The Ghost in Roomette Four Page 10

“Ella Talbot,” the older woman said. “And this is my husband, Carl. We’re from Salt Lake City and we’re going to Oakland to visit our daughter. She and her husband moved there last year. I’m so looking forward to seeing the grandchildren.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Jill said. As she looked at the luncheon menu, the train left the Oroville station, moving slowly through town and picking up speed as it reached the countryside. The next stop, in Marysville, was barely twenty minutes away. Jill marked her meal check, ordering iced tea, a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich with potato salad, and chocolate pudding for dessert. The waiter had just delivered her beverage when the fourth chair at the table was taken by Mr. Randall. He had put on his suit coat and straightened his tie. His briefcase was in his right hand. Now he set it on the floor at his feet.

  “Hello,” he said. “Kevin Randall, from Oakland, California.”

  “You’re on your way home, then,” Carl Talbot said. “That’s our destination. Going to see family there.”

  The waiter delivered the Talbots’ orders as well as Jill’s sandwich. He set the dishes in front of them and looked at Mr. Randall. “Have you made your choice, sir?”

  Mr. Randall had been studying the menu. Now he took a meal check from the stand and marked it. “I’ll have the tomato salad and a cup of Navy bean soup. And iced tea, please.”

  The waiter took the meal check and departed. The Talbots tucked into their meals, short ribs for him and fish for his wife. Jill took a bite of her sandwich and listened as the Talbots talked. He was a retired tailor and his wife had taught school for many years. When his soup and salad were delivered, Mr. Randall picked up his spoon and dipped it into the soup. In response to a question from Mr. Talbot, he told them he was an accountant, working at a firm in Oakland.

  As was the case with many passengers, the Talbots were curious about Jill’s life as a Zephyrette, eager to hear about her day-to-day duties. She answered their questions with a friendly smile. “Yes, I’ve been a Zephyrette for over two years now. I make two or three runs a month, on average. It’s two and half days to Chicago, then I lay over there for a couple of days, and come back. So I’m at the end of a run, looking forward to seeing my family and having some time at home.”

  “It sounds like an interesting way to live,” Mrs. Talbot said. “Traveling around and meeting all sorts of people. Just the thing for a girl your age. But I’m sure some day you’ll want to settle down and get married. There must be some nice young man at home, or perhaps someone you’ve met on the train.”

  There was indeed, but Jill wasn’t going to talk about him. She was accustomed to passengers and their personal questions. Sometimes those questions were annoying. But she was the Zephyrette, always ready with a smile. She deflected Mrs. Talbot by taking a sip from her glass rather than responding to the older woman’s curiosity about her marital status.

  “Now, don’t be so nosy, Mother,” Mr. Talbot said.

  “I’m just making conversation. What about you, Mr. Randall? Is there a young lady waiting for you in Oakland?”

  Mr. Randall colored slightly, smiled and said, “As a matter of fact, there is. We’re engaged to be married later this year. She is picking me up at the Oakland Mole.”

  “Well, congratulations to you both,” Mrs. Talbot said. “And what on earth is the Oakland Mole?”

  Jill laughed and explained. “It’s a big train shed at the western terminus of the railroad line. Passengers from what we call the East Bay, the eastern side of San Francisco Bay, can get off the train there. Passengers going to San Francisco catch the ferry at the Mole and go across the bay to the Ferry Building.”

  They talked for a while longer, then the older couple left the table, their dishes collected by the waiter. Jill lingered, finishing her chocolate pudding.

  Across the table from her, Mr. Randall set down his soup spoon and leaned toward her. “I’m glad I have the opportunity to talk with you alone, Miss McLeod. Would you be kind enough to do me a favor.”

  “Certainly. What is it?”

  “We’re due into Sacramento about one o’clock, aren’t we?”

  Jill nodded. “About twenty minutes, at twelve fifty-five. It’s a longer stop, so we’ll be in the station for a while.”

  “I wonder if you could mail a letter for me when we reach the station. I know the Zephyrettes do that, mail letters and send wires.”

  “Of course. I’d be happy to. I have stamps in my pocket if you need them.”

  “I have stamps in my briefcase,” he said. “I’ve already put several on the envelope. It’s rather thick so I’m sure it will require additional postage.”

