“Please,” Marshall said, “have a seat. Coffee? Tea? A soft drink?”
Reggie opted for coffee; I asked for tea. They were served by a uniformed officer along with a small plate of sugar cookies baked in the shape of a moose. He left the room, and Marshall, who’d removed his suit jacket and hung it on a coat tree in a corner, took a chair at the head of the table. Reggie and I sat across from each other.
“Now then,” Marshall said, “you are very kind to allow me to interfere with your free evening.”
“It’s our pleasure,” Reggie said.
“I’m not sure how pleasurable it will be, but thank you nonetheless. Might as well get started. What have you come up with?”
I took our notes from my purse and spread the pages on the table. Marshall glanced at them and said, “You’ve put a lot of work into this. I appreciate that.”
“We’ve covered everyone and everything we could,” I said. “Like me to begin?”
“Please,” Marshall said, pulling closer a pad of white lined paper that had been on the table and uncapping a pen.
I looked to Reggie to see whether he preferred to present our notes, but he nodded at me and sat back, a satisfied smile on his face.
“Let’s start with the deceased’s immediate family,” I said. “There’s his wife, Theodora, who appeared to have been a loving, caring wife, at least from what I was able to observe.”
“But a cold woman,” Marshall said.
I smiled. “You noticed.”
“Hard not to,” he said. “Go on.”
“We—Reggie and I—have nothing specific to point at to implicate her in her husband’s murder. But, of course, there are the intriguing events surrounding her marriage to him.”
“The disappearance of her former husband, Mr. Vail,” said Marshall.
“Exactly,” Reggie said.
“I don’t know if there is any connection between Vail’s disappearance from the Whistler Northwind three years ago,” I said, “but we thought it was worth noting.”
“And I agree,” Marshall said. “I mentioned it to the Vancouver police, and they said as far as they were concerned, it was still an open folder.”
“What can they do at this juncture?” Reggie asked. “They never found the body.”
“True,” Marshall replied, “but there’s evidently been speculation since the hearing that Mr. Blevin might have—how should I say it?—that Mr. Blevin might have used undue influence to persuade the judge to declare Vail dead.”
“Undue influence?” I repeated. “A bribe?”
“That would be undue influence, eh?” the large detective said. “Let’s see what the city boys come up with on that score. Next? The son?”
“Yes,” I said. “Benjamin Vail, Blevin’s stepson.”
“Not an especially pleasant young man,” said Marshall. “Did either of you observe the tenor of the young man’s relationship with his stepfather?”
Reggie and I paused before he said, “Jess saw them arguing on the train.”
“Oh?”
I recounted the brief, angry exchange I’d witnessed between Blevin and Benjamin and then told Marshall of my trip up Whistler Mountain when Benjamin joined me unexpectedly—“he told me to ‘butt out’ ”—ending with Benjamin’s taunting “prove it” just before we got off the train.
“You didn’t mention that Theodora told you to stay out of it, right after Blevin died,” Reggie said.
“That’s true,” I said, and recalled being summoned to the dining car by Benjamin to receive Theodora’s stern warning to stop saying that her husband had been poisoned.
Marshall grunted. “It seems mother and stepson would prefer that murder not be mentioned in the same breath with his death.”
“Which makes them pretty suspicious,” Reggie said.
Marshall ignored Reggie’s editorial comment and said, “Go on, Mrs. Fletcher.”
I consulted my notes. “I assume the train’s staff has been questioned,” I said.
“Of course.”
“I ask because it’s possible that Benjamin Vail might be involved in some sort of relationship with the hostess, Jenna.”
“What do you base that on?” the detective asked.
“Observation and hearsay. I saw them together before we left Vancouver. And Junior Pinckney claims to have seen them acting ‘lovey-dovey’ back at Whistler.”
“‘Lovey-dovey’?” Marshall said, smiling.
“His description,” I said. “Also, Jenna’s demeanor changed dramatically following Blevin’s death.”
“Perhaps she was simply shocked,” Marshall offered. “She’s a young woman. Witnessing a death, and now knowing it was murder, could be very upsetting.”
“Undoubtedly,” I said. “But I thought it was worth mentioning.”
