“Oh, I had some work to do,” I said lightly. “I have a mad habit of bringing my work with me wherever I go.”
“Writin’ a book with Reggie?” she asked.
“Writing with—? No, but he’s helping me with—helping me with a scene I’m having trouble with.”
She nodded and gave me a knowing smile. I wasn’t kidding her or anyone else.
I sat at dinner with the newcomers, Martin and Gail Goldfinch. To my surprise, Winston Rendell joined us.
“You were a busy bee today,” Rendell said as an appetizer of Dungeness crab cakes and a frisée salad was served. He had put on a cheerful demeanor, having decided, I suppose, that sugar was preferable to vinegar in dealing with me.
I repeated my weak story about having brought work with me on the trip. I didn’t expect follow-up questions, but Martin Goldfinch said, “I saw you huddled this morning with Detective Marshall. What’s new about Mr. Blevin’s murder?”
“Nothing, as far as I know.”
“Oh, come, Jessica,” he said, raising his brows and looking at me over half-glasses he’d donned to read the menu. “Don’t be coy. We’re all in this together, aren’t we, like survivors of a plane crash. We know Blevin was poisoned, and we’re all suspects. What does the detective say?”
“I might ask you the same question,” I said. “I see that you’ve had a few conversations with him.”
“Questions is what he has to say. Just questions.” He leaned closer to me. “Is it true that Blevin had an affair with her?” He nodded in the direction of Marilyn Whitmore, who sat with her daughter and Reggie.
Another rumored affair,
I thought,
this time with Marilyn Whitmore.
“I wouldn’t know,” I said. “You aren’t suggesting that Detective Marshall told you that, are you?”
“No,” Goldfinch said, sitting back and laughing. “Just one of a couple of hundred rumors making the rounds.”
“You Americans are bloody fond of rumors, aren’t you?” said Rendell.
Gail Goldfinch smiled and said, “That’s a case of the pot calling the kettle black, if ever there was one. You Brits are the kings of tabloid journalism. When I was on vacation in London last year, it seemed as though the whole city thrived on rumors, particularly about the royal family.”
Rendell seemed annoyed at Gail’s comment and looked around the dining room as though seeking escape. I said to him, “I understand that you and Mr. Blevin were involved in a business deal that wasn’t going very well.”
My question took him aback. “Who told you that?”
Detective Marshall had been the source of that news, but I needed to keep him out of it. “I’d prefer not to say.”
Visibly rattled, Rendell cleared his throat a few times before saying, “Not true at all. For many years Al Blevin and I had discussed setting up a company together, but we never developed the idea very far.”
“What sort of business?” Gail asked.
“Developing a new generation of steam engine,” Rendell replied slowly, speeding up as he continued. “There’s a resurgence in interest in the old smoke belchers, and we thought we might try to tap into that attraction.” He straightened in his seat, evidently deciding how the story would end. “Unfortunately, Al died before we could take it to the next step.”
“It was going well; it was on track?” I asked.
“Yes, quite,” Rendell said, “if it’s any of your concern.”
That seemed to be the end of it, for the moment. But as we prepared to vacate the table, Gail asked Rendell, “Was Elliott Vail involved in your business venture with Blevin?”
“Vail?” Rendell said, laughing. “What a silly question. Of course not. How could he be? The man is dead.”
“Why do you ask?” I said.
Gail shrugged and stood. “No reason,” she said. “Dinner was delicious. The maple salmon was yummy.”
“You’ve asked questions about Elliott Vail before. How do you know about him?” I asked. “You two are new to the club.”
“How do you know about him, Jessica?” Gail responded sharply. “You’ve never been on this train before, either. His suicide was hardly a secret. Lots of people on board have mentioned it to us.”
“That’s right,” her husband put in. He pulled her away from the table, and I realized that it was the first time I’d seen him touch his wife.
Reggie had left the dining car ahead of us and was sitting alone in a window seat. I joined him.
“Pick up anything new at dinner?” he whispered in my ear.
“Just that Mr. Rendell admits he was involved in a business venture with Alvin Blevin, something about manufacturing steam engines.”
“That’s not new,” Reggie said. “I told you that the other night.”
“True, but Rendell now claims the business deal wasn’t going sour. He told Detective Marshall that it was. What about you? Learn anything to add to our notes?”
