Dearly Departed

by Carly Winter

  “Are you ready?” I asked, noting he still sat in his chair with his seatbelt on. “It looks like you've earned your trip to the cockpit.”

  “Yes!” he shouted, trying to wiggle free from his confines.

  “The captain says you can't yell,” I said as his mom unlatched his seatbelt. “So let's talk quietly, not in loud voices, okay?”

  He hurried out into the aisle and I took his hand to lead him up to the front of the plane. I held on tight to keep the little terror from running. When we reached the cockpit, I knocked gently and wasn't surprised to find Penny on the other side.

  “Who is this?” she asked, eyeing the kid.

  Monster Mikey.

  “This is Mikey, and he's been such a good boy I told him he could meet the captain and see the cockpit.”

  “Wonderful!” Penny exclaimed. “We love rewarding nice children, don't we?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  The captain turned and waved to me, then said, “Come on in, Mikey! I'll show you around.”

  “I'll watch him,” Penny said as the kid scooted by her. “Where is his seat?”

  “22-D,” I replied, realizing she was dismissing me. She wanted the captains to herself, which was fine with me. I'd get a head start on the clean-up.

  As I smiled, chatted, and poured drinks for my customers, I was able to forget about Charles for a little bit, and some semblance of normalcy returned. Yet, the idea of going back to my apartment alone scared me to death.

  Who had killed Charles? And more importantly, why? Had it been random, and if so, were Donna and I their next potential victims?

  Chapter 4

  As my day wore on, I kept a cup of coffee on hand while my energy waned considerably. I sighed with disappointment as we landed in Dallas only to discover I wouldn't be doing any sightseeing during my layover due to the torrential rain. I spent my layover in the airport with more hot coffee. At least I had a book to keep me company.

  Once everyone was off the plane, Beth and I disembarked before Penny and the rest of the crew. We smiled as we walked through the airport and waved at the little kids.

  “My feet are killing me,” she said between gritted teeth. “Do you want to grab a quick bite? I'm on my way to Chicago in an hour.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I'd like that.” Anything to keep my mind off the murder.

  We stopped at one of the restaurants and were seated right away. I ordered more coffee and decided on a turkey sandwich with a side-salad. That would definitely keep me tied over until I got home, and maybe even until the next morning.

  “I'll have the burger and a slice of cherry pie,” Beth said to the waitress. “Actually, make it two pieces of pie.”

  I held my tongue and drank some coffee. Beth’s job may be on the line, but it wasn't my place to police her about her weight.

  We had a wonderful lunch gossiping about our co-workers and she shared her mother had been sick, which caused her a lot of stress.

  “What can I say?” she said, stabbing her fork into the second piece of pie. “I'm a stress eater.”

  I sipped my coffee as she devoured the cherry goodness.

  “Tell me what's going on with you, Patty. You said something earlier about your neighbor being killed? That sounds absolutely horrible. Were you close?”

  Frankly, I'd rather hear about her sick mother than discuss my murdered neighbor, but on the other hand, perhaps it would be good for me to talk about it. It sat around me heavily, like an uncomfortable, wet blanket.

  “We were friendly,” I said. “He watched our cat while we worked. He was a good guy.”

  “Well, who do you think did it?”

  The question caught me by surprise. Why would I consider who had committed the murder? Wasn't that the police's job?

  “I... I don't know.”

  “You have to have some idea!” Beth said. “Think about it! Who do you think killed him?”

  “Well, he was a private man,” I said. “As I mentioned, we were friendly, but not close.”

  “I don't believe you, Patty! Think!”

  As I recalled my interview with the detective, I realized I did have a suspect list, and my heart rate picked up as my excitement grew. “Well, there was an anti-war protest going on. Someone could have snuck upstairs from that, especially since a garbage can was lit on fire in the lobby. Charles, my neighbor, was a veteran.”

  “Oh, my goodness. Why would a bunch of anti-war protestors kill him?”

  “As I said, he was a veteran. You know how they treat veterans.”

