Killer On The Train

by Bruce Alan Jensen

  Killer On The Train

  KILLER ON THE TRAIN

  by Bruce Alan Jensen

  Copyright 2017 Bruce Alan Jensen

  ISBN: 9781370125296

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  All rights reserved. This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Use of any part of this publication without prior written consent of the author is an infringement of the copyright law.

  ONE Wednesday, November 20

  Napa Valley's crisp air provided a beginning for the day's wine tasting in spite of the dark clouds approaching from the south. Hank Carson was fortunate to find a parking space at the Wine Train depot. He strolled through the station building checking out the photos and displays. The rehabilitation work included repairs to the exterior woodwork, restoration of the original doors and windows, refinishing of wooden floors, installation of new heating, plumbing, and electrical systems, painting, and landscaping. Many of the photos showed the original 1920's structure before and after renovation a few years ago. Confident about the oncoming event, he joined the line of guests boarding the train.

  A young female employee took his ticket, “Welcome, Mr. Carson. I hope you enjoy your trip with us today. Please enter the Silverado car,” she said directing Hank to the car in the center of the train.

  “Thanks.” Hank smiled at her and weaved through the crowd of men in business attire and colorfully dressed women as the animated conversations and laughter filled the train car.

  As he approached the bar for a taste of the offerings, a familiar voice bellowed out, “Henry Carson! So good of you to join us.” Charles Beaumont, promoter of the event, always called Hank by his given name. The sophisticated, wealthy philanthropist whose business activities involved board positions with several Fortune 500 companies, belied his jovial nature and surprised some people. At six feet, Hank wasn’t much taller than his friend’s five-foot-eleven stature. His husky body, thinning white hair, trimmed white beard, and a cheerful smile, brought to mind the image of Santa Claus. Except for today when he wore a tuxedo with a burgundy tie.

  “Charles, good to see you again,” Hank said.

  “You’re looking good, my friend,” Charles replied, pulling his friend into a bear hug.

  Hank forgot how strong Charles was. He smiled as he felt the air in his lungs being pushed out. “You, too.”

  Charles released the hug and stepped back leaving his hands on Hank's shoulders. “I haven't seen you in a suit since you left the police department. You fit right in with this crowd. Handsome as usual.”

  “Thanks for the compliment. You're right I haven't worn a suit in six years. Glad I got this assignment, it gives us a chance to catch up. How's the turnout?” Hank asked.

  The smile on Charles’ face showed his pride at the event’s success. “Over two hundred people made contributions netting $85,000 to cover part of the expenses for students who qualify for the SEAP apprenticeship programs at the six wineries represented here. An additional eight wineries are participating. Other fundraising events are scheduled for the future.”

  The train jerked as it moved from the station. Charles glanced at his watch. “Eleven-ten, right on time. What do you say we head to the bar and try out Silverado’s Beaujolais Nouveau?”

  After receiving their first tasting, the men stepped away from the antique-style bar with wine glasses hanging overhead. Proudly, Charles pointed out the unique features of the train. “Each car has been authentically restored reflecting their original decor from 1914 through 1929.”

  “Impressive. This wine is also impressive. I like the fruity taste and smooth aroma. Who all are here for this event?”

  Charles cheerfully elaborated on the chefs, wine connoisseurs, and renowned restaurant owners who sought out these new wines.

  There was a buffet table, resplendent with a variety of treats. “I assume the food offerings complement the wines.”

  “Yes, the chef has worked with the wineries to create an assortment of food to enhance the taste of the wines.”

  “I’m not a wine expert, and although I like the French Nouveau's, I admit this Silverado is fantastic,” Hank said. “Can we try another label?”

  “Of course. Let’s sample the Mondavi.” Charles turned to the bartender. “Two glasses of the Mondavi, please.” The bartender prepared two glasses and placed them on the counter.

  Indulging in wine tasting, the guests enjoyed themselves and conversation flowed for the next hour, as the train traveled past the vineyards and wineries.

