“Why?” her husband asked. “Because he’s Italian?”
“Of course not,” she said, defensively. “I didn’t know then that he was Italian. But you only have to look at him. There was something in his eyes, something ruthless.”
“If I could identify mobsters simply by the expression in their eyes,” Mort said, “I could get a great job with the FBI.”
“But then we’d miss you in Cabot Cove, Sheriff,” I said, winking at Maureen. But silently, I agreed with her observation about Mr. Casale’s eyes. They were hard, dark eyes, lacking any mitigating compassion.
“Well,” I said, “what’s on everyone’s agenda today?”
“We thought we’d tag along with you, Mrs. F.,” Mort said. “You know London better than we do. You’ve been here so many times.”
It was not what I wanted to hear. Had I been totally honest with my friends, I would have said that I needed to be on my own for the day. Instead, I said, “How about this? I have some errands to run this morning that would just bore you, so why don’t we head off in different directions and meet up for lunch?”
“What sort of errands?” Mort asked.
I was formulating an answer when Christine Silverton, accompanied by Sal Casale, entered the dining room. I waved to her to join us. She and Casale said something to each other before he walked away, and she came to our table.
“Please join us,” I said.
She took the one empty chair.
“How are you this morning?” Seth asked, his tone that of a physician visiting a hospitalized patient.
“As well as can be expected,” she said, “considering what’s happened.”
She was smartly dressed in a tailored taupe pantsuit, accented by a scarf in subtle hints of red and purple. She wore the barest hint of makeup, and her only jewelry was her wide, gold wedding band.
“If there’s anything we can do, all you have to do is ask,” Maureen said.
“Maybe you can talk sense to the police,” was Christine’s reply.
“What do you mean?” Mort asked.
“They won’t release Wayne’s body,” she said, her anger palpable. “I wanted to have the body return to the States with us tonight, but Scotland Yard says it has to remain here in the UK for further autopsy tests.”
That didn’t surprise me at all, nor, I was sure, did Seth find it unusual. A murder had been committed. While family needs are always considered in such cases, the requirements of law enforcement trump any personal preferences. I didn’t express what I was thinking, however. She didn’t need a contrary opinion at this juncture.
Christine ordered juice, coffee, and a dry English muffin. Her eyes went to the open newspaper and the story about the detaining of the two men at the airport, and the possible link to Casale.
“Can you believe that?” she said, waving at the paper.
“You’ve seen the article on Mr. Casale?” Maureen asked, closing the tabloid so the front page was face-down on the table.
“I read it this morning in my room. Piece of trash. All lies. These media vultures are despicable.”
“They’ve got a job to do,” Seth offered.
Christine’s nostrils flared. “A job? All they care about is making money off somebody else’s misfortune and sullying every reputation they can.”
“Has Mr. Casale seen it?” Mort asked.
“Of course. He’s furious. He’s considering bringing a libel suit. I hope he does. They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with m—” She faltered. “To get away with publishing lies.”
“Sounds like he’s a good friend,” Mort said.
Christine stiffened. “He has been a good friend,” she said with emphasis, “—to Wayne. Wayne relied on his honesty and judgment and Sal never steered him wrong.” Her eyes began to fill, but she dashed away the tears before any moisture touched her cheek.
Christine’s defense of her husband’s business partner was admirable. She was very emotional, understandably given the circumstances. I wondered whether Sal Casale was indeed the victim of an overzealous press and if he really was the upstanding citizen Christine depicted. It would be interesting if he brought a libel suit. If he did, I thought, he’d have an easier time of it in England than back in the United States. Libel laws in Great Britain weigh heavily in favor of the plaintiff. The defendant, in this case a British newspaper, must prove it did not commit libel, as opposed to U.S. law where the plaintiff has the obligation to prove he or she was libeled.
The waiter arrived with Christine’s breakfast. She took a sip of juice, then did the same with her coffee.
“Did you get some sleep last night?” I asked.
“I don’t think I slept more than ten minutes at a time,” she said.
“Is there anything I can do to help you today?”
“No, but thank you, Jessica.” She dabbed at her lips with her napkin, and pushed back from the table, the muffin untouched.
“Not eating?” Seth asked.
“I don’t have much of an appetite,” she said. “Besides, I have a meeting to get to.”
A meeting? I thought. At a time like this?
“We’ve got to work out the legal and financial tangles left by Wayne’s death,” she explained, standing. “And, of course, the police want to talk to me. You’d think I had something to do with the murder, the way they act. Sorry to run, and thanks for all your support. I don’t know what I’d do without friends like you.”
We said nothing as we watched her leave the dining room. Seth broke our silence.
“She should have eaten something,” he said. “She needs nourishment.”
“Maybe it’s better that she keep busy with business matters,” Mayor Shevlin offered. “Keep her mind off losing her husband.”
While there was a certain validity to what Jim suggested, I had trouble squaring Christine’s behavior with the tragic event that had taken place. Then again, I reminded myself, don’t judge how other people react to tragedy.
“Wasn’t it nice that she thinks of us as her friends?” Maureen said.
