Passport to Murder

by Mary Angela

  “Ah, but take care, Em. There is a syndrome such as you describe. The Paris Syndrome.”

  I nodded vigorously.

  “You’ve heard of it, no?”

  Yes, I had heard of it; in fact, I had researched it before the trip. Many tourists visiting Paris for the first time succumbed to the syndrome, which took hold of them when reality didn’t meet their idealized expectations of the city. They became disoriented, disillusioned, and even disgruntled as they navigated the City of Light. But the truth was, Paris was a big city and could be unkind to those who spoke little or inferior French or expected American-style hospitality.

  “I’m fully prepared for a version of the city that doesn’t look like the cinematic Paris,” I said. “I’ve scanned articles about crime and corruption, and I’ve come to the conclusion that Paris can be not only heartless but also cruel.”

  PowerPoint turned slightly green, but I didn’t know if it was from my remarks or the glare of her computer screen. Either way, she turned her shoulder away from me.

  André laughed. “Good job. You just keep on reading your… what do you call it, whodunit? Maybe it will distract you from the flight.”

  I smoothed the page and recalled the day I had purchased the book at Copper Bluff’s bookstore. Ensconced between the bar and jewelers, the tiny shop specialized in collectable books but sold used and new copies as well as all genres. The owner was from California, an exotic location to us, and incredibly wealthy. She was a terrific purveyor of literature, and I spent many afternoons poring over first editions she kept locked in a small bookcase. She was a friend to readers and writers in the area, not to mention jobless eccentrics, and although she didn’t host many events (Café Joe had more room), she supported local artists by carrying their work. There was no better friend to the arts.

  Despite my book’s quick-moving plot, I was unable to concentrate on the words. I read and reread several pages, trying to immerse myself in the narrative. Yet all I could focus on were the bumps and drops of the plane and how the other passengers weathered them with such aplomb. It was as if they were not thirty thousand feet in the air but on a front porch swing.

  I looked around. Molly and Nick were having a lively conversation to my left that was growing more heated. That entire side of the plane, in fact, had been a lot more animated and drawn my attention several times.

  I soon realized I wasn’t the only one eavesdropping on Molly and Nick. The entire middle row was gawking in their direction as Molly’s gesticulations grew larger and more erratic. She seemed agitated, and now she tore at her seatbelt.

  “What’s the matter, Mol? Molly? What is it?”

  She was shaking her head back and forth, tearing at her throat.

  He grabbed the backpack next to him, tugging at the zipper as it stuck halfway down. He retrieved what I assumed was an EpiPen, a little needle that looked like a child-size marker with a lid he had no trouble removing. The lid dropped to the floor as he stabbed the pen into her thigh with a force that made me jump. She slumped over, and he cried for help. Before the flight attendant could repeat the plea for a doctor, Dr. Judith Spade, our resident physician, was out of her seat examining Molly. The plane grew silent as we all watched in horror, waiting for Molly to regain consciousness.

  She never did. Judith shook her head. The pretty Molly Jaspers was dead.

  Chapter Five

  For someone like myself who suffers from a fear of flying, the disaster was twofold. One, Molly Jaspers was dead, which meant I’d never fly again without recalling this scene. Two, her death popped my false, alcohol-induced bubble of tranquility. I sat paralyzed with dread as the stewardesses huddled in the corner, one talking to the medical hotline and the other to the pilots. After the pilots and airlines reached a decision as to what should be done, the stewardesses moved Molly smoothly, as if relocating her to another seat. But we knew the truth. Molly wasn’t relocating to another seat. She had been pronounced dead by Dr. Judith Spade, and her body was being stored out of sight of the other passengers to minimize the chance of pandemonium on the flight. Bennett Jaspers was already out of his mind. His head in his lap, he pulled at his hair, mumbling loud enough for me to hear.

  “You, you… damn you. I told them. No peanuts. No peanuts.” He shook his head back and forth, moaning. “You heard me, didn’t you? They wouldn’t listen.”

