Time to add to my written list in the hope that seeing things on paper would help clarify my thinking.
After packing my bag for the trip home, I did just that: sat at the desk in my suite and added to my notes. As I filled the pages, my mind filled even faster. I stared at what I’d written and thought of the wonderful writer, Kurt Vonnegut, who once said that he considered it somewhat silly to make a living putting little black marks on paper. While he was obviously being facetious, all those little black marks on my lined, yellow legal pad added up to nothing helpful.
I dropped my pen on the desk, sat back, exhaled a stream of frustration, and tried to will some sense into what I knew, and what I’d committed to writing. Wayne was murdered for one of two reasons (or possibly a combination of both):
Money.
Passion.
I’d eliminated most people in our entourage as suspects because they were not known to have a personal connection with Wayne, or a business/ working relationship.
Christine Silverton (Victim’s wife. Husband was a womanizer. Possible heiress to the airline.)
Churlson Vicks (British partner in airline. Unsavory reputation. Angry that victim brought in Casale as a partner.)
Salvatore Casale (Partner in airline, reputed to have mob connections. Henchmen in London at time of murder.)
Capt. Bill Caine (Known to have temper. Scornful of victim’s position as airline’s founder. Obvious romantic relationship with flight attendant Gina Molnari.)
Gina Molnari (Flight attendant. Caine’s lover? Made snide remarks about Christine Silverton. Suicide attempt with Christine’s sleeping pills. Could there have been a romantic link to victim?)
First Officer Carl Scherer (Victim put him on fast-track to fly 767. Why? Had easy access to Caine’s knife.)
Betsy Scherer (Flight attendant married to Scherer. Possible link to victim? Learn more.)
John Slater (Male flight attendant. What was his relationship to Wayne? No reason to suspect him. More to learn.)
Jason Silverton (Latest entry on list. No love for victim, or stepmother, Christine. Claims he now owns part of airline. Criminal record. Was he at the airport that night?)
I’d obviously discounted an act of random violence, committed by someone totally unrelated to the victim. There was no evidence of robbery. Had Wayne insulted someone at Stansted Airport, so much so that it prompted the man or woman to kill? Unlikely. Besides, how would someone like that find and use Captain Caine’s knife?
No, it had to be one of the people on my list of primary suspects.
Which one?
I called George.
“Sorry to bother you,” I said, “but I have a question. Has anything new developed with those two men detained at Heathrow, the ones allegedly associated with Mr. Casale?”
“Your timing is good, Jessica. I just received a synopsis of their interrogation. They admit to having been at Stansted Airport the night of the murder, but claim they went there to catch a flight to Paris. My people checked out their story and it has, at least, some credence. There was a flight leaving for Paris that they tried to get on. It was full, and they were on a standby basis. As it turned out, they never made that flight and went directly to Heathrow to try their chances there.”
“But they were at Stansted.”
“Yes. The question is: How would they have gotten hold of the captain’s knife?”
“Mr. Casale. He had access to Caine’s bag. He could have given it to these men with the intention of framing the captain.”
“Perhaps.”
“It doesn’t hold up well, does it?” I said. “I’m grasping at straws. The usual modus operandi of men like them would have involved a gun, wouldn’t it?”
“Without a doubt, but getting a gun through airport security is a little more difficult these days, at least that’s the general idea,” he said, chuckling.
“How are your preparations for leaving coming?”
“Fine, just fine, although I’m afraid I’ve made some of my mates here jealous, getting a free transatlantic flight to the States on a spanking new airline. I’ll have to bring back gifts.”
“Hopefully including the murderer all nicely packaged with a big bow.”
“I like that visual, Jessica. My superiors aren’t especially happy about the plane being allowed to leave. They’ve suggested it be impounded until the murderer is identified and taken into custody.”
“But they relented.”
“It was pointed out to them that we can’t very well detain more than a hundred American citizens, many of them from the press and local governments, without more justification. Seems a judge substantiated that position when the higher-ups petitioned the court to delay the departure.”
“Sounds like a wise decision.”
“I think so. Don’t hesitate to call. See you in a bit.”
I checked my watch. I’d agreed to meet my Cabot Cove traveling companions in the main dining room for dinner at five thirty, and it was almost that now. I picked up my handbag, opened the door, and gasped. Standing before me was Churlson Vicks, his fist poised to knock.
“You startled me, Mr. Vicks. I was just leaving and—”
“I know this is an unwanted intrusion, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said pressing me back into the room, “and I apologize profusely for it. But I must have a word with you. I promise not to take up too much of your time.”
“I’m meeting people for dinner, Mr. Vicks.”
“I’ll get right to the point,” he said. “You’re aware, of course, of the sudden and distinctly unwelcome emergence of the young Mr. Silverton.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I believe I indicated to you earlier that it is not in his best interests to make his outrageous—ludicrous, actually—claim that he owns a stake in SilverAir based upon an ancient letter from his father.”
I nodded, remembering the brief exchange we’d had.
“I come to you because, quite frankly, you seem to be the only one in this group with any common sense.”
