The Underground Lady

by JC Simmons

  "I'm going back to Rose's and get some rest. I suggest you do the same."

  "Tell Rose I'll come for dinner."

  "I'm sure she'll be delighted."

  By all rights, I should be exhausted, but I did not feel tired. Going to the glassed in bookcase, I pulled out a first edition copy of Hemingway's For Whom the Bell Tolls, sat in front of the fire, opened the book and read the first sentence.

  He lay flat on the brown, pine-needled floor of the forest, his chin on his folded arms, and high overhead the wind blew in the tops of the pine trees.

  Gently closing the book, I suddenly remembered the entire story, and marveled at the genius of the man. I shut my eyes, and wondered where ideas come from. The genesis of any original insight is something of a mystery. Your mind is well prepared, often through years of thought, and a multitude of factors bring them to a point, some personal, some intellectual, some circumstantial, some impossible to articulate, others deeply social and political. From all this comes Hemingway's two characters making love on the ground in time of war, and the earth moving. Amazing.

  Opening my eyes, I realized I'd been asleep. The fire was only coals, and the clock read four thirty. Taking a quick shower, I headed for Rose's house with B.W. in tow. The sun was setting below the treetops, and the light had that evening look caught between gold and silver, finally fading away leaving the land blue and cool and silent.

  Rose had untied the bun, and with the loosening of the hair, her mood seemed to improve. She was almost jolly. Even Sunny seemed happy.

  The meal was simple country fare, fried pork chops, a squash casserole, and candied yams, served with unsweetened tea so dark and strong it could erode tooth enamel.

  "I'm sorry about suggesting that we stop the inquiry into my mother's disappearance. I've decided there's too much to gain to lose."

  "You are a fan of gospel music, are you?"

  "Not really. Why do you ask?"

  "Too much to gain to lose, that's an old Dottie Rambo song."

  Rose laughed. "Jay's ex-girlfriend was a gospel music lover, played it all the time, t.v., radio, CDs. The girl loved Bill Gaither."

  "Hebrone and I think we should talk with Avis Shaw's widow again," I said, hoping to quickly change the subject. "Maybe we can bring her out here, to your house. Her husband knew something and Hebrone thinks he told his wife. You and Sunny could make her feel comfortable, get her to reveal whatever it could be."

  "Yes, we could try."

  "The sheriff is sending out some deputies and trustees in the morning to help walk my back eighty. We need all the bodies we can get. You two want to take a stroll through some fine forest?"

  "I do," Sunny spoke up.

  "Me too," Rose echoed. "Call Shack, he needs to come along. Especially now."

  "I'll extend the invitation when I get back home tonight."

  "He needs to know what he did is okay, not necessarily right, but not totally disapproved of by us."

  Hebrone laid his napkin on the table. "Shack has no fear. I like that in a man. Fear is an acid. Everything it touches it corrodes. It eats through the smooth, glistening surface of things, and the mark it leaves is indelible. In the cockpit of an airplane, it can be disastrous. In war, whole countries can be lost."

  Sunny looked at Hebrone as if seeing him for the first time. "You were afraid in Vietnam?"

  "Every second of every day."

  "We will try and set something up with the widow after the walk-about tomorrow. Everybody be at my place by seven a.m. B.W. and I will be off, now. Thanks for the meal, Rose, old girl."

  "Invite yourself anytime," she replied, with a skewed smile that let me know we were good friends.

  Sunny walked me to the door, scratched B.W. under the chin. "I'm still thinking about that straight flush. Did you ever figure out how to bet that hand?"

  "I'm still looking at the cards."

  "Maybe we should play poker someday."

  "Yes, maybe we should."

  "Goodnight, Mr. Leicester."

  "'Night, Miss Pfeiffer."

  On the way back to the little house in the woods, I thought about love. That feeling, I had it once, but it's gone. Will it, like youth, never return? Or will it come with another experience? I've learned that you can't stop the rain from falling down.

  Shack seemed happy that I wanted him to help in the morning, and promised to be there.

