Coffee, Tea, or Murder? (17 page)

“Did the sleeping pills Ms. Molnari took belong to you?”

“You already asked me that. I told you they didn’t.”

“Did she bring them into the room with her?”

“I would have to assume she did. I don’t use sleeping pills.”

“Did you see her take them?”

“I saw the results of it. That’s why I called for a doctor.”

“Do you know where she got them?”

“How would I know that?”

“They were a prescription,” I said.

“And?”

“And—the prescription was in the name of Christine Silverton.”

“I don’t see why that should mean anything to me,” Caine said.

“It probably shouldn’t,” I said with a smile. “Thank you for allowing me to get a few things off my chest.”

He rose from his chair. “Anytime for a fellow pilot. Happy to have you back up front when we leave tonight.”

“I look forward to it.”

We expressed our appreciation for the captain’s time and left his suite. As we approached the elevators, I opened the door to the stairwell. “Are we walking downstairs,” George asked.

“Let’s stand in here for a moment,” I said.

“Why?” he asked as he joined me. I left the door slightly ajar, just enough to afford a view of the long hallway from that vantage point. As I expected, Captain Caine came from his room, went to Ms. Molnari’s door, and knocked. It opened, and he disappeared inside.

“I imagine they have a lot to talk about,” I said, exiting the stairwell and pressing the button for the elevator.

“I’m sure you’re right,” George agreed. “Ah, to be the proverbial fly on the wall.”

We rode down in silence and I accompanied him as he left the Savoy through the main doors.

“You’re off to your luncheon at the Grenadier,” he said.

“Yes. Sure you won’t join us?”

“Positive. I have a lot of paperwork to push through before our three o’clock talk with Mrs. Silverton.”

He kissed my cheek and walked away. We don’t often think of law enforcement officers as being especially sensitive. They spend their days and nights dealing with the unpleasant aspects of the human condition, the cruel and wanton disregard for life by criminals, the heartbreak and sorrow of people caught in tough circumstances, many times not of their own doing. But there are numerous exceptions, of course. George Sutherland certainly ranked at the top of that list.

As I returned to my room to prepare to go to lunch, I thought of George’s late wife, who’d died of cancer. He’d had little to say about her—her name was Elizabeth—except that she was a wonderful woman who’d left this world far too soon. Once, when we were sitting on a park bench in London, he’d showed me a picture of her. She was lovely, a raven-haired Scottish beauty with dark, soulful eyes, and a hint of merriment on her lips. I spoke on that day of my late husband, Frank, a fine, fun-loving man whose life had also been cut short prematurely. I tried to shift mental gears and not think about George as I changed into another outfit, but was only partially successful. My skills at keeping personal thoughts separate from investigative analysis were not as well-honed as my handsome inspector’s.

By the time I came to the Savoy’s entrance and waited for a doorman to put me in one of those heavenly London taxicabs, I’d managed to turn my focus on that morning’s events—and there was plenty to chew on. The rain was coming down hard, sheets of water at times, and getting to the pub was a slow process. But we finally arrived. I paid the driver, a courteous older gentleman who wished me a splendid day despite the weather—“Good for the pretty flowers, ma’am”—put up my umbrella, and hurried past the bright red sentry box and through the door of the red, white, and blue pub on Wilton Row. I don’t like being late—for anything. People who are perpetually late smack of arrogance and ego, always making their grand entrance while others wait in anticipation. But because my reputation is that of one who is seldom behind schedule, being a few minutes late didn’t seem to be noticed or commented upon.

“How was your morning?” Mort asked once I’d been seated and had a tall glass of Bloody Mary mix in front of me, minus the vodka. They call such a drink in England a “Bloody Shame,” the name stemming from deeply religious waiters and waitresses balking at having to order “Virgin Marys” from bartenders.

We were in one of two small rooms at the rear of the pub, the walls paneled in dark wood, the ceiling coffee black. The walls were covered with military memorabilia, lethal-looking bayonets and sabers, breastplates, and bearskins. No doubt about it, this historic pub had plenty of history behind it, including its infamous, card-cheating ghost.

“Fine,” I answered. “All of you?”

“We had a great time,” Susan Shevlin said. “Those soldiers standing at attention are so impressive. I don’t know how they can do it, not move a muscle while thousands of tourists like us gawk at them and take their pictures.”

“Just a matter of discipline,” Mort offered.

“You try it,” said Jim Shevlin. “I give you ten minutes before you pass out.”

