“Yes.”
“Does this mean the police chief is back?” Herman glanced around, as if he expected Edward MacDonald to come walking into the interrogation room.
“We just found the plane. We still haven’t found the passengers—or the pilot.”
“What is the plane doing in Seligman, on my property?”
“That’s what we’d like to know. So back to my original question, do you have anyone watching the property?”
“What’s to watch? Nothing really out there but an old trailer and that Quonset hut. Wasn’t even Jimmy’s trailer. It was on the property when he bought it. From what I understand, when he’d go out there, he’d stay in his motorhome.”
“So basically, that property’s been abandoned since you inherited it?”
“I wouldn’t say abandoned exactly. I pay taxes on it. Although now you tell me someone used the airstrip, I need to have that damn wind sock taken down. All I need is for a plane to crash-land and get sued.”
“How many people know about your Seligman property and what’s out there?” Thomas asked.
Herman frowned. “You mean people I know personally?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know. I’ve talked about it with friends.”
“Don’t you find it a little odd, a plane full of Frederickport residents are kidnapped, and the plane they were on is found on your property?”
“You certainly don’t think I had anything to do with the hijacking, do you? I don’t even know how to fly.”
“Whoever took that plane obviously knew about the airstrip, and they knew the plane would fit under the Quonset hut.”
“I didn’t even know it would fit under it. I figured it was something Jimmy parked his motorhome under.” Herman shifted uncomfortably in the seat.
“Someone knew. I don’t think the plane randomly landed there. Has anyone asked you questions about the property in the last few months?”
“Why just the last few months?”
“Because Chris Johnson didn’t approach the airplane’s owner until a little over a month ago,” Thomas explained.
Herman shook his head. “No. I can’t remember talking about the Seligman property to anyone in the last few months.”
“Okay, how about before that? Can you remember anyone taking a special interest in the property—asking you about the airstrip, anything?”
Furrowing his brow, Herman considered the question for a few moments. Finally, he shook his head and let out a sigh. “I really haven’t had it that long. Not really. Jimmy’s been gone almost a year now, but I’ve never been to the property—never intended to. I just figured I’d sell it, but never got around to taking the time to call a real estate agent. But I suppose I should.”
“You say you’ve talked about the property with some friends?”
“Yes, but mostly that Jimmy left us some property.”
“Did you ever discuss the fact there was an airstrip on it?”
“Well…not to everyone. I mostly said Jimmy had some property in Arizona he left us. That I needed to sell it. That’s about it.”
“So you never discussed the airstrip with anyone?”
Once again, Herman considered the question. “I suppose I mentioned it to a couple people.”
“Please try to remember,” Thomas urged.
“I remember talking about the property when my wife was in the hospital. Jimmy had just died, and I found out about it. It was the last thing I wanted to deal with. Of course, it had to go through probate, so it wasn’t as if I could just turn around and sell it anyway.”
“Who did you talk to about it then?”
“It was the nurse who had been taking care of my wife. Really sweet gal. She had just gotten off her shift and was heading home when she ran into me in the waiting room. I was pretty upset, dealing with my son’s death and having to tell my wife. I remember asking the nurse, What do I need with an airstrip in the middle of nowhere? I want my son and wife. I started to cry, and she sat down with me. We talked for a couple hours. I always thought that was really sweet of her.”
“Anyone else?” Thomas asked.
“I think I mentioned the airstrip to Ben Smith. He’s an old friend of mine. We work at the museum together sometimes when I do docent duty. And I remember mentioning it to Steve and Beverly not long after my wife died. They took me out to dinner, and we discussed the property. Of course, Steve is dead now. That’s Steve Klein; he was the manager at the bank after me.”
“Anyone else?”
Looking off into space, Herman focused on the question yet drew a blank. He looked back up at the agent and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I really can’t think of anyone else. And I don’t imagine any of the people I mentioned had anything to do with the hijacking. Maybe it’s just a bizarre coincidence.”
“I don’t believe in coincidences.”
After Herman left the station, Thomas returned to the chief’s office to talk to Brian and Wilson.
“There was one thing he said that I found strange,” Brian said as he took a seat behind the chief’s desk.
“What was that?” Wilson asked.
“He said he had to wait for the property to go through probate until he could do anything with it.”
“What’s so strange about that?” Thomas asked.
“After I found out about them landing in Seligman, I did a little search on the property. Jimmy paid less than fifty thousand for it. From what I remember a friend telling me after her mother died and left them some Arizona property, it didn’t need to go through regular probate because her estate was worth less than seventy thousand. I doubt the Seligman property has increased that much in value.”
Wilson shrugged. “He obviously left his dad more than just the Seligman property.”
A phone call interrupted their conversation. Brian answered it, and when he was finished with the call, he hung up the phone and looked from Thomas to Wilson. “When you were interviewing Herman, I sent one of our men down to check out the payphone on the pier.”
Wilson arched his brows. “Why?”
“We found out, that’s where the tip came from.”
