There were five people in the room when Theodora led me in, three women and two men, their dress indicating this gathering had not been billed as an informal one. They had drinks in their hands and were congregated near French doors that led to a patio and garden. They turned at our entrance.
“My friends, may I introduce the famed crime novelist, Jessica Fletcher.”
I wished she hadn’t given me billing, but I ignored it and went through the ritual of introductions. A member of the household staff approached and asked if I wanted a drink. “A white wine would be nice,” I told her.
As I engaged in the requisite sort of conversation between people at a party who’d just been introduced, my eyes went to the wall above the fireplace. A large oil painting of Alvin Blevin dominated the space, and I was reminded of my initial reaction when his widow had invited me to a dinner party. Only a few days had passed since his murder, hardly time enough to grieve but sufficient to plan and execute a social gathering. Of course, with the sort of money his widow enjoyed and the household help it could buy, hosting parties wasn’t especially difficult or time-consuming.
The others at the gathering represented themselves as being close friends of long standing with both Al Blevin and Theodora. I silently wondered whether they were thinking what I was thinking, that a formal dinner party was premature. Theodora seemed to anticipate such thoughts when she said, “I want you to know that asking you here this evening was not a decision I took lightly. And I admit to a certain self-serving motivation. You were among our closest friends, and I felt a need to have you here, around me, at this dark moment.”
It was a lovely sentiment. But if true,
why was I there?
Again, Theodora did a bit of mind reading. “I invited you, Jessica, because of everyone who was on that train with Al and me, you obviously have the most reasoned view of what occurred.” She added to her friends, “It was Jessica who first speculated that Al was poisoned. I didn’t believe it—I didn’t
want
to believe it—but she proved to be correct.”
“I don’t doubt it,” one of the men said, “considering your career solving murders in your books.”
I didn’t have a chance to respond because one of the three women, who’d introduced herself as Nancy Flowers and didn’t seem to be connected with either of the two men, said, “Teddy says the police don’t have a clue as to who killed Al.”
It took me a second to realize she was referring to Theodora. “I’m sure they’re doing everything possible to solve the case,” I said.
“And you should know, Jessica,” Theodora said. To the others: “Jessica has maintained a close relationship with the police.”
“What do they have to say?” one of the men, the Blevins’ accountant, asked.
“Yes, what
do
they have to say, Mrs. Fletcher?” Benjamin Vail lounged against the arched opening to the living room, his arms folded over his cable knit sweater and his wide-wale corduroy-clad legs crossed at the ankle. I wondered how long he’d been there.
“Benjamin, dear. You’re late,” his mother said, “and you haven’t changed for dinner.”
Benjamin pushed off the molding and sauntered into the room. He flung himself into an armchair and looked around at the other guests. “Ah, yes. We must dress for dinner, jacket and tie, or jacket and ascot, like my friend Harvey over here.”
“Sorry about your stepdad, Ben,” the man called Harvey said. “Terrible shame.”
“She’s not sorry; why should you be?” Benjamin said, cocking his head toward his mother.
“Benjamin! What’s wrong with you? Have you been drinking?”
“Only a little bit.” Benjamin held his thumb and forefinger a half inch apart. “To dull the pain, Mother.”
Theodora walked across the room and pulled her son to his feet. “I think it would be wise to go upstairs and change for dinner, don’t you?” she told him. “I’m sure you have some dress clothes in the closet.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, flinging an arm over her shoulder and taking her with him as he shuffled out of the room.
“And don’t come down until you’ve had some coffee,” Theodora said as she extricated herself from his embrace.
I saw her motion to someone in the hall before she rejoined us in the living room.
“He’s so distraught,” she said, sinking gracefully into the chair her son had just vacated. “He just hasn’t been the same since he got home this afternoon.”
“Losing two fathers will take its toll on a young man,” Harvey said. “I’ll invite him out on the boat next week. Perhaps that will take his mind off his troubles a bit.”
“Thank you, Harvey,” she said, reaching over to pat his arm. “That’s very kind.” She gave him a weak smile and straightened in her seat. “Now, where were we?”