“What do you mean, Hon?” Mort asked.
“Well, we don’t really know her all that well.”
“Wayne and I go back a lot of years,” Seth said, “but I can’t say I knew the man or even liked him very much.” He caught my eye. “Don’t look at me like that, Jessica Fletcher.”
“Like what?”
“I know what you’re thinking.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You do?”
“You’re thinking I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”
“It’s always a good policy,” I said.
“Well, I told you I thought he was a slick one. Don’t know why he even invited us, unless he wanted something.”
Oh dear, I thought, Seth’s stuck his foot in it now.
“I think he wanted to do something nice for his hometown, for Cabot Cove,” Jim said, frowning. “There certainly isn’t anything I could have done for him as mayor—other than cheer him on. If I thought he wanted something from me, I would never have come.”
Seth’s eyes sought mine. I looked up at the ceiling, my lips pursed.
Susan put a hand on her husband’s arm. “I’m sure Seth didn’t mean anything by that, Jim,” she said.
Seth coughed. “Certainly not!” he sputtered. “Sorry if you thought I was impugning your integrity, Mayor. Meant no such thing. It’s the dead man’s integrity I wonder about. That’s all.”
Good heavens. He’s making it worse. If I’d been sitting next to him, I could have nudged him with my elbow or kicked his shoe. But we were on opposite sides of the table.
“You’ll be seeing George today, I assume,” Seth said, thankfully changing the topic of conversation.
“Oh, yes,” I said. “I believe so.”
I was hoping to accompany George when he interviewed Captain Caine. Christine had said the police wanted to talk with her. I wondered if George had already made an appointment to take her statement, and,
if he had, when that would be. He was appropriately sensitive when first encountering her the night of the murder, but there would come a time—and rather quickly, I was sure—when he would want a full accounting of her movements leading up to the time Wayne was killed, and to gain what insights she had that might help point to the murderer. I decided that I would call his cell phone the minute I had time alone.
After a spirited discussion that lasted through breakfast, my friends decided to take in the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace.
“Where are we meeting for lunch?” Mort asked me.
“Let’s see,” I said. I was tempted to return to the Athenaeum, but felt the others would probably want to experience something new. “I have it,” I said. “We should have lunch at a genuine London pub before leaving, and I know just the one, the Grenadier.”
“I like the sound of that, Mrs. F.,” Mort said. “A grenadier is a soldier. Right?”
“Yes. A member of the British Grenadier Guards,” I said. “The pub goes back to the early eighteen hundreds and is absolutely charming.”
“How’s the food?” Seth asked.
“Very good,” I said. “And the place has a resident ghost.”
“No ghosts for me,” Maureen said with an exaggerated shiver.
“He’s very well mannered,” I said. “He was one of the Duke of Wellington’s guardsmen who was flogged to death for cheating at cards.”
“Served him right,” Mort said, laughing.
“Where is it?” Jim asked.
“In a charming mews complete with cobblestones, right near Hyde Park Corner. You can’t miss it. There’s a sentry box outside from when the duke used it as an officer’s mess. How’s one o’clock? Does that suit everyone?”
We agreed to meet there, and I watched them leave the hotel for their morning’s adventures. I immediately called George’s cell number.
“Good morning, Jessica,” he said, the sound of his voice reassuring.
“Good morning to you, George.”
“Where are you?”
“At the hotel. I was wondering whether we’d be catching up with each other this morning.”
“Absolutely. I’m counting on you to play Dr. Watson to my Sherlock Holmes.”
I smiled. “It would be my pleasure.”
“Good. My appointment with Captain Caine is at eleven, right there at the Savoy. And Mrs. Silverton . . .”
I heard him riffling through the pages of his notebook.
“Let’s see. Ah, yes. She’s agreed to meet with me at three. Are you available at those times?”
“Even if I weren’t, I’d change my plans to make it work.”
“That warms my heart.”
“George, there was an article in this morning’s newspaper,” I started.
“I think I know the one you mean.”
“Those two men who were detained at Heathrow?”
“Yes. I read it.”
“It’s alleged that they’re associated with Wayne Silverton’s partner in the airline, Salvatore Casale.”
“Interesting scenario, isn’t it?” he said. “Makes one wonder whether they were here in the UK on an assignment.”
An assignment to murder, I thought.
“You’re exactly right,” George said, reading my mind.
“I am?”
“You’re thinking they could be involved in the murder. It’s something we can discuss when we get a minute.”
I was beginning to think I must have a transparent mind since both Seth and George were so adept at reading my thoughts.
“In the meantime,” George was saying, “I just left one of the flight attendants who worked your plane.”
“Ms. Molnari? Or Mrs. Scherer, the first officer’s wife?”
“Wrong on both counts. Mr. Slater, the gentleman flight attendant.”
“Was the interview fruitful?”
“In some ways, yes. He says he was the last crew member to leave the aircraft, although he does claim to have taken the crew limo into the city along with most of the others.”
“ ‘Most of the others,’ ” I repeated. “Who wasn’t in that limo?”
