Coffee, Tea, or Murder? (10 page)

“I’ll make sure of that,” his wife said.

We stood together in the hotel lobby, waiting for the elevator. Seth said casually, as though addressing no one, “I wonder who inherits Wayne’s stake in SilverAir.”

I’d been wondering the same thing. My assumption was that Christine would be Wayne’s beneficiary, but that wasn’t necessarily true. If it was, it added an additional motive for her to want Wayne dead, both to avenge his philandering ways and to become a rich widow. But everything was supposition at this juncture. There were many questions still to ask, and many answers to be gathered.

George had left a message for me on my suite’s voice mail.

“Hello there, Jessica. I trust you’ve had a pleasant day at the Dickens Museum and the courts. I’m glad you took the opportunity not to think about such grisly things as murder, and were able to simply enjoy the city with your Cabot Cove chums. I’ve made a reservation for us at seven thirty. The restaurant is a particular favorite of mine; I’m sure you’ll find it satisfactory.” There was a long, thoughtful pause, as though he was summoning up the courage to continue. Finally, he said, “As much as I look forward to us spending a quiet dinner alone, I realize that you have obligations to those who’ve traveled with you from home. So, what I’m saying is that if you feel the need to include them in our dinner plans, it will be fine with me.”

What a dear
. Among many admirable traits, his sensitivity ranked high. I was sure he preferred that we dine alone—so did I—but he was always so quick to take into consideration the needs of others. He left numbers where he could be reached, including his cell number, which I already had. I dialed it.

“George, it’s Jessica.”

“Hello there,” he said. “Good day?”

“Very. Yours?”

“Hectic, and hopefully productive. You got my message.”

“Yes. About dinner, I—”

“You wish to have your friends join us.”

“I’m torn.”

“Don’t be. I’ll call and change the reservation to—how many?”

“Make it for seven people, although I don’t know if the Shevlins will join us. I heard them say something about getting together tonight with British friends.”

“However it works out is fine,” he said. “I’ll swing by the hotel at seven.”

“We have the limo for the evening,” I said. “We can pick you up.”

“Happy to go with you in your hired car, but I’ll come to the Savoy. Make it seven fifteen.”

“I’ll be waiting. And thanks, George, for understanding.”

I changed into a robe and turned on the telly, as the British call television. I kept the sound low, more for background talk than to become informed of the day’s news. I sat on the couch and perused magazines, and booklets about the hotel and its services, before heading for the bathroom and a leisurely shower. I’d just gotten up and was halfway across the room when Wayne Silverton’s face filled the screen. I quickly raised the volume and resumed my seat.

The announcer delivered a brief recap of Wayne’s murder, a bit of background about SilverAir, and quoted an unnamed police source who said that a full-scale investigation was under way, but that no breaks in the case had been reported. Then, to my surprise, Christine’s photo came to life. She stood at a podium with a uniformed officer and spoke directly to the camera.

“The brutal murder of my husband has shocked everyone who knew him. He was struck down at the pinnacle of his dreams to form a new airline offering better service to millions of passengers. I call upon everyone watching me at this moment to come forward to the authorities if you have any information that might help apprehend his murderer. There is a vicious killer on the loose at Stansted Airport, and the sooner he is brought to justice, the safer everyone will be. Thank you.”

I turned down the sound again and pondered what she’d said. Obviously, she was dismissing the possibility that someone close to Wayne was the murderer, pointing instead to a stranger having committed the crime. While that was a possibility, it was a remote one, and I wondered whether it truly represented what she believed, or if it had been said to divert attention from those who’d been with us on the flight.

The shower was hot and pleasurable, but my mind was on anything and everything but soap and water. Going into the knife shop and buying one had been strictly a whim on my part. The vision of the knife protruding from Wayne’s upper back had stayed with me since witnessing it, and I’d felt almost compelled to hold a similar one in my hand.

But more important, whose hand had held the actual murder weapon and used it to take Wayne’s life?

The only way to rid myself of that grim vision on the 767’s flight deck was to come up with an answer.

