Destination Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Thank you, but someone else has already invited me,” I said, grateful I could decline.

  “My loss, then. Another time, I hope.”

  I watched him move up the aisle, deftly navigating the train’s slight swaying movement, and disappear into the club car, where the bar was located. A man of dubious charm, I thought as I entered the coach car.

  The train chugged slowly through North Vancouver, paralleling the coastline. Leaving the industrial section behind, it parted residential neighborhoods; apartment buildings and houses hugged the tracks on precious real estate affording a view of the water. As the train slid into West Vancouver, along the beach, lush greenery shielded elegant homes from the curious eyes of passersby. As the skyline of downtown Vancouver across the water faded from view, the shore-front properties grew larger and the homes farther apart.

  “Those are multimillion-dollar estates,” a woman standing in the aisle said.

  “I don’t doubt it,” I replied.

  “West Vancouver. It’s the richest city in Canada,” she continued. “We haven’t met yet. I’m Marilyn Whitmore.” She placed a hand on the shoulder of the young woman in the aisle seat. “And this is my daughter, Samantha.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said, introducing myself.

  The mother was a handsome woman with strong, square features, short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, and judiciously applied makeup. The daughter was a younger and larger version of her mother, their facial characteristics very much alike, although Samantha wasn’t wearing any makeup. Two things were immediately apparent about her. She was obviously physically fit, broad-shouldered and with well-sculpted bare arms ending in large hands with thick fingers. And her expression was vacant, especially her eyes, unnaturally placid and lacking in affect, as though she might be on some sort of tranquilizing medication.

  “Reggie told us you were coming on this trip,” Marilyn said pleasantly.

  “It was good of him to invite me. Are you both railroad buffs?”

  “Oh, no,” Marilyn replied. “My late husband was, though.”

  “And his passion for trains rubbed off on you?” I asked.

  She smiled as she said, “To some extent.”

  “I’m just keeping her company,” Samantha said. Her voice was low and husky.

  “Samantha is a nurse,” said her mother.

  “A noble profession,” I said.

  “Yeah, well, they don’t pay much for nobility these days,” Samantha growled.

  I was taken aback by the vehemence in her voice, but I said, “I’m sure that’s true, considering that lives hang in the balance.”

  “Tell me about it,” Samantha said with what passed for a laugh.

  “We’re about to enter the Horseshoe Bay Tunnel, more than four thousand feet long, the longest tunnel of our trip,” one of the female staff announced over the PA system. Her nametag read Jenna C. She was a sprightly young woman with twinkling blue eyes and a dimple in her chin. She looked familiar, and I thought perhaps she was the young woman who’d offered Benjamin Vail a doughnut prior to our boarding. I couldn’t be sure.

  “And I am happy to announce that brunch is now served in the dining room,” she added.

  I sat with Alvin and Theodora Blevin, as planned. The fourth seat at the table was left vacant; I wondered why her son, Benjamin, wasn’t sitting with us. An adjacent table was also unoccupied, and I speculated that others enjoying brunch were deliberately avoiding being close to their president.

  We chatted over a fruit plate and smoked wild sock-eye salmon with a bagel and crisp coleslaw. Blevin dominated the conversation. His wife said little. She appeared to be uncomfortable even being there. That she was a beautiful woman was beyond debate, but her natural beauty seemed frozen, an ice sculpture. She was as immaculately dressed as he was and sat ramrod straight in her chair, her only movement the slow lifting of the fork to her mouth. I felt sorry for her in a way. Her husband was obviously a force to be reckoned with, in a courtroom and probably at home, too.

  Of course, the brief history of their marriage that I’d been given the previous night tended to heighten my curiosity. Her former husband, whose name I remembered was Elliott Vail, had disappeared and had been declared legally dead by a court. Alvin Blevin, who sat across from me this morning, had represented Theodora Vail in that proceeding. Once her husband had been deemed legally dead, Blevin had divorced his wife and married Theodora, his client—an intriguing scenario, to be sure.