“Are there any security cameras down there?” Wilson asked.
“Yes, that’s why I sent him down there. But according to the officer who checked it out, whoever made the call must have been aware of the camera. It was moved slightly and didn’t show the payphone.”
“Did it catch anyone walking in the area? The possible caller?”
Brian shook his head. “No. Whoever it was could have gotten onto the pier, used the phone, and left without being detected. They’re questioning possible witnesses, but I don’t expect to come up with much. If the caller was savvy enough to mess with the right security camera, I don’t imagine she’s going to allow herself to be seen by a witness. But we’ll see.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Herman Shafer pored over the menu at Lucy’s diner, waiting for his lunch companion to arrive. Being hard of hearing, he failed to notice her walk up to the table. It wasn’t until she placed a soft kiss on his cheek did he realize he wasn’t alone.
Placing the menu on the tabletop, Herman looked up at Beverly and smiled. She gave him a friendly pat on the left shoulder and then sat down across from him in the booth. Tossing her purse on the empty space next to her, she flashed him a smile.
“You look lovely as always,” Herman told her. He reached across the table and patted her hand.
“You are looking rather chipper yourself, Herman. I’m so glad you called to ask me for lunch. It’s been ages. Well, aside from seeing you at Steve’s funeral, but that was hardly a happy time.” Beverly let out a sigh and picked up a menu and opened it.
“How are you doing, Beverly? I’ve been worried about you.”
Beverly shrugged and closed the menu, setting it back on the table. Before she had time to respond, the server showed up at their table and took their order. When they were alone again, Herman repeated the
question.
“Taking one day at a time,” Beverly told him. “But then you know how it is.”
Herman let out a sigh and gave her a weary nod. He then sat up straighter in the seat and said, “Although something interesting happened today.”
“What’s that?” Beverly reached for her water glass and then took a sip.
“You know that airplane that was hijacked? The one with the police chief on it?”
Beverly arched her brows and slowly set the glass back on the table. “Yes. What about it?”
“They found the plane last night.”
Licking her lips, Beverly cocked her head ever so slightly. “They did?”
Herman nodded. “Unfortunately, they still haven’t found the passengers. Still no word on the chief. But you’ll never believe where they found the plane.”
“Where?”
“On my property in Seligman, Arizona. The property Jimmy left me.”
“Really?” Beverly picked up her glass again and took another sip.
“Surprised the hell out of me. From what I read, the plane was actually a small jet. I had no idea something like that could land on a dirt airstrip. Especially considering nothing has been done to that airstrip in years.”
“I imagine it was a rocky landing. So they didn’t find any of the passengers or crew?” Beverly asked.
He shook his head. “No. Just the plane.”
“How did they find the plane? From what I remember you telling me, that’s a rather remote area.”
“I really don’t know. They didn’t tell me. From what I understand, it was partially hidden. I guess the hijackers managed to park the jet under the Quonset hut out there. I had no idea something like that would fit under it.”
Beverly shrugged. “I remember you telling us Jimmy said the Quonset hut was over a hundred feet wide, so it doesn’t really surprise me. So who talked to you about this? Surely they don’t think you had something to do with the hijacking?”
“Some guy from the FBI. I don’t know what they’re thinking. But the fact a hijacking from our area ends up on property I own in Arizona has the FBI looking closer at me—and whoever I know who I told about the property. Especially the fact it had an airstrip.”
“And the Quonset hut,” Beverly muttered.
“I suppose you’re right. I imagine the FBI is watching the area to see who comes back for the plane. Actually, I was told not to say anything about them finding it.”
Beverly smiled and reached over the table, gently patting Herman’s hand. “You can trust me. We’ve been friends a long time. Your secret is safe with me.”
“I imagine they figure the chief and the rest of them are in the general area. I hope they’re able to find them before anyone gets hurt.”
“Umm…did they ask you anything about the other property Jimmy left you?”
“No. Why would they?”
Beverly shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Just wondered.” She stood up and grabbed her purse off the seat next to her. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll run to the lady’s room before they bring our food.”
HEATHER WAS DYING to know if Brian had followed up on her phone tip. For a brief moment she considered going back to Marlow House—she now had a key—to see what Walt knew, yet then she remembered he was unable to venture beyond Marlow House. So chances were he would know less than she did. That was why he needed her.
While it was always possible Chris had found out something and relayed that information back to Walt, Heather decided to go directly to the source: Brian Henderson.
Twenty minutes later she found herself standing at the doorway leading to Chief MacDonald’s office. Brian sat behind the chief’s desk, papers spread across the desktop.
Heather stepped into the office and glanced around. “Wow, you’ve already moved into the chief’s office. I wonder how he’ll feel about that.”
Setting his pen on a stack of papers, Brian looked up at Heather. “They told me you wanted to see me. But I’m very busy. I can only give you a minute. What’s this about?”
“I just wanted to see if you’ve heard anything new about Danielle and the rest of them.” Heather took a seat facing Brian and dropped her purse to the floor.
