Coffee, Tea, or Murder? (19 page)

I listened patiently to Jed’s rant. I’d heard it many times before. I tended to agree with him, although I knew many people who would argue with his support of airline regulation.

I got him back on track. “Tell me more about Captain Caine’s confrontation with this passenger.”

“Right. This passenger evidently said some things to Caine that he didn’t like and poked him in the chest to emphasize his point. Caine hauled off and punched the guy, which led to a civil suit against Caine and the airline. It was settled out of court, the terms sealed. But Caine lost his job over it.”

“And ended up being hired by Wayne for SilverAir,” I said.

“Right. Like I say, he’s a good pilot, fully qualified on the 767. Just don’t say anything to set him off.” He laughed. “With the number of qualified pilots having been laid off, I’m surprised that Wayne chose Caine, considering his temperament.”

“I suppose anyone can lose his cool under the right circumstances,” I said in Caine’s defense.

“Not when you’re wearing four stripes on your uniform sleeve and working for a major airline. Anyway, speaking of qualifications, the first officer, Carl Scherer, is an enigma.”

“How so?”

“How he got to ride the right seat in an aircraft like the 767. One minute he’s flying small regional jets; the next thing you know he’s 767-qualified.”

“Are you saying that he’s not certified to fly that aircraft?”

Jed shook his head and sipped his drink. “Oh, no, Jessica, he’s FAA-certified all right. It’s just that Wayne put him on the fast track to certification, plucked him from his job at the regional, paid for accelerated simulator and flight training in the 767, and got him certified in time for SilverAir going into service. Again, with lots of veteran 767 pilots laid off, you have to wonder why Wayne wanted Scherer so badly.”

“We’ll never get to ask him,” I said.

“Afraid not. Well,” Jed said, finishing his drink, “I’d better go check on Barbara, see if she’s back yet and hasn’t broken the bank. See you at seven.”

It seemed that everyone I spoke to fueled the fires of speculation surrounding Wayne Silverton’s murder. There was plenty of raw material to ponder. The problem was linking it up, finding correlations between this nugget of information and the next. Did the backgrounds of the cockpit crew, Captain Caine and First Officer Scherer, mean anything in the larger picture? As hard as I tried, I couldn’t make the connection. I thought of the first officer’s wife, Betsy Scherer, one of SilverAir’s flight attendants who’d served us on the trip to London. I’d meant to ask Jed if it was unusual for an airline to hire a husband and wife, and particularly to have them work the same flight. My conclusion was that because SilverAir was a small airline, it could do what the larger carriers wouldn’t do, especially when a single individual like Wayne seemed to be calling all the shots.

Time to add to my written list in the hope that seeing things on paper would help clarify my thinking.

After packing my bag for the trip home, I did just that: sat at the desk in my suite and added to my notes. As I filled the pages, my mind filled even faster. I stared at what I’d written and thought of the wonderful writer, Kurt Vonnegut, who once said that he considered it somewhat silly to make a living putting little black marks on paper. While he was obviously being facetious, all those little black marks on my lined, yellow legal pad added up to nothing helpful.

I dropped my pen on the desk, sat back, exhaled a stream of frustration, and tried to will some sense into what I knew, and what I’d committed to writing. Wayne was murdered for one of two reasons (or possibly a combination of both):

Money.

Passion.

I’d eliminated most people in our entourage as suspects because they were not known to have a personal connection with Wayne, or a business/ working relationship.

Christine Silverton
(Victim’s wife. Husband was a womanizer. Possible heiress to the airline.)

Churlson Vicks
(British partner in airline. Unsavory reputation. Angry that victim brought in Casale as a partner.)

Salvatore Casale
(Partner in airline, reputed to have mob connections. Henchmen in London at time of murder.)

Capt. Bill Caine
(Known to have temper. Scornful of victim’s position as airline’s founder. Obvious romantic relationship with flight attendant Gina Molnari.)

Gina Molnari
(Flight attendant. Caine’s lover? Made snide remarks about Christine Silverton. Suicide attempt with Christine’s sleeping pills. Could there have been a romantic link to victim?)

