Vancouver guidebooks claim that the corner of Robson and Burrard Streets has more foot traffic than any other intersection in Canada. From what I observed, that isn't an overstatement. The streets were chockablock with people, overwhelmingly young, and with the city's large Asian population very much in evidence, although every ethnic group was abundantly visible in the shops that lined both sides of the street, and in the mix of eateries with outdoor dining patios. There seemed to be a Starbucks on every corner, testimony to the Pacific Northwest's love affair with coffee, and lots of candy shops, too. Evidently, chocolate is as popular as coffee.

Vancouver, British Columbia, is one of my favorite cities in the world. Poised on the tip of a peninsula jutting into the Strait of Georgia with the Coastal Mountains smiling down on the advancing spires of skyscrapers under construction, it has all the eagerness and energy of a frontier town, which it was once, and in a sense still is. It's the launching port for myriad cruise ships, which ply the inland waterways leading to an even newer frontier in Alaska. And it's both the terminus and departure point for locomotives chugging their way through the mountain passes, exposing millions of tourists to the rugged beauty of Canada's western provinces. I'd fallen in love with the city and its citizens' sense of adventure and pleasure in nature two years earlier while on a book promotion tour, and kept trying to find the time, and an excuse, to revisit it. Reggie Weems gave me that excuse.

Reggie had a successful insurance agency back home in Cabot Cove. He also had a hobby-trains. The large basement in his home was devoted to an elaborate model train layout, considered the finest in all of New England, and he was an active member of the Track and Rail Club, an organization of railroad buffs that held its annual meeting in different cities around the world. This year's site was Vancouver, and when Reggie invited me to join the group on its journey, I readily accepted.

But it wasn't just the lure of Vancouver that made up my mind. Each of Track and Rail's annual meetings centered around a trip on a historic train. The highlight of the week would be a three-day journey on the famed Whistler Northwind from Vancouver up into British Columbia, passing through and over glacier-carved canyons to the famous Whistler resort, then following the Cariboo Gold Rush Trail and Fraser River Canyon to a town called 100 Mile House, and finally arriving at Prince George, with overnight stays in hotels at each stop. I've always loved traveling by rail, and am dismayed at how we've allowed train travel to founder in this country.

I walked for an hour along Robson Street, taking it all in, occasionally popping into a store to browse but leaving empty handed. I was to meet Reggie shortly at the Chocolate Buffet in the Sutton Place Hotel where we were staying. I considered stopping for a snack. It was six-thirty local time, nine-thirty back home according to my circadian clock. But I'd had a big meal on the plane, and the contemplation of facing twenty types of chocolate desserts in an hour was enough to stifle that urge.

	'I followed him to where the hotel's famed Chocolate Buffet was located in the elegant Fleuri Restaurant… I decided I was ready for a taste of decadence.'

I was on my way back to the hotel when the only unpleasant moment of the afternoon occurred. As I turned into the driveway, following a small group of people, a limo-black windows concealing its occupants-came around the corner and drew up to the hotel's entrance. An elegant couple emerged from the car's darkened interior, and the woman peered in my direction. A man walking in front of me did an abrupt about-face and slammed into me, almost knocking me off my feet and to the cement. I kept myself from falling by grabbing the shoulder of a woman standing nearby. I had a brief glimpse of the man's face because our collision caused him to come to a momentary halt. He was deeply tanned, with piercing, almost black, eyes, sharp features, and shaggy, shoulder-length coal-black hair hanging over his ears. If I expected an apology, I was to be disappointed. He hurried away; all I saw was the back of him as he pushed through people coming out of a side door leading to the bar, and disappeared around a corner.

"Jerk!" said the woman whose shoulder had kept me from falling.

"An inconsiderate one at that," I said, brushing at the black-and-white skirt of my shirtwaist dress. "Thanks for the shoulder to lean on."

"No problem."

By the time I walked into the hotel, I'd put the incident out of my mind. Rude, inconsiderate people could be found everywhere in the world, even in a city like Vancouver populated with friendly, courteous people.

"Jessica! There you are."

Reggie Weems bounded across the beige granite floor. The Sutton Place lobby was a handsome space, with its graceful chandeliers, huge vases of freshly cut flowers, and European artwork, including magnificent large, original oils behind the front desk by French Impressionist Bernard Cathelin, who'd studied with Matisse. I'd commented on the paintings when I'd checked in and had received their provenance from the clerk, along with my room key.

We'd flown in together from Boston that morning. Reggie had worn what he called his flying outfit: chino pants, multi-pocketed safari shirt-"My answer to a woman's purse," he'd told me-and loafers that could be slipped off and on easily, should security people at the airport wish to inspect them. For the buffet, he'd changed into a blue double-breasted blazer, white shirt, a burgundy tie with tiny locomotives in gold emblazoned on it, crisply pressed gray slacks, and two-tone shoes. Reggie was a short man of slender build with a narrow face, prominent nose on which oversized eyeglasses rested, and who walked with a perpetual spring in his step. He was considered a bit of a dandy in Cabot Cove, and was well liked throughout the community, although the fact that he'd never married occasionally raised inevitable but unwarranted speculation about his sexual orientation. Aside from an insurance client complaining over the terms of a claim settlement every once in a while, no one seemed to have a bad word to say about him.

"Ah, Jessica, how was your shopping expedition? I see you're empty-handed."

"I had a lovely walk, Reggie. How was your meeting?"

He scowled. "Not especially pleasant. The club's board's been having its differences and.... well, that's not of interest to you. Ready for a trip to chocolate heaven?"

I followed him to where the hotel's famed Chocolate Buffet was located in the elegant Fleuri Restaurant, its walls covered in rich damask, the tables graced with floral-print skirts. Three tables were laden with a variety of chocolate desserts waiting to be sampled, and were presided over by a female chef in a white uniform, who described the delicacies on offer. It had sounded absolutely decadent to me when Reggie suggested we experience it, but once I stood before the incredible array of artistic creations concocted by Sutton Place's chocolate chef, I decided I was ready for a taste of decadence. I placed tiny portions of Sachertorte, hot chocolate soufflé, chocolate mousse made with Jack Daniels, and a chocolate crème brûlée on my plate-saving the chocolate pie, chocolate sorbet, and crêpes with chocolate sauce for another time-and carried it back to a table...

Jessica joins the members of the Track and Rail Club on the Whistler Northwind. First stop, the ski resort village of Whistler where she is surprised to see the victim's stepson…

We were staying at the Westin Resort and Spa, which had been voted by travel magazine readers as the best ski resort hotel in North America, and I wasn't surprised. A spectacular lodge, built with colorful native stone and soaring timbers, it was at once sophisticated and rustic. High ceilings in the public areas were offset by warm woods, patterned slate, and wood-burning fireplaces, giving even the largest spaces a cozy feeling.