  But none of that entered our conversation. Blevin talked about trains mostly; his knowledge of the history of railroading in Canada was impressive, if a little too filled with minutiae for me.

  After coffee, he asked me, “Will you be staying in Vancouver after the trip, or flying directly home from Prince George?”

  “I’ll be in Vancouver for a few days,” I replied. “Reggie Weems is my host, and he’s here for the whole week.”

  “Then you must visit the club’s headquarters. It’s in a downtown building I own. We have a model railroad layout I think you’d enjoy seeing. It’s one of the largest in North America.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Undoubtedly accompanied by a few snide comments,” he said, glancing at other tables. He smiled. “We have three glorious days to talk trains, Jessica,” he said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin and standing and holding out his wife’s chair. “And you can fill us in on how a famous writer comes up with her plots.”

  “How do you come up with them?” Theodora asked, her first sign of interest in me.

  “I’m not really sure,” I replied. “I basically use the ‘what if’ approach. I ask myself what if something were to occur, or what if someone were to take an action, and go from there. Not very sophisticated, I admit, but it works for me.”

  “Works for inventors, too,” Blevin said. “Well, this was pleasant and informative. Thanks for joining us. Theodora, are you ready, dear?”

  When they left the table, Reggie joined me. He’d been sitting with a young couple I hadn’t met yet.

  “Hobnobbing with the rich and famous, I see,” he said with a laugh.

  “An interesting couple,” I said.

  “So are they,” he said, indicating the couple with whom he’d just had brunch. “Newcomers to the club. First time on a trip with us.”

  “Husband the train buff, wife along for the ride?” I asked.

  “Just the opposite,” Reggie said. “She’s the buff, knows a lot about early steam engines.”

  When I eventually returned to the coach car, Deedee Crocker was standing at a window with an open book in her palm.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “It’s not what I’m looking for as much as what I’m looking at,” she replied. “Linaria vulgaris. Also called common toadflax or, for those who are more romantic, butter-and-eggs.”

  “And they are?”

  “Wildflowers. There are lots of wildflowers in British Columbia, and they’re particularly plentiful growing along a railroad track.”

  “How nice,” I said, coming to her side. “I’d noticed there were lots of flowers. Which ones are the butter-and-eggs?”

  “We’ve passed them already, although we’ll probably see them again. It’s a funny name, butter-and-eggs. They’re pretty, kind of like little snapdragons, but they smell terrible.”

  “Why are they called butter-and-eggs?”

  “The flowers are a buttery yellow and they have an orange ‘nose’ which is kind of an egg yolk color. If we’re lucky, we might see the blue or purple toadflax. They’re pretty, too.”

  “Do you use wildflowers in your arrangements?”

  “You remembered that I’m a florist,” she said, pleased. “But no, I don’t use wildflowers, because I don’t do arrangements anymore. I specialize in exotic plants now, rare and unusual specimens. Orchids and bromeliads and other tropical ornamentals.” She launched into a description of her inventory, mistaking my interest for passion. I real
ized I would learn more about plants and trains on this trip than I had ever anticipated.

  I noticed that a number of passengers had gone through to the club car, and when Deedee paused for breath, I excused myself and decided to join them. One of the staff, a bubbly gal named Callie, had stationed herself behind the bar.

  “I make the best Bloody Marys in all of British Columbia,” she announced. “Probably all of Canada, and maybe even all of the States.”

  “We’ll put you to the test a little later,” Hank Crocker said.

  “Anyone game for one now?” she asked.

  A few people responded and she went to work mixing her special brand of the popular drink. I settled in a club chair next to the young couple who’d been with Reggie in the dining car.

  “I’m Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Marty and Gail Goldfinch,” he said.

  “Nice to meet you both. I understand you’re quite knowledgeable about steam engines,” I said to Gail.

  Her laugh was self-effacing. “I know a little.”

  “More than she lets on,” Martin said.

