Destination Murder

by Jessica Fletcher

  In quiet waters he will drown,

  Pondering with his dying bubble,

  Just why is sex so darn much trouble?

  People laughed at the punch line. Jenna’s mouth fought against a smile, finally letting a grin break through. “If anyone has any poems or jokes of their own,” she said, “I’m sure everyone would love to hear them.” There were no takers. “Perhaps later,” she said. “I’m giving you time to think up your best stories. You won’t get off the hook so easily next time.” She replaced the book on the seat and disappeared into the vestibule.

  “She’s lovely, isn’t she,” Maeve said. “Nice to be that young and have your whole life ahead of you.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but there are advantages to getting older, too.”

  “You’re right. Ah always say ah’m getting better, aging like a fine wine.” She winked at me and went back to her needlework.

  I picked up my map but again was distracted when Bruce came from the dining car and summoned Detective Marshall to accompany him. When they’d disappeared into the vestibule leading to the dining car, Reggie poked his head into the coach and motioned with his finger for me to join him.

  “I think you were right,” he said, pulling me to the side.

  “About what?”

  We stood at the door opposite the one where Junior Pinckney was leaning out, taking pictures. It was noisy out there with the rumble of the train on the tracks, the squeal of the wheels on every curve, and the wind whipping through the open window, hitting us in the face. Reggie brought his mouth within inches of my ear.

  “About Blevin being poisoned.”

  I turned my back to Junior and looked out the open upper half of the doorway Reggie and I shared.

  “How do you know?” I asked, glancing to be sure that Junior wasn’t trying to listen in on our conversation.

  Reggie, too, checked our immediate area before saying into my ear, “I overheard Bruce talking with somebody on his cell phone. He said he’d get the detective right away.”

  “And?”

  “It had to be bad news, Jess.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Bruce sounded like it was urgent.”

  “Well, I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Enjoying the view?” Winston Rendell asked. He’d stepped in behind us and stood with a pipe in his mouth. “Bloody silly rules they have about smoking,” he said, extending the unlighted pipe. “No smoking anywhere on the train.”

  “We’ll be at 100 Mile House soon enough,” I said, wondering if he’d been eavesdropping, “and you’ll be able to enjoy that pipe.” We chatted a few minutes before I excused myself.

  I returned to the coach and stood in the aisle stretching my legs and watching the landscape passing by outside the large windows. A few rows back, Deedee Crocker was standing as well. She was flipping through a book on the wildflowers of British Columbia, although on this section of the journey, the only plants I could see were acres and acres of sagebrush. I was restless and kept turning over in my mind conversations I’d overheard or had with my fellow passengers. Was there a clue I’d missed, a comment that had deeper meaning than I’d recognized at the time? I had questions for Reggie, but they would wait until we could speak in private. There were too many people eager to listen in on any talk concerning Theodora and Alvin Blevin.

  A few minutes later, Reggie also left the vestibule and came into the coach car. This time I indicated to him that I wished to talk. The club car was no longer off-limits; the police had had the rest of yesterday afternoon and all night to collect potential evidence. Reggie and I went there and paused just inside. We were alone, but the vision and sounds of yesterday’s party, and Blevin’s gruesome death, were very much with us. We took chairs along one wall.

  “Reggie, tell me how Elliott Vail disappeared,” I said.

  “What makes you ask about that?”

  “Just curious, I guess. I was going to ask Benjamin about it yesterday, but I don’t think he would have told me anyway.”

  “Well, you can understand that, Jess.” He glanced out the window. “We’ll be coming soon to the spot where he disappeared.”

  “Oh, my. Do you mean he disappeared on one of these train trips?”

  “Yes. Three years ago, on this very route.”

  “You never mentioned that, Reggie. How could you keep something so dramatic a secret?”

  “Because I wanted this to be a pleasant ride for you. It was an opportunity for you to revisit Vancouver, and I didn’t want to spoil it for you with rumors and nasty stories from the club’s history.”

