Coffee, Tea, or Murder? (14 page)

“That’s an understatement.”

I hesitated before saying, “Do you think one of his partners killed him?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me at this point.”

“Which one?”

“Which one wanted to kill him? I have no idea. Maybe all of them.”

The waiter poured a second cup of tea, and I used the interruption to collect my thoughts. “As long as we’re sitting here, Christine, would you mind if I asked you something? I have a couple of questions.”

“I thought your handsome Scotland Yard inspector would be the one asking questions, Jessica. I’m seeing him at three.”

“I know, but you could help me put to rest a few things that have been on my mind.”

She made an overt act of checking her watch. “Go ahead, but make it fast.”

“I don’t know if you’ve been told about Ms. Molnari’s suicide attempt.”

She guffawed. “From what I heard, it was a pathetic attempt to get attention and sympathy.”

“That may be,” I said. “But aside from her motives, the sleeping pills she took were a prescription.”

“And?”

“They were your sleeping pills, Christine. Your name was on the label on the bottle.”

“Mine? That’s absurd!”

“I saw it myself,” I said. “I thought perhaps that’s why you couldn’t get much sleep with your pills missing.”

She didn’t respond, but took a sip of her tea.

“How do you suppose she came to have them?” I said.

“I haven’t the slightest idea. What other question did you have?”

“I’m sorry to raise this topic, especially at this time, but last night you mentioned that Wayne was not a faithful husband. Did his infidelities involve Ms. Molnari, or anyone else on the flight?”

“I think you’ve just stepped over the line, Jessica. Wayne’s private life, and mine, shall remain just that—private.”

“And I respect that,” I said. “But indulge me one favor, Christine. Check your belongings to see whether any prescription pills you might have traveled with are still in your possession.”

She smiled. “If it will make you happy.”

“It will,” I said, returning the smile.

“I have to go,” she said. “Thanks for the tea and the break, and for helping me calm down a little. I think I’ll get a breath of fresh air.”

“I’ll leave with you,” I said, signing for our refreshments. “I need a walk and some fresh air, too.”

We went outside together where the usual hectic activity was taking place, cars coming and going, people waiting for the valets to bring their vehicles, luggage being loaded on trolleys for delivery to guest rooms, the doormen chatting with hotel guests, giving directions, and greeting new arrivals. It was a lovely day in London, crisp and clear, the sky above a cobalt blue. I drew in a deep breath and held it for as long as I could.

Christine looked up at the sky regretfully. “I’d better get back inside to meet with the vipers again.”

“I don’t envy you that,” I said.

“Take your walk, Jessica, and I—oh, my God.”

A voice called out to her. We looked in the direction from which it had come and I saw a tall, lanky young man approaching. He wore a black leather jacket over a black T-shirt, jeans, and black sneakers. His dark hair was cut short, almost a buzz cut. He was swarthy, his facial features finely crafted.

“Oh, no,” Christine whispered.

“Hello, hello, hello, Christine,” he said when he reached us. “You look surprised to see me.”

I looked at Christine for an answer to who he was.

“It would be polite, Christine, to introduce me to your friend.”

“Why are you here, Jason?” Christine asked.

“Why, to see you, of course. I heard what happened to Dad.” He grimaced. “What a terrible way to go.” He turned to me. “Since my stepmother won’t introduce us, I’ll do the honors. I’m Jason Silverton. And you are?”

“Jessica Fletcher,” I said, accepting his outstretched hand.

“The writer!” To Christine: “You’re moving in better circles these days.”

Christine’s face was as hard as stone. “Why are you here?” she asked more strongly this time.

He flashed a wide smile, cocked his head, and answered, “Now that I own an airline, I thought I’d better show up. The first step toward success, as Woody Allen once said, is showing up. Well, Christine, dearest, here I am.”

W
e’ve all seen photographs of actors or actresses portraying a range of emotions—grief, anger, sadness, and joy. But no actor or actress could possibly exhibit
shock
as effectively as Christine Silverton did at that moment. Her mouth was slightly open, her eyes wide, her brow creased. She stared at Jason, seemingly wanting to say something but incapable of uttering the words.

