“The brutal murder of my husband has shocked everyone who knew him. He was struck down at the pinnacle of his dreams to form a new airline offering better service to millions of passengers. I call upon everyone watching me at this moment to come forward to the authorities if you have any information that might help apprehend his murderer. There is a vicious killer on the loose at Stansted Airport, and the sooner he is brought to justice, the safer everyone will be. Thank you.”
I turned down the sound again and pondered what she’d said. Obviously, she was dismissing the possibility that someone close to Wayne was the murderer, pointing instead to a stranger having committed the crime. While that was a possibility, it was a remote one, and I wondered whether it truly represented what she believed, or if it had been said to divert attention from those who’d been with us on the flight.
The shower was hot and pleasurable, but my mind was on anything and everything but soap and water. Going into the knife shop and buying one had been strictly a whim on my part. The vision of the knife protruding from Wayne’s upper back had stayed with me since witnessing it, and I’d felt almost compelled to hold a similar one in my hand.
But more important, whose hand had held the actual murder weapon and used it to take Wayne’s life?
The only way to rid myself of that grim vision on the 767’s flight deck was to come up with an answer.
Chapter Nine
As it turned out, I was right about the Shevlins having made other dinner plans. They were replaced in our party by former airline captain Jed Richardson and his wife. George arrived at the Savoy right on time, and we all headed off to the restaurant he’d chosen, Langan’s Brasserie in London’s posh Mayfair section.
“I think you’ll like it,” George said during the drive. “Michael Caine is a part owner, which ensures a smattering of celebrities on most nights, and the food is quite good.”
“Ooh, how exciting,” said Maureen. “I love his movies.”
“I can do without so-called celebrities,” Seth commented. “Food is what matters in a restaurant.”
“Right you are,” George happily agreed, aware from previous encounters with Seth that the evening would likely be peppered with such remarks.
George had mentioned to me earlier that Langan’s was a dressy sort of place, and I’d passed along that information to the others. Everyone had gussied up for the evening, as though setting out for a festive evening.
A festive evening.
I’ve always been impressed with how adaptable we human beings are at simultaneously handling pain and pleasure. The rituals we observe following the death of someone near and dear were, I’m certain, designed to allow this to happen. Whether a Catholic or Protestant wake, a Jewish shivah, or another gathering following a death, grieving is simultaneously balanced by joyous remembrances of the deceased; the resulting laughter mitigates the pain and turns such events into a celebration of life. Without such a release, unrequited grief might be too much to bear.
George concluded his minilecture about the restaurant by saying, “I have to admit that I have a particular fondness for Langan’s. It serves the best steak tartare in London.”
“Steak tartare,” Mort said. “That’s a favorite of mine, too—as long as it’s well-done.” He laughed at his little joke, and we laughed along with him.
Wayne Silverton’s murder wasn’t mentioned by anyone during the limousine ride. But once we were seated at a large table on the restaurant’s cozy second floor, and drinks had been served along with appetizers—George was the only one to order the raw, ground steak, much to Seth’s obvious facial expressions of displeasure—I asked Jed, “When you flew for the airline, did you and other cockpit crew members routinely carry a knife in your bags?”
Jed, who looked every bit the pilot, his face tanned and filled with lines from having looked into the sun for thousands of hours at high altitudes, nodded. “I don’t know anyone who didn’t,” he said. “Of course, now lots of commercial pilots carry a handgun, too. I don’t agree with that policy, but antiterrorism rules since Nine Eleven have changed many things: pilots carrying weapons, reinforced cockpit doors, most of it worthwhile. But not guns. Commercial pilots are busy enough safely flying the plane without also having to become marksmen in confined quarters.”
“Was there a special sort of knife pilots carried when you were flying commercially?”
He thought for a moment before replying. “Not any specific brand, although they tended to look the same, a four- or five-inch blade that retracts into a handle, usually black, but not always.”
“Jessica bought a knife like that today,” Mort said to George.
He looked at me with raised eyebrows.
“I wanted to see how easy it was to buy a knife like the one used to kill Wayne.”
“I suppose you’ve got prints by now off the murder weapon,” Mort said to George.
“Ah, no, not that I’m aware of.”
Mort gave George an I understand look. “Can’t discuss an ongoing case,” he said. “Maybe we can have a private talk a little later, lawman to lawman.”
“Yes, that would be fine, Sheriff.”
Seth was the next person to bring up the murder. He waited until our salads had been served. “I suppose you did a careful analysis of blood spatter at the scene,” he said to George.
“Our evidence technicians did,” George said. “They’re good at what they do.”
Seth then spoke of various forensic conferences he’d attended. While he took pride in being a simple, small-town physician, he assiduously kept abreast of medical advances by attending seminars in a variety of areas, including forensic medicine. He spoke about the newest techniques available to forensic physicians and medical examiners throughout the time we spent eating our salads and ordering entrées. I could see that George was impressed with Seth’s knowledge and depth of understanding, and I took quiet pride in my Cabot Cove friend’s performance.
