The Ghost in Roomette Four

by Janet Dawson

  On this warm summer day, the dining room was full, with attentive waiters moving quickly from kitchen to tables. In one corner, a pianist at a baby grand played a song called “Where Is Your Heart.” The romantic theme from the movie Moulin Rouge was popular right now. During the drive over the Bay Bridge, Jill had been listening to the car radio, and she’d heard the recording by Percy Faith and his orchestra.

  Before mentioning her experience with the purported ghost, Jill had told Tidsy about her encounter with the purported Hollywood director. Her friend had responded with peals of laughter. “Director, my foot. It sounds like he was making a pass. An inventive one, at that.”

  Now Jill gazed around the room of well-dressed women and men in tailored suits. In her seersucker dress and white jacket, she felt like a country mouse who had come to the city. Across the table was Mrs. Tidsdale, who preferred to be called Tidsy, by her friends, anyway. Jill was pleased to be counted among those friends. Tidsy had been a passenger on Jill’s train back during an eventful eastbound run in December, and the two women had forged a bond. Now they met for lunch in the city, every month or so. This lunch date had been arranged before Jill left town the week before.

  Tidsy was a tart-tongued, brassy blonde in her late forties, a woman of opinions who wasn’t afraid to share them. She had a fondness for alcoholic beverages and salty language, liked red dresses and a good game of poker, and smoked like the proverbial chimney. Today her round figure was packed into a form-fitting jersey dress in an eye-popping shade of crimson. The garment’s hue matched her long fingernails and the lipstick on her full lips. Her chunky garnet ring glittered as she waved her fork.

  Jill pointed out an affable-looking man at a nearby table. “Who is that? He looks familiar. I’m sure I’ve seen his picture in the newspaper.”

  “I should say you have.” Tidsy chuckled. She waved at the man, and he saluted her with a raised glass. “That’s George Christopher. He’s president of the San Francisco Board of Supervisors. He ran for mayor in ‘fifty-one but got beat. I know him and his wife, Tula. Nice people. George was born in Greece and immigrated with his family when he was just a kid, a few years after the big quake. Word is, George is planning another run in two years. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wins. He’ll make a good mayor.” The waiter brought her scotch and she took a sip. “Now, tell me more about your experience with the supernatural. I do love a good ghost story.”

  Jill paused, her fork hovering over the broiled salmon on her plate. “I’m still not convinced that what I saw was a ghost. It could have been a trick of the light, or the fact that I was so tired that night.”

  “Or Scrooge’s underdone potato.” Tidsy speared one of the roasted potatoes that accompanied her medium-rare roast beef.

  Jill laughed. “Funny, I thought the same thing, at the time.” Then her expression turned serious. “There was more to it than the light, though. When I went inside the roomette, I felt a chill. And I heard taps. Four distinct taps.”

  “Curiouser and curiouser.” Tidsy sipped her drink. “A trick of the light, yes, that could account for what you saw. But the cold and the taps? Very interesting. So the porter is convinced that the ghost is Mr. Randall, the man whose body you found on the train. How did this Mr. Randall die?”

  Jill took a sip of her iced tea. “I’m not sure. I never found out the results of the autopsy. The doctor who examined the body in the roomette said it could have had something to do with his heart. There was a prescription bottle nearby, for Digoxin. That’s digitalis, and people with heart conditions use that.”

  “Digitalis. This man was in his thirties, you say?” Tidsy looked thoughtful. “It happens. When I was growing up, I had a cousin who was born with a heart defect. He used digitalis, too, as I recall, and died fairly young. Now, this happened in May, right?” When Jill confirmed this, Tidsy went on. “I have a friend who lives in Oakland. Her niece was engaged and the fiancé died unexpectedly, in May. The young woman who was meeting the man at the Oakland Mole, what was her name?”

  “Margaret Vennor.”

  “It’s the same person. Poor girl.” Tidsy spooned more horseradish sauce onto her roast beef. Her face looked a little somber. She must be remembering last December, when Jill had found a body on the train, while the California Zephyr was traveling through a remote Colorado canyon. The murder victim had been Tidsy’s friend.

