The Underground Lady

by JC Simmons

  "That's scary, and potentially deadly. Who would endanger their lives like that?"

  "Crooked cargo haulers wanting to save money, crop dusters, flight school operators, and individuals who don't want to spend the dollars to comply with Federal Regulations."

  "I've heard of Flight Instructors signing off flight checks in bars, but never anyone taking risks with lives by looking the other way on required maintenance checks. How does this relate to Hadley Welch?"

  "I think he offered to pencil in inspections on her PA-18. For someone like Hadley who approached flying like a religion, this would be an affront she couldn't or wouldn't ignore. If she threatened to expose him, he'd not only lose his mechanic's license, but he'd be stripped of his pilot's license. American Airlines would have immediately terminated him. He'd lose everything. It's a powerful motive for murder."

  "But we have no proof this occurred."

  "We may. She approached Aaron Crosby one day and asked him if it was appropriate to skip a fifty-hour oil change. He told her she could do it, but that it would be stupid, could lead to more expensive engine costs at overhaul and, not only that, but good mechanics look at a lot of things during oil changes that could reveal a problem early enough to prevent a failure or real disaster. She walked away muttering something about VonHorner being a fool."

  "She never said anything to you or Annie about this?"

  "No, but she did ask me one day, out of the blue, who in the FAA would someone report a violation of the FARs (Federal Aviation Regulations). I assumed she was talking about some infraction she'd seen a pilot commit. It never occurred to me this was about maintenance. Now, in hindsight, it probably was."

  "Talk to Annie again. See if she remembers anything about this. You may be on to something."

  After we hung up, Hebrone was sitting on the couch, looking at me. "You have an Aviation Mechanic's license. Listen to this…"

  When I was through explaining what Earl Sanders told me, he said, "I've heard of operators, who are trying to save a buck, pressure mechanics to make shortcuts, use old parts, or sign off discrepancies that were not flight critical, but never penciling in inspections in maintenance logs without ever seeing the airplane. That's simply criminal."

  "It seems VonHorner was doing exactly that, and Hadley Welch discovered it and was going to turn him in."

  "You think that's why he killed her?"

  "If he's the one that did in fact kill her, it's a strong enough motive."

  "Yes, he would lose everything."

  "Why would a person gamble with not only the lives of fellow pilots, but his profession, for a lousy few bucks?"

  "If you figure there were a hundred to, say, a hundred and fifty airplane owners and operators in the surrounding area, and word of mouth gets around that he's doing this, at a thousand dollars a log book…not bad for the nineteen-eighties. The man was on furlough, and he had a single-person's lifestyle to maintain."

  "Yeah, but murder? It's a big step from being a crook to pulling the trigger and putting a bullet in the brain of someone you know, then burying them in a hole. Looks like we've got our work cut out for us."

  My phone rang.

  "She's gone."

  "Rose? Who's gone?"

  "Miss Galore. The lawyer picked her up. She left a note saying she'd called him and he apologized for beating the shit out of her and asked her to marry him."

  Holding my hand over the mouthpiece, I looked at Hebrone. "The lawyer picked up the girl. Wants to marry her. What do you think?"

  He thought for a minute. "Yes, I think it's a good thing. It won't last, but it will be okay for now."

  "Rose, Hebrone thinks it's okay. We'll wash our hands of her. Not our concern anymore."

  "Fine. One of you going to stay with us tonight?"

  "Hebrone."

  "Okay, you can come to dinner."

  "Thanks, old sled."

  "Piss off, Leicester."

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Shortly after dinner at Rose's house, I returned to the cottage just as the cold front hit with full force. There was war in the heavens. The cosmic order was gone. I could see the shape of the storms in the erratic glare of lightning as the thunder rolled. For once, I was glad to be on the ground instead of aloft doing battle with the elements. B.W. hid under the bed and would not come out.

  Tired, I buttoned up the cottage, turned off the lights, and lay in bed watching and listening to the storm. A cold rain slashed in torrents, thunder shook the ground, rattling the windows. Moving fast, the line of weather rumbled further and further away toward the east, but the rain remained hard and steady. I was glad we had covered the hole back over.

