Dearly Departed

by Carly Winter

  “That’s really sweet, but I wish you wouldn’t have told them it was urgent. You scared me.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” he replied, chuckling. “Like I said, I wanted to hear your voice, not wait around until you had a chance to phone. My call, me tracking you down, the message… it was all purely selfish. I figured with you being in New York, you’d choose dinner in Time Square over a chat with me.”

  “Well, don’t do that again,” I scolded, shaking my head. “Unless it truly is urgent, of course.”

  “My apologies, ma’am.”

  I wasn’t pleased with Bill’s actions, but I did appreciate him wanting to speak with me. My relationship with him both excited and confused me. Sure, I had offered to help him in the investigation of Charles’ death, but then sometimes he was so gruff with me, I felt he was taking advantage. But then he’d used his power to track me down through the airline and have me phone him. Not exactly the actions of someone using another. “How’s your serial killer case going?’ I asked.

  “Not good,” he said, sighing. “It’s really frustrating. But we’ll get him eventually.”

  I thought back to my research on women killers. All those who had murdered multiple people had eventually been caught. I could only hope the same would happen for Bill.

  But how many murderers walked the streets without being apprehended? Hundreds? Maybe thousands?

  “What about you?” he asked. “Has Charles’ murder been solved yet?”

  “Not to my knowledge,” I said. “If it has, I haven’t received word of it. I would think you’d know more than me with your connection to Detective Peterson.”

  “Are you still nervous about living there?”

  “Most definitely,” I replied, twirling a piece of hair around my finger as I stared at the popcorn ceiling, the little bubbles forming pretend pictures in my mind’s eye. “I think I will be until the killer is caught.”

  “Do you have any other leads?”

  “Well, we went to visit Karen, Charles’ girlfriend. Did you know the police never interviewed her?”

  “No. I haven’t talked to Detective Peterson since I left.”

  “Why wouldn’t they interview his girlfriend, Bill? It doesn’t make any sense to me.”

  “Maybe it was an oversight, or maybe they’ve found a lot of evidence on Wayne and they’re closing in.”

  “Hmm… I still don’t think Wayne did it.”

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Patty. The police follow the evidence and if it’s leading them to Wayne… well, he’s their man. The killer would need motive and opportunity. Wayne had both. Charles owed him money, and I found someone who placed him at the apartment building earlier in the day.”

  Well, what a surprise. “I didn’t know that,” I said. “Why didn’t you tell me? Who is it?”

  “I’m telling you now. And sorry, but I can’t let a stew in on every aspect of the investigation.”

  But he could sure use me to get introductions to everyone he suspected. I had been dealt the short end of the stick on the information aspect of the case.

  With a sigh, I sat up and studied the room. I hadn’t noticed it when I first entered because I had been so focused on calling Mr. Coffee. The dark wood paneling gleamed with the sun streaming through the opening in thick, floor-length blue curtains. Running my hand over the yellow comforter, I was surprised by its softness and wondered if it was new. The opposing wall matched the bedspread, and held a dresser, the television sitting on top. Overall, I found the space clean and comforting.

  “If they arrest Wayne, I think they’ve messed up their jobs,” I replied. “He’s not the killer. I know it in my gut.”

  “You sound pretty sure of yourself,” Bill replied with a chuckle. “Especially for someone who has no training or experience with murder investigations.”

  I knew he hadn’t wanted to be condescending—he only spoke the truth. I didn’t have any training or expertise, but I did know how to read people, and that counted for something. Unless, of course, Wayne was some type of psychopath who was able to hide his true self. From what I’d witnessed, he had been the most honest out of everyone I’d talked to about Charles’ death.

  But evidence and facts would decide, not my hunches.

  “Next time you’re in Dallas, will you give me a call?” Bill asked. “I’d love to see you again. We could have lunch or dinner… whatever your schedule permits.”

  I smiled as my heart pattered, but I didn’t want to sound too eager. Frankly, I was irritated he’d held back information on the case from me, even though I shouldn’t be. As he liked to remind me, I was only a stew, not an officer of the law. “I’m not sure when my next flight there will be, but I’ll let you know.”

