Exit Row
Page 22
Fiona didn’t know what to say. She looked at Lee, but he was smiling and nodding at Rosa. For a moment she felt a sense of regret that she wouldn’t be the one doing the writing. Then she opened her hand over the table as if to let it go.
“Will you help me?” Rosa was asking. “Tell me everything you remember?”
“Of course.”
“I’ve contacted Ginger Lee, but she hasn’t responded, of course. Do people get mail in jail? Those sons of hers are cretins; I’d never talk to them.”
“They’re in jail too?”
“Of course they are, for attempted murder. The plane scam was bad, but trying to get rid of the last passengers was worse. No bail. Lots of publicity because of who they are.”
“I know.” An ashen-faced Ginger Lee, looking older and furious, had been all over news sites. “But they’re not blaming Jesse Wilcox?”
“Oh no. They did an evaluation and interviewed his caretakers and decided he couldn’t have known what was going on. I tracked down that Day Star receptionist who gave you the note, Priss Fields—she’s a key witness. She knew about the identical plane at the Ranch, always kept ready. Sometimes they had parties on it.”
Lee shuddered. “These are evil people.”
“And they almost got away with it. If you’re not looking for small discrepancies, you won’t see them. It’s a huge airport, the Day Star plane with the right numbers landed, nobody paid attention. They even loaded it up with passengers and flew it back to Taos. A new flight crew was scheduled, and they didn’t even know what had happened.” Rosa waved her glass. “So much human drama. The way that grandmother came all the way from Germany for the little girl . . . it’s got everything!”
“You’ve already done so much research,” Fiona said admiringly.
“Well, I won’t live forever. But there’s something I wanted to tell you, Fiona.” Rosa’s brown eyes were focused on hers; the white bandage accentuated the wrinkles around them. “Before I got shot you were telling me about what happened to you in Egypt. I’ve been thinking about that a lot, the way you seemed to be blaming yourself. You shouldn’t. Those men were criminals. You did the right thing to leave Egypt when you did.”
Fiona drank a sip of merlot, stalling for time. She had not been expecting this. “But it still feels like I ran away. And nobody knew the truth of what happened to Marcelle.”
Lee put his hand over hers. “Marcelle was dead. You were in danger of being incarcerated permanently.” He smiled at Rosa. “We’ve had this conversation before, obviously.”
“Post-traumatic stress,” Rosa said wisely, then turned to Fiona. “You think the Egyptian authorities would have believed you? You could have been another Amanda Knox, locked up for years!”
“She thinks the authorities are looking for her. That she can’t fly internationally anymore.”
“No, I don’t.” Fiona said, embarrassed. This was going to be hard to admit. “I checked, and I’m not on any list. But I—I couldn’t face living on a farm again for a year, even in Africa. I was going to tell you. Soon.”
Lee took a sip of wine. “I’ve been thinking about that. Could you stand it for a month? Maybe a year is unrealistic. I can take all the photos I need to in a few weeks. We wouldn’t even have to give up the apartment.”
“Are you sure? You’re not just saying that because I—”
“Saved my life?” He put his arm around her and squeezed her. “No, but it made me realize I can’t risk losing you. Ever.”
“Aww.” Rosa beamed at them.
“Hey, you!” Dominick was coming toward them, his hand on Coral’s shoulder. “I should have known I’d find you in the bar.”
“Just killing time.” Rosa stood up and let Dominick enfold her in a hug.
Fiona hugged Dominick and Coral too and watched the men shake hands. “You look great!” she told Coral. The cast on her arm looked professional and new.
“I’m back in school. What kind of place is this?”
“It’s Indian; you’ll love it,” Rosa told her. “Our table’s in the other room.”
Fiona watched Dominick guide his daughter toward the entrance. He had always believed it would work out, that nothing terrible had happened. Was that the secret? To believe life wouldn’t let you down?
Except it sometimes did.
The table was set for eight, a lush white tablecloth and napkins, dark red plates. She knew who two of the other plates were for, but had a symbolic place been set for Greg, like Elijah at a Passover Seder? She didn’t need a reminder that his life had been unfinished; she thought about him at odd times every day. The irony was that Dimitri was one of the people rescued from the church. It was doubtful he would walk again, but the program he had been bringing Greg was brilliant.
And then Amanda, blonde and chic, was standing in the doorway with Jackson, looking around. Fiona waved at them and they came over.
No more pink smock. Amanda was crisp in a stylish black outfit, accented by a heavy turquoise-and-silver neckband. Jackson wore narrow-hipped jeans with a silver concha belt and a white dress shirt. On his feet were the same style of Western boots that Will wore. Fiona had a terrible image of him going back and wresting them off Will’s feet. But she was sure he hadn’t.
Jackson knew everyone from the hospital, but Fiona said to the others, “This is Amanda Redhawk.”
“Really?” Dominick stared at her a moment, then stood up to embrace her. “Your husband was a hero. He saved my daughter’s life!”
Amanda smiled over at Jackson “In the end, he was.”
“You came all the way to New York to have dinner with us?” he continued, amazed.
Now Amanda laughed and looked at Fiona. “No, I’m trying to get into the Fashion Institute if they’ll have me. Fiona’s been a big help with everything. And Jack—well, I’ll let him tell you.”
But Jackson sat down next to his wife, looking grave. “First of all, it wasn’t just me. If Fiona hadn’t kept on looking, none of this would have come out. At the church she kept the family away from me so I could go inside. She saved my life.”
And suddenly, led by Rosa, the people at the table began applauding. It was picked up quickly by the wait staff and then everyone in the room. “Speech, speech!” someone in the corner with no idea what was happening called out.
Fiona wiped at her eyes. “Everyone was brave.” She looked at Dominick. “The way you stood up to those guys? And went off to find Greg?”