  On an impulse, I called Earl Sanders. He answered on the first ring. "Why did you not tell me Gerald VonHorner had a Cessna 182 based with you?"

  "He doesn't."

  "Paul Bradford says he does."

  "Jay, there are ten T-hangars that the city owns located on the east end of the field. We have nothing to do with them. But I did know he kept an airplane in one. It never crossed my mind to tell you about it. Why does this interest you?"

  "He flew low over my place yesterday, obviously looking for something."

  "I covered that area twenty-five years ago. There's nothing to see. Are you sure it was VonHorner flying the plane?"

  "Why would it be anybody else?"

  "His wife is a pilot."

  "The Vietnamese woman?"

  "Yes, she learned when they lived in Texas. I've given her a biennial flight review. She's pretty good at the controls."

  "I'll be… Thanks, Earl."

  "Jay, I've told you that I had nothing to do with Hadley Welch going missing. You need to quit wasting your time worrying about me. I'm not your enemy."

  "Yeah, I know. Look, nose around, see if you can find out who took that flight?"

  "I'll be in touch."

  ***

  I woke at six a.m. to find Shack sitting quietly on the front porch. The temperature was cool, the sky clear. Ground fog filled the hollows, casting a ghostly shadow across the land.

  "You're early. Come inside, coffee's plugged in. I have some work to do on the computer."

  He came in and played with B.W. while I dressed and ran off copies of a satellite image of the eighty acres we were to walk over this morning. I added a photo of the PA-18 to the bottom of the page simply to emphasize the fact that we were looking for the wreckage of an airplane.

  A van pulled into the drive to the cottage followed by Rose's truck with Hebrone and Sunny. Two deputies got out, accompanied by ten jail trustees dressed in black and white wide-striped pants. I passed out the copies depicting the rectangle of land to be covered.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, we are looking for the remains of a small aircraft that may have crashed in the area twenty-five years ago. It will look nothing like the photo on your handout. What you may find is some metal tubing, engine parts, or human bones. We will spread out along the east end of the rectangle, walk all the way to the west boundary, turn around and return to our starting point. There are three spring-fed creeks with deep ravines that you will have to maneuver around as best you can. The land has heavy undergrowth, but since it is still winter, you shouldn't have much trouble, except for the massive clumps of briars in the open fields. Do the best you can. If you find anything, sing out. Okay, let's load up and we'll drive over to the starting point."

  As we lined up to begin the search, Rose and I stood on the bank of the first creek, a deep pool of spring-fed water running silently below us. Whatever you believe and whatever god you pray to, a place where clean, cool, clear water rises from the earth is in some way sacred.

  It took four hours to complete the coverage of the eighty acres. There were several false alarms – an old harrow, a crosscut saw blade, four ten foot sections of rails from a train track, and most curious of all, a six-foot diameter stone with a hole hollowed out in the center. Someone, a trustee I think, suggested it was used by Choctaw Indians to grind corn into meal. Made sense. Marking the spot, I planned to investigate the massive stone at a later date.

  Back at the cottage, I thanked the deputies and trustees for their effort and they departed. The five of us went inside the cottage. I put on a fresh pot of coffee. We were tired
, our mood somber. Not finding anything was disappointing.

  "Give me fifty bucks, Jay."

  "What do you want fifty dollars for, Rose?"

  "Sunny and I are going to the Hot Spot and pick up some barbecue chicken halves for lunch. Your treat."

  "Payback time for all those free meals," Hebrone laughed.

  "I'll kick in twenty bucks," Shack offered.

  "No," Rose insisted. "This is Jay's treat."

  There was no way I could argue with her. After all they had just spent four hours traipsing through rough terrain for me. Besides, I'd just add it to Sunny's bill, under expenses.

  As they left to pick up lunch, Rose said, “We'll stop by and invite Opal Shaw out to my place for tea tomorrow afternoon."

  It was a good idea.

  Not long after they left, my phone rang. It was Earl Sanders.

  "My mechanic says Kein VonHorner asked him to check an oil leak on her Cessna 182 on the day you say it flew over your place. He repaired the leak, and she departed. The husband was supposedly out of town on a pheasant hunting trip."