“I know you’re surprised to see me, Christine,” Jason said, “but I did expect a warmer greeting after all these years.”

“You?” she managed. “You own an airline?”

“That’s probably the biggest surprise of all,” he said.

Someone leaned on a car horn, causing Jason to wince.

“Let’s go inside where it’s quieter,” he suggested.

“I—” Christine struggled to express her thoughts at the moment, but failed. She swirled away from us and entered the hotel, leaving me alone with this young man who claimed to be her stepson.

“Tsk. Tsk. No ‘How are you?’ No ‘So sorry about your dad.’ Not even a ‘Would you like some tea, Jason?’ Not exactly a warm welcome, is it?”

“I am very sorry about your father,” I said. “It must have been a terrible shock for you.”

“Just terrible,” he said, but his tone was sarcastic. “A cup of coffee, Mrs. Fletcher?” He cocked his head. “Or maybe tea. We are, after all, in jolly old England. Frankly, I’ve never gotten into the tea habit since moving here. A cup of strong, black coffee is more to my liking. But I understand if—”

“Your sudden arrival has obviously upset your stepmother,” I said, “and she’s had her share of upsets lately.”

“Of course,” he said, “the grieving widow and all that sort of thing. She’s good at playing roles. That’s how she trapped my father.”

“I think I would like a cup of tea,” I said, “and you can have your coffee.”

“Wonderful! I didn’t come here expecting to enjoy the company of a world famous writer. Murder mysteries, aren’t they? I’m not much into murder mysteries—science fiction is more my thing—but maybe you can convert me.”

A doorman held open a door for me. I was halfway through when I turned and said to the smug young man who hadn’t moved, “Coming?”

He followed me inside, and we went to the same table I’d earlier shared with Christine. Without a change of expression, the same waiter took our orders. We sat across from each other, saying nothing but harboring a multitude of thoughts.

“So,” Jason said, breaking the silence, “I take it you didn’t know that I even exist.”

“That’s correct,” I said, “although there really isn’t a reason for me to know. I knew your father had gotten married, but we really didn’t keep up with each other socially. And I’m not that close to your stepmother—she
is
your stepmother?”

“She married my father. I believe that makes her my stepmother. Why would I lie about something like that?” he said. “Besides, you saw her reaction at seeing me. Total recognition.”

“Not happy recognition, either, I’d say.”

He gave a little snort. “Christine and I have never gotten along. I suppose she had reason not to like me. I saw through her the first time Dad introduced us.” He lowered his voice and pretended to be his father: “Jason, I want you to meet the woman I love and who will be my wife.” His laugh was almost a giggle. “ ‘She’s a gold digger,’ I told him. I’ll never forget the expression on her face at that moment. She knew, absolutely knew, that I wasn’t someone she could con. Ever have that experience, Mrs. Fletcher? You’re talking to somebody, and you get a feeling they’re a complete phony. And they know you aren’t buying their act.”

I simply nodded.

Our cups were placed on the table. Jason picked up his, extended it to me in what passed as a toast, and said, “Here’s to literature.” He took a sip. “And to the airline business.”

I didn’t raise my cup. I left it in its saucer and said, “You live here in London?”

He nodded. “Came here about eight years ago.”

“To do what?”

A shrug accompanied his response. “To see what it was like. My mother was British.”

“Oh? She was your father’s first wife?”

“Actually, she was his second. He was married before that, but not for long. I think it lasted less than a year.”

“They must have been very young.”

“Yeah, they were.” He drank a long sip. “They make good coffee here.”

“They were divorced?”

“I guess so. I really don’t know. You could never get a straight answer from my father.”

“I never knew your mother,” I said. “Wayne had left Cabot Cove, and nobody heard from him for a long time. I think perhaps that was when he was in Las Vegas.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s where he was.”

“You didn’t communicate?”

“No. Daddy was too busy making deals to keep in touch with me.”