  Hank and Charles received their third glass of wine. Before tasting their choice, they took the glasses with them to mingle with the crowd.

  A young man dressed in a staff uniform dashed behind the bar and whispered into the bartender's ear.

  The bartender surveyed the coach, scanning the crowd until his eyes rested on Charles. His look was grim as he came from behind the bar and walked to Charles and Hank, with a young man in tow.

  “Mr. Beaumont, I must speak with you privately. Something terrible has happened,” he said, his eyes darting between Charles and Hank.

  “That's okay, Mr. Crow. Henry is a close and important friend. Tell us what this is about,” Charles said in a soothing tone.

  “Stan here found a dead body in the wine cooler.”

  TWO

  Charles' eyes widened, “Mr. Crow, take us there. Now! Henry, you too. You are the expert in these matters.”

  Charles and Hank followed the bartender, Jackson Crow, along with the visibly upset bar helper, to the wine cooler in the kitchen car.

  Once they arrived, Hank looked at the young man who found the body. “What's your name?”

  The young man looked up at Hank; a shocked expression spread across his face. “Stan Klein, sir.”

  “What did you do when you got here?”

  He sucked in a deep breath. Stammering, he explained, “I... I came here to replenish the wine bar. When I opened the door, I saw this fat man on the floor. There was a knife stuck in him.”

  “What did you do next?” Hank asked.

  “I was so scared I didn't go any further. I almost puked. I swear I touched nothing but the door. I went to tell Jackson, ah, Mr. Crow, my boss.” Trembling, the young man leaned against the wall opposite the cooler door. The poor kid will have nightmares for weeks, if not months, Hank thought.

  “Do you know who it was? Hank asked Stan.

  “No sir,” Stan said looking at the floor.

  Hank pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and opened the cooler door. The three men gaped at the body from the doorway. Jackson gasped and backed away. Young Klein stood shaking and staring at the floor.

  With a firm voice, Hank said, “Mr. Crow, please return to the bar. Don't mention this to anyone. Understand?” Crow nodded, turned, and then darted down the hallway.

  Charles grabbed Hank's arm. “Oh, my God! That’s David Hatchett, the food critic for the Chronicle!” His eyes were large as saucers.

  Hank nodded to Charles, and then looked at the young man, “Stan I want you to wait in the vestibule over there until I come to get you, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.” Klein nodded, his hand ran over the back of his head as he hesitated before leaving the scene.

  Slumped on the floor was a gray-haired, rotund man, with his back against the wall, his head leaned on his right shoulder. Both of his hands appeared smeared with blood. The victim wore a blue blazer, gray slacks, and black loafers, a white, blood-stained shirt, and a kitchen knife stuck in his che
st. He appeared dead but to be sure Hank knelt over the body and felt for a pulse. “He's dead,” he told Charles.

  “What are we to do?” Charles paced back and forth, wringing his hands.

  Hank stepped away from the body. “I need your help to secure this crime scene.”

  Charles exhaled. “This is such a shock.”

  “We need to stay calm. This isn’t our responsibility, but I don’t know if there are security personnel on board. No matter who investigates this homicide, the scene needs securing, and the evidence preserved.” Hank paused, thinking of the options to take.

  “Charles, we need to have the train manager call the authorities. Tell him to find out what they expect us to do until they can arrive. His body is still warm, and there’s no sign of rigor mortis, so this attack occurred within minutes. This guy was alive when the train left the Napa Station. We need someone to watch over this room.”

  “Thank the gods you're here!” Charles squeezed Hank's arm. “I mean it, your presence here today is fortunate and quite welcomed. I'll find the train manager.”

  With no authority to investigate the crime, his immediate goal was to preserve the integrity of the crime scene and make sure that the train manager understood that he, not Hank, would be the contact person for everything.

