“You must have been having a bad dream,” Maeve said to me when I opened my eyes and sighed. “You were frowning and your face was all screwed up. Would you like me to ask Jenna to get you another cup of tea? Of course, ginseng is supposed to be very stimulating, so perhaps you’d like something else.”
I thanked her for her concern but declined her offer. Instead, I got up to stretch and looked around the coach car. Detective Marshall stood talking with Martin Goldfinch, whose wife sat reading a book. Samantha was sleeping again, her head on her mother’s shoulder. Winston Rendell sat alone peering out the window, his face set in a scowl.
Jenna came on the PA and read from her book.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m sure you enjoyed the spectacular views of the canyon and river. Fishing rights on this portion of the river are reserved exclusively for members of the First Nations. We’ll be coming up on the ginseng fields in a few minutes; you’ll know it when you see miles and miles of fields covered in black plastic. A little later, we’ll be reaching Taylor Lake, almost four thousand feet high, the summit of our journey. In the meantime, Callie informs me that the bar is open.”
Jenna made an attempt at a smile, but since Blevin’s death, she had yet to recover her earlier bubbly personality. I wondered if there was something more on her mind as she quickly disappeared into the dining car. People got up and headed for the club car, including Maeve, leaving her seat open. Detective Marshall waited for the others to leave before coming down the aisle and taking the unoccupied space next to me.
“Have you heard anything?” I asked, settling back into my seat.
He nodded solemnly.
“And?”
“I’ll have to start reading your books, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said softly.
“Poisoned?” I murmured.
“Uh-huh. And it was strychnine.”
Chapter Eight
“I’d like to keep this between us, Mrs. Fletcher, if you don’t mind,” Detective Marshall said, his voice muffled behind the hand he’d drawn across his mouth.
“Of course,” I said, looking around at the small group that had gathered for afternoon cocktails. “No one will hear it from me. But I’m sure you know that a secret like this won’t remain a secret very long.”
“Yes, I realize that.”
“Why don’t we move to the back of the car where we can speak more freely?” I suggested.
He escorted me to the rear of the club car, where someone had pushed two of the little round tables together and set up a game of checkers, the red and black disks lined up in the rows of squares, awaiting players.
“I have our Vancouver office running background checks on all the passengers, and another detective will join me when we arrive at 100 Mile House,” he said, studying the checkerboard as though he might start playing at any moment. “For now, I intend to concentrate on the folks who were in the room when the deceased was drinking.”
“You will reinterview everyone on this train, I assume.”
“Focusing on those in this car, of course.”
“The staff as well. Have you spoken with them?”
“Of course, although I don’t expect anyone to offer much that’s different from their original interviews back in Whistler.”
“With all due respect to your other officers, Detective Marshall, those initial interviews were cursory, at best.”
“Necessarily so,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’d have much interest in internal police affairs, but there is a jurisdictional dispute brewing over Mr. Blevin’s death.”
“Oh?”
“Because he was such a prominent member of Vancouver society—and now that it appears he was murdered—the Vancouver police will wish to take over the investigation. They’ve already started, in fact.”
“Did they inform Mrs. Blevin of the poisoning?”
“I’m sure they must have by now, but they haven’t notified me yet.”
Jurisdictional disputes, more aptly termed “turf wars” between law enforcement agencies, always seem to arise in high-profile cases. Tension between such agencies as the FBI and local police departments are common, and I wondered how serious such disputes could become in Canada. I asked.
My question brought forth a smile from the big, dour detective. “Actually, Mrs. Fletcher, we tend to get along quite nicely, at least here in British Columbia. Oh, we have our moments of disagreement, but nothing serious. Because everyone on this train will conclude their trips back in Vancouver, the municipal force is arguing that it makes logistic sense for the city boys to take over. However, I’m pressing to stay on the case. We’ll see how it pans out.”
“You’ve established that everyone will return to Vancouver?”
“That’s what they all say. Once we arrive at 100 Mile House, my colleague and I will verify everyone’s travel plans through their ticketing.”
I reached into my handbag and retrieved my airline ticket, which indicated that my return flight from Vancouver would be three days after we returned to the city from the Whistler Northwind’s final stop in Prince George. I handed it to him.
“Yes, precisely,” he said, handing it back. “I’m sure everyone will be happy to cooperate.”
“I would hope so,” I said.
“Perhaps even the murderer.”
He sat next to the tables on which the checkerboard sat, crossed his long legs, and looked out the window at the passing countryside, his craggy face set in deep thought. I didn’t intrude on whatever he was thinking, although my mind was racing as I recalled the circumstances surrounding Alvin Blevin’s murder, my own brush with death temporarily set aside. It came back into focus quickly, however, when Winston Rendell poked his head into the salon where we were sitting. He seemed surprised to see me there with Detective Marshall.
“Beg pardon. Didn’t know this area was occupied,” he said, leaving quickly. His expression had been distinctly uncomfortable and he’d avoided my gaze. Was a guilty conscience plaguing him? Was he worried that I would influence the police, point them in his direction, accuse him of murder or attempted murder?
I shivered. Until I knew who was responsible for unlocking the vestibule door, I would look upon certain members of our entourage with suspicion. And he was one of them.
“What do you know about that chap?” Marshall asked me.
“Very little,” I said. “He writes for
Trains
magazine, and he mentioned once that he’s working on a history of BC Rail. You’ve spoken with him?”
“Yes. That’s not quite the story he gave me. Told me he was in the railroad business.”
“Well, perhaps he meant his writing was a business.”
“Didn’t sound that way.”
“Oh?”
“And it’s not going very well, I take it.”
“He said that?”
“Not in so many words. He said something along the lines of Mr. Blevin’s death coming at an inopportune moment, although he added that it probably didn’t make much difference because the deal had already gone astray.”
