Read Online Destination Murder by Jessica Fletcher - Free Book Online

uniformed officers, the man in the suit, and the two medical technicians. Reggie started down, but Bruce stopped him by raising his hand. We waited while our guest services supervisor continued to confer with the police. Finally, he looked up at us and said apologetically, “You’ll have to go back inside. The police want to speak with everyone.”
    Reggie and I turned and informed the people behind us of the change in plans. There was much grumbling and griping, but eventually everyone was reseated and the two medical technicians entered the car. Bruce escorted them to the club car, where Blevin’s body lay. Jenna entered the coach and took up her accustomed post in the front. She was very pale and clutched her black binder and the microphone to her chest.
    Next to come aboard were the two uniformed RCMP officers and the large man who was obviously in charge. He seemed even bigger once inside, his tall, square frame filling the doorway. He asked Jenna for the microphone, which she handed him. After a false start as he searched for the ON button, he spoke into it. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Detective Christian Marshall, Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Sorry for any inconvenience, and I’ll try and detain you for only a brief period.”
    His voice was resonant and deep, tinged with a Canadian accent. He was bald on the top of his head, the hair on his temples salt-and-pepper. His beard line was heavy, his eyebrows thick and solidly black. There was a look of resignation on his face, as though he’d experienced a great deal in his life as a cop and wasn’t especially pleased with what he’d seen.
    “Why are we being detained at all?” Hank Crocker whined from where he sat. “What does Blevin’s death have to do with the police?”
    A small grin crossed the detective’s face, although I was sure it wasn’t born of amusement. He asked, “Is there someone among you who believes the death on the train might not have been from natural causes?” He consulted a slip of paper. “A Mrs. Fletcher?”
    The sound of murmuring came from the seats behind me.
    “I’m Mrs. Fletcher,” I said, rising.
    “Please,” he said, inviting me to come with him with a flip of his hand.
    I followed him into the vestibule and down to the platform. Passengers from other cars who were not part of our group were in the process of leaving the train and heading for waiting buses.
    “Now,” he said, “what’s this about poison?”
    “Are you familiar with the symptoms of strychnine poisoning?” I asked.
    “Go on.”
    I explained as briefly as possible why I thought there was the possibility that Blevin had been poisoned, and he listened patiently. I recounted the sudden onset of symptoms—the seizures, the contortions of his face, and the spastic movements of his body during the convulsions, in particular the bowing of his back when only his head and feet touched the floor. These were classic symptoms of strychnine poisoning, I told him.
    “Strychnine victims are particularly sensitive to light and sound,” I said. “Mr. Blevin’s convulsions seemed to coincide with the screech of the wheels.”
    “Very interesting, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m curious as to how you know so much about strychnine.”
    “I’ve used it before.”
    “I beg your pardon.”
    “In a book, of course. I write murder mysteries, Detective Marshall.”
    “Ah, yes. I thought I knew the name.”
    “You pick up a lot of odd information in my profession.”
    “I’ll bet you do. You know Alvin Blevin was a big shot in Vancouver, a high-profile lawyer and businessman. You’re aware of that?”
    “I had an inkling from what some people said.”
    “He was on the train as head of this railroad club.”
    “That’s right.”
    “You’re a member of the club?”
    “No, I’m an invited guest.”
    “If you’re right, if he was poisoned, that would mean somebody on the train did him in, eh?”
    I nodded, uncomfortable at his choice of