“I don’t know why you would say that, Mr. Vicks. You don’t know me. But go on.”
“You must dissuade Christine and this young punk from pushing forward their claim that SilverAir is now in their control.”
“Just a second,” I said, holding up a hand for emphasis. “First of all, you say it’s their claim. I hardly think Christine and Jason would work in concert.”
“Mrs. Fletcher, when the ownership of an airline is at stake, stranger bedfellows than those two have gotten together beneath the sheets.” He came forward, his voice becoming more urgent, although I wasn’t sure it was genuine. “I reiterate, Mrs. Fletcher, that Salvatore is not a man who takes such things lightly.”
“You’re saying that the lives of Christine and her stepson are in danger?”
“It’s a distinct possibility. I am not threatening that, you understand, but there are others whose actions I do not control.”
“And what is it you want from me?”
“Talk to Christine, Mrs. Fletcher. She’ll listen to you. Make her realize that she is courting terrible trouble if she continues this unreasonable quest to take over the airline. Show her that this stepson of hers is a low-life hustler, a con man of the first order. I had my people check his police record. He’s been arrested a dozen times.”
“Six, I believe.”
He looked momentarily surprised. “Yes, perhaps I exaggerate. But six or twelve, he’s a common criminal. No good can come from her tossing in with him. Don’t you see?”
“I must admit, Mr. Vicks, that I’m having a problem at this moment giving what you claim a great deal of credibility. Are you sure you aren’t asking me to intercede in some way with Christine to benefit you and Mr. Casale financially, to get her to back off on her pursuit of her husband’s ownership share in the airline?”
How could you possibly think that of me? his expression said.
I walked to the door and opened it. “I really must go, Mr.
Vicks. I’m afraid I can’t be of any help in this matter. My major concern is not who owns SilverAir. It’s who murdered Wayne Silverton.”
He nodded, walked into the hall, turned and said, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Mrs. Fletcher. If something should happen to Christine, it will be on your conscience. As for her stepson, no one’s conscience should be bothered if he meets a tragic end. Good evening.”
Chapter Sixteen
Vicks’s ominous warning lingered in the air after the door was closed.
Was there any substance to his claim that the lives of Christine and Jason Silverton were in danger from Salvatore Casale? I doubted it. It was evident from what the Englishman had said that he and Casale, fighting for control of SilverAir, were looking for allies. Why me? I had no vested interest in the disposition of the airline, nor did I have influence over Christine. As for Jason, whether or not he ended up owning a piece of the company started by his father was of no concern to me. That would be resolved through appropriate legal channels.
But I wasn’t about to summarily dismiss Vicks’s warning of possible physical harm coming to them. If there was any validity to Casale’s reputation as a mafioso—and if he’d had a hand in Wayne’s murder—it was possible that he wouldn’t hesitate to use strong-arm tactics to get his way in a potentially lucrative business deal, which SilverAir obviously represented.
My concerns were primarily about Christine. Her behavior since Wayne’s death had been off-putting, but that didn’t lessen my compassion for her. That she was under a lot of pressure went without saying. I just hoped that the impact of losing her husband hadn’t clouded her judgment when it came to pursuing her legal rights to the airline.
Jason was another matter. I’d found his brash manner and arrogant disregard for the fact that his father had been murdered to be distasteful, at best. But I also realized that although he was not a simpatico young man, his childhood—at least the little I’d learned about it—had not been what you’d call nurturing and loving. I wasn’t making excuses for him. Millions of kids emerge from less than ideal childhoods and go on to become responsible, sensitive, caring adults. But if Vicks was right—and I had to give his claims some weight—Jason’s life could be in danger, along with that of his stepmother.
I didn’t have time to chew on it for very long because I was due downstairs for dinner and was already late (so much for my reputation of always being on time). I joined my friends in the River Restaurant, a large, magnificent dining room decorated in soft salmon and peach colors, with large windows affording a view of the Thames through the trees. I’d enjoyed many meals in that lovely setting, going back to when Frank and I had honeymooned at the Savoy.
On one trip to London after Frank had died, I was there over the Thanksgiving holiday. The British, of course, don’t celebrate our Thanksgiving, and I found myself yearning for a touch of that most traditional of American holidays. The concierge at the hotel in which I was staying suggested the River Restaurant at the Savoy. “They serve your traditional Thanksgiving menu, I believe, madam,” he said. He was right. The restaurant was filled with like-minded Americans enjoying turkey carved at tableside and all the trimmings. It was a dinner I’ve never forgotten, a hundred American strangers gathered together like one big family.
“All set to go home, Mrs. F.?” Mort asked, as he held a chair out for me.
“I think so.”
We were eight at the table: the Richardsons, the Metzgers, the Shevlins, Seth and I. They’d ordered smoked salmon, thinly sliced by a white-coated gentleman who looked as though he’d been doing it for decades, and I decided to join them.
Jed’s wife, Barbara, was dressed in a fashionable outfit, a lime green linen pantsuit, which I commented on.
