“Yes. I’ve hooked up with an old friend from my airline days. We’re having lunch at Heathrow.”
“Sounds like fun. Have you had a chance to chat with Captain Caine since we arrived?”
“No. He’s stayed pretty much to himself.” He lowered his voice. “I did hear him the other night, though.”
“Hear him?”
“Yeah. My room’s across the hall from his. He got into a shouting match that was pretty heated.”
“Was it with the flight attendant? Gina Molnari?”
“No, actually, I believe it was a man. In fact, I thought he was yelling at his first officer.”
“Oh my. Could you tell what they were arguing about?”
“I don’t know, Jess. I did listen for a while, but I never made out their words, just an occasional one now and then. That’s how I know it was the first officer in the room with him. I heard him say, ‘Cut it out, Carl.’ And later I thought I heard Caine call him ‘Scherer’ once.”
I lightened my voice as I said, “Somehow, having the captain and first officer fighting doesn’t bode well for the flight home.”
“They’ll get over it,” Jed said. “I’ve had my share of disagreements with first officers when I was flying commercial, but it never lasted. Too much at stake once you’re in that cockpit. Speaking of cockpits, how did you enjoy your ride up front?”
“Loved it, of course.”
“I thought you might grab an hour of dual piloting instruction while here, you know, get a taste of how the British general aviation system works.”
“No time for that,” I said. “Enjoy your lunch with your friend. We’ll catch up later.”
“Shall do. By the way, that flight attendant you mentioned. Isn’t she the one who tried to take her life? She okay now?”
“I haven’t heard anything,” I said. “She evidently wasn’t in any danger. I suppose she’s staying in her room, embarrassed about what she did.”
“She shouldn’t be,” he said. “I just hope she’s all right.”
“I’m sure she’s fine. Jed, before you go, is there some way that you can check on the background of Captain Caine and First Officer Scherer?”
“Background?”
“In aviation. I’m just curious how they ended up flying for SilverAir, what other airlines they worked for, things like that.”
“Sure. I can ask around. Where will you be this afternoon?”
“Not sure, but I’ll be here somewhere. The limos pick us up at the hotel at seven for the flight back.”
“We’ll catch up,” he said. “Have a good one.”
I wandered back into the hotel, debating whether I needed to change clothes before taking the walk I’d promised myself earlier. But the decision was made for me. Churlson Vicks, Wayne’s British partner in SilverAir, called my name as he closed the gap between us with long, purposeful strides.
“Good morning, Mr. Vicks.”
“Not a very good morning, I’d say,” he said. Although he was a man who obviously maintained control of himself in stressful situations, he demonstrated exasperation.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.
“The question is,” he said, “what part do you play in this circus?”
“Pardon?”
“This perversion, this—” He realized he was sputtering, and forced calm into his voice. “Silverton’s kid,” he said.
“Jason?”
“You are involved.”
“Involved in what?”
“This travesty, this, this—”
His control was ebbing again.
“Mr. Vicks, I assume you’re talking about Wayne’s son showing up and claiming he now owns at least a part of the airline. But why you would accuse me of being involved is beyond my comprehension.”
“That young rotter has some bloody nerve. How dare he come in here and claim he owns anything? He said he’d been meeting with you.”
“That’s absurd. I was standing with Christine when he arrived unexpectedly. She walked away, and he and I had a cup of tea together. Coffee, actually, for him. He indicated to me that he had papers of some sort that entitled him to ownership of SilverAir. That’s all I know. But to claim we had a meeting is preposterous.”
“No surprise, coming from the likes of him. Nothing but a young hooligan, a grifter if I’ve ever seen one.”
“I wouldn’t know about that, Mr. Vicks. The question is, does he have some sort of legally binding paper that substantiates his claim?”
A derisive laugh exploded from his lips. “So he says,” he said. “He presented us with what he claims is proof that his departed father left him his share of the airline. Pure rubbish! It’s a letter his father had written him years ago—many years ago—saying in it that he one day intended to launch a new airline, and that he would be pleased to have his only son as his partner. Balderdash! A worthless scrap of paper if I’ve ever seen one.”
“But does it have validity?” I pressed.
“The lawyers are looking it over as we speak. I apologize for accusing you of being in cahoots with him, Mrs. Fletcher. Frankly, if I were that despicable young man, I’d be in fear of my life.”
“That’s a harsh statement,” I said.
“Not if you know Sal.”
“Mr. Casale?”
“Did you read about his goons being arrested last night?”
“I read about two men being arrested at the airport. Are you suggesting that—?”
“I’m suggesting nothing. But the next time you have tea, or coffee, with Mr. Jason Silverton, you might do him a bloody favor and tell him he’d best disappear again or face the consequences.”
I wanted to ask about Christine, whether she, too, had laid a claim to a piece of SilverAir, and what her response had been to her stepson’s rival claim, but Vicks walked away before I could.
