The Ghost in Roomette Four Page 13

  “Is that window still open?” Tidsy got up and moved to the window. She lowered the sash and flipped the lock.

  Jill shivered. She felt cold. But it wasn’t like the cold, damp chill of a San Francisco night. It felt exactly like the cold Jill had felt in roomette four.

  “It’s not the window.”

  “I feel it, too,” Margaret said, her voice nearly a whisper.

  The lights flickered again, and the candle flames fluttered. Tidsy’s glass moved, ever so slightly, toward the center of the table. Then they heard it, four sharp knocks, followed by a muttering sound that ebbed and flowed, indistinct, as though someone was talking.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thanks for the ride.” Jill opened the passenger-side door and got out of the Ford. She carried her purse and a small case, packed with enough clothing and toiletries for her two nights away in Oroville.

  “I should think you’d be tired of train travel,” Lucy said. “You just got back from a run last week.”

  Jill smiled. “This is different. I’m not wearing a uniform, I don’t have to take dinner reservations, make announcements, or provide first-aid to passengers with motion sickness or kids with scraped knees. And I’m not filing a trip report when I get back.”

  “Okay, okay.” Lucy laughed. “Have fun. I’ll pick you up Wednesday afternoon. Tell me again, what time will the train be here?”

  “A quarter after four. I’ll see you then.” Jill shut the car door and waved as her sister drove away.

  She was meeting Mike here at the Oakland Mole. After so many trips in her Zephyrette uniform, it felt different to be traveling as a passenger, instead of part of the train crew. This Monday morning in late July was beautiful, no fog for a change, with San Francisco visible in the distance over the sparkling waters of the bay. Jill wore a flared skirt with a palm frond print in blue, gold and tangerine and a blue short-sleeved blouse, and she carried a blue cardigan sweater. The skirt swirled around her legs as she walked toward the Mole.

  On this warm, sunny morning, it was easy to dismiss what had happened last night at Tidsy’s apartment. Easy to scoff at that penetrating chill, the flickering lights, the way Tidsy’s glass of scotch seemed to move, of its own volition. The sharp rapping knocks that made all three of them jump. And the voice, if that’s what it was, muttering. It hadn’t gone on for long. But it had happened, and they’d all seen and heard it. Perhaps Madame Latour had been correct when she’d said the spirits didn’t want an intermediary such as a medium interfering with their lines of communication.

  Jill shook herself, willing the memory to go away. It was daylight now, no spirits lurking here at the Mole.

  The morning sun glittered on the shiny stainless steel cars that gave the train its nickname, the Silver Lady. Each of the cars in the consist had the legend California Zephyr centered over the windows. Below the windows was the name of the car.

  Many passengers were already here on the platform or inside the Mole, checking their baggage, or queuing at the ticket office. To her left, a man and his wife, surrounded by four children, talked all at once as they sorted through their luggage, putting larger suitcases on a baggage cart. Then they gave their smaller bags to a Red Cap, one of the railroad station porters whose bright red headgear gave them the name. More Red Caps clustered inside and outside the Mole, waiting for the ferry from San Francisco, which would disgorge dozens of travelers needing assistance with their luggage. In the distance, Jill saw the boat plowing through the sparkling waters of San Francisco Bay, dwarfed by the pilings of the Bay Bridge.

  The train was due to leave in half an hour. Had Jill been working as a Zephyrette on this eastbound run, she would have arrived at the Mole far earlier, going through her pre-departure routine. The dining car crew had arrived before dawn, transferring the food and supplies necessary to feed the train’s passengers from the commissary building into the diner while still in the rail yard, before the train was moved into position at the Mole.

  She and Mike planned to rendezvous near the office, where Mike would buy a ticket. Jill, as an employee of the Western Pacific Railroad, had a pass which enabled her to travel for free. Now she walked into the Mole, looking around for Mike. She saw him standing to one side of the ticket office, casually dressed in gray gabardine slacks and a checked shirt, a jacket draped over one arm, a small bag at his feet. He waved to her and she quickened her step. He greeted her with a kiss on the cheek. Together they got in line. A few minutes later, they took their turn at the window. Jill showed her pass and obtained a round-trip ticket to Oroville.

