Destination Murder (7 page)

“I thought so, too. Alvin was a health fanatic, aside from having a little too much to drink now and then. He was a jogger and a regular in the gym.”

“Mid fifties?”

“I’m not sure how old he was, but you’re probably about right.” He leaned close. “Do you really think he was poisoned?”

I said in an equally low voice, “I promised Bruce I wouldn’t talk about that until we get to Whistler.”

“Why doesn’t he want you to talk about it?”

“Because he doesn’t want to set people on edge unduly. Besides, he has the railroad’s reputation to protect.”

“It’d be hard to taint BC Rail’s reputation, Jess. It’s one of the best railroads in North America.”

“That may be, Reggie, but—”

I was interrupted by the sudden presence of Benjamin Vail, Alvin Blevin’s stepson.

“My mother wants to speak with you.”

“All right,” I said. “I’m so sorry about your stepdad.”

“Are you coming or not?”

“I, uh—” I looked at Reggie, who shrugged. I got up and followed Benjamin into the dining car, which was empty except for Theodora Blevin, who sat at one of the tables. She looked up at me with an expression that said, all at once, the emotions and thoughts she was experiencing at the moment.

“Thank you, Benjamin,” she said, clearly dismissing her son.

“I’m staying,” he said, taking up a position behind his mother with his arms crossed. He glared at me as if to dare me to upset her.

“No. That’s all right, dear.”

“You need me here.”

“Not right now. Mrs. Fletcher and I have matters to discuss privately.”

“I want to hear what she says.”

“We’ll talk later, Benjamin.”

“But—”

“Later, Benjamin.” The iron in her voice brooked no argument.

He left, and I took a chair across from her.

“I’m sorry about your husband,” I said.

“It’s just beginning to sink in, the reality of it,” she said, her shoulders slumping as if under the weight of her suffering. “He’s gone. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “One minute he’s standing on a chair welcoming everyone, the next minute he’s on the floor of the club car with his face covered up. It’s so—so barbaric.”

I said nothing. Had I been summoned to be a listening post while she poured out her grief? I couldn’t imagine why she’d choose me, unless I represented a stranger to her. Sometimes we seek strangers to confide in, content that they don’t have a stake in our lives. Theodora was a woman who didn’t convey emotion easily. In our short acquaintance, I’d seen very few expressions cross her beautiful face. I’d thought her arrogant, but perhaps she needed to protect herself from the unkind words of others. Or maybe she’d grown accustomed to keeping her feelings hidden when dealing with the difficulties in her life—the disappearance of her first husband, a dominating second husband, and a troubled son. In contrast to his mother, Benjamin seemed to have little control over his emotions, either pouting like a child or giving in to angry outbursts.

“Ever have anyone close to you die like this?” she asked, her eyes focused on the white linen tablecloth.

“No, not like this, Mrs. Blevin. I was with my husband when he died, but that was in a hospital setting. His death wasn’t unexpected. He’d been ill for a while.”

She looked up at me. “Alvin had a lot of enemies, Mrs. Fletcher. Powerful, successful men always do.”

Had she come to the same tentative conclusion as I had, that her husband might have been poisoned? “Do you think someone wanted him dead?” I asked.

“He wasn’t poisoned,” she said firmly.

I waited.

“I know what you’ve been saying. You’ve been spreading that rumor, haven’t you?”

“I don’t believe in spreading rumors,” I said, deciding now was not the time to tell her what I knew about the effects of various poisons, and one in particular.

“I heard you tell Samantha he was poisoned,” she repeated, more vehemently this time.

There was nothing to gain by pointing out that I’d said he
might
have been poisoned. She was not in the mood to listen. Instead I said, “I don’t know that for sure, but if he were poisoned, it could have been dangerous for her to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Do you know what caused your husband’s death?”

“It wasn’t poison,” she ground out again. “You’re trying to ruin his reputation.”

“Perhaps he was allergic to some ingredient in the drinks,” I offered, trying to give her something to hold on to until she was ready to hear the truth.

