by Janet Dawson
As the train began its journey through the remote canyon, Jill walked down the stairs to the lounge at the rear of the dome-observation car, where all the seats were filled with passengers. She saw Miss Margate in one seat, talking with the older woman seated next to her. Jill turned to her right and took the two steps that led to the car’s buffet. Three men stood by the counter. One was Mr. Clark, the porter, and the other two were Mr. Fontana and his traveling companion, Mr. Geddes. Mr. Fontana evidently wanted something, but the porter was shaking his head.
“May I be of assistance, Mr. Fontana?” Jill asked.
He turned to her, dismissing the porter with a scowl. “Yes, you can. This porter doesn’t seem to want to do it. Those two bedrooms, A and B…” He jerked his thumb toward the front of the car. “They’re empty. I saw those people get off the train in Denver. I want Mr. Geddes here to move into one of those bedrooms. We’re on a business trip and we’d like to be in the same car.”
“Bedrooms A and B are reserved.” Mr. Clark looked at Jill for support. “We’ve got four people getting on the train in Glenwood Springs, going all the way to Sacramento.”
Jill nodded and turned to Mr. Fontana, her voice polite but firm. “I’m sorry we can’t accommodate your request, Mr. Fontana. Since the bedrooms are reserved, we can’t make any changes.”
Mr. Fontana frowned. He opened his mouth, grumbling, ready to argue.
But Jill preempted him. “You’re welcome to discuss this with the conductor, but I’m sure he’ll tell you the same thing Mr. Clark and I have.”
Mr. Geddes nudged Mr. Fontana. “Leave it, Vic. It’s not a problem. Come on, let’s go back to your room.”
His companion grumbled under his breath but didn’t push the issue farther. The two men walked away, heading forward, presumably to Mr. Fontana’s drawing room. The Chicago businessman appeared to be a man who was used to getting his own way.
When they’d gone, Mr. Clark sighed. “Thanks, Miss McLeod. He just wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. And he’s the kind of man who can create a lot of problems.”
“Do you think he’ll complain?” Jill asked. “I’m sure the conductor will back you up. You can’t move someone to a berth if that accommodation is already reserved.”
“That’s true,” the porter said. “But, well, you know, there are some folks who don’t like it when they don’t get their own way. And Mr. Fontana, he seems to be that sort. I’ve heard…” He stopped, compressing his lips in a tight line. His expression looked guarded, as though he realized he’d said too much.
“You’ve heard what? Do you know something about Mr. Fontana? I suppose you may have heard of him, since you’re both from Chicago.”
Now the porter’s expression looked guarded, as though he realized he’d said too much. “I guess you could say I know who he is. Know him by reputation.”
How intriguing, Jill thought. “What kind of reputation? He’s a businessman. A liquor distributor. That’s what he told me when I first met him.”
Mr. Clark took his time answering. “Liquor distributor. Yes, that’s what they call it now. Back when I was growing up in Chicago, we called those fellows bootleggers.”
“Are you saying he was a bootlegger, back during Prohibition?” Jill asked, intrigued. She had no clear memories of Prohibition. She had been born seven years after the Volstead Act went into effect in 1920. When Prohibition was repealed in December 1933, she was six years old, more concerned with the approach of Christmas than the headlines and photographs in the newspaper, showing people celebrating the return of legal liquor.
The porter shrugged. “Can’t say for certain. Just heard stories, that’s all. When Prohibition went away, those bootleggers from the bad old days, they went legit. They were still moving liquor around, and selling it. Only difference was, the booze was legal. Some of them got into other businesses, like gambling, the policy game.”
“Policy game?”
Mr. Clark smiled. “Numbers racket. I bet you never heard of playing the numbers, a nice, well-brought-up young lady like you.”
“I have heard of the numbers,” she said. “My uncle was a police detective in Denver. I read about those schemes in a newspaper article, and he explained it to me.”
Playing the numbers was illegal. It was a lottery, her uncle had told her, where bettors—suckers, he called them—would pick three numbers, trying to match numbers that would be randomly picked the following day.
“So you’re saying Mr. Fontana might be involved in criminal activities, now or sometime in the past.”
