Dinner, a barbecue for members of the Track and Rail Club, was scheduled to begin in two hours. I showered, dressed in a fresh outfit, and ventured out for a walk. It was a lovely late afternoon, the sky a deep blue with only an occasional passing high white cirrus cloud. I’d read the ranch’s brochure before leaving my room and was impressed with the variety of programs on offer: nature walks, aerobics, supervised workouts with weights, horseback riding, yoga, stretch classes—even belly dancing. And of course, the requisite body and facial treatments expected of a full-service spa. Sampling them all wasn’t an option, although a session with one of the ranch hands to demonstrate horse whispering really appealed to me.
I wandered to a corral where horses were being rounded up for feeding. Jenna, whom Junior Pinckney claimed he’d seen with Benjamin Vail at the hotel in Whistler, leaned on the fence watching the ranch hands perform their task. I came to her side.
“Beautiful here, isn’t it?” I said to break the ice.
She jumped at my voice and turned to look at me quizzically.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Oh, you didn’t,” she said, issuing a smile.
“I love watching horses,” I said. “They’re so majestic.”
“Yes, they are.”
“Are you staying at the ranch?” I hadn’t seen any of the staff at our previous hotel.
“No,” she said. “We have our own quarters on the train.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“The car right behind the engine,” she said. “We sleep there and have our own bathrooms and kitchen.”
“Sounds nice.”
“Actually, I grabbed a ride here to get away.”
I laughed. “Too much of the close quarters?”
She nodded. “We all get along great, but sometimes you have to—well, get away. Callie plays golf. Bruce always manages to find a movie theater. I just like to be by myself.”
“I know what you mean,” I said.
She fell silent, watching the slow swish of the horses’ tails as they lined up around the trough. “People think he was murdered, don’t they?”
I didn’t respond.
“Everybody is saying it. You said it.”
“Who else is saying it?” I asked.
“Everyone. You spoke with the detective. What does he say?”
“He doesn’t share much with me,” I said. It was only a partial lie. He’d shared some things, specifically that Blevin had been poisoned, but I assumed there were other things he’d held back.
“We’ve never had anything like this on the train before,” she said. “I suppose we’ll all be suspects.”
“That’s usually the way it works,” I said. “Everyone is a suspect until ruled out. Didn’t the police do the same thing when Elliott Vail disappeared?”
“I don’t really know. Anyway, why would one of us want to kill Mr. Blevin?” she asked.
“Us?”
“The staff. Detective Marshall said he’s sending someone to our car later to ask more questions.”
“That’s his job.” It didn’t escape my notice that she knew about Elliott Vail. How? Had Benjamin told her? I let it go for the moment, instead saying, “You and the rest of the staff must have known Mr. Blevin from previous trips.”
“A couple of us did, at least the ones who’ve been working for a few years. I mean, I think I only met him once before. I didn’t know him.”
“But you’d met him before this trip. Callie, too. Who else?”
Her expression turned hard. “Why are you asking that?
“No reason. Just curious.”
“You sound like the detective.”
“He would never have me asking questions on his behalf. I can assure you of that. No, no. He’s a professional. I’m just . . . a naturally curious person. I’ll bet you are, too.”
“What do you mean?” she asked suspiciously.
“Well, you must meet all sorts of people on the train. People who are pleasant and easy to be around, and people who give you a hard time. A service business is like that, right? I bet you’re probably good at sizing up the passengers pretty quickly.”
She relaxed. “That’s true, you know. Some of the passengers can be a real pain. And you can spot them a mile away.”
“The manner in which someone treats people who provide service often says a lot about them. Take Mr. Blevin, for instance. Those of you who knew him from previous trips might be in a position to offer some insight into his life.” I kept my voice rhetorical. “Was he kind to the staff or arrogant? Was he well liked by his colleagues? Or were there people from the club who had a grudge against him?”
“You mean, would someone be so angry with him that they killed him?” she asked angrily, tears welling up in her eyes.
“That’s assuming, of course, that he was indeed murdered. What did you think of him?”
She seemed to soften a bit. “I thought deep down he must be a really nice man. He always smiled at me. I never saw him fight with anyone, except Be—well, no, forget I said that. He got along with everyone.”
“Were you going to say Ben? Stepfather and stepson—that’s a tricky relationship. There are bound to be irritations.”
The stiffness returned. “I don’t know anything about their relationship.”
I had to probe in another direction, and I knew which one would help me most. “How long have you worked on the Northwind?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Oh, just a hunch. Were you on the trip when Mr. Vail disappeared?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
I wasn’t sure how far to take the subject but decided since I had her one-on-one, I might as well plunge forward.
“I wondered if you were working on the Whistler Northwind when Ben’s father fell overboard,” I said. “It’s such a remarkable story. As I understand it, Mr. Blevin represented Mr. Vail’s wife, Theodora, in court. And he succeeded in having Mr. Vail declared legally dead. It must have been covered on television. It was quite a legal breakthrough. Then Mr. Blevin married Mrs. Vail. That’s a provocative scenario, I’m sure you’ll agree. Certainly, the staff would have remarked on it.”