  Hank surveyed the cooler to pick up clues. A 40-watt bulb in a ceiling fixture lit the cooler room at the front end of the kitchen car. The five-by-six-foot storage room used open vents of cool air to flow into the room since Beaujolais wines are best at room temperature. Each winery had donated many cases of their Beaujolais Nouveau wine. Boxes of wine stacked along both sides in four rows wide reached a foot below the seven-foot ceiling. Several stacks of flattened boxes lined the back wall, behind the victim.

  Hank noted a wadded linen napkin stuffed into the victim's mouth. The large chef’s knife penetrating the body was an obvious clue to the murder. A button sat on the floor next to the body. A minimal amount of blood was visible on the body and floor. The victim must have died with a strike at his heart. Once the heart stops pumping, blood flow ceases.

  Hank used his cellphone and took a series of photos of the scene, the walls, floor, ceiling, and several close-up images of the body. He stepped from the room, closed the door, and waited. Within a few minutes, Charles returned.

  “Dan Alioto talked to the County Sheriff who advised us to continue to St. Helena. We are to handle this situation without notifying the people on board. The Sheriff is calling in the State Bureau of Investigations. But how do we keep this quiet?” Charles asked.

  “I have an idea. I'll explain when Alioto arrives.” Hank replied.

  Within minutes, the train manager, accompanied by a man in a dark blue uniform, arrived at the scene. Charles introduced Dan Alioto to Hank who explained his credentials.

  “Detective Carson, I hope you will provide your experience to guide us through this situation,” Alioto said, his face taught and lips pursed.

  The man in the uniform, Kevin Stafford, identified himself as chief of security while facing Hank eye to eye. Stafford was in his mid-fifties, six-foot tall, overweight and had a ruddy complexion.

  “Mr. Stafford, since you're the security person on board, please lock the cooler door. No one is to enter except the police. You need to stay near and keep an eye on the room. Got it?” Hank asked.

  “Yes, sir. I'm sure glad you're here. I've never had to deal with anything like this. Maybe a fight or break-in, but not murder. It's unreal.”

  “You have your job, I'm sure you'll be all right,” Hank said, nodding to Alioto. He turned toward the vestibule.

  He met up with Charles in the vestibule. Hank saw stress flash across Charle's face. Then, Alioto joined them. Charles spoke in a whisper, “I don’t mean to sound callous but, we need to continue the tour. If we stop serving wine, won’t everyone become suspicious?”

  Charles continued, “I’m concerned about keeping enough wine available for tasting. How can we manage it?”

  “Can you do this?” Hank asked Alioto.

  “We can get the wine from the wine cooler in the Copper Canyon car. We'll say the refrigeration went out in this cooler.”

  Charles took a deep breath as he listened to Alioto.

  “Who had access to the cooler?” Hank asked Alioto.

  “A bartender, one waiter, a bar helper, and a few wine reps had been the only people allowed access to this cooler. But, there was only one key available at the bar for access to the cooler. You can see how hectic it is for the staff.” Alioto was not defensive. He stated the truth. “I’ll take care of getting the wine from the other cooler.” Alioto and Charles headed back to the Silverado car.

  Hank entered the vestibule then led young Klein to a quiet place at the front of the train. “Stan, remove your vest, and I'll give it to Jackson Crow. Now you won't look like an employee, so relax, but talk to no one except us and the police about what you’ve seen. Will you do this?”

  “Yes, sir.” Klein nodded and handed Hank the vest. Hank noticed the standard uniform for the bar and waitstaff was a red and green grape vine patterned vest, black pants, long-sleeved white shirt, black tie, and black shoes. Klein's shirt sleeves had been rolled up, and his tie was missing.

  After Hank had given Klein's vest to the bartender, he stopped in the vestibule near the wine cooler. There was nothing for the former detective to do but wait for the arrival at St. Helena.