“Nothing I’m at liberty to discuss.”
“So you do know something?” Heather prodded.
“As I said, nothing I’m at liberty to discuss.”
“I read in the paper a witness saw the plane go down in a forested area. Have they found the wreckage?”
“Heather, I really can’t discuss this with you.”
SOME MEN ARE QUITE FORGETTABLE. Morton Simmons was such a man. More average looking than average looking, nondescript with nothing notable one might mention about him should the need arise—which it never seemed to—he moved through his life gathering no attention. Not an especially difficult task, considering the fact he lived in a trailer behind his gas station, miles from his closest neighbor.
People who passed through called the area a dead spot—there was no Internet service, no cell service. Morton didn’t really care. He had never learned how to use a computer, and he had a landline and saw no reason to pay extra for a cellphone. There was no one he wanted to call. Some people thought he was crazy to live in such an isolated area. The nearest store was thirty minutes away. But Morton didn’t care. He enjoyed his solitude, and he made a decent living selling gas.
When the dark sedan pulled into the station, it didn’t park by a pump. Morton figured whoever it was just wanted to use his restroom or ask directions. He didn’t mind giving directions, but it annoyed the hell out of him when someone used his bathroom without buying gas.
Standing in the doorway to the small station, Morton watched as two men in dark suits and sunglasses stepped out of the vehicle. He continued to watch as they approached him.
“We’re looking for Morton Simmons,” one of the men said as he removed his sunglasses.
“You found him,” Morton replied.
“Mr. Simmons, I’m Special Agent Thomas from the FBI, and this is Special Agent Wilson.”
“Wow…the FBI? What do you want with me?”
“We understand you were the one who reported seeing a plane going down?” the one identified as Wilson said.
“Umm…yeah…” Morton shifted nervously from foot to foot.
“Can you tell us where you saw it exactly?”
Absently scratching his head, Morton stepped out from the doorway leading into the station and looked to his right, where the road weaved higher into the mountains. “Umm…I was taking a little drive. Stopped at the view point a mile or so from here. That’s when I saw this jet fly over. Real close like.”
“It was a jet?” Wilson asked.
“Umm…yeah. Pretty sure. I guess it was. It was an airplane.”
“But you said it was a jet,” Wilson reminded him.
“Jet, airplane…does it matter?”
“Then what happened?” Thomas asked.
“Well, after it sort of skimmed over the treetops—like some daredevil—it went up in the sky. I thought it was going to just take off and then fly away. I watched it for a bit, and then the strangest thing happened, it just did a nosedive, like it was out of control. Smoke coming out of its tail. Just disappeared in the distance, in the trees. I guess they haven’t found it yet?”
“Why do you say that?” Thomas asked.
Morton shrugged. “I don’t know. Hadn’t heard anything about finding it yet.”
“According to the police report, you didn’t report it until the next day. Why did you wait so long?”
“I…I figured other people had to have seen it. But when I didn’t hear anything about it on the news the next day, I called in.”
“You described the mural on the side of the plane,” Thomas began.
“You mean that big old painting on the side of it?” Morton asked.
“Yes.” Wilson pulled a photograph from his coat pocket and handed it to Morton. “Is
this the same plane?”
Morton stared at the photograph for a few moments and then handed it back to Wilson. “I guess so. Looks like what I saw.”
“Did you know that is a one-of-a-kind painting? According to the jet’s owner, there isn’t another plane out there with that mural on it.” Wilson returned the photograph to his pocket.
“Umm…so?”
“We’re just wondering, if you saw that plane going down in a heavily forested area, why is it we found the plane—intact—hundreds of miles from here? Just last night?”
Morton stared dumbly at Wilson.
“I think you better explain what you really saw,” Thomas told him.
Licking his lips nervously, Morton looked from Thomas to Wilson and back to Thomas. “Am I under arrest?”
“It depends what you tell us,” Wilson told him.
Ten minutes later, Morton sat in the small office of his filling station with Special Agents Thomas and Wilson.
“They paid me a thousand bucks,” Morton explained.
“Who paid you?” Wilson asked.
Morton shrugged. “I don’t know. I’d never seen him before. He gave me cash. Told me all I had to do is call the police on the last Tuesday of the month and report the accident. Say I saw it go down the day before.”
“Did he tell you what to say about why you didn’t report the crash on the day you supposedly saw it?”
“Yes. He said it wasn’t like anyone was actually going to get hurt. Said some guy was just trying to disappear. He gave me five hundred up front and promised me the rest after he heard about the report on the news.”
“Did you get the rest of the money yet?”
Morton shook his head. “No. I think the guy stiffed me. He promised I’d have it the next day. But it’s been almost a week now, and I haven’t heard anything.”
TWENTY-NINE
Chris had a new appreciation for all those frustrated spirits who had reached out to him over the years. He recalled all those times he had tried to ignore a spirit’s request, and when he had helped a spirit, it was often done begrudgingly.
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