I waited for her to continue.
“He died before the deal could be consummated. Blevin had cheated him, tying up construction with red tape until Robert ran out of money. Blevin scooped up the project and finished it without him. We never saw a penny from it.”
Samantha swallowed a sob.
“C’mon, honey,” Marilyn said. “Let’s go back to our room.”
“I hated him,” she said to her mother. “I hated him.”
“I know. Let’s go.”
Samantha stood and looked back to me. “She didn’t kill him. And I don’t want you to think she did.”
“I don’t think she did,” I said, “but it really doesn’t matter what I think. Blevin’s death is now strictly a police matter.”
“And you have an in with the police. Don’t think it hasn’t been noticed how close you and Marshall are.” She was shouting again. “Did you tell the detective that you suspect her?”
“No. Of course not.”
“Don’t tell him. You owe me that. I saved your life. The police don’t have to know about my father’s dealings with him.”
I understood her concerns and was even sympathetic. But asking me to withhold information from law enforcement caused my back to stiffen. Someone had been murdered in a cruel fashion. Whoever did it would have to pay for that crime, no matter who it was.
“If I’m asked by Detective Marshall, I won’t lie,” I told them.
Marilyn’s expression said she was offended at the notion. “I would never ask anyone to do that, Jessica,” she said. “But not offering more than one is asked doesn’t constitute perjury. What I just told you, I told you in confidence. Blevin contributed to my husband’s heart attack; I have no doubt about that. But that doesn’t mean I would ever think of killing him. I just want you to know that.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Let’s go, sweetheart,” Marilyn said to her daughter.
Samantha backed up a few steps and ran at the pool, diving over me, her body a graceful arc above my head. I moved to the side but was not swift enough to avoid the splash that engulfed me when she torpedoed into the water. I lost my footing and went under with a gasp. Water hit my lungs and I rocketed to the surface, choking and coughing, struggling for air.
“Samantha! I’m ashamed of you,” Marilyn chided. “I’m sorry, Jessica. Are you all right?”
I nodded, but the water still in my lungs kept me from speaking.
Samantha pulled herself out of the other end of the pool, got to her feet, and went to the chair where she’d put her robe and slippers. Mother and daughter left me alone in the water.
I rested by the side of the pool until my breathing was regular again, and I coughed only occasionally. I couldn’t put the incident out of my mind as I went to my room to change out of my bathing suit into street clothes. Samantha was ill, I now knew. It was becoming harder for her to maintain the illusion of normality. True, she was protecting her mother. But was she also protecting herself? She was a nurse, which meant she would have learned something about poisons. She had access to strychnine—anyone who bought rat poison did—and she would be aware of the lethal dose. She had motive, too. Not only had her mother lost her husband, allegedly due to Blevin’s business dealings, but Samantha had lost a father. Had her father’s ruin and subsequent death enraged the daughter? Enraged her enough to kill?
I needed a distraction. I went downstairs to browse in a gift shop on the property and bought a few souvenirs to take back home. The clerk told me that the rose hip oil was a specialty of the house. They grew the roses and made the oil themselves at the ranch. Celebrities swore by it for their complexion. She gave me a sample to try.
After paying for my purchases, I stepped out onto a broad deck at the front of the shop. It was still bright out. The farther north we went, the longer the days were, the sky remaining light well into the time it would have been dark at home. I walked to the end of the building, where there was a bench. The deck wrapped around to the side and I heard muffled voices coming from that direction. I was tempted to peek around the corner to see who was meeting away from the eyes of other visitors, but I didn’t have to. A male voice was followed by the sound of female whimpering, and Maeve Pinckney appeared, a handkerchief to her face. I started to say hello, but she glanced at me with nervous eyes and ran down the steps in the direction of the hotel.
I expected to see her husband follow, but the man who emerged from the side of the building was not Junior Pinckney. It was Winston Rendell.
Chapter Ten
“Enjoy your evening at the ranch?” Detective Marshall asked as I boarded the Whistler Northwind for the final portion of our three-day journey, the longest leg that would culminate at Prince George.
“Yes,” I said, “especially the horse-whispering demonstration this morning.”
“And what is that?” he asked.
“Did you see the film The Horse Whisperer?”
“Afraid I didn’t.”
I explained how a young female ranch hand at Hills Ranch had demonstrated that morning how she controlled her horse through body language and the movements of a small whip she carried, never touching the horse with it but cueing the animal by the various positions in which she held it, aided by subtle verbal sounds.
“Would it work on people?” he asked, a glint in his eye.
“I doubt it.”
I watched him go up the aisle and disappear into the bar car. Junior Pinckney, his baseball hat on backwards, had already taken his position at the half-open door in the vestibule when I wandered through on my way into the dining car. I wanted some time to think undisturbed and the dining car was usually empty, likely the reason Winston Rendell conducted his telephone calls in there.
Rendell wasn’t there, but Benjamin was just leaving. He glared at me. “I hope you’re satisfied.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Blevin. The cops say he was poisoned. Now they’re harassing my mother.”
“I’m sorry about your mother, Benjamin, but I’m not to blame for the truth of your stepfather’s death.”