  “Please do,” Bill said. “And have a great time in New York. Do you fly out tomorrow?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Have fun but be careful.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. FBI. I won’t go home with any strangers.”

  “Good girl. I hope to talk to you soon. Keep my number and call me anytime.”

  With a grin, I placed the receiver on the cradle and stared out the window for a few moments. I was actually quite tired, but New York awaited me, so I’d have to find the energy to do the town. Besides, Donna would never forgive me if I stayed in.

  A knock sounded at my door. Speaking of Donna…

  “Are you ready to go?” she called.

  “Not quite,” I said, hurrying over. I opened the panel, keeping myself hidden behind it in hopes of avoiding being the lingerie show for anyone walking by in the hallway.

  Donna swooped in wearing a tan suede mini-skirt, matching boots, and a black turtleneck. She came bearing clothes and a white pair of low-heeled go-go boots. Her blonde bob had been coiffed to perfection, and her black eyeliner was on point, highlighting her blue eyes. Pale pink lipstick covered her lips. “Patty, you’re standing here in your underwear. We’re supposed to be leaving! We have exactly fifteen hours left in New York and we’re wasting precious minutes. What are you going to wear?”

  “I was thinking about my blue dress.”

  “Ugh,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “No way. You’ll look like a throwback from the fifties.” She tossed the clothing at me. “Put this on.”

  I slipped on the hot pink, long-sleeved dress that fell to my mid-thigh.

  “And wear these,” Donna said. “They shouldn’t hurt your ankle, but you’ll still look foxy as heck.”

  I sat on the bed and slipped on the boots.

  “You haven’t even done your makeup, Patty,” Donna said, shaking her head, obviously exasperated with me. “Do a quick touchup and let’s blow this pop stand.”

  I quickly ran into the bathroom and combed my hair, added a little lipstick and eyeliner, then did a quick check in the mirror while I ran my hand down the front of the dress. Of course, Donna had been right. The pink dress looked fantastic with my black hair.

  “Are you ready?” she called.

  “I am.” I emerged with my hands on my waist and slowly spun around while tossing my hair as if I were a model.

  “Yes, you are!” Donna squealed, rising from the bed. “Let’s go have some fun!”

  “Did you call your FBI agent?” She asked as we rode the elevator down.

  “Yes.”

  “What did he want? Is everything okay?”

  The door opened and a couple stepped in, smiled, then turned their backs to us.

  “Everything’s fine,” I whispered. “He said he just wanted to hear my voice.”

  Donna smiled. “He’s sweet on you, Patty.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I said with a shrug. “He can be nice one moment, then almost condescending the next.”

  “Typical man,” Donna said, shaking her head.

  The couple in front of us glanced over their shoulders. The woman’s lips curved knowingly, while the man furrowed his brow and glared. Donna and I gave them our best, friendliest stewardess grin.
When the elevator came to a stop, they stepped out.

  “They need to mind their own business,” Donna said.

  “I agree.” We met Marsha in the lobby and the three of us strode out the hotel onto the bustling streets of New York.

  After walking across Time Square, we grabbed dinner and drinks at an Italian joint where the garlic bread was so strong, it probably put a little curl in my hair. We took a cab to the Copacabana, but the line stretched for blocks to get in, so we opted to return to the hotel where we found the bar with a live jazz band playing and a group of businessmen offering to buy us drinks.

  After hours of flirting, dancing and laughing, the bar closed. I helped Donna to her room, then stumbled to my own. Thankfully, we’d been placed on the same floor. I did manage to remove my boots before crawling into bed, but I didn’t wash my face or take off the dress. Hopefully, my complexion would remain clear for our pre-flight inspection. My ankle throbbed but I tried to ignore it. I’d overdone it on the dance floor with a cute ad manager from one of the city’s firms. Cut-a-Rug Karl, I’d dubbed him, who’d also asked for my number. I declined to give it to him. He had been nice enough, but I didn’t need long distance phone calls raising my phone bill, and I certainly wasn’t the type of girl with a man in every port, so to speak. I’d leave that to other girls who liked juggling their men. Still, I’d been flattered he’d found me interesting enough to ask.