I visited the ladies’ room off the lobby, my multiple cups of tea taking their toll, then hurried from the hotel lobby to the Strand, and set out on my walk before I could be waylaid by anyone else. I turned left and walked toward Charing Cross Station. When it opened in 1864, Charing Cross turned the Strand into Europe’s busiest street, replete with lavish hotels, majestic theaters, and many restaurants. The Strand is no longer the posh thoroughfare it once was, but a sense of history prevails, as it does on virtually every street in London. As I walked, I could almost feel and see those literary giants whose foot-steps preceded mine on this celebrated section of the city: Samuel Johnson, James Boswell, Charles Lamb, William Thackeray, and Charles Dickens, among dozens of other great names from a bygone era. I looked down Craven Street, where Benjamin Franklin lived during two extended stays in London, and paused in front of the magnificent Adelphi Theatre, built by a wealthy tradesman to launch his daughter’s acting career, and the scene of an infamous shooting of the actor William Terris by a madman. And another theater caught my attention, the Vaudeville, dating from 1870. A complete restoration in the 1960s turned it into one of the city’s nicest theaters; I’ve enjoyed more than one production in its elegant surroundings.
I walked as far as the station; then, refreshed in body and spirit, I returned to the Savoy and went to my room. The message light was flashing on my telephone. I retrieved two messages. One was from Seth, informing me that he wouldn’t be at lunch. He’d made contact with the British physician who’d been summoned to the Savoy to minister to Gina Molnari, and had been invited to spend time with him at the hospital where he was affiliated. I wasn’t surprised. Seth often does that, befriending doctors from different places and learning how they conduct their practices. The United Kingdom, of course, has socialized medicine, vastly different from our health care system. I’d be interested in Seth’s reaction to being exposed to the British version.
The second call was from George. He said he was heading for the hotel and would be there by ten thirty. I looked at my watch. It was almost that time now.
I freshened up and was waiting when he called the room
.
“Tea?” he asked.
“I’ve had my fill of tea for one day,” I said, pleasantly. “But I’d be happy to meet you downstairs.”
We found a small couch in a secluded corner of the large, ornate lobby. He handed me a computer printout of Jason Silverton’s rap sheet. I took a quick look. “Whew,” I said. “Hardly an upstanding citizen.”
“Not as bad as some, but bad enough.”
According to the printout, Jason had been arrested six times since arriving in London. Two of the offenses were domestic battery.
“He’s been married?” I asked.
“No,” George replied. “That code there indicates he battered two live-ins, significant others I suppose you call them, although judging from his behavior, one would have to question just how significant they were.”
“What does this code mean?” I asked.
“The one charge was dropped when the victim declined to press charges. In the other case, he pleaded no contest and received probation.”
“Fraud?” I said, referring to another entry on the sheet.
“Yes. I went back into the files to learn a little more about his two fraud cases. It seems he tried to sell what he purported were rare, first-edition copies of books. He evidently was a good salesman. His pigeons bought, discovered they’d been had, and brought suits against him.”
“Criminal suits.”
“Criminal and civil. As you can see, he was found not guilty of both charges.”
“He’s done quite well in your courts.”
“Not always. These final two charges didn’t pan out quite as nicely for him. See there? Six months for burglary, and—”
“And a year and a half for impersonation for the purpose of fraud,” I said.
We looked at each other.
I shook my head. “No, George, he must be Wayne Silverton’s son. Christine didn’t question it for a moment.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Jessica. But that doesn’t mean he’s above forging documents to back up his claim about the airline. You haven’t seen those papers?”
“No, I haven’t.” I told him of my conversation with Churlson Vicks about Jason’s presence in the meeting. “Just an old letter from his father.”
“If he’s trying to pull wool over the eyes of those sharks, he’ll find himself in rather dangerous waters,” George said.
“I’m sure the attorneys involved will vet that letter thoroughly to ascertain its legitimacy,” I said.
“For his sake, let’s hope so.” George looked at his watch. “Time to see the good Captain Caine. You’ve met him a few times now. What’s your evaluation of the man?”
“Our encounters have been relatively short,” I said. “I sat in the cockpit on takeoff from Boston. It was a thrill. As for Captain Caine, he seemed to me to be a no-nonsense sort of fellow, very much the professional airline pilot. He wasn’t especially happy to have me in the cockpit, but Wayne arranged it. And the captain took it in his stride. That reminds me. I haven’t told you about the confrontation that occurred between Wayne and the captain.”
“About what?”
“About Caine’s decision to leave the lineup of planes waiting to take off, and return to the terminal to have a possible malfunction checked.”
“What was the problem?”
“A lightbulb, it turned out, but of course he didn’t know that at the time. Captain Caine made a decision to return to the gate. Wayne wanted Caine to ignore the problem and take off. In the end, there was nothing seriously wrong, but I admired the captain’s stand. Wayne was out of line to try to override Caine’s decision by throwing around his weight as the airline owner.”
“Sounds like Silverton was adept at making enemies. What do you say about Ms. Molnari taking the pills in Caine’s room? Any significance?”
“Only the obvious. We should ask him if they’ve ever been romantically involved. I happened to speak with someone this morning who has a room across the hall from Caine. Jed Richardson. He’s Cabot Cove’s resident pilot. In fact, he taught me to fly. He told me he’d heard an argument between Captain Caine and another man. He’s pretty sure it was the first officer, Carl Scherer.”