  Hadley Welch, at least what we recovered of her, lay on a computer table on a far wall at the foot of my bed. B.W. came out of hiding and smelled around the plastic bags. He reached out and tore a small hole in the one with the skull. He smelled the hole, then came and jumped up beside me, letting out a soft meow.

  "Yes, old boy, that's Sunny's mom. We're going to find out who put a bullet in her brain. Then we're going to punish them. What do you think about that?"

  He let out a louder meow, jumped down and disappeared toward the front of the cottage. I was happy he agreed with me.

  Sometime after midnight, I woke from a dream about a bone orchard where fragments of collarbone and femur rose up from the ground, bleached and glowing after a heavy rain. I went to the kitchen for a drink of water. B.W. was asleep on the hearth and it was still raining, though not as hard. The wind blew in gusts. Tomorrow would be cold.

  Staring out the window, watching the trees bend and sway in the wind, I thought about Ralph Henderson and hoped that he would stay away from Shack. They were both dangerous men, but Shack was the better shot, and by far the more intelligent. I remember Hebrone watching him perform with a rifle and telling me he was a shooter who never missed. When he fires a shot, his mind goes and places the bullet on the target as if by hand. I thought that I would not want Shack Runnels shooting at me.

  Lying back down, my cheeks touched the smooth surface of the cotton sheets. They were as cool as a spring breeze. The soft integrity of the fabric seemed to have a patient memory of suppleness that rested within it. I listened to the storm knowing I was sheltered from the harsh gale. Sleep came swiftly with the far sound of the circumvented wind.

  B.W. woke me at daylight, hungry. The thunderstorms were gone, but the wind blew in harsh gusts, low clouds, thick with moisture, scudded across the treetops. It was going to be a windy, cold, miserable day, but we needed to get Hadley Welch's remains to Sheriff John Quincy Adams.

  I wanted to take Hebrone with me, alone. There were some things we needed to discuss out of the presence of Sunny Pfeiffer. As it turned out, Sunny had a conference call set up with her St. Louis headquarters to conduct some important business this morning and couldn't accompany us.

  As we drove along the gravel road heading toward the blacktop, gusty wind rocked the truck. "I owe you an apology."

  "You mean from yesterday, when we found the skull? Forget it. Sometimes death affects people in strange ways."

  "You don't know what I was thinking."

  "That you hated me, that we couldn't be friends anymore. It wasn't me you were upset with, it was the uncertainty of death, the cruelty of man's inhumanity toward man. You were transferring your anger to me. A Psychiatrist taught me that. You've seen nothing of atrocities, Jay. Be thankful. Let's forget it."

  ***

  John Quincy Adams was waiting for us. To get to his office, we had to make our way down a hall past twenty-four hour drunks and small-time criminals who smelled bad. I never understood them – maybe they frightened me – there but for the grace of God – and all that sort of thing. Hebrone said I'd seen nothing of the atrocities of man, but I've seen enough. People retreating from the horrors of life, open cuts the color of plums, body parts hoping to fall off to avoid the shame of being attached to such a destroyed owner. I've seen eyes clouded with gl
aucoma, tongues swollen up like a football. I walked on by these people with no sympathy. I did wonder what their reaction would be if they knew the contents of the black garbage bags that passed just inches from their ruined faces.

  "I'll get the remains over to the lab today. We need to cordon off the area around the buried airplane. Also, I'll notify the other interested agencies. As soon as the elements allow, we'll get people and equipment out to excavate the site."

  "The S & W .38 that VonHorner's wife was waving around, check it against anything that comes from Hadley Welch."

  "What about the daughter's blood sample?"

  "I haven't had time to talk with her about it, but that won't be a problem."

  "She can go to the clinic, here, in Decatur, or the one in Union. I'll leave word at both places."

  "As soon as we get a positive I.D. and any ballistics, I want to get the Press involved. Bill Graham from the Union Appeal can have an exclusive. Maybe we can use the coverage to flush out a suspect."