  “Yes. It's disgraceful. Who else besides a nameless, faceless demonstrator?”

  “One of our neighbors downstairs is an anti-war protestor. He and Charles have had words in the past.”

  “That sounds like a promising lead. At least it's not some faceless demonstrator. Who else?”

  “Well, the police asked me about friends and people he dated. There are a few guys that come around, and he was dating a woman named Karen. But then, they also found divorce papers in his apartment.”

  Beth gasped and sat back in her chair, shaking her head. “He wasn't divorced and dating someone else?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, my. That's absolutely appalling.”

  “Agreed. I was shocked to learn about it.”

  “And you don't know the friends?”

  “No,” I said, shaking my head. “It was almost like... like Charles didn't want to introduce them to me.”

  The thought sent a chill down my spine because I hadn't realized it before. Had Charles been protecting me from them? He'd been open to me meeting Karen, but not any of his friends. If so, why? There was only one that really stuck out in my mind, and I had to admit, he was a fairly unsavory character. With long, black, greasy hair down to his waist and his glazed over eyes, he'd never struck me as particularly friendly, but more predatory than anything.

  “You've got quite the suspect list,” Beth said. “You could probably solve this case. You found the body and you had a birds-eye view of his life.”

  “I don't know about that. I have no idea how to go about solving a murder.”

  “Well, according to Perry Mason, you need a motive. Why would someone want to kill him?”

  “Maybe Karen found out that he was married?” I said with a shrug. “Maybe the wife learned about Karen?”

  “Oh! Maybe he owed a friend money?” Beth said, her eyes wide with excitement.

  “Or it could have been the protestors,” I speculated.

  “Perhaps even the nasty neighbor,” Beth said. “Lots of motives, Patty, and very exciting.”

  “That's all well and good, but it doesn't mean I'm qualified to solve a murder.”

  Beth rolled her eyes. “Why not? Is it because you're a woman?”

  And frankly, once I gave it some thought, that did have something to do with it. All the police had been men, and they'd been in charge.

  “Men aren't smarter than us,” Beth continued. “A lot of them think they are. Some even believe women aren't good for anything but having babies and homemaking. Things are changing though, Patty. You just watch.”

  Feminism. There definitely was a wave of women who were demanding equality to men. They wanted to work where men worked, to have the same opportunities as men. Of course, I did as well, and it was one reason I'd become a stew. I didn't want marriage and babies at that point, but my job prospects were limited, especially without a college education.

  “No one has a better understanding of Charles than you,” Beth continued. “Except, maybe Karen, the girlfriend. But from what you've told me, you weren't really involved in his life.”

  “He watched Ringo for us,” I reminded her. “I wasn't involved at all.”

  “So your cat was involved in his life,” she replied. Interesting and true. Ringo knew more about the man than I did. “You weren't. You were a spectator. You know all the people involved, yet you can remain impartial about everyone. Who do you think did it?
r />   “I have no idea,” I huffed. “And I wouldn't know where to start to figure that out.”

  Beth glanced at her watch, then grinned and stood, throwing a couple bills on the table. “That should cover my share. To solve a murder, you need to talk to people, Patty. That's what Perry Mason does. You're so cute and personable, you'll have no trouble getting people to open up to you. Start with Karen though. Always start with the skirt, because women are just as awful as men on a basic, biological level, but men think of us as delicate and incapable of violence. They're wrong.”

  As Beth strode away, I stared at the tabletop. What had that business about violence meant? Was she speaking from experience? I'd been angry enough to become violent before, but I'd never acted on it. Had she?

  What if I did take steps to solve the killing? At least I wouldn't feel like a sitting duck when I was home. I allowed myself a brief fantasy of bringing the murderer to justice, being interviewed on television and receiving accolades from the police department and my airline.

  The headlines would read, The Stewardess Who Discovered the Murderess.

  Well, if it was Karen. Or the wife.

