Destination Murder Read Free Page B

to board a train in many years, aside from scenes from old black-and-white movies where a conductor calls out in his best baritone. This day it was announced in stentorian tones by Bruce, the Whistler Northwind’s guest services supervisor. He’d made the rounds of passengers in the small, pleasant station house in North Vancouver prior to our leaving, happily welcoming us, fielding last-minute questions, and distributing souvenir pins: a circle with a W over an N, divided by an arrow. There was a large group clustered around a coffee and pastry bar for those who hadn’t had time for breakfast before leaving the hotel and who couldn’t wait until we were served brunch on the train. Others waited eagerly on the platform outside or wandered through a picnic area where a striking young man, presumably another passenger, sat alone at a table. While I watched, a young woman in uniform came over and sat down with him. She offered him a doughnut.
    Eventually, Bruce and his staff rounded us up and we were led to our cars on the Whistler Northwind, where the onboard serving staff stood at attention as we approached, the attractive young men and women smartly dressed in black slacks, white shirts, silver-patterned vests, and straight ties. Hands were extended to help us step up onto the train and into the Summit Coach, which had been reserved for our group, a luxury domed car with tinted glass on the upper portion to mitigate the sun’s rays. Seating was two abreast on each side of the aisle, and we were instructed to choose any of the large, comfortable seats. It was surprisingly modern, considering it was part of a historic train, but the cars that flanked it were of an older vintage. While we waited for last-minute stragglers to arrive, I took the opportunity to explore them. On one end of the Summit was the club car, the Pavilion, which Junior had talked about. It had stainless steel walls and casual seating served by a bar. It was the oldest car on the train, Bruce proudly told me.
    “All our cars have seen service around North America and beyond. Your dining car, for instance, was once part of the City of Denver, which ran from Chicago to Denver.”
    When I poked my head into the Strathnaver, the original name of our dining car, it was already set for our brunch with immaculate white table linens, gleaming glass and silverware, and vases of colorful fresh flowers. An art deco-style mural depicting scenes from British Columbia, through which the train would travel, was painted in a panel over the windows and ran down one length of the car and up the other. Permanently coupled to it was the D’Arcy kitchen car, a full-service galley with the latest in commercial cooking equipment.
    “Mind if ah join you?” Maeve Pinckney asked after I’d returned to the Summit Coach and settled into a window seat near the front.
    “Please,” I said.
    After she was seated, I asked, “Where’s your husband?”
    “Junior? Probably out takin’ pictures of the train with some of the other foamers.”
    “Foamers?”
    “Railroad buffs. You know, they foam at the mouth over choo-choo trains.” She laughed, shook her head, and pulled out needlepoint she’d already started. “Won’t see much o’ Junior for the next three days. He’ll be hangin’ out the door between cars the whole trip. I guess you could say ah’m a train widow.”
    “You don’t seem to mind,” I said.
    “Ah’m used to it by now, Jessica. I’ve been on more damn trains over the past twenty years than I can keep count of.” She turned to her needlepoint, leaving me to observe other passengers as they chose their seats. Hank and Deedee Crocker, the couple from Pittsburgh I’d met the night before, sat a few rows back, across the aisle from us. I noticed that Theodora Blevin, whose entrance had sparked heated comment at the chocolate buffet, had taken a window seat and piled hand luggage on the seat next to her, perhaps to keep anyone else from joining her. Her