by Janet Dawson
She turned to go back downstairs. In the last seat on the left was the boy she’d seen earlier in the dining car, having breakfast with his mother. He waved at her and she stopped to talk. He was six or seven years old, towheaded with freckles scattered across his face. The woman seated next to him had the same blond coloring, but fewer freckles. She was reading an older Agatha Christie novel, The Moving Finger.
“That’s a Miss Marple book,” Jill said. “She’s my favorite.”
“Oh, I love Miss Marple,” the woman said, marking her place in the book.
“I’m reading the new Poirot. It’s called Funerals Are Fatal.”
“I like the Poirot books, too. But Miss Marple is the best. I’m Betsy Shelton, by the way.”
The little boy wriggled in his seat, unable to sit still. “Hi, I’m Timothy.”
“I’m Miss McLeod, the Zephyrette. Nice to meet you, Timothy.” Jill held out her hand and the boy shook it.
“You must have gotten on the train late last night,” Jill said. “I don’t recall meeting you yesterday.”
“We got on in Lincoln,” Mrs. Shelton said. “It was after one in the morning, so we settled into our seats and went to sleep. But Timmy has been awake since it started getting light outside.”
“We had scrambled eggs and bacon in the diner,” Timothy said.
“Very early.” Mrs. Shelton laughed, rolling her eyes. “We were there as soon as it opened.”
Jill nodded. “I saw you in the dining car when I came to breakfast.”
“We saw you,” Timothy said. “Breakfast was pretty good. I love scrambled eggs and bacon.”
“I do, too,” Jill said. “But my favorite breakfast is the French toast.”
“I’ll try that next,” the little boy said. “I like eating in the diner. It’s really fun to eat breakfast and look outside the window at the same time. We saw the sun coming up.”
“He loves trains,” his mother added. “He’s always excited when we take a trip.”
“Me and Mom are going to visit Grandma and Grandpa,” Timothy chimed in.
Mrs. Shelton nodded. “That’s right. I grew up on a peach farm in Palisade, Colorado. Mom and Dad are still farming there.”
“Western Slope peaches are wonderful,” Jill said.
“I’m gonna help Grandpa on his farm,” Timmy said. “We take the train, but it doesn’t stop at Palisade.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Jill said. “You’ll get off the train in Grand Junction. That’s about ten miles from Palisade.”
“That’s right. Grandma and Grandpa will pick us up at the station. But we stop in Denver first. What time do we get to Denver? Pretty soon, I hope.”
Jill glanced at her watch. “We’re due into Denver at eight-twenty. It’s a quarter after seven, so that’s another hour.”
“How long will we be there? Can I get off the train?”
“I think we’d both like to stretch our legs,” Mrs. Shelton added.
“We’ll be in the station for twenty minutes, departing at eight-forty,” Jill said. “You can get off the train, but don’t go very far. Make sure you get back on as soon as the conductor calls ‘all aboard.’ If you walk to the front of the train, you’ll be able to see the yard crew switch out the engines. We need extra engines to pull the train up the Rocky Mountains.”
The boy bounced up and down in his seat. “How many engines?”
“We have three on the train now,” Jill said, “and we need five to take us over the mountains.”
“That sounds neat.” Timothy turned to his mother. “Can we watch them change the engines, Mom?”
Mrs. Shelton nodded. “Yes, we will. I’d like to see them. That should be quite a sight.”
Timothy looked up at Jill. “So after Denver, what time will we get to Glenwood Springs?”
“At one fifty-three this afternoon. You can eat lunch in the diner, too. And enjoy the scenery. We’ll be traveling through the Rocky Mountains. You can see them up ahead,” Jill added, pointing to the west. “It’s beautiful country. We go through lots of tunnels when we get into the mountains.”
“And there’s hot springs in Glenwood Springs,” the little boy said. “Grandpa says we’ll go there sometime. We can soak in a big swimming pool, even in the winter, and we won’t get cold unless we get out of the pool.”
“I know. I’ve been there.”