“As you reported, the good captain wasn’t among them. You saw him at the airport much later.”
“That’s right.”
“It seems Ms. Molnari wasn’t in that limo, either, at least according to Mr. Slater.”
“Perhaps she was with Captain Caine.”
“I’d say that’s a logical possibility. I’d better ring off. Things to do before the eleven o’clock with Captain Caine.”
“We’ll meet here at the hotel a few minutes before then?”
“Exactly. Depending upon how it goes, we can grab a bite to eat following it.”
“I’m afraid I’ve made lunch plans with my friends. I’d love you to join us, George. We’re going to the Grenadier.”
“Good choice. They make the best Beef Wellington in all of London. Afraid I can’t tie up that much time. But you enjoy, Jessica. Until eleven.”
I checked my watch. I had a little less than two and a half hours before meeting George. I stood in the Savoy’s lobby, debating where to go first when Christine Silverton came storming up the stairs, anger written all over her face. She spotted me, seemed to go through an internal debate, and finally came over to me.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“God, I cannot believe these people.”
“What people?”
“The low-life good-for-nothings Wayne got himself involved with to launch the airline. They are . . .” She shook her head as though that would shake out the words she was seeking. “They are crooks and scoundrels.”
“I’m sorry you’re so upset,” I said, not knowing what else to say. “I take it the disposition of Wayne’s participation in SilverAir is not going smoothly.”
“Not if they have their way,” she barked, her pique rising to another level. “It’s bad enough that my husband has been brutally murdered by some madman. Now his so-called partners are already fighting over the spoils, vultures enjoying roadkill.” Her voice was raised in anger and many in the lobby were turning to stare.
“How about a cup of tea together?” I suggested, taking her arm and ushering her toward the dining room. “It’ll help you calm down.”
She hunched her shoulders and blew a long stream of air through her lips. “I think I’d better get back to that meeting. No! They can’t do anything without me. A cup of tea. Yes, that would be nice.”
We found a small table with comfortable chairs in the upper dining room where the hotel serves afternoon tea. A waiter delivered a pot of Earl Grey, and a small plate of scones, which I was happy to see. Christine seemed to have simmered down considerably. She even managed a small smile after taking a sip. “Thank you, Jessica,” she said. “I needed this.”
“You’re under such incredible strain,” I said, “losing your husband, and having to deal with business issues so soon. Can’t these discussions be put off, at least until you’re back in the States and have had a chance to deal with your personal sorrow?”
She sighed and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she said, “You didn’t know Wayne the way I did, Jessica. He was a driven man with little or no time for such trifles as personal sorrow or other human emotions. It was all business, and I know he’d want me to forge ahead as though nothing has happened. Once, when we were discussing death, he said, ‘Dying is the price you pay for living. You’re born, you die, and whoever is left had better get on with it.’ ” It was a rueful smile. “He’d be furious with me if I caved in just because he’s no longer here.”
“I’ve known other people like that,” I said. “My husband, Frank, was a man who wanted those he loved to get on with their lives, and I’ve tried to do that since his death. But I also took some time to grieve. I’m glad I did.”
“I know,” she said. “It’s just that—”
When she didn’t continue, I said, “Men like Wayne go through
life accomplishing many wonderful things. At the same time, they tend to make enemies along the way. Do any of Wayne’s enemies come to mind as being capable of murdering him?”
This time her laugh was sardonic. “They’d fill a phone book,” she said.
“That bad?”
“I’m afraid so. Of course, those who went into business with him were willing to overlook their personal feelings in the interest of making money. Casale and Vicks are two good examples. They’ve accused Wayne of reneging on promises he allegedly made to them, and they’re not the only ones. That’s where I’ve been this morning, trying to sort things out. Wayne’s untimely death has created a rat’s nest of issues, including who ends up with his share of the airline.”
My raised eyebrows indicated my surprise. “I would have assumed that the question of succession would have been clearly spelled out in any agreements between the parties,” I said.
“It depends on which agreements you honor. Wayne and I had a prenuptial agreement. There was also his will. Both left whatever stake he had in his various businesses to me. The will was redrawn just before he started SilverAir, and specifically leaves his share of the airline to me. But he also signed various agreements with his partners giving them the rights of succession. Which papers rule? I’m afraid this is going to end up in a very long and drawn out legal fight.”
“What a shame,” I said.
“That’s an understatement.”
I hesitated before saying, “Do you think one of his partners killed him?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me at this point.”
“Which one?”
“Which one wanted to kill him? I have no idea. Maybe all of them.”
The waiter poured a second cup of tea, and I used the interruption to collect my thoughts. “As long as we’re sitting here, Christine, would you mind if I asked you something? I have a couple of questions.”
“I thought your handsome Scotland Yard inspector would be the one asking questions, Jessica. I’m seeing him at three.”
“I know, but you could help me put to rest a few things that have been on my mind.”
She made an overt act of checking her watch. “Go ahead, but make it fast.”
“I don’t know if you’ve been told about Ms. Molnari’s suicide attempt.”
Coffee, Tea, or Murder? Page 10