“Al wasn’t allergic to anything. He was as healthy as a horse.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“I want you to stop spreading rumors. Haven’t we suffered enough? You’re making it worse. Al was not poisoned.” She picked up a handkerchief and dabbed her dry eyes.

I realized I was sitting with a woman who’d just lost her husband, and I didn’t want to sound combative. “Everyone’s understandably on edge,” I said gently, and smiled. “I’m perfectly willing to sit with you for as long as you wish, but perhaps you’d prefer to be alone at a time like this.”

I stood.

“Stop spreading that stupid rumor!” she growled, venom in her voice.

I said nothing, simply left the car and rejoined Reggie, who stood talking with Bruce and Callie. Other conversation in the car was muffled and somber.

“We’re pulling into Whistler,” Bruce said.

“I’ll be glad when we’re there,” said Callie, who’d been crying. Her eyes were puffy and red, and tears had streaked makeup on one cheek. “Having his body in the next car is spooky.”

“Almost there,” said Bruce, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Where’s Jenna?”

“I don’t know,” Callie said. “Why can’t we go faster? I just want to get off the train.”

It did seem as though we were traveling at a snail’s pace, although this wasn’t a sudden phenomenon. I’d noticed since leaving North Vancouver that the Whistler Northwind was not about to set any speed records. But that was the whole point—wasn’t it?—a leisurely three-day journey on a classic train with every possible comfort, much like a luxury cruise ship, taking in the beauty and majesty of British Columbia. To go any faster would be to violate the very premise of the trip. And there were other passengers in the coaches up front, passengers who were unaware of the tragedy that had taken place in the car reserved for the members of the Track and Rail Club. Speed wouldn’t help Al Blevin, not anymore. Still, I knew what Callie was feeling. I’m sure we all shared her desire to reach Whistler and get away from the train, away from the dead body in the club car.

After an interminable half hour, Whistler station came into view and the train slowed to a stop. I looked out my window and saw an ambulance. Standing in front of it were a young man and woman dressed in long white lab jackets. Close to them were men wearing what I assumed were law enforcement uniforms. A heavyset man in a suit leaned against the ambulance. Beyond them were two cars parked side by side, one a patrol car with RCMP stenciled on its door.
The Royal Canadian Mounted Police
, I thought.
The “Mounties.”
All I knew of that famous organization was from stories read in childhood, old movies, and photos of its officers in their distinctive brilliant red-and-black uniforms and wide-brimmed hats. I took another look at the uniformed officers. No red jackets and black pants on them. They wore drab gray shirts and blue trousers with a yellow stripe down the sides. But their hats were the familiar shape.

Bruce led Benjamin to the dining car to join his mother, and the door was shut behind them. BC Rail’s onboard host returned to the coach car and used the public-address system: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve arrived in Whistler. Because of the unfortunate tragedy we’ve experienced, I’m going to ask you to gather up your belongings and follow me off the train as quickly and orderly as possible through this door. A bus is waiting to take you to the hotel where you’ll be spending what I’m sure will be a comfortable night. Your luggage has been transported ahead of us by truck and will be in your rooms when you arrive. Please refer to your itinerary regarding any events planned for this evening and detailing how and where we’ll meet in the morning for breakfast and for the bus bringing us back to the train. Thank you for your cooperation.”

Once everyone was standing in the aisle, Bruce motioned for us to begin leaving. Reggie and I were the first to enter the vestibule. Bruce had already gone down the steps and stood on the platform with the uniformed officers, the man in the suit, and the two medical technicians. Reggie started down, but Bruce stopped him by raising his hand. We waited while our guest services supervisor continued to confer with the police. Finally, he looked up at us and said apologetically, “You’ll have to go back inside. The police want to speak with everyone.”

Reggie and I turned and informed the people behind us of the change in plans. There was much grumbling and griping, but eventually everyone was reseated and the two medical technicians entered the car. Bruce escorted them to the club car, where Blevin’s body lay. Jenna entered the coach and took up her accustomed post in the front. She was very pale and clutched her black binder and the microphone to her chest.

