Marilyn’s face was wet with tears, but she didn’t look at me as I passed her. Instead, her eyes were fixed on her child. She held out her arms and Samantha fell into them.
I went to the concession stand and bought a cup of tea. All I knew at that moment was that I was more than happy to be off the Capilano Suspension Bridge. I was still unsteady on my feet and my hand shook as I brought the Styrofoam cup to my lips.
Samantha Whitmore was a mentally deranged woman. I hoped Marilyn would get her daughter immediate medical attention. As a loving mother, it would be painful for her to admit her child to a mental institution, but Samantha needed treatment urgently, and putting it off might imperil others. Samantha had come close to killing us both today and had been the author of my harrowing experience on the train. When might she cross the line again? And would her next victim emerge unscathed?
I remembered the scene in the club car before Alvin Blevin succumbed to the poison. I had thought to hold Samantha back from giving him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation but realized now that that had never been her intent. She’d wanted to see Blevin die, certain he was responsible for her father’s death. But I believed her when she said she hadn’t poisoned him. She might have withheld her assistance, but she wasn’t his murderer. Now I had to find out who was.
Chapter Seventeen
I bumped into Reggie on the elevator and we rode down together, hurried across the lobby, and climbed into the back of a taxi hailed by the doorman. Reggie gave the driver the address of the office building owned by Alvin Blevin, headquarters for the Track and Rail Club.
“Can’t believe you went to the bridge,” Reggie said. “Most people who’d signed up opted out because of the weather.”
“They were wise,” I said, and gave him a capsule history of what had occurred.
“Now I understand why she’s on a medical leave. You’re okay, right?”
I assured him I was. It might be a while before I stepped onto any suspension bridges again, but the incident was in the past, and we had a lot to do going forward.
We were on our way to the board of directors’ meeting that Maeve had mentioned. It had been shoe-horned in before our final evening aboard the Pacific Starlight Dinner Train. Reggie had explained that it was imperative to elect new officers, in light of Blevin’s death. I had given him more to think about when I’d told him Blevin had a daughter. He was worried that the club would lose its headquarters as well as its president.
As we headed across town, my thoughts went to the model railroad setup Blevin had built at club headquarters. I’d seen Reggie’s layout back in Cabot Cove and had been impressed with its size and attention to detail. But the way others had described Blevin’s model, it would put Reggie’s to shame. I was eager to see it.
“You never gave me the details of your conversation with the reporter from the Vancouver Sun,” he said. “How did that come about?”
“He tracked me down at the hotel. Did you know that Benjamin was arrested a few years ago for attacking his new stepfather?”
“No. The reporter told you that?”
“Yes. But we talked mostly about Elliott Vail and his disappearance.”
“Why?”
“This reporter—his name is Driscoll, Gene Driscoll—is convinced that Vail’s disappearance and Blevin’s murder are connected.”
“Why would he think that? Both men were members of the Track and Rail, yes. And they both died on the Whistler Northwind. But the tragedies occurred years apart, and they died under very different circumstances. Where’s the connection?”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Did you get hold of anyone at Merit Life?”
“Yes, an old friend who’s pretty high up there. He didn’t seem keen on talking to me about an ongoing investigation, but he said he’d get back to me with what information he could release. He’ll call me at the hotel. Why do you want to know the name of the investigators, Jess?”
“Just to fill in some pieces. Do you have your cell phone with you?”
“Sure.”
“May I?”
I took the phone from him and dialed the number on the card Gene Driscoll had left with me. I caught him as he walked into the newsroom.
“Mr. Driscoll, Jessica Fletcher. I was wondering if you’ve done any background checks on Al Blevin’s former marriages.”
“No, I haven’t. Why?”
“It occurs to me that any of his former wives or children might be able to shed light on Mr. Blevin, the way he lived, his business dealings, things like that. I’d also like to know what sort of settlements he made with them.”
Driscoll paused before asking, “Are you suggesting that one of his ex-wives might have killed him?”
“It never crossed my mind,” I answered. “Can you get me that information?”
“Sure. Marriages, births, and divorces are all public record—unless you’ve got a judge in your pocket who closes the records. How soon do you need the information?”
“Whenever you can do it. I’m on my way to a meeting, but I should be back at the hotel by five.” I glanced at Reggie, who nodded. “I have a dinner this evening, but that’s not until—”
Another glance at Reggie, who held up his hands, five fingers extended on one, one on the other.
“The dinner is at six. I’ll be in my room until I leave for it.”
I clicked off the phone and handed it back to Reggie.
“So,” he said, “what’s this sudden new interest in Al’s previous marriages?”
“I told you the woman who drove me home from Theodora’s said he had a daughter from his first marriage.”
“Yes. And I know why that information is important to the club, but why is it important to you?”
“I’d just like to know how old the daughter is and where she’s living now.”
He started to ask questions, but I held up my hand. “That’s all I know at this point, Reggie. Let’s wait until I hear back from the reporter and you hear from your contact at Merit Life. Right now everything is pure speculation.”