“I wouldn’t know,” she said icily, returning her attention to the horses. “I don’t watch television, and I don’t gossip about the passengers.”
I decided to switch tacks and see if I could jar a response from her. “I’m thinking of watching the horse whisperer tomorrow morning,” I said. “Have you ever seen one?”
“No.”
“Can you sneak away for an hour?”
“No. We have to report for duty at eight.”
“Of course. By the way, I spoke with Benjamin yesterday. It must be so difficult for that young man to have lost his father under mysterious circumstances and then see his stepfather die before his eyes.”
She didn’t hesitate. “I have to get back to the train,” she said. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a nice evening.”
I watched her walk briskly up the hill, appearing ready to break into a run at any second. No question about it, this pretty young woman who’d been so up-beat and pleasant at the start of the trip now had something very weighty on her mind. My mention of Benjamin and his father had obviously upset her. The question was, why? If there was a relationship between Jenna and Benjamin, perhaps even a romantic one, she might know a great deal about the people involved in this affair. If so, I wondered what Benjamin’s mother, or his stepfather, had thought about these two young people being together.
The dining room at the Hills ranch combined a western theme with hotel comfort. Spindle-backed wooden chairs cozied up to well-spaced tables set with white linens and fresh flowers. The rich brown log walls were lightened by large picture windows overlooking the woods. Hanging plants also seemed to bring the outside in. Here and there, colorful rugs brightened the plank floors. A gentleman played old-time melodies on an upright piano located next to the buffet
and salad bar.
A section of the large room had been reserved for members of the Track and Rail’s party, and I sat at a table with the Pittsburgh Crockers, the Atlanta Pinckneys, Marilyn Whitmore and her nurse-daughter, Samantha, of Vancouver, and to my distinct discomfort, Winston Rendell.
The waitress invited us to help ourselves from the buffet, and I went to the line at the salad bar and picked up a plate. Junior Pinckney was behind me.
“Careful what you tell that Brit,” Junior said under his breath.
“Pardon?”
“That writer, Rendell. He says he’s writing about the trip, but he keeps asking questions about the club’s dues and funds, and about Blevin’s way of running the club and using the funds.”
“Maybe that’s good,” Hank Crocker said, reaching in front of me to take a plate. “Put Blevin’s shenanigans in print.”
“What good would that do?” Junior asked. “Blevin’s dead now. That was the best way to straighten out the mess he made.”
Reggie joined the line and nodded toward Rendell. “Speaking of steam engines,” he said.
“Were we?”
“Rendell. I just heard he’s cornered the market on old steam engines.”
“How did he do that?”
“Bought ’em up, two hundred of them. He must be rich as Croesus. I had no idea, did you?”
“No! You said he was a writer.”
“Well, he is, but apparently he’s got his fingers in a lot of business pies, too.”
“What’s he going to do with the steam engines?”
“He intended to sell them off as scrap metal, but when he became aware of the resurgence of interest in old steamers, he changed his plans and has been refurbishing them. More money in that, I guess. Word has it he’s even considering building new ones to meet the demand. He spent a lot of time with Blevin. I wonder . . .”
“What are you wondering, Reggie?”
“If maybe they had some sort of business deal going on between them.”
Detective Marshall had drawn that same conclusion, but I didn’t mention it.
Once we’d gotten our salads, we went outside where a young man in a chef’s white uniform stood over a huge charcoal grill. “Steak, chicken, or ribs?” he announced loudly. The odors wafting from the grill stimulated my appetite, and I ordered chicken. Samantha Whitmore, who was ahead of me in line, waited for me to be served. As we walked back to the restaurant together, she said, “I want to talk to you.”
“All right. Care to give me a hint as to what it’s about?”
Maeve Pinckney, carrying a plate overflowing with ribs, came to where we stood.
“Later. It’s personal,” Samantha told me, and went through the door held open by a waitress.
The rest of dinner passed without conversation about the death of Alvin Blevin. But Junior became animated over dessert when Hank Crocker mentioned a club member’s model railroad setup. “I’ve seen it,” Junior said, “and it’s all wrong. His proportions are out of whack.”
“The scale police at work,” Hank Crocker grumbled.
“That’s the trouble with you people,” Junior said. “You all claim to care about accuracy, but you don’t pay any attention to it in your own model setups. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. That big, fancy layout at Blevin’s office isn’t right, either.”
“He always said it was,” Crocker said. “Hell, he spent a damn fortune in club money on it, all for his personal pleasure. The man was a disgrace. Excuse me. I need some air.”
His departure prompted others to get up and go, leaving only me and the Whitmores. Samantha, who’d said little during dinner, waited for her mother to excuse herself.
“Coming, dear?”
“In a little while, Mother.” She waited till Marilyn left the room.
“Want to have that talk now?” I asked.