At the hospital she found out that Dominick had gone up and down the path, calling Greg’s name, until it was too dark to see anything. Then he’d hiked out to the road and managed to flag down a pickup truck. Not knowing where anyone else was, he’d gone back to the gas station.
“A lot’s happened,” Dominick said. “Eve’s staying in Taos; it’s what she wants. She says she’s living her dream.” He looked disgruntled at that, then recovered. “At least I still have Coral. We thought she should stay up here because of her gymnastics, but the doctor doesn’t think her arm will heal in the right way. They really botched it up.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Rosa cried.
“It’s okay,” Coral told her, “I was getting too tall anyway. My dad’s getting me riding lessons. When I was out in Taos, I found this great horse!” But her face changed. “I want my mom to come back.”
“I know, sweetheart, but it will be okay. I’m going to lease you a horse!”
Fiona started to laugh, but was saved by the waiter coming back. He had been there several times, seen them talking, and moved discreetly away.
“Can I have a Caesar salad?” Coral asked him quickly. “I don’t think I’d like anything else here.”
Rosa shook her head, but the waiter promised to see what he could do.
“Jackson, you never told us what you were going to do,” Rosa said.
“Oh.” He ducked his head, embarrassed. “There are a lot of airlines here. Because of what happened in Taos, they’ve offered me a job. Two of
them.”
“More than that. He’s just being modest,” Amanda told them.
In the aftermath of the Day Star collapse, Jackson had been recognized as a hero. He had been credited as saving the lives of the passengers in the burning church, seven people. Eight people, if you counted Jackson rescuing her from Will earlier. The police had accepted Fiona’s version that he shot Will while defending her. They didn’t seem to care about the second bullet.
Fiona gestured at the empty chair. “Is that for the mystery tourist?”
Rosa laughed. “Nobody knows who he was. No one has come forward. But I’ll have to find him. He’s part of the story too.”
“Is it for—Greg?”
Rosa looked sad. “I guess it should be.” She raised her wine glass, filled from the carafes that had been waiting on the table for them. “He was a hero too.”
They drank to him somberly.
“I can’t get over feeling guilty about him,” Fiona said. “It’s like the movie Hair where that hippie accidentally gets sent to Vietnam and dies. He didn’t even believe in the war, but got caught up in it because of his friends.”
Rosa reached across the table and grasped her wrist. “Fiona, stop! You’re not responsible for everything that happens to other adults. He insisted on climbing the mountain that day.”
“I know.”
“But who is the chair for?” Dominick asked. “I can’t think of anyone else.”
“Maggie,” Rosa said. “But I doubt she’ll come. She was feeling terrible when I spoke to her.”
“She should.” Fiona felt outraged. “She almost made us give up!”
“They promised her forty thousand dollars. That older man who said he had been on the shuttle went to see her. He told her that her father had had a heart attack during the flight and died. She thought her father would want her to use the money to get Derek more help.”
“Wait a minute,” Dominick demanded. “Her father never got to Long Island? It was a lie?”
“She’s a good actress,” Fiona said. “I believed her.”
“You mean she did it for the money?”
“Well, we’re all still finding our way,” Rosa told him. “But as Dorothy Parker once said—”
Fiona laughed. “ ‘Gas smells awful. You might as well live!’ ”
Acknowledgments
THE CHARACTERS IN my books may come and go, but my support staff remains constant:
Chelsey Emmelhainz, my wonderful editor, who infuses the entire process with hope and good sense.
Agnes Birnbaum, who can always see the next possibility on the horizon.
My trusted first readers, who approach my first drafts with love and invaluable critical sense: Tom Randall, amazing husband and poet; Adele Glimm, dear friend and writer herself; Robin Culbertson, insightful reader/writer and wonderful daughter-in-law. This year, Susan Uttendorfsky turned her accomplished editorial eye on the book as well.
To all my wonderful friends, who allow us to inflict our literary party games on them, and my Goddesses. To Liz Randall and her Retired Teachers Book Club, and always to the Setauket Meadows Book Club, who are welcoming and enthusiastic and even listened to the first chapter of this book!
To my New York City book group, who work hard to foster literary excellence and fascinating conversation.
A nod to my longtime friend Wes Craven, who left us all too soon.
Finally, my stimulating and creative family, who make life worthwhile: Tom Randall, Andy and Robin Culbertson, John Chaffee and Heide Lange, David Chaffee, Jessie Chaffee and Brendan Kiely, Joshua Chaffee, Caroline Chaffee, Katie and Dave Bennett, Dave and Liz Randall, Deborah Hess. And, of course, our hopes for the future: Andrew and Emily Culbertson, Charlotte and Reagan Bennett, and others yet to come.
To the world itself: Thanks for the memory.
Want more from Judi Culbertson?
Be sure to check out her Delhi Laine mysteries:
AN ILLUSTRATED DEATH
A PHOTOGRAPHIC DEATH
A BOOKMARKED DEATH
Now available from Witness Impulse.
About the Author
JUDI CULBERTSON draws on her experience as a used-and-rare book dealer, social worker, and world traveler to create her mysteries. No stranger to cemeteries, she also coauthored five biographical illustrated guides with her husband, Tom Randall, starting with Permanent Parisians. When she is not feeding family, friends, and cats, Judi creates artwork for her company, Red Sled Ornaments.
Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.
By Judi Culbertson
Exit Row
Delhi Laine Mysteries
An Illustrated Death
A Photographic Death
A Bookmarked Death
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
EXIT ROW. Copyright © 2016 by Judi Culbertson. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books. For information, address HarperCollins Publishers, 195 Broadway, New York, NY 10007.
EPub Edition MARCH 2016 ISBN: 9780062365163
Print Edition ISBN: 9780062365170
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