  Hank wished he could enjoy one of his cigars, but that was against the rules. Leaning against the wall next to the open exterior door window, the rush of cold air chilled his body and his mind. He closed the window. The train cruised through the valley splitting vineyards on either side, with the road leading to St. Helena paralleling the tracks. Miles of vineyards surrounded estates and wineries with colored flowers and stately tree-lined esplanades, some with eucalyptus, old oak, or maples. The landscape reminded him of France, from the coastal hills and valleys of Lyon to the southern fields near Cassis.

  The soothing rhythm of the rails comforted Hank as he watched the grapevines and trees sweeping by like an old fashioned movie until rain blew on the closed window. His grandparents had a few grape vines in their backyard in a rural part of his hometown in California. Train tracks ran along the back, and he remembered hearing the soothing sound of the cars at night when he visited them. With a contented smile, he thought about the warm, fragrant fall air. How could anyone be unhappy in a world as lovely as that?

  In the wilderness, feeling free is natural. The forests, streams, lakes, mountains, desert and all that nature offers were his driving force these days. Occasionally, Hank chose to include these places in his writing assignments. Living in a congested, crime-laden city, most occupants had little opportunity to experience the beautiful environment only miles from the city center.

  Someone once said to him, “Expectations are premeditated disappointments.” For the last few years, a happy life had not been expected. Being wounded by a suspect in a shoot-out six years ago was tough, but he became accustomed to being semi-retired. Working as a freelance writer provided the opportunity to travel and enjoy the country. He traveled in his motorhome with his companion, Molly, a seven-year-old black lab he adopted from the Tucson Animal Shelter. When he checked her into a pet hotel this morning, she whined until another lab galumphed up to her inviting her to play. “See you later, girl. I'll be back tonight.”

  His advanced research and previous experience gave him an understanding that the grapes grown in this valley were distinct because of the warm summers. For the first time, several Napa Valley wineries were unveiling exceptional Beaujolais Nouveau wines.

  A murder has a way of changing a person's mood.

  THREE

  His thoughts switched from the murder to his current writing assignment. The Wine Train provided a relaxing three-hour, thirty-six-mile round-trip journey from the historic town of Napa to the quaint village of St. Helena, passing through the vineyards and wineries of Napa
Valley.

  Charles entered the vestibule, pulling Hank from his thoughts. “Henry, what are you doing?”

  “Hi Charles, just enjoying the scenery and thinking about life, in spite of the killing and the storm we now have to face. The hillsides are a breathtaking panorama of the reds, oranges, and golds of fall.”

  “Oh, sorry to interrupt.” Charles turned to leave.

  “No, no. Stop, please. I realize the harvested vines are holding scant remnants of the grapes that become fodder for the birds and other creatures. This has helped me relax.”

  “Nature is amazing, isn’t it? The verdant green that carpeted the valley is now dull, brown and desiccated. The dormant vines lay untrimmed waiting for the late spring rains to awaken them but until that happens, the animals have a buffet. No matter what time of the year it is, I enjoy visiting vineyards,” Charles said with a broad grin.

  “I was remembering why I'm here and thinking how this murder is affecting your event, especially the fundraising.”

  “One cannot predict things with much accuracy these days,” Charles said. “Who among us has the proverbial crystal ball? We will get through it. It is a tragedy for Mr. Hatchett and his family. I may have to refund some of the money collected, but that is the least of my concerns. Don't worry. There are other events planned to raise funds for the scholarships.”

  “That’s good. Consider my fee a donation to the cause.”

  “That isn’t needed.”

  “I want to contribute. Old friend, you wouldn’t deny me the opportunity would you?” Hank said grinning.

  “As always, you are generous, Henry.” Charles patted Hank's shoulder.

  “I was hoping to gather more information about the wines grown here and what will make this Nouveau unique as the famous French wines. Am I insensitive if I pick your brain during this chaos?”

  Charles beamed. “Henry, given the circumstances, I'd say this is a perfect time. The crowd is enjoying the event, with the winery people explaining the intricacies of the wines there is no need for me to be visible. I appreciate this chance to talk with you."