“Just that the Whitmores wear their hatred of Blevin on their sleeves, but Mrs. Whitmore keeps saying how ridiculous it is to suspect them. I can’t blame her. She’s really a nice lady. But now that I know she thinks Blevin’s actions contributed to her husband’s heart attack, I’m more tuned in.” During our meeting that afternoon I’d told him of my conversation with Marilyn Whitmore at the pool at the Hills ranch. “Her daughter’s a strange one; a very angry lady is my read,” he said. “Smart, though. She worked in a toxicology lab in Vancouver.”
“Worked? Past tense?”
“Yeah, according to her mother. She said something about Samantha being on a medical leave.”
“Toxicology?”
“Yeah. Oh, sure, I see what you’re thinking. Toxicology. She’d know about poisons and things like that.”
“Yes, she would.”
Detective Marshall stopped at our row, and people in nearby seats turned in our direction.
“Lovely dinner, wasn’t it?” he said, loud enough for them to hear.
“Very nice,” we agreed.
He quietly dropped a slip of paper on Reggie’s lap and said, “Well, I think I’ll get back to my book. We’ll be in Prince George before we know it.”
We waited a moment before seeing what the note said:
Meet me at eight at RCMP’s Prince George headquarters.
He’d signed it “CM” and included the address.
Reggie put the paper in his shirt pocket. We nodded at each other, smiled at those who were overtly directing their attention at us, and sat back to enjoy what was left of the trip. Like all trips I’d taken that were coming to an end, I felt a certain sadness at reaching our final destination. The murder aside, the ride on the Whistler Northwind had been a pleasant, unhurried experience. Taking the murder into consideration, it was an experience I’d not soon forget.
Jenna came on the PA and announced that our luggage would be in our rooms at the hotel, as it had been at previous stops. She then thanked us for traveling on the Whistler Northwind, said it was a pleasure serving us, and wished us a safe trip home.
“Where do you guys go now?” Hank Crocker called out.
“The staff?” Jenna asked.
“Yes. You and Callie and Bruce and the rest of them.”
“Some of us fly home and others turn right around and go back to Vancouver,” she said.
“Better tell them to watch out for the Bloody Marys.” Crocker laughed at his own joke, but he was the only one.
Jenna placed the microphone back in its wall holder with more force than necessary and left the coach car.
I asked Reggie if he’d noticed a change in Jenna’s demeanor since the beginning of the trip.
“Yeah,” he said. “She used to smile more. She doesn’t seem as happy as she was when we got started.”
“I forgot to put that on our list for Detective Marshall,” I suggested.
“Probably means nothing,” Reggie said. “Maybe she has woman troubles, you know what I mean? My niece is always complaining about that PS something-or-other.”
“Still . . .”
I hadn’t mentioned to Reggie that there might be a personal relationship between Jenna and Benjamin Vail. Junior Pinckney claimed to have witnessed them in the courtyard of the Westin Hotel in Whistler. And I remembered seeing them together outside the railroad station in Vancouver, but I hadn’t heard their conversation. She might simply have been welcoming him to the Northwind. I dug in my purse for the wad of notes that Reggie and I had put together and added “Jenna-Benjamin?” to the long list of observations.
Less than an hour later, the train chugged into Prince George, the lumber capital of British Columbia. Before reaching the station, we passed through what must have been miles of wood products awaiting export: myriad piles of felled trees for the sawmill; stacks upon stacks of cut lumber; and hundreds of flat cars, on which the finished products, sealed in plastic, stood ready to join the long line of freight cars on the journey southward.
Clouds had moved in and the sky was gray; rain-drops spattered the clear dome of the coach. I got up, intending to take a last look around before we were instructed to leave the train. In the front section of the club car, the bar was closed, the wooden counter wiped clean. No bottle or glass was in evidence to remind visitors of the fatal party that had taken place there. But the careful observer would have seen the faint red stain on the carpet from the Bloody Mary that spilled when the poison in his system knocked Alvin Blevin down. I pictured the meeting of the Track and Rail Club, people happy, animated, anticipating three days of old-fashioned train travel, an opportunity to commune with fellow foamers, to discuss the focus of their passion, brag about their model railroads, and trade train lore. And into this joyful gathering had stepped a murderer.