We followed George’s lead and ordered what’s best described as bourgeois British classics, bangers and mash (sausage links and mashed potatoes), and bubble and squeak (fried pureed potatoes and cabbage), which George claimed were always superbly prepared. The meal didn’t disappoint. Everyone’s appetite was sated, and it took some gentle, humorous persuasion by the waiter to get us to order homemade desserts—three portions with multiple forks.
“Well,” Mort said after we’d finished coffee, “how about we go somewhere for a nightcap?”
To which Maureen immediately responded, “I think Jessica and George would probably appreciate an hour or two to themselves. Isn’t that right, Jess?”
“I—”
“That’s a splendid idea,” said George. “You folks take the limo back to the hotel. Have your nightcap in its American Bar. A lively place, to be sure.”
I checked Seth’s expression for his reaction to Maureen’s suggestion. He smiled at me, winked, and said he wholeheartedly agreed.
We said our good nights in front of the restaurant, and George and I watched the limo pull away.
“I like your sheriff’s wife more and more,” he said, punctuating his words with a laugh.
“It was sweet of her to do that,” I said.
“What’s your pleasure?” he asked.
“Somewhere quiet where we can sip a drink, or coffee, and talk.”
“My sentiments exactly, Jessica. Let me see. Ah ha, I have just the answer.”
He hailed a passing taxi and we settled into the spacious rear compartment. Among many things I love about London are its taxicabs. The large, square, roomy vehicles are the most comfortable cabs in the world, and their drivers the most professional and knowledgeable. It takes years for a London taxi driver to obtain a license, years of learning every possible street, and the location of every hotel, restaurant, and tourist attraction, many of them impossibly obscure.
A few minutes later we pulled into a cul-de-sac in front of Dukes Hotel.
“I’ve stayed at D
ukes before,” I said. “I love it.”
“Then you’re aware of its unusual, small bar.”
“I love that, too. So cozy. When I was here last, they offered tastes of rare cognacs and ports. The barman was charming. His name was—”
“Salvatore Calabrese.”
“Yes. You know him.”
“Quite well. He’s no longer at Dukes. He now mans the Library Bar at the Lanesborough Hotel at Hyde Park Corner. London’s most expensive hotel, I might add.”
The small bar was empty when we walked in, except for a bartender shining glasses. He greeted us. We took a tiny table with two chairs in a far corner, looked at each other, smiled, and sighed. “Two cognacs,” George told the barman when he came to the table, “but not your most expensive.” George said to me, “Some of their cognacs go back more than a hundred years and cost a king’s ransom for a taste. A month’s salary.”
“Any vintage is fine with me,” I said. “What’s important is that we’re here together.”
“Yes, that is what’s important. So, Jessica, you’ve found yourself in the middle of a murder again.”
“The way you say that, George, it sounds as though knowing me could be a health hazard.”
He laughed. “If it is, I’ll gladly put myself in jeopardy. I assume you’re eager to learn what’s new on my end regarding Mr. Silverton’s murder.”
“Only if you wish to tell me,” I replied. “There are many other topics I’d be just as happy with.”
“I’ll get to those other topics after an update on the Silverton case. Your sheriff, Mort, asked about fingerprints. I didn’t feel at liberty to discuss it with him, but I will with you. The prints found on the handle of the knife used to kill Mr. Silverton belong to the pilot who flew you here.”
“Captain Caine?”
“Yes. His prints are on file in numerous places, given his military record and his career as a commercial airline pilot.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” I said. “As you heard from Jed Richardson, all pilots carry a knife of one sort or another.”
“Of the type you bought today?”
“Yes. As it turned out, I needn’t have bothered. It never occurred to me to ask Jed whether pilots carry them. I assume you’ve spoken to Captain Caine.”
“Briefly. On the phone this afternoon. I reached him at the hotel.”
“And?”
“He’s agreed to meet with me in the morning.”
“Did you speak with one of the flight attendants, too, Ms. Molnari?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. She was in Captain Caine’s suite when I called, and he offered to put her on the phone. It was almost as though he expected me to call and had her there purposely.”
“Did you tell him about having found his prints on the murder weapon?”
“No. I thought I’d wait until seeing him in person. Let me see. Next? I had my team contact the major taxi companies to see whether any of their drivers took a fare from the Savoy to Stansted Airport last night during the hours between when your party arrived at the hotel and the estimated time of Silverton’s death. There were two who said they had.”
“Have the drivers been questioned?” I asked.
“Yes, by one of my staff. One said he drove a woman to the airport, the other a man.”
“Did they know their names?”
“No.”
“Could they ID them if they saw them again?”
“They both said they doubted it. According to the drivers, both passengers got in the back of their taxis, gave Stansted as their destination, and said nothing else during the ride.”
“When they paid?”
George shook his head. “They might be claiming to have nothing to offer in order not to become involved. I should point out that these drivers work for fleets. There are hundreds of independent drivers who might have picked up other passengers at the Savoy at that same time. Finding them will be impossible.”
