Yet after we hung up, I hesitated. I was only hours away from having dinner with Alvin Blevin’s widow, who was certainly a suspect in the murder.
Dinner?
Why was she hosting a dinner party so soon after her husband’s death at the hand of someone she undoubtedly knew?
What if
she had played a role in her husband’s death?
Why had I been invited?
And what about the disappearance of her previous husband, Elliott Vail? I’d forgotten to ask the detectives about that. I was eager to get to the bottom of the case, but frustrated as well. There was so much to know and so little time left before Reggie and I were scheduled to fly home.
Chapter Thirteen
I pushed the button and waited for an elevator to arrive at the lobby level, eager to shower and change after my brisk walk.
“Mrs. Fletcher?”
I turned to see a tall young man with an unruly shock of red hair. He was wearing a brown corduroy jacket, a blue denim shirt, a red tie, jeans, and construction boots.
“Yes?” I said.
“I’m Gene Driscoll, the
Vancouver Sun
, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve left you a couple of messages and—”
“Of course. I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you yet.”
“Do you have time for an interview?”
“I can’t imagine why you’d want to interview me,” I said. “You’re covering Mr. Blevin’s murder.”
“Right.”
“I really don’t know anything about it aside from having been on the train when he died.”
“But you were the first one to say he’d been poisoned.”
“That was just a lucky guess on my part, Mr. Driscoll. Oh, here’s my elevator.”
“Please,” he said, touching my elbow to keep me from getting on, “I won’t take much of your time.”
The elevator doors closed.
“I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to comment on an ongoing investigation,” I said after pushing the button again.
“What did you hear on the train about Elliott Vail?” he asked.
“Elliott Vail? Why are you interested in him?”
“I suppose you haven’t heard, Mrs. Fletcher. There’s an investigation into Alvin Blevin’s representation of Vail’s wife, Theodora. There are rumors that he may have convinced the judge to rule in his favor by means other than legal argument.”
Were he still alive
, I thought,
the authorities would be closing in on Alvin Blevin.
“The insurance company, Merit Life, hasn’t dropped the case either,” Driscoll added.
Another elevator arrived.
“I thought they’d already paid his widow,” I said, holding a hand against the open door to keep it from closing.
“They did,” he said. “But their U.S. headquarters is still investigating. If it can be proved that the judge was illegally influenced to declare him dead prematurely, that’ll open the case again. Insurance companies don’t cough up two and a half million bucks that easily.”
“That was the amount they actually paid?”
“Yeah.”
A buzzer sounded, indicating someone was interfering with the elevator doors, keeping them from closing. I was that someone.
“The Vail question could have a bearing on the Blevin murder, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, his voice urgent. “Think about it. Vail’s widow gets two and a half million dollars and marries Blevin, who handles her case in court. There’s Vail’s kid, Benjamin, who ended up being arrested for attacking Blevin after he married his mother. And—”
“Come on up,” I said. “I only have a little time before I’m scheduled to leave for dinner, but I’d like to hear more of what you have to say.”
“I came to hear what
you
have to say,” he said with a chuckle, following me into the empty elevator. The door closed and the buzzer stopped.
“Then we’ll have a two-way conversation,” I said. “The best kind.”
“I just have this feeling, Mrs. Fletcher, that the two events have to be linked,” he told me, when we’d settled on the sofa in my suite.
“I agree,” I said, putting on my glasses and pulling out the newspaper clips he’d sent me that I’d stashed in the desk drawer, “but only because I share your feeling. What’s important is that there be evidence to connect them. Have you come up with any?”
He removed a pen from his pocket, opened a slender reporter’s pad, riffled through the pages, and shook his head. “The widow collects the money and marries her attorney, Al Blevin, and now she’s a widow again. That’s a heck of a coincidence. I wouldn’t want to marry that lady, figuratively speaking, that is. Literally, too, for that matter, although she’s pretty good-looking for an old broad.”
