Chapter Six

Jill walked through the cars, giving change and receipts to the people who’d asked her to send telegrams. The last of these was Mr. Finch, in the Silver Solarium. The Finches were just returning to the observation car after having lunch in the diner.

“Excellent meal,” Mr. Finch said. “I’m always pleased with the food on the Zephyr. Thank you for sending the wire, Miss McLeod.”

“When do we get to the Feather River Canyon?” Mrs. Finch asked.

Jill consulted her watch. “We’ll be in Marysville at one thirty-eight, and Oroville at two-eleven. I’ll make an announcement when we start up the canyon.”

“We went through there two years ago, during the summer. It was so beautiful. I’m looking forward to seeing it during the winter.”

The Finches’ two daughters climbed the stairs up to the Vista-Dome. In the lounge at the rear of the car, Mrs. Constanza was knitting while her husband read The Lady in the Lake by Raymond Chandler. He set his book aside and glanced up at Mr. Finch. “Tell me, do you and your wife play bridge?”

“Oh, we’re rabid players,” Mrs. Finch said with a smile. “Shall we have a few rubbers? Do you have cards, Porter?”

“Sure do, ma’am,” Mr. Parsons said. “If you would care to move to the buffet, there is a booth for four.”

As Jill left the car, her stomach growled. It was past time for lunch. She walked forward through the sleeper cars, pausing to answer questions from passengers. In the Silver Palisade, Dr. Kovacs was in his roomette, amid his books and papers. He looked up and smiled as she passed.

When Jill reached the bedrooms, Mrs. Tatum stepped out into the corridor, tapping her surroundings with her white cane.

“Hello, Mrs. Tatum, it’s Miss McLeod. Are you going to the dining car? I’m headed that way myself, because I haven’t had lunch yet.”

Mrs. Tatum smiled. “In that case, let’s away to the diner.”

When they reached the dining car, Mr. Gridley, the dining car steward, beckoned to them. “Ready for lunch now, Miss McLeod?”

“I certainly am, thanks.”

He directed them to a table that had just been cleared and reset with a clean white linen tablecloth. Each place setting had heavy silverware and Western Pacific china decorated with a rim of feathers denoting the railroad’s Feather River Route. Completing the table setting were folded napkins, the bud vase with its holly and carnation, and a menu in an upright silver holder.

When she and Mrs. Tatum were seated, Jill poured water for both of them from the bottle on the table. Then she pulled the luncheon menu from its stand and opened it.

“The soup today is split pea,” Jill said. “That’s one of my favorites.”

“Mine, too,” Mrs. Tatum said. “I’ll have a cup of that. What are the entrées and sandwiches?”

Jill read through the items and prices on the menu and they both decided to have the chicken salad sandwich. Jill noted their selections on the table checks and handed them to the waiter. In a moment, he returned with two cups of soup. They picked up their spoons and ate in companionable silence. When Mrs. Tatum finished her soup, she took a sip of water, careful not to spill any as she raised the glass to her lips.

“How long have you been a Zephyrette?”

“Nearly two years.” Jill smiled at the waiter as he delivered their sandwiches and whisked away their empty soup cups.

“You must be on your feet all day,” Mrs. Tatum said.

Jill laughed. “Yes, from the time we leave Oakland. I’m constantly walking through the train. It’s good exercise. I do get some breaks, though. Mealtimes, like now. I go off duty at night, about ten, and I’m up before seven. And I’m on call at night, if anything should happen.”

“How often do you make the journey?”

“I average three round trips a month.”

“It seems like an interesting job for a young woman. I gather you enjoy it.”

“I do,” Jill said. “I’ve met all sorts of people. And I’ve traveled, not just on the Zephyr. I have passes from all three railroads, and I’ve used them to go other places.”

“Are you based in Chicago or the Bay Area?”

“I live in Alameda with my family.”

A boy and a girl, unaccompanied by an adult, rushed past their table, giggling and chattering. They nearly collided with the waiter who was approaching the table where Mrs. Tatum and Jill sat. He deftly sidestepped the children. “We sure do have a lot of young ones on the train this run,” he said.