  He leaned down, picked up his briefcase, and placed it on his lap, opening the metal fastener. The envelope he pulled out was a California Zephyr envelope, a rectangle with a printed legend at the top of the flap that read Aboard the Vista-Dome in small capital letters, followed by a larger California Zephyr in a different typeface. He must have obtained it from the writing desk back in the dome-observation car, which was stocked with stationery and envelopes for the use of the passengers. Jill took the sealed envelope from Mr. Randall, noting how thick it felt in her hand, as though there were several sheets of paper inside. She glanced at the front of the envelope, seeing several stamps in the upper right corner, as well as a name and an Oakland address.

  She slipped the letter into her skirt pocket. He thanked her and got to his feet, leaving the dining car. Jill took the last bite of her chocolate pudding and set down the spoon. Interesting, she thought as she took one more sip of iced tea, that Mr. Randall wanted her to mail a letter to Oakland. The California Zephyr would arrive at the Oakland Mole later in the afternoon. It would take the letter a day or so to get to its destination.

  The Silver Lady was on time into the red brick station in downtown Sacramento. Before arriving, Jill had walked through the train asking passengers if they had anything to mail or wires to send. There were no telegrams, but she had several postcards in her pockets, along with Mr. Randall’s envelope. She got off the train as soon as the porter opened the vestibule and crossed the platform to the station. There was a round-topped metal box there, marked U.S. Mail. She dropped the stamped postcards, and Mr. Randall’s letter, through the slot.

  The train left Sacramento and made its stop in Stockton an hour later. Jill walked through the train and paused in the Silver Club. She saw Mr. Randall at a table for four, with the two men who had boarded the train in Portola. All three were drinking coffee and they appeared to be deep in conversation.

  Jill turned to the bar, where the waiter, Alonzo Griggs, was washing cups and saucers. He stopped and dried his hands on a towel. Then he took a photograph from his pocket. “You asked about my daughter, Miss McLeod. Here’s the latest picture. Her name’s Emma and she’s taking ballet lessons.”

  Jill took the snapshot and admired the little girl, about eight, who was posing at a barre, attempting to stand en pointe. “What a beautiful girl. How long has she been taking lessons?”

  “About a year now,” he said. “She says she wants to be a ballerina.”

  Jill handed the photograph back to Mr. Griggs. Then she heard raised voices behind her and turned, looking for the source.

  Mr. Randall was getting up from the table where he’d been sitting. He looked around, realizing that others in the lounge were staring at him. He lowered his voice as he addressed his companions. “There’s no point in discussing it any further.” Then he stepped past Jill, holding his briefcase in front of him like a shield, and left the lounge, heading toward the back of the car.

  Jill watched him go. She exchanged glances with Mr. Griggs, who didn’t say anything and went back to washing dishes. Then Jill turned and looked at the two men who still sat at the table. The man with the mustache was lighting another cigarette, a frown on his face. The bulky man with the long nose glared at her. “What are you staring at?”

  “I’m sorry,” Jill said, with a polite smile. “I didn’t mean to intr
ude.”

  What was that about? With a nod to Mr. Griggs, she left the lounge and walked back through the train. Mr. Randall was in his roomette. He had removed his suit coat again. It was folded neatly and tucked into the open briefcase on the floor near his feet. The mechanical calculator was on the toilet lid, and so were the brown ledger and the legal pad covered with his handwriting and columns of figures.

  “Are you all right?” she asked him. “I couldn’t help overhearing what happened in the lounge.”

  His face took on a rueful expression as he pushed his glasses up his nose. “I’m fine, Miss McLeod. It’s just that those men would like me to do something I am not willing or able to do. I’ve explained to them—” He smiled. “It’s not your concern so I won’t burden you with it. I’ll sort things out when I get back to Oakland.”

