The Ghost in Roomette Four Page 7

  “I’m sure I’ll have a bite or two. How was your day?”

  “Busy. I got all the laundry done, but there’s still some ironing to do. By the way, your cousin Doug called.” Mrs. McLeod opened the ground beef package and scooped the meat into the bowl that held the onions. She mixed the ingredients together, then rinsed her hands and dried them on a dish towel. Opening a cupboard, she took out several small tins and added spices to the mixture. “He and Pamela are coming to town next week, for a belated honeymoon, he says. They’re staying at a hotel in the city because he wants to show her San Francisco. I invited them for dinner, on Thursday night. You’ll be here, I hope.”

  “I don’t know what my schedule is,” Jill said. “I’ll have to call and find out when I’m due for another run. It will be good to see Doug and Pam.” Jill’s cousin Douglas Cleary, the son of Lora McLeod’s brother Sean, had married a young woman from Mississippi. They’d met four months earlier while on the California Zephyr and had married shortly after, living near Lake Tahoe, where Doug and a friend planned to open a ski resort. If ever there was a case of love at first sight, that was it, Jill thought, recalling the day when Doug and Pam had first encountered each other in the Vista-Dome. “Can I do anything to help with dinner?”

  “I’d rather you talked with your brother.” Her mother waved a spoon at the window that looked out to the backyard. Drew had finished washing his car and now he was out in the yard. He sat in one of the metal lawn chairs, pulled into the shade of the apple tree. He was hunkered over his guitar, not playing, looking out at nothing in particular. “See if you can figure out what’s going on with him. He’s been broody lately, like there’s something on his mind.”

  “Okay. I’ll do my best.” Jill carried her lemonade outside. She kicked off her sandals and felt the blades of grass tickle her bare feet as she crossed the lawn. At the back of the lot, the neighbor’s cat, a big ginger tom, walked across the top rail of the redwood fence, balancing on his paws like a tightrope walker.

  Drew strummed chords on his guitar. He stopped and turned one of the pegs, tuning a string. Then he began playing, with a driving rhythm. Jill heard scraps of the lyrics. “Crazy ’bout a Mercury, gonna buy me a Mercury… Cruise it up and down the road.”

  “Are you singing about your car?” Jill asked, amused.

  Her brother looked up. “Singing about somebody’s Mercury. It’s a song called ‘Mercury Blues,’ though I’ve heard it called ‘Mercury Boogie.’”

  “Who wrote it?”

  “A couple of musicians in Oakland,” Drew said. “K.C. Douglas and Bob Geddins.” Drew reached for the bottle of Coke at his feet, taking a long swallow. “Geddins has a recording studio, Big Town Records, on Seventh Street.”

  Jill sat cross-legged on the grass, sipping her lemonade. “Got plans for this weekend?”

  “We’ve got a gig,” Drew said. “Me and the guys. We’re playing Friday and Saturday nights, at a club called Ozzie’s, near Slim Jenkins’ place. Not as fancy, of course. Just a hole in the wall compared to Slim’s.” Seventh Street in West Oakland, near the rail yard, was a mecca for music lovers, lined with all sorts of clubs and nightspots. Of these, Slim Jenkins’ supper club was well-known and frequently booked performers like Duke Ellington, Sarah Vaughan, and The Ink Spots. “You and Mike should come hear us.”

  “I know Mike likes all sorts of music,” Jill said. “He’d probably be interested. Should we ask Lucy and Ethan if they’d like to join us?”

  Drew made a face. “Lucy’s taste in music runs to that doggie-in-the-window song,” he said, talking about the Patti Page chart-topper that was ubiquitous on the radio earlier in the spring.

  Jill laughed. “Lucy likes Kay Starr, Joni James, Dinah Shore and Patti Page. And Perry Como and Eddie Fisher.”

  “I’ll bet she’s never heard of Ma Rainey and Big Mama Thornton,” Drew scoffed.

  “Probably not. I know who they are, thanks to you.” She took a sip of her lemonade. “Mom says you’ve been broody.”

  Drew played a chord on the guitar and smiled. “She sent you out here to find out what’s going on.”

  “As a matter of fact. Is something going on?”