The memory of the Kefauver hearings a couple of years ago was in Jill’s mind. Senator Estes Kefauver of Tennessee had convened a Senate special committee to look at organized crime in interstate commerce, and the hearings had been televised, drawing a wide audience, Jill included.
Mr. Clark shook his head. “I’m not saying any such thing. Might be, might not. And it might not be healthy to talk about such things. I’m sure Mr. Fontana is a legitimate businessman—now. But if what I hear on the grapevine back in Chicago is correct, he’s got a past. And the past has a way of coming back to bite people on the… Well, you know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do,” Jill said with a chuckle. “The derriere.”
A passenger at a table in the buffet waved at the porter and he excused himself, walking over to see what the woman wanted.
Playing the numbers, Jill thought, and poker. If what Mr. Clark said was true, Mr. Fontana had more than a passing acquaintance with gambling.
She left the Silver Crescent and walked through the transcontinental sleeper. When she entered the sixteen-section sleeper she saw the frazzled-looking mother who’d boarded the train in Denver stretched out in a seat, napping. Her purse had fallen to the floor and Jill bent down to retrieve it. The woman wakened with a start.
“You dropped your purse,” Jill said.
“What? Oh, thanks. Miss McLeod, isn’t it? Thanks again for taking care of Robby’s hand.”
“You’re welcome. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help during your trip.”
“I’m Milly Demarest,” the woman said, running a hand through her disarrayed hair. “Sleep, that’s what I need. Those kids are driving me crazy.” She looked at the empty seats where her children had left their coats and hats. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen them.”
“Robby and Patty are up in the Vista-Dome above the observation car,” Jill said, pointing a finger back over her shoulder. “I haven’t seen Lois.”
“Looking for trouble, that one,” Mrs. Demarest said with a frown. “Sixteen going on forty. She thinks she’s Ava Gardner.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for her,” Jill said. She headed forward, moving from the Silver Maple to the Silver Falls. The train was nearing the town of Granby, not a scheduled stop, but the first place on the CZ’s route where the train would join the Colorado River.
As Jill walked along the passageway on the Silver Falls, Frank Nathan stepped out of bedroom C, carrying some towels. From inside the bedroom, Jill heard someone humming a familiar tune. Then the hum turned into a song, a woman’s rich alto voice, caressing the words of the ballad from the thirties, “That Old Feeling.” The melody and lyrics were familiar. The song had been sung in a movie Jill had seen last year, With a Song in My Heart, with Susan Hayward playing songstress Jane Froman.
Jill stopped and looked inside bedroom C. Miss Grant was seated, a book on her lap, but she wasn’t reading. Instead she looked out the window and sang, half to herself.
“You have a lovely voice.”
Miss Grant looked up, startled. “What? Oh, thank you. I didn’t realize I was singing. I’m enjoying the scenery. What’s our next stop?”
“Glenwood Springs, at one fifty-three. But we have a lot to see before we get there. I’m headed to the dining car, where I’ll make an announcement about some of the scenery you’ll see.”
Chapter Seven
Jill continued through the Silver Falls and into
the Silver Quail. Her steps slowed. She had told Doug that his father was on the California Zephyr. It was only fair to tell Uncle Sean that his son was on the train. She tapped on the door to bedroom C, but there was no answer. Her uncle hadn’t been up in the dome-observation car. Perhaps he was in the buffet lounge car.
She turned away from the door and saw Rachel Ranleigh emerging from compartment I. “Oh, hello, Miss McLeod. I’m going back to the dome-observation car to look at the scenery.”
“There’s lots to see,” Jill told her.
“I’ve been admiring the mountains from our compartment, but I want to take advantage of the three-hundred-sixty view up in the dome, particularly as we go through the canyons.”
After Miss Ranleigh headed back toward the observation car, Jill continued her walk forward. In the dining car, the crew had finished cleaning up after breakfast and some of the waiters were taking a break, drinking coffee at a table as they passed around a newspaper. Soon they’d get ready for luncheon service, which would start around eleven-thirty.
Jill walked to the public address system and picked up the microphone. This westbound announcement was one of the longest she would make. She took a deep breath and keyed the mike.