  “I see.” Jill nodded and continued on through the train, wondering if this had something to do with Mr. Randall’s letter, the one she’d mailed in Sacramento. She rode in the Vista-Dome of the dome-observation car as the California Zephyr climbed Altamont Pass, heading into the Bay Area. The train crossed the Livermore Valley, making a brief stop in Pleasanton. As she came back through the Silver Gorge, Mr. Randall was still in his roomette, but this time he had removed his glasses. He looked somehow vulnerable without them. He rubbed his temples and winced, as though he had a headache. She had aspirin in the first-aid kit in her quarters. She was just about to say she’d fetch it, then stopped as Mr. Randall took a small bottle from his pocket. He removed the cap and shook a couple of pills into the palm of his hand. He quickly popped them into his mouth and swallowed.

  When he set his glasses on his nose, he looked up, surprised to see her. “I didn’t see you standing there, Miss McLeod. I’m as blind as a bat without my glasses.”

  “Can I get you anything?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No, thanks. Just a little tired. I’ve had a couple of long days on this trip. I’ll be glad to get home.” He reached for the yellow legal pad. “I’ve got to finish these notes, though.” He glanced out the window. “Where are we now?”

  “Sunol. We go through the canyon, then we’ll stop in Niles and head up to Oakland.”

  The train went through the little hamlet of Sunol without stopping. Then it wound through Niles Canyon, where the tracks and nearby highway twisted and turned through the East Bay hills, following the route carved by Alameda Creek.

  “They used to make movies in Niles,” he said.

  “Yes, silent movies. The Essenay company was formed by Broncho Billy Anderson and George Spoor. I understand Charlie Chaplin’s The Tramp was filmed right here in Niles Canyon.”

  He smiled. “That’s right. I like silent movies. My father worked at the old Liberty Theater in Fresno, right after World War One, before he met my mother. He used to talk about the silent era and all those movies. Dustin and William Farnum were favorites of his. He liked Colleen Moore and Mabel Normand, too.”

  “My father always like Fatty Arbuckle,” Jill said. “Buster Keaton and Laurel and Hardy.”

  Jill excused herself and walked forward. When she reached the Silver Club, she decided it was time for coffee. She was tired after this run, and she usually did need a boost in the middle of the afternoon. The caffeine helped. The two men were still there, at the table, talking. They glanced at her as she got a cup of coffee from Mr. Griggs and sat down at one of the lounge tables. Then the large man with the long nose left, followed a few minutes later by the man with the mustache. She was halfway through her coffee when the attendant from the third chair car came looking for her. “Need you and your first-aid kit, Miss McLeod,” he said. “A youngster fell coming down the stairs from the Vista-Dome.”

  “I’ll be right there.” Jill took one last swallow and set the cup on the counter as she left the lounge, heading for her quarters to fetch the kit.

  The last time she saw Mr. Randall was after the train’s brief stop in Niles, where two passengers from the first sleeper car got off the train. As the Silver Lady headed toward Oakland on the last leg of its westbound journey, Jill walked the length of the train. When she passed through the Silver Gorge, she glanced into roomette four and saw Mr. Randall. It looked as though his business trip and the long days he’d mentioned had caught up with him. He was asleep.

  Or he looked as though he was asleep. When the train got to Oakland an hour or so later, she discovered she was wrong.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mike Scolari joined the McLeod family for dinner on Friday. Jill had met the Army Air Corps veteran in December, when he and his grandfather had boarded the train in Oroville, heading for Denver. She had liked the young man immediately, and the attraction was mutual. They had been dating ever since. He was twenty-nine, three years older than Jill, a few inches taller, with a wiry frame. His eyes were a deep brown in his olive-skinned face and he had a head of curly dark hair.

  He arrived a little before six, neatly dressed in blue slacks and a short-sleeved checked shirt, bearing a bouquet of flowers for Mrs. McLeod and a bottle of wine for Dr. McLeod. It was just the four of them for dinner. Lucy had gone on a date with Ethan, and Drew left the house early, saying he’d grab something to eat at the club where he and his band were playing. After Lora McLeod thanked Mike for the flowers, she told Jill she didn’t need her help in the kitchen and shooed her out. “Show Mike the roses in the backyard.”

  Jill wasn’t fooled. She knew her parents liked Mike, a lot. As her mother had made clear during their conversation a few days ago, she hoped eventually Jill would give up riding the rails and marry Mike. To that end, she was taking every opportunity to see that the two young people spent time alone together.