“We certainly do.” Jill had already noted that for her trip report. “It’s the holidays, folks traveling to be with their families for Christmas. The children roam through the train, looking for vacant seats in the Vista-Domes.”

“Don’t their parents keep track of them?” Mrs. Tatum asked. “I always did with my children.”

“Some do and some don’t,” Jill said. “I think the parents sometimes view being on the train as their own holiday as well. We keep an eye on the children, make sure they don’t get into mischief, or get hurt. I’m planning a Christmas party tomorrow afternoon, right here in the diner.”

“That’s right,” the waiter said. “The chefs are baking a Christmas cake for the little ones. Now, are you ladies ready for dessert? We have pumpkin pie. I know that’s one of your favorites, Miss McLeod.”

“Thank you. Pumpkin pie sounds great, with whipped cream on top. And I would like coffee.”

“Of course.” The waiter turned to Mrs. Tatum. “What about you, ma’am? We also have apple pie, and I can put some ice cream on that, or a bit of cheese, if you prefer.”

“Apple,” Mrs. Tatum said. “With ice cream.”

“What about you?” Jill asked Mrs. Tatum as the waiter stepped away. “Are you from Sacramento?”

“I’ve lived there nearly twenty-five years. My husband was an engineer for the California Department of Transportation. I taught grade school, until I started losing my sight. So I retired. Mr. Tatum died a few years ago, but my son and his wife are in Sacramento. He owns a business downtown. This year I’m spending Christmas with my daughter and her family in Grand Junction. I’m originally from Colorado. The town of Gunnison. Do you know where that is?”

“Oh, yes. My mother’s hometown is Denver. We lived there with my grandmother, during the war, while my father was in the Navy. My cousin David went to school in Gunnison, at Western State College.”

Mrs. Tatum smiled. “They didn’t call it that until the ’twenties. Back in my day it was called the Colorado State Normal School for Children. That’s where I learned how to be a teacher. What did your father do in the Navy?”

“He’s a doctor. He was in the Pacific during the war. Then he worked at the Navy hospital in Oakland. He’s in private practice now.”

The Zephyr’s horn blew as the train approached a grade crossing. They were coming into Marysville now. The train slowed, then stopped briefly. Jill and Mrs. Tatum finished their pie and paid their checks. Jill escorted Mrs. Tatum back to her compartment in the Silver Palisade. Then she walked back through the diner to the Silver Hostel. Past the door to the crew’s dormitory were the stairs that led up to the Vista-Dome. Just then a middle-aged man with a receding hairline stepped out of the lounge. It was Mr. Washburn, the man who’d removed his wedding ring before boarding the train. She hadn’t seen him since his attempt to flirt with her at the Oakland Mole.

Jill backed against the corridor wall, to let Mr. Washburn pass. But he didn’t. Instead he leaned forward, putting his left hand against the wall, just above her right shoulder, blocking her from moving in that direction. She smelled liquor on his breath.

“Well, well, if it isn’t that pretty Zephyrette. C’mon, honey. Have a drink with me.”

There’s one on every trip, Jill thought.

Jill moved to her left, away from his encroaching arm, and glanced to her right, over his shoulder, hoping one of the stewards or another passenger would appear.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Jill said. “I’m not supposed to drink while I’m on duty.”

“I can wait,” Mr. Washburn said, a leer spreading across his face. “Tonight would be even better. What time do you get off duty, honey? I’ve got some fine old bourbon. We can have a party in my compartment.”

“I’m on duty until we get to Chicago,” Jill said. That was the truth but she didn’t think it would deter this would-be playboy.

“Chicago?” The man looked befuddled, then his voice took on a wheedling tone. “What the hell. That doesn’t work. I’m getting off the train in Omaha. C’mon, honey, have a drink with me. What’s the harm in having just one little drink?”

He reached for her arm and she quickly moved farther to her left, putting some distance between them. “You wouldn’t want me to lose my job, sir.”

