Death Deals a Hand

by Janet Dawson

  “Married or not, Mr. Fontana liked the ladies,” Jill said, her expression thoughtful. “That’s what everyone says. He forced his attentions on two women during the trip. Miss Larch and someone else.”

  “Fontana had a mistress,” Carson said. “Several of them, over the years. At the time we were conducting the investigation, he was involved with a woman who was a singer and dancer at the nightclub.”

  “Belle La Tour,” Jill said.

  “That’s right.” Carson looked at her with curiosity. “How did you know that?”

  Jill glanced at Doug. “Her name came up when Doug was telling me about the Bell Tower. Whatever happened to her?”

  “She went to jail,” Carson said. “She’s one of the nightclub employees who was involved in the ration coupon ring. Belle La Tour was a stage name, of course. Her real name was Elsie Gomul­ka. She was a local girl, grew up in a Polish neighborhood called Bucktown.”

  Jill mulled over what Carson had revealed about the rationing scam, and how it ended. Fontana had no doubt masterminded the whole thing. But he hadn’t gone to jail for it. Someone else had. Was that someone Cora Grant?

  They looked up as Henry Oliver walked into the observation lounge. “Miss McLeod. I thought you would have turned in for the night. I don’t think I’ve met everyone.”

  “Stanley Carson, Sacramento.” Mr. Carson remained seated, but offered his hand.

  “Douglas Cleary,” Doug said. “I believe I met your wife earlier. This is my father —”

  “Sean Cleary,” Oliver said. “I thought I recognized you when I saw you in the dining car.”

  “And I recognized you. Henry Oliver. You have a farm northwest of Arvada.”

  Oliver frowned as he looked over the people assembled in the lounge. “So why did you get me out of bed in the middle of the night?”

  “I’m the one who asked the Pullman conductor to get you out of bed,” Mr. Dutton said. “I’m Bill Dutton, the conductor. We’re conducting an investigation, and we’d like to ask you some questions. One of the passengers, Mr. Fontana, is dead.”

  Something flickered across Oliver’s face, then he masked it. “Why me? What’s that got to do with the price of wheat?”

  “You and Fontana were friends,” Sean said.

  “I knew who he was.” There was a wary undercurrent in ­Oliver’s laconic voice. “I wouldn’t call that being friends.”

  “Business associates, then.” Sean fixed him with a stare. ­“During the Depression, you had a still on your property.”

  Oliver hesitated. “It wasn’t my still.”

  “It was on your land, and you were paid to ignore it. The still belonged to the Smaldones, and Vic Fontana was the guy who handed you the money.”

  Oliver gave a derisive snort. “You’re free with your accusations, Cleary. Especially when you can’t prove them. Lots of people had stills. Besides, it’s ancient history. Prohibition’s been gone twenty years.”

  “What happened at the bank in Arvada in nineteen thirty-seven isn’t ancient history. It’s as fresh in my mind as if it happened yesterday.”

  “A bank in Arvada?” Jill looked at her uncle. “What happened?”

  “Somebody died,” Doug said. “I remember. You went to the funeral.”

  “That’s right,” Sean said. “A good man died. His name was Tom Kendrick, and he was a friend of mine, a Denver cop. He was a uniform, working a Denver beat. But his salary didn’t go far enough, so he moonlighted as a bank guard in Arvada. Then one day in the spring of ’thirty-seven, Vic Fontana and two of his buddies robbed that bank. They got away with a lot of cash. Right after that, Fontana left Denver and moved to Chicago, where he used his cut of the bank money to buy into the liquor business. During that robbery, Fontana shot Tom Kendrick in the head. Kendrick died right there in the bank lobby. The robbers hightailed it out of the bank and went west. They hid out on Oliver’s farm.”

  “You can’t prove that,” Oliver said.

  “I notice you don’t deny it,” Sean shot back. “You were an accessory to that murder.”

  Oliver scowled. “The hell I was. I knew nothing about it. You were a Denver cop. The Arvada bank job wasn’t even your jurisdiction.”

  “Kendrick was my friend. That makes it my jurisdiction.” The two men glared at each other.

  Doug put a hand on his father’s arm. “Now I remember where I heard Fontana’s name. You talked about him, back when Tom Kendrick was killed. You blame Fontana for Kendrick’s death. And you think Oliver helped Fontana after the fact. But that’s in the past, Dad. We need to figure out what’s going on now.”

