His voice was resonant and deep, tinged with a Canadian accent. He was bald on the top of his head, the hair on his temples salt-and-pepper. His beard line was heavy, his eyebrows thick and solidly black. There was a look of resignation on his face, as though he’d experienced a great deal in his life as a cop and wasn’t especially pleased with what he’d seen.
“Why are we being detained at all?” Hank Crocker whined from where he sat. “What does Blevin’s death have to do with the police?”
A small grin crossed the detective’s face, although I was sure it wasn’t born of amusement. He asked, “Is there someone among you who believes the death on the train might not have been from natural causes?” He consulted a slip of paper. “A Mrs. Fletcher?”
The sound of murmuring came from the seats behind me.
“I’m Mrs. Fletcher,” I said, rising.
“Please,” he said, inviting me to come with him with a flip of his hand.
I followed him into the vestibule and down to the platform. Passengers from other cars who were not part of our group were in the process of leaving the train and heading for waiting buses.
“Now,” he said, “what’s this about poison?”
“Are you familiar with the symptoms of strychnine poisoning?” I asked.
“Go on.”
I explained as briefly as possible why I thought there was the possibility that Blevin had been poisoned, and he listened patiently. I recounted the sudden onset of symptoms—the seizures, the contortions of his face, and the spastic movements of his body during the convulsions, in particular the bowing of his back when only his head and feet touched the floor. These were classic symptoms of strychnine poisoning, I told him.
“Strychnine victims are particularly sensitive to light and sound,” I said. “Mr. Blevin’s convulsions seemed to coincide with the screech of the wheels.”
“Very interesting, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m curious as to how you know so much about strychnine.”
“I’ve used it before.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“In a book, of course. I write murder mysteries, Detective Marshall.”
“Ah, yes. I thought I knew the name.”
“You pick up a lot of odd information in my profession.”
“I’ll bet you do. You know Alvin Blevin was a big shot in Vancouver, a high-profile lawyer and businessman. You’re aware of that?”
“I had an inkling from what some people said.”
“He was on the train as head of this railroad club.”
“That’s right.”
“You’re a member of the club?”
“No, I’m an invited guest.”
“If you’re right, if he was poisoned, that would mean somebody on the train did him in, eh?”
I nodded, uncomfortable at his choice of words. Was he making fun of me?
“Since you’re claiming he was murdered, maybe you can point a finger at the perpetrator. Any ideas who killed him?”
“Detective,” I said, not entirely successful in keeping frustration out of my voice, “without proof, neither you nor I can state with authority that he was murdered. All I am saying is that the possibility exists. As for who might have wanted him dead, let me just add that he was not the most popular person on the train. Now, it seems to me that all this speculation can be quickly and satisfactorily put to rest by an autopsy, which I assume will be conducted, considering the circumstances of his death. The glasses from which he drank might also be of value in making a determination. I asked the train staff not to remove them.”
“Very thoughtful.”
“Am I excused now?” I asked.
“Of course. We’ll be interviewing everyone who was with the deceased.”
“On the train?”
“We’ll get names and addresses, of course, and interview individuals at the hotel in Whistler. I’ve agreed with the management of BC Rail to allow the train to continue on up to Prince George.”
“I see. What about the body?”
“It will be driven back down to Vancouver for an autopsy.”
“I assume his wife and stepson will accompany it.”
He nodded.
“Well, I hope I’ve been of help,” I said. “Good day, Detective.”
“Oh, you’re not rid of me yet, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ll be your new passenger all the way to Prince George. I’m sure we’ll have lots more to talk about along the way.”
Chapter Five
Detective Marshall and the two uniformed RCMP officers went row to row noting each person’s name, address, phone number, and where they were planning to stay following the train trip. When that process was completed, Marshall got on the PA: “I’ve asked for additional detectives to be dispatched to your hotel to take statements. They’ll interview you in your rooms, and I ask that you remain there until you’ve been contacted. I assure you it will take only a few minutes of your time. Once you’ve given your statements, you’ll be free to enjoy everything Whistler has to offer. Thank you for your cooperation.”
“Will we be continuing the trip?” Winston Rendell asked.
“Yes, sir, you will be allowed to continue.” He didn’t mention that he’d be accompanying us.
The check-in process at the hotel was swift and smooth, having been prearranged by BC Rail. We were staying at the Westin Resort and Spa, which had been voted by travel magazine readers the best ski-resort hotel in North America, and I wasn’t surprised. A spectacular lodge built with colorful native stone and soaring timbers, it was at once sophisticated and rustic. High ceilings in the public areas were offset by warm woods, patterned slate, and wood-burning fireplaces, giving even the largest spaces a cozy feeling.
At the registration desk, I was handed an envelope containing my key and information about the resort. It included a flyer imploring us to not feed the black bears and reminding those whose suites were on lower floors to keep balcony doors closed when not in the room.
“Any suggestions for what I might do this afternoon?” I asked the clerk who’d registered me.
“Lots to do in Whistler,” she said. “Ever been on a gondola?”
“As a matter of fact, I have,” I said.