  What would it hurt to talk to Karen? Even my neighbor? I could report anything I learned to Detective Peterson. Or, I could make myself a target for sticking my nose where it didn't belong.

  The dinnertime crowd was always rowdy with businessmen having finished their meetings for the day and heading on to their next stop, or home. They usually arrived on the plane tipsy from the airport bar and proceeded to drink more with their dinners. The more alcohol they consumed, the more obnoxious they became. Sometimes I found it slightly amusing until someone threw up or passed out so hard, I couldn't rouse them at the end of the flight. Of course, there were also those who got a little handsy, thinking that no one saw them in the dimly lit cabin.

  As my passengers filed in and down the aisle, I smiled and greeted them, hoping the flight back to San Francisco would be non-eventful.

  A businessman grinned at me, and I could tell by his easy manner he’d had a great day. Probably closed a big deal. A couple boarded, and the wife fidgeted, her brow pinched in worry. A nervous flier. I spoke to her a few moments and assured her that I would take great care of her and airline travel was safe.

  My hopes for a dull flight were quickly dashed when I saw the man teetering down the aisle holding onto the back of the seats as he eyed me, making absolutely no attempt to hide his appreciation of my looks. No doubt, he would be trouble.

  “Hey, honey,” he slurred. “Can you help me find my seat?”

  “Of course, sir. Let's take a look at your ticket.” I assisted him to his chair. “Here you are!”

  “What's that?” he asked, pointing at the cushion.

  There was nothing on the seat. I bent over to where he pointed to get a closer look, yet I still didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. The chair appeared to be in good shape.

  When I straightened up, I caught him staring at my backside, and I realized he'd wanted me to bend over to see my skirt ride up my legs. Pig. Mr. Pig it was.

  “Take a seat, sir,” I said through gritted teeth. “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Vodka and soda.”

  When I brought back the drink, he'd passed out. Normally, I'd be happy about it, but I also worried he would toss his cookies if we hit any turbulence.

  After takeoff, I prepared the chicken meals for my section, garnishing each tray with a white rose. It was a shame most of them would end up in the garbage, but some of the men actually brought them home to their wives or girlfriends. Every now and then, I'd receive one as the passengers debarked at our destination. This usually went along with a request for a phone number or a dinner date, which I declined. A lot of the stews were on the search for husbands, so they frequently dated passengers.

  The flight remained uneventful and I kept an eye on Mr. Pig, who snored loudly. At least the jerk still breathed.

  Exhaustion railed through me and I walked down the aisle one last time to check on everyone. One passenger in particular had caught my eye. Dressed in a white button-down shirt and a black suit, he wore his dark hair short. His green gaze had been kind the first time he'd asked me for coffee. Throughout the flight, he'd studied some papers, even while he ate. I'd dubbed him Mr. Coffee.

  “Can I get you a nightcap, sir?” I asked quietly so as not to disturb anyone else.

  “No, thank you,” he said, slipping off his glasses, his Texas accent thick. “I could use another cup of coffee, though.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” I said. “I'll get a fresh pot brewing for us.”

  On my way back to the coffee machine, I took a couple more orders for drinks. Once I had everything situated on my tray, I headed down the aisle.

  Mr. Pig was still out cold, thankfully. Yet, just before I passed him, I noted him shifting in his seat out of the corner of my eye. His leg must have moved into the aisle because the next thing I knew, my tray of drinks went flying and my chin hit the floor. I groaned at the impact and pain radiated through the front of my body—everything from my ankles to my forehead hurt.

  Chapter 5

  “Let me help you up,” a man's voice said from above me. Strong hands held my shoulders and gently pulled. Once I was upright, I found Mr. Coffee had been my savior.

  “I am so sorry,” I said, glancing at the mess in the aisle while smoothing down my skirt. At least it hadn't ridden too far up and given everyone a show. My co-worker, Ruth, rushed from the front of the plane and began dropping cleaning cloths to soak up all the liquid and handing out others to passengers who'd gotten wet, all while smiling profusely and apologizing.

