Fool's Flight (Digger)

by Warren Murphy

  He looked at Wardell for a reaction but there was none. He was beginning to get the feeling that he was dealing with zombies and if he had ripped off his clothes and danced naked in their parking lot, they would have said, "That’s nice, but be sure to stop before winter, because it gets chilly then."

  Wardell brought back the two cups of coffee. He set one on a paper napkin in front of Digger and put the other on his desk blotter. Still standing, he glanced at Digger’s file, then walked to the wall bookshelves.

  "You don’t look like an alcoholic," he said over his shoulder. "And you don’t talk like one."

  "I drink like one," Digger said. He watched Wardell pull a book from a shelf and begin thumbing through it.

  "How much do you drink?" Wardell asked.

  The question had never occurred to Digger before. He thought quickly. "I don’t know. A quart a day?"

  "That’s terrible. Do you know what you’re doing to your body?"

  "Preserving it against the cold?"

  "Destroying it for now and eternity," Wardell said. No humor, Digger decided. The place was as full of laughs as a high mass.

  "What is it you want me to do?" Wardell asked.

  "I had heard you had some experience and success in dealing with alcoholics," Digger said.

  Wardell came back to his desk holding a book, sat down and sipped noisily at his coffee. "But they have to want to change, they have to want to put themselves totally in my hands. I don’t think that applies to you."

  "Perhaps not," Digger said. He heard another voice. It was a woman’s voice, singing, and the voice was pure and clear. It had to be Wardell’s wife’s, but she was singing "A Foggy Day in London Town" and her voice was teasing the song, playing with the melody, in a way that belonged in a recording studio, not a rectory.

  "My wife," Wardell said. "She sings. No, I don’t think you want to change, if there is indeed anything at all to change. I don’t even think that’s why you came here. So why don’t you tell me who you are and what you want?"

  "What do you mean?" Digger asked.

  Wardell looked down at the book on his desk, lowered his glasses to his eyes and began to read aloud.

  "Prester John. A fabled medieval Christian king of the Orient, supposedly descended from the Magi. His legend arose about the twelfth century. His realm originally was supposed to be located in India but later became centered around Abyssinia. While the story may have had some factual nucleus, it quickly became overlaid by magic and marvels. The legend of Prester John was brought to the West by the contact with the East brought about by the Crusades."

  "Didn’t fool you for a minute, did I?" Digger asked.

  "No, sir. I know my church history."

  "Sorry," Digger said. "Just a little joke. Your secretary looked like she could use some humor in her life."

  "Secretary…oh, Erma. She’s a very sedate and reserved young woman. Who are you?"

  "The name’s Burroughs, Julian Burroughs. I’m with Brokers’ Surety Life Insurance Company. I’m looking into the plane accident a couple of weeks ago."

  "Oh. You had the plane insured?"

  "No. The passengers."

  "I see. Terrible accident. Just when I thought that maybe we could change those tragic lives, and then… well, God works strangely sometimes."

  "You knew the victims?" Digger asked.

  "Of course. They were part of our flock. All of them had come here for counseling."

  "They were a pretty seedy lot," Digger said.

  Wardell shook his head. "The shepherd worries about his lost sheep more than those that are safe in the fold. I thought we could help."

  "Why Puerto Rico?" Digger asked.

  "It was something new we were trying. We thought if we could get them out of this environment into one that was totally new to them, one that we controlled, we might have a better chance of turning them around."

  "You say ‘we.’ Who’s we?"

  "All of us. Me. Candace. That’s Sister Wardell. Erma. The rest of our staff. But I don’t understand, Mr. Burroughs, exactly what your concern is and why you came here under a false name and false pretenses. Why didn’t you just come over as what you are?"

  "I wanted to get a look at you first."

  "Why?"

  "Because it isn’t every day that I meet someone who’s been left six million dollars in insurance."

  The coffee cup stopped halfway to Wardell’s mouth.