  “I grew up in a house full of brothers,” Gail said. “They’d never let me play with their toy trains, so I’m making up for it now.”

  Marilyn Whitmore entered the club car and joined us. We were in the midst of a pleasant conversation, which had nothing to do with trains, when Alvin Blevin entered the car, paused, generated a wide smile, and came to where we sat. He extended his hand to Marilyn and said, “So good to see you again, Marilyn. Sorry we didn’t have a chance to chat earlier, but—”

  “Hello, Al,” she said, not accepting his hand. She managed a tight smile, but her tone was distinctly un-welcoming.

  Martin Goldfinch rose quickly, introduced himself and his wife, and shook Blevin’s hand.

  “Please, sit down,” Blevin said, the smile never leaving his face. “I see you’ve caught up with our resident author. Good for you.” He laid his hand on Marilyn’s shoulder and I saw her wince. “Marilyn is a veteran of many Northwind trips,” Blevin said. “I’m sure she can fill you in on the pleasures ahead.”

  Marilyn angled her body toward me and away from Blevin.

  “I hope all of you will enjoy the trip,” he said, and moved away.

  Gail looked meaningfully at her husband, and the Goldfinches excused themselves and went to stand at the bar.

  “That was such a nice brunch, wasn’t it?” I said, thinking to defuse the tension. “By the way, where’s Samantha?”

  “Napping. She . . .” A shadow of sadness came and went on her face.

  “Did you used to accompany your husband on these trips?” I asked, casting about for a conversational topic and hoping I wasn’t treading on too sensitive an area.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, her eyes lighting up, and I relaxed. “Some of the trips were wonderful. We rode famous trains in Europe and all over the U.S. The last one was a few years ago, the Twentieth-Century Limited from New York to Chicago. The Sunset Limited from Houston was before that. And, of course, there was the Orient Express. But you must know all about that, being a mystery writer.”

  “Only through Agatha Christie. I’ve wanted to ride the famed Orient Express for years but have never gotten around to it. Maybe this trip will inspire me.”

  “This is my third time on the Whistler Northwind,” she said wistfully, turning to look out the window. “Living in Vancouver, we have wonderful access to it. It will always be my favorite.”

  When she left to check on her daughter, I picked up a magazine and browsed through it. The train’s motion had an almost hypnotic effect, gently moving from side to side, a quiet ride, the only harsh sound when the train’s metal wheels encountered curved sections of track.

  I found my eyes getting heavy and decided to return to my seat in the coach. The brunch had had a similar effect on other passengers, some of whom had fallen asleep, wrapped in light blankets provided by the staff. I’d no sooner placed my head against a pillow I’d found waiting on my seat when a PA announcement woke me.

  “We’ve reached the town of Squamish, population fifteen thousand. We’ll be traveling right through the center of Squamish, which is an important British Columbia forestry center. And we’ll soon reach Brackendale, known for its large population of bald eagles. In the winter, there are as many as three thousand of these magnificent birds. In the meantime, we hope you’re enjoying the trip. I’ll be pointing out places of interest as we reach them, so sit back, relax, and take it all in.” Jenna, who’d made the announcement, was evidently the staff member designated to provide commentary during the trip. She placed a bookmark on the page she’d been referring to and closed the black binder. She looked at me sheepishly. “I haven’t learned all the details yet,” she said, tapping the cover. “Did it sound too much like I was reading?”

  “You sounded just fine,” I told her with a smile. “We’re going to learn a lot on this trip.”

  She grinned back at me, tucked the binder into the corner of a seat, and left the car.

  I checked my watch; we were due to arrive at the resort village of Whistler at three that afternoon and would stay overnight. Whistler was reputed to be one of North America’s premier ski resorts, although there wouldn’t be skiing this time of year, early July. But just the thought of settling down in a café, watching a colorful parade of people, and basking in the natural beauty of British Columbia’s Coast Mountains was delicious in contemplation.

