to good effect, I might add—and I have expressed my appreciation.” He shifted in his chair and recrossed long legs. “Look,” he said, “unless it’s Mrs. Blevin, someone among you poisoned Mr. Blevin. We’ll soon be arriving at our final destination, at which point everyone—at least according to their official travel plans—will fly back to Vancouver, which, technically, is out of my jurisdiction. My counterparts with the Vancouver police have asked me to provide as complete a picture of the suspects as possible. I’m arguing that my knowledge and experience will be helpful to the continuing inquiries. If I can show them how far our investigation has already proceeded, I think my superiors will see the wisdom of keeping me on the case. Although everyone has been interviewed since the murder, the information gathered has necessarily been sketchy, at best. You, Mr. Weems, know these people quite well through your long involvement with the Track and Rail Club.”

“I know most of them,” Reggie said, “but not everyone. I’ll do anything I can to help.” He looked at me. “And I know Jessica will, too. What do you want us to do?”

Marshall chewed his cheek and looked to the ceiling before answering. “Prepare for me a synopsis of each person on this train with respect to Mr. Blevin’s death.”

“What should we include in it?” I asked.

“Anything bearing upon the relationship between the men and women on the trip and the deceased.”

“I’m afraid I can’t contribute much to that,” I said. “I’ve just met them.”

“Yes,” Marshall said, “but you seem to have an insatiable curiosity, Mrs. Fletcher, and your powers of observation are keen. I have no doubt that you’ve managed to get some of them to open up to you or, failing that, have heard your share of conversations.”

I smiled and said, “I’m not sure I take that as a compliment, eavesdropping on the conversations of others.”

“I mean it as a compliment,” Marshall said. “A good investigator always keeps his ears open, whether he’s on a case or not. You never know when something you overhear will become an important piece of evidence. I have a feeling you’d make a crackerjack investigator.”

“I’ll take
that
as a compliment,” I said. “Thank you.” Marshall stood and stretched. “Bad lower back,” said the detective, twisting his torso.

“C’mon, Jess. Let’s put our heads together,” Reggie said, rising from his seat, too.

The train entered a curve and the squeal of the wheels straining against the metal tracks made conversation difficult. I touched Marshall on the arm and raised my voice. “Have you tested the box yet?” I asked, referring to the rodenticide we’d found in the games cabinet.

“What?” He cupped a hand behind his ear.

“The box,” I said loudly.

Just then the train righted itself on a straightaway and the squealing stopped.

“What box?” Reggie asked.

“I’ll explain a little later,” I said. To Marshall: “I assume there’s no reason not to tell Reggie.”

“No reason at all.”

The three of us left the bar car together, causing eyebrows to rise as we passed their seats. A few people had poked their heads into the bar car while we huddled there but quickly turned and left. Marshall took a seat across the aisle from the Goldfinches, while Reggie and I slipped into a pair of seats away from the rest of the passengers.

“Might as well get started,” he whispered.

“Might as well,” I said.

 

With the exception of breaking for lunch, Reggie and I spent the afternoon comparing thoughts about possible suspects on the train. We initially tried sitting together in adjacent seats in the coach car, but after only a few minutes we realized that wasn’t going to work. Other passengers kept walking by and leaning in our direction, trying to overhear what we were saying. We finally decided it was foolish to attempt to act nonchalant and went to the dining car, where we sat at a table at the far end. Everyone seemed to realize we were doing some sort of work together and left us alone, including at lunch; no one suggested joining us. The only person who did intrude was Jenna. She asked twice whether she could get us anything, and her attempts to see what I was writing on the yellow legal pad I always carry with me made it plain that service wasn’t uppermost in her mind.

We finished talking shortly before it was announced that dinner would be served in a half hour. I’d filled three pages in my yellow pad, torn them loose, folded them into a small wad, and placed them in my purse.

“I can’t think of anything else,” Reggie said as we left the table to return to the coach car.

“Nor can I,” I said.

Everyone displayed intense interest in us as we went to our individual seats. I saw that Detective Marshall was now sitting with Deedee Crocker, whose husband was in the vestibule looking out the second half-open door.

“Where have
you
been?” Maeve Pinckney asked when I’d settled down beside her.