  “Then the aunt I called from the Mole was…”

  “Helen Vennor, yes.” Tidsy reached for her scotch and took a sip. “We’ve known each other since college. We both grew up here in the city, me in the Mission District and Helen out in the Richmond. But we didn’t meet until we went to the university in Berkeley. We roomed together for a couple of years, and then we both got married. My husband was killed in the war and I went off to Washington to work as a government girl. Helen stayed here in the Bay Area. Her husband, Daniel, is a businessman, has a big company over in Oakland. He and his older brother, Alex, were both in the Navy during the war. The brother died. He was killed early in the war, at Midway, I think. Helen and Daniel took in his daughter. I gather the girl’s mother left, just took off a year or so before the father died. I think Margaret Vennor is about your age.”

  Jill nodded. “She appeared to be. I stayed with her until her aunt arrived, and I met Mrs. Vennor briefly. That’s the only contact I had with either of them.”

  “Helen and I don’t see each other as often as we should, but we talk on the phone from time to time. In fact, she called just a few weeks ago, to invite me to a party. They have this garden shindig every year. I asked how her niece was doing and she said the girl is having a difficult time getting over her fiancé’s death. Not surprising, since it was just a couple of months ago. But you know how that is. Losing someone you love. We both do.”

  A hint of sadness came to Tidsy’s eyes. It was the first time Jill had seen a chink in the older woman’s brash self-confidence. “My husband’s name was Rick. We knew each other in high school, but we didn’t get together until after I graduated from Cal. Got married in November of ’forty-one, a month before Pearl Harbor. He was crazy about flying. Worked at the San Francisco airport before he joined the Army Air Corps. Then he went off to Tokyo with Jimmy Doolittle. Most of those guys made it home, eventually. Rick didn’t.”

  The Doolittle raid on April 18, 1942 had provided a much-needed boost to Americans still reeling from the shocks of Pearl Harbor, the Philippines and Guam. Led by Lieutenant Colonel James Doolittle of the Army Air Corps, sixteen B-25B bombers launched from U.S.S. Hornet, an aircraft carrier in the western Pacific. Without fighter escort, the bombers took the war to Tokyo, the first such attack on the Japanese mainland. Fifteen of the bombers made it to China, where they crashed on land or in the sea, while one made it all the way to the Soviet Union. Of the eighty crew members, most eventually returned home, though some ended up as prisoners of war, their fates unknown until the war ended. Tidsy’s husband had been among the casualties.

  “You lost your fiancé in Korea,” Tidsy said now. “All these news reports, about the Armistice and the end of that war, must be bringing up those feelings again.”

  “Yes, the headlines are definitely bringing back memories. Even though it’s been more than two years since Steve died.”

  Tidsy picked up her glass and took another sip of scotch. “This whole thing is fascinating. I wonder if this ghost—”

  “If there is such a thing,” Jill interrupted.

  “If the ghost is trying to communicate,” Tidsy finished. “What about those taps? It’s got to be more than the wheels knocking.”

  “Wheels make a different sound.” Jill took the last bite of her salmon, thinking. Then she said, “Taps. I heard four distinct taps. If it was train signals… Trains blow their whistles in different patterns, to convey messages. For example, a train approaching a crossing blows two long, one short and one long. Four short blasts on the whistle means a request for a signal to be given, or repeated. Maybe it�
��s just four taps because it’s roomette number four. Or maybe we’re both being silly.”

  Tidsy laughed. “I’ve been silly before and no doubt will be again. No skin off my nose.”

  Jill set down her fork as another thought came to her. “Morse Code.”

  “Morse Code,” Tidsy repeated. “I used to know Morse Code, but I’m rusty. I’ll have to look up and see what four taps mean.”

  “I’ll look it up, too. Dad has a booklet somewhere. I’ve seen it in his study.”

  Tidsy finished her roast beef and reached for her scotch, swirling the amber liquor, the ice cubes clinking in the glass. “We need to have a séance.”

  Jill stared at her. “You can’t be serious.”

  A wicked smile played on Tidsy’s red lips. “Oh, but I am. I’ve always wanted to go to a séance, and now I have the perfect excuse to host one.”

  “Parlor games,” Jill said. “But this isn’t a game. Miss Vennor is a real person who has suffered a terrible loss.”

