Death Deals a Hand

by Janet Dawson

  That first spring, Jill, her siblings and several cousins dug up the grass in Grandma’s yard, front and back. They planted a huge victory garden, growing enough vegetables to feed the house’s occupants. On one side of the backyard was a tree that produced plenty of McIntosh apples, so they didn’t let any of the fruit go to waste. On the other side of the lot, they built a chicken coop. Several hens provided precious eggs. Relatives who lived in Boulder County kept bees. During trips to Denver they brought jars of honey, to take the place of hard-to-get sugar.

  Those trips from the beekeeping relatives were infrequent. Gas, oil, tires, all of these were rationed. People walked, or carpooled, and the Sunday drives to the mountains Jill remembered from her childhood became just that, memories. Such recreational travel was discouraged. Because of gas rationing, most ordinary citizens got an A sticker for their cars, entitling the holder to three or four gallons of gas per week. War workers got B stickers, which gave them eight gallons per week. C stickers went to doctors, like Dr. Ranleigh, and to ministers, mail carriers and railroad workers, while the truckers who hauled goods from place to place had T stickers, giving them an unlimited supply of gas.

  The waiter appeared at their table, bringing their entrées. Jill picked up her fork. Thinking about wartime rationing made her even hungrier. The trout that was a favorite on the California Zephyr menu looked wonderful and smelled even better. It had been dredged in flour and sautéed, finished with a lemony brown-butter sauce. She cut off a small piece and raised her fork to her lips, savoring her first bite. Delicious.

  The conversation turned away from the war to subjects more current—the first months of the Eisenhower presidency and Dag Hammarskjöld, who had just been named Secretary-General of the United Nations.

  “The most exciting news for me,” Dr. Ranleigh said, “is that announcement by Doctor Jonas Salk a couple of weeks ago. He’s developed a vaccine for polio.”

  “Yes, it’s wonderful,” Mrs. Warrick said. “I had a cousin who had a severe case when he was a young man. He was confined to an iron lung.”

  Jill nodded, remembering a high school classmate who’d been stricken with the disease. The girl had recovered, but she walked with a limp.

  “That epidemic last year was the worst in a long time,” Dr. Ranleigh said. “Nearly sixty thousand cases, and over three thousand deaths.”

  They talked about the promising vaccine a while longer, then they moved on to lighter topics, such as books and movies. Jill confessed to her passion for Agatha Christie, while Mrs. Warrick preferred historical novels, such as her current book, The Silver Chalice by Thomas Costain. Rachel was enjoying a new book, a historical romance called Désirée, by an author named Anne­marie Selinko. The doctor’s reading was usually confined to medical journals, she said, but she was reading The Uninvited, by Dorothy Macardle. “I saw the movie years ago,” she added, “with Ray Milland and Ruth Hussey. It was good, and I’m enjoying the book.”

  The Academy Awards had been televised for the first time in March, and The Greatest Show on Earth won Best Picture. It was something of an upset, since everyone seemed to think High Noon was going to win. At least Gary Cooper won the Best Actor award.

  “I liked The Greatest Show on Earth,” Jill said.

  Rachel laughed. “So did I. It was a lot of fun.”

  “You just like Charlton Heston,” her aunt said.

  Jill and Rachel agreed on something else, that the chocolate pie was delicious.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Come on, honey. Let’s have a nightcap.”

  It was after eight. Jill had just finished an evening walk through the train, returning from the chair cars. She planned to spend some time in her quarters in the Silver Chalet before the train arrived in Provo just after nine.

  When she entered the buffet-lounge car, she saw Uncle Sean in the coffee shop, talking with Mr. Poindexter, both of them sipping from cups on the table in front of them. She smiled at the two men and went down the steps to the lounge.

  Then Jill turned her head as Victor Fontana’s voice boomed out. At first, she thought the invitation to have a drink was directed at Avis Margate, who had just come down the opposite steps, from the rear of the train. Then Jill realized Mr. Fontana was directing his attentions to Pamela Larch, who stood near the counter with Doug.

  “No, thank you,” Miss Larch said, her voice polite. “I don’t care to have a drink this evening.”