  “What would you say if I told you I’m planning to drop out of school?”

  Jill stared at him. Drew was nineteen and had just finished his freshman year at UC Berkeley. He hadn’t yet declared a major, preferring to get the required courses out of the way. Maybe there was a reason for that.

  “Why? Is it your grades? I thought you’d done well your first year. Or is it something else?”

  Drew played a scrap of “Mercury Blues” on the guitar. “I’m not interested in getting a college degree. I just want to play music.”

  “Can you make a living at it?” Jill asked.

  “Don’t know. There’s only one way to find out, and that’s to do it.” He crashed a chord on the guitar. “The band’s been playing gigs here in the East Bay, almost every weekend. We’re making decent money. Now we have a chance to go on the road, starting in August. That’s about the time I’d be starting back to school. I’d rather go on the road with the guys than hit the books again.”

  “You’ve made money playing locally,” Jill said, “and that’s well and good, but you’ve been living at home, commuting to classes in Berkeley. If you go on the road, you’ll have all sorts of expenses. Gas, food, places to stay.”

  “I know that,” Drew said.

  “How long would you be on the road?”

  “Six, seven months, according to this agent we’ve been talking with. Gigs down the coast to Los Angeles and San Diego, then east to Nevada and Colorado.”

  Jill took another swallow of lemonade. “Dropping out of school, that is a big deal.”

  Drew strummed a chord on the guitar. “Yes, I know it is. Listen, I can always go back to school if things don’t work out with my music. But I have to do this, Jill. Music is what I love. You’re happy riding your trains and Lucy’s all excited about getting married and having kids. Well, playing the guitar in the band is what excites me.”

  “Well,” Jill said, getting to her feet. “You’d better talk with Mom and Dad. And do it sooner rather than later.”

  She went back to the house. Lucy and Ethan were still out on the front porch. She heard them talking, and then Lucy’s laugh. The kitchen was empty. The oven was on and through the glass door Jill saw the casserole dish that contained the meatloaf her mother had constructed. She went through the dining room and then to the living room. Lora McLeod was taking a break from her household duties, stretched out comfortably in the armchair that turned the bay window into a pleasant reading nook. Her feet were propped up on an ottoman. On the table next to her was a glass of lemonade. She was reading the latest Saturday Evening Post. A stack of magazines was on her lap, including several issues of Life. One was a few months old, the cover showing Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell, costumed in their roles for Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Another cover showed a photo from the June coronation of Queen Elizabeth II.

  “I have a bad habit of letting these magazines pile up,” Mrs. McLeod said, reaching for her lemonade. “So I’m catching up on my reading while dinner cooks. Join me.”

  “I will.” Jill set her lemonade on the coffee table and reached for the latest issue of Life, the one with the cover picture of that senator from Massachusetts, John F. Kennedy, and his fiancée, ­Jacqueline Bouvier. They were posed on a sailboat and the caption read Senator Kennedy Goes A-Courting.

  Before she could sit down, though, the phone rang. Jill went to answer the downstairs extension, which was on a narrow table in the front hallway. She reached for the receiver and sat on the chair next to the table.

  “Jill, it’s Mike.”

  “Hi. How goes it with school?”

  “I’m almost done with summer classes. I have one more final, tomorrow morning. Then I’ll have a break until fall classes start.”

  Mike, Jill’s steady boyfriend for the past few mon
ths, was studying geology at the university, sharing an apartment near the Berkeley campus with another student. When he wasn’t going to classes, he worked part-time at a company near the Berkeley waterfront. “I called to check with you about plans for this weekend. And also about a short trip. Since I’ll be done with classes and I have a few days off from my job next week, I want to go up to Oroville to see Grandpa. He’s spending the summer with Aunt Adalina. Would you like to come with me?”

  Most of the time Mike’s paternal grandfather lived with Mike’s mother and father in their home on Vallejo Street in North Beach, San Francisco’s “Little Italy.” The old man was confined to a wheelchair due to injuries suffered in a car accident several years earlier. From time to time, he would visit one of his daughters, who lived with her husband in Oroville, a town on the Feather River, where the California Zephyr stopped before heading up the scenic canyon to Portola.