  "What?" he said. Digger knew immediately that his shock was genuine.

  There was silence for a moment, filled faintly with the sound of Candace Wardell singing. She was doing Rodgers and Hart now, "There’s a Small Hotel." With six million, she could buy her own hotel. A big one.

  "Six million dollars. That’s what you’ve been left."

  Wardell looked amused at having a madman in his study, then astonished when he saw Digger was not joking.

  He picked up his telephone and dialed two digits. Abruptly, the singing stopped.

  "Candace, come in here," Wardell said brusquely.

  A moment later, Mrs. Wardell walked in through a side door. She was dressed like a twin with Erma, the secretary, in white jeans and a light blue blouse. Was this the church uniform? She looked at Digger questioningly for a moment, then at her husband.

  "Yes, Damien?"

  "This gentleman is Mr. Burroughs. He’s with an insurance company. He said the church has been left six million dollars because of the plane crash."

  "Not the church," Digger said. "You. All the passengers made out insurance policies with you personally as beneficiary. Forty people. Thirty-nine passengers and the pilot, a hundred and fifty thousand dollars each. That’s six million."

  Digger was watching Candace Wardell. She was staring at him, but he could not read the look on her face. Was it astonishment? Or just some kind of greedy anticipation?

  "My goodness," she said.

  "Did you know the passengers were going to do that, make insurance out to me?"

  "No," she said. She shook her head for emphasis and said it again. "No." She was overly deferential with her husband, Digger thought. It would not have been hard to imagine her standing there, trembling.

  "All right," he said. "You can go now."

  "Yes, Damien," she said submissively. Without even looking at Digger, she went back out the door. He noticed that she had broken the symmetry of her costuming. Erma, the secretary, had a blue handkerchief stuck into her left rear jeans pocket. Mrs. Wardell carried a red handkerchief in her right pocket. Digger smiled ruefully to himself and thought that while these women were sure more fun to watch than nuns they weren’t a hell of a lot more entertaining. The door closed softly behind Mrs. Wardell.

  "Well, Mr. Burroughs," Wardell said. "What’s next?"

  "Do you have any idea why that plane crashed?"

  "Why would I have…" He paused. "You don’t believe, you can’t believe that I…for insurance money, that I had anything to…"

  "I don’t believe or disbelieve anything," Digger said. "I’m just checking into things, and you can guess how my job is, I have to look into everything. For instance, the pilot of the plane."

  "Steve? Steve was one of us."

  "How do you mean that?" Digger asked.

  "When he first came to us, he had just quit drinking and he didn’t think he’d have the strength to stay sober. We worked with him and God gave him strength to overcome his problem."

  "He named you as beneficiary, too," Digger said.

  "Maybe, Mr. Burroughs, you find this all suspicious. But let me tell you, that I’m touched. The thought that all these poor people, that they thought enough of me…. Well, I’m touched."

  "Not as touched as we are. We’re being touched for six million," Digger said.

  "I think you should leave, Mr. Burroughs. I resent your implications and I think, if you have anything further to say to me, you might talk to my attorney."

  It was a cold, flat dismissal and Digger left. But before he reach
ed the door to the waiting room, he heard a sound and turned. Candace Wardell was standing in a partially opened doorway down the hall, gesturing for him to join her.

  He followed her into the room, a small study, with a piano against one wall, a small desk against another.

  She closed the door behind him.

  "I heard you practicing," Digger said. "You don’t sing like that in church."

  "No. Our folks like their music straight," she said. "Sit down," she said. Digger sat, thinking that while she might be afraid of her husband, she was certainly not afraid of Digger. "Sit down" had been an order, not an invitation.

  "Is that all true?" she said. "What my husband said?"

  "Yes."

  "Six million dollars?"

  "Yes," he said. "Give or take a couple of hundred thou. All made out to your husband as beneficiary."

  "That’s weird," she said. Her soft blond hair was framed foggily about her face in the glare of light from the room’s only window. Digger saw that the window opened onto the parking lot behind the rectory.