  “You’re on the Silver Sage,” the ticket agent told them as he collected money for Mike’s ticket. “Third chair car.”

  Tickets in hand, Jill and Mike strolled toward the rounded end of the dome-observation car, where a small rectangular sign read California Zephyr, in yellow neon letters against an orange background showing an outline of the Golden Gate Bridge. On the car’s side was its name, the Silver Penthouse. The Pullman conductor stood nearby, greeting passengers and directing them to their cars. With him was one of Jill’s fellow Zephyrettes, Sally Hastings, in her teal uniform skirt and jacket, the garrison cap perched on her carroty red hair. She smiled. “Hey, there. Nice to see you. Traveling as a civilian this trip?”

  “A short trip to Oroville, with a friend,” Jill said. She introduced Mike and Sally, then said hello to the Pullman conductor. She and Mike moved on, walking alongside the train, in the direction of the engines. Out of habit, Jill ticked off the cars by configuration. In front of the dome-observation car were the transcontinental sleeper and the sixteen-section sleeper. Then came the ten-six sleeper and the six-five sleeper. As Margaret had told her last night, the Silver Gorge was the ten-six on the consist for this eastbound run of the CZ. The porter who stood on the platform near the vestibule was Darius Doolin.

  “This is the car,” Jill said. “The Silver Gorge.”

  Mike looked at the sleeper. “The one with the purported ghost?”

  Jill had told him about what she had seen and heard on the last trip. On Friday night, after they had returned from the club in West Oakland, they sat in the swing on the McLeods’ front porch, holding hands as they rocked gently back and forth. Mike didn’t believe in ghosts, either, but he was interested in her tale of strange lights and sounds, late at night in the darkened car. They had talked for quite a while before Mike kissed her good night and headed down the sidewalk to his car.

  “I wonder if there’s a passenger in that roomette for this run,” Mike said.

  “Yes, there will be.” Before Jill could explain further, Mr. Doolin saw her and waved. “Good morning, Miss McLeod. I see that you’re not wearing your Zephyrette uniform. Are you traveling with us for pleasure rather than business?”

  “We are, Mr. Doolin. This is my friend, Mr. Scolari. I’ve told him all about my recent experience in this car.”

  “Have you?” A smile played on Mr. Doolin’s lips. “We’ll have to see if the passenger in roomette four has a quiet night. We have a full car this trip. Every space is taken. Where are you going today?”

  “To Oroville,” Mike said. “I have family up there.”

  A horn blared in the distance and Jill turned, looking back toward the water. The ferry from San Francisco had now docked. Passengers streamed off the upper and lower decks of the ferry, hurrying through the Mole toward the train. The Red Caps were busy, carrying suitcases and bags or piling them on luggage carts that would be pushed to the baggage car. People walked down the platform, looking for the cars in which they would be traveling.

  Jill heard someone call her name. It was Margaret, her dark hair brushing the shoulders of her lightweight green linen suit. She carried a small tan leather suitcase and a white handbag looped over one arm, her train ticket in her hand.

  “Well, here I go,” Margaret said with a smile. “Heading off on my fishing expedition.”

  Mr. Doolin stepped forward. “Are you a passenger on this car, miss?
”

  “Yes, I’m going to Salt Lake City, in roomette four.” Margaret handed her bag to the porter and showed him her ticket.

  “I don’t know that there’s much fishing in the Great Salt Lake,” Mr. Doolin told her.

  Margaret laughed. “It’s a different kind of fish.”

  Jill made the introductions. “Margaret, this is my friend, Mike Scolari. This is Margaret Vennor.”

  “I see.” Mike shook Margaret’s hand. “Jill has told me about you.”

  The conductor walked by, with his familiar cry. “Now boarding, the California Zephyr, destination Chicago, with stops in Stockton, Sacramento…”

  “We need to find our car,” Jill said. “Let’s talk after the train leaves. Meet in the coffee shop?”

  “Certainly,” Margaret said. “Once we get rolling.”

