“An inconsiderate one at that,” I said, brushing the skirt of my black-and-white shirtwaist dress. “Thanks for the shoulder to lean on.”
“No problem.”
By the time I walked into the hotel, I’d put the incident out of my mind. Rude, inconsiderate people could be found everywhere in the world, even in a friendly, courteous city like Vancouver.
“Jessica! There you are.”
Reggie Weems bounded across the beige granite floor. The Sutton Place lobby was a handsome space, with its graceful chandeliers, huge vases of freshly cut flowers, and European artwork—which included magnificent large, original oils behind the front desk by French Impressionist Bernard Cathelin, who’d studied with Matisse. I’d commented on the paintings when I’d checked in and had received their provenance from the clerk along with my room key.
We’d flown in together from Boston that morning. Reggie had worn what he called his flying outfit: chino pants, multipocketed safari shirt—“My answer to a woman’s purse,” he’d told me—and loafers that could be slipped off and on easily, should security people at the airport wish to inspect them. For the buffet, he’d changed into a blue double-breasted blazer, a white shirt, a burgundy tie with tiny locomotives in gold emblazoned on it, crisply pressed gray slacks, and two-tone shoes. Reggie was a short man of slender build with a narrow face and a prominent nose on which oversized eyeglasses rested. He walked with a perpetual spring in his step. He was considered a bit of a dandy in Cabot Cove and was well liked throughout the community, although the fact that he’d never married occasionally raised inevitable but unwarranted speculation about his sexual orientation. Aside from an insurance client complaining over the terms of a claim settlement every once in a while, no one seemed to have a bad word to say about him.
“Ah, Jessica, how was your shopping expedition? I see you’re empty-handed.”
“I had a lovely walk, Reggie. How was your meeting?”
He scowled. “Not especially pleasant. The club’s board’s been having its differences and . . . well, that’s not of interest to you. Ready for a trip to chocolate heaven?”
I followed him to the hotel’s famed chocolate buffet, located in the elegant Fleuri Restaurant, its walls covered in rich damask, the tables graced with floral-print skirts. Three tables were laden with a variety of chocolate desserts waiting to be sampled and were presided over by a female chef in a white uniform, who described the delicacies on offer. It had sounded absolutely decadent to me when Reggie suggested it, but once I stood before the incredible array of artistic creations concocted by Sutton Place’s chocolate chef, I decided I was ready for a taste of decadence. I placed tiny portions of Sacher torte, hot chocolate soufflé, chocolate mousse made with Jack Daniel’s, and a chocolate crème brûlée on my plate—saving the chocolate pie, chocolate sorbet, and crêpes with chocolate sauce for another time—and carried it back to a table where Reggie, his selections already on the table in front of him, sat with four people to whom I’d been introduced earlier. Hank and Deedee Crocker were from Pittsburgh. Hank was an accountant; his wife was a florist—“I used to sell flowers but now I specialize in exotic plants. All the decorators love my shop.” Junior and Maeve Pinckney of Atlanta were, respectively, an auto parts dealer and a part-time real estate broker.
“Ah’m quite a fan of your books, Mrs. Fletcher,” Maeve said in a pronounced drawl. She was clothed like the quintessential southern belle, her dress a frilly white and yellow number that came up high on her neck. A pretty woman with a creamy complexion, wide hazel eyes, and full sensuous lips, she had a deft hand at makeup and an enviable metabolism, if the pile of sweets on her plate was any indication. “When ah heard you would be joining us on this trip, ah became absolutely excited,” she said, digging into a slice of chocolate mousse cake heaped high with whipped cream.
“Thank you,” I said. “I wouldn’t have missed it. I understand the train we’re taking in the morning has quite a history.”
That was a cue for Maeve’s husband to launch into a lecture on the Whistler Northwind and historic trains in general. Junior was a pudgy man with red hair, a ruddy face, and large, moist eyes. Like Reggie, he wore a blue blazer, but with a pink golf shirt and no tie. His plate was overflowing with chocolate goodies from the buffet, and his accent was decidedly south of the Mason-Dixon Line.