A
s it turned out, I was right about the Shevlins having made other dinner plans. They were replaced in our party by former airline captain Jed Richardson and his wife. George arrived at the Savoy right on time, and we all headed off to the restaurant he’d chosen, Langan’s Brasserie in London’s posh Mayfair section.

“I think you’ll like it,” George said during the drive. “Michael Caine is a part owner, which ensures a smattering of celebrities on most nights, and the food is quite good.”

“Ooh, how exciting,” said Maureen. “I love his movies.”

“I can do without so-called celebrities,” Seth commented. “Food is what matters in a restaurant.”

“Right you are,” George happily agreed, aware from previous encounters with Seth that the evening would likely be peppered with such remarks.

George had mentioned to me earlier that Langan’s was a dressy sort of place, and I’d passed along that information to the others. Everyone had gussied up for the evening, as though setting out for a festive evening.

A festive evening
.

I’ve always been impressed with how adaptable we human beings are at simultaneously handling pain and pleasure. The rituals we observe following the death of someone near and dear were, I’m certain, designed to allow this to happen. Whether a Catholic or Protestant wake, a Jewish shivah, or another gathering following a death, grieving is simultaneously balanced by joyous remembrances of the deceased; the resulting laughter mitigates the pain and turns such events into a celebration of life. Without such a release, unrequited grief might be too much to bear.

George concluded his minilecture about the restaurant by saying, “I have to admit that I have a particular fondness for Langan’s. It serves the best steak tartare in London.”

“Steak tartare,” Mort said. “That’s a favorite of mine, too—as long as it’s well-done.” He laughed at his little joke, and we laughed along with him.

Wayne Silverton’s murder wasn’t mentioned by anyone during the limousine ride. But once we were seated at a large table on the restaurant’s cozy second floor, and drinks had been served along with appetizers—George was the only one to order the raw, ground steak, much to Seth’s obvious facial expressions of displeasure—I asked Jed, “When you flew for the airline, did you and other cockpit crew members routinely carry a knife in your bags?”

Jed, who looked every bit the pilot, his face tanned and filled with lines from having looked into the sun for thousands of hours at high altitudes, nodded. “I don’t know anyone who didn’t,” he said. “Of course, now lots of commercial pilots carry a handgun, too. I don’t agree with that policy, but antiterrorism rules since Nine Eleven have changed many things: pilots carrying weapons, reinforced cockpit doors, most of it worthwhile. But not guns. Commercial pilots are busy enough safely flying the plane without also having to become marksmen in confined quarters.”

“Was there a special sort of knife pilots carried when you were flying commercially?”

He thought for a moment before replying. “Not any specific brand, although they tended to look the same, a four- or five-inch blade that retracts into a handle, usually black, but not always.”

“Jessica bought a knife like that today,” Mort said to George.

He looked at me with raised eyebrows.

“I wanted to see how easy it was to buy a knife like the one used to kill Wayne.”

“I suppose you’ve got prints by now off the murder weapon,” Mort said to George.

“Ah, no, not that I’m aware of.”

Mort gave George an
I understand
look. “Can’t discuss an ongoing case,” he said. “Maybe we can have a private talk a little later, lawman to lawman.”

“Yes, that would be fine, Sheriff.”

Seth was the next person to bring up the murder. He waited until our salads had been served. “I suppose you did a careful analysis of blood spatter at the scene,” he said to George.

“Our evidence technicians did,” George said. “They’re good at what they do.”

Seth then spoke of various forensic conferences he’d attended. While he took pride in being a simple, small-town physician, he assiduously kept abreast of medical advances by attending seminars in a variety of areas, including forensic medicine. He spoke about the newest techniques available to forensic physicians and medical examiners throughout the time we spent eating our salads and ordering entrées. I could see that George was impressed with Seth’s knowledge and depth of understanding, and I took quiet pride in my Cabot Cove friend’s performance.