  “Come on, honey. One little nightcap before you turn in for the night.” Mr. Fontana took a step toward her. Now Miss Larch backed away from him, crowding closer to Doug

  “The lady doesn’t want to have a drink with you.” Doug’s voice was steely as he looked down at the shorter man.

  “Who made you her keeper?” Fontana snapped. “You damn cardsharp. I got my eye on you.”

  He leered as he moved past Doug, leaning toward Miss Larch. “You had a couple of drinks with me last night, honey. And you looked like you were enjoying it. You weren’t so particular about who you were keeping company with then.” He reached for Miss Larch’s arm. She pulled away from him.

  “Keep your hands off her.” Doug pushed between Mr. Fontana and Miss Larch, his right hand balled into a fist.

  Fontana growled, deep in his throat, his face angry. Behind the kitchen counter, Mr. Peterson looked alarmed, and so did the other passengers in the lounge.

  “Go find the conductor,” Jill told Mr. Peterson. “I just saw him in his office.”

  The waiter nodded and slipped out of the kitchen, hurrying forward toward the chair cars. Then Jill moved into the lounge. “Gentlemen, please.”

  “Doug, let’s go,” Miss Larch said, her voice trembling.

  Before she could say anything else, Fontana leaned closer to Doug and Miss Larch and said something in a hiss. Jill couldn’t hear what he’d said, but the words had their intended effect on their targets. Miss Larch looked as though she was about to burst into tears. Doug grabbed Fontana’s collar with his left hand, balling his right fist again. He shook the shorter man, as though shaking a rag doll. Fontana’s head rocked back. He sputtered, rage sparking in his dark eyes. He too clenched his fists. He cocked back his right arm, ready to take a swing at Doug. “You want a fight, cardsharp? Bring it on.”

  Art Geddes scrambled to his feet, taking a step toward the two men. He put his hands on Fontana’s right arm, pulling it back. “Vic, Vic. Drop it.”

  Suddenly Uncle Sean was there, coming from the coffee shop. He clamped a hand on Doug’s arm. “Hey, what’s going on? Let’s break it up, okay?”

  Doug, with a poisonous glare at Fontana, dropped his hand. Pamela Larch seized his arm and tugged at him. In the corridor, Miss Margate stared at Mr. Fontana, her mouth looking as though she’d just tasted something sour. Then she did an about-face and went back up the steps, heading toward the rear of the train.

  Geddes loomed in back of Fontana, his hand on his associate’s shoulder, pulling him away from the confrontation. “C’mon, Vic. Let’s go back to your room. We’ll do our drinking someplace else.”

  Just then the conductor rounded the corner, his bulk filling the doorway to the lounge. “Is there a problem?” Otis Perkins asked in a rumbling voice, his face stern below his hat with the Denver & Rio Grande insignia.

  Uncle Sean smiled at him, steering Doug away as he stepped up to speak to the conductor. “No problem. We’ve got it solved. Just a misunderstanding, that’s all.”

  “Right, just a misunderstanding. We’re leaving.” Art Geddes nudged Fontana toward the door. The conductor stepped aside to let them pass.

  “I’m just going to have a nightcap with these folks.” Sean smiled at Mr. Perkins. Then he beckoned to the waiter, who had accompanied the conductor back to the lounge.

  “I’ll be right there, sir,” Mr. Peterson said.

  Sean turned to his son and Miss Larch. “Now, suppose you introduce me to this young lady.”

  Doug still looked angry, his jaw clenched, his li
ps compressed in a thin line. But he nodded. He took Miss Larch’s hand and followed his father to a table at the back of the lounge.

  The potential explosion had been defused, for now. Jill found that she was holding her breath. She released it in a sigh.

  “Miss McLeod, tell me what happened,” Mr. Perkins said.

  Jill stepped into the corridor and gave the conductor a report of the incident. “Miss Larch didn’t want to have a drink with Mr. Fontana, and he said something that I didn’t hear, although I suspect from her reaction that it was very unpleasant. I also suspect that Mr. Fontana has had too much to drink this evening.”

  He gave a rumbling laugh. “It happens. At least once every run. Some man gets a snootful and starts forcing his attentions on one of the ladies. Let’s hope that’s the end of it. I’ll brief the new conductor when we get to Salt Lake.”