“We’ll be in the Summit Coach,” he said. “The Pavilion club car next to it was built back in ’39 for the Florida East Coast Railroad. Only stainless steel car on the train, built by the Budd Company. Was known as the Bay Biscayne car when it was runnin’ between New York and Florida. BC Rail picked it up in 2000 after Amtrak sold it to a company in Nashville. They ran it as the Broadway Dinner Train.”
“How interesting,” I said.
“Junior’s quite an expert on old trains, Mrs. Fletcher,” said his wife.
“Please call me Jessica.”
“Hank and Deedee know a lot about historic trains, too,” Reggie said; I had a feeling he’d offered it to head off another of Junior’s speeches.
“How many trips have you taken on old trains?” I asked the Crockers.
“We’ve lost track,” Hank replied, interrupting whatever his wife was about to say. He was a nondescript middle-aged man with grayish skin and a hangdog expression that I would go on to observe seldom left his face. He spoke in a monotone, the barest hint of irony coloring his voice. “At least I have.”
“I think we’ve taken every trip since the organization was formed,” Deedee put in. She was a small, birdlike woman with sharp features and a cap of fine brown hair. Both of them were dressed informally, in navy slacks and matching Hawaiian shirts.
“Nineteen years ago,” Reggie offered.
“Are there that many historic railroads running?” I asked.
“Oh, sure,” Junior cut in, resuming his animated lesson on railroad history.
We all listened politely until he stopped in midsentence and looked at a striking man and woman poised to enter the restaurant. It was the couple I’d seen getting out of the limo.
“Look who’s here,” Hank Crocker muttered, his tone not friendly.
“Is
she
coming with us?” Deedee Crocker asked in a whisper.
“Seems so,” Reggie said, adding a small laugh. “How about that?”
I leaned close to Reggie and asked, “Who are they?”
He said into my ear, “Alvin Blevin and his wife, Theodora.”
“Some people are just so brazen,” Maeve Pinckney said with a sigh.
“Fraud,” Hank mumbled to himself. But I heard it, and it caused me to straighten in my chair.
“Alvin Blevin’s our club president, Jess,” Reggie whispered to me. “It gets a little complicated. His wife, Theodora, used to be married to a man named Elliott Vail. Elliott was active in the club until he disappeared three years ago.”
“Disappeared?”
“Yup. Just like that. He’s never been found.”
“Oh, my. No indication of what happened to him?”
Reggie shook his head. “Well, there are rumors . . .”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if she killed him,” Maeve drawled.
“Oh, come on, Maeve,” Reggie said.
“She may be right,” Hank said. “No one knows for sure what happened.”
I said to Reggie, “You say she’s married to that man she’s with?”
“Right.”
“But her missing husband can’t have been declared legally dead. It’s too soon. It generally takes seven years.”
“Not if you have a powerful, well-connected lawyer like Alvin Blevin,” said Hank from Pittsburgh. “He handled her case and got a judge to declare Elliott legally dead after only three years.”
“She must have inherited a lot of money,” Maeve said, “because he divorced his wife right away and married her. Caused quite a scandal here in Vancouver, or so I’ve been told.”
I watched Blevin and his wife as they chatted with one of the restaurant’s hostesses before smoothly moving to the chocolate buffet. Alvin Blevin was a tall, broad-shouldered man with the bearing of a successful attorney or United States senator. A full head of silver-gray hair was carefully coifed, and he sported a deep tan. His gray suit looked English cut to me, possibly from one of London’s exclusive custom tailors. His wife, Theodora, was as impressive as her husband in stature and bearing. Tall, with an exquisite figure sheathed in an aqua silk pants suit, she had what’s generally called classic features: chiseled cheekbones, a nose of appropriate size and shape, and thin lips made to appear slightly larger with lipstick. Her hair was silver-blond and meticulously arranged. A power couple to be certain, commanding attention whenever entering a room, as they had with us.
“Hank sued Alvin,” Deedee Crocker said of her husband.
Reggie quickly said, “I don’t think Jessica is interested in the club’s dirty laundry, Deedee.” To me: “Are you, Jess?”
“Well, I—”
“Ah imagine Mrs. Fletcher is always interested in people’s dirty laundry,” said Maeve, “bein’ a mystery writer and all.”
“Please, it’s Jessica.”