“I found this amazing seamstress,” she said, glowing, “who made this for me in a couple of hours.”
Jed laughed. “I’d better alert the cockpit crew that we might have a weight-and-balance problem for the flight back.”
“I didn’t buy that much, Jed,” Barbara said, poking his arm.
Seth reported on his visit with his newfound physician friend. “They’ve got problems with their medical delivery system,” he said, “but so do we back home. Frankly, I don’t see why a country like ours can’t come up with a way for everyone to be covered.”
That sparked a debate between Seth and Jim about the pros and cons of universal health care, which the rest of us stayed out of. It was Susan who finally introduced the topic of the Silverton murder.
“I have this eerie feeling,” she said, “about flying home with a murderer.”
“Amen,” Maureen said. “Jessica, has George Sutherland made any headway in solving it?”
“These things take time,” I said. “It’s only been a couple of days. You know he’ll be traveling with us on the return flight.”
“Not especially comforting,” Seth grumbled.
“He’s not there to comfort us,” I said. “He’s going to use the flight as another opportunity to question people.”
“And what if he ends up identifying the murderer?” Seth asked. “Whoever did it is likely to raise a fuss, wouldn’t you say? Maybe put everyone on the plane in jeopardy.”
“I’m sure George wouldn’t allow that to happen,” I said.
Maureen gave me a knowing look. “And what about the other case he’s working on?” she asked.
“What other case?” Susan asked.
“The budding romance between Jessica and George.”
Seth turned to me. “Is that true, Jessica?” he asked. “Is there something I should know about?”
“If there were,” I said, “you’d be the first to know.”
“Hey, wait a minute,” Jim said. “I’m the mayor of Cabot Cove. I should be the first to know.”
They bantered back and forth about that subject until it was time to order our dinners. Had we been eating later, we would have enjoyed a dance band that performs each evening, a throwback to another era when such orchestras were standard fare in posh restaurants.
It was a shame that we had to rush through our meal. The ambiance of the River Restaurant is such that you want to linger forever. But we eventually ran out of time, left the table, went to our rooms to collect our luggage, and joined up again in front of the Savoy where a fleet of limousines waited to whisk us to Stansted Airport. The weather was still dreadful. The sky seemed to have ruptured, allowing rain to cascade down like a waterfall. In addition, a wind had kicked up, sending the rain horizontally and rendering the large umbrellas wielded by the limo drivers virtually useless. But they did their best to get us to their vehicles as dry as possible, and eventually everyone was settled in, happy to be out of the deluge. I had no idea how everyone was grouped in the other limousines. All I knew was that those of us from Cabot Cove were together, and I was happy about that.
It was a slow, tedious trip, but eventually the airport’s lights came into view and we pulled up as close as possible to the entrance. Again, with an assortment of black umbrellas providing some protection from the elements, we were escorted inside the terminal and asked to wait until further notice in an area roped off for us.
I saw Christine enter, accompanied by her attorney, Mr. Bellnap, and her stepson, Jason. Is he going with us on the flight? I wondered. They stood together, apart from the main group. Following them was a bevy of press who’d been on the flight to London, and some of the politicians from back home who’d also been invited. A few minutes later, Churlson Vicks and Salvatore Casale made their appearance. They ignored our staging area and walked by, heads down, men with weighty issues on their minds.
“Where’s the crew?” Mort asked. “Can’t go without them.”
“I’m sure they came to the airport earlier,” I offered. “There’s always a lot of preflight business to take care of.”
“I hope their first piece of business is this weather,” Seth said. “They’d have to be nuts to take off in this storm.”
“Th
ey won’t do anything that isn’t safe,” I said, hoping my words would ease his worries. I didn’t admit that I, too, was apprehensive about flying in such severe weather. Repeated slashes of lightning could be seen through huge floor-to-ceiling windows, and deafening thunder made sure that no one forgot Mother Nature’s power.
I’d become acutely aware of weather and its potential to damage planes, even the largest and most sophisticated of them, when taking flying lessons from Jed in Cabot Cove. As he often told me, many private plane fatalities could have been avoided if the pilots had respected the weather. Accidents labeled weather-related, he’d said, were most often caused by pilots ignoring weather conditions in which it was dangerous to fly. “Doctors,” he said, “are the worst culprits. They think they’re God and have to get back home for surgery that’s scheduled the next day. They take off regardless of the weather, and some never make it.”
The weather was causing a lot of apprehension in our group. One woman, a Boston city council member, stated that she wasn’t about to get on a plane in those conditions. A writer for an aviation business journal echoed her protestations. And Seth was, I judged, ready to join them. But before a mutiny fully developed, the flight attendant, Betsy Scherer, arrived and announced that we were ready to board.
We followed her through the terminal to SilverAir’s gate. The building was teeming with people; a number of outgoing flights had been canceled, according to the digital departure-and-arrival boards we passed, and incoming flights were seriously delayed, creating a domino effect. No planes arriving meant no planes available to depart.
Coffee, Tea, or Murder? Page 15