  "Thanks, Earl. I owe you one."

  "I am not the enemy."

  "I know."

  Hebrone took the news into account. I could see his brain working behind his eyes. He would look at me, then look away. He was thinking of all the possibilities. We wouldn't know until we had all the information Henderson could supply, what the widow Shaw knew from her husband, and if we could ever find Hadley Welch and that Piper Super Cub.

  Rose and Sunny returned with the food from the Hot Spot. The smoked chicken was moist and tender and served with a barbecue sauce that was truly 'finger-licking good.' The young couple who owns this restaurant is doing it right.

  A neuroscientist friend of mine once said that humans can't remember smells. He was wrong. I never forget the aromas of a few fine wines, a red rose that grows beside the cottage, the clean smell of a fresh caught fish, the warm blood smell of a skinned deer. I specifically remember the aromas in the Hot Spot the day Peter Pushkin showed up at the restaurant. My gut feeling told me the man had something to do with Hadley Welch's demise. I just couldn't figure out what.

  "We stopped by and spoke to Opal Shaw. She's coming out at two o'clock tomorrow afternoon."

  "Outstanding. Here's what we need to know…"

  Little did any of us realize, but this 'Afternoon Tea' would answer our biggest question – where was Hadley Welch.

  Chapter Nineteen

  After lunch, Shack left to tend his herd. Sunny and Rose cleaned up the kitchen, took B.W., and went to prepare for tomorrow's 'Afternoon Tea' with Opal Shaw. Hebrone promised to come later in the evening to stay with them.

  "Sunny Pfeiffer's got a thing for you."

  "Never get involved with a client, Hebrone. It's my one hard and fast rule."

  "Then you are an idiot."

  My phone rang. "Aviation Consultants."

  "I'm looking for Jay Leicester."

  "You got him."

  "Jay, it's Rex Wiseman."

  "The world's best aircraft broker. How you doing Rex? It's been a long time."

  "Let me get right to the point. We financed a Boeing 737 for an Argentine startup. They've defaulted on the loan and gone out of business. My airplane is sitting on the ground in San Miguel de Tucuman, Argentina. I have to get it out of there by the end of the week or the government is going to confiscate it for ramp fees and taxes. I'll send our company airplane to pick you up and fly you to Tucuman. Bring the 37 back to Tampa. Let me see, you are in Jackson, Mississippi, right? Our Saberliner will pick you up at five o'clock your time this afternoon at Jackson International Airport. You will need a copilot."

  "Rex, I can't do it. I'm working for a client at the present time."

  "This airplane represents thirty-five million dollars to me, Jay. I'll pay you three hundred and fifty thousand just to fly it back to Tampa, for God's sake."

  "You don't know any other 37 pilots who can do this?"

  "You're my last hope. I've tried everyone I know."

  "Give me your phone number. I'll call you back in fifteen minutes."

  Hebrone looked at me.

  "Who do we know that can fly a 37?"

  He leaned back on the couch. "B.J., he just retired from FedEx. Flew 37s for Braniff before they went belly up, and John Gableman, was Captain for People's Express. They had the 37. Both men are in Jackson."

  I made the calls. Both pilots agreed to make the trip. Rex Wiseman answered the phone on the first ring.

  "Dispatch your Saberliner. I personally vouch for these two airmen. They'll get your airplane to Tampa for you."

  "Jay, you are a lifesaver. How much do I owe you for this?"

  "Nothing. Be sure Hardy and Gableman get what you promised me, and if I can ever help you again, please call."

  "Count on it, you're at the top of my list."

  Hebrone cocked his head. "How much was he willing to pay?"

  "Three fifty."

  "Jesus. I hope this twenty-five year old missing woman is worth it."

  "Yeah, me too."

  Hebrone left to stay with Rose and Sunny. I was suddenly alone, even my cat was gone. It would be a good time to rest, read, and think, especially about the loss of a hefty recovery fee that Leicester Aviation Consultants desperately needed.