I raised my eyebrows and peered at him over my glasses.
“Sorry. That wasn’t politically correct, was it?”
“It wasn’t polite, either,” I said. “Are you saying you think Theodora Blevin murdered both her husbands?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time something like that has happened. Of course, we can’t prove Vail was murdered because his body was never found. Makes me wonder if she had an accomplice in the canyon to help her get rid of the evidence.”
“You’re making a very big assumption there,” I said.
Driscoll shook his head and laughed. He’d settled his lanky frame on the couch and was sunk back into the cushions, his long legs crossed. He said, “What I’m wondering is if Blevin’s life was insured by the same company. Then they’d be taking a double hit.”
“There is another possibility, you know,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“Elliott Vail could still be alive.”
It was the first time I’d voiced an idea that had been rolling around in my mind for a while. But what would Vail stand to gain by staging his own disappearance? Unless . . . His wife had collected his life insurance money and now was a widow again. Could she have been responsible for Blevin’s death? Was she planning to reunite with her first husband? Had that been their plan all along? But if it was, did Benjamin know about it? Would they make him suffer the loss of his father only to have Elliott resurface years later? If so, how could they do that to their son?
“I bet Merit Life would like to prove that,” Driscoll said. “It would save them a bundle.”
“I beg your pardon? I was distracted. What was it you said?”
“Merit Life. If they can prove Vail is alive, they get their two and half million back.”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” I said. “Do you know where Merit Life is headquartered?”
“Sure. Hartford, Connecticut. That’s where lots of insurance companies have their headquarters. Their Canadian affiliate is in Vancouver.”
“What else have you found out while you’ve been chasing down this story?”
“The rumor is that Theodora Vail was getting it on with Al Blevin before her husband disappeared.”
“Do you know that for a fact?”
“No, ma’am. Scuttlebutt.”
“Is there any way to prove it?”
“Not unless you can find a witness to testify to it. But it wouldn’t make much difference. Infidelity is hardly news these days.”
“Of course, if Elliott Vail
was
murdered,” I said, “then it would provide a motive.”
“True.”
“You mentioned downstairs that Benjamin Vail was arrested for having attacked his stepfather. When did that happen?”
He chewed his cheek and briefly closed his eyes before answering. “I think it was right after Blevin married Theodora Vail. The police got a domestic disturbance call and went to Blevin’s house. They took the kid off in handcuffs, but Blevin refused to press charges, and the matter was dropped. The story is in one of those clips I gave you.”
I offered him a soft drink from the suite’s minibar, which he declined.
“Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, closing his notebook.
“Yes?”
“I’ve been doing all the talking, but I came here hoping to get a quote from you.”
“I’d like to be as helpful as you’ve been, Mr. Driscoll, but I’m afraid you know a great deal more than I do.”
“That’s not what Detective Marshall of the RCMP thinks.”
“He told you that?”
“Not directly. I got it from one of the other passengers on your trip.” He flipped through the pages of his spiral-bound pad. “This person said that Marshall enlisted you and a friend of yours—a Mr. Reginald Weems—to help with the investigation. True?”
“Who said that?”
“Can’t tell you. Confidential sources and all that. So, is it true? Did the Mounties ask you to help with the investigation? Not exactly standard police procedure.”
I wasn’t sure how to answer. Obviously, this young reporter had it right and had gotten it from a credible source. It would be another thing to acknowledge it for public consumption.
“Detective Marshall asked me and Mr. Weems to tell him what we’d witnessed the day Mr. Blevin died, which we did. I’m sure others on the train were asked the same question and cooperated, too.” I looked at my watch. “Now, Mr. Driscoll,” I said, going to the door and placing my hand on the knob, “I’m afraid I have another appointment. I appreciate the job you have to do, and I respect it. I also assure you that I really don’t have anything to offer you—at this juncture.”
He cocked his head. “ ‘At this juncture,’ ” he repeated. “Does that mean you might have something to tell me at another time?”