Before we were so rudely interrupted
, my mind filled in.
“Oh, yes. James, I believe you were asking Mrs. Fletcher about the investigation.”
“That’s right. I was. How
are
the police coming along?” he asked, turning toward me.
The others in the room did the same.
“I’m really not privy to their investigation,” I said, wishing the subject would change. Obviously, Theodora had invited me for precisely this reason, to offer insight into how the police were proceeding in trying to identify the person who’d poisoned her husband. I was annoyed with myself that this hadn’t occurred to me earlier.
“At least it’s now in the hands of professionals,” Theodora said, her own hands neatly folded in her lap. “The detective on the train was a bumbler.”
Had she come to that conclusion on her own, or had someone who’d continued on the Whistler Northwind fed her that negative evaluation of Detective Marshall? Did she consider the detective ineffective because no arrest had been made?
“Teddy was so shocked when the police informed her about the poison,” Nancy Flowers confided when the conversation took a more general turn. “And the press has been so rude, camping out at the base of the driveway until the police insisted they move. It’s so nice to have the police around when you need them.”
I simply nodded. I was watching for Benjamin’s return.
“All this must be fodder for your career, eh, Mrs. Fletcher?” Harvey said.
Usually, I’m hesitant to discuss my writing career, especially with strangers. But when the conversation turned to questions of me on that subject, I was actually relieved to see the emphasis shift from Alvin Blevin’s murder, and I happily answered their questions about how I create my plots, whether I know the ending before I begin, how extensive an outline I create before actually starting to write, and a dozen other areas of interest that invariably come up in such discussions. By the time we were summoned to the dining room, the topic of my writing habits had run its course, and I was happy to sit down at the elaborately set table.
A chastened Benjamin entered the room shortly after dinner began and took the seat opposite his mother, the one most likely occupied by Alvin Blevin when he was alive. He had scrubbed his face, the skin still red from the cold water and his sandy hair damp at the temples, and had donned a navy jacket and blue-and-white-striped shirt, but no tie, over his corduroy slacks. He took a gulp of the red wine that had been put at his place and said nothing.
Conversation over a dinner of Cornish hen and wild rice ran the gamut from politics to sports, the weather to the economy, fashion, and popular entertainment, every topic but the deceased. It was as if her friends were shielding Theodora from having to face the ugly reality of her husband’s demise. But we were all aware of the tension between mother and son. The people across from me watched first one and then the other as if spectators at a soundless tennis match.
Benjamin sat silent throughout the meal, occasionally aiming scowls at Theodora. He barely ate and steadily drank one glass of wine after the other.
Just before dessert was served, Theodora stood and said, “I want to thank you all for being here tonight. As you can imagine, the past week has been a nightmare for me and for my family. That someone could dislike my husband so intensely as to strike him down in the prime of his life is beyond my comprehension. I take great comfort in being at this table with each of you, and I know how much Al would have enjoyed being here, too.” She raised her wineglass. “To Al Blevin, and to the speedy apprehension of the monster who killed him.”
As we all raised our glasses, I was aware that her gaze was focused intently on me. I managed a smile, which didn’t entice a similar response from the lady of the house.
Benjamin pushed himself out of his chair and swayed on his feet. He raised a half-filled glass. “Oh, yes. To Alvin, that paragon of virtue, the man who managed to make my father disappear so he could bed my mother.”
There were gasps all around me.
“Really, Benjamin. Have a bit of sympathy for your mother,” James said.
“I have great sympathy for my mother.” He took a sip of his wine and then raised his glass in another toast. “To my mother, who will live happily ever after. Isn’t that right, Teddy?” He sneered as he said her name.
“That is so hurtful, Benjamin.” Theodora, or Teddy, dabbed at a tear I didn’t see.
“Here, now, son,” said Harvey, “this is neither the time nor place.”
Fury blazed in Benjamin’s eyes. “Don’t call me ‘son,’ ” he ground out. “I’m not your son. I’m no one’s son.” He glared at Theodora.