  “We’re supposed to look at the roses.” Jill led Mike to the fence on the left side of the yard, where a vigorous yellow climber called the Lady Banks rose perfumed the air. “My mother has matchmaking on her mind.”

  “Does she?” Mike smiled at her. “How do you feel about that?”

  “Not quite ready.”

  “That’s an honest answer.”

  “I like you a lot,” Jill said. “You know that. But we’ve only known each other for seven months. I’d like to get to know you better before we talk about any long-term plans. Besides, I’m not ready to give up being a Zephyrette.”

  He nodded. “Fair enough. I like you a lot, too. And like you, I’m not quite ready to take things to the next level. I have another couple of years before I finish my degree. After that, I need to get a job and establish myself as a geologist.” He leaned over, plucked a bloom from the rose bush and handed it to her. “Let’s just agree to think about things.”

  “That’s fine.” Jill held the rose to her face and breathed in the fragrance. “So you’re finished with summer classes. How did it go with your last exam?”

  “I think I did all right. It will be nice to have a break before the fall classes start.” He took her hand as they strolled along the fence, pausing at another rose bush, this one called Black Magic, with deep red blossoms.

  “I can go to Oroville with you on Monday,” Jill said. “I have the whole week off. I leave for Chicago the following Sunday.”

  “Great.” He squeezed her hand. “I’ll call Aunt Adalina and tell her we’re coming. I was thinking about taking the train instead of driving. I know you make your living riding trains, but I figured you might enjoy just being a passenger for a change.”

  She smiled. “I’d like that. It will be fun to sit and relax instead of doing walk-throughs and making announcements. Since I’ve met some of your San Francisco family, I’m looking forward to meeting the Oroville branch. I’ll see you at the Oakland Mole Monday morning.”

  Dr. McLeod appeared at the back door, calling to them. “Dinner’s ready.”

  After a dinner of salmon and salad, with peach pie for dessert, Jill and Mike left the house. Dusk had gradually given way to darkness. Though it was summer, the fog had cooled things off and Jill was glad she had slipped on h
er blue cardigan sweater. After leaving military service, Mike had bought a car from one of his many cousins. It was a 1948 Hudson Commodore two-door sedan, dark blue with white trim, and he kept it shined with the kind of attention that Drew lavished on his Mercury. When they reached the curb, Mike opened the door for her. Jill slid into the passenger seat, the full skirt of her blue cotton dress spilling around her. He got behind the wheel and started the car.

  In Oakland Mike turned left on Seventh Street and headed west through Oakland’s Chinatown, past Broadway and into West Oakland. This was one of the city’s oldest neighborhoods, where the land met the bay, where ferries plied the water. In 1869 it became the terminus of the transcontinental railroad, its population swelling with railroad workers. Since the 1890s West Oakland had been home to people of all races and it had a thriving Negro community, with jazz and blues clubs lining the end of Seventh Street near the rail yard and the port. On this Saturday night, the street was full of cars and people thronged the sidewalks. Jill saw the bright neon sign that read Slim Jenkins, Open Nightly, Dine and Dance. So this was the famous Slim Jenkins Nightclub and Café her brother had told her about, where stars like Nat King Cole had played.

  Mike turned right on Wood Street. Jill spotted a smaller sign that read Ozzie’s and pointed. “That’s the place.”

  “I see it,” Mike said. On the next block, he backed the Hudson into a parking place. They walked back toward Seventh Street.

  With big plate glass windows on either side of the front door, Ozzie’s looked as though it had once been a store. There was a large chalkboard on the sidewalk, saying that Drew’s band, the Blues Timers, would be playing at 9 o’clock. Inside the club, the air was heavy with cigarette smoke and the yeasty smell of beer. The crowd was mixed, with Negro, white and Asian faces among the clientele. Drew had told Jill that the music scene on Seventh attracted people from all over the Bay Area, regardless of race.

  To the left of the front door was an elevated platform where the band had set up. Drew was there, strumming the strings and fiddling with the tuning machines at the end of his guitar’s neck. There were two other men in the band, a bass guitarist and a drummer. Both were Negroes. Drew had said nothing to his family about his fellow band members, only that he’d met them playing various clubs in Oakland. She waved to her brother and he gave her a quick nod, then turned to his band mates.