by Jim Newell
I checked the parking lot at the lounge after I got off the bus, another number eight, and she had picked up the car. It’s the only BMW of that color around, a color that Louise really liked when she chose that car. I checked the plate to make sure. I like to be thorough. I stopped inside the front door of the lounge and stood in the lobby by the reception desk to let my eyes adjust to the dim light and to look for Louise. I thought she wouldn’t be expecting me. I guess she wasn’t. She was sitting at a table near the bar with two men. They were talking very intently, heads close together, and didn’t see me. One of the men was Harry. That was a surprise.
The other man I didn’t recognize at first. Then I got a really big surprise. I remembered where I had seen him. It was the cigars he and Louise were smoking that triggered my memory. The place where I had seen him was beside the cigar kiosk at the mall. He was the man with the .38. At that moment the answers to “Who?” and “Why?” became obvious. So did the reason for the insurance. Five seconds later I was out of there and headed for the parking lot.
I don’t know how Louise got home that night. Perhaps Harry drove her. Or the man with the gun. They didn’t find the BMW, anyway, because I have it. Now, in a different state, it’s a different color and has a different plate. They didn’t find my clothes, either, or any clue as to where I am.
I wonder if anybody is paying the premiums on those insurance policies.
Wild Blue Yonder
Charley Pernette sat at a table in the pilots’ room of the Consolidated Flying Training Centre at the Augusta, Maine, airport. He was riffling through the reports of the ground school results for his next student and keeping one eye on the big clock on the wall. Mrs. Evelyn Corli was already 15 minutes late for her appointment for her first flying lesson.
The ground school reports indicated that Mrs. Corli had made barely passing grades in every topic covered except navigation where she had done well. Most students with her marks would have decided against flying and given up. Mrs. Corli, Charley decided, must be a determined woman. But where was she this morning? If she showed no more aptitude for flying than she did at ground school, he was not going to waste time with her.
Rita, the receptionist, stuck her head in the door. “Your student is here, Charley.”
He followed her back to the reception area where a mink-coated woman of indeterminate years was waiting. She was 43, according to her application, but she could have passed for much younger. She slipped off a glove and held out her hand. “Good morning. You must be Mr. Pernette.”
“Call me Charley,” he replied and indicated that she was to follow him down the hall. When they reached the pilots’ room, he waited until she had carefully removed her fur, and found a place to put it safely, obviously somewhat disturbed to find no coat hangers. He noted that she had not invited him to call her Evelyn.
Charley also noticed that she was wearing an obviously expensive tailored suit and pumps to match. He decided to lay the rules on the line.
“Mrs. Corli, I have to tell you that we keep close to our time schedule here. Your appointment was for ten o’clock and it is now twenty minutes past that time.”
“Oh, I am sorry,” she interrupted in a low and cultured voice. “I left early enough but dropped into have a cup of coffee with my close friend Louise Sweetland. She’s going through a rather complicated divorce and, well, time just slipped away.”
She smiled. “But is that really important? Can’t we just carry on until the hour is up? I’m paying for it.”
“I have a student at eleven thirty,” Charley replied and there is always a debriefing time after each lesson, so if we are late, that gets everything out of kilter.”
“Debriefing? What exactly does that mean?” she interrupted again.
“That’s a time when we discuss the lesson and I explain things I didn’t have an opportunity to go into while we were in the air, and you get to ask questions about anything you didn’t understand. There won’t be one this morning, because I’m afraid it’s too late for us to have a flying lesson this morning.”
He took a deep breath. “In addition, students are expected to arrive in time to be changed into flying clothing before the lesson begins. That usually takes about fifteen or twenty minutes, so you really need to be here shortly after nine-thirty.”
“Flying clothing? Nobody told me I needed special clothing. What must I wear? When I fly commercial I wear the type of clothing I am wearing now.”
“Pilots of planes like the Cessna one seventy-two we are going to be using wear flying suits like I am wearing, a type of coverall. This is a winter flying suit because it’s early November and it’s made to be warm. Underneath, it’s a good idea to wear long underwear and heavy socks to go with the flying boots.” He stood up to show her what he had on his feet. “In summer, the flying suit is much lighter, and the long underwear isn’t needed.” He smiled. “I’m surprised they didn’t make a point of discussing flight suits at ground school.”
“I guess I missed that part. Ground school didn’t interest me very much. It was very technical.” She smiled again, a rather forced smile, he thought. “I really wouldn’t want to be seen in public in an outfit like that. Airline pilots wear very nice trim uniforms”
“Well, flying a small plane is different, and small planes have been known to make the occasional forced landing and the pilot needs to have clothing that will be warm in that event. The only public you’ll see here will be other pilots and students who will be wearing the same type of clothing, and ground crew who will be wearing rather dirty work coveralls. You would certainly stand out dressed the way you are now. And by the way, I wouldn’t wear that coat. Even though it’s in a locker in the change room, it would be tempting.”
“And where do I get this flying suit and boots?” she asked.
“You can buy them in the clothing shop, just off the reception room. There will be somebody there to help you.”