  Nick tried to calm him with a hand on his shoulder, but Bennett jerked away. “Don’t touch me.”

  Nick sat back in his seat, his face sullen and white. I wondered if he was in any danger, sitting next to a man half-crazed with grief. The stewardess must have wondered the same thing, for a large man dressed in plainclothes followed her down the aisle at double-quick speed. She politely asked Nick to relocate to another seat a few rows behind ours. The plainclothes air marshal, identifiable by his muscular build and perfect crew cut, took Nick’s place as Bennett stared in surprise. I was a little surprised, too. Although I knew air marshals existed, I didn’t think our flight had a threat level that warranted their use. Perhaps it was because of our destination and the recent violence there.

  “What is this? Could someone please explain? You kill my wife, and I’m the danger to the airplane? Does that make sense to anyone?” Bennett looked toward us, but nobody said anything. We didn’t dare.

  “Just here for support, sir. Just want to keep everyone safe,” said the marshal.

  “It’s a little late for that,” Bennett said, seething.

  The plane began to tilt toward the left, and a moment later the captain’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “Hi, folks, you’ve probably noticed we’ve begun to turn around. We’ve decided to return to Minneapolis International Airport for a passenger emergency. If you just hang tight, we’ll be on the ground shortly. We can’t land on a full tank of fuel, so we’ll be circling the area a few times as we drain the tank. Thanks for your patience. We’ll have more information for you real soon.”

  The passengers in the front of the plane groaned in unison; they had no idea what had taken place. Even those of us in the know were disappointed by the captain’s words. André appeared crestfallen, as did our entire row. Olivia and Meg looked as if they might cry, and honestly, I could have joined them. Molly Jaspers’ death was not just sad, it was tragic, even if we did not know her well. But we had wrongly assumed that our flight would continue. Now we understood that it would soon be grounded.

  After we landed, we sat on the runway for what seemed like forever. It was nearing dinnertime, and I was ravenous. Plus I had a mild hangover that required a cup of coffee. Eventually, a stewardess’s voice came over the loudspeaker.

  “Skyway Airlines wants to thank you again for your patience and let you know that the Minneapolis Police Department will be boarding the plane momentarily. They would appreciate your continued cooperation as they deal with the unexpected emergency on board. When we are cleared to leave the plane, officers will need to ask you some brief questions. If you would please stay in your seats, we will be around with coffee and water while the emergency is dealt with. If you need to use the restrooms, you may do so at this time.”

  André and I looked at each other.

  “Well, at least you’ll have your coffee,” he said.

  “Yes, that will help,” I said.

  “Why are the police getting on the plane?” This question came from Kat. Her friend Amanda shed silent tears, which dripped into her lap. She and Molly Jaspers had obviously been close.

  I shook my head. “I think it is protocol when a person… expires on a plane.”

  “They’re taking away the dead body? Gross,” said Olivia, who stood next to our row.

  Amanda glared at her, eyes narrowed.

  “I’m sure they will wait until everybody has disembarked,” I said, trying to defuse the tension.

  “What of these questions?” asked André.

  I had been wondering the same thing. Growing claustrophobic, I welcomed interrogation over detainment; stil
l, I suspected the police would be disappointed with our answers. I, for one, had been deep in conversation with André when I noticed the disturbance. I had no idea what had transpired in the minutes before Molly’s death.

  “Yes, coffee here, please,” I said to the attendant with the coffee pot and Styrofoam cups. She filled a cup, which she handed to me. I blew on it then drank. I could feel the brew awaking the senses I had deadened with alcohol, the plane becoming not just a mode of transportation but the site of a mysterious death.

  I cast new eyes upon the passengers. Everybody was offered a bag of peanuts, everybody had access to the very thing that was lethal to Molly Jaspers, and everybody was mobile once the plane took flight. She could have come in contact with a peanut any number of ways. Despite the various scenarios running amuck in my head, I told myself her death was an accident. She was a respected professor with an adoring husband and a well-formed plan to save the Great Plains one soybean field at a time. She was just the kind of passionate person you expected to see at a university. Why would anyone want her dead?

