Coffee, Tea, or Murder? (12 page)

“May I use your bathroom?” I asked.

“Help yourself.”

When I came out of the bathroom, George was ready to leave. He opened the door and we started into the sitting room. But he stopped, turned, and said, “I understand most commercial airline pilots carry a knife among their possessions.”

Caine cocked his head and frowned. “A knife?”

“Yes. I’m sure it comes in handy now and then. I carry one myself.” George reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a small knife, its handle no longer than a few inches. He pulled the blade from the handle, the same length. He laughed and secured the blade in the handle again. “I believe the last time I used this was to sharpen the point on a pencil.”

Caine smiled. “Ah, yes, I see where this is going, Inspector. Do I carry a knife? Of course I do. But for your information, it wasn’t the one used to kill Silverton.”

“I didn’t suggest that it was,” George said.

I’d stepped back into the bedroom.

“You ever have anyone knifed to death in your novels, Mrs. Fletcher, or do you prefer less violent murders?” Caine asked.

“Some of my characters have used knives,” I said. “It depends upon the circumstances, doesn’t it?”

The pilot went to the closet, opened the door, and pulled out a square black leather case on wheels. He pulled it to the chair, sat, sprung two metal latches on its top, and reached down inside. “Here’s my knife,” he said while still rummaging through the case, “and not a drop of blood on it.”

George and I waited for him to produce the weapon. His digging through the case’s contents became more hurried and intense. Finally, he withdrew his hand, looked at us, and said, “It’s not here.”

“Perhaps you forgot to pack it this trip,” George suggested.

“It’s not here,” Caine repeated. “And I did pack it. I know I did. It’s always in this case, has been for years. I can’t imagine what—”

“I’m sure there’s a good reason for it being missing,” George said. “We won’t take any more of your time, Captain. Until tomorrow.”

George shut the door behind us. Gina Molnari was now sitting up on the couch, the blanket covering her lap. “No, I’ll be fine,” she said to Seth and the British doctor. “It was a mistake, that’s all. I hadn’t been sleeping well and thought a couple of pills would help me. I must have taken too many.”

“Why here, in this room?” I whispered to George.

He said nothing.

“I still think it would be wise for you to check into a hospital overnight,” Seth said. The British physician nodded his agreement.

“No,” Gina said, standing. “I’ll be fine. I just need to get some sleep.”

“Can’t force her,” Seth said to me.

Seth and his British counterpart escorted her to her room, which was next door to Captain Caine’s.

“We might as well leave,” George said.

I agreed, and we started for the door. But I retraced my steps to the small table next to the couch on which the bottle of pills rested. I picked it up. It was a prescription for sleeping tablets. At least Gina hadn’t taken them with her, I thought, and joined George in the hallway where he’d dismissed the uniformed officers.

“Sorry our pleasant time together was interrupted,” he said as we entered an elevator.

“Life is unpredictable,” I said.

“Which can be good and bad,” he said.

We reached the lobby.

“Care to continue our quiet drink together?” he asked.

“I don’t think so, George. I’m suddenly exhausted, as though a plug has been opened on my energy tank. Why did you raise the question of the knife? I thought you’d decided to wait until tomorrow to mention the prints found on it.”

“Oh, I thought I’d give him something to think about tonight.”

“I’m sure he’ll give it plenty of thought. He said he’d taken a shower when Ms. Molnari took the pills. I don’t think he did. Every towel in his bathroom is bone dry.”

George smiled. “You should come to work for the Yard,” he said.

“Where do I apply?”

“I understand your fatigue, Jessica. I’ll leave you to enjoy a good night’s sleep.”

I looked past him to see Seth, the Metzgers, and the Shevlins come up a stairway and head in our direction. “Good night,” I said fondly to George.

George started for the main entrance, and I took a couple steps toward my friends. But I stopped and called after George, who came back to me.

“I should have mentioned,” I said, “that the sleeping pills Ms. Molnari took were a prescription.”

“Yes. I would think as much.”

“But the prescription wasn’t written for her. They were for Christine Silverton, Wayne Silverton’s wife.”

S
leep?

As tired as I was, sleep was out of the question. I’d been embroiled in murders before. But as I got ready for bed and tried to fall asleep, my eyes remained wide-open, my mind in overdrive, my body rejecting my attempts to keep it in a prone position.

I finally gave up, slipped into my robe and slippers, and called room service: “A pot of tea, please, and a plate of cookies.” Everyone has their individual ways of coping with stress and brain overload. Mine is a cup of tea and cookies. Yes, cookies of any sort, chocolate, vanilla, crunchy, or soft. It doesn’t matter. Cookies soothe me. Fortunately for my waistline, the need for a cookie prescription doesn’t happen that often.

Those who know me are aware that besides finding an occasional batch of cookies to be calming, I’m also obsessive-compulsive about the power of writing things down to help clear the mind. I’m an inveterate list maker. Seeing things in black-and-white on a sheet of paper brings clarity to my thinking. And so I sat at the ornate desk and wrote down everything I could remember from the moment I arrived at Logan Airport in Boston, up through this moment in my suite. The list of thoughts and observations was long, and I tried to create a pattern into which various items could be placed, one possibly having something to do with another. I ended with a long series of questions to be answered; answer those questions and I’d conceivably know who’d murdered Wayne Silverton.

I pulled out the schedule for the rest of our time in London. There were a few planned activities that had to be signed up for, some of which had interested me earlier. But I decided not to tie myself down.