  “I’d love to meet your aunt,” Jill said. “Your grandfather talks about her a lot. When were you thinking of going?”

  “Leave Monday, come back Wednesday. Would that work?”

  “It should,” Jill said. “I’ll call Western Pacific to find out when I’m scheduled for my next run. About this weekend. We talked about going to a movie, but I have another suggestion.” She told him about Drew’s band playing at the club in West Oakland.

  “Let’s go Friday night,” Mike said. “And take in the movie on Saturday.”

  They talked a while longer, then ended the call. “Dinner as soon as your father gets home,” Lora McLeod called, from the kitchen. “Lucy’s setting the table.”

  Jill got up from the chair. Then the phone rang and Jill picked up the receiver. “May I speak with Miss McLeod?”

  “This is Jill McLeod.”

  “This is Margaret Vennor. I’m returning your call.”

  “Thank you for getting back to me,” Jill said. “I wonder if we could meet and talk.”

  Miss Vennor didn’t respond at first. Then she said, “All right. The note my aunt left says you live in Alameda. I’ll meet you at eleven tomorrow morning, at Lake Merritt, at the gazebo near Children’s Fairyland.”

  Chapter Eight

  Lake Merritt wasn’t actually a lake. It was a large tidal lagoon, connected by a channel to Oakland’s Inner Harbor. Since 1870, it had been a wildlife refuge and the lake contained several artificial islands that were bird refuges. Lakeside Park was just off Grand Avenue, tucked between two arms of the lake. Jill turned off Grand onto Bellevue Avenue and parked the Ford near a curve in the road. The tall covered gazebo was located on the back side of the small amusement park called Children’s Fairyland. She locked the car and followed a path down the slope toward the lake, the skirt of her pale blue sundress swirling around her legs.

  A gaggle of Canada geese moseyed across the path ahead of Jill. They spread out on the lawn, feeding on the grass. Several mallard ducks waddled along the shoreline, the females brown and tan, the heads of the males iridescent green in the bright morning sunlight. Beyond that, half a dozen white pelicans splashed to a landing in the water, then paddled toward the middle of the lake. A great egret stood in shallow water, head and long neck extended as it searched for food. Then it struck quickly, coming up from the water with a wriggling fish in its beak. Jill watched as the egret swallowed the fish.

  Two women in summery dresses and low-heeled shoes strolled along another path, heading toward the amusement park. One woman pushed a stroller and the other walked slowly, hand-in-hand with a toddler. Two boys, about ten years old, raced up and down the steps of the gazebo. A man called to them and they ran to join him, heading up the slope toward the street.

  Jill circled the gazebo, moving counterclockwise. When she reached the other side, she saw a dark-haired woman seated on the steps, dressed in pale green cotton printed with bright yellow sunflowers. The woman was reading, her head bent, her right hand turning the pages of a book.

  “Miss Vennor? I’m Jill McLeod.”

  The woman looked up. “I recognize you. Please, call me Margaret and I’ll call you Jill. Miss Vennor and Miss McLeod sounds so formal.”

  “That suits me. What are you reading?” Jill asked.

  Margaret held up the book so Jill could see the title, The Nine Tailors. “I like mysteries, especially Dorothy L. Sayers. And this one is my favorite.”

  “So do I. Agatha Christie is my favorite. I love the Miss Marple stories. But I have read some of Sayers’s books.”

  Margaret tucked the book into her shoulder bag. She stood, brushing the full skirt of her dress, which had a scooped neckline. The diamond engagement ring Jill had seen on her left hand that day at the Oakland Mole now dangled from a thin gold chain around her neck. Jill had done the same thing with her own engagement ring after her fiancé died, until she decided to tuck it away in her jewelry box.

  “Let’s walk, shall we?” Margaret said. They strolled away from the gazebo, taking the path that hugged the lake shore along the smaller arm of the lake, with downtown Oakland visible on the other side. “How long have you been a Zephyrette? And why? It’s an interesting career choice. Though I suppose if one likes to travel, it makes sense.”