  “I see the potion is working its magic in you,” said André. He swirled his hand above his head. “Your brain spins this way and that. Have you devised a way to commandeer another plane to Paris?”

  I smiled. Paris was the furthest thing from my mind, but to say so would break his heart. “Surely there must be another flight. We might be able to move forward with our plans.”

  “Do you think?” asked Kat. Her expression was hopeful. I didn’t realize she was still listening to our conversation.

  “It’s possible,” I said, though I highly doubted we would be flying again any time soon.

  “Professor Prather investigates every possibility. If there is a way to Paris, she will find one,” André said to Kat. “She is a very keen researcher.”

  I wished André hadn’t pinned Kat’s hopes on me. “Of course we will look into it. André’s put too much work into this trip for it not to happen.”

  A man in a white shirt and gray blazer appeared from the server’s station with a second man close behind. Standing so near, he could have been the older man’s shadow. He wore a similar gray blazer and pants. Only his mop of curly hair separated him from the distinguished gentleman in front of him. That, and the large ketchup stain on his shirt. Granted, I was no fashionista, but I owned a stain stick and knew how to use it.

  Both men were good-sized, yet while the first man stood tall and straight, the second hunched slightly, making his shoulders appear round and soft. It also made his jacket look a little too big. He fumbled with his inside pocket, pulling out a spiral notepad that had seen better days. It had maybe five sheets of paper left, and I wondered if I couldn’t give him one of my notebooks. I had three in my tote bag.

  The first man said something to the stewardess, and she nodded, motioning in the direction of Bennett Jaspers. Both men walked quickly toward him, and the air marshal stood and greeted them. Then he walked toward the serving station, where he looked on with a cup of coffee.

  “Bennett Jaspers?” said the first officer, sticking out his hand. “I’m Detective Jack Wood, and this is my partner, Detective Ernest Jones, with the Minneapolis Police Department.”

  Ernest stuck out his hand as well. “You can call me Ernie.”

  Bennett shook their hands vigorously. “I’m sure glad to see you gentlemen. I want to file charges immediately against the airlines for what’s happened here. My wife went into anaphylactic shock after….” He broke off, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I’m sure you’ve been briefed on the situation.”

  “Yes, we have,” said Jack, “and let me first say we are very sorry for your loss. We understand you’ve been married for some time.”

  “Ten years,” answered Bennett.

  “When exactly did the attack begin?” asked Jack. Ernest took out a pencil from his jacket pocket.

  “It all started when the attendant brought around the snack cart. I saw that she was handing out peanuts and asked her to stop. See, I contacted the airlines some time ago, and they promised me that this would be a peanut-free flight because of Molly’s severe allergy. Obviously, my request got lost somewhere in the paperwork because the attendant was not cognizant of my request.”

  “Did anybody in your row take the peanuts?” asked Ernest.

  Bennett shook his head. “Nick and I did not, but who knows what everyone else took.”

  He pointed in the direction of the middle row, and we stared into our laps. I mentally searched for the peanut wrapper in my seat, hoping I had thrown it away with my cocktail glass.

  “As far as you know, did Molly come in contact with a peanut?” asked Jack.

  Bennett scowled. “Well, she must have. She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  “What I mean is,” restated Jack, “did she eat anything while on board the plane?”

  “I don’t know. She had her snack here.” He reached between his knees and pulled a small Tupperware container out of a carry-on. “But she made this herself. She makes… made everything herself. Even the smell of peanuts could make her throw up. That’s why I was so upset when I saw the peanuts. The stewardess didn’t understand the extent of Molly’s allergy.”

  Ernest pulled out an evidence bag from his jacket pocket. It was in about the same shape as his notebook, and it took him several tries to get it unfolded. “I’ll need to take that for further examination, sir.”

  “Of course,” said Bennett, handing him the container.