  Yes, let’s hope, Jill thought. But she wasn’t sure. Whatever Fontana had said to Doug must have been about Miss Larch. It must have been terrible, to make her cousin so angry. And Doug would be on the train until the CZ got to Portola, another twenty hours or so from now. So would Victor Fontana. During that time, there was potential for another confrontation.

  When the conductor had gone, Jill went into the lounge and walked to the table where Mr. Peterson was taking orders. Miss Larch shook her head, indicating she didn’t want anything.

  “Will you join us, Jill?” her uncle asked.

  “Not for a drink,” she said, “but I’ll chat for a while.”

  Mr. Peterson moved away, heading back toward the kitchen.

  “What happened last night?” Doug asked Miss Larch. “He said he’d bought you a drink. Did he make a pass at you?”

  From the troubled look on her face, it was plain that Pamela Larch was reluctant to talk about what had happened on the first night of the westbound run. Then she took a deep breath.

  “Well… Yes, to both questions. It was some time after dinner, I’m not sure when. I was sitting by myself in the buffet there in the dome-observation car, just sipping at a bourbon on the rocks and talking with another passenger who was at the table next to me.”

  She toyed with a strand of her blond hair. “Mr. Fontana was in the buffet, too. He kept looking at me. He wasn’t alone, though. He was with that man from New York City, the one with the accent. Mr. Geddes, his name is. After a while, Mr. Geddes left, and so did the woman I’d been talking with. Then Mr. Fontana came over. He sat down at the table next to me, asked what I was drinking, and offered to buy me another drink. Well, one drink led to another. I’m afraid I was a bit worse for wear the next morning.”

  Jill nodded, remembering how Miss Larch had looked when she came out of her room that morning, coming into the buffet and demanding coffee from the porter.

  “He seemed charming at first. Then he began making advances. So I got up and left.” Miss Larch looked worried. “I swear, I was just drinking with him to be sociable. I must have given him the wrong impression. It’s all my fault.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Doug said. “The guy’s a jerk. He’s angry with me because I’m a better poker player than he is.”

  “He called you a cardsharp,” Jill said. “Earlier today he said you took a couple hundred dollars off him this afternoon.”

  Doug grinned. “It was closer to a thousand. Fontana shouldn’t try to draw to an inside straight.”

  “Did he accuse you of cheating?” Sean asked.

  “After I won that last hand, he implied it.”

  Sean nodded, rubbing his chin. “Yeah, Fontana’s the type. You shouldn’t get on his bad side.”

  “If he can’t stand to lose, he shouldn’t play poker,” Doug said. “As for tonight, if you’d heard what he said. He called her a —”

  “Doug, please. It’s over, let’s forget it.” Pamela Larch reached for his hand and smiled. “I must say, it’s very gallant of you to come to my rescue.”

  “Do you know Mr. Fontana?” Jill asked her uncle.

  He scowled. “‘Mister’ Fontana. Calling a guy like that ‘mister.’ He’s a jumped-up hoodlum from Pueblo. He moved to Denver in the late twenties and worked for the Smaldones, running booze and gambling operations, up until he went to Chicago.”

  The Smaldones were Denver’s crime family. Brothers Eugene, Clyde, and Chauncey, along with a host of relatives and associates, were involved in organized crime, from bootlegging during Prohibition to gambling and bookmaking after repeal. Jill knew her uncle had had run-ins with the Smaldones and their organization during his tenure as a Denver police officer, and now it appeared he had encountered Vic Fontana as well.

  “Let’s talk about something else, please,” Miss Larch said as the waiter brought drinks for the two men.

  “Sure.” Sean raised his glass, an easygoing smile on his face. “Where are you from, Miss Larch? And where are you going?”

  She returned his smile. “I am from Jackson, Mississippi, and I’m going to San Francisco. And how about you, Mr. Cleary?”

  ———

  Several passengers got off the train in Provo, Utah, including Mrs. Higbee, the inquisitive and opinionated woman who’d sat with Jill at lunch. The California Zephyr pulled out of the station at 9:10 p.m., and the lights of the town gave way to darkness as the train headed for Salt Lake City. Jill walked to the dining car to make her last announcement of the day. She lifted the mike from the public address system and pressed the button.

