Death Deals a Hand

by Janet Dawson

  Miss Margate sat alone at a table at the back of the lounge, a drink in front of her. She frowned, intent on reading what was written on the piece of paper she held. Jill recognized the paper, and the envelope on the table, as California Zephyr stationery. On the front of the envelope someone had written “Avis Margate.” Jill caught a glimpse of what was written on the paper but she couldn’t make out any of the words, not that it was any of her business anyway. But the note seemed to have upset the woman who was reading it.

  Miss Margate quickly folded the note and tucked it into her handbag. Her face brightened with a smile. “Hi, Miss McLeod. Time for dinner reservations? I’ll take a seven o’clock seating.”

  Jill filled out the card and handed to her. Miss Margate picked up the glass in front of her and downed the rest of her drink. With a wave of her hand, she summoned Mr. Peterson to bring her another. Then she looked down at the envelope poking from the top of her handbag, staring at it as though it were a snake.

  Chapter Twelve

  The California Zephyr left the narrow confines of ­DeBeque Canyon and the train sped toward the little town of Palisade, some ten miles east of Grand Junction. The agricultural town was named for the palisades of shale north of town. And it was famous for its fruit orchards, which produced peaches, apples and cherries. In the late 1890s, settlers had used water from the Colorado River to irrigate their crops, aided in 1913 by a dam and a series of irrigation canals built by the Department of Reclamation. In the early years, farmers in the area had produced tons of wine grapes but the onset of Prohibition meant the end of vineyards and more fruit trees. Cold winters and a long growing season with high-altitude sunlight contributed to the area’s flavorful fruit.

  When Jill finished making dinner reservations for passengers in the chair cars, she had conferred with Mr. Taylor, the dining steward, and returned the binder to her quarters. She put a stamp on Mr. Fontana’s letter, then she walked through the train, collecting postcards and letters to mail during the stop in Grand Junction. She tucked these into her pocket and returned to the Silver Mustang, where she climbed the stairs to the Vista-Dome, taking a seat near the front to chat with passengers. Timmy Shelton, with his mother in a nearby seat, pointed out the window at the town as the train rushed past buildings. “That’s Palisade. That’s where my grandma and grandpa live. They’re on their way to Grand Junction right now to meet us at the station.”

  Polly Halleck, on her father’s lap in the seat across the aisle, piped up. “My auntie and uncle will be there, too.”

  “Indeed they will,” Rose Halleck said in her crisp English ­accent. “We should go downstairs and gather up our things, so we can get off the train and meet them.” She got to her feet and so did her husband.

  Jill followed as the Hallecks made their way down the stairs to their seats in the lower level of the Silver Mustang. Timmy Shelton and his mother brought up the rear. Other passengers in the chair car were getting ready to leave the train, taking suitcases and coats from the overhead racks, tucking books, knitting, and decks of cards into bags.

  The train began to slow as it entered the outskirts of Grand Junction, the whistle blowing the warning signal at crossings where vehicles waited for the CZ to pass. The city, the largest in Western Colorado, was located at the junction of the Gunnison and Colorado Rivers. In fact, the Colorado River had once been known as the Grand River, but the river’s name had been changed in the early 1920s. South of the city was the Colorado National Monument, a rugged area with cliffs and canyons. To the north was a formation called the Bookcliffs, shale topped with sandstone.

  Grand Junction was a crew change stop, about seven minutes in duration. Homer Wilson, the conductor who’d ridden the train since Denver, would change places with another D&RGW conductor. There would be a new brakeman as well as a new engineer and fireman.

  People stood on the platform in front of Grand Junction’s yellow brick depot. The Zephyr rolled slowly into the station and stopped. In the Silver Mustang, the car attendant quickly opened the door and left the train to assist departing passengers. Timmy Shelton didn’t wait for a helping hand. He jumped off the step box and ran to a gray-haired man and woman on the platform. “Grandpa! Grandma!”

  The waiting couple swept the little boy into a hug. “You’ve grown a good six inches since the last time we saw you,” the man said.

  The woman put her arms around Mrs. Shelton, who’d followed her son off the train. “Betsy, honey, it’s so good to have you home for a visit. I wish John was with you.”