  “Was Molly in possession of this container at all times?” asked Jack.

  Bennett nodded. “Yes.” Then he frowned. “Well, I believe she was…. It was in her luggage here.”

  “Did anyone else have access to her luggage?” asked Jack. Ernest stood poised with his notebook, but I didn’t know how he could write anything with the Tupperware container under his arm.

  Bennett grew flustered. “I suppose… everyone in these two rows.” He pointed again in our direction. “We were all traveling to Paris as part of a group from a university.”

  The two detectives turned their attention toward us. “Are you French?” asked Ernest.

  “Yes, certainly,” answered André, taken aback by the odd question.

  Ernest wrote something in his notebook, using Molly’s Tupperware container as a makeshift table.

  “Is that a crime?” asked André.

  By the color of his face, I knew he was tensing up. I decided to intervene on his behalf.

  “Professor Duman and I are taking students and faculty abroad over spring break. We’re part of a scholarly expedition, Ernie.” The nickname sounded so wrong coming out of my mouth that it startled even Ernest’s colleague.

  “Would those traveling in the study group please raise their hands?” asked Jack. Everyone complied, and he counted our number in his head. Now he spoke in a louder voice to the middle of the plane.

  “Listen up, folks. My partner and I will be leading this section of the plane to police operations. At this time, feel free to find your carry-on luggage and line up single file near the bathroom here. I will lead the line, and my partner, Mr. Jones, will bring up the rear. Please do not leave the line at any time. I can assure you that police operations will have everything you need to be comfortable.”

  His announcement was followed by bins opening, purses zipping, and feet shuffling. I gathered my tote and placed it on my lap, waiting patiently for the rest of my row to retrieve their belongings. We scooted out of our row when room became available, inching near the front of the plane as the first-class passengers filed out.

  When we entered the jet bridge, I realized the enormity of the police officers’ task. Besides the airport police, at least two dozen or more MPD officers were helping to disembark the jumbo jet. Jack Wood waited for Ernest’s signal before our group began to make its way through the airport toward police operations. The rest of the passengers were being moved in a different direction by officers from various precincts who’
d been called in to assist with the emergency.

  Considering the size of the airport, I assumed we would have a long walk, but airport police was quite close. The pilot must have been instructed to take the gate nearest security, and good thing, too, because the twelve of us were causing quite a commotion among other fliers. Adults stared, visibly worried, while moms and dads clasped their children’s hands tightly as we walked past several small newsstands and a large brew pub. Then we walked down the stairs toward baggage claim and around the corner, where a young, kind-looking female officer sat at a small glass window marked POLICE. The officer immediately stood to open the industrial door, and she and Jack Wood exchanged a few words before the rest of us entered. The hallway was narrow, and our group filled the entire space between it and the small conference room. As we filed into the tiny room, folding chairs were brought in to accommodate the group, who had to sit very close to one another to fit around the oval table.

  “If I can have your attention again…” said Jack Wood. He had barely raised his voice, but the room went quiet. “Thank you. We’re going to get started right away with our questions. My partner and I will be calling you in one by one to get your statement and pertinent information. If the rest of you need something to drink or eat, or to use the restroom, just let the officer know.” He pointed to the woman who had opened the door for us. “Officer Anderson will be happy to assist you. Mr. Jaspers? Come with me, sir.”

  Bennett Jaspers, Jack Wood, and Ernest Jones walked out of the room.

  “Poor Bennett,” I said, placing my tote bag on the table in front of me.

  “What are we going to do, Em?” asked André. He was seated right next to me. “There is no way we will depart tonight.”

  “I agree. We’ll have to find a place for the group to stay.”

  André winced at my confirmation.

  “But don’t worry,” I continued, “I’ve stayed in Minneapolis a few times. I’ll try to find a hotel with an airport shuttle.” I asked Officer Anderson, who was stationed with us, if it would be okay to use our phones. She said it was no problem, so I began to search the Internet for availability at some of the larger hotel chains.