“Yeah, right.” He stomped past me, nearly knocking me over.
In the dining car, Jenna and Karl were setting the tables, distributing the fresh flowers that graced every meal. I sat at a table and moved my seat back so as not to disturb the tableware they had so carefully arranged. “Am I all right over here?” I asked.
“You’re just fine,” Jenna called out as she carried an empty tray from the car.
“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher,” Karl said, placing a small vase of baby carnations on the table. He was dressed in his kitchen whites, his black hair pulled into a ponytail, white kerchief tied in back, riding low on his brow. Another kerchief, this one red, was tied around his neck.
I stared at him, and he smiled. “I’m sorry,” I said. “Good morning, Karl. Please excuse my rudeness. For a moment there, you looked familiar to me, but I can’t place where I may have seen you before.”
“No apologies necessary,” he said, pushing up his wire-rimmed spectacles where they had slid down the bridge of his narrow nose. “I must have that kind of face. People have told me that before.”
I noticed he wasn’t quite as young as I’d first supposed. His tanned face was unlined, but his neck and hands were those of an older man. Kitchen work takes quite a toll, I thought wryly. Aloud, I said: “Can you spare a moment to talk with me?”
“Certainly. How may I be of assistance? Would you like some coffee, a snack?”
“No, thank you. I was hoping to ask you about Alvin Blevin.”
A dark look passed over his face and then his features relaxed back into the bland expression he always wore. “Terrible tragedy,” he said. “That detective was talking to us last night. All the staff are really upset.”
“It must be very difficult, especially for Callie.”
“Yeah. Jenna, too. I think she might’ve had a crush on him.”
“Surely
Mr. Blevin wouldn’t have encouraged that.”
“Why not? She’s cute.”
I’d noticed that Jenna seemed very subdued following Blevin’s death, but I’d suspected that she was worrying about Benjamin. It hadn’t occurred to me that she might have been mourning Blevin. Now I wondered if his alleged womanizing had extended to a woman young enough to be his daughter.
“Karl, you brought in two fresh bottles of vodka when you came to the club car that day.”
“I see where you’re going with this, Mrs. Fletcher. The Mountie asked about that, too. But they were sealed. Callie opened them at the bar.”
“Did you see anyone drop anything into Mr. Blevin’s drink?”
He shook his head.
“Who might have had an opportunity to handle his glass?” I asked.
“Gee, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said in a tone that struck me as ironic. “You were there. It was a pretty crowded party. His drink got passed around to several hands before it landed on my tray. In fact, it was originally supposed to be for you, wasn’t it?”
That was true. And I remembered Junior passing the glass, and Hank nearly spilling it as he pushed through the crowd. Also, after Benjamin had brought him another Bloody Mary, Blevin had left one of the drinks on a table where anyone could have dropped in the poison. This line of questioning was not going to produce anything helpful. I tried another.
“How long have you worked on the Northwind?”
“Why would you want to know that?”
“Were you working for the Northwind when Elliott Vail disappeared?”
He startled. “No, ma’am, but I certainly have heard about it. Do you think the two deaths are connected?”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
“That’s a scary thought,” he said, laughing softly. “I’m not sure I’ll want to keep working on this train with that kind of stuff going on. Speaking of work . . .”
“Of course. I’ve kept you. My apologies.”
“No problem. But I don’t want them to come searching for me. We have a pretty tight schedule to keep. If I can help you again, let me know.”
He placed two more vases on the remaining tables and left the car.
I stared out the window watching the passing scene. We were paralleling a broad stream, a tributary of the Fraser River. Along the banks, reeds and other boggy grasses swayed in the steady breeze, which painted ripples on the pale green surface of the water. Small brown ducks took flight when the engineer blew the train whistle, flapping away from the noisy animal snaking through the countryside. Overhead in the clear sky, an eagle wheeled. Intruding into my thoughts, as we glided by this pastoral landscape, were two disquieting questions: Who killed Alvin Blevin? And why?
An image of Theodora Blevin came to mind. Was I foolish in discounting the widow herself? Many an errant husband had been killed by a jealous wife. Too, Blevin was a very wealthy man. Money was another potential motive. There had been suggestions, notably by Maeve, that Theodora might have killed her first husband. Did she fit the description of a serial killer? Benjamin had hinted that Blevin was responsible for his father’s death, but that could have been wild speculation. He didn’t like his stepfather. What had been his relationship with his father? Elliott’s demise had been labeled a suicide, but could it have been a murder? I had been truthful when I’d said I didn’t know if these two deaths were related. But if they were, was the same person responsible for both?
Maeve was working on her needlepoint when I returned to my seat and slid in next to her. I was puzzled by her rendezvous with Winston Rendell the night before. Perhaps Junior was justified in his jealousy. Perhaps she had indeed had an affair with Alvin Blevin. Was Winston Rendell her new paramour? If so, she hadn’t been very happy with him from what I’d witnessed. But somehow, I didn’t think their encounter was what it seemed to be superficially. Maeve was a pretty woman and aware of it. She dressed carefully and in a way to show off her figure, but she didn’t wear anything that could be called provocative. She impressed me as an open and direct person, rarely watching what she said. Instead, what was on her mind came tumbling out before she could think better of it. Too, she struck me as being content in her marriage, if not completely delighted with her husband. Was I not seeing her clearly? I’d been fooled by people before, and I probably would be taken in again. Of course, as Reggie had pointed out: Who really knows what goes on between a husband and wife?