  “I agree,” Mr. Carson said. “Let’s stay focused on Fontana’s death.”

  Jill looked at her uncle, nodding. “That’s what Mr. Geddes was implying earlier, when he said you had it in for Mr. Fontana, because of something that happened in the past.”

  “And that means whatever you’re doing here,” Oliver said, “this so-called investigation, is tainted.”

  “You can call it tainted if you like,” Sean said. “But I didn’t kill Fontana. I didn’t like the man and I sure as hell blamed him for Tom’s death. But I didn’t kill him. I went to bed after you saw me in the coffee shop, Jill. What about you, Oliver? Where were you?”

  The farmer shook his head. “I didn’t kill him either. And I was in my bedroom with my wife.”

  “But you did walk back here, to the observation car,” Jill said. “I saw you in the transcontinental sleeper earlier, before we got to Salt Lake City. You were headed this way. Another passenger saw you enter this car. But the porter didn’t see you, and he was in the buffet kitchen. So you must have gone into one of the bedrooms, or the drawing room. I don’t think you visited the Carsons or Miss Larch. So that leaves the drawing room. You were going to see Mr. Fontana. Why?”

  Oliver looked at her through narrowed eyes. Finally he spoke. “All right. I did go see Fontana. Just don’t say anything about this to my wife. There’s no reason to involve her in any of this. She doesn’t know anything about…what went on in the past.”

  Jill suspected that Trudy Oliver knew of, and chose to ignore, her husband’s past involvement with Victor Fontana and the still that was supposedly hidden on the Olivers’ farm. As for the present, that was another matter.

  “I didn’t know Fontana was on the train,” Oliver continued, “until I saw him in the dining car earlier today, when my wife and I were having lunch. I recognized him, even though it had been fifteen years since I’d seen him. And he recognized me. He came up to me later in the day and said he wanted to discuss a business proposition. I tried putting him off. But he’s persistent. He wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. Finally he wore me down. He told me to come back to his drawing room later in the evening. It was before we got to Salt Lake City. That must be when you and that other passenger saw me.”

  “What sort of business proposition?” Jill asked.

  “It wasn’t illegal, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Oliver’s voice held a challenge as he looked at Jill and Sean. “Fontana wanted to buy some of my land. You see, the town of Arvada has grown out to my farm. Fontana wanted to put up a warehouse, get into the liquor distribution business in the Denver area. I told him I wasn’t interested. I had no intention of selling him the land. But he kept pushing. Finally I told him I’d think about it. Then I left. And I’m telling you, Vic Fontana was alive when I left that drawing room.”

  “Did you see anyone else when you left?” Jill asked.

  Oliver shook his head. “No. I didn’t see the porter. And I didn’t see anyone back here.”

  Jill thought about this. Miss Grant was still in the lounge when Henry Oliver arrived in the Silver Crescent, but she must have returned to her own car while he was in the drawing room.

  They looked up as Mr. Jessup, the porter from the transcontinental sleeper, entered the lounge. “Miss McLeod, I went looking for you and Mr. Winston told me you were back here. We need your first-aid kit. That la
dy from England, Miss Brandon, she fell and hit her head.”

  “Oh, no. I hope she’s not too badly injured.” Jill reached for her first-aid kit. If Miss Brandon’s injuries were more serious, she would send the porter for Dr. Ranleigh.

  Jill and the porter headed up the corridor past the bedrooms and went through the vestibule into the Silver Rapids, the transcontinental sleeper. Edith Brandon stood in the doorway of bedroom C, wrapped in a warm wool robe the color of sherry. She held a cloth to her right temple.

  “Miss Brandon,” Jill said. “The porter says you fell and hurt yourself. Let me take a look.”

  The Englishwoman pulled the cloth away from her head. The cloth was stained with blood and so was her gray hair. Jill looked closer and saw a small abrasion on the skin just below the hairline.

  “I’m sorry to be a bother,” the Englishwoman said. “I got out of bed to answer a call of nature. When I came out of the WC, I stumbled, tripped over my own feet, and bumped my head. I feel a bit silly about the whole thing. It’s bled a bit, as you see. I put a damp cloth on it. It’s probably nothing, but I thought I ought to have someone take a look at it. So I rang for the porter and asked him to fetch you.”