“The one up Whistler Mountain is terrific,” she said. “Here.” She handed me a discount coupon for the ride.
“Sounds good to me.”
When I turned away from the desk, I found myself face-to-face with Benjamin Vail, which surprised me. I thought he was accompanying his mother and his stepfather’s body back to Vancouver.
“Hello, Benjamin.”
He nodded but said nothing and took my place at the check-in desk.
I rode the elevator up to the floor that had been reserved for members of the Track and Rail Club. Each of the resort’s 419 rooms was a suite, and mine had a fireplace and a small terrace. The hotel’s towers backed onto Whistler Mountain and faced the village, a diverse blend of low-rise buildings that I imagined would fall into an architectural category that could be called “Mountain Modern.” There were lots of steep roofs with deep eaves, covered boardwalks, and sheltered balconies to protect visitors from the weather. Wood, stone, and stucco were the predominant building materials and the whole was tied together by narrow streets that invited exploration. The pedestrian-only lanes curved past charming cafés and shops and emptied into squares or dead-ended at peaceful, green parks. My windows overlooked a cobblestone courtyard which led to the village and had a view of Black-comb Mountain.
Minutes after I entered my room, a pleasant young detective arrived and took my statement. He asked what had occurred in the hour leading up to Blevin’s death. I had little more to offer than what I’d told Detective Marshall. All I’d observed was a group of people enjoying drinks in preparation for our arrival in Whistler.
After the detective left, I freshened up and wandered into the village. Renowned as a resort for skiers, Whistler was just as crowded with early summer visitors. Where four streets converged, tourists laden w
ith cameras and consulting maps filled the many outdoor restaurants ringing the square or spilled from the rough-hewn buildings or stand-alone houses that accommodated clothing boutiques, art galleries, sporting goods emporiums, and travel agencies, not to mention every manner of souvenir shop imaginable, hawking such must-have wares as moose antler baseball caps and bracelets made from dalmatian jasper. Hordes of young people and many not-so-young people wheeling mountain bikes and wearing hiking shoes and backpacks mingled with the other visitors. There also seemed to be a large number of dogs, but whether they lived with local residents or came along with the day-trippers, I couldn’t tell. All in all, it was an energetic, eclectic mix of people, young and old, and everyone in a seemingly good mood.
I browsed windows and purchased a few postcards to send to friends back home. One store window advertised Havana cigars, and I was reminded that Canada did not go along with the American ban on products from Cuba.
I gravitated to the entrance where gondolas departed to transport people up Whistler Mountain, one of two soaring peaks that attract millions of skiers, hikers, and mountain bikers each year. I’d ridden gondolas back East and always enjoyed the spectacular views they afforded. I went to the ticket window and presented the discount card.
“Senior citizen rate,” the young woman said pleasantly, “and a three-dollar discount for the card.”
I laughed. “Is it that evident?”
“What?”
“Recognizing that I’m a senior citizen.”
She looked up, flustered. “Oh, I didn’t mean to insult you.”
“You didn’t at all. It was just my little joke. Thank you.”
“Enjoy the trip.”
The fully enclosed gondolas moved through a roundhouse at the base of the mountain, stopping long enough for doors to open, allowing descending passengers to disembark and new ones to board. I stood in a short line until my turn came. I was joined by a young couple who said that friends who’d taken the ride earlier that day had seen a mother bear and her two cubs during their ascent. They seemed as excited at the contemplation of seeing the bears as they were about the ride itself. The doors closed and we began the half-hour, six-thousand-foot ascent up the rugged mountain named after the village, or maybe it was the other way around. Either way, I felt the tension of the morning lift as the gondola left the roundhouse and as the view back to the village grew smaller the higher the little car climbed.
I sat on a bench and drew deep breaths. I was glad I’d decided to take the gondola trip. A small opening above the side window let in the pristine air and transported me away from that day’s events—the train, the people holding sharp views of Alvin Blevin, and especially his untimely and grotesque death. I shook my head, deliberately pushing from my mind the image of his convulsing body arched on the floor of the club car, every muscle in spasm, eyes bulging, mouth twisted into a macabre grin. Instead, the picture was replaced by the captivating scenery below and above me. Mountain bikers flew down crenellated trails that their wheels had carved into the mountainside, and hikers slowly climbed over rocks and through brush and clumps of evergreens. The village fell away faster and faster, and I joined my companions in straining to spot the bears from our Plexiglas cocoon.
At the same time, I realized how vulnerable I was, dangling from a cable high above the rugged, rocky terrain of Whistler Mountain. I wasn’t concerned; such thoughts occur to everyone, I’m sure, especially when the ride gets rough as the cars bump over the connections atop the towers supporting the cable. Gondolas on their way down passed me; small children, their faces pressed against the clear walls, laughed and waved, and I returned their greetings.
“There’s the bear,” the young woman said.
“Where?”
I followed the direction of her eyes to a clearing in which a mother bear and two cubs could be seen foraging for food. The couple was giddy at seeing the bears, and I got caught up in their youthful enthusiasm. Yet I was equally concerned that the mountain bikers would intrude upon the bears’ territory. What would the mother bear do to protect her cubs?