Jill said good-bye, leaving Mrs. Shelton to her book and Timothy with his nose pressed to the glass. She went down the stairs to the main floor of the car. She retraced her steps, heading back through the cars, asking passengers if they had any letters or postcards to mail in Denver. She had a supply of stamps in her pocket. At the rear of the Silver Mustang was the conductor’s small office. When she glanced inside, Mr. Evans was there, drinking a cup of coffee as he conferred with the brakeman. Jill continued through the next chair car, collecting several more postcards. In the Silver Chalet, she made a brief stop in her own compartment. In the dining car, most of the tables were occupied. Jill walked down the aisle, heading for the four sleeper cars.
The train wasn’t carrying any “specials” this trip. These were “special attention passengers,” usually prominent people who had come to the notice of the railroad when they’d booked their accommodations. “Specials” were singled out for extra attention from the crew and might be traveling anywhere on the train, usually in the sleeper cars.
Jill crossed the vestibule and entered the Silver Quail. It was a six-five sleeper, so-called because it contained six bedrooms and five compartments, all designated by letters. The compartments were larger than the bedrooms, and each contained a toilet and sink, as well as sleeping space for two passengers.
Mr. Winston, the Pullman conductor, stood in the passageway near the middle of the car, looking fit in his tailored uniform. He was a short man with chocolate-colored skin and a head of close-cropped gray hair visible under his cap. He had charge of all the sleeping cars, and oversaw the porters, who were employed by the Pullman Company rather than the railroads.
The car’s porter, Joe Backus, was visible just beyond Mr. Winston. He was coming from the linen lockers at the end of the car, judging from the armload of towels he carried. Mr. Backus was a head taller than Mr. Winston, and several years younger, his light brown skin as yet unwrinkled. Jill thought he was a new porter; at least, she had not traveled with him before now.
Both men greeted her as she approached, and she said good morning in return. “Getting ready for new passengers?”
“Yes, Miss McLeod.” Mr. Winston consulted the list he carried. “This car had three empty berths coming from Chicago. But we’ll be full once all the Denver passengers board.”
“Yes, ma’am, and we’ll be ready for them,” Mr. Backus said with a smile. He stepped into compartment C.
Jill continued down the corridor, past the linen lockers that held sheets and towels. At the end of the car was a small seat where the porter sat during the trip, although the porters were quite busy for the entire run. There was also a toilet here, for the porter’s use, and another locker as well as a water cooler.
She crossed the vestibule and entered the Silver Falls. This car was a different configuration, a ten-six sleeper. At this end of the car were six double bedrooms, designated A through F. Then the corridor jogged to the right and went down the middle of the car, where there were ten roomettes, five on each side, with space for one passenger. The roomettes contained toilets and sinks as well.
The porter for the Silver Falls was Frank Nathan, a tall slender man with high cheekbones and a dark coffee-brown face. Jill had traveled with him before. He stood near the door of bedroom E, talking with a man and a woman. The young couple, Mr. and Mrs. Mays, were on their honeymoon, as they’d told Jill yesterday when she took their dinner reservation. They planned to spend a few days at the Brown Palace Hotel in Denver before visiting family in Colorado Springs.
“You have plenty of time for breakfast,” Mr. Nathan told them now. “I
t’s almost an hour before we get into Denver. Isn’t that right, Miss McLeod?”
Jill looked at her watch as she approached them. “I make it fifty-three minutes. Yes, you should have time. The dining car crew is quick.”
Mrs. Mays smoothed her shoulder-length brown hair and adjusted the collar of her herringbone tweed suit, which was a shade lighter than the brown serge suit worn by her husband. “We slept later than we’d intended. I do sleep well on the train. Now I really need coffee and something to eat before we get into Denver.”
“We’re packed and ready to go,” Mr. Mays said. “Except for one small case that’s open. We’ll have that ready as soon as we get back from breakfast.”
Frank Nathan nodded. “Soon as we get near Union Station, I’ll carry your bags to the vestibule.”
“Thanks. I appreciate all your help during the trip.” Mr. Mays reached into his pocket. He took out his wallet, opened it, and slipped several dollar bills into the porter’s hand. Mrs. Mays took her husband’s arm and they walked in the direction of the Silver Banquet. The porter pocketed the money Mr. Mays had given him.