  “No worries,” he said, smiling. “Are you okay? It looks like you have a scratch on your chin.”

  My injuries could wait. I'd made a terrible mess and needed to clean it up. I looked over at Mr. Pig, and his leg was stretched out into the aisle, but he still slept soundly, unaware of the chaos he'd caused.

  I stepped back to pick up a glass and almost fell over again. Pain shot through my ankle as I tried to catch my balance.

  “Uh-oh. You may have a sprain there,” Mr. Coffee said. “Let's get you back to your chair and I'll take a look.”

  “I need to help her clean up,” I said, pointing to Ruth.

  He glanced over his shoulder, then back at me. “It's fine. None of the glasses broke and you can barely walk. Let's get you seated and I'll give her a hand.”

  I began to argue again but putting weight on my ankle made me decide otherwise. After taking off my heel, I hobbled to my chair with his help.

  “Stay here,” he said. “I'll be right back.”

  With a sigh, I shut my eyes. I should have been more careful. Sleeping drunks had a tendency to sprawl out and I knew that. I'd been warned about it in training. How in the world was I going to get home if I couldn't walk? Once we landed, I could get a wheelchair to the cab area, and then stagger up to my apartment.

  “Okay, he said, returning. “Everything is cleaned up. May I take a look at your ankle?”

  “I guess so,” I replied. “Are you a doctor?”

  “No, but I've had some medical training.”

  He dropped to his haunches in front of me and gently probed the tender area with cool and smooth hands. “I don't think it's broken,” he said. “Probably a minor sprain.”

  With a smile, he met my gaze. “I'm Bill, by the way. I should have introduced myself before grabbing your foot.”

  Even in the dim light, his eyes were so green, they reminded me of pictures I'd seen of the ocean in some parts of the world. “That's okay. I really appreciate your help. I’m Patty.”

  “Are you okay?” Ruth said, coming around the corner. “That was quite a spill!”

  “Yes,” I replied. “I think I'll be fine. Probably sidelined a few days, but Bill here says that he doesn't think it's broken.”

  “Oh, thank goodness! How are you going to get home?”

&nb
sp; “I'm not sure.”

  “I'll help you,” Ruth volunteered. “After you get checked out in medical at the airport.”

  A few moments later, the captain announced our impending landing. Ruth handled everything for me, and I'd owe her big time. Once the passengers departed, she helped me down the aisle and into the waiting wheelchair, which in turn took me to medical.

  Mr. Coffee, or Bill, had been right... nothing but a sprain.

  The next day, I sat on my couch eating a bag of potato chips and watching reruns of Dragnet. My stomach would revolt against the chips, and so would my waistline, but I didn’t care. The doctor had ordered me to take a few days off, and more if need be in order to get my ankle back into shape. I had nothing but time, so I toyed with ideas on what to do with it.

  When I'd arrived home the previous night, I hadn't been as frightened as I had been after Charles' death, but I still woke with every groan and sound in the apartment complex. Beth’s words kept recycling through my head. You could probably solve this case. You found the body and you had a birds-eye view of his life.

  I didn't see any harm in asking a few questions if I saw the people on my list of suspects. After all, I looked pretty harmless, especially being on crutches. That also made me an easy target if I spoke to the actual murderer and said the wrong thing, but I tried not to think about that part.

  When Sargent Joe Friday caught his man on the television and received accolades, I quickly made up my mind. I was going to try to solve Charles' murder. Perhaps that would lead to me becoming one of the first women detectives on the police force. Would my father be proud of that? He certainly didn't like me being a stew.

  Just over a year ago, I had become terribly excited to learn of the opportunity to interview for the position. I’d imagined a glamorous life of meeting movie stars and seeing the world. When I arrived home and told my parents of my plans, my mother burst into tears and my father turned so red with fury, I thought he would have a heart attack. No daughter of mine is going to become one of those girls! he had yelled. Frankly, the dramatic scene had only made me more determined, so I interviewed and got the job. I didn't tell them until the day before I was to leave for training.