“What you are is rude and inappropriate,” Theodora said. It was the first time I’d seen real emotion mark her face. “I think you and I are overdue for a talk. I’m sure our guests will excuse our absence for a few minutes.” She folded her napkin, laid it carefully next to her plate, and stood when James held her chair. Every action was controlled, but the turbulence in her eyes belied her restraint. She motioned to her son.
Benjamin, who seemed to realize he’d gone too far in baiting his mother, stumbled after her, wineglass in hand. “Guess I blew it this time,” he said, flashing the guests a wobbly grin.
“That poor woman,” said Erica, who sat to my right. “What a hellish thing to go through, seeing your husband murdered and then to have your son so disrespectful . . .”
“You have to give it to her,” Harvey said. “She’s made of steel.”
“She’d have to be,” said his wife. “First losing Elliott. And now Al.”
“You all knew Mr. Vail?” I said.
“Oh, yes, very well,” James, the Blevin family accountant replied. “You’ve heard, I assume, of the circumstances of his disappearance.”
“Yes, I have,” I confirmed.
“I expect to see his story on one of those TV shows that explore unsolved mysteries,” Erica said. “It gives me the chills, thinking of poor Elliott falling from that train and being consumed by wild beasts.”
“He was never found, though, was he?” I said.
“No, never.” The accountant glanced at the door, lowered his voice, leaned into the table, and said, “Some people say he never died.”
“Oh?”
He nodded. “They say—well, you know, they say he might have faked his death for the two and a half mil in insurance money.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Nancy Flowers, who sat across from me. “How would he collect?” She was a rail-thin woman I judged to be in her late forties or early fifties, someone who obviously spent a considerable amount of each day in a gym or spa. The skin was stretched taut across her cheekbones and forehead, and her bare arms were sinewy, slender but muscled.
“Make a good murder mystery plot for you, wouldn’t it, Jessica?” said James.
“It would if the murderer were identified,” I agreed. “The murderer is always revealed at the end of a good mystery.”
“The one I feel sorry for is Benjamin,” Nancy Flowers said.
“Does he live here with his mother?” I asked.
The accountant’s laugh was smug and not especially pleasant. Again, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level as he said, “Ben moved out the day Teddy married Al. Has his own apartment in town.”
“They didn’t get along?” I asked, hoping I wasn’t treading too deeply into forbidden territory.
“That’s an understatement,” Ms. Flowers said as Theodora suddenly reentered the dining room. I had the feeling she hadn’t missed much during her absence.
“Benjamin is feeling a little under the weather,” she announced. “He’s lying down. He asked me to make his apologies for him.” She surveyed the dishes on the table and rang a little bell that stood next to her water glass. “We’ll have dessert now,” she told the uniformed woman who responded to the signal.
We retired to the living room after a course of bread pudding and raspberry sauce. There was good-natured banter about the old tradition of cognac and cigars for the men, tea and inane talk for the ladies after a dinner, being a ritual no one missed. While the others settled on chairs and love seats that formed a conversation area in one corner of the large room, I ended up standing in front of the fireplace with Nancy Flowers.
“I love family photos,” I said, slowly taking in each framed print. “It’s too easy to lose touch with the past and the people from it.”
Nancy agreed and moved along the elongated mantel with me, identifying people in the photos.
“That’s Elliott in front of the locomotive,” she said about one.
“Is it?”
I adjusted my glasses and looked closer at the man in the picture. He appeared to be shorter and not as broad-shouldered as Alvin Blevin, nor was he as classically handsome. His face was oblong, his hair a mousy brown, nose fairly prominent, the bones of his eyebrows jutting forward over eyes that were intense and surprisingly dark for a man who was fair-skinned. I must have fixated on it for too long because Nancy said, “Anything wrong?”
“What? Oh, no. It’s just that after knowing the strange circumstances surrounding his disappearance, seeing him for the first time is compelling.”
“Like an Elvis sighting?” she asked, adding a small laugh.