“Sure. I had nothing to tell him. Blevin was rude to me as usual, and I left the car once he went into his death dance. Anyway, when the local cops take over, the charming Detective Marshall will be gone from the scene.” He said it with a smirk.
“You don’t like him?” I asked as my breakfast was served.
“He’s not exactly Inspector Morse or Adam Dalgleish, now, is he?” he said, referring to famous fictitious investigators in the mysteries respectively of Colin Dexter and P. D. James. “He’s a buffoon.”
“I certainly disagree with that,” I said, feeling myself getting heated at his disrespectful comments, even though I knew he was baiting me. “Behind that easy-going facade is a very smart man, a sharp investigator.”
“You should know, Mrs. Fletcher. You spent enough time with him. What did he have to say last night?”
“Last night?”
“Yes. At police headquarters.”
“How did you—?” Reggie started to say.
I wasn’t going to pursue the conversation, but Rendell cleared up how he knew our whereabouts the previous evening by saying, “Enjoy your dinner at Ric’s? They make great drinks.”
“You were there?” Reggie said.
“At the bar. You walked right past me, but I saw you. When you left, I figured I’d see where you were going. You know, maybe you knew Prince George’s hot spots.”
“You followed us?” I was astonished.
“Don’t look so shocked, madam. It’s not a crime to follow someone down the street. When I saw you walk into police headquarters, I figured you were meeting with the good detective.”
He wanted Reggie and me to know that he was keeping tabs on us. That was clear. I had a feeling he was not quite so blithe as he was straining to convince us he was. Rendell was worried about Marshall. Why? What did he think Marshall had found out about him that the Vancouver police might not know? Was his ticket to safety getting Marshall off the case? He was bound to be very disappointed. Detective Christian Marshall was planning to stick around, and so was I, at least for the next few days.
“You seem to show a great deal of interest in our activities,” I said. “Maeve Pinckney said you were even asking about conversations she and I had when we sat together. I wonder why that would be of interest to you.”
Rendell quickly wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood. “She’s just another foolish woman,” he said, his good mood flown. “Her blather is certainly nothing to heed.” He forced a smile, but his nostrils were flaring when he added, “Well, see you on the bus. You’d better watch out, Jessica Fletcher. I might switch from railroad history to murder mysteries. I’ll write one about Alvin Blevin’s murder. Guaranteed bestseller.”
Reggie was incensed on my behalf. “Some nerve,” he muttered after Rendell was gone. “Tells you to watch out because he’s going to write a bestseller.”
I smiled at him. “Maybe he will,” I said. “Write a bestseller. I just hope he doesn’t start telling everyone about our meeting with the detective.”
“It would be just like him to do that,” Reggie said.
“You’re right,” I said, “and there’s nothing we can do about it. Might as well go. We don’t want to miss the bus.”
We were taken to Prince George airport, where we boarded a WestJet flight to Vancouver. A front had passed through the area overnight. The showers were gone, but there was a brisk breeze in their wake. The plane shuddered on takeoff, buffeted by the winds, but we soon reached our cruising altitude with only blue skies ahead.
My seat was next to Reggie’s; Marilyn and Samantha Whitmore sat across the aisle. Marilyn had been truthful when she’d said she feared flying. Throughout the short flight she looked absolutely petrified. Her face was pale, and her hands gripped the armrests with the resulting white knuckles. Samantha seemed unconcerned about her mother’s distress; she stared out the window, her attention focused on the landscape below.
Another bus awaited us at Vancouver Airport, but I suggested to Reggie that we take a taxi to the Sutton Place Hotel. I’d picked up conversations while waiting for our plane in Prince George that Winston Rendell had indeed been talking about our meeting with Detective Marshall, and I wasn’t in the mood to answer questions about it.