  As I lay in bed, the city that never sleeps was still alive. The hum of traffic filtered up to my room providing a nice, lulling sound that relaxed me.

  Or it could have been all the gin and tonic I’d consumed.

  No matter how much fun I’d had, I still couldn’t stop thinking about Charles’ murder. It seemed to be like a mosquito bite that wouldn’t quit itching. Just when I could fully concentrate on what Cut-a-Rug Karl had to say, a little voice reminded me Charles’ killer was still at large and no one knew who it could be. Just like a mosquito bite, that little voice drove me nuts. I couldn’t help but feel that my subconscious mind knew who the killer was, but it wasn’t ready to reveal it to me quite yet.

  And that scared me. If I was right, I’d come face-to-face with a murderer. I’d spoken to them, possibly shook the hand that had plunged the knife into Charles’ stomach.

  Chills ran down my spine and I burrowed under the yellow comforter. Hopefully, Ringo was faring well during our absence. Mrs. Wilson had always been nice to our cat, but she’d never watched him before. That had been Charles’ job.

  Ugh. Poor guy. His life hadn’t been easy and I hoped he’d finally found peace in his death.

  Those cops better bring him justice.

  Chapter 19

  As we arrived at the airport for our flight home, I felt pleasantly refreshed, even though I had slept only three hours. My only guess as to the reason why: I'd been able to forget about the stress of Charles' death for a few hours and enjoy myself. I hoped my energy would carry through the day, but if not, I'd have to rely on my coffee pot.

  Donna, on the other hand, looked a little green. As we strode through the airport, she kept her sunglasses on and her gaze focused straight ahead while Marsha and I smiled and waved enough for the three of us.

  At inspection, I was again assigned the front of the plane, and Donna rolled her eyes when she was told she'd be in back. Once we reached our aircraft, we said hello to the rest of the crew and began our pre-flight inspections. Donna poured herself a vodka and slammed it back, then washed out the glass. When our gazes met, her cheeks flushed pink, but I wasn't sure if it was because the alcohol had hit her system or she'd been embarrassed she'd been caught.

  “Hair of the dog,” she whispered.

  I nodded and continued with preparation. Perhaps it was time for Donna to dry out, at least for a little while. I'd consider talking to her about it when we got home.

  As the passengers embarked, I smiled and sized them up. A couple boarded with a toddler in tow. The mother's gaze met mine, her eyes almost lifeless with absolute exhaustion. As the child reached for his father's hand, the man pulled away from the boy, completely ignoring him. An absent father, no doubt—physically there, but unavailable. I followed them to their seat and bit my tongue as I took the man's coat while he insisted the child sit by the window and he take the aisle seat. Such a shame. I'd have to make sure the boy enjoyed the flight and maybe slip the mother a little extra alcohol in her cocktail if she asked for one.

  I met the gaze of another man who sweated profusely. Sweaty Sam. Smiling, he wiped his brow. “Sorry, I'm a bit nervous. They say air travel is safe but flying through the air in a tin can doesn't make me feel that way.”

  “It's fine, sir,” I said, gently placing my hand on his shoulder. “We're here to make sure you have a wonderful, relaxing, and very safe flight. May I take your coat and fetch you something to ease your nerves?”

  Two beers later, he slept soundly, and I prayed there wouldn't be any turbulence. People like him really got upset and afraid, making the flight difficult for the crew and everyone around him.

  After takeoff, we prepared the lunch—seared salmon or baked chicken with rice and a salad. Once cleanup was over and all my customers seemed content, I hurried back to check on Donna.

  “How's it going?” I asked, sidling up to her in the galley.

  “Great!” she said, smiling while lining up glasses on a tray.

  “You feeling okay?”