“Knowing you, Jess, I doubt that, but I’ll follow your lead.”
We pulled up in front of a sleek modern office building, its walls reflective glass that mirrored the buildings across the street and anyone walking by. A sign above the revolving doors said BLEVIN BUILDING.
“Here we are,” Reggie said as he paid the driver and held the door for me. The rain was coming down hard now, and we raced for the cover of the building’s overhang. As we pushed through the revolving doors, we saw Deedee Crocker and Junior and Maeve Pinckney waiting for the elevator.
In the marble lobby was a newsstand, behind which an elderly Asian man prepared to close up. A store specializing in travel items occupied another space. And there was a small luncheonette behind floor-to-ceiling windows and an open glass door. A few people sat at the counter.
A chime indicated the elevator had arrived, and I entered the cab and faced forward. As the doors closed, I looked across the lobby through the windows of the luncheonette. There was a familiar figure sitting at the lunch counter—Detective Christian Marshall of the RCMP. Was he there because of interest in the Track and Rail board meeting, or was the luncheonette a favorite spot of his? I didn’t know where he lived, but I did know his office was on the other side of the city. Was it a coincidence that he was there on that particular afternoon? I doubted it.
People milled about the fourth floor as we exited the elevator. Directly across from us was an open door leading to a small boardroom in which some people were seated around a table. Another open door at the far end afforded a distant view of the club’s controversial model railroad layout. Reggie saw me straining to see it and suggested I take a close-up look before the meeting started. Junior had already preceded us into the room.
What I was able to see from my vantage point near the elevators represented only a small portion of the room. Once inside, its enormous size became obvious. The room was almost completely co
nsumed by the model railroad.
“This is remarkable,” I said, walking slowly into a maze of narrow passages between scenic mock-ups, over which ran a variety of trains.
“If you come over here,” Junior called out, “you’ll see the Whistler Northwind.”
I followed his voice till I came to the part of the setup that reproduced our trip.
“Watch this,” Reggie said. He stationed himself at an elaborate control panel connected to a maze of wires running up to a series of beams that provided conduits for the wires. He flipped some switches and pushed some buttons, and soon sounds erupted from the layout in front of me: “All aboard!” A yard-long steam engine began pulling away from the model of Vancouver station. Steam belched from its smokestack as it started up an incline.
“See the firebox,” Reggie said, pointing to a red glow inside the engine. “Just like the real thing,” he said proudly.
“I’m impressed,” I said. “Al Blevin built this himself?”
Reggie laughed. “No. He brought in a company that specializes in building high-end layouts. There’s hundreds of thousands of dollars in this benchwork, Jess. The engine alone cost two thousand. There’s fifty thousand in the model trees. There’s over a thousand feet of track; you can run fifteen trains at the same time.”
I couldn’t help but smile at the sheer pleasure written all over my friend’s face as he manipulated the trains. I’d seen the delighted faces of children on Christmas mornings when they came down to see a small layout beneath the Christmas tree, and Reggie’s expression was no different.
“Hey, come on,” Hank Crocker said from the doorway. “Let’s get the meeting started.”
Reggie closed the switches and we went to the boardroom. The walls of the room were covered in what appeared to be brown leather; chairs were upholstered in the same masculine material. A large plasma-screen TV and assorted audiovisual equipment occupied one end of the room. Another wall held framed photographs of Blevin with politicians and entertainers, all of them signed to him. Opposite the door was a curtain glass wall affording a view of Vancouver’s impressive harbor, where cruise ships awaited their Alaska-bound passengers.
There were several seats available on the long sides of the table, and one at the head. Crocker immediately took the head chair, leaving Junior Pinckney fuming. He and Reggie sat in vacant chairs. Folding chairs had been lined up beneath the framed photos, and the wives had gravitated to them. I sat down next to Deedee and looked at the faces around the table. I recognized almost everyone from the three-day train trip—they were obviously members of the club’s board—but there were some I’d only spoken to briefly. Marilyn Whitmore, however, was not present, and I assumed that she was taking care of Samantha, hopefully getting her daughter the medical attention she needed.
“All right,” Crocker announced, “let’s get started. I’ll be chairing the meeting as vice president. That’s the way the bylaws read.”
“Hold on a second,” Junior Pinckney said. “I’m a vice president, too, and so is Reggie.”
“Second vice presidents,” Crocker said. “I’m first vice president.”
I glanced at the Goldfinches, who sat to my left, and saw Martin roll his eyes at the debate that had erupted. Reggie shook his head and fiddled with a pen he’d taken from his pocket.
“Look,” Crocker said, “we won’t get anywhere if we get bogged down in this sort of garbage. We have bylaws, and we’re going to follow them. If we don’t, we—”
The opening of the door cut off conversation, and all eyes went to the new arrival. If I’d been surprised at seeing Detective Marshall downstairs, the sudden presence of Theodora Blevin in the boardroom was even more unexpected. The quizzical looks on the faces of the others in the room matched mine.