“They were in business together?”
“Talking about it anyway. But it’s over now, obviously.”
“Did he seem angry about that?’
“Not especially. Wouldn’t have put him in an especially good light to admit he was angry at Mr. Blevin about a failed business deal, eh?”
“Would have made him a suspect,” I injected.
“Exactly.”
“I interrupted him on the telephone today,” I said, and recounted what I’d overheard.
“May not mean much. Looks like most of the people in this club weren’t fans of the deceased.”
But I wondered if it did mean something. If Rendell had murdered Blevin over a business deal gone sour, it also would have given him a motive to eliminate one meddlesome female who was insisting that a crime had taken place.
The detective fell silent again. He focused on the checkerboard, brow furrowed, tongue running over his upper lip.
“Shame,” he said without looking up.
“What’s a shame?”
“There’s a checker missing.”
I looked at the board. He was right. One red checker wasn’t there.
“I would have enjoyed a game,” he said. “Do you play?”
“I have. Where could it be?”
“The checker?”
“Yes.”
We both looked at the carpet under the tables, but the missing piece wasn’t there. “Maybe in the cupboard,” he said, pointing to the cabinet beneath the TV and VCR.
“Let me take a look.”
I knelt by the cabinet and opened one of the doors. Inside were assorted board games, some in boxes and some not, and a few books scattered among them. It looked as though previous players hadn’t been especially careful about putting away the pieces in the games, something that always irks me. I pushed aside some of the boxes as I searched for the missing red checker and spotted it in a corner of the shelf, wedged between the side of the cabinet and a brown cardboard box. I reached in to slide the checker toward me, toppling a pile of game boards, which slid off each other, revealing the label of the box.
“I think you’d better come look at this,” I said.
“You found it?” he said.
“Yes,” I said, holding up the checker. “But I found something else, too.”
Marshall squatted down beside me. “What is it?”
“Take a look at that box.”
He reached into his breast pocket, drew out a small flashlight in the shape of a pen, twisted the top, and aimed the narrow beam at the label. “Paget’s Garden Guard,” he read. “Powdered bait for the control of pocket gophers, ground squirrels, and other rodents. Highly poisonous. Wear gloves when using this product.”
“Look at the small type on the bottom,” I said. “It says ‘strychnidin.’ ”
“Do you think—?” he said
“I don’t know,” I replied, “but I’ll bet it’s the source of the strychnine that killed Mr. Blevin. Easy enough to test.”
Marshall instinctively removed a handkerchief from his pocket, lifted the box from the shelf, and placed it on the counter next to the television. He glanced at me and winced. “You didn’t touch this, did you?”
“No.” I immediately knew what was bothering him. He wasn’t worried that I’d come in contact with a poison. The container might yield vitally important fingerprints.
“Good,” he said, frowning. “I don’t understand why my men didn’t see this when they went through the place.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t there then. Or maybe they concentrated on the other part of the lounge where Blevin fell ill.”
“Maybe. They’ll have to answer that question. Have a seat. I’ll be right back.” He went around the corner to the bar and returned a moment later with a large green garbage bag, in which he wrapped the box. He pulled a rubber band over the plastic to hold it in place, and took his seat across the tables from me, placing the package on the chair beside him.
“I must say, Mrs. Fletcher, staying close to you during an investigation tends to—well, how shall we say it?—tends to reap rewards, eh?”
“Only because of a missing checker,” I said.
“Be that as it may, you might well have discovered how the strychnine found its way into the bar car. Nothing I can do with it until we reach 100 Mile House.” He checked his watch. “Which won’t be long from now. In the meantime, are you up for a game?”
I was soundly trounced in the two games of checkers I played with the RCMP detective, although I felt I had an excuse for my losses. While my mind was distracted during the moves, he seemed totally focused on the board and his options, as though no one had been murdered the day before in the other end of the very car in which we sat.
We parted as the train approached the town of 100 Mile House, with these words from him: “Keep your eyes and ears open, Mrs. Fletcher. I have the feeling that I’m in league with a woman whose senses are especially keen.”
Being human, I was gratified to be on the receiving end of such a compliment. I suppose acceptance by a detective like Marshall was especially pleasing because that hadn’t always been true. In other murder cases in which I’d found myself inadvertently involved over the years, the investigating authorities had not always been especially receptive to my ideas or hunches, even my presence in general. But while Detective Marshall didn’t seem to fall into that category, I was well aware that I could quickly wear out my welcome unless I continued to produce useful evidence. And if I was successful, would the killer be coming after me—again?
Chapter Nine
The buses were waiting for us when we got off the train at 100 Mile House, and I joined other members of the Track and Rail Club on the line waiting to board one of them.
“Oh, aren’t they cute?” Deedee Crocker squealed, pointing at the grassy hill that butted up against the train platform.
“They’re not cute when you’re trying to putt on the golf course,” Callie said, coming up beside her.
I gazed at the grassy verge and at first didn’t see what they were looking at. But a quick movement and a chirping drew my attention to a small head poking out of a hole. Then a whole body emerged and a little animal sat up, front paws hanging in front of its chest, black eyes paying sharp attention to our slowly moving group.
“What are they?” Hank asked.
“Pocket gophers,” Callie replied. “And those bigger guys over there are marmots, or ground squirrels.”
A dozen pairs of human eyes turned toward the little animals. Several dozen pairs of rodent eyes stared back.
“Ooh, they give me the creeps.” Maeve shuddered.
“It’s just a squirrel,” Junior said. “You’ve seen those at home.”
“They’re not the same.”
“Close enough. When did you become so squeamish? You’re the one always putting down bait and trapping the mice in our basement.”
“That’s only one at a time. And at home I don’t have so many of them staring at me.”