“Are you his only child?”

“That’s me. His only heir.”

Sitting there with this young man I’d just met had a surrealistic quality to it. As he relaxed, he became talkative. We chatted as though we were old friends who hadn’t seen each other in a long time and were catching up on lost years. Yet he was someone who’d suddenly been reinjected into his stepmother’s life in a decidedly unpleasant way. He was not fond of Christine—that was easy to see—and his tone said loud and clear that he wasn’t a fan of his deceased father, either. He was willing to linger with me over a cup of coffee and happily answer my questions, none of which I had the right to ask. But as long as he was willing, I intended to keep posing them. I was naturally curious about him, of course. But significantly more important was that by showing up, he’d included himself in the mix of possible suspects.

“Do you have a relationship with your mother?” I asked.

“That’d be tough to do,” he said. “She’s dead.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Yeah, she was murdered.”

He said it so flatly, so without affect, that I was stunned.

“Did they apprehend her murderer?” I asked.

“The police? No. But somebody did.”

“Who is that?”

“Whoever killed my father.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting, Mrs. Fletcher, that justice was finally done,” he said. “My father killed my mother, and somebody killed him. Case closed.”

He’d said it with finality and force, and had leaned closer from the other side of the table to lock eyes with me, daring me to react. I met his stare. “That’s a serious crime to accuse your father of,” I said. “Do you have proof to back up your allegation? Or is this just a
feeling
you have?”

“Of course I don’t have proof,” he said. “If I did, he would be alive today, wouldn’t he? Alive and rotting away in a jail cell.” Jason sat back and crossed his long legs, a satisfied smile on his face. “I don’t care whether you, or anyone else, believe me. I know it’s true, and that’s good enough for me.”

“Did you ever confront your father about it?” I asked, now anxious to learn everything I could from him.

“Sure. That’s when we parted company. He told me that he never again wanted to see a son who’d think such a thing.” He guffawed. “Some defense, huh? He never flat-out denied it, never took the time or made the effort to prove to me that I was wrong. Just go away, was his message. He was a fraud, Mrs. Fletcher, and if you’re looking for a sign from me that I’m sad that he was murdered, you’re wasting your time.”

“I don’t expect anything from you, Jason. I’ve just met you. You’re the one who’s chosen to share your accusation with me.” I waved off the waiter when he lifted the teapot to pour me another cup. “I assume you’ve seen the reports on television about your father’s murder.”

“And read the morning papers. That’s how I know I’ve become the owner of SilverAir. By the way, your picture looked good on the ‘telly,’ as the Brits call it. They have a silly name for everything.”

“I imagine the question of ownership of your father’s airline will be resolved by lawyers, Jason. I assume you have some legal proof to back up your claim.”

He patted the breast pocket of his leather jacket. “Right here,” he said.

When he didn’t offer more information, I asked, “What is it?”

“You ask a lot of questions, don’t you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“You offer a lot of information, Jason.”

He acknowledged my comment with a smirk. “And you like that.”

“I find your sudden arrival interesting, that’s all,” I said, “particularly since it coincides with your father’s murder.”

He pulled his head back, his expression exaggerated shock. “Maybe I killed the old man. Is that what you’re thinking?”

“Did you?”

“You’ve read too many of your own murder mysteries, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Did you?” I repeated. “Kill your father? It certainly sounds as though you had a motive.”

“Dream on, Mrs. Fletcher. I’d better get to my meeting.”

“About the airline?”

“Right on. This was nice.” He stood. “Thanks for the coffee. Oh, and good luck solving Daddy’s murder. They mentioned on the telly that you arrived at the scene with Scotland Yard. If nothing else, maybe you’ll have a plot for your next book. Hope you don’t mind my leaving you with the check. Don’t have much pocket change at the moment. But that’s bound to change, dontcha think? Cheerio, as the Limeys say. Don’t forget your brolly if it rains.”

He started to walk away, stopped, turned, and said, “And if you need a ladies’ room, the loos are over there by the coat check.”