  Going to one of the bookcases in the back, I picked up a copy of Ponzi, The Man and His Legendary Scheme, by Mitchell Zuckoff, thinking that if Leicester Aviation Consultants was going to lose three hundred and fifty thousand dollars, this would be apropos reading.

  After an hour of seeing how simple it is to fleece people of their hard-earned money, I walked out on the porch to check the weather. It's an old habit that I do several times a day. I saw her walking down the drive through the woods so starkly lighted by the afternoon sun that she seemed to be moving through a shimmering oil painting. She seemed skinnier than I remembered, even dressed in black slacks and a heavy sweater. Maybe she was worn thin by her own fantasies and abandoned dreams. As she drew near and spotted me, she showed a crooked smile that hookers wear when they're slipping off their panties.

  "Hello, Jay."

  "Pussy Galore. How did you get here?"

  "I parked out on the road. I wasn't sure if this was the right place." Now she was soft to look at, and her hard smile had crumpled into a frown. Twenty years ago she'd made men cry. Now, only she cried.

  "Please come in."

  "I was hoping to see Hebrone." Her voice took on an oddly pleading quality, as if dread was a kind of humility, an admission of one's helplessness, a realization that in the end we control nothing.

  "It's chilly out. I'll fix you a drink."

  She came forward, her movements strangely frantic, almost violent, as if she was trying to wash off incriminating bloodstains. Inside, she tossed her hair with an earthy flair like a woman used to being watched by men.

  Seeing that Hebrone was not here, her expression took on an indecipherable combination of anger and sadness. She appeared to be mourning the death of a friend.

  I thought that this woman had been hurt severely before by someone she had given herself to totally. She had drawn her soul deep within to protect it. One can go only so far, then it becomes dangerous. You can lose the soul to something far worse, something that is too horrible to mention and from which one can never hope to return. This is where I sensed she was at the moment, or on the verge of being. Maybe she was hoping Hebrone could bring her back. I certainly didn't want that responsibility. I had been inveigled into that dark chasm before and knew the face of that horrid ogress that lay in wait.

  "I'll call Hebrone and let him know you're here. He's not far away."

  "I don't want to bother him if he's busy."

  Handing her a glass of Jack Daniel's and water, I assured her it was not a problem.

  Rose answered the phone. "Let me talk to Hebrone."

  "Is something wrong?"

  "No."

  "You want to
come for dinner?"

  "I may come and spend the night."

  "That could be interesting. Here's Hebrone."

  "You have company. It's Pussy Galore. I think you better come right away."

  He hung up without saying a word.

  "Hebrone's on his way."

  "You have a nice place, here." She took a deep swallow of the whisky as if it were ice water.

  "God's country. No better place on earth."

  "I love this part of Mississippi. I don't want to leave."

  "Why would you leave?"

  "I've lost my job."

  "Because of what you did for us?"

  "Some of it, yes."

  "Things may get better."

  "I don't know…" She stared vacantly over the drink as if seeking a place of salvation.

  "The client I'm working for may have something for you locally. I'll let Hebrone fill you in."

  He walked through the door and a smile lit up her face.

  "I'll stay with the girls tonight. I need to be with my cat, anyway."

  "Yes," Hebrone said. "Rose is looking forward to your visit."

  ***

  "So Hebrone's got a girlfriend?"

  "I don't know, Rose," I said, holding B.W., who was wanting out of my lap. "She's on the rebound. Desperate, now that she lost her job for reasons that were mostly our fault. Hebrone knows how to handle these situations. He won't harm her."

  Sunny came over and took B.W. "We heard you lost a sizable commission because of me."

  "Being a one man operation, I can only work for one client at a time."

  "I still want you to look at Upton Pharmaceutical's aviation operation when this is over."

  "Yes, it does need some attention. So, which one of you has Hebrone been sleeping with? I know he hasn't been racking out on that lumpy couch."

  "Men," Rose said, collecting our coffee cups. "It's always about who's sleeping with whom. The difference between men and women is that when a woman has a car accident, she doesn't pull herself from the wreckage thinking about sex."