Hank Crocker said, “I sued him because he was misusing the club’s money.”
“Oh?”
“Here they come.”
The Blevins approached the table, their small plates of chocolate delicacies carried by a uniformed waiter.
“How’s everyone doing?” Blevin asked as they paused tableside. His voice was deep and well modulated, no surprise, his light blue eyes piercing. He had a cleft in his chin, and a jaw that jutted forward determinedly.
“Just fine, Al,” Reggie said, standing. “Say hello to my friend Jessica Fletcher.”
“The famous murder mystery writer,” Blevin said, taking my hand. “I heard you were joining us. Delighted, I’m sure. This is my wife, Theodora.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said.
She gave forth with what she considered a smile, I suppose.
“Death by chocolate,” Blevin said, his grin exposing a staunch set of teeth, their whiteness rendered more so against the tan of his handsome, rugged face. “Enjoy. See everyone on the train in the morning.”
When they were gone, Junior Pinckney said, “He’s too damn slick for my taste.”
“He’s a thief,” Hank muttered, focusing on the plate in front of him.
“I still say she must have murdered her first husband, that dear man, Elliott,” Maeve said softly. “And Alvin, taken in by her.” She shook her head. “I thought he was more discerning than that.”
I ate my chocolate treats, thankful when the conversation about the Blevins ended.
Later, I joined Reggie for a drink in the hotel’s Gerard Lounge, an English club-style room that I was told was Vancouver’s favorite celebrity-spotting venue. He seemed distressed.
“You look as though you need that drink, Reggie,” I said, referring to a large perfect Manhattan in front of him. I opted for a club soda with lime.
“Everything would be so simple if it weren’t for people,” he said glumly.
I laughed. “Someone giving you a hard time?”
“Seems like everyone is. Hank Crocker is just waiting to make a scene. I dread it.”
“Mr. Crocker said something about having sued Mr. Blevin. What was that all about?”
“He wasn’t entirely in the wrong—understand?—but Hank doesn’t know how to handle anything with subtlety, much less diplomacy. He just rams ahead like a bull.”
“What happened?”
Reggie sighed. “Blevin decided to build himself the world’s biggest and best model railroad layout.”
“That doesn’t sound unreasonable,” I said.
“It would have been fine if he hadn’t done it with club funds. Crocker voted against it, but Blevin sold the rest of the board on allowing him to do it, and he went ahead.”
“So he had the board’s approval.”
Reggie raised a finger. “He was supposed to create the layout in modules so that it could be transported around the country for display by different regional chapters.”
“He didn’t do that?”
“Unfortunately not, Jess, although whether it was on purpose or not, I won’t venture to guess. Blevin owns a big office building here in Vancouver. He donated one of the floors as club headquarters; it’s huge, plenty of space for meetings, even has a plush conference room for the board of directors.”
“That sounds very generous.”
“Oh, sure, it is. But he designed the model layout to fill up three-quarters of that floor. It’s got both O and HO gauge running on five different levels, a complete set of Micro-Metakit—the engine alone cost over two thousand—plus I don’t know how many miles of track. He’s got most of British Columbia’s rail lines represented, even duplicated the Fraser Canyon down to the muddy river, which rises with rainfall.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“That’s putting it mildly. It’s got to have close to a million invested in it, and he says it’s not done yet.”
“Was all of that the club’s money?”
“A good portion, but he must have sunk a lot of his own into it, too. Still, once it was finished, it was supposed to go on tour. But when they tried to break it down, they discovered the modules had been made too large; they wouldn’t fit through the door. Instead of a source of pride and joy which all the club members could share in, it ended up Alvin’s own personal toy. Hank is convinced he made it that way on purpose.”
“I see. But if people are angry with him about it, why not simply elect another president?”
Reggie finished his drink and motioned for the waitress to bring him another. “I ran for president against Alvin two years ago and got trounced. No matter how much members complain about his high-handed tactics, they realize he owns the building, and they like having such posh headquarters. Not many clubs have anything like it. Besides, he’s put some of his own money into club programs. He’s loaded. Nobody likes him, but they’re not about to get rid of him.”
With his fresh drink before him, Reggie opened a folder he’d been carrying and said, “Let me run through the train trip itinerary with you.”