  “I understand that.” Tidsy rattled the ice cubes again. “But if getting in touch with her dead fiancé will let her move on, it might help. On the other hand, maybe we wouldn’t need her at the séance. You would do. You’ve seen the ghost.”

  “I saw a flickering light,” Jill argued. “I’m not ready to concede that it was a ghost. There could be a perfectly logical explanation for the whole thing.”

  “Or not.” Tidsy smiled. “You should be more open to the possibility.”

  The waiter appeared at the table, collecting their plates. “Would you ladies care to see the dessert menu?”

  “Yes, we would,” Tidsy said. After the waiter departed, she looked at Jill. “I have no idea how to hold a séance. I don’t suppose there’s a how-to manual. I guess we’d need a medium. I wonder if mediums advertise in the Chronicle. Or have listings in the Yellow Pages. Further research is most definitely needed.”

  The waiter returned with dessert menus and refreshed Jill’s iced tea. Jill glanced at the menu and decided to try the lemon tart. Tidsy laughed, a wicked smile on her face. “I’ll have devil’s-food cake. Sounds appropriate. After all, a séance may be the devil’s own business.”

  Chapter Seven

  A séance. What have I unleashed? Jill asked herself. The devil’s own business indeed.

  She and Tidsy had argued about the séance while they ate their desserts. Jill was against the idea. But the irrepressible Tidsy was determined to move ahead and find a medium. “We could hold the séance at my apartment.” She tapped one red fingernail on the rim of her dessert plate as she made plans.

  They said good-bye in the lobby of the Palace Hotel. Jill headed out to New Montgomery Street, walking half a block to where she had parked the Ford. She unlocked the car and got in, driving home over the Bay Bridge. In Oakland, she wound through Chinatown and into the tube that went under the estuary to Alameda, coming out on Webster Street on the other side.

  She stopped at an intersection, waiting as a couple of boys on bicycles pedaled past. Then she turned and drove a couple of blocks to the McLeod home. She parked the Ford at the curb, behind a familiar red Studebaker that belonged to her sister Lucy’s fiancé, Ethan Keller. The driveway was already occupied by her brother Drew’s car. The 1949 Mercury coupe was his pride and joy. He’d bought the car two years ago from a sailor at the Alameda Naval Air Station, and he’d fixed it up, painting the exterior midnight blue. Dressed in faded dungarees and a T-shirt that had seen better days, he was using several old rags and a bucket of soapy water to clean the dust from his car. He was tall, like their father, and had Jill’s blue eyes and light brown hair, worn with a side part. As she came up the sidewalk, he paused in his washing job, waving at her. “Hey, Sis,” he said, reaching for the bottle of Coke he’d left on the pavement.

  Lucy and Ethan sat on the porch swing, holding hands, with two glasses and a pitcher of lemonade on a nearby table. Ethan called to her. “Hey, there, Berkeley.”

  “How are you, Stanford?” Jill said.

  Ethan was tall, broad-shouldered and blond with blue eyes, a former fullback who’d played for Stanford University, across the bay in Palo Alto. Jill’s alma mater, the University of California at Berkeley, was Stanford’s biggest rival. Jill and Ethan were always joshing about the rivalry, particularly in the fall, around the time of the annual Big Game between Cal and Stanford.

  Lucy waggled her fingers at her sister. “We’re going to see that new movie, Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, this coming weekend. Maybe you and Mike can join us, make it a double date. I’m sure he’d like to see Jane Russell and Marilyn Monroe.”

  “So would I. The movie would be fun. I’ll check with Mike.”

  Jill opened the front door. Instead of going upstairs to her room, she headed down the hall to her father’s study at the back of the house.

  Morse Code, she thought. She knew it was named for Samuel F. B. Morse, one of the people who invented the telegraph. It was a method of transmitting text, through short and long signals, called dots and dashes. She knew from experience that if the California Zephyr was stopped between stations and a message needed to be sent, the brakeman would climb the nearest pole and tap into the line, sending a Morse Code message to the nearest station. Her own knowledge of Morse Code was limited to the signal for S-O-S, three dots for S, three dashes for O, and three more dots for the second S. Her father had a Morse Code booklet, left over from his Navy days. She scanned the shelves, which were full of medical books as well as a collection of the western novels her father loved. Finally she spotted a small beige booklet, the one about Morse Code. She leafed through the pages, looking at the dots and dashes that, in combination as clicks, taps or flashing lights, were used to make letters.