The door to bedroom F opened and a dapper, white-haired man stepped out, dressed in a natty gray suit. Mr. Poindexter had boarded the train in Chicago, and he was traveling all the way to San Francisco, to visit relatives. “Good morning,” Jill said. “I hope you slept well.”
“Good morning, my dear.” He gave her a jaunty smile. “I slept like a baby, which is good for someone my age. Now I’m off to get some breakfast. I am partial to the French toast.”
“So am I. In fact, that’s what I had for breakfast.” When Mr. Poindexter had gone, Jill turned to the porter. “How’s your trip so far, Mr. Nathan?”
“Uneventful. And that’s the way I like it.” He gave her a wry smile. She knew he was thinking of an earlier trip, just before Christmas, that had far too many events, quite a few of them unplanned and in some cases, deadly.
“How’s your mother?”
“She’s fine. She got a new job, working as a housekeeper for another family there at the Naval Air Station in Alameda. Those Navy officers, they just come and go. I expect I’ll go over to see her as soon as we get into Oakland. I’m ready for some of her good home cooking.”
“Same here,” Jill said with a laugh. “Dining car food is good, but it isn’t the same as the food my mother cooks.”
“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” the porter said. “I saw your brother down in West Oakland. It was on a Saturday night, a couple of weeks ago, at Slim Jenkins’s club there on Seventh Street. They do get a lot of white folks there listening to music. I noticed him because he’s so young, and he looks like you. I heard somebody call him Drew and I know that’s your brother’s name.”
“He’s only seventeen, still in high school.” Jill frowned. “He’s also underage and he shouldn’t be hanging out at a place that serves liquor. But Drew is absolutely music mad. He loves jazz and blues. He plays guitar and piano, very well, I must say. Mom and Dad want him to go to college, but all he talks about is being a musician, playing in clubs and going on the road. My parents are afraid he’ll turn into…” She hesitated, aware that the man she was talking with was a different color.
“A black sheep,” Mr. Nathan finished. “Maybe he just needs to go his own way and figure it out for himself.”
“Like I did, when I became a Zephyrette,” Jill said, half to herself.
A young man appeared, rounding the corner in the middle of the car. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle McLeod.”
Florian Rapace was an attractive young man from Paris, with wavy brown hair and bright blue eyes. In his early twenties, he was a graduate student at Northwestern University in Chicago, heading west to visit a friend who was studying at the University of California in Berkeley. He was traveling in roomette ten, farther back in the car.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Rapace.” Jill enjoyed practicing her French. In her two years working on the trains, she had encountered people from all over the world. She had an ear for languages and prided herself on picking up enough phrases to answer questions and give directions. French, German, Italian, Spanish—she even managed a smattering of Chinese, Japanese, and Russian.
They talked for a moment longer, discussing the landscape of eastern Colorado and the early spring weather, then Monsieur Rapace excused himself and continued forward, going to the dining car for “le petit déjeuner.”
“So you speak French.”
Jill turned. Miss Grant was in the doorway of bedroom C. She had boarded the train at the next stop after Chicago in Aurora, Illinois. At dinner the night before, Jill had overheard Miss Grant telling her dining companion that she was a librarian. Indeed, she looked the part, buttoned up in her dowdy long-sleeved wool dress, the color of tea that had steeped too long. Her hair was dark brown, caught up in a severe bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes, behind oversized cat’s-eye harlequin frames, looked like two tarnished pennies. A thin scar marred her cheek, stretching from the outside corner of her left eye to her jaw, noticeable despite her expertly applied makeup. Miss Grant appeared to be in her forties. At one time, she might have been quite pretty. But now her mouth had a sour twist that made Jill wonder if life had treated Miss Grant badly, or whether the woman was under some sort of strain.
“Yes,” Jill said now, with a polite smile, “I do speak a little French. It really helps with the international passengers. How are you this morning? I hope you slept well.”
Miss Grant allowed herself a tight little smile as she shrugged. “As well as I ever sleep. I take it we are almost to Denver?”
