Coffee, Tea, or Murder? (7 page)

“Would you like me to order something up from room service?” I asked softly so as not to startle her.

She turned. “Thank you, Jessica. Yes, I would like something. I haven’t eaten.”

“We had quite a big meal on the flight,” I said as I sat at a desk and found the room service menu. “Something simple?”

“Just tea,” she said. “Maybe some toast, or a scone.”

I placed the order. Christine sat on the couch, her long legs crossed, her foot bouncing up and down. She wore the same stylish, tailored blue pantsuit she had during the flight.

“How did you happen to go to the airport, Jessica?” she asked.

“I was having a drink downstairs in the American Bar with Inspector Sutherland—he’s an old friend I haven’t seen in a while—when he received a call that there had been a murder at the airport. I went with him.”

“You saw Wayne?”

“Yes.”

“I’m surprised that someone like you, a civilian, was allowed such access,” she said.

“As I said, I was with the inspector. Christine, do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill Wayne?”

“Would you like a list?” she replied. “I can write one out for you.”

I said nothing.

“Surprised?” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “You’re saying he had many enemies?”

“Many, and if you’re compiling a list of suspects, include me on it.”

My initial reaction was to call Seth and have him come to the suite. Had the shock now worn off and she was about to have a breakdown?

“Don’t take me literally,” she said. “I didn’t really want Wayne dead, although there have been times when the thought was appealing.”

“I thought—I assumed you and Wayne were happy together,” I said. “You have so much in common with your aviation backgrounds, and now this exciting new venture.”

“Unfortunately, Wayne’s ‘aviation background’ includes too much time spent with attractive flight attendants.”

I thought of the ravishing Gina Molnari.

Christine slowly shook her head. “Remember the book back in the sixties,
Coffee, Tea or Me?
” she asked.

“Of course,” I said. “I read it like millions of others did. It was—funny.”

“Those were the high-flying days of air travel, Jessica. It was so glamorous back then to be a stewardess, winging around the globe with planes full of happy, successful people, everyone in a good mood, the service wonderful, the crews tight-knit. We were all one big happy family. Of course, that book played up the sexual exploits of stewardesses.”

“Yes, I recall that, although it was tame by today’s standards.”

“I suppose it was. Wayne was very much a part of that era.”

“But that was then,” I said, “before he met you.”

“He didn’t change, Jessica. There was always another woman in the wings, always someone younger and more beautiful. I’m sure you’ve noticed what an attractive man Wayne is. Or was.”

I was gripped with mixed emotions. If venting this way would help her overcome the shock of learning that her husband had been murdered, I was willing to be a sounding board. At the same time, I was growing increasingly uncomfortable being privy to such intimate thoughts from a woman whom I knew, but not well.

“I shouldn’t be going on like this,” she said, and forced a laugh. “If being married to a philandering husband is motive for murder, you can put me at the top of your list.” She stood. “I appreciate you being here, Jessica, but I’m suddenly exhausted. And I need to make some phone calls before I go to bed. I’m sure tomorrow will be anything but pleasant.”

“Of course,” I said as someone knocked on the door. “Must be room service.”

“Tell them to go away,” Christine said. “Have it delivered to your room.”

“All right,” I said. “You’re sure there’s nothing I can do, nothing I can get you?”

“Positive. Thanks. Good night.”

I stepped into the hallway where a bellman in a starched white jacket stood by an elaborately set rolling service cart. “Sorry,” I said, “but there’s been a change. You can bring this to my room.”

A
lthough I was exhausted from the long day and the events of the past few hours, sleep was out of the question. I nibbled on a scone and sipped some tea, but food wasn’t on my mind at the moment. I suppose the shock of Wayne Silverton’s murder had now fully settled in with me, as I’m sure it had with Christine Silverton.

I’d found her reaction to be somewhat strange, but that wasn’t fair. Prosecutors in murder trials often try to find something nefarious in how a defendant reacts to the news of a loved one’s murder. But psychologists know that each individual projects a different emotional state when hit with such devastating news. There are those who remain stoic and pragmatic, while others fall apart. To assume that the stoic, pragmatic mourner must be guilty because of the lack of emotion is to come to a tenuous conclusion.