  "You didn’t know anything about it?" Digger said.

  "No, not a thing."

  "It just seems odd that a whole planeload of people would have decided to do something like that, and you wouldn’t even have a clue."

  "Mister Burroughs. I’m sorry, for your company, but I’m sorrier for those losers who died." She was about to say more but the door burst open.

  "Dacey dear," said Erma who bustled into the doorway. "I…" She saw Digger and stopped.

  "Not now, Ninde. Later," Mrs. Wardell said.

  "Sorry. I didn’t know you were…"

  "Later," Mrs. Wardell said sharply.

  The young blonde left. Digger thought that while Candace might jump when her husband barked, she knew how to bark herself.

  "Did you charter the plane for the flight?" Digger asked.

  "Yes. I asked Erma to do it, but she’s not much on bargaining."

  "What do you mean ‘bargaining?’"

  "Bargaining," she repeated. "We were paying the cost of this flight. The people who were going didn’t have any money so we were paying for everything and we wanted to get the best price."

  "Where were they going in Puerto Rico?" Digger asked.

  "A little town up in the hills. Cidra. There’s a building there we were going to use. An old mansion. We had hired some staff and everything."

  "I’m sorry it didn’t work," Digger said.

  "I am, too. Damien really wanted to do something for those people."

  "He did," Digger said.

  "Yes?"

  "Yeah. He got them killed."

  "That isn’t kind," Mrs. Wardell said. She looked out the window at the parking lot. "You say there’s how much insurance?"

  "Six million. My company looks into it and if it’s on the up and up we pay. Unless there’s some kind of court action or something that could tie it up."

  "Court action?"

  "You know. There are all kinds of possibilities. Like other potential beneficiaries. Take Mrs. Donnelly, the pilot’s wife. You remember him, don’t you?"

  "Yes. He came here frequently. What about Mrs. Donnelly?"

  "She’s all bent out of shape because she wasn’t his beneficiary. She might just sue to get her hands on some of that insurance money."

  Mrs. Wardell nodded thoughtfully. "I see," she said.

  "Did the passengers just meet at the airport?" Digger asked.

  "No. They met here and went by bus."

  Just then, the door to the room opened again, and a tall, genial-looking, red-haired man walked in. "Candace," he said, "Damien just told me about…" He stopped when he saw Digger.

  "Jack, come on in," Mrs, Wardell said. Mister Burroughs, this is Jack Thomasen, our accountant." The man looked at Digger with almost a territorial interest. "Mister Burroughs is with the insurance company."

  "I see. Nice to meet you, Burroughs." He shook Digger’s hand, squeezing.

  "Mister Burroughs just told us that there is some insurance money on the plane."

  "I know. Damien told me. We’ll discuss it later. So long, Burroughs." He had made the word "later" sound dirty.

  Digger nodded and when the man left, he rose from his chair.

  "Thank you for your time," she said.

  "My pleasure."

  "We don’t get many music lovers here," she said.

  "Call me when you book your concert tour."

  She smiled, opened the door of the room and stood in the doorway watching him until he went out into the waiting room, where four people now sat on sofas waiting for the Reverend Wardell.

  On the front steps, Digger lit a cigarette, then darted alongside the house to the window of the room he had just been in. He peeked inside through the slit between the curtain and the window frame and saw Jack Thomasen enter the room, and happily slap his hand on Candace Wardell’s shoulder. Then he clapped his hands together in an obvious display of glee.

  Candace looked glum. She said a few words and Thomasen, the smile vanishing from his face as rapidly as the look of pain from a baby’s face, turned and left the room. Mrs. Wardell looked up a number in the telephone book and picked up the telephone on the desk in front of her.

  She dialed and then began to speak. But the windows were tightly closed and Digger could not hear what she was saying.

  He wished he knew who she was talking to.

  Koko was not in their room when Digger returned. He called New York.