“And?”
“Nothing beyond that. But I asked him if he could check on the captain’s and first officer’s professional backgrounds. Jed used to be a commercial pilot. He knows whom to ask.”
George smiled. “You’ve had a busy morning, I see. By the way, I managed to spend an unplanned fifteen minutes with the first officer, Mr. Scherer. Pleasant enough young chap.”
“Did anything come of it?”
“No, nor did I expect anything. Just an informal chat. He offered to sit down for a longer interview with me at my convenience. He rode the limousine into London with the rest of the flight crew.”
“Did he have anything to offer regarding the murder?”
“No. He spoke highly of Mr. Silverton, called him an aviation visionary.”
“Which I suppose he was.”
“At any rate, Jessica, Mr. Scherer strikes me as a forthright fellow. I’ll find the time to follow up with him as soon as possible.”
George stood and put out his hand to help me up. “Shall we?”
As we headed for the elevators, George nodded at a man in the lobby—a plain clothes officer, I suspected. “It should be interesting,” he said in a low voice, “to see how the captain responds to the news that his fingerprints are all over the knife used in the murder.”
My wonderful British friend is a master of understatement.
Chapter Fourteen
Captain Caine answered George’s knock.
“Good morning, Captain.”
“Good morning.” Caine looked past George to me, and his eyes widened. “How are you, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Just fine, thank you.”
“May we come in?” George asked.
“Yeah, sure.”
We entered his suite where Gina Molnari sat stiffly in a chair by the window. She turned at our entrance but said nothing.
“Ms. Molnari,” George said, cocking his head, “I trust you’re feeling better.”
“I’m fine,” she said.
She didn’t look fine to me. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her face was puffy and pale.
George said to Caine, “I’d prefer that we speak alone, Captain.”
“Anything I have to say, she already knows,” Caine replied.
“That may be,” George said, “but I insist that this interview be conducted without anyone else present.”
“What about her?” Caine asked, indicating me.
“I’ve asked Mrs. Fletcher to accompany me on some of my interviews. She’s been involved from the beginning, and I find her insights to be useful.”
“Her imagination, you mean,” Caine said.
“I beg your pardon?” George’s voice was cold.
Caine hesitated, looking unsure that he wanted to challenge George. “She’s a novelist,” he said after a moment. “She makes up stories. That’s what I meant.”
“Be that as it may,” George said, “Ms. Molnari will have to leave and Mrs. Fletcher stays.”
Caine started to protest again, but Gina stood. “I’ll be in my room,” she said, and left without another word.
“Have a seat,” George said to Caine. The pilot was dressed in a gray sweatshirt, tan cargo shorts, and sneakers sans socks. George and I took the couch, Caine a chair across a coffee table from us. George took out his notebook and placed it carefully on the table.
“Let me save you some time,” Caine said. “I don’t know why that knife is missing from my carry-on bag. Chances are I left it at home, forgot to pack it.”
George had been bent over the tabletop, his eyes on his notebook. Without moving his head, he looked up from beneath his thick eyebrows. “I believe you said it stays in your bag all the time,” he said.
“It usually does. This time it didn’t,” Caine said. He tapped h
is heel on the floor, causing his knee to bounce up and down. “If you’re trying to link up my missing knife with Silverton’s murder, you’re wasting your time.”
George reached out a hand and rested it on top of his notebook. “I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple, Captain. You see, the knife that killed Mr. Silverton has your fingerprints on it. Now, if the murder weapon is not your knife, how did it get your fingerprints all over it? That would point to you as the murderer, would it not?”
“I don’t believe this,” said Caine, running his fingers through his hair. “I’m telling you I didn’t kill him. But what does it matter? Somebody took the knife from my bag and stabbed Silverton. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that out.”
“That’s certainly a possibility,” George said. “Who had access to your bag aside from you?”
Caine snorted, “Hell, anyone and everyone. The crew—Carl Scherer, the flight attendants—and dozens of people in Ops at Logan and Stansted, the world.” He looked at me. “You spent time up front with us, Mrs. Fletcher. The bag was right there at your feet, just off to the left of the jump seat you used.”
“Yes, I remember seeing it,” I said, “but I wouldn’t have had any reason to open it and rummage through its contents.”
“I’m not saying you did,” Caine said, “but it makes my point. Everybody on the flight had an opportunity to grab the knife from it. Scherer and I left the cockpit after we’d landed and shut down. The door was open. This wasn’t like a normal flight where security was tight. Hell, there wasn’t any security. Silverton saw to that. He didn’t want to ‘offend’ anyone.” He delivered that last line scornfully.
George’s index finger tapped the notebook. “Thank you for sharing that information with us,” he said. “Would you mind accounting for your movements from the time you landed the plane at Stansted until later that night?” He drew a pen from his breast pocket, opened the notebook, and looked at Caine expectantly.
“Let’s see,” Caine said, his expression announcing that he was thinking, his knee keeping time to some internal music. “I did the postflight rundown, went to Ops, and closed out the flight plan. There’s always a lot of paperwork. And then—then I came into town along with everyone else.”
Coffee, Tea, or Murder? Page 12