  “No wonder the Crockers and the Pinckneys were surprised to see Theodora on this trip. I’m amazed, too. It must have been painful for her to revisit this scene. Why would Blevin subject her to it?”

  “Who knows what really goes on in a marriage?”

  “What happened to Elliott Vail?”

  “I don’t really know a great deal. The story is bizarre. Elliott was on the Whistler Northwind three years ago. Theodora was with him. And the guy disappeared.”

  “Were you on that trip?”

  “No. It’s the only trip I’ve missed in recent years, which is why I wanted to come on this one. But I heard all about it from a dozen people who were with Elliott and Theodora.”

  I thought for a moment before asking, “How do you disappear from a train like this? Where do you go?” I gazed out the window. The train was traveling along a ridge overlooking a canyon. We’d passed dry rolling hills that had reminded me of Texas and Wyoming. Now the hills were cleft by the Fraser River, a narrow stream of brown water far below. What vegetation there was was low and scorched by the sun. We hadn’t seen any signs of habitation for miles.

  “When we get to the overpass that crosses Fraser River, you’ll understand a little better, Jess. It’s a spectacular view, way up high over the river and canyon. Some people can’t even bring themselves to look down. You know, fear of heights.”

  “Are you saying that Elliott Vail fell into that river?”

  “No, jumped, Jess. At least that’s the speculation.”

  “Speculation?” I couldn’t restrain my incredulity.

  “Yeah, as far as I know. I mean, I was never privy to all the details. I heard there was a suicide note and—”

  “Vail left a suicide note?”

  “So I understand.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Never saw it, of course. But the story is that he’d been despondent for a long time. Theodora told people she was concerned about his mental state and thought another trip on this train would pick up his spirits. Others on that trip claimed he was acting strangely, agitated and nervous. At any rate, he was last seen alive on the train just before it crossed the Fraser. After that, Theodora said she couldn’t find him. She never did. The consensus was that he jumped into the river from the overpass. Of course, if you ask Maeve Pinckney, she’ll say Theodora pushed him off.”

  I sat back and digested what he’d said. “How could it be possible that his body was never discovered?”

  “It’s pretty wild country, Jess,” Reggie explained.

  “Still.”

  “I know, I know. You’d think they’d at least find his remains after a while. But they didn’t. There are a lot of wild animals in these hills, cougars and bears. Maybe that’s why.”

  Here was another mystery to match the death of Alvin Blevin. Theodora Vail Blevin had not been very fortunate in her choice of husbands. Or had she? “Was there insurance money involved?”

  Reggie shrugged. “There must have been. Some people said Theodora collected a bundle, but you can’t prove it by me. I always wondered why an insurance company would pay off for a suicide, but—”

  “They generally will after two years have passed,” I said. “What—” I started to ask another question, but Hank and Deedee Crocker entered the car and took chairs next to us. Deedee was holding her book on Canadian wildflowers.

&nb
sp; “Hello, folks. Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Hank’s usual gloom was nowhere in sight.

  “Have you heard anything new about how Al died?” Deedee asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Well,” said Hank, “I thought that poem Jenna read about the salmon making love was great. If they ask for jokes from us again, I’ve got a few.”

  “That’s . . . wonderful,” I said, glancing at Reggie.

  “Ah, here comes Callie. I could use a drink,” Hank said. “I’ll have one of your signature Bloody Marys, Callie. I hope they haven’t closed the bar for the rest of the trip just because Blevin died.”

  I saw Callie shiver. “No, sir,” she said, her smile tight. “But it’s a bit early. I’ll be opening the bar after lunch.”

  “I think I’ll take a little walk,” Reggie said, standing.

  “I’ll join you.” As I rose to follow Reggie, I saw movement in the back of the club car. We had thought we were alone but never checked the portion of the car that extended beyond the bar. Someone had been standing there, just behind the wall of glasses and bottles, listening to our conversation. He was still there. I could see the edge of his green and white sleeve. It was Benjamin.