  “It’s not a bother at all,” Jill said. “Any time you hit your head, it’s good to have it checked out. Now, if you’ll go inside and have a seat, I’ll take a look at this. And if it is more serious, we do have a doctor on board, and I’ll send for her.”

  Miss Brandon backed into the bedroom and sat down on the bed. Jill followed, setting the first-aid kit on the floor. She examined the wound. Fortunately, the abrasion looked minor. “When you hit your head did you lose consciousness at all? Or see stars?”

  “No, to both questions,” Miss Branson said.

  “Good. I don’t think you have a concussion,” Jill said. “Please tilt your head upward.” Miss Brandon did so, then she winced a bit as Jill cleaned the abrasion with some antiseptic.

  “I notice the train is moving quite slowly,” Miss Brandon said.

  “We’ve had a slight delay up ahead, a freight train derailment. It will be cleared up soon, and we’ll make up some time.”

  “No matter. I’m sure I’ll sleep well once I get back to bed.”

  Jill dabbed Merthiolate on the abrasion and covered it with a small bandage. “That should do it.” She put the supplies back into the first-aid kit.

  Miss Brandon looked up at Jill. “Thank you, Miss McLeod, for all you do looking after the passengers. It’s greatly appreciated. By the way, I had a lovely dinner in the dining car. The Rocky Mountain trout was every bit as delicious as I’d been told. I was at the same table as your uncle, Mr. Cleary. He’s quite an interesting fellow. He was telling us about some of the cases he investigated over the years.”

  “Yes, I know he was.”

  “I found his stories fascinating, and so did Monsieur Rapace, the young Frenchman. When he was paying attention, of course.” Miss Brandon smiled. “He’s quite taken with that young woman named Lois, and we were seated right across the aisle from her. She was making eyes at him all through dinner. If I’m not mistaken, she’s a good deal younger than he is. I’ll bet her mother finds her a handful. In fact, later in the evening, I saw her sneaking out, no doubt to join him.”

  “Sneaking out? How did she do that?” Jill asked.

  “I’d been up to the Vista-Dome in the lounge car. It was after nine, after we left that town called Provo. Once we were away from the town, the stars were marvelous. I got a bit sleepy and decided to go to bed. So I walked back here to my car. I was going through the next car up, the one with all the curtained berths, and that’s when I saw her. A lot of the folks in that car had gone to bed already, and the lights were rather dim. But I saw Lois quite clearly. She came out of a lower berth, all wrapped in her bathrobe. She took it off and I saw that she had her clothes on underneath. She put on her shoes and when she saw me, she held her finger to her lips. Like this.” Miss Brandon demonstrated the familiar signal for keeping one’s mouth shut. “Then she went ­haring off in the direction of the lounge. I assume she was meeting the young Frenchman.”

  “What time was this?”

  “I think it was around nine-thirty,” Miss Brandon said. “It was definitely before we got to Salt Lake City. I was in bed by then. And I should get back to bed now. A good night’s sleep will cure what ails me.”

  When Jill left Miss Brandon’s room, she gave Mr. Jessup, the porter, an update. Then she stopped in the corridor, thinking about what Miss Brandon had told her about Lois Demarest. Jill had seen Lois and Florian in the coffee shop during her last walk-through. That was after the stop in Provo.

  I really do need to talk with Lois, Jill thought. The girl had been moving around the train during the time Mr. Fontana had been shot, and during the time someone hid the gun in Doug’s bedroom. It was possible she had seen something during her after-hours perambulations, something that could point to the killer.

  “Mr. Jessup,” Jill said to the porter. “Would you keep an eye on my first-aid kit? There’s someone I need to talk with in the next car.”

  He nodded and took the bag from her. Then Jill turned and walked forward, heading for the Silver Maple.

  ­Chapter Twenty-One

  When she entered the sixteen-section sleeper, Jill counted curtains and found the upper berth where she’d seen Patty Demarest, fourth from the end. She tweaked the edge of the curtain and peered inside the lower berth. Was the occupant Lois, or her mother?