“This is your Zephyrette, Miss McLeod. We are approaching Granby, Colorado, the gateway to Grand Lake and Rocky Mountain National Park. Grand Lake is the highest yacht anchorage in the world and sportsmen from everywhere compete each year for the Sir Thomas Lipton Trophy.
“Granby is in the heart of Middle Park, a vast mountain bowl which received the name from the early trappers and explorers. Middle Park was a famous wintering place for those hardy fellows of the early days and is now famous as a resort area. The region is threaded by excellent fishing streams and contains many resorts and dude ranches within its hundreds of square miles.
“From Granby to the Utah state line our railroad follows the easy water-level grade of the Colorado River. Some of the most spectacular scenery in the world will be crowded into these two hundred thirty-eight miles. The Gore, Red and Glenwood Canyons are spectacular chasms cut by the Colorado River during many centuries. In the lower Gore Canyon our train will be fifteen hundred feet below the canyon rim. Watch for the Pagodas, chiseled by the elements in the likeness of Buddhist temples, when we are in the Red Canyon. The beauty of the Glenwood Canyon is well known and served as the inspiration for the Vista-Dome cars with which our train is equipped.
“Industry will join our passing parade at Rifle, Colorado. This small community has become known around the world because of the vast shale oil deposits found near it. The government has set up an experimental plant here to determine the best means of extracting the oil from the rock.
“As our journey continues today, you’ll want to watch for Colorado’s great peach-producing center in the Palisade–Grand Junction area; the bleak, yet beautiful Utah desert; Green River, Utah, at an elevation of four thousand and eighty feet, the lowest point on the entire Rio Grande system; Soldier Summit in the Wasatch Mountains, the highest Rio Grande elevation in Utah; Salt Lake Valley, where the Mormon pioneers made ‘the desert blossom as the rose’; the Geneva Steel Plant and the coal and coke producing areas of Utah. All these attractions are outlined in your ‘Vista-Dome Views’ booklet, and I hope you will make good use of it.”
She replaced the mike and walked along the passage between the tables, saying hello to the waiters at the table. In the Silver Chalet she made a brief stop in her quarters. Then she went to the lounge in the middle of the car. She didn’t see Uncle Sean there, so she climbed the stairs to the Vista-Dome.
She spotted her uncle in a seat near the back. As she sat down next to him, he looked over at her and grinned. “I never get tired of looking at these mountains. They’re beautiful. God’s country, that’s what my old man used to call it.”
“Yes, they are. We have beautiful mountains in California, too.”
“Not as high as the Rockies,” he said. “Say, I get a kick out of you making those announcements. You got all that stuff memorized?”
“After two years as a Zephyrette, I should hope so. It’s one of our standard announcements. We have a script to work from.” Jill paused, uncertain how to begin. She might as well just say it. “Listen, Uncle Sean. I just found out that Doug is on the train.”
Uncle Sean frowned. He didn’t say anything at first. Then he asked, “What car is he in?”
“The Silver Falls,” Jill said. “That’s the sleeper car behind yours. But he’s back in the dome-observation car now. I told him you are on the train, so I figured I’d better tell you.”
Her uncle took her hand. “I appreciate that. Where is he going?”
“Portola. It’s a little town in California, a few stops past Winnemucca. So you’ll be getting off the train before he does.”
“Well, it can’t be helped,” he said. “I expect we’ll run into each other sometime during the next twenty-four hours.”
“Uncle Sean, I wish I knew why you and Doug—”
“There’s a lot of water under that bridge. And I’d rather not talk about it right now.” He gave her hand a squeeze. “I appreciate your telling me that he’s on the train.”
Jill nodded. What had happened between Sean and Doug? Why were they estranged? She wished she knew.
Was there anything she could do to effect a reconciliation? She doubted it. Uncle Sean didn’t want to discuss the rift, and Doug probably felt the same way. It was best for her to stay out of the situation. Whatever had pushed father and son apart, they needed to figure out for themselves how to mend the breach.