Jill nodded. “We’ll be at the station in about forty minutes.”
“Thanks.” Miss Grant fiddled with the catch on her large brown leather handbag as she stepped into the aisle. Then she stopped, her head tilted to one side. Someone else was coming this way, two men from the sound of the voices. “Hmm, forgot something,” Miss Grant said. She turned and stepped back into her bedroom, shutting the door.
Jill glanced back as the men entered the car, coming from the direction of the dining car. Victor Fontana was in front, with Mr. Geddes bringing up the rear. “We meet again, Miss McLeod,” Mr. Fontana said in his loud, booming voice.
The two men passed her, heading around the corner to the roomette section of the car. Then Miss Grant opened the door of bedroom C and stepped out again, tucking a pack of cigarettes and a lighter into her large handbag. She snapped the bag shut and turned to face Jill. “Guess I’d better get some breakfast.” She left the roomette and walked forward, heading for the dining car.
The door to bedroom B opened and a woman stepped out. Jill smiled at her. “Good morning, Miss Margate.”
The other woman returned the smile as she checked the small gold watch on her wrist. “Good morning. It’s a lovely day. I’m sure it will be even better once I get some breakfast. Oh, you can make up the bed, Porter.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The porter stepped into the vacated bedroom.
Jill watched Miss Margate as she walked up the corridor, heading toward the dining car. She was tall and curvaceous, with hazel eyes in an oval face, her dark brown hair worn in a short bouffant style. Today she wore a wine-red dress made of silk shantung. The fitted bodice was set off by round gold buttons. Her high-heeled pumps matched the dress and so did her large handbag, made of soft buttery leather.
When she checked in the previous afternoon, at Chicago’s Union Station, Miss Margate had been wearing a wedding ring. Jill’s attention had been drawn by the stylish black-and-white jersey dress and black velvet hat the passenger wore, set off by a black wool coat with a fur collar. Jill had watched as the woman in line removed her wide gold band and slipped it into her black leather purse. When she stepped up to the counter where Jill stood with the Pullman conductor, she’d given her name as Miss, not Mrs.
It was none of Jill’s business, of course. She’d seen it too many times to count, really. But she just hadn’t seen a woman do it till now. It wa
s usually a married man who decided to be single during his trip on the California Zephyr. Often the man was middle-aged and looked around furtively, to see if anyone was watching, then removed his wedding band and tucked it into his pocket, to be retrieved when he reached his destination.
These were the wolves who put the moves on Jill and other Zephyrettes. Jill had become adept at getting out of the way when such men tried to back her into a corner. She was also quite good at politely declining suggestions to head back to the passenger’s compartment for “just one little drink.”
She walked past bedroom A, and then turned as the corridor jogged to the right, facing the soiled linen locker, where the porter put sheets and towels he’d removed from the sleeping accommodations. Then she turned left again, into the aisle between the roomettes, stopping to say hello to Mrs. Obern in roomette nine. Farther along the row of roomettes, Miss Larkin emerged, at the same time as Mrs. Baines. The two women hadn’t known each other when they’d boarded the train in Chicago the day before, but they’d hit it off during the trip, discovering a mutual passion for gin rummy. After dinner the previous evening, they’d headed for the lounge of the dome-observation car, playing into the night. Now Jill stepped aside to let them pass as they headed forward, toward the dining car.
The next car to the rear was the Silver Maple, a sixteen-section sleeper. The semi-private seats on this car converted into berths, curtained off at night. The first two berths in this car were six feet eight inches long, designed for use by tall passengers. Now that it was morning, the porter, Mr. Mack, had converted the berths back into seats. The women’s washroom was at the front of the Silver Maple, and as Jill entered the car, she encountered a woman and her daughter coming out of the washroom.
“Good morning, Mrs. Kelso,” Jill said. “I hope you and Helen slept well.”
“I did,” Mrs. Kelso said, shifting her train case from one hand to the other. “Helen was a bit restless.”
The girl, who was about fifteen, shrugged. “The man across from me was snoring something awful.”