We followed George’s lead and ordered what’s best described as bourgeois British classics, bangers and mash (sausage links and mashed potatoes), and bubble and squeak (fried pureed potatoes and cabbage), which George claimed were always superbly prepared. The meal didn’t disappoint. Everyone’s appetite was sated, and it took some gentle, humorous persuasion by the waiter to get us to order homemade desserts—three portions with multiple forks.

“Well,” Mort said after we’d finished coffee, “how about we go somewhere for a nightcap?”

To which Maureen immediately responded, “I think Jessica and George would probably appreciate an hour or two to themselves. Isn’t that right, Jess?”

“I—”

“That’s a splendid idea,” said George. “You folks take the limo back to the hotel. Have your nightcap in its American Bar. A lively place, to be sure.”

I checked Seth’s expression for his reaction to Maureen’s suggestion. He smiled at me, winked, and said he wholeheartedly agreed.

We said our good nights in front of the restaurant, and George and I watched the limo pull away.

“I like your sheriff’s wife more and more,” he said, punctuating his words with a laugh.

“It was sweet of her to do that,” I said.

“What’s your pleasure?” he asked.

“Somewhere quiet where we can sip a drink, or coffee, and talk.”

“My sentiments exactly, Jessica. Let me see. Ah ha, I have just the answer.”

He hailed a passing taxi and we settled into the spacious rear compartment. Among many things I love about London are its taxicabs. The large, square, roomy vehicles are the most comfortable cabs in the world, and their drivers the most professional and knowledgeable. It takes years for a London taxi driver to obtain a license, years of learning every possible street, and the location of every hotel, restaurant, and tourist attraction, many of them impossibly obscure.

A few minutes later we pulled into a cul-de-sac in front of Dukes Hotel.

“I’ve stayed at Dukes before,” I said. “I love it.”

“Then you’re aware of its unusual, small bar.”

“I love that, too. So cozy. When I was here last, they offered tastes of rare cognacs and ports. The barman was charming. His name was—”

“Salvatore Calabrese.”

“Yes. You know him.”

“Quite well. He’s no longer at Dukes. He now mans the Library Bar at the Lanesborough Hotel at Hyde Park Corner. London’s most expensive hotel, I might add.”

The small bar was empty when we walked in, except for a bartender shining glasses. He greeted us. We took a tiny table with two chairs in a far corner, looked at each other, smiled, and sighed. “Two cognacs,” George told the barman when he came to the table, “but not your most expensive.” George said to me, “Some of their cognacs go back more than a hundred years and cost a king’s ransom for a taste. A month’s salary.”

“Any vintage is fine with me,” I said. “What’s important is that we’re here together.”

“Yes, that is what’s important. So, Jessica, you’ve found yourself in the middle of a murder again.”

“The way you say that, George, it sounds as though knowing me could be a health hazard.”

He laughed. “If it is, I’ll gladly put myself in jeopardy. I assume you’re eager to learn what’s new on my end regarding Mr. Silverton’s murder.”

“Only if you wish to tell me,” I replied. “There are many other topics I’d be just as happy with.”

“I’ll get to those other topics after an update on the Silverton case. Your sheriff, Mort, asked about fingerprints. I didn’t feel at liberty to discuss it with him, but I will with you. The prints found on the handle of the knife used to kill Mr. Silverton belong to the pilot who flew you here.”

“Captain Caine?”

“Yes. His prints are on file in numerous places, given his military record and his career as a commercial airline pilot.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” I said. “As you heard from Jed Richardson, all pilots carry a knife of one sort or another.”

“Of the type you bought today?”

“Yes. As it turned out, I needn’t have bothered. It never occurred to me to ask Jed whether pilots carry them. I assume you’ve spoken to Captain Caine.”

“Briefly. On the phone this afternoon. I reached him at the hotel.”

“And?”

“He’s agreed to meet with me in the morning.”

“Did you speak with one of the flight attendants, too, Ms. Molnari?”

“As a matter of fact, I did. She was in Captain Caine’s suite when I called, and he offered to put her on the phone. It was almost as though he expected me to call and had her there purposely.”