  In the Summit Coach, Bruce was conferring with the kitchen worker, Karl, who’d delivered the extra bottles of vodka during yesterday’s fateful party. The cook left, and Bruce asked me how I was doing.

  “Good,” I said. “You?”

  “As well as can be expected. We’ll be having lunch soon. Just got the menu from the horse’s mouth, halibut or terrific chicken potpie, the Northwind’s own special comfort food.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” I said.

  Detective Marshall, who’d been seated next to Gail Goldfinch as I passed on my way from the club car, got up and came to where I stood with Bruce and Reggie.

  “Can you spare me a moment, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Of course.”

  He turned and headed up the aisle toward the club car from which I’d just come, passing Benjamin coming the other way. Reggie and I looked at each other, and I knew what my friend from Cabot Cove was thinking. I was about to be told the results of the autopsy.

  Chapter Seven

  I followed Detective Marshall down the length of the Summit Coach, trying not to feel too self-conscious as more than a dozen pairs of eyes watched our progress and mouths whispered comments along the way. We walked through the front lounge of the club car, past Deedee and Hank, who were playing Scrabble, past the bar, where Callie was setting up for the afternoon, and stepped into the quiet salon at the back of the train, where Benjamin had been hiding not five minutes ago. To the left of where we entered, a built-in entertainment unit held cupboards below, bookshelves above, and a large-screen television perched on the counter between. The unit was dark wood, and its back formed the rear wall of the bar we’d just passed. As in the front lounge, chairs in this one were lined up along the windows but faced into the room. At the far end, two tables flanked the glass-paneled door that looked out on the tracks and the receding landscape.

  “Have you received the results of the autopsy yet?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” he answered, starting to pace. “I’m talking to everyone who witnessed Mr. Blevin’s death. So please don’t feel I’m singling you out.”

  “I understand.”

  “I just want to go over what it was you saw and heard to make you suspect a poisoning. And I’d also like you to give me an idea of the relationships you’ve observed, those you think might have had a grudge against the deceased.”

  I noticed that he avoided using the word “victim.”

  “I can only tell you what people have said to me, but I don’t want to throw suspicion on anyone. After all, you’re not even sure a murder has taken place, are you?”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “My argument, exactly. I’m uncomfortable pointing fingers.”

  I watched as he walked back and forth like a lion trapped in a too small cage. He was a man who found it difficult to hold still. Perhaps the act of moving paralleled the pace of his thinking. He stopped briefly and looked at me, his broad shoulders hunched forward, fists shoved in his jacket pockets.

  “Let’s just stick to what you saw and what you heard before Mr. Blevin became ill.”

  “All right. I walked into the party late, after it had already started.” I described for him how Alvin Blevin had introduced me to members of the Track and Rail Club, how he’d made his announcements to the crowd, and how he’d insisted I try Callie’s Bloody Mary. I stopped and felt myself grow pale.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you feel well?”

  “I just realized that one of the drinks Alvin Blevin consumed might have been originally meant for me.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I mean, he was intent upon my sampling the drink Callie is famous for. I had said I’d just as soon have a glass of wine, but he was insistent. When the waiter brought the drinks on the tray, there were two glasses, one with wine and the other a Bloody Mary. Mr. Blevin pushed the Bloody Mary into my hands, but Mrs. Blevin was adamant that I have the wine.” I shivered. “I drank the wine, and he drank the Bloody Mary.”

  “Do you think that was what caused him to get sick?” he asked.

  I barely heard the question. How close had I come to swallowing the drink intended for Alvin Blevin? To being poisoned myself? My heart beat rapidly and I felt a cold sweat coming on.

  “How well do you know the people on this train, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “Except for Reggie Weems, I never met any of them before a few days ago.” I pulled a handkerchief out of my jacket pocket and patted my brow. “I can’t imagine that I was the intended victim. It makes no sense.”