I changed into my nightclothes and a comfortable robe provided by the hotel, sat by the window, and tried to make sense out of what few facts had emerged since I learned of Wayne’s death.

He’d been stabbed in the cockpit of the 767, and was there, according to Christine, because he enjoyed fantasizing about being a commercial airline pilot. How many other people besides Christine knew of this harmless bit of playacting? Whoever had killed Wayne was aware of where he was, or would be, at that particular moment.

Obviously, the airline captain, Bill Caine, had not gone into London with the rest of the crew. He’d argued with Wayne during the flight. I’d seen him at the airport while there with George Sutherland. There was nothing unusual about that, except that when he saw me, he rushed away. Surely, he recognized me. Why hadn’t he approached and asked what I knew about the scene taking place at the departure and arrival lounge? Why had he disappeared so quickly?

Christine’s admission that her husband was a womanizer was off-putting. I’d been uncomfortable being on the receiving end of her sad confession, and felt deeply for her—if what she said was true. If it was, she had every reason to be angry with Wayne. Angry enough to kill him? It appeared to me that she hadn’t stayed in her room at the Savoy once we arrived. Her coat was damp, and she hadn’t bothered to unpack the suitcases. She’d had enough time to go back to Stansted and return to the hotel before we arrived at her suite. I realized I was viewing her as a suspect in her husband’s murder, which was perhaps premature. But how could I not wonder who was the murderer amongst us?

Wayne’s business partners in SilverAir? The Brit, Churlson Vicks, with his unsavory reputation? Mr. Casale, Wayne’s former real estate partner in Las Vegas? He hadn’t sounded especially enamored of being a partner in an airline.

I decided that the best thing I could do at that juncture was to put these thoughts, along with dozens of others, out of my mind and get some sleep. But I had to laugh as I attempted to force that to happen. As a psychiatrist friend of mine says, tell someone not to think of purple elephants and that’s all they’ll think of. I finally dozed off, thinking that given a choice between purple elephants and murder, I’d settle for colorful pachyderms every time.

A
fter a few hours of fitful sleep, I was up, showered, and dressed by six. I went downstairs where it looked like a number of my travel companions had also found sleep to be difficult. They milled about the lobby, some with coffee or tea they’d brought from their rooms, others sitting quietly with blank expressions on their faces. I joined Seth Hazlitt and the Metzgers.

“Doc told me about breaking the news to Mrs. Silverton,” Mort said. “I don’t envy you that job. It’s the one I always dread the most.”

“She took it quite well,” Seth said. “Jessica stayed with her after the inspector and I left. How did she hold up, Jessica?”

“Relatively well. Naturally, she was shaken and eventually wanted to be alone.”

We all turned at the arrival of a camera and sound-man and a reporter from a TV station. They were followed by a man and a woman who had the hungry look of reporters from a different medium, probably print. The man had an expensive digital camera hanging from his neck. They came directly to me.

“You’re Jessica Fletcher, the crime writer,” the female reporter said without hesitation.

“Yes.”

She introduced herself as being from a notorious London tabloid. While she did, her photographer sidekick took a succession of photos of me and everyone nearby.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” I said to the photographer, who’d inched toward me and had the lens of his camera only a few feet from my face.

He moved even closer.

I turned away.

Mort intervened, stepping between me and the photographer. “The lady doesn’t want her picture taken,” he said.

“Who are you?” asked the reporter.

“Morton Metzger, sheriff of Cabot Cove, Maine.”

The man and woman looked at each other and shrugged.

“Come on, Mrs. F.,” Mort said, leading me away from the pair. “Couple ’a ghouls.”

“Maybe we should go into the dining room,” I suggested.

“Breakfast is in one of their private rooms,” Mort said. “The hotel changed it because of what happened last night, to give us some privacy.”

“Good thinking,” Seth said, following Mort, Maureen, and me toward the dining room entrance.