We arrived well ahead of the others, and were greeted with an unreserved welcome from the doorman. A bellman was on the spot in seconds to handle our luggage, but first he directed me to the concierge’s desk, where I was handed an envelope. From it I pulled two folded pages torn from the local newspaper and a handwritten note:
Dear Mrs. Fletcher. My name is Gene Driscoll. I write for the Vancouver Sun and am covering Alvin Blevin’s murder. (See enclosed tear sheets.) I would like very much to interview you regarding this case. Please call me at your earliest convenience.
Attached to the newspaper clips was his business card.
I recognized his name from the article by him I’d read at breakfast back in Whistler.
I put his material in my purse and headed to the elevator.
Back in the same suite I’d enjoyed before leaving on the Whistler Northwind three days earlier, I relaxed. It was almost as though I’d just gotten off a ship and was again enjoying my land legs. The suite, so spacious and tastefully decorated, gave a sense of harmony, of being at home base after a long journey. After the rustic and unadorned rooms we’d stayed in on the trip, it was nice to feel a bit pampered in the elegant Sutton Place.
In the marble bathroom, I unpacked my toiletries—I’m obsessive about completely unpacking as soon as I arrive in a hotel room, even if my stay is to be for only a few days—and sat at the window looking out over Vancouver. Now that I was back where I’d started the trip, I realized I didn’t have any concrete plans for the rest of the day and evening. The Track and Rail Club’s itinerary didn’t have anything scheduled until the following day: an early-morning presentation by a railroad historian in one of the hotel’s public meeting rooms; a tour to area sights, including the famed Capilano Suspension Bridge; and a farewell meal on the Pacific Starlight Dinner Train. But before that, the club’s board of directors was scheduled to meet at club headquarters, the office building owned by Alvin Blevin. It was a schedule that didn’t leave much time for investigation, much less leisure. How was I going to pursue my suspicions about Blevin’s killer if I was running from one social obligation to another?
Reggie and I had parted in the lobby. He was off that evening to meet friends at Cin Cin, one of the best restaurants in town. “It’s beautiful. The food is sensational. You’ll love it,” he’d said. I had begged off. He was concerned about deserting me, but I assured him I welcomed an afternoon and evening on my own. However, my plans got back on track when the phone rang.
“Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes?”
“This is Theodora Blevin.”
Hearing from her was a shock, and my momentary silence testified to it.
“Hello,” I said.
“I wasn’t sure whether you were back in Vancouver yet but thought I’d try. How was the rest of the trip?”
Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?
“It was—it was fine.”
“I was wondering if you were free this evening.”
She certainly had a talent for catching one off guard.
“This evening? I—yes, I am, as a matter of fact.”
“I’m having a few close friends for dinner and would be pleased if you’d join us.”
“Are you sure—?” I started to say, but decided it wasn’t my business or place to question why she’d be having a dinner party so soon after her husband’s murder. I was also tempted to ask why I would be invited to dinner with “close friends” but discarded that question, too. Others had characterized Theodora Blevin as an aloof woman, and this call did nothing to alter that characterization. I could barely remember the days that followed when I’d become a widow. Frank’s death had been expected; yet I was consumed with grief. I certa
inly didn’t hold dinner parties. Then again, I reminded myself, judging how another person reacts to loss based upon one’s own response isn’t fair.
“Yes, I’m available for dinner this evening,” I said.
“Good. I’ll have my driver pick you up at the hotel at seven. Is that all right?”
“Seven would be fine.”
“I look forward to seeing you,” she said, just before she disengaged and the click reached my ear.
I wondered if Benjamin would be there. Were they planning to team up to persuade me to “butt out,” as they’d tried before? I shook my head, trying to sort out what Theodora might be thinking, but it was a fruitless exercise. I would go to dinner and see what played out. In the meantime, the lovely weather outside my window beckoned. A nice walk seemed in order. After three days spent mostly sitting on a train, the exercise would be refreshing, and there were still many shops I hadn’t had an opportunity to visit.
I’d changed into walking shoes and was almost out the door when the phone rang again.
“Mrs. Jessica Fletcher?” a male voice asked.