“Well, if I must, I must,” she sighed. She rose from her chair and carefully picked up her coat. I will be on time tomorrow. That is, if you still want me.”
“Of course I do. I’ll be happy to see you then.”
She kept her promise. The next morning, she arrived in the pilots’ room promptly at ten o’clock, just as Charley was draining his coffee cup. She wore what was obviously a new flying suit and boots, her hair neatly coifed and a large pair of dangling earrings, obviously expensive.
“Good morning Mrs. Corli,” Charley greeted her. “Uh, I think maybe you should remove the earrings. You will be wearing a headset so you can hear the radio from the control tower and also hear me as we fly.”
Without a word, she removed the earrings and placed them in her purse. “It will be all right if I take my purse?”
“Oh sure. You can put it on the floor between the front and back seats of the plane. Now this morning,” he began the lesson, “we’ll be doing a take off and climb to altitude of forty-five hundred feet and try some simple manoeuvres. You will get a chance to do some fairly easy flying, just to see how you handle an airplane. I’ll explain as we go along. Okay?”
“Lead on, Charley,” she said, smiling. “I’m excited.”
“Good.” He led the way out to the ramp and up to a small red plane parked on the ramp. When they reached the craft, he said, “This is a Cessna one seventy-two. The first thing we do is called a ‘walk around.’ We make sure the plane is ready to go.”
They walked around the plane and as they went, Charley pointed out the rudder and elevators, moved them with his hand and asked her to do the same. He asked her to tell him what those parts did and she gave satisfactory answers. They also checked the flaps and the ailerons with the same results. Then Charley opened the doors and helped her into the left-hand seat, while he took the right.
Charley said, “Now let’s look at the instrument panel. Eventually you will need to become familiar with every one of the instruments on your side of the panel.”
“Oh my goo
dness, there are so many.”
“You’ll be surprised at how soon you will know each one as well as you know the dials on the dashboard of your car.” He pointed out each one, including the compass, the artificial horizon, the climb and the turn and bank indicators, the fuel gauge and all the others. Don’t worry about remembering them right now,” he told her. “You’ll get to use them soon enough.”
Charley started up the engine. After letting it run for a moment, he said, “Now the first thing we do is move forward about ten feet and check the brakes. Do you remember where the throttle is—and the brakes?”
She did. He moved the plane forward and stepped on the brakes. “Okay,” he said, and then he called the tower and asked for taxi clearance. He added that they would be flying local for about forty-five minutes.
“November three, eight, zero six, you are cleared to runway thirty-five. The wind is light and variable, altimeter two niner, niner six. I check your exercise.”
“Okay, which way do we turn to get to runway thirty-five?”
Without hesitation, Mrs. Corli said, “Right, and then follow the taxi strip.”
Charley was pleased. When he reached the runway, he stopped short and turned the Cessna parallel to the runway so any landing aircraft would be visible. He handed Mrs. Corli a printed list headed Pre Take-Off Checklist. “Your homework will be to memorise this over a period of the next two or three days. Right now you read the first part of the list to me and I will do the check and respond with the answer printed on the list.”
Mrs. Corli glanced at the list and read, “Parking brake.”
“Set.”
“Fuel selector valve.”
“Set.”
“Throttle.”
“Seventeen hundred RPM.”
“Mixture.”
“Rich, until four thousand feet.”
“Magnetos.”
A slight pause. Then, “one twenty drop.”
“Carb heat. What is ‘carb’?”
“The ‘carb’ is short for carburettor and it needs to be warm so the fuel doesn’t freeze in outside air temperature when it gets down around the freezing mark. As we fly higher the air gets colder. Remember that from your ground school weather course?”
“I guess so. But what is a carburettor?”
Charley explained what the carburettor is and what it does. He pointed out the switch to turn the carb heat on and off. When he had finished, he looked at her inquiringly and she nodded, apparently understanding. Getting back to the check list, he said, “The response is ‘on.’”
Charley called the tower and got permission for take-off. Shortly, they were at 4,500 feet and he turned north from the airport.
Then he said, “Now this is important. When I say, ‘I have control,’ you take your hands and feet off the controls immediately. When I say, ‘You have control,’ then you are to do the flying.”
“All right,” Mrs. Corli responded.
“Ok then. You have control.”
To Charley’s amazement, the lady flew like a pro. She kept on course, neither dipping nor rising, just flying straight ahead. He decided to test her.
“Turn right to a course of zero, three, zero,” he said. She did so with no problem, banking slightly as she made the gentle turn. “Now turn right to a course of three, four, five,” he said. “That was a long turn—245 degrees.” Same result. She started to level off as she approached the new course instead of waiting until she got there and overshooting the compass mark.
He was very pleased. Her ability on a first flight was amazing. He had her do more turns, climb to 6,500, change course, descend again to 4,500. She had the idea of starting to level off before they reached the designated altitude without being told.
Incredible, he thought to himself. It was time to return and she found the right course with no problem.