“And I agree,” he said. “Everything is worth mentioning in a murder investigation.”
“Did the kitchen staff have anything to offer?” I asked.
“No.”
“There was that one fellow who delivered bottles of vodka to Callie at the bar shortly before Mr. Blevin died. His name is Karl. I talked with him. He suggested that Jenna had a crush on Blevin.”
“I spoke with him at length, as well as Callie,” Marshall said. “In fact, I even got her secret recipe for Bloody Marys.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a piece of paper, and unfolded it. “Tomato juice, Dijon mustard, celery salt, pepper, lemon and lime juice, horseradish, dill weed, Worcestershire sauce, and Tabasco to taste.” He looked up, his face deadpan. “I’ll have to try it when I get home.”
“Did she have anything else to say?” Reggie asked.
“No. And neither did the other staff,” Marshall said, replacing the recipe in his pocket. “They claim to know nothing about what happened.”
“I assume you’re going to contact the human resources people at BC Rail,” I said.
“Why would he want to do that?” Reggie asked.
“To check the background reports on all their Northwind employees,” Marshall put in, smiling at me. “We’re already on it.” He looked at his notes. “Who’s next?” he asked.
“The couple from Pittsburgh, Hank and Deedee Crocker.”
I’d written:
He’s an accountant; she’s a florist. His dislike of the deceased is palpable. Sued Blevin over alleged misuse of club dues to build model railroad layout. Her work as a florist might bring her in contact with poisons used to control insects and rodents. He acts glad Blevin is dead, has made crude comments about it.
Marshall listened as I read my notes to him, shifted in his chair, recrossed his legs, and finally said, “If Mrs. Crocker had access to poisons, her husband would have access to them, too.”
I moved on to Maeve and Junior Pinckney.
“No love lost between Blevin and Mr. Pinckney,” I read from my notes. “Junior suspects his wife engaged in some sort of relationship with Blevin. She denies it, but her husband makes snide comments about it all the same.”
Marshall cleared his throat and tried to repress a smile. “Somehow, someone called ‘Junior’ shouldn’t be a murdering sort.”
“Excuse me,” Reggie said, “but I thought you couldn’t ever decide who was the murdering type.”
“And you are correct,” said Marshall, sobering. “I’ve known murderers who were the least likely individuals to commit a violent act, pillars of their communities, while secretly pulling wings off butterflies. Jealousy would certainly be a motive for Mr. Pinckney to have murdered a rival for his wife’s attention. Of course, had her alleged relationship with Mr. Blevin gone sour, she, too, might have had a motive to want him dead.” He looked at me and grinned. “I’m playing your ‘what if’ game, Jessica.”
“So I see,” I said.
I slid the notes across the table to Reggie. “Why don’t you go over a few names?” I suggested.
“Oh, sure, Jess.” He perused the pages. “Let’s see. The new couple, Mr. and Mrs. Goldfinch. Had a long talk with them over lunch the first day. Said they’ve been married four years, live in Hartford, Connecticut, no children. She’s a housewife; he works in computers, he said. The wife is the rail fan, but I have to say she’s not as knowledgeable as I thought at first.”
“I have a hunch they’re not married,” I said, causing Marshall to sit up straighter and look at us.
“They don’t act like a married couple to me,” I explained. “At least not based upon my observations over the years of how married couples behave together.”
“What do you mean?”
“They never touch each other, for one thing. They don’t look at each other when they’re speaking, even if they’re speaking about the same topic. And Gail talked about when
she
was in London on vacation last year.”
“What’s suspicious about that?” Reggie asked.
“If you went on vacation with your husband, wouldn’t you say ‘we’? She said ‘I,’ not ‘we.’ ”
Reggie winked at me. “Well,
I
wouldn’t be on vacation with a husband.”
“Should be easy enough to check out their story,” Marshall said. “Now that you mention it, I had the feeling they were not being straightforward with me.”
“If they’re not married, why would they say they are?” I wondered aloud.
“Maybe they’re awkward about traveling and sleeping together,” Marshall offered.
“In this day and age?” Reggie said.
“I’m sure there are still some who share the sort of decorum Detective Marshall is talking about,” I said in his defense.