“Sorry to be late,” she said, not unpleasantly. She circumvented the table and stood behind Crocker. “Well, here we are on a rainy day,” she said. “The weather reflects, I suppose, the sadness we all feel that Al isn’t present to occupy his customary chair at the head of the table, but—”
If she expected Crocker to offer her his chair, she was to be disappointed. He sat rigidly, a scowl on his face.
Theodora smiled and said, “As you all may have surmised, I now own this building, including the Track and Rail Club’s space.”
“Give her your seat, Hank,” his wife said.
Crocker’s only move was to turn in his chair and look up at her. “You may own the building, Theodora, but you don’t have any official role in the club. The bylaws state that as vice president, I’m in charge until a new election is held.”
“Are you going to run for president, Theodora?” Reggie asked.
She started to respond, but Junior Pinckney cut her off. “Hank’s right,” he said. “You’re not even a dues-paying member of the club.”
The attack on Theodora caused a visible reaction. Her face turned hard, and her lips retreated into a harsh slash. “You would all do well to remember that Al donated this space to the club. You and the others who constantly criticized him seem to ignore that fact. Of course, if you wish, you can go out and find your own space for the club. I’m sure I can rent this floor for a lot more than the dollar a year Al asked for.”
“And do what with the model layout, Theodora?” Hank asked. “Does that come with the space?”
“That model layout belonged to Al,” she snapped.
“Built with club dues,” Hank said. “Using other people’s money for personal gain was always Al’s way, wasn’t it?”
Junior stood as he spoke. “Al told me he was leaving the model layout to the club in his will, Theodora. What about his will?”
“The contents of the will haven’t been made public yet,” she said.
“But you know what’s in it,” Junior said. “Did he leave anything to the club, or are you the only one to benefit?”
“I think I’ve had just about enough of your selfishness and insults,” Theodora said, fire in her eyes. “I should have known there isn’t one of you capable of demonstrating the thanks and gratitude Al deserved. This meeting is over. You can all leave now.”
Theodora took a step away from the table. Hank jumped up and appeared to be ready to physically attack her, but Deedee had flown from her chair and grabbed her husband’s arm. All eyes were on Theodora as she made for the door. But someone beat her to it. Winston Rendell came through it, almost knocking Theodora from her feet. They glared at each other before she vanished from sight.
“Sorry I’m late,” he announced. “I see the dragon lady has taken her leave.”
Hank’s dour persona changed at seeing Rendell. “Hello, Winston,” he said, sinking back into his chair. “Please, grab a seat. Good to see you again.”
“Take mine,” Reggie said. “The meeting is over.”
“The hell it is,” Hank Crocker said. “It’s just starting.”
“Ya’ll’re actin’ like children,” Maeve said. She’d grabbed her coat and handbag and appeared ready to leave.
“Sit down, Maeve,” Junior commanded. “We’re not going anywhere yet.”
“I’m calling for a special election right now,” Hank said.
“You can’t do that,” Junior objected. “The membership has to vote.”
“Not according to the bylaws,” Hank said, a smug smile on his face. “A special election can be called any time there’s an emergency. This is obviously an emergency.”
Reggie spoke up: “May I suggest that emotions are running too high for a really useful meeting. Why don’t we adjourn and meet again tomorrow morning?”
I hoped his suggestion would be taken seriously. I’d found the atmosphere to be stifling, at best. My full attention wasn’t on the machinations in the boardroom, however. I kept thinking of Detective Marshall sitting downstairs in the luncheonette and wondering why he was there.
“That’s just like you, Reggie,” Hank snarled. “Walk away from anything unpleasant. Go on, leave. I don’t need your vote any
way.”
“If that’s the way you feel about it,” Reggie said. To me he added, “Coming, Jess?”
“Yes, I—”
The Goldfinches hadn’t said anything to this point, but Martin spoke: “Mr. Weems is right. I know, I know, Gail and I don’t have any official capacity here, but it seems to me that—”
“If you don’t have any official capacity, then I suggest you keep quiet,” Hank said.
The exodus was swift and spontaneous. Reggie and I followed the Goldfinches out the door.
“The nerve,” Reggie mumbled.
“Is he always like that?” Gail asked as we headed toward the elevators.
“Sometimes he’s worse,” Reggie said. “I heard he was searching Al’s files all day looking for the bylaws. I think he’s pushing hard because he’s already been giving interviews as the new president.”
Reggie went to push the elevator button, but Gail stopped him.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“I’d love to see the infamous model railroad layout before we leave,” she said. “Is that possible?”
“Sure,” Reggie said. “The room is open. I just hope Theodora’s not in there.”
Reggie started leading them away from the elevators but turned to see that I hadn’t moved. “Coming, Jess?” he asked.
“You go ahead,” I said as the elevator doors opened. “I’ve already seen it. Besides, I’d like a cold drink. I’ll meet you downstairs.”
“I can get you something—”
I stepped into the open elevator before Reggie could continue his offer and watched the doors slide shut. When I stepped out into the lobby, I saw that Detective Marshall was still at the counter, a cup of coffee in front of him.
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