First Officer Carl Scherer
(Victim put him on fast-track to fly 767. Why? Had easy access to Caine’s knife.)

Betsy Scherer
(Flight attendant married to Scherer. Possible link to victim? Learn more.)

John Slater
(Male flight attendant. What was his relationship to Wayne? No reason to suspect him. More to learn.)

Jason Silverton
(Latest entry on list. No love for victim, or stepmother, Christine. Claims he now owns part of airline. Criminal record. Was he at the airport that night?)

I’d obviously discounted an act of random violence, committed by someone totally unrelated to the victim. There was no evidence of robbery. Had Wayne insulted someone at Stansted Airport, so much so that it prompted the man or woman to kill? Unlikely. Besides, how would someone like that find and use Captain Caine’s knife?

No, it had to be one of the people on my list of primary suspects.

I called George.

“Sorry to bother you,” I said, “but I have a question. Has anything new developed with those two men detained at Heathrow, the ones allegedly associated with Mr. Casale?”

“Your timing is good, Jessica. I just received a synopsis of their interrogation. They admit to having been at Stansted Airport the night of the murder, but claim they went there to catch a flight to Paris. My people checked out their story and it has, at least, some credence. There was a flight leaving for Paris that they tried to get on. It was full, and they were on a standby basis. As it turned out, they never made that flight and went directly to Heathrow to try their chances there.”

“But they
were
at Stansted.”

“Yes. The question is: How would they have gotten hold of the captain’s knife?”

“Mr. Casale. He had access to Caine’s bag. He could have given it to these men with the intention of framing the captain.”

“Perhaps.”

“It doesn’t hold up well, does it?” I said. “I’m grasping at straws. The usual modus operandi of men like them would have involved a gun, wouldn’t it?”

“Without a doubt, but getting a gun through airport security is a little more difficult these days, at least that’s the general idea,” he said, chuckling.

“How are your preparations for leaving coming?”

“Fine, just fine, although I’m afraid I’ve made some of my mates here jealous, getting a free transatlantic flight to the States on a spanking new airline. I’ll have to bring back gifts.”

“Hopefully including the murderer all nicely packaged with a big bow.”

“I like that visual, Jessica. My superiors aren’t especially happy about the plane being allowed to leave. They’ve suggested it be impounded until the murderer is identified and taken into custody.”

“But they relented.”

“It was pointed out to them that we can’t very well detain more than a hundred American citizens, many of them from the press and local governments, without more justification. Seems a judge substantiated that position when the higher-ups petitioned the court to delay the departure.”

“Sounds like a wise decision.”

“I think so. Don’t hesitate to call. See you in a bit.”

I checked my watch. I’d agreed to meet my Cabot Cove traveling companions in the main dining room for dinner at five thirty, and it was almost that now. I picked up my handbag, opened the door, and gasped. Standing before me was Churlson Vicks, his fist poised to knock.

“You startled me, Mr. Vicks. I was just leaving and—”

“I know this is an unwanted intrusion, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said pressing me back into the room, “and I apologize profusely for it. But I must have a word with you. I promise not to take up too much of your time.”

“I’m meeting people for dinner, Mr. Vicks.”

“I’ll get right to the point,” he said. “You’re aware, of course, of the sudden and distinctly unwelcome emergence of the young Mr. Silverton.”

“Yes, I am.”

“I believe I indicated to you earlier that it is not in his best interests to make his outrageous—ludicrous, actually—claim that he owns a stake in SilverAir based upon an ancient letter from his father.”

I nodded, remembering the brief exchange we’d had.

“I come to you because, quite frankly, you seem to be the only one in this group with any common sense.”

“I don’t know why you would say that, Mr. Vicks. You don’t know me. But go on.”

“You must dissuade Christine and this young punk from pushing forward their claim that SilverAir is now in their control.”

“Just a second,” I said, holding up a hand for emphasis. “First of all, you say it’s
their
claim. I hardly think Christine and Jason would work in concert.”