We fell silent for a few seconds. I broke it. “I found it interesting,” I said, “that Gail—Mrs. Goldfinch, if she is that—tossed out a precise figure when we were discussing how much insurance Theodora might have collected after the disappearance of her husband.”
“She did?” Reggie said.
“Yes,” I said. “Don’t you remember? We were talking in generalities, but she said something along the lines that two and a half million would be a tidy sum for Theodora to bring into her marriage to Al Blevin.”
“Oh, yes. I do remember. But how would she know?” Reggie asked. “I never heard that figure before and I’ve been in the club a lot longer than they have. If a rumor had surfaced about how much Theodora stood to gain from Elliott’s death, I would have heard it before the Goldfinches. Anyway, the court record was sealed.” He looked to me. “Wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was, as I understand it,” I said. “And your question is the right one. How
would
she know?”
“Assuming her information was correct and it was two and a half million,” Marshall said.
“Yes, assuming that,” I said.
“She might have tossed out that figure just to indicate large sums in general,” Reggie said.
“Two and a half million is not a round number,” I replied.
Reggie looked down at our list. Next were the mother and daughter team on the trip, Marilyn and Samantha Whitmore. But although he raised them, I had the most to say about them.
I told Detective Marshall about my confrontation with Samantha at the pool, shocking both men when I explained why she claimed to have saved my life.
“I can’t believe you never said anything,” Reggie said.
“Now, don’t be offended, Reggie. You can see I’m fine. I didn’t want to make a fuss. What’s more important is that Samantha and her mother both believe that Blevin cheated Mr. Whitmore out of a business partnership and was directly responsible for his fatal heart attack.”
Marshall said, “I don’t doubt Blevin was capable of ruthless business dealings, at least from what I’ve been able to ascertain. But claiming he’d brought on another’s coronary is a bit of a stretch, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Perhaps,” I said. “But Marilyn perceives it that way. She certainly is aware that her comments place her in a bad light. She asked me not to mention it to you.”
Marshall sighed. “Someone else anxious to avoid suspicion. What about the daughter?”
“Samantha worked in a toxicology lab,” Reggie quickly said.
“I can see why Marilyn worries about her,” I said. “She’s not well, that young woman.”
Marshall slowly shook his head, stood, and stretched against an unseen pain in his body. “It never fails to amaze me,” he said absently, to no one in particular.
“What’s that, sir?” Reggie asked.
“How a man can go through life alienating others to the extent that they would like to see him dead.”
“I know of a few women who’ve done that, too,” I said.
“Oh, yes,” Marshall agreed. “Cruelty is an equal-opportunity trait. I’ve always believed that if you’re going to bother getting up in the morning, you might as well be pleasant and treat people decently. Otherwise . . .”
“Otherwise you end up like Al Blevin,” Reggie said.
Marshall resumed his seat. “You have more, I’m sure.”
“Not much,” I replied. “There’s the British businessman, Winston Rendell.”
“Yes. We’ve talked about him before,” Marshall said. “Always harder to check up on someone from another country. Diplomacy and all that. Even so, this meeting has been most productive. Keep it up, eh? Let me know if you find out anything more.”
“Will you still be involved in the investigation once we’re back in Vancouver?” I asked.
He laughed and said, “Oh, I’ll keep my hand in. I like to think the chaps in the big city can’t possibly do it without me. You’ll be seeing me, I assure you.”
He gave us each a card with his cellular phone number on it, and we bade him good night.
Reggie and I walked back to the hotel.
“So, who do you think did it?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Benjamin hated his stepfather.”
“But the Whitmores—Marilyn and Samantha—were none too fond of Al either.”
“True. There are many with a motive. But there’s one we need to find out more about. And I think I know someone who can help us look into the background of Winston Rendell.”
It was still light out at ten o’clock when I returned to my room at the Ramada, and I wondered if we were far enough north to see the northern lights. It had been a long day, and I struggled to stay awake, even setting my alarm for midnight in case I fell asleep.
The number was in my address book. I remembered the strange sound of the rings on the other end. The connection was made and a masculine voice said, “Good morning. Scotland Yard.”