“She doesn’t want to have a drink with you.”

Jill turned to see who had spoken. It was Mrs. Tidsdale, one hand on her hip in her bright red dress, a steely look in her blue eyes.

Mr. Washburn screwed up his face, looking like a petulant kid who’d been thwarted. “But I wanna have another drink.”

“I’ll have a drink with you,” Mrs. Tidsdale said. She stepped past Jill and took the drunk’s arm. “My name’s Tidsy. What’s yours?”

As Tidsy led the man into the lounge, Jill turned and went back through the diner and the Silver Gull to the Silver Palisade. She tapped on the door of bedroom A. “Emily? It’s Miss McLeod.” There was no answer. Jill opened the door a crack and saw Emily stretched out on the bench seat, arm around her teddy bear. The little girl was asleep.

Jill shut the door, just as Frank Nathan rounded the corner. “Just checking on Emily. She’s napping.”

“I saw Mrs. Tidsdale leave a few minutes ago,” he said.

“She’s in the lounge, having a drink.”

Billy Benson came barreling out of bedroom E, followed by his younger brother, Chip. They ran down the passageway and stopped, looking up at Jill and the porter.

“Train robbers,” Chip said.

“Does this train ever get robbed?” Billy asked. “In the movies train robbers hide in the mountains and come down on the train and make people give them money and jewelry.”

Frank Nathan laughed. “I don’t think we’ve had a train robbery on the California Zephyr. Have you heard about any robbers these days, Miss McLeod?”

“Back in the olden days,” she said, smiling as she recalled tales of California’s past, like Black Bart holding up stagecoaches before the advent of the railroad. “But we haven’t had any robberies on this train. You see, we have special agents. Those Western Pacific agents are very good about preventing things like train robberies.”

Billy seemed satisfied with the answers. He pounded on the door of bedroom A. Emily opened the door, teddy bear clutched in one hand. “Hey, Emily, you want to play games? We got cards and dominoes and checkers.”

“Okay.” Emily stepped out of the bedroom and shut the door.

“What’s your teddy’s name?” Jill asked.

“Benny,” Emily said. “Benny the Bear.”

“I got a bear named Max,” Billy told her.

“I’ll tell Mrs. Tidsdale where you are,” Jill said. Emily nodded and followed Billy into the Bensons’ bedroom.

Jill walked back to the lounge car and saw Mrs. Tidsdale seated alone at one of the tables, a glass of amber liquid in front of her. She was smoking a cigarette as she leaned back in her seat, eyes half-closed.

“You’re alone.”

“The wolf went back to his lair. He’d already had one little drinkie too many.” Mrs. Tidsdale stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and picked up the glass, swirling the ice cubes before she raised it to her lips.

“Thank you for taking him off my hands,” Jill said.

Mrs. Tidsdale winked at her. “Us girls got to stick together.”

“I came to tell you Emily is playing games with the Benson boys.”

“Thanks. I’ll look in on her in a while.” Mrs Tidsdale knocked back the rest of her drink and waved her hand to summon the steward. “Another Scotch on the rocks, please. Well, Emily can’t get into much trouble on a train. Still…I suspect Mrs. Benson’s far better equipped to look after a bunch of kids than I am.”

Jill didn’t respond but privately she agreed.

Mrs. Tidsdale smiled and changed the subject. ““How come you’re riding the rails, fending off wolves, instead of settling down and getting married?”

There it was again, that pang of loss. Would it ever go away? “I was engaged,” Jill said. “He was killed in Korea, two years ago.”

“Ah. I’m sorry.” Mrs. Tidsdale paused as the steward delivered her drink. She picked it up and took a sip. The whistle blew its warning as they headed past a grade crossing. “Where are we now?”

Jill looked out the window, seeing cars stopped, waiting for the train to pass. Beyond that were grain elevators, commercial buildings, houses. She recognized the plateau called South Table Mountain. They were at the eastern rim of California’s great Central Valley. Soon the train would leave the plain and climb into the mountains looming in the distance.

“We’re coming into Oroville.”