  Mr. Doolin offered his arm to Margaret as she climbed into the vestibule. “Roomette four is just down the hallway, miss. You go ahead, and I’ll follow along with your suitcase.” He went inside the car, carrying Miss Vennor’s bag.

  Jill took Mike’s arm and they walked past the six-five sleeper, coming alongside the dining car, which on this trip was the Silver Plate. Next was the dormitory-buffet-lounge car, the Silver Lounge. When they reached the Silver Sage, the third chair car, they boarded the train and located their seats, on the right side at the rear of the car. Mike lifted their bags into the overhead rack.

  “Is Miss Vennor fishing for a ghost?” Mike asked.

  “I know she is.” Jill draped her cardigan over her shoulders and settled into the window seat. “She told me yesterday that she found out the Silver Gorge was going to be on the consist for this run. When she bought her ticket, she insisted on booking the same roomette where I found the body. And there’s a reason she’s going all the way to Salt Lake City. Doing that, she’ll be traveling at night. She’s hoping to experience whatever it is that I saw and heard.”

  He smiled. “You’re sleuthing again, and she is, too. Trying to find out what really happened.”

  “What if I am? I’d just like to get answers to some questions.”

  “Go ahead. I wish you, and Miss Vennor, luck.”

  “Thanks,” Jill said. “I think. In the meantime, let’s relax and enjoy the journey.”

  She looked out at the platform. People hurried to board the train, or waved to someone who had already done so. A few minutes later, the conductor appeared at the side of the car, calling, “All aboard.”

  The engineer blew the horn twice, signaling that the train was moving. The California Zephyr pulled away from the platform. The train moved through the rail yard and the waterfront, past ships docked at the port. As it traveled, the engineer blew the customary warning that the train was approaching a crossing—two long whistles, one short and another long—for there were many intersections between streets and rails in this part of the city. Soon the CZ slowed, approaching the Western Pacific Station at Third and Washington Streets, signaling with one long blast on the whistle. It was a quick stop, taking on passengers. Then the train left the station, traveling past the fruit warehouses and meat packing plants, into the Fruitvale and East Oakland districts, neighborhoods full of canneries and factories. Once the train passed through the small community of San Leandro, famous for its cherry orchards, the next stop would be Niles. The small town was a flag station, which meant the train would stop only if there were passengers waiting to board.

  A voice came on the train’s public address system. Sally Hastings was making the Zephyrette’s customary welcome-aboard announcement. Jill smiled and turned to Mike. “I can recite that from memory.”

  “After two years as a Zephyrette, I’ll bet you can. Come on, I know you want to talk with Margaret. I’ll go up to the Vista-Dome. You can meet me up there later.”

  Jill left her sweater in the seat. They walked to the buffet-lounge car, where the coffee shop was located. Margaret was already there, sitting at a small table, a cup in front of her. Mike kept walking and Jill sat down, ordering coffee from the nearby waiter.

  “What did you tell your aunt and uncle?” Jill asked. “About this sudden trip to Salt Lake City?”

  Margaret kept her voice low. “I just told them I felt the need to get away for a couple of days, on my own. Aunt Helen is distracted by preparations for the party this Saturday, so she didn’t ask too many questions.” She paused as the waiter delivered Jill’s coffee. “Jill, after what happened last night… I might have been skeptical before, but we saw what we saw. And heard. That voice wasn’t coming from outside Tidsy’s apartment. It was inside. Right there in the room with us.”

  “I know. It was unnerving.” Jill raised her coffee to her lips.

  “If there’s any possibility of making some connection with Kevin, I’m going to do it. That’s why I agreed to go through with the séance. And that’s why I’m taking the train, riding in the same roomette where Kevin died. Maybe I’ll have the same experience you did, or something more.” Margaret sighed. “I know people think I’m having a hard time getting over Kevin’s death. But that’s just the way it is. Finding out who killed the man I love is important to me.”

  “If only we could get a clearer picture of what he and that man were arguing about.” Jill took another sip of her coffee. “Maybe riding the train will jog loose some more memories of that trip. And maybe I’ll remember whose name was on the envelope I mailed. Let’s finish our coffee and go up to the Vista-Dome. I’d like to look at the scenery as we go through Niles Canyon.”