  “I agree,” he said.

  “I think I’d like to sit down.”

  “Please. I didn’t mean to be rude. I just think better on my feet. Why don’t you sit here?” He led me to an upholstered barrel chair, and I sat slowly, retracing in my mind the sequence of events of the afternoon in question.

  “You know,” I said, “Benjamin also brought him a drink.”

  “How many drinks did Mr. Blevin consume?”

  “I’m not sure. He had a half-empty glass when I arrived, and he took the Bloody Mary from the waiter’s tray, and Benjamin—that’s his stepson—gave him another. I only saw him sip one, however. Later, when he was lying on the floor, I overheard his wife say to him that three drinks were too much. So perhaps he drank them all, but I can’t say for sure.”

  “What was his demeanor before he became ill? Was he in a good mood, a bad mood?”

  “He seemed very cheerful to me.” I concentrated on the scene and began to let go of the tension that had gripped me at the prospect of having escaped death by poison. “The others around him seemed to be cheerful as well, although when Mr. Blevin tried to make up with Hank Crocker, Mr. Crocker rebuffed him.”

  Marshall took a step back so he could see into the front half of the car, where the Crockers had been seated. “They’re gone,” he said. “Tell me about that.”

  “Mr. Blevin said three years was a long time to hold a grudge. Mr. Crocker responded that Blevin was getting away with murder and then walked off.”

  “What was he was referring to?”

  “I haven’t the faintest notion,” I said. “I have no firsthand knowledge of their history. Reggie Weems told me only that Hank Crocker objected to the way Alvin Blevin ran the club and together with others had instituted a lawsuit against him. You’ll have to ask Reggie—or Hank—for more details.”

  He pulled a spiral pad from his breast pocket and made a note in it. “What about the other passengers at the party? I heard he got into a fight with someone.”

  “If he did, I didn’t witness it, unless they were referring to his altercation with Winston Rendell.”

  “What happened there?”

  “It was strange. People were socializing. Then, without any provocation I was awa
re of, Blevin began yelling at Rendell to get out of his way. That was the first symptom, really. But it wasn’t until he complained about the noise that I began to suspect something was really wrong.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well,” I said, thinking back to what I’d learned about strychnine poisoning, “it takes about ten to twenty minutes before the effects of the poison show up. Restlessness, irritability, and anxiety are early symptoms.”

  “Really, Mrs. Fletcher, there are many reasons why a person could be irritable that have nothing to do with poison,” he said.

  “You’re right, of course. At first I didn’t think anything of his confrontation with Winston Rendell, except perhaps that Blevin was a very rude individual. But later, when he talked about it being too noisy, I began to suspect foul play. Sensitivity to light and sounds are hallmarks of strychnine poisoning. And his convulsions were practically by the book.”

  “You told me before that you used strychnine in one of your mysteries. What made you choose that particular poison?”

  “It’s not a difficult substance to obtain, really. It’s a common rodenticide.”

  He raised an eyebrow at me.

  “Gardeners use it,” I said, “for killing mice or rats or moles.”

  “Wouldn’t someone taste that in his drink?”

  “Not if the drink had a really strong flavor of its own. Callie’s Bloody Marys certainly qualify there. Blevin himself commented on how spicy they were.”

  He thought for a moment before asking, “What do you know about that couple from the South, Mr. and Mrs. Pinkeye?”

  “I think you’re being funny, Detective. Their name is Pinckney,” I said. “Maeve and Junior.”

  He ducked his head, but I caught a hint of a grin. “Yes, the Pinckneys. I asked the husband for his real name, and it was something like Beauregard Jubal Pickett Pinckney, Jr. ‘Junior’ is easier.”

  “No doubt,” I said. “He certainly is a rabid fan of railroads. I don’t think he’s left his post at the open door in the vestibule except to eat.”

  “So I’ve noticed. He told me Mr. Blevin was quite the ladies’ man.”