  Four dots meant the letter H. She shut the booklet and put it back on the shelf. She thought again of what she’d experienced on the train—the light that moved into the roomette, the sudden cold, the four knocks in rapid succession. If there was a ghost, was it trying to communicate something?

  This is crazy, she thought. I can’t believe I’m even considering the possibility.

  She went up to her room and kicked off her shoes. Sophie had made herself a nest on the bed pillows, curling into a tight ball. Jill leaned over and scratched the cat’s ears. Sophie purred and stretched, rolling over so Jill could tickle her belly.

  Jill straightened and unbuttoned the dress she’d worn for her lunch date. She hung the dress in the closet and put on soft, comfortable capri pants, adding a short-sleeved cotton blouse. Then she went to her small desk and pulled out a drawer. Inside were the little bound notebooks she used during her Zephyrette journeys, to keep track of what happened on the train so that she could write her trip reports. After she filled the notebooks, she tossed them in this drawer. As for why she kept them, she thought it might be interesting, sometime in the future when she was no longer a Zephyrette, to write an article or a book about her experiences. Now she reached inside the drawer. She dated the notebooks on the front cover, and the most current one was on top. She recalled that she’d been at the end of the previous notebook back in May, when she had discovered Kevin Randall’s body in roomette four. She found the notebook she sought and opened it, looking for the phone number Margaret Vennor had given her that day. Then she slipped the notebook into her pocket and put on a pair of sandals.

  She used the upstairs phone extension, which was on a table near the door to her parents’ bedroom. Jill dialed the number. The phone rang several times, then was answered. Jill thought she recognized the voice at the other end of the line as that of the older woman she’d talked with that day. Jill had stayed with Miss Vennor in the office until her aunt had arrived, then she’d excused herself and gone off to finish her own duties. Now she asked to speak to Margaret Vennor.

  “Margaret’s not home right now,” Mrs. Vennor said. “May I give her a message?”

  “My name is Jill McLeod. I’m the Zephyrette who was there that day, when Mr. Randall died.
”

  “Yes, I remember you,” Mrs. Vennor said. “You were very kind. I don’t think I had the opportunity to thank you, so I’ll do that now.”

  “You’re welcome. It was only what I had to do, under the circumstances. I’m so sorry for Miss Vennor’s loss. I hope she’s well.”

  “As well as can be expected, considering.”

  “I would really like to speak with her. I’m in Alameda.” Jill gave Mrs. Vennor her telephone number.

  Mrs. Vennor repeated the number and added, “I’ll let her know, Miss McLeod.” Her voice held a note of curiosity, but she didn’t ask for further details.

  “By the way, Mrs. Vennor, I’m a friend of Grace Tidsdale. I just had lunch with her.”

  Helen Vennor’s voice warmed. “Oh, Tidsy. She’s one of my best friends. Quite a character, as I’m sure you know. You must have met her on a train trip.”

  “Yes, I did. And she is certainly one of a kind.”

  After ending the call, Jill took the notebook back to her bedroom. Then she went downstairs, heading back to the kitchen, where Lora McLeod stood at the kitchen counter, with a colorful assortment of vegetables—yellow squash, red and green bell peppers, dark green cucumbers and bright orange carrots—arrayed near her wooden cutting board. Her mother was peeling the outer layer from a large yellow onion. That done, she set the onion on the board. The first cut released the pungent odor as she diced the onion, then swept the pieces into a large bowl.

  “I made lemonade and iced tea. Both pitchers are in the fridge. Help yourself.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” Jill filled a glass with ice and lemonade.

  “How was your lunch with Mrs. Tidsdale?”

  “Wonderful. We went to the Garden Court at the Palace Hotel. Very grand. I had salmon and Tidsy had roast beef.”

  Her mother smiled. “The Garden Court. How wonderful. Your father took me there once, for our anniversary. It was lovely, very special. If you had a big lunch, you might not have much appetite for this meatloaf I’m making.” She opened the refrigerator door and took out a package of ground beef, setting it on the counter next to the bowl of onion bits.