  “He had that business meeting to go to,” Mrs. Shelton said. “Maybe all three of us can come back during the summer.”

  Her father took her suitcase and the family moved off, walking past Mrs. Saxby, who was parceling out luggage to her son and daughter. Nearby, the Hallecks talked with a middle-aged couple as Polly clung to her father’s coat. The little girl saw Jill watching her and waved, her fingers wriggling.

  Jill waved back and headed toward the station, taking the letters and postcards from her pocket. One of the items slipped from her grasp, falling onto the platform. She reached down and retrieved the envelope Mr. Fontana had given her to mail. She looked at the address written there, noticing the slanting handwriting. Was it her imagination? Or did the writing on this envelope look much like that on the note Miss Margate had been reading in the lounge?

  A man asked her a question and she answered, directing him to the Silver Quail. He hurried toward the car. She went into the station and dropped the letters into a mailbox.

  The conductor and brakeman who had joined the train at Grand Junction stood near the dining car, looking down the platform as they talked. Both were familiar faces, people Jill knew from previous runs. Otis Perkins, the conductor, was a large man, his shoulders straining the seams of the uniform jacket. Most of his hair was gone and what was left was a silvery gray. He had worked for the Denver & Rio Grande Western for nearly forty years.

  “Good to see you again, Miss McLeod,” he said in a gruff voice.

  “Hello, Mr. Perkins. How are you?”

  “Fine, just fine. You know Bob Saylor?” Mr. Perkins pointed at the middle-aged brakeman.

  “Yes, we’ve met.”

  “Anything I should know about?”

  “An uneventful trip,” Jill said. “So far.”

  “Good, let’s keep it that way.” The conductor pulled out his pocket watch. “Time to go. I’ll see you onboard the train.”

  He walked toward the rear of the train, calling, “All aboard.” The brakeman nodded to Jill and headed in the opposite direction toward the engine.

  Jill climbed into the vestibule of the Silver Quail. After the porter locked the door, the whistle blew and the California Zephyr moved out of the Grand Junction station.

  Half an hour later, the Silver Lady entered Ruby Canyon, where late afternoon sunlight glowed on the red sandstone cliffs. Pinnacles and spires rose above the Colorado River as the train wound its way around curves that hugged the river’s course. Sometimes the tracks were right under the cliffs, and other times the canyon broadened, with side canyons visible. Here and there were stands of cottonwood trees.

  The twenty-five-mile canyon straddled the Colorado–Utah state line. Once the train emerged from the canyon, it entered a broad valley near the last vestiges of an old railroad town called Westwater. Here the passengers had their last glimpse of the river the tracks had followed for more than two hundred miles. The Colorado River’s course led to the south, while the train continued west into the rugged Utah desert. The landscape outside the windows of the CZ changed from cliffs to weathered hills and washes, changing colors as the afternoon light faded.

  For the trip through Ruby Canyon, Jill had been in the Vista-Dome in the Silver Ranch, the third chair car. Now she took the stairs down to the main level and walked back through the train, making a stop in her quarters. Then she entered the dining car, where several families were eating the Chef’s Early Dinner. She stopped at t
he steward’s counter.

  “Mr. Taylor, do we have Rocky Mountain trout tonight? Some of the passengers have been asking.”

  “We certainly do,” the dining car steward said. “We took on a supply in Denver.”

  One of the chefs poked his head out of the busy kitchen. “We have plenty, Miss McLeod. Real tasty, with a butter and lemon sauce. And we have chocolate pie tonight. I know you like chocolate pie.”

  Jill gave him a rueful smile. “I like any kind of pie. I’ll let the passengers know that trout’s on the menu.”

  She headed back through the train, to the lounge in the dome-observation car where she’d seen Mrs. Baines and Miss Larkin, who’d asked about the trout. They weren’t in the lounge now, though. She continued walking to the lounge area at the back of the car, where she saw several passengers reading and talking. The two women were there, taking a break from their gin game, so she walked over to tell them that the trout was on the dining car menu. When she’d done so, she nodded to Lonnie Clark, who was making the rounds of the passengers in the rear part of the Silver Crescent, taking orders for beverages.