  They paid for their coffee and walked back to the stairs that led to the upper-level dome. Mike was seated at the front and Jill joined him, Margaret taking a nearby seat. The California Zephyr slowed, the whistle blowing a grade-crossing warning as the train headed into Niles. There were passengers waiting to board at the little station. The CZ halted briefly, then began moving again, heading into the canyon, the tracks alongside Alameda Creek as both wound through the tree-covered slopes to the even smaller town of Sunol. After a stop in Pleasanton, the train headed across the Livermore Valley and climbed over Altamont Pass, dropping down into California’s great Central Valley.

  They stayed in the Vista-Dome, enjoying the 360-degree view from the windows. At this time of year, late July, the hillsides were golden-brown, since there had been no rain since May. In the distance were the Sierra Nevada Mountains, dark blue and green against the lighter blue sky, streaked with white clouds. The agricultural flatlands in the valley were a checkerboard of fields and orchards.

  As the train approached Stockton, Margaret excused herself and went back to her roomette. “Let’s meet for lunch, though.”

  “Noon in the dining car,” Jill said. “That will give us plenty of time to eat before the train arrives in Oroville.”

  ———

  “That’s the smallest mountain range in the world,” Mike said, pointing out the window.

  It was early afternoon. They’d had a pleasant lunch with Margaret in the diner and had returned to their car, the Silver Sage. Now they were seated up in the Vista-Dome, taking advantage of the scenery. The northern Sierra Nevada range towered to the east, but the mountains Mike was pointing at were to the west, where the flat plain of the Central Valley was broken by a much smaller patch of upraised rock.

  “The Sutter Buttes? I’ve never heard them called a mountain range,” Jill said. “They’re so small and they don’t spread for miles and miles like the Sierra Nevada or the Cascades.”

  “The buttes actually are a mountain range,” he said. “And they’re circular. The diameter’s about ten miles and the mountains cover about seventy-five square miles. They’re lava domes, from a volcano that’s been dormant for over a million years. They used to call them the Marysville Buttes, but now they’re called the Sutter Buttes, because they’re in Sutter County. I’ve climbed South Butte. It’s the highest one, over two thousand feet above sea level. Most of the land around there is privately owned, but I know a guy who knows a few of
the owners.”

  “How did you become so interested in geology?” Jill asked. That was Mike’s major at the university, where he spent most of his time in Bacon Hall, the mid-campus building where the Department of Geology was located.

  He chuckled. “How could I not be interested in geology? I was born and raised in San Francisco. I have relatives who lived through the 1906 earthquake and the fire. They had to evacuate from North Beach and spend weeks camped out on the Presidio. I’m fascinated by the idea of how the landscape changes, with the faults lifting things up and moving them around. When I was a kid, my dad took me out to Point Reyes and showed me the earthquake fence.”

  “I’ve seen that,” Jill said. “It used to be a straight line of pickets, and now there’s a twenty-foot gap.”

  “When I was in the Army Air Corps, during and after the war, flying missions, I loved to look at the land I was flying over. The contours and the contrasts. It’s fascinating.” Mike gestured at the landscape visible through the curved windows of the Vista-Dome. “Back when I was growing up, we’d come up here to visit my aunt and uncle in Oroville. My cousins and I scrambled around the hills and hiked. You know, before they built all the dams and levees, the Sacramento Valley would turn into an inland sea.”

  “I’ve read about the flooding in eighteen sixty-two,” Jill said. “The whole Central Valley was flooded, a lake three hundred miles long and about twenty miles wide.”

  “Right. It made an island out of the Buttes,” Mike said. “I’ve read that the local Indians used to pack up and move to the mountains in the winter and spring. They knew about floods and flood plains. All that water, and those big floods, that’s why this is such good farming land. My uncle says the state is talking about building a dam on the Feather River, up by Oroville. This part of the valley has some interesting archeology as well as geology. When my cousins and I went hiking, we’d always look for Indian artifacts, like stone tools and arrowheads. After all, this is where Ishi came out of the mountains.”