The California Zephyr rumbled out of the canyon, following the Fraser River into Granby. After the train left the town behind, the Fraser merged with another river flowing from the north—the Colorado River. It originated in Grand Lake, the largest and deepest body of water in Colorado, some fourteen miles north of Granby. There was a town there, also called Grand Lake. Some of her McLeod relatives had a cabin there, and Jill had visited the lake over the years, during the summers.
When Jill stood to leave, she saw Miss Brandon in the first row, in the window seat on the left. The Englishwoman had a pair of binoculars in her hands. As Jill reached the front of the car, Miss Brandon raised the binoculars to her eyes and focused on something in the distance. Jill looked in the same direction. A bald eagle perched on the top branch of a dead tree a few yards from the track, its white-feathered head and yellow hooked beak clearly visible above its blackish-brown body.
Jill pointed out the raptor to other passengers, listening to them exclaim as they caught sight of the eagle. As they watched, the eagle spread its wings and took off from the tree, yellow talons tucked into its body. The eagle gained elevation, heading toward the top of a ridge.
“Oh, capital! A bald eagle, your national bird. It’s the first one I’ve seen this trip.” Miss Brandon reached into her handbag and took out a small leather-bound notebook. She opened it, plucked a pen from an interior holder, and made a notation in the book. She glanced up at Jill. “So this is the Colorado River?”
“Yes. We’ll be following the river for over two hundred miles. I hope we’ll see lots of bald eagles. They’re fish eaters, so they congregate near rivers and lakes.”
“I’ve been reading my bird book,” Miss Brandon said. “I picked it up at a shop in New York City. It’s by a man named Roger Tory Peterson.”
“I’ve seen that one,” Jill said. “One of my aunts in Denver likes bird watching.”
“What’s that up ahead? It looks like a little town.” Miss Brandon pointed at the steam rising from pools near the river and the tracks.
“That’s Hot Sulphur Springs.” Jill explained that the area had been a resort for a long time. “The Ute Indians used to come here years ago. Then a spa opened in the eighteen-sixties, but it wasn’t a success, probably because this area is so remote. Then the land was bought by William Byers, who owned the Rocky Mountain News, one of the Denver newspapers. The railroa
d came through here in nineteen-five, so that brought more people to the springs.”
“Hot water, how lovely,” Miss Brandon said. “Makes me think of a nice cup of tea. I believe I’ll go in search of one. Will you join me, Miss McLeod?”
“Certainly. Though I believe I’ll have coffee.”
Jill led the way down the stairs to the lower level of the Silver Chalet. As she passed the lounge she saw Florian Rapace, the French graduate student, at a table. He was with Lois Demarest. The girl certainly looked older than sixteen. Now that she’d removed her plaid coat, the teenager showed off a lush, ripe body, the tops of her full breasts visible above her tight, scoop-necked red sweater. Her pouty lips sported bright red lipstick. The gray wool skirt she wore was cinched at her waist with a wide black belt. Now she shifted in the chair, crossing her legs and hiking up the skirt to show them off.
The French graduate student smiled and took out a pack of cigarettes, offering one to the girl. Lois reached for the pack. Then she glanced up and saw Jill looking at her. She straightened in her seat, looking defiant, then she shook her head, refusing the cigarette.
Better keep an eye on that one, Jill told herself.
She paused and spoke to Mr. Peterson, the waiter, who was in the car’s small kitchen preparing a sandwich. “The girl in the red sweater, the one with the Frenchman. She’s only sixteen.”
“Looks older,” he said. “Trying to be, anyway. Thanks for the warning. Don’t worry, I won’t serve her any liquor. And the Frenchman, he’s being a gentleman.”
“I know he is. But there may be some men on the train who aren’t.”
In the coffee shop, the young couple Jill had escorted to the Silver Mustang were seated at one of the tables. The two adults were drinking coffee, their chairs close together and their heads tilted toward one another as they talked. The little girl used both hands to raise a glass of milk. On the table was a half-eaten piece of apple pie topped with ice cream and three forks.
The mother was pregnant, her abdomen rounding the front of her flowered maternity smock. Her husband raised his coffee cup with his left hand, dark brown hair visible on his forearm. His right forearm and hand were hairless. Jill realized that the man had a prosthesis. She looked at him more closely and saw a jagged scar on the right side of his face.