“Revisiting the scene of the crime, Mrs. Fletcher?”
Benjamin stood in the entrance to the rear salon.
“Why did you stay on the train, Benjamin? Don’t you think your mother needs you at a time like this?”
“My mother doesn’t need anyone,” he muttered, and then thought better of it. “My mother has lots of friends to console her.”
“Why did you stay on the train?” I persisted.
“I think you’ve already figured that out, Mrs. Fletcher. My father died on this train. I needed to see where. I needed to know why.”
“And did you find the answers you wanted?”
“No. But the trip wasn’t wasted.”
“Wasn’t wasted? Are you referring to the death of your stepfather?”
“My mother’s husband, you mean. He had no relation to me. I was just in the way, something to push aside to get to my mother.”
“Aren’t you a little old to play the rejected child, Benjamin?”
He smirked. “No fooling you, huh?”
“I know there was tension between you.”
“That’s an understatement. I hated him, plain and simple.”
Jenna’s voice came over the public-address system, announcing our arrival in Prince George.
Benjamin walked toward me and stopped. “You think I killed him, don’t you?”
“Did you?”
He brushed past me, leaving the club car. “I’d like to see you prove it,” he called over his shoulder.
Chapter Eleven
The inclement weather was not flattering to Prince George. The city was saved from obscurity by the rich lumber-filled mountains on its outskirts and its citizens’ passion for the beauty of the outdoors, but the grim downtown, a collection of faceless industrial buildings, was not inviting. The bus passed a series of rundown motels, and I sighed with relief when the driver pulled up to the Ramada, a modern, if architecturally uninspired, hotel.
Reggie and I had agreed that being seen going off together after having huddled on the train all afternoon would only fuel speculation on the part of other passengers. We arranged to leave the hotel separately and to hook up at a restaurant he’d chosen from a guidebook, Ric’s Grill. I begged off a couple of other dinner invitations, saying only that I had other plans without specifying. I’m always uncomfortable lying about anything, as justified as it might be on occasion, and learned long ago to keep it simple, lest I have to remember later what has been said.
The rain had stopped and Reggie was waiting for me when I arrived. The restaurant had low lighting, black-patterned upholstery, and high wooden dividers, making it easy to hide from prying ears and eyes—the perfect setting for an assignation. I felt as if we were acting in a film noir and that Sam Spade would show up at any moment. We asked for a booth as far removed from the others as possible, ordered our dinners, and took a final stab at the list we’d compiled before heading for our meeting with Detective Marshall at RCMP’s Prince George headquarters. I added a few notes to what we’d already written, and by the time dessert had been served, we felt satisfied that we’d covered everything Detective Marshall was expecting of us.
“I have to admit,” Reggie said, as he pulled out a credit card to pay the bill, “that I’m pretty excited about this.”
“Excited?” I said, not sure I would have used that word.
“Yes,” he said. “I mean, I’ve never been asked by a homicide detective before to come up with who killed somebody. I feel like some amateur detective in one of your novels, Jess, coming to the rescue of the police and cracking a difficult case.”
I laughed and patted my friend on the shoulder. “Well,” I said, “don’t get too excited, Reggie. Detective Marshall has asked us only to report what we’ve observed, not to point the finger at any individual. That would be unwise.”
“I know, I know,” he said as we stepped out onto George Street, Prince George’s major downtown avenue. “Still, if what we’ve come up with makes the difference in bringing a murderer to justice, I’ll be pretty proud.”
“As well you should be. Come along. According to my city map, police headquarters is only a few blocks this way.”
Detective Marshall was summoned from the back of headquarters upon our arrival and led us to an interrogation room that was, at least for this person who’d spent some time in such rooms, surprisingly pleasant. It was softly lighted, as opposed to having the usual harsh overhead fluorescent lights intended to unnerve people being interrogated, and its furniture—chairs with arms padded with red vinyl, and a table absent scars and cigarette burns—was anything but threatening. I’d been in police rooms in which the two front legs of simple wooden chairs had been cut off a half inch to cause the individual being questioned to constantly lean forward, an uncomfortable and ultimately fatiguing posture. Not the case here. The chair frames were metal—and level.