“Yes? This is she.”
“My name is Joel Jillian, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m a detective with the homicide division of the major crimes section, Vancouver PD. I hope I’m not disturbing you.”
“Oh, not at all. I was on my way out for a walk. I just got back from a three-day train trip.”
“Yes, ma’am, I know.”
Of course he knew, I thought. The Mounties had obviously given him my name.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“Christian Marshall of the RCMP suggested I contact you once you got back to Vancouver.”
“About the death on the Whistler Northwind,” I said.
“Exactly. Detective Marshall indicates you’ve been extremely helpful to him during the investigation.”
“Well, that’s very flattering, Detective Jillian, but I’m afraid I didn’t have a great deal to offer Detective Marshall. What little I know, however, you’re welcome to hear.”
His laugh was youthful and gentle. “I think you might be a bit too modest, Mrs. Fletcher. At any rate, we’re getting pressure from all angles to solve this thing pronto. Naturally, we’re working closely with E Division, but—”
“E Division?”
“RCMP’s headquarters for Vancouver. It’s been their investigation ever since the death occurred, but now that the body and the suspects are back here in Vancouver, we’ve caught the case.”
I sighed. From the moment I’d witnessed the gruesome death of Alvin Blevin, I’d found myself consumed with its aftermath. As a passenger continuing on the trip, it was hard to disassociate from the murder and its subsequent investigation on the Whistler Northwind, even if I’d wanted to. But as I talked to Detective Jillian a different set of feelings invaded me. It was as though the murder investigation had broken into two distinct phases—the train and its stops to the north, and now its continuation in the city, with different players and undoubtedly different ground rules.
“All we’re asking, Mrs. Fletcher, is that you give us the same cooperation you gave Detective Marshall.”
“Did you have something specific in mind?”
“We understand you’re having dinner with Mrs. Blevin.”
They must be tapping her phone—or mine, I thought, but didn’t say it out loud. “Yes. I just received the invitation.”
“Don’t put yourself in any danger, but do let us know if she says anything incriminating.”
“I hardly think Theodora Blevin issued a dinner invitation so I could be her confessor, Detective.”
“Agreed. We just want to keep you safe, Mrs. Fletcher, and we appreciate your continued cooperation.”
“Thank you for that, and if, in my contact with fellow passengers, something strikes me as relevant, I’ll be happy to let you know.”
We spent another few minutes discussing the level of crime in Vancouver and the Vancouver police department’s working relationship with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. “Detective Marshall sends his best,” Jillian said. “He’s had quite a career with the Mounties.”
“He’s a fine man,” I said, standing and trying to stretch with my head and shoulder holding the phone to my ear. “I really must go. I need to get a little exercise after three days on a train.”
Yet after we hung up, I hesitated. I was only hours away from having dinner with Alvin Blevin’s widow, who was certainly a suspect in the murder.
Dinner?
Why was she hosting a dinner party so soon after her husband’s death at the hand of someone she undoubtedly knew?
What if she had played a role in her husband’s death?
Why had I been invited?
And what about the disappearance of her previous husband, Elliott Vail? I’d forgotten to ask the detectives about that. I was eager to get to the bottom of the case, but frustrated as well. There was so much to know and so little time left before Reggie and I were scheduled to fly home.
Chapter Thirteen
I pushed the button and waited for an elevator to arrive at the lobby level, eager to shower and change after my brisk walk.
“Mrs. Fletcher?”
I turned to see a tall young man with an unruly shock of red hair. He was wearing a brown corduroy jacket, a blue denim shirt, a red tie, jeans, and construction boots.
“Yes?” I said.
“I’m Gene Driscoll, the Vancouver Sun, Mrs. Fletcher. I’ve left you a couple of messages and—”
“Of course. I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you yet.”
“Do you have time for an interview?”
“I can’t imagine why you’d want to interview me,” I said. “You’re covering Mr. Blevin’s murder.”
“Right.”