  Miss Grant descended the stairs from the Vista-Dome and sat down in a vacant chair near the writing desk at the front of the lounge. She reached into her oversized handbag, took out a hardback book and set it on her lap. Then she took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, shaking a cigarette from the pack. She lighted the cigarette and took a drag, exhaling smoke. Then she opened the book to the page she had marked with a bookmark.

  As he passed Jill, the porter glanced at her, and then at Miss Grant. He approached the seated woman and said, “May I get you a beverage, miss?”

  Jill hoped that Miss Grant wouldn’t notice the porter’s scrutiny. She seemed not to, though. She glanced at him over the top of her glasses and favored him with a tight smile. “Coffee, please.”

  “Certainly, miss. I have a fresh pot in the lounge.”

  Jill turned as one of the other passengers asked her a question. When she glanced toward the front of the car, Mr. Clark was delivering the coffee to Miss Grant. He moved on, handing a drink to another passenger. Jill walked forward, heading for the front of the car. She took the steps down to the lounge and turned to the right, waiting near the counter in the buffet. A few moments later, Lonnie Clark returned to the buffet and stepped behind the counter.

  “I took a look at Miss Grant, like we talked about,” he said in a low voice. “I have to say, I’m not sure that’s Belle La Tour. I know I saw her up close that one time, but like I said, it was nine years ago. I’m sorry I can’t be more help in that regard.”

  Jill shrugged. Corroborating Doug’s identification with that of Mr. Clark had been a long shot, of course. Doug had seen the woman in 1941 and the porter had seen her a few years later. In either case, that was a long time ago. “That’s all right. I’ve decided the passenger who thinks Miss Grant is Belle La Tour is mistaken. Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  She stepped away from the counter, leaving the lounge. Just as she walked past the door to the drawing room, it opened and Doug came out. A miasma of cigar smoke followed him, then Vic Fontana appeared at Doug’s side. He slapped Doug on the back and laughed, glancing at Jill. He had a friendly grin on his face, but there was an edge to his voice.

  “What d’ya think, Miss McLeod? This guy’s a heckuva poker player. He took a couple hundred bucks off me today, but he better watch out tomorrow. I plan to win it all back before we get to San Francisco.”

  Doug’s only response was a slight smile.

  “I’m glad you gentlemen had an enjoyable afternoon of cards,” Jill said. She left them in the doorway and continued forward.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jill looked around the Silver Banquet and saw the ­Carsons at a table in the middle of the car. There was Milly Demarest with her three children. Florian Rapace had managed to get a table right across the aisle. Uncle Sean was at the same table, along with Miss Brandon and a woman who was traveling in the first coach car.

  “Miss McLeod, please join us for dinner.” Mrs. Warrick was at a table near the steward’s counter in the Silver Banquet. With her were Dr. Ranleigh and her niece Rachel.

  “I’ll sit with those passengers,” Jill told the steward. She walked down the aisle and pulled out the empty chair next to Mrs. Warrick. Once she’d settled into the seat, she pulled the menu from the stand and opened it.

  “We’ve just ordered,” Dr. Ranleigh said. “Geneva and I are having the trout.”

  “Not me,” Rachel said. “I don’t care for fish. I’m having the roast sirloin.”

  “I do like fish, so I’ll have the trout.” Jill marked her meal check for the boneless Rocky Mountain trout and selected a lettuce and tomato salad and green peas to go with it. “I’ve been told there’s chocolate pie for dessert.”

  “Oh, good,” Rachel said. “I love chocolate anything.”

  Jill turned her meal check over to the waiter. She looked around and saw Lois Demarest lean across the aisle to speak to Florian. At that moment the Olivers walked by, heading for a table. Once again Uncle Sean looked at Henry Oliver, a narrow-eyed assessment that told Jill he was trying to place the man.

  She poured herself a glass of water and spoke to her dining companions. “Are you enjoying the trip?”

  “I am indeed,” Ella Ranleigh said. “I always enjoy traveling by train.” She gestured at the window. Outside, the sun had dipped in the west, painting the rugged landscape of southeast Utah in hues of red and orange. “Just look at that sunset.”