Followed by a young man and woman George Sutherland came through the front door. As they approached us, the photographer shot more pictures.

“I see you’re already up and around,” George said to me, leaving his assistants to wave away the press.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I said.

“I don’t wonder.” He said hello to the others and introduced his colleagues as part of his special investigative unit at Scotland Yard. He took me aside. “I suggested to the management that you have your breakfast in a private room,” he said.

“I thought you might have been behind the change,” I said. “Thank you.”

“It will give me the opportunity to speak with the group en masse. Anything new since I left last night?”

“No. I stayed for a while with Mrs. Silverton.”

“And?”

“She had some interesting things to say, but I’d rather wait to tell you until we have some time alone.”

“Fair enough. I’ve received a passenger manifest from the airline with the names of those who traveled with you, as well as the crew. I’ll want to do a head count once we’ve gathered.”

One of the Savoy’s executives came to the dining room entrance to announce that our private room was now open. “We’ll be serving breakfast a little earlier than originally planned,” he said. “I trust this won’t be an inconvenience.”

We filed into a large, ornate room in which tables had been set with white linens, crystal, and gleaming silverware. A lavish, colorful floral arrangement brightened the center of each table. Four young waiters and waitresses in uniform stood at the room’s perimeter waiting for us to be seated so they could start serving.

The Cabot Cove group gathered at one of the tables. George asked me to save him a seat, which I did by placing my cardigan over the back of a chair.

As the room filled, there was the expected buzz about the murder. A lot of attention was directed at me once word got around that I’d been to Stansted Airport with the Scotland Yard inspector assigned to the case. I also caught a snippet of one conversation that questioned my relationship with that inspector, allowing me access to the crime scene.

George and his two fresh-faced young assistants stood in a corner discussing papers George was holding. A few people got up from their tables and approached him with questions, but he politely waved them off, always with a smile. But I knew that behind his ready, appealing grin were a steely backbone and razor-sharp intellect, both of which could be brought into play on a moment’s notice.

I took note of who’d arrived, and more important, who hadn’t. Christine Silverton wasn’t there, which was understandable. She’d probably decided to order room service and avoid the pain of the condolences, and questions she’d undoubtedly have to endure. The waitstaff served juices and coffee or tea. It was still earlier than breakfast had originally been planned for, and it appeared that they were expecting more guests to arrive. Finally, at eight thirty, Sal Casale rose from where he was seated with a gentleman I didn’t recognize and asked for everyone’s attention. Once he had it, he said, “As you all know, being here this morning isn’t the way it was supposed to be. In case anyone hasn’t heard, Wayne Silverton was found stabbed to death last night at the airport.”

Even though Wayne’s death wasn’t news to anyone in the room, there were gasps and groans.

Casale held up his hand. “I’m not sure what this means for how we’ll be spending the rest of our time in London, but that’s being figured out now. In the meantime, I’d like to introduce you to our British partner, Mr. Churlson Vicks.”

Vicks got to his feet, cleared his throat, and tapped his fist to his lips a few times. He was a solidly built gentleman wearing a gray suit with a muted stripe, a blue shirt with a white collar, and a burgundy tie. Everything about him was square: his jaw, forehead, and shoulders. I judged him to be in his early sixties, perhaps a few years younger. He looked every bit the successful businessman, his face unnaturally tanned, especially for one of British descent, his teeth whiter than they should have been for a man his age.

“We’re all terribly shocked and upset over Wayne’s brutal death,” he said in a well-modulated voice tinged with a British accent. “Wayne was a visionary whose belief in a new era of air travel will be sorely missed.” Another throat clearing and more taps to the mouth. “I believe that those who knew Wayne will agree that he would want us to forge ahead despite his demise, both with SilverAir, and with our plans for this inaugural trip to London. Therefore, the schedule you’ve been given will remain basically the same—except, of course, if the authorities charged with bringing Wayne’s killer to justice have needs that necessitate change. Let me now introduce Inspector George Sutherland from our esteemed Scotland Yard.”