“I really don’t know anything about it aside from having been on the train when he died.”
“But you were the first one to say he’d been poisoned.”
“That was just a lucky guess on my part, Mr. Driscoll. Oh, here’s my elevator.”
“Please,” he said, touching my elbow to keep me from getting on, “I won’t take much of your time.”
The elevator doors closed.
“I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to comment on an ongoing investigation,” I said after pushing the button again.
“What did you hear on the train about Elliott Vail?” he asked.
“Elliott Vail? Why are you interested in him?”
“I suppose you haven’t heard, Mrs. Fletcher. There’s an investigation into Alvin Blevin’s representation of Vail’s wife, Theodora. There are rumors that he may have convinced the judge to rule in his favor by means other than legal argument.”
Were he still alive, I thought, the authorities would be closing in on Alvin Blevin.
“The insurance company, Merit Life, hasn’t dropped the case either,” Driscoll added.
Another elevator arrived.
“I thought they’d already paid his widow,” I said, holding a hand against the open door to keep it from closing.
“They did,” he said. “But their U.S. headquarters is still investigating. If it can be proved that the judge was illegally influenced to declare him dead prematurely, that’ll open the case again. Insurance companies don’t cough up two and a half million bucks that easily.”
“That was the amount they actually paid?”
“Yeah.”
A buzzer sounded, indicating someone was interfering with the elevator doors, keeping them from closing. I was that someone.
“The Vail question could have a bearing on the Blevin murder, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said, his voice urgent. “Think about it. Vail’s widow gets two and a half million dollars and marries Blevin, who handles her case in court. There’s Vail’s kid, Benjamin, who ended up being arrested for attacking Blevin after he married his mother. And—”
“Come on up,” I said. “I only have a little time before I’m scheduled to leave for dinner, but I�
��d like to hear more of what you have to say.”
“I came to hear what you have to say,” he said with a chuckle, following me into the empty elevator. The door closed and the buzzer stopped.
“Then we’ll have a two-way conversation,” I said. “The best kind.”
“I just have this feeling, Mrs. Fletcher, that the two events have to be linked,” he told me, when we’d settled on the sofa in my suite.
“I agree,” I said, putting on my glasses and pulling out the newspaper clips he’d sent me that I’d stashed in the desk drawer, “but only because I share your feeling. What’s important is that there be evidence to connect them. Have you come up with any?”
He removed a pen from his pocket, opened a slender reporter’s pad, riffled through the pages, and shook his head. “The widow collects the money and marries her attorney, Al Blevin, and now she’s a widow again. That’s a heck of a coincidence. I wouldn’t want to marry that lady, figuratively speaking, that is. Literally, too, for that matter, although she’s pretty good-looking for an old broad.”
I raised my eyebrows and peered at him over my glasses.
“Sorry. That wasn’t politically correct, was it?”
“It wasn’t polite, either,” I said. “Are you saying you think Theodora Blevin murdered both her husbands?”
“Wouldn’t be the first time something like that has happened. Of course, we can’t prove Vail was murdered because his body was never found. Makes me wonder if she had an accomplice in the canyon to help her get rid of the evidence.”
“You’re making a very big assumption there,” I said.
Driscoll shook his head and laughed. He’d settled his lanky frame on the couch and was sunk back into the cushions, his long legs crossed. He said, “What I’m wondering is if Blevin’s life was insured by the same company. Then they’d be taking a double hit.”
“There is another possibility, you know,” I said.
“What’s that?”
“Elliott Vail could still be alive.”
It was the first time I’d voiced an idea that had been rolling around in my mind for a while. But what would Vail stand to gain by staging his own disappearance? Unless . . . His wife had collected his life insurance money and now was a widow again. Could she have been responsible for Blevin’s death? Was she planning to reunite with her first husband? Had that been their plan all along? But if it was, did Benjamin know about it? Would they make him suffer the loss of his father only to have Elliott resurface years later? If so, how could they do that to their son?
Destination Murder Page 15