  I looked around. Maeve Pinckney was still hard at work on her needlepoint. Hank and Deedee Crocker were engrossed in a game of Scrabble, the miniature board of the travel set balanced on his knee. Other passengers dozed or read or stood at windows enjoying the pristine wilderness of British Columbia. Junior, I assumed, was still at his post at the open door in the vestibule. I was about to close my eyes again when male voices caused me to sit up and turn around.

  Alvin Blevin stood with his stepson, Benjamin, in the open area between the first row of seats and the vestibule leading to the dining car. Blevin attempted to control his voice, but the anger in it was palpable. I couldn’t make out most of what he said, although I did hear the end of a statement: “. . . and don’t you ever forget it!”

  Benjamin looked as though he was poised to strike his stepfather. Maeve seemed oblivious to what was going on, but Blevin sensed my interest and broke away, flashing me one of his best smiles as he strode down the aisle.

  Benjamin’s shoulders seemed to fold in on themselves and he looked close to tears. Worried, I followed him into the vestibule and put my hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

  He shook his head, his misery apparent. “I hate that man,” he said, his voice choked. “He may have taken in my mother, but he doesn’t fool me.”

  “How has he fooled your mother?”

  “She thinks he saved her, but she’s just where he wanted her all along. My father was in the way, but he managed to get around that, didn’t he? He gets around everything. Everyone falls all over themselves to do what he wants. Well, not me, not Benjamin Vail. I’m wise to him.”

  He looked back as Blevin, who’d stopped to talk with the Goldfinches, threw back his head in a laugh. “I’ll get even with him,” Benjamin muttered. “You see if I don’t. He won’t be laughing then.” Ignoring me, he stalked to his seat and stared, unseeing, at the passing terrain.

  Chapter Three

  “Club meeting in the bar car.”

  I awakened startled. I hadn’t realized that I’d drifted off.

  “What was that?” I said, straightening in my seat.

  “Mr. Blevin has invited everyone to the club car for a welcoming cocktail, courtesy of the Track and Rail Club,” Jenna said. “I’m sorry to wake you, but he asked specifically that you come, too.” The two-way radio she had clipped to her waist crackled with static. “Excuse me,” she said, as she pulled it off her belt and walked in the direction of the dining car.

  I stood and patted the back of my hair, which had gotten musse
d when I slept. The coach was empty. All the club members had heeded the call to assembly. I stepped into the aisle and touched the tops of the seats to maintain my balance as I made my way past the lavatories to the club car.

  A small but efficient bar divided the club car into two spaces, but it seemed that everyone had crowded into the front half. All the seats were occupied, and the rest of the club members were standing and chatting animatedly by the time I arrived.

  I caught snippets of conversation as I slid sideways into the crowd, keeping an eye out for Reggie.

  “Up to two years ago, they still had firemen.”

  “You’re crazy. They’ve been running diesel since ’98.”

  “Did you see that freight go by? A hundred and twenty cars. I counted them.”

  “It had a Dash Eight and a Dash Sixty-five on it.”

  “Can you believe it? The engine could barely make it through the tunnel.”

  “They obviously never went on-site to measure it. Pinckney could tell you. He’s a charter member of the scale police.”

  “Ah, Jessica,” boomed out Blevin, reaching through several people to grab my arm and draw me into his circle. “I was afraid you’d think this little do was just for club members and didn’t include you. Let me get you a drink and introduce you around.”

  He was full of good cheer as he pressed one hand into my back and gripped a half-empty drink in the other. He pushed me toward the bar, interrupting several conversations to make the introductions.

  “I believe you’ve met the Pinckneys and the Crockers.”

  “Yes.”

  “This is our resident Brit, Winston Rendell. He’s an expert on model train layouts. Writes for Trains magazine.”

  “We’ve met.”

  “Where’s Ben? Benjamin!” Blevin shouted over the tops of heads. “Get Mrs. Fletcher a drink. A Bloody Mary. And get another one for me.”