we suffered enough? You’re making it worse. Al was not poisoned.” She picked up a handkerchief and dabbed her dry eyes.
I realized I was sitting with a woman who’d just lost her husband, and I didn’t want to sound combative. “Everyone’s understandably on edge,” I said gently, and smiled. “I’m perfectly willing to sit with you for as long as you wish, but perhaps you’d prefer to be alone at a time like this.”
I stood.
“Stop spreading that stupid rumor!” she growled, venom in her voice.
I said nothing, simply left the car and rejoined Reggie, who stood talking with Bruce and Callie. Other conversation in the car was muffled and somber.
“We’re pulling into Whistler,” Bruce said.
“I’ll be glad when we’re there,” said Callie, who’d been crying. Her eyes were puffy and red, and tears had streaked makeup on one cheek. “Having his body in the next car is spooky.”
“Almost there,” said Bruce, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Where’s Jenna?”
“I don’t know,” Callie said. “Why can’t we go faster? I just want to get off the train.”
It did seem as though we were traveling at a snail’s pace, although this wasn’t a sudden phenomenon. I’d noticed since leaving North Vancouver that the Whistler Northwind was not about to set any speed records. But that was the whole point—wasn’t it?—a leisurely three-day journey on a classic train with every possible comfort, much like a luxury cruise ship, taking in the beauty and majesty of British Columbia. To go any faster would be to violate the very premise of the trip. And there were other passengers in the coaches up front, passengers who were unaware of the tragedy that had taken place in the car reserved for the members of the Track and Rail Club. Speed wouldn’t help Al Blevin, not anymore. Still, I knew what Callie was feeling. I’m sure we all shared her desire to reach Whistler and get away from the train, away from the dead body in the club car.
After an interminable half hour, Whistler station came into view and the train slowed to a stop. I looked out my window and saw an ambulance. Standing in front of it were a young man and woman dressed in long white lab jackets. Close to them were men wearing what I assumed were law enforcement uniforms. A heavyset man in a suit leaned against the ambulance. Beyond them were two cars parked side by side, one a patrol car with RCMP stenciled on its door. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police , I thought. The “Mounties.” All I knew of that famous organization was from stories read in childhood, old movies, and photos of its officers in their distinctive brilliant red-and-black uniforms and wide-brimmed hats. I took another look at the uniformed officers. No red jackets and black pants on them. They wore drab gray shirts and blue trousers with a yellow stripe down the sides. But their hats were the familiar shape.
Bruce led Benjamin to the dining car to join his mother, and the door was shut behind them. BC Rail’s onboard host returned to the coach car and used the public-address system: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve arrived in Whistler. Because of the unfortunate tragedy we’ve experienced, I’m going to ask you to gather up your belongings and follow me off the train as quickly and orderly as possible through this door. A bus is waiting to take you to the hotel where you’ll be spending what I’m sure will be a comfortable night. Your luggage has been transported ahead of us by truck and will be in your rooms when you arrive. Please refer to your itinerary regarding any events planned for this evening and detailing how and where we’ll meet in the morning for breakfast and for the bus bringing us back to the train. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Once everyone was standing in the aisle, Bruce motioned for us to begin leaving. Reggie and I were the first to enter the vestibule. Bruce had already gone down the steps and stood on the platform with the
I realized I was sitting with a woman who’d just lost her husband, and I didn’t want to sound combative. “Everyone’s understandably on edge,” I said gently, and smiled. “I’m perfectly willing to sit with you for as long as you wish, but perhaps you’d prefer to be alone at a time like this.”
I stood.
“Stop spreading that stupid rumor!” she growled, venom in her voice.
I said nothing, simply left the car and rejoined Reggie, who stood talking with Bruce and Callie. Other conversation in the car was muffled and somber.
“We’re pulling into Whistler,” Bruce said.
“I’ll be glad when we’re there,” said Callie, who’d been crying. Her eyes were puffy and red, and tears had streaked makeup on one cheek. “Having his body in the next car is spooky.”
“Almost there,” said Bruce, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Where’s Jenna?”
“I don’t know,” Callie said. “Why can’t we go faster? I just want to get off the train.”
It did seem as though we were traveling at a snail’s pace, although this wasn’t a sudden phenomenon. I’d noticed since leaving North Vancouver that the Whistler Northwind was not about to set any speed records. But that was the whole point—wasn’t it?—a leisurely three-day journey on a classic train with every possible comfort, much like a luxury cruise ship, taking in the beauty and majesty of British Columbia. To go any faster would be to violate the very premise of the trip. And there were other passengers in the coaches up front, passengers who were unaware of the tragedy that had taken place in the car reserved for the members of the Track and Rail Club. Speed wouldn’t help Al Blevin, not anymore. Still, I knew what Callie was feeling. I’m sure we all shared her desire to reach Whistler and get away from the train, away from the dead body in the club car.
After an interminable half hour, Whistler station came into view and the train slowed to a stop. I looked out my window and saw an ambulance. Standing in front of it were a young man and woman dressed in long white lab jackets. Close to them were men wearing what I assumed were law enforcement uniforms. A heavyset man in a suit leaned against the ambulance. Beyond them were two cars parked side by side, one a patrol car with RCMP stenciled on its door. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police , I thought. The “Mounties.” All I knew of that famous organization was from stories read in childhood, old movies, and photos of its officers in their distinctive brilliant red-and-black uniforms and wide-brimmed hats. I took another look at the uniformed officers. No red jackets and black pants on them. They wore drab gray shirts and blue trousers with a yellow stripe down the sides. But their hats were the familiar shape.
Bruce led Benjamin to the dining car to join his mother, and the door was shut behind them. BC Rail’s onboard host returned to the coach car and used the public-address system: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve arrived in Whistler. Because of the unfortunate tragedy we’ve experienced, I’m going to ask you to gather up your belongings and follow me off the train as quickly and orderly as possible through this door. A bus is waiting to take you to the hotel where you’ll be spending what I’m sure will be a comfortable night. Your luggage has been transported ahead of us by truck and will be in your rooms when you arrive. Please refer to your itinerary regarding any events planned for this evening and detailing how and where we’ll meet in the morning for breakfast and for the bus bringing us back to the train. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Once everyone was standing in the aisle, Bruce motioned for us to begin leaving. Reggie and I were the first to enter the vestibule. Bruce had already gone down the steps and stood on the platform with the
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