Next to come aboard were the two uniformed RCMP officers and the large man who was obviously in charge. He seemed even bigger once inside, his tall, square frame filling the doorway. He asked Jenna for the microphone, which she handed him. After a false start as he searched for the ON button, he spoke into it. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Detective Christian Marshall, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Sorry for any inconvenience, and I’ll try and detain you for only a brief period.”

His voice was resonant and deep, tinged with a Canadian accent. He was bald on the top of his head, the hair on his temples salt-and-pepper. His beard line was heavy, his eyebrows thick and solidly black. There was a look of resignation on his face, as though he’d experienced a great deal in his life as a cop and wasn’t especially pleased with what he’d seen.

“Why are we being detained at all?” Hank Crocker whined from where he sat. “What does Blevin’s death have to do with the police?”

A small grin crossed the detective’s face, although I was sure it wasn’t born of amusement. He asked, “Is there someone among you who believes the death on the train might not have been from natural causes?” He consulted a slip of paper. “A Mrs. Fletcher?”

The sound of murmuring came from the seats behind me.

“I’m Mrs. Fletcher,” I said, rising.

“Please,” he said, inviting me to come with him with a flip of his hand.

I followed him into the vestibule and down to the platform. Passengers from other cars who were not part of our group were in the process of leaving the train and heading for waiting buses.

“Now,” he said, “what’s this about poison?”

“Are you familiar with the symptoms of strychnine poisoning?” I asked.

“Go on.”

I explained as briefly as possible why I thought there was the possibility that Blevin had been poisoned, and he listened patiently. I recounted the sudden onset of symptoms—the seizures, the contortions of his face, and the spastic movements of his body during the convulsions, in particular the bowing of his back when only his head and feet touched the floor. These were classic symptoms of strychnine poisoning, I told him.

“Strychnine victims are particularly sensitive to light and sound,” I said. “Mr. Blevin’s convulsions seemed to coincide with the screech of the wheels.”

“Very interesting, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m curious as to how you know so much about strychnine.”

“I’ve used it before.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“In a book, of course. I write murder mysteries, Detective Marshall.”

“Ah, yes. I thought I knew the name.”

“You pick up a lot of odd information in my profession.”

“I’ll bet you do. You know Alvin Blevin was a big shot in Vancouver, a high-profile lawyer and businessman. You’re aware of that?”

“I had an inkling from what some people said.”

“He was on the train as head of this railroad club.”

“That’s right.”

“You’re a member of the club?”

“No, I’m an invited guest.”

“If you’re right, if he was poisoned, that would mean somebody on the train did him in, eh?”

I nodded, uncomfortable at his choice of words. Was he making fun of me?

“Since you’re claiming he was murdered, maybe you can point a finger at the perpetrator. Any ideas who killed him?”

“Detective,” I said, not entirely successful in keeping frustration out of my voice, “without proof, neither you nor I can state with authority that he was murdered. All I am saying is that the possibility exists. As for who might have wanted him dead, let me just add that he was not the most popular person on the train. Now, it seems to me that all this speculation can be quickly and satisfactorily put to rest by an autopsy, which I assume will be conducted, considering the circumstances of his death. The glasses from which he drank might also be of value in making a determination. I asked the train staff not to remove them.”

“Very thoughtful.”

“Am I excused now?” I asked.

“Of course. We’ll be interviewing everyone who was with the deceased.”

“On the train?”

“We’ll get names and addresses, of course, and interview individuals at the hotel in Whistler. I’ve agreed with the management of BC Rail to allow the train to continue on up to Prince George.”

“I see. What about the body?”

“It will be driven back down to Vancouver for an autopsy.”

“I assume his wife and stepson will accompany it.”

He nodded.

“Well, I hope I’ve been of help,” I said. “Good day, Detective.”

“Oh, you’re not rid of me yet, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll be your new passenger all the way to Prince George. I’m sure we’ll have lots more to talk about along the way.”