  "You're sure about Gerald VonHorner?"

  "Here's what we've learned so far."

  After explaining our theory of events, and what we had learned from Earl Sanders, John Quincy Adams sat back in his chair, crossed his arms, and looked at the ceiling. After a few moments, he sat up, looked at both Hebrone and me. "I have Circuit Court this morning. Get that blood sample today from the Pfeiffer woman. As soon as we hear from the lab, we'll meet and discuss our next move. Until then, hold off on the Press, and don't let anyone near that buried airplane until I can get a team out there."

  Our meeting was over and we made our way back through the crowd of human detritus.

  We stopped by the Union Appeal on the way back to the farm. Bill Graham agreed to hold off on publication of the discovery of the airplane and recovery of Hadley Welch's remains until the forensics was back. He would do all the background work and be ready with a front page spread. He seemed okay with the fact that we wanted to use the article to force the hand of a suspected twenty-five year old murderer. An exclusive was an exclusive.

  Dropping Hebrone off at the cottage, I told him to enjoy some time alone. I'd take Sunny to get the blood drawn and then for lunch. We'd return mid-afternoon.

  Sunny was finished with her business call and quickly agreed to go to the clinic. She looked stunning as usual. Jade-colored, oval eyes, skin the color of antique ivory, hair loose and satiny like a raven's wings. Her height contributed to an aura of professional and impregnable solitude.

  Inside my truck, strands of heat rose from her like transparent cobras. She shivered at the cold. She looked off into a place I could never go. I watched her thoughts as they crossed her eyes. They were mysteries I could never know. I wondered if she was thinking of her mother.

  As we drove toward town, she turned to me. "Do you believe in God?"

  "On Godly days." I was being flippant.

  "I never went to church for God, but for the way it layered out the silence of evil. Do you think God would frown on that?"

  "I can't speak for God, but religion is a deeply personal thing. My faith is unshakable. This life is short, eternity is forever. I think Pascal's Wager is correct."

  "Pascal's Wager?"

  "He was a sixteenth century mathematical genius and a diehard atheist. One night God visited him for two hours. Afterwards, he came up with the theory. If you bet God exists and he does, you win everything. If God does not exist, you lose nothing."

  "Then put me down for Pascal's bet."

  There was a wait at the clinic. Sheriff Adams had called, but the lab was backed up, and the waiting room was filled with the sick. Sunny paced the small interior, not in a manner of restlessness, but in the casual manner of a woman enjoying the motion of her own body. I watched the lightness of her steps, the straight spine, the flat stomach, and the relaxed shoulders. She walked as if she was both unconscious of her body and tremendously conscious of her pride in it. She sat down in a chair, then fixed her eyes on me, and there was nothing wrong with the way she looked at me, only it was as if I wasn't there. I watched her for a moment, the shape of her mouth, the movements of her lips. Watched the way she crossed her legs, a gesture smooth and exact, like an expensive instrument being calibrated. I noted the uncommon lightness of her posture, a weightless way of sitting that showed an expert control of the use of muscles.

  A nurse called her for the lab. As she stood, I saw the strands of her hair swing jerkily. She leaned over me, and with a low huskier tone in her voice said she'd be right back. Then she moved away, leaving a hint of smiling triumph to trail behind her words. I was thinking not of Pascal's Wager, but how to bet a straight flush.

  The lab technician gave Sunny the sample, and we drove it to Decatur and gave it to Sheriff Adams who said he would include it with the remains. We should know something within a couple of days. His daughter would personally handle it for us.

  ***

  Two days later, John Quincy Adams called, and said a bullet recovered from the skull matched the .38 caliber S & W revolver we alleged belonged to Gerald VonHorner. As soon as a positive ID came back for Hadley Welch the sheriff would have a judge issue a warrant for his arrest and, even if the DNA wasn't successful, the arrest could still go forward. That bullet killed someone.

  I begged John to hold off on the warrant, let us run the newspaper article, see what happened. It didn't make sense to him, but he agreed with the stipulation of only forty-eight hours. He didn't want the man fleeing the country.