The flight back to Boston would leave Stansted at ten the next night. That gave me a full day and part of the evening to seek answers to those questions. In a sense, time would work in my favor. Unlike other murder investigations with which I’d become involved, albeit reluctantly, this one would find all the possible suspects still gathered together, in this instance in the confines of a modern jet airliner. Unless, of course, someone decided to bolt and not take the return flight. I considered that unlikely. Anyone who opted out of getting on the plane would immediately focus a spotlight on himself as the most likely of suspects. No, I was confident that everyone who’d flown with us to London would be on SilverAir’s 767 back to Boston.

Of course, the mood on the return flight was bound to be less festive than the atmosphere on the flight to London. George would be aboard asking questions and, unlike other venues in which suspects are grilled, while streaking through the dark sky at thirty-five thousand feet above the cold Atlantic, there would be nowhere to go to avoid having to answer.

At times like this I found myself wishing sleep wasn’t necessary. I felt the pressure of having less than twenty-four hours left in London and was eager to make optimum use of the time. But I also knew that if I didn’t get some sleep, the next day would be painful. I climbed into bed and tried to will myself to sleep. That didn’t work, of course, so I practiced some self-hypnosis techniques that Seth had taught me—eyes rolled up into their sockets, relaxing every part of my body, beginning with my toes and gradually working up to my head. It worked. I was asleep.

When I awoke, I was certain I’d slept for no more than an hour, but the clock said differently. I’d had five hours of solid rest, and I got out of bed feeling rejuvenated and ready to tackle the day. There was no formal breakfast gathering scheduled, which pleased me. I showered, dressed casually and comfortably, and headed downstairs for some breakfast. Seth, the Metzgers, and the Shevlins were already in the dining room.

“You look surprisingly chipper,” Seth said.

“I used your hypnosis tips, Seth. They worked.”

“Of course they did. I wouldn’t have bothered teaching them to you if they didn’t.”

“So, what’s new with the murder?” Maureen asked.

“Or the suicide,” Susan Shevlin added.

“Not much on either front,” I said. “I assume Seth has filled you in on what happened with Ms. Molnari.”

“Not much,” Maureen said, sounding unhappy about it.

“Doctor-patient privilege,” Seth said.

“Oh, come on, Doc,” Mort said, “you’re with friends. Besides, I’m a law enforcement officer.”

“I told you everything of importance,” Seth said as a waiter arrived and took our orders.

Seth had brought that morning’s edition of the paper with him to breakfast, and he unfolded it. “Well, now, look at this,” he said, pointing to an article below the fold on the front page.

The headline read: THE SOPRANOS INVADE LONDON.

“What’s it about?” Jim Shevlin asked.

Seth read the piece, his brow furrowed, an occasional grunt coming from him. Finished reading, he passed the paper to me.

“The plot thickens,” I said after reading it and handed the paper to Maureen.

The article reported how local police, in concert with Scotland Yard, had intercepted and detained two men at Heathrow Airport. According to the piece, an international all-points bulletin had been issued for these men, reputedly members of an organized crime family back in the United States. They were accused of being hit men for the mob, with a long string of alleged murders of other mob figures as part of their dossier. While this made for interesting reading, it was the final paragraph that really captured my attention:

“I knew it the minute I met him,” Maureen said.

“Knew what?” I asked.

“That he was a mobster.”

“Why?” her husband asked. “Because he’s Italian?”

“Of course not,” she said, defensively. “I didn’t know then that he was Italian. But you only have to look at him. There was something in his eyes, something ruthless.”

“If I could identify mobsters simply by the expression in their eyes,” Mort said, “I could get a great job with the FBI.”

“But then we’d miss you in Cabot Cove, Sheriff,” I said, winking at Maureen. But silently, I agreed with her observation about Mr. Casale’s eyes. They were hard, dark eyes, lacking any mitigating compassion.

“Well,” I said, “what’s on everyone’s agenda today?”

“We thought we’d tag along with you, Mrs. F.,” Mort said. “You know London better than we do. You’ve been here so many times.”

It was not what I wanted to hear. Had I been totally honest with my friends, I would have said that I needed to be on my own for the day. Instead, I said, “How about this? I have some errands to run this morning that would just bore you, so why don’t we head off in different directions and meet up for lunch?”

“What sort of errands?” Mort asked.

I was formulating an answer when Christine Silverton, accompanied by Sal Casale, entered the dining room. I waved to her to join us. She and Casale said something to each other before he walked away, and she came to our table.

“Please join us,” I said.

She took the one empty chair.

“How are you this morning?” Seth asked, his tone that of a physician visiting a hospitalized patient.

“As well as can be expected,” she said, “considering what’s happened.”

She was smartly dressed in a tailored taupe pantsuit, accented by a scarf in subtle hints of red and purple. She wore the barest hint of makeup, and her only jewelry was her wide, gold wedding band.

“If there’s anything we can do, all you have to do is ask,” Maureen said.

“Maybe you can talk sense to the police,” was Christine’s reply.

“What do you mean?” Mort asked.

“They won’t release Wayne’s body,” she said, her anger palpable. “I wanted to have the body return to the States with us tonight, but Scotland Yard says it has to remain here in the UK for further autopsy tests.”

That didn’t surprise me at all, nor, I was sure, did Seth find it unusual. A murder had been committed. While family needs are always considered in such cases, the requirements of law enforcement trump any personal preferences. I didn’t express what I was thinking, however. She didn’t need a contrary opinion at this juncture.

Christine ordered juice, coffee, and a dry English muffin. Her eyes went to the open newspaper and the story about the detaining of the two men at the airport, and the possible link to Casale.

“Can you believe that?” she said, waving at the paper.

“You’ve seen the article on Mr. Casale?” Maureen asked, closing the tabloid so the front page was face-down on the table.

“I read it this morning in my room. Piece of trash. All lies. These media vultures are despicable.”