Our cognacs were served in expensive crystal snifters, accompanied by glasses of water. We held up our glasses and touched rims. “To seeing you again, Jessica. If I haven’t already said it, you look wonderful.”
“Thank you, sir. I might say the same thing about you.”
“To looking good,” he said, smiling broadly. “To being the only two people on earth who never age.”
We toasted to that, too.
“You said that Mr. Silverton’s wife had told you something of interest,” he said, sitting back in his chair and crossing one long leg over the other.
“That’s right. As you know, I spent time alone with her after we’d broken the news about her husband’s death. According to her, he was quite a philanderer.”
George’s eyebrows rose. “I assume she was not happy about that state of affairs,” he said.
“Not at all. When I picked up her raincoat to put it in the closet, I noticed it was damp. And it looked like their four suitcases hadn’t been opened.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that she might not have been in the room very long. I’m obsessive-compulsive about unpacking the minute I get into a hotel room. I suppose I shouldn’t impose my own particular habits on someone else, but I found it strange, that’s all. She had hours to unpack—assuming she was in the room all that time. I don’t think she was.”
“Possibly one of the taxi fares to Stansted.”
“Possibly.”
“Well,” he said, “now that we’ve covered what we know to date about the murder, let’s get on to more pleasant things, namely us.”
“I suppose I should apologize for what’s gotten in the way of our having time together,” I said.
“No apologies necessary, Jessica. You certainly aren’t responsible for a murder having taken place, and as for your friends joining us tonight for dinner, I understand perfectly. But I must admit that spending so little time together is extremely frustrating. I realize that we live an ocean apart, and that we both lead busy professional lives. That’s good, of course, and I wouldn’t suggest that it be any other way. I’ve been content for all the years we’ve known each other to, as we say in Scotland, Let the tow gang wi’ the bucket.”
I laughed. “I love your Scottish expressions, George, only I never know what they mean unless you tell me. It’s a foreign language.”
“Then I shall translate. What I said means simply that I have allowed things to run their course.”
I sighed and extended my hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I don’t think it’s any mystery that I am very fond of you, George Sutherland.”
“And I’m sure that you are aware that the feeling is entirely mutual.”
I nodded.
“Your Frank was quite a man from what you’ve told me.”
“Yes, he was. He was—Well, in many ways he was very much like you, George.”
“I’m flattered, of course.”
“As Frank got older, he often said that he’d become more liberal, not in a political sense, but in his acceptance of human frailties.” I laughed. “That was one of many things I loved about him, his willingness to change his outlook on life.”
“One of the few benefits of aging,” George said, “is the wisdom that comes with it. I share your departed husband’s philosophy. The more years I live, the more able I am to understand, even celebrate, man’s foibles. Lord knows, we have enough of them.”
“It must be especially difficult for someone like you, George, to practice that viewpoint.”
“Why?”
“Because of what you do for a living. Coming into contact every day with man’s baser instincts.”
“It was more difficult earlier in my career, but you learn rather quickly to compartmentalize such things. Despite the evil in the world, there is so much more good to focus on. A prime example is having met you, Jessica. Little did I dream when we first met here in London all those years ago that our friendship would sustain itself the way it has.” He lifted his snifter. “To my
dear friend from across the pond.”
I touched the rim of his glass with mine. “And to you, Inspector George Sutherland. As the song lyric says, you light up my life.”
“Which brings up something I’ve been meaning to say to you for some time now, Jessica.”
“Yes?”
Suddenly, his cell phone rang. “Sutherland here. . . . I see. . . . Yes, of course . . . I’ll be there in a matter of minutes.”
He clicked his phone closed and replaced it in his jacket pocket.
“I take it we’re leaving,” I said.
“Immediately.”
He motioned for the barman, who brought us our check. George laid cash on the table. “The cognac was excellent,” he said as we left the bar, went outside, and climbed into the next available taxi.
“The Savoy Hotel,” he told the driver.
“What’s happened there?” I asked.
“The flight attendant Ms. Molnari has evidently attempted suicide.”
Chapter Ten
An ambulance and two London patrol cars were at the front entrance to the Savoy when we pulled up.
“The hotel didn’t know what it bargained for when it booked our party,” I commented as we left the taxi and went inside where Mort Metzger stood talking with Cabot Cove’s mayor, Jim Shevlin.
“We just heard about the flight attendant,” I said.
“Where is she?” George asked.
“In her room,” Mort said. “No, strike that. It’s the pilot’s room.”
“Captain Caine,” I said.
“Right,” said Mort. “Seth is up there with her. There’s a British doc, too.”
“I’d best join them,” George said.
He looked at me and knew what I was thinking. A nod from him said it was all right to accompany him.
After getting Captain Caine’s room number, George and I rode up in the elevator together. I asked why he had been called to the scene of an apparent suicide attempt by a hotel guest.
“I’ve made it known at my office that anything untoward having to do with the SilverAir passengers should be reported to me immediately. Whether this young lady’s act has anything to do with Mr. Silverton’s murder is purely conjecture, of course, but it can’t be dismissed out of hand.”
Coffee, Tea, or Murder? Page 8