  Her mother, as it turned out. Milly Demarest was asleep, lying on her side, with her mouth slightly open and one hand tucked near her face. She wore a high-necked flannel nightgown and her hair was sticking up from her head.

  Jill touched Mrs. Demarest’s hand and whispered, hoping that she wouldn’t wake anyone else in the vicinity. “Mrs. Demarest. Please wake up.”

  Mrs. Demarest’s eyes opened and she stared out at Jill. “What’s the matter? We can’t be to Winnemucca yet.”

  “I’m sorry to wake you. I need to talk with your daughter Lois.”

  Milly Demarest struggled to a sitting position and squinted at Jill. “Lois? What’s she done?”

  “Could we please go into the ladies’ room? That way we won’t disturb anyone else.”

  Mrs. Demarest swung her legs out from the bed, pushing the curtain aside as she stuck her feet into a pair of carpet slippers. She reached for the green flannel robe that had been bunched into a heap next to her pillow. Then she stood, putting on the robe and tying the belt around her waist. Once she was upright, she went to the lower berth to her right and opened the curtain.

  “Get up, Lois. Into the ladies’ room. Now.”

  Inside the berth, Lois sat up, wearing a shimmery red nightgown that revealed a lot of her bosom. She opened her mouth to argue, but her mother cut her off. “Not a word out of you. Get moving.”

  Lois looked mulish, but she did as she was told. She put on her slippers and a robe that matched the nightgown, and got to her feet. Her face looked sulky and a grumbling noise escaped her pursed lips as she walked past her mother and stalked toward the ladies’ room at the end of the car. Mrs. Demarest followed.

  Just then, Patty pulled aside the curtain in the berth above her mother’s. Then she too exited her bed, clambering down the ladder in her pajamas and socks. She scampered toward the ladies’ room, with Jill close behind.

  “Now what is this about?” Mrs. Demarest said when they were all inside.

  Jill turned to face the older daughter. “Lois, I need to ask whether you saw anything unusual this evening. You were in the buffet-lounge car when I did my walk-through, before we got to Salt Lake City. And you were seen later, in the Silver Falls, the next sleeper car.”

  “Wait a minute.” Milly Demarest glared at Lois. “We went to bed right after the train left Provo, about a quarter after nine. I saw you get into that berth.”

  Lois didn’t say anything. She refused to meet her mother’s angry gaze. Instead, she smoo
thed a hand through her dark hair, her lips clamped shut in an unrepentant pout, her arms folded over the front of her red robe.

  “She wasn’t sleeping,” Patty said from the doorway. “As soon as Mama went to bed, Lois got up. I saw her. She had her robe on over her clothes. She took it off and sneaked out. She made the pillows look like she was still in the bed.”

  “You little rat.” Lois raised her hand and directed a slap at Patty.

  But her mother was quicker. Milly grabbed Lois’s hand with her own, shaking her daughter hard. Her words came out in an angry hiss. “I have just about had it with you, and your behavior. You have some explaining to do. Where did you go? Who were you with?”

  Lois tilted up her chin, her voice defiant. “I was with Florian.”

  “Who the hell is Florian?” her mother snapped.

  “He’s a Frenchman,” Lois said, tossing her head. “Very sophisticated.”

  “I’ll sophisticate you.” Mrs. Demarest shook Lois’s arm again. “What the hell were you thinking? Or were you thinking at all? Leave it to you to throw yourself at some French roué. You’re only sixteen, for God’s sake.”

  Patty looked alarmed now, looking from her mother to the closed door of the women’s restroom. “Mama, be quiet. People will hear you.”

  Jill said in her most placating voice, “To be fair, I wouldn’t call Monsieur Rapace a roué. He’s a graduate student at Northwestern. He seems to be a very nice young man, probably twenty-three, twenty-four at most.”

  “I don’t care how nice he is. He’s still too old for her,” Mrs. Demarest said, her voice low and angry. “I swear, when we get home, I’m going to lock you up until you’re twenty-one. Then you can go catting around all you want. But not until then.”

  Now Lois looked as though she was about to cry. “I wasn’t catting around. We sat and talked in the buffet-lounge car, and then we went up to the Vista-Dome in the Silver Chalet. To look at the stars. After that we went to his roomette.” She tilted her chin, unrepentant. “He kissed me, but other than that, he was a perfect gentleman.”