“That’s always a possibility,” I said, opening the door.
“Promise I’ll be the first reporter you call?”
“Yes,” I said. “You’ll be the first.”
“I guess I can’t ask for more than that,” he said.
“Thanks for your time.”
“And good luck with your investigation.”
After he was gone, I dialed Reggie’s room. I was expecting his voicemail but he answered in person.
“Reggie, it’s Jessica.”
“Change your mind about joining me at Cin Cin tonight? I was just on my way out the door, but I can wait another few minutes.”
“No, thanks. I have a dinner appointment soon.”
“I thought you wanted to be on your own.”
“Now, don’t get offended. I’ll fill you in tomorrow. But listen; this is important. Do you do any business with Merit Life?”
“Merit? Sure. I’ve placed a lot of policies with them. Why?”
“Merit’s Canadian affiliate is the insurance company that issued the policy on Elliott Vail’s life.”
“It is? I never even thought about who the insurer was. How did you find out?”
I told him briefly about the reporter’s visit and what I’d learned from him. “Know anyone really well at Merit?” I asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
“Think you can find out the name of the investigator working the Vail case?”
“What are you up to, Jessica?”
“Just following a hunch.”
Chapter Fourteen
Theodora Blevin’s driver was parked in front of the hotel when I came down from my room a few minutes before seven. He was a short, chubby man dressed in the requisite chauffeur’s black suit, white shirt, and black tie. He opened a rear door, pressed it closed behind me, got behind the wheel, and pulled away.
“Lovely evening,” he said over his shoulder as he joined traffic on Burrard Street.
I agreed. “How long have you been driving for Mrs. Blevin?”
“Quite a few years, ma’am. Actually, I was Mr. Blevin’s driver until . . .”
There was no need for him to finish the sentence.
“You have my sympathies.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
As he turned left on Georgia, I recognized the route. It was the same one our bus had taken on its way to join the Whistler Northwind at the beginning of our ill-fated train trip into northern British Columbia. We drove into Stanley Park, Canada’s largest urban park, designed by the same landscape architect, Frederick Law Olmsted, who’d designed New York’s Central Park, and headed for the Lions Gate Bridge, which would take us into West Vancouver, home to the city’s most exclusive waterfront community. I recalled Marilyn Whitmore’s comment as the train passed through the area that West Vancouver was the richest city in Canada.
“Know the history of Lions Gate Bridge?” the driver asked as we approached it.
“A little,” I said.
“The Guinness family, the beer people, built it in 1938,” he said. “It cost them six million U.S. dollars. King George and Queen Elizabeth were here to open it officially in 1939. The city bought it back from Guinness in 1963 for six million.”
“A bargain for the city,” I suggested.
“I suppose it was,” he said.
Traffic was heavy once we were on the bridge, testimony to how quickly bridges and highways become obsolete as traffic handlers. On the other side, we turned left and followed Marine Drive until reaching a property surrounded by a high hedge. Two police cars flanked the entrance. The driver got out and punched in a code on a keypad, which activated the gates. We drove through and pulled up in a circular driveway in front of a Tudor-style home where a half dozen other vehicles were parked. He assisted me from the car and escorted me up a short set of steps to heavy wooden double doors and pressed the doorbell. A few moments later the doors swung open and Theodora appeared. She wore a black floor-length sheath with a neckline that hugged her throat, a suitable scrim for the expensive gold jewelry she sported. She flashed a weary smile and said, “Welcome. I’m so glad you could make it. Please, come in.”
I followed her from the expansive black-and-white marble foyer decorated with sleek, modern black designer tables and chairs through a wide archway to the living room, which was decidedly less contemporary in feel. The furniture was heavy wood and more traditional. The walls were covered with a red fabric, accented with gold, and the expensive Oriental carpets picked up those colors. A fireplace spanned an entire wall, its mantel covered with small photos in gold leaf frames.