Samantha glanced at the other members of the group who lingered. She shook her head. “Do you swim?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Join me in the pool? Say twenty minutes?”
“I’ll be there.”
Although I seldom have an opportunity to swim when I travel—there just never seems to be a good time—I always pack my bathing suit. I’d peeked into the room housing the indoor pool while taking my walk prior to dinner and was impressed with its size and cleanliness. The people who ran the ranch and spa were obviously sticklers for hygiene and order. There wasn’t a piece of furniture or a towel out of place.
I changed in my room, slipped into a terry cloth robe and slippers provided by the ranch, and headed for the pool house, where Samantha was already in the water doing laps. She wore a one-piece black suit that hugged her tight body. I admired her stroke. Her arm muscles bulged as she plowed her way through the water. Her smooth motions in the water suggested she spent considerable time in swimming pools. I wondered if she used the activity to exorcise her demons.
I poked my foot in the water and was somewhat disappointed at how tepid it was. Like all indoor pools, the humidity level was high. Living in Maine gets you accustomed to cold water, particularly in the ocean, where the water is bracing—frigid to newcomers—even on the hottest days of midsummer. I prefer cold water.
I submerged myself and did a backstroke toward Samantha, resting at the opposite end of the pool. She pulled herself up from the water and sat on the edge of the pool, cocking her head and hitting the opposite side with the heel of her hand to dislodge water from her ear.
A family with two small children had been in the pool when I arrived, but they soon departed, leaving us alone.
“You said you wanted to talk to me about something personal,” I said.
She nodded and spent a few seconds collecting her thoughts and deciding how to say what was on her mind. She seemed to study her fingers, pressing each one, as if counting off arguments in her mind.
“You owe me,” she said at last, glancing in my direction and then looking back down at her hands.
“If you’re referring to saving my life when the vestibule door came unlatched, you’re right,” I said. Despite the warm water surrounding me, I shivered at the image of being dangled over the Fraser Canyon with only a swinging door to keep me from plunging to the ravine below. “I owe you my thanks, and I’m very grateful that you were there and that you had the good sense to grab my skirt to pull me back in.”
“You owe me more than thanks.”
What was she trying to tell me? Did she want some compensation for her actions? A reward? It hadn’t occurred to me to offer her money as thanks. Was she looking for public recognition, a story in the newspaper? I hadn’t praised her in public. Perhaps I’d been remiss, and she wanted people to know how brave she’d been—and she had—to reach out, putting her own life in jeopardy to save mine. “Samantha, I apologize for not talking about how wonderful you were. I should have given you credit, told everyone how you saved me. I guess I wasn’t thinking—”
“That’s not it.” She was becoming agitated.
“What? What is it you’d like me to do?”
Her mouth worked, but she couldn’t get the words out. At last she blurted, “Keep the police away from my mother.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My mother didn’t do it,” she said loudly.
“Didn’t do what?”
“Kill Blevin.”
I said nothing.
“You believed he was murdered from the beginning, didn’t you? ‘Poisoned,’ you said. ‘He may have been poisoned.’ You told me not to touch him. I heard you. You said it.”
I’d told her not to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but now was not the time to correct the record. “It was only speculation,” I said.
“Yeah. But now it’s been confirmed.”
When I didn’t respond, she shouted at me, “Hasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. “How did you find out?”
“Rumors are flying on the train. You think I don’t hear them, bu
t I do. I won’t let you hurt her.”
“Why do you think that I or the police would suspect your mother?”
“Because Blevin killed my father.” Her voice was low now, almost whining.
I frowned up at her. I tried for a reasonable tone, trying to calm her rising hysteria. “That’s quite an accusation,” I said. “But that’s not what your mother told me. She said your father died of a heart attack.”
“He never would have had that attack if Alvin Blevin hadn’t swindled him.” She angrily dashed tears from her eyes. “He did it. I know he did it. He did it on purpose.” She began rocking back and forth, hugging herself, her feet pressed against the side of the pool. A long moan escaped her.
I put a hand on her knee. “How did Alvin Blevin swindle your father?” I asked softly.
Her body stiffened and she glared at me, her face twisted by the loathing she couldn’t contain. “Al Blevin was a self-centered, conniving, dishonest, vile human being.”
I took a step back. The virulence of her hatred startled me. “What did he do? What happened?”
It was Marilyn who answered. “I’ll tell you what happened.”
I hadn’t seen her come into the pool room; I’d been so intent on her daughter. She was standing on the side of the pool, watching Samantha closely.
“Ma, Ma. She won’t tell him. She promised.”
“What happened, Marilyn? Why does Samantha say Alvin Blevin killed your husband.”
Marilyn sighed. “Just as good as.” She walked behind her child, knelt down, and began massaging Samantha’s shoulders. “Robert was Al’s partner in a land deal in West Vancouver. It was worth millions. Robert threw himself into the project, devoted two years of his life to it. The last two years of his life.”
Destination Murder Page 11