  She nodded but didn't meet my stare. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one was listening. “Have you had more to drink?” I whispered.

  “I'm fine,” she hissed. “Go back to your customers.”

  With a sigh I shook my head. I could smell the alcohol.

  “Donna, you can't drink while you're working.”

  “What am I supposed to do? The man in 20-A asked me to join him, so I did. No one noticed. It's fine.”

  I almost replied, but then I noted someone was in the bathroom. The last thing we needed was a passenger listening in on our conversation, but I was quite irritated with my friend.

  If something were to happen with our plane, Donna's drinking was not only a safety hazard to the customers, but also to the crew. Everyone needed to be firing on all cylinders, so to speak. Any lingering doubt I'd had about speaking to her in regard to her drinking flew out the window. We'd be having a long chat when we landed and rested at home.

  Just as I turned to walk up the aisle back to my own station, a voice called from the restroom. “Hello?”

  I placed my ear against the door. “Yes, sir?”

  “The... uh... the door won't open.”

  Donna and I exchanged glances.

  “Sir, did you unlock the door?” I asked as Donna slid past me to deliver her drinks.

  “Y-yes. It's jammed. I've been trying to get out of here for at least ten minutes. Please. Help me!”

  While I pushed and pulled on the door, some of the customers in the back row offered to help. Donna asked they remain in their seats. Having a bunch of people up and about would lead to injuries if we ran into turbulence.

  “Can you open it?” the man asked.

  I thought I recognized the trembling voice but wanted to double-check I was correct. “I'll be right back.”

  “Don't leave me in here!”

  “I'm going to find someone to help, sir. Just one moment. Try to relax.”

  As I hurried up to the front of the plane, I passed Sweaty Sam's empty seat and groaned. The one person who was already a nervous wreck was now trapped in the bathroom.

  “What's going on?” Marsha whispered as I rushed into the galley.

  “There's a man trapped in the back bathroom. He was scared to fly to begin with, and now he can't open the door.

  Marsha closed her eyes and sighed. “I knew this trip was going too smoothly. We better fetch one of the pilots and see if they can somehow finagle that thing open.”

  I knocked on the cockpit door and stuck my head in when summoned. The controls never fail
ed to amaze me. How they kept track of what all the buttons, switches and dials did, I'd never understand.

  “What's up, Patty?” Large Larry asked, turning to me.

  “We have an issue in the back bathroom. One of the customers can't get the door open.”

  “Sounds like a job for you, Larry,” the captain said with a chuckle. “If anyone's strong enough to break down that door, it's you.”

  “I'll have a look,” he said, unbuckling his seat belt. He couldn't stand at his full height in the cockpit, so he remained hunched over.

  He followed me down the aisle, saying hello to a few passengers. With his uniform and size, he cut an impressive figure. Once we reached the back, he smiled at Donna who was preparing another tray of drinks. If I remembered correctly, they'd had a fling in the past and it had ended on pleasant terms.

  “Sir,” Larry called. “My name's Larry Goodwin. I'm the co-pilot and I'm going to see what I can do to get you out of here.”

  “T-thank you.”

  Larry pushed and pulled on the door, just as I had, then shook his head. He motioned for me to follow him to the front.

  “That door folds inward, toward the passenger,” Larry said quietly as we huddled together in the galley. “I could break it, but I'm wondering if it's best just to keep him in there until maintenance can take it off and free him. If I push too hard, it could fly inward and hurt him.

  The lavatory didn't offer any room for Sweaty Sam to move out of the way. A person could stand, or they could sit. Chances were good that if Larry broke the door, he may break Sweaty Sam's face as well.

  Shaking my head, I pursed my lips together. “We can't take that risk. He's a nervous flier, which makes this all the worse.”

  Larry sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “What do you think? Leave him in there and hope he doesn't have a heart attack, or let me break the door and hope we don't smash his nose?”

  Marsha had been rushing in and out of the galley, working around us to serve the customers. She set down her tray and joined us. “We’re close to Utah, aren’t we?”