“Mrs. Fletcher, when the ownership of an airline is at stake, stranger bedfellows than those two have gotten together beneath the sheets.” He came forward, his voice becoming more urgent, although I wasn’t sure it was genuine. “I reiterate, Mrs. Fletcher, that Salvatore is not a man who takes such things lightly.”

“You’re saying that the lives of Christine and her stepson are in danger?”

“It’s a distinct possibility. I am not threatening that, you understand, but there are others whose actions I do not control.”

“And what is it you want from me?”

“Talk to Christine, Mrs. Fletcher. She’ll listen to you. Make her realize that she is courting terrible trouble if she continues this unreasonable quest to take over the airline. Show her that this stepson of hers is a low-life hustler, a con man of the first order. I had my people check his police record. He’s been arrested a dozen times.”

“Six, I believe.”

He looked momentarily surprised. “Yes, perhaps I exaggerate. But six or twelve, he’s a common criminal. No good can come from her tossing in with him. Don’t you see?”

“I must admit, Mr. Vicks, that I’m having a problem at this moment giving what you claim a great deal of credibility. Are you sure you aren’t asking me to intercede in some way with Christine to benefit you and Mr. Casale financially, to get her to back off on her pursuit of her husband’s ownership share in the airline?”

How could you possibly think that of me?
his expression said.

I walked to the door and opened it. “I really must go, Mr. Vicks. I’m afraid I can’t be of any help in this matter. My major concern is not who owns SilverAir. It’s who murdered Wayne Silverton.”

He nodded, walked into the hall, turned and said, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Mrs. Fletcher. If something should happen to Christine, it will be on your conscience. As for her stepson, no one’s conscience should be bothered if he meets a tragic end. Good evening.”

V
icks’s ominous warning lingered in the air after the door was closed.

Was there any substance to his claim that the lives of Christine and Jason Silverton were in danger from Salvatore Casale? I doubted it. It was evident from what the Englishman had said that he and Casale, fighting for control of SilverAir, were looking for allies. Why me? I had no vested interest in the disposition of the airline, nor did I have influence over Christine. As for Jason, whether or not he ended up owning a piece of the company started by his father was of no concern to me. That would be resolved through appropriate legal channels.

But I wasn’t about to summarily dismiss Vicks’s warning of possible physical harm coming to them. If there was any validity to Casale’s reputation as a mafioso—and if he’d had a hand in Wayne’s murder—it was possible that he wouldn’t hesitate to use strong-arm tactics to get his way in a potentially lucrative business deal, which SilverAir obviously represented.

My concerns were primarily about Christine. Her behavior since Wayne’s death had been off-putting, but that didn’t lessen my compassion for her. That she was under a lot of pressure went without saying. I just hoped that the impact of losing her husband hadn’t clouded her judgment when it came to pursuing her legal rights to the airline.

Jason was another matter. I’d found his brash manner and arrogant disregard for the fact that his father had been murdered to be distasteful, at best. But I also realized that although he was not a simpatico young man, his childhood—at least the little I’d learned about it—had not been what you’d call nurturing and loving. I wasn’t making excuses for him. Millions of kids emerge from less than ideal childhoods and go on to become responsible, sensitive, caring adults. But if Vicks was right—and I had to give his claims some weight—Jason’s life could be in danger, along with that of his stepmother.

I didn’t have time to chew on it for very long because I was due downstairs for dinner and was already late (so much for my reputation of always being on time). I joined my friends in the River Restaurant, a large, magnificent dining room decorated in soft salmon and peach colors, with large windows affording a view of the Thames through the trees. I’d enjoyed many meals in that lovely setting, going back to when Frank and I had honeymooned at the Savoy.

On one trip to London after Frank had died, I was there over the Thanksgiving holiday. The British, of course, don’t celebrate our Thanksgiving, and I found myself yearning for a touch of that most traditional of American holidays. The concierge at the hotel in which I was staying suggested the River Restaurant at the Savoy. “They serve your traditional Thanksgiving menu, I believe, madam,” he said. He was right. The restaurant was filled with like-minded Americans enjoying turkey carved at tableside and all the trimmings. It was a dinner I’ve never forgotten, a hundred American strangers gathered together like one big family.