“How did you enjoy the Hills ranch last evening?” I began.
“What? Oh, fine. Just fine,” Maeve said. “Ah took a nature walk this morning with Deedee Crocker. She was showin’ me all the wildflowers. Very pretty.”
“Beautiful countryside,” I said.
I hesitated to delve into her personal business but took the plunge anyway. “Maeve, I saw you with Winston Rendell last night. You looked upset.” I stopped, hoping she’d fill in the blanks I’d left for her. She didn’t disappoint me.
She frowned and her lips formed a hard line. “It’s Junior’s fault.”
“What’s Junior’s fault?”
“He’s so jealous, it makes other men think there’s something going on there.”
“What do you mean?”
“He talks about his suspicions. You heard him. Hints I had an affair with Alvin Blevin. Preposterous. Now, Alvin did pay me attention, mind you. He was very complimentary, but always the gentleman. And ah’m a lady, and a faithful one. I’ve told Junior that over and over, but he persists in his accusations.”
“So Rendell overheard Junior talking and decided to flirt with you?”
“That’s the way it appeared to me. Junior went to take pictures of the horses after dinner, and Winston asked if I’d like to take a walk. At first I thought he was just being pleasant. Ah like to flirt a little—what Southern woman doesn’t?—and I like it when men are attracted to me, but I don’t draw them on, if you know what I mean.”
I thought perhaps Maeve did “draw men on,” but I wouldn’t say that.
“Anyway, he starts talking about Alvin and asking how close were we? I got real hot—angry, I mean. Ah told him I never had an affair with Alvin Blevin, don’t know about his personal life, and to stop asking me about him. Then he starts asking about you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. What did we talk about while we were sitting together? Did you ask me questions about Alvin Blevin? I said: ‘That’s enough. I told you ah’m not interested in Alvin Blevin. Our little walk is ending.’ And then he grabbed me.”
“Grabbed you?”
“He pulls me in and tries to kiss me, says I should be sweet to him and he’ll be sweet to me. He can buy me nice things. That’s when I ran.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she sniffed delicately. “If Junior didn’t make those comments, none of that would’ve happened.”
My guess was that it would be a while before Maeve accepted an invitation from another man to take a walk. And perhaps that was just as well. I patted her hand and she gave me a watery smile.
Jenna entered the car and took the microphone as the train chugged away from the station.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” she said, forcing a modicum of gaiety into her voice. “Did everyone have a pleasant stay at 100 Mile House?”
There were murmured expressions of assent.
“We’ll be serving lunch in an hour or so,” she said. “In the meantime, sit back and enjoy the scenery and the ride. This area of the country is known for its wildlife. You might spot deer or a bear. We’ve seen them before along this route. And eagles, lots of bald eagles.” She quickly replaced the mike in its holder on the wall and disappeared into the dining car.
The narrow channel I’d been gazing at when I was in the dining car had been replaced by a beautiful lake. It was too bad I was preoccupied by the murder. This could have been a lovely, relaxing journey. The British Columbian countryside was rough and beautiful at the same time. I marveled at the men and women of an earlier century who had matched their grit
against the rugged landscape, seeking their fortune in the gold mines buried in the Cariboo territory. I would have enjoyed concentrating on the natural history and the human one, appreciating the gentle glide of the train as it followed the storied gold rush trails. But this trip had a different focus. And it was too late now to turn my mind to the original center of attention.
Most of the passengers were standing in the aisle admiring the view. Junior had come in to announce that he’d caught a shot of a bald eagle lifting a fish from the water with its sharp talons. He offered to show the picture to anyone interested, but they’d have to meet him in the vestibule; he was going back to scan for more eagles.
It occurred to me that I hadn’t seen Reggie Weems this morning. I rose from my seat and glanced around the coach car. No sign of him. I excused myself to Maeve and strolled back to the bar car where I was surprised to see Reggie deep in conversation with Detective Marshall. I was about to leave when Reggie motioned for me to join them.
“ ’Morning, Jess,” he said.
“Please, have a seat,” Marshall said, indicating a chair next to him. “Mr. Weems and I have been discussing some logistic matters.”
“Like how to make sure we don’t lose anybody once we get to Prince George,” Reggie clarified.
“Do you think that’s a possibility?” I asked.
“It’s always a possibility that a murderer might wish to separate himself from the crowd,” Marshall said.
“Or herself,” I offered.
“Yes, of course,” said Marshall.
“I understand you and a colleague checked everyone’s travel itineraries,” I said.
Marshall nodded. He looked as though he hadn’t slept much; large, dark circles surrounded his eyes. “That was accomplished last night,” he said. “All seems in order. But that is not to say that someone—anyone—might not decide to alter their plans in order to avoid further scrutiny.”
Destination Murder Page 12