  “I’ve been a Zephyrette for over two years,” Jill said. “As for why, it wasn’t my first choice. I have a degree in history from Cal as well as some education credits. I was going to teach school and get married. But my fiancé was killed in Korea, in December of nineteen-fifty. A few months later, someone suggested I might like being a Zephyrette, so I signed on. And I do enjoy it, very much.”

  Margaret nodded, a somber look on her face. “I lost my father in nineteen forty-two. He was in the Navy, on the Yorktown when it was sunk at the Battle of Midway. I was fifteen years old. My mother abandoned me and my father when I was ten. I lived with my Grandmother Vennor in Berkeley until she had a stroke, which was about the time Dad died. That’s when I came to live with my aunt and uncle here in Oakland.”

  Margaret’s story reminded Jill of Emily Charleton, the nine-year-old girl who had been traveling with Tidsy last December. Emily’s mother was dead and her father had been killed in Korea. Tidsy, a friend of Emily’s uncle, had escorted the child to Denver to live with her grandmother.

  “I was going to teach school, too,” Margaret said. “After I got married. Now I don’t know what to do.”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  “I hope so. I don’t think the life of a Zephyrette is for me.” Margaret’s steps slowed as they neared a park bench. “Why did you want to talk with me? To tell me that you’d lost your fiancé? Because I lost mine?”

  “That’s part of it.” Jill felt tongue-tied. How could she mention that silly story about the ghost? “I know how it feels to lose someone you love. And I know your fiancé’s death was a horrible shock. It’s so unexpected for someone that young to die of heart failure.”

  “Who told you Kevin died of heart failure?” Margaret’s voice was hard and sharp as a steel blade.

  Jill was taken aback. “When the doctor arrived at the Pullman car, he examined the body and said the death appeared to be natural causes. He also said it was possible that the cause might be Mr. Randall’s heart, given the fact that I found a prescription bottle in the roomette. It was for Digoxin, which is a drug people use for heart conditions.”

  “Kevin did have a heart condition,” Margaret said. “He took Digoxin. His heart indeed failed, but it wasn’t due to natural causes. He was murdered.”

  Jill stared at her. “How? Why?”

  “I don’t know who did it, or how. But I intend to find out.”

  Jill recalled Mr. Doolin’s words when she had talked with him about the ghost he swore was haunting roomette four. “’That man’s spirit ain’t resting easy.’”

  Margaret reached for her arm, eyes narrowed. “What did you say?”

  Belatedly, Jill realized she’d spoken the words aloud. The cat was clawing its way out of the bag. “There’s a story going around, about a gho
st that haunts roomette four on the Silver Gorge. Mr. Randall was traveling on that particular sleeper car, in roomette four, when he died.”

  “A ghost? Because Kevin died on the train?” Margaret shook her head. “Not surprising, I guess, that a death on the train would lead to stories and superstition. However, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts either,” Jill said. “But in this case, something actually did go bump in the night.”

  Margaret sat down on the park bench. “You’re serious. Did you see something?”

  “Yes, and I heard something, too.” Jill joined her on the bench. “It happened last week. I was on an eastbound run, heading for Chicago. On the first night out, I was walking back to my quarters late at night. When I came through the Silver Gorge I saw a strange light ahead of me. It appeared to be just outside roomette four.”

  “A trick of the light, perhaps?” Margaret suggested.

  “That’s what I told myself at the time. The light moved. And I could see through it. I was in the passageway and the light was in front of me. Then it seemed to float into the roomette. I knew the roomette was unoccupied, so I went inside. There was no one there, of course, and the light had disappeared. But the roomette was chilly. It kept getting colder. Then I heard a sound. Well, four of them. Four knocks, like this.” Jill reached out and rapped the park bench seat. “It was unnerving. I left the roomette and headed back to my quarters. Evidently I had a startled look on my face, because when I went through to the next sleeper, the porter asked if I was all right. I told him what had happened. He said I must have seen the ghost. Then he told me that he had seen it twice, when he was working in that car. He’s the one who said, ‘That man’s spirit ain’t resting easy.’”

  “I don’t imagine Kevin is resting easy. I know I’m not.” Margaret stared out at the water, where several mallards skimmed the surface. A pond turtle sunned itself on a rock just offshore.