He called the tower and received landing instructions, “We join the circuit at fourteen hundred feet,” he told her. Down they went and levelled off parallel to the runway, and on his instruction, flew about half a mile south of it. Charley had never allowed a student on a first flight to go this far toward a landing, but she was doing so well, he let her continue.
When they had reached a distance of about a half-mile past the end of the runway, he said, “Now turn left to zero, eight, five. And descend to five hundred feet.” She did. “Now left and see whether you can line up with the runway.”
She lined up perfectly. “I have control,” he said and she immediately complied. He passed her another small sheet of paper, headed Landing Checks.
She glanced briefly at the list and read, “Airspeed thirty-five to forty-five.”
“With this light wind, we’ll go at forty-five.” The aircraft slowed noticeably.
“Wing flaps.”
“Down.”
“Air speed on round out, thirty to fifty.”
“Again with this wind, we’ll go in at about fifty.”
After the landing, he explained the way to change to nose wheel steering, and when they had cleared the runway, he said, “You have control.”
Mrs. Corli taxied back to the ramp and parked perfectly. Back in the pilots’ room, Charley said, “That was as close to perfect as anyone could wish Mrs. Corli. Any questions?”
“None that I can think of. I really enjoyed the experience.”
“Good. You did well. I have a question. Why did you think of taking up flying?”
“Well, after my late husband Oscar died, I needed something to take my mind off my troubles, so I thought flying was exciting. And you know what? It is.” Her eyes were sparkling.
After she left, Charley sat for a few minutes and thought about that flight. He scribbled some notes for himself on a sheet and put it in her student file.
The next few lessons were much the same as far as Mrs. Corli’s flying ability was concerned. She made several landings on the second day. On the third day, they practised steep turns, and Charley introduced her to stalls and spins. She performed each manoeuvre flawlessly. When they returned to the ramp, Charley told her not to shut down the engine.
“I think you are ready for your first solo.”
“Really. Oh I hope I do all right.”
“You’ll be fine.”
And she was. The landing was perfect, in spite of the slight crosswind from the right. She landed with the right main gear first and then dropped the left before lowering the nose.
When Charley congratulated her, she twittered, “Oh, I’m so excited. I can hardly wait to tell my friend Louise Sweetland.”
During the next couple of weeks, they took cross-country navigation trips to practice map reading, visited other airports after navigating a three-point course, after which she made similar trips alone. On other days Mrs. Corli did several hours of solo practice for practice in aircraft handing: stalls, spins, steep turns and general flying in different weather conditions.
While she was on one of those solo flights, Charley visited Michael Fremont, his partner in Consolidated Flying Training. He told him about Mrs. Corli and her amazing ability as a new student. He began with the ability she had shown on her first flight and the way she had seemed to know what he might expect her to do next before he could tell her, and how she would follow up with a stupid question.
“Mike, I have a really strong feeling that we are being taken for a ride here. This woman gives every indication that she has flown before.”
He went on to tell Michael that he had started her on the Cessna 172, a plane very seldom used for a beginner. Usually they began on the 150 or 170, tail draggers with very little instrument capability.
“I used that aircraft because her ground school marks were so terrible and her basic knowledge so poor that I figured I would have a good excuse to wash her out right away and not waste my time. She handled the one seventy two like a pro, right from the beginning, but asked the stupidest questions in the beginning. Would you believe that when we first got in the plane, her only quest
ions were about carb heat and the carburettor. Like ‘what’s a carburettor?’ Never a word about any of the instruments or hesitation about turning onto a different compass course. And when I gave her the printed pre take-off checklist and asked her to read it off to me, she hardly looked at the paper. She knew the checklist already. I’m sure of it.”
“Well, why don’t you check with the FAA and see if she once had a license and lost it. If they have no information, let her rack up the hours, get her license and go. We get the money and we’re in the clear.”
“Way ahead of you, buddy. The FAA has no record of her.”
Mrs. Corli got her required 40 hours of flying time, wrote the final test, aced it and was granted her Private Pilot’s license. She continued instruction and earned her night flying endorsement.
Then she disappeared. Charley heard no more from or about her. He sent a routine printed flyer announcing a reduced rate for renting aircraft. It was returned marked “Moved. No forwarding address.”
About a year later, Charley had a visit from an FAA investigator and an FBI agent. They wanted to know whether he recognized the woman in the photo they showed him.
“Sure I do. That’s Evelyn Corli. She got her license here. I was her instructor.”
“Well, said the FBI man, I’m sorry to tell you that that woman is really Louise Sweetland. Some years ago she spent five years in prison for flying drugs from Colombia to Florida. Now she’s in jail in Canada waiting trial for flying drugs from a small strip at Renous in Northern New Brunswick into Pine Grove in northern Maine. It’s only eleven miles from the Canadian border.”
“Evidently, the engine quit and she crashed before she crossed the border,” said the FAA investigator. “She broke her leg in the crash and couldn’t get out before the police got there. They found about million and a half worth of cocaine in the aircraft.”
The FBI man added, “The drugs came in by boat through fishermen and were trucked up to the landing strip by night. We’re just clearing away some details for the RCMP up there before the trial.”