  “Attention, please. Before retiring this evening, please set your watches back one hour, as we pass from the Mountain to the Pacific Time Zone during the night. Good night.”

  Good night, Jill thought as she replaced the mike, but not quite time for bed. She would stay up until the train left Salt Lake City. The train was due to arrive in the Utah state capital in less than an hour, at 10:05. After twenty minutes in the station, the CZ would depart at 10:25. A number of passengers were leaving the train and no doubt there would be quite a few boarding. The next scheduled stop was Elko, Nevada, just before two in the morning. The time zone change would occur as the train crossed from Utah into Nevada.

  Jill walked through the train once more. In the chair cars, many of the passengers had retired for the night, covering themselves with blankets, their heads pillowed by coats. The coffee shop would be open until ten. Several of the tables were occupied by passengers, among them Florian Rapace and Lois Demarest. They were sharing a piece of pie, coffee cups in front of them. Florian laughed. Lois joined in, leaning her head closer to his.

  Jill smiled at them and continued through the buffet-lounge car. When she looked into the lounge, Doug and Miss Larch weren’t there, and neither was Uncle Sean. Perhaps they’d turned in for the night.

  Frank Nathan was at the entrance to the kitchen, talking with Mr. Peterson as the waiter assembled a tray that held a single cup and saucer, a coffeepot, and a creamer and sugar bowl. “Coffee for Mrs. Warrick in bedroom D,” the porter said.

  Jill smiled. “If I drank coffee this late, it would keep me awake. And I’m looking forward to a good night’s sleep.”

  The porter hefted the tray and carried it back in the direction of the sleeper cars. Jill lingered. “Mr. Peterson, I’m sorry about that unpleasantness earlier this evening.”

  “With Mr. Fontana?” The waiter frowned. “It’s not the first time, I’m afraid.”

  “Was there another incident last night?” The waiter seemed reluctant to answer. Like other waiters and porters on the train, no doubt he had seen it all and kept his mouth shut most of the time.

  “It’s just that I heard voices in the corridor outside my door,” Jill said. “This was about ten o’clock, the time the lounge would have closed. The voices were those of a man and a woman, and I’m sure the man was Mr. Fontana.”

  Mr. Peterson nodded. “He likes his liquor. And he fancies himself a ladies’ man. As to what happened last night, Miss Margate came into the lounge sometime during the evening. She was sitting with a couple. After awhil
e Mr. Fontana and Mr. Geddes came in. They had several drinks, then Mr. Geddes left. So did the people Miss Margate had been sitting with. So Mr. Fontana moved over to Miss Margate’s table. He bought her a drink.”

  Just as he had with Pamela Larch earlier that same evening, in the buffet back in the Silver Crescent.

  “Then what?” Jill asked.

  “A bit later, I saw Mr. Fontana put his hand on Miss Margate’s knee,” the waiter said. “She pushed it off. Then he did it again. He was being awfully familiar with her. But she seemed to be handling him. Anyway, it was getting on toward closing time and I gave them the last call. I heard Mr. Fontana say it was too early to call off the party. He told her he had a bottle of fine old Scotch back in his room on the Silver Crescent, and why didn’t they go back there and break that open.”

  Mr. Peterson shook his head. “I didn’t hear what Miss Margate said, but next thing I know, they got up and left the lounge, heading back toward the rear of the train. I closed the lounge, cleaned up, and went to the dormitory. So I don’t know if the lady actually did go back to his room.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Peterson.”

  It must have been Mr. Fontana and Miss Margate I heard outside my door that night, Jill thought. The timing is right. She wondered if she should talk with Miss Margate.

  She continued walking back through the train. The dining car was closed now, but in the kitchen, the crew was still busy, cleaning and preparing for the next day. Crew members would be back at work in the early hours of the morning, getting ready for breakfast. As Jill headed through the sleeper cars, it looked as though many of the passengers had retired for the night. Thin slivers of light were visible under several doors, while others were dark. In the sixteen-section sleeper, the seats had been converted into curtained-off beds. Jill passed the ladies’ room and walked past the berths. At the third set of curtains, the youngest Demarest child, Patty, wearing a pair of red-and-yellow plaid pajamas, peeked at her from the upper berth. Jill waved at her and the child giggled and disappeared from view.