  “It’s been about two hours since we left Grand Junction,” ­Rachel said. “I wonder where we are now.”

  “I live by the clock,” Jill said, checking her watch. “We’re about an hour from our next stop. That’s Helper, Utah. We’ll be in the station at seven-ten.”

  “Why is it called Helper?” Rachel asked.

  “The town is named for the helper locomotives the Denver and Rio Grande Western used to help the westbound trains get up the steep grade to a place called Soldier Summit, which is the other side of the town.”

  The waiter brought their first courses, salads for Jill and Mrs. Warrick, vegetable soup for the Ranleighs. The doctor raised her spoon to her lips and tasted her soup. “Mmm, this is good. How long have you been a Zephyrette, Miss McLeod?”

  “Two years.” Jill gave her dining companions an abbreviated history of her tenure on the California Zephyr.

  “When we talked earlier,” Mrs. Warrick said, “you told me you grew up in Colorado.”

  Jill nodded. “Yes. We lived in the City Park neighborhood in Denver. Then during the war, we lived with my grandmother near Cheesman Park.”

  “You must have gone to East High School,” Rachel said, finishing up her soup. “So did I. Class of ’forty-one. Then I went to the University of Colorado in Boulder.”

  Jill smiled. “Yes, I did go to East High. I graduated in ’forty-five. But I went to the University of California instead. You see, my father joined the Navy after Pearl Harbor.”

  “Yes, Pearl Harbor.” Dr. Ranleigh glanced at her niece. There was a somber look in Rachel’s eyes. Jill suspected that the young woman on the other side of the table had lost someone that day, just as Jill had in Korea.

  “Rachel was in school at Boulder and lived on campus,” the doctor continued. “Her mother moved in with me while her ­father—my brother—was overseas. And I started working at Fitzsimmons Army Hospital in nineteen forty-two.”

  “Dad went to officers’ training in ’forty-two,” Jill said. “Then he stopped in Denver on leave before going to the West Coast. He was a doctor on a ship. We didn’t see him again for three years. At the end of the war he was assigned to the Naval Hospital in Oakland, so we packed up and moved to California.”

  The war. Interesting to talk about it now, but it was not so distant, really. It had been almost eight years since V-E Day.

  How well Jill remembered those days after Pearl Harbor, when the United States
had entered the war already raging around the globe. Since Cheesman Park was southeast of downtown and still in the children’s school districts, her parents had made the decision to sell the family’s much smaller house. Lora McLeod and her children had moved in with Grandma Cleary, for the duration, however long that might be.

  During the war, the big rambling house, just a block from the park, was full of people. There was a housing shortage then, and Grandma offered space to a number of relatives who came to Denver to work, some of them at defense industry jobs at Lowry Field and the Rocky Mountain Arsenal. Lora McLeod got a job at Lowry Field, doing secretarial work, while Grandma volunteered at the USO.

  Grandma even rented out rooms, to help make ends meet. So Jill had to double up with her sister, Lucy. A walk-in closet was turned into a bedroom for their younger brother Drew. There was always a bed available for the family members, men and woman, who were in uniform, passing through the Mile High City on their way to wherever, even if that meant a cot in a hallway. Queuing for the bathroom was crowded, and time-consuming.

  “I was still teaching at Colorado Women’s College during the war,” Mrs. Warrick said. “My late husband was in the civil service. He traveled quite a bit, working for the Office of Price Administration, at the regional office in Denver.”

  “Rationing.” Rachel rolled her eyes and sighed. She reached for a roll from the basket on the table and buttered it. “I’m so glad to have real butter. That nasty margarine we had in the dorms was white. It looked like lard. You can’t imagine how I hated that stuff.”

  “Yes, I can,” Jill said. “I hated it too.”

  The Office of Price Administration had been formed before the United States entered the war. Its role was controlling prices and rents. In May 1942 the OPA froze prices and issued ration books. Butter, sugar, milk, coffee, meat—everything was in short supply for civilians, who now had to keep track of their rationing points as well as their money. Favorite recipes had to be rewritten to take into account the restrictions of rationing.