Our gondola finally arrived at the roundabout atop the mountain and we happily parted, agreeing that the bear sighting had been a special moment. I stepped outside the tall glass doors, went down some stairs to a gravel path, and then walked up a rise to where a large patch of snow covered the ground, even on this sunny day in July. It was cold, and the light sweater I wore wasn’t sufficient to keep me warm. Even so, I basked in the clean, chilly air and drew it in, enjoying the tingling feeling it sent through my body. I wrapped my arms about myself and began a slow, deliberate, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn in order to take in the spectacular mountain views. Everywhere my eye fell were mountaintops still dusted with snow, some rocky and barren, others with ski trails carving delicate lines through the trees. Off to my left, partway down the mountain, a cobalt blue pond reflected the clear sky.
Halfway through my slow pirouette, I saw the dark-stained wooden lodge which housed the gondola station. Rock music blared from outside speakers, and young people streamed in and out of the tourist shop and nature exhibit next door. The loud commercialism made me sharply aware of the contrast between the beauty of nature and humankind’s dubious additions to it.
Through the glass walls of the station, I could see the moving cars circle inside, discharging and taking on passengers. An open deck greeted those arriving. I realized that in winter, skiers would have to descend the broad wooden steps before they could don their skis. I was about to continue my personal, circular tour of my surroundings when the sight of someone walking out onto the deck stopped me. It was Benjamin Vail. He came directly to where I stood.
“This is a surprise,” I said pleasantly. “I thought you and your mother were going back to Vancouver.” When he’d been in line behind me at the hotel, I’d assumed that was still the plan, delayed perhaps by some logistical problem. But his appearance on the top of Whistler Mountain, at precisely the time when I was there, couldn’t have been a chance occurrence.
“She went,” he said. “I’m staying.”
“I see,” I said, not really seeing at all why he wasn’t accompanying his grieving mother. “So, here we are. I have the feeling it’s not a coincidence that we’ve both ended up here.”
He stared at me for what seemed a long time, although it was only seconds. As I looked into his eyes, I saw something I hadn’t noticed before. Yes, there was the somber, brooding look that he seemed always to display. But there was also a profound sadness, a vulnerability that came through. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d burst into tears at any minute. Instead, he straightened up and took a deep breath.
“Why are you butting in?” he asked.
“Butting in? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Blevin.”
“What about him?” His use of his stepfather’s last name, delivered with such detachment, was disquieting.
“He’s dead. Let him be.”
I shook my head and made a few false starts at responding. “I don’t have any point of view in your stepfather’s death, Benjamin, aside from feeling sorry for you and your mother.”
“It was a heart attack. He had a weak heart. He wasn’t poisoned. You’re trying to make it look like something sinister.”
Blevin had been painted as a man proud of his physical fitness. No one had mentioned a weak heart, and I doubted it was true. But here was the stepson delivering a message similar to the one I’d received from his mother earlier that day.
“I’m not trying to make it look like anything,” I said. “I merely raised a question. Did your mother tell you to follow me up this mountain in order to talk to me?”
“I do my own thing. I don’t need my mother telling me what to do.”
“Well,” I said, “you’ve managed to find me here alone, and you’ve delivered your message. Is there anything else you want to talk to me about? If so, I’d appreciate hearing it, Benjamin, because frankly, I�
�m ready to go back down. I’m cold.”
As I waited for a response, I tried to process why he was there and what he’d said. Had he decided on his own not to accompany his mother to Vancouver with his stepfather’s body, or had that been her decision? Had his mother dispatched him to issue a threat to me? If so, why? What did they hope to accomplish? Did it mean they’d believed that Blevin might have been poisoned and had some reason to quash the information and keep it from being made public? If that was the case—if he had, indeed, been poisoned—was the mother or the son a murderer?
“Did you decide to stay in Whistler overnight just to tell me to ‘butt out’?” I asked, shivering as a cold wind whipped across the bare mountaintop.
“No,” he said. “I have my own reasons.”
Despite the discomfort I was feeling, both because of the cold and because of his unexpected appearance, I took advantage of the moment to ask him, “Were you close to your stepfather?”
The question seemed to take him by surprise. He snorted, “No way on this earth.”
“It must have been difficult for you when your mother married Alvin Blevin. Had you been close to your own father?”
“My father is none of your business.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “but then neither are my suspicions about how someone died your business, even if it involves your stepfather.”
I was about to ask about the circumstances under which his father had disappeared, but he drew a deep breath, rammed his hands into the pockets of his black jeans, and said, “Just leave us alone, okay? You’re pushing in your nose where it doesn’t belong. Blevin dropped dead of a heart attack. That’s it, Mrs. Fletcher. That’s it.” He turned and walked back toward the roundabout.
I lingered in the gift shop before getting in a gondola for the descent to the village. The scene with Benjamin was like a dream that never happened. It was a silly exercise on his part—and that of his mother if she’d been involved. Rather than encourage me to drop the topic, their admonitions raised red flags. Why were they so eager to pass off Blevin’s death as being from natural causes?
Destination Murder Page 6