  An investigative team excavated the buried airplane, recovering more human remains, mostly small bone fragments, and articles of clothing, including parts of a woman's shoe. The framework of the PA-18, buried for twenty-five years, was amazingly intact. Though rusted, it appeared that if someone sandblasted and repainted the metal tubing, the fuselage could be recovered and readied for flight. I just read in the newspaper that a set of dog tags was found on Omaha Beach where a young soldier from Tennessee was killed in World War Two during the Normandy D-Day invasion. They had been buried under saltwater and sand for fifty-eight years, and the name, ID number, blood type, and religion of the soldier was clearly readable. So, it shouldn’t surprise me the Super Cub fuselage was still intact.

  Bill Graham came out and took photos of the airplane in the hole and after it was loaded on a trailer to transport to a hangar in Meridian for further analysis. We even got Sunny Pfeiffer to pose beside the fuselage. Graham wanted to use a preliminary headline that would read:

  DAUGHTER RECOVERS MISSING MOTHER'S REMAINS

  MURDER MYSTERY SOLVED AFTER 25 YEARS

  ARREST IMMINENT

  Earl Sanders flew over the dig site, then landed at Union's airport, and I drove him out to take a look. He seemed satisfied that he could not have seen it from the air, and that even if he had, there was nothing he could have done under the circumstances. He said that FAA Inspectors were questioning Aaron Crosby, the old mechanic, about his knowledge of VonHorner's illegal signing off on aircraft maintenance. Long past the statute of limitations for prosecution, they would use the information to try and correlate the cause of aircraft accidents during that period to mechanical problems.

  Hebrone flew to Dallas for a meeting with the Chief Pilot of American Airlines. We wanted to find out exactly where VonHorner was the day Hadley Welch was killed. Earl Sanders had information that he was flying the line that day. It was imperative we know for sure. After this many years, it was a long shot, but one we thought worth the effort. He was due back tonight. I would drive over and pick him up at the Jackson International Airport.

  At the cottage, I caught up on long neglected paperwork pertaining to Leicester Aviation Consultants. The move from the state capital to the woods had caused a backlog of billing. Checking with Rex Wiseman, I learned his Boeing 737 that was located in San Miguel de Tucuman, Argentina, was safely returned to Tampa without incident. I was simply curious.

  With Rose looking after B.W., and Shack keeping an eye on Rose, Sunny woul
d ride with me to pick up Hebrone in Jackson. His flight was due to land at eleven p.m. We were anxious to hear what he had learned.

  I picked Sunny up at nine-thirty. It was one of those cold, clear, winter nights, not uncomfortable, but a coat felt good. The storm cleaned the atmosphere, and everything seemed fresh and crisp. There was no moon, and the stars were brilliant, with Orion dominating the southern sky.

  It was dark in the truck, but I could see the outline of her face from the lights on the dashboard, and she wore that musky-smelling perfume that was alluring, but still unknown to me. Her hair was back in a ponytail, which didn't look bad, but when it was worn down, she seemed younger, and lovelier.

  "You smell good."

  She could not prevent the movement of surprise that threw her head up. She turned away with a movement that seemed oddly out of character. The ponytail swung jerkily in protest. Then I caught a glimpse of her proudly intractable mouth curving into a hint of a smile. She sat still, but her eyes were large and soon they fixed on mine.

  "I had a talk with Rose about you. She said you like "younger" women, and have a thing against marriage."

  Rose.

  "I have learned from my friends that marriage turns lovers into relatives."

  "And young women?"

  "Not so much the teenage type, but those with less baggage, uncomplicated."

  "Virginal?"

  "Well…"

  "While you whore around without conscious scruples, you still demand ideal and angelic purity in the women you marry. You want to regard them with tender adoration as something untouched by other's hands."

  "What about you?"

  "What about me?"

  "You look for what in a man?"

  "None of your business."

  "Young, intelligent, buffed out. Spends a lot of time in the gym?"

  Her eyes glistened in the dim light, and they told me she wanted to argue the point, which she was sure she could win, but now was not the time.