  As she always did, Walter Brackler’s secretary said, "Julian Burroughs?"

  "Yes. Julian Burroughs. The same name I always give when I call."

  "I’ll see…"

  "I know, you’ll see if he’s in. He’s in. Where would he be except in the office? Who would allow him anywhere else? Just put him on the line."

  It was no use.

  "Just a moment, sir. I’ll see if he’s in."

  Digger hoped she was good looking because that girl was going no place on her brains. The random thought occurred to him that maybe Brackler was sleeping with her, but he put it out of his mind as preposterous. Not Watler Brackler. Not Kwash, all five feet of him, all slick-back hair of him, all cheap suit of him. No. Preposterous.

  "Hello, Burroughs?"

  "Kwash, are you hitting that chick?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Your secretary. You banging that?"

  "You’re disgusting."

  "Sight unseen, so is she probably," Digger said.

  "Eat your heart out. She’s a beauty."

  "I’ll believe it when I see it. Listen, there’s a religious retreat in Cidra in Puerto Rico. It’s run by Damien Wardell."

  "Yes?"

  "See if our guys in Puerto Rico can find out anything about it. Who owns it? What’s it for? I’m just scratching around."

  "Another waste of time," Brackler said. "I bet you’re sunburned."

  "Yesterday, I hurt. Today I’m all right."

  "Instead of spending your time on the beach, tanning at our expense, you might call in once in a while and let us know what’s going on."

  "Nothing’s going on," Digger said. "Another thing. Those insurance applications? Do you have the originals?"

  "Yes. Why?"

  "Have somebody look at them. See if the handwriting looks alike."

  Brackler sighed. "Am I supposed to hire a handwriting expert for this?"

  "No. Just give it to somebody with eyes and brains. They’ll be able to tell. Oh, and another thing…so far, we’ve saved you three hundred thousand."

  "How’d you do that?"

  "First, by finding out that one passenger used a phony address. That should void the policy. The other is by reading the freaking policy. Pilots can’t insure themselves that way."

  "I’ll be…of course not."

  "I’m ashamed of you, Kwash. Do I have to do everybody’s job for them?"

  "We would have realized it."

  "Sure, sure, sure, sure, sure."


  "Your mother has been trying to reach you."

  "Did you tell her I was out of town?"

  "Yes."

  "What else did you tell her?"

  "I told her where out of town you were."

  "You told her I was here?" Digger said.

  "Yes."

  "I hate you, Kwash."

  After hanging up and pouring himself a drink, Digger finally understood what had been bothering him about Wardell. Today, Erma had told him there was no charge for personal counseling by Reverend Wardell. And there had been no admission charge, when he had gone to see Wardell preach, no passing of the plate. There had not even been a charge for parking in the lot.

  And today, Candace Wardell had told him that the church was even paying to charter the airplane that had gone down.

  What the hell kind of twentieth-century church was this? Didn’t Wardell realize that passing the plate was as central to fundamentalist theology as the infallibility of the Bible as historical record? How did he raise money?

  Digger went to the phone to Trini Donnelly. He had dialed half the number when he hung up, and had to think about what name he had given her when he had first gone to see her.

  His own name. That was a surprise.

  He dialed again and she answered the telephone on the first ring. Her voice sounded bright and happy.

  "Trini, this is Julian Burroughs."

  Her up turned into an instant down. He could almost hear the corners of her mouth dropping.

  "Oh? Yes?"

  "I was wondering if I might come over?"

  "What for?"

  "I don’t know. I thought, well, maybe we could have that drink."

  "I don’t think so, Mr. Burroughs. I’m kind of busy."

  "Oh. I see. Well, the telephone’s all right. The night of the accident, did you pack your husband’s lunch? And the name’s Julian."

  "He didn’t take a lunch."

  "He brought coffee."

  "He was finicky about coffee. He always made his own. If that’s all…"

  "Just one thing. I wanted to tell you that you really might think about suing over that insurance. I asked my office and they…"