“I don’t know. If I had the right training, I might be able to do it.” He turned to me. “So, Mrs. F., tell us what’s new and exciting with the murder?”

“Mort! We’re supposed to be on vacation,” Maureen said. “You promised me you wouldn’t get involved.”

“I’m just asking a question, Hon. That’s not getting involved.”

“You can take the man away from his job,” said Jim, “but you can’t take the policeman out of the man, or something like that.”

Susan groaned.

We all laughed at Jim’s bungled analogy.

“Thanks, Mayor,” Mort said, and smiled at his wife.

Maureen shrugged and said, “Sorry, Jessica.” “No need to be,” I said.

“Go on. Give us an update,” she said.

“The case becomes more tangled with each passing hour,” I said. “George and I interviewed Captain Caine this morning.”

“
You
and the inspector?” Jim said. “How did
you
end up in that situation?”

“George feels that—well, because I was with him the night we went to the airport after he’d been notified of Wayne’s murder—well, he feels that I can be of some help in the investigation.”

“It’s not the first time you’ve been in that situation,” Maureen said. “I remember when—”

“Please,” I said, “let’s not rehash those unfortunate situations. The truth is, George feels that because I’m part of the inner circle, so to speak, as one of the passengers familiar with others on the trip, that I might have insights to contribute that he would miss as an outsider.”

“Makes sense to me,” Mort said. “You’ve been plenty helpful to me, Mrs. F., back in Cabot Cove, when I’ve had a murder on my hands.”

“And you were a dear to let me poke my nose in,” I said, patting his arm. “Since you’re all likely to meet him at some point, I should mention that Wayne has a son from a previous marriage. Did anyone know that?” I looked from face to face, but the blank expressions confirmed my suspicion that Jason’s existence was not something Wayne ever discussed. At least, it had never reached the Cabot Cove grapevine—and that’s a powerful source of information.

“He claims that his father left him his stake in SilverAir.”

Now there were overt expressions of interest on everyone’s part.

“Is it true?” Maureen asked.

“I have no idea,” I said, opening my menu. “I do know that I’m hungry.”

We enjoyed standard pub fare prepared with a deft hand in the kitchen. Mort insisted that we all taste one of the pub’s featured beers, “bitter” as it’s called, and we did. I’m not a beer lover, although there are certain days in the heat of summer back home when a frosty glass of beer hits the spot the way no other cold drink can. The beer at the Grenadier was tasty, but I drank only a third of mine. Mort might not have been participating in the investigation, but I was, and I wanted to be as mentally sharp as possible for the rest of the day.

“I hope this weather doesn’t delay the flight tonight,” Maureen said as she left the table in search of the ladies’ room.

“I spoke with Captain Caine about that this morning,” I told the others. “He said that incoming flights might be delayed, but departures should be all right.”

“What’s on your agenda for the rest of the afternoon, Mrs. F.?” Mort asked, obviously straining a bit at the restrictions he had agreed to.

I had the three o’clock interview with Christine Silverton, but didn’t mention it. Instead, I said, “I thought I’d hibernate in my suite and do some reading.”

It wasn’t a lie. I’d decided during the taxi ride to the pub to do just that, sandwiching the meeting with Christine in between chapters of
The French Girls of Kilini
, a book of stories written years ago by Arturo Vivante, one of my favorite authors. I’ve read it at least a dozen times and never tire of it.

“What’s keeping Maureen?” Mort asked, looking in the direction she’d gone. Suddenly, she appeared, shock and fear written all over her ghostly pale face.

“What’s wrong, Hon?” Mort asked, helping her into the chair.

“I saw him,” she managed.

“Saw whom?” Jim asked.

“The soldier. The one who was flogged to death here.” She wrapped her arms about herself and began to shake.

There was some nervous laughter.

“I did!” she said. “I was coming out of the ladies’ room and almost bumped into him. He was wearing his uniform, and his face was streaked with blood. He looked horrible.”

“Did he say or do anything?” I asked.

“He was gone, poof, just like that,” she said, now under better control of herself. She smiled weakly. “I know it sounds silly, but—”

“Nonsense,” I said. “If you say you saw him, then that’s what you did. Come on, time to go.”

As we passed through the pub room where dozens of people were lined up along the length of the pewter bar top, I stayed back and motioned for the bartender, a large, red-faced gentleman with an outgoing disposition.

“Yes, ma’am?” he said.

“One of my friends went to the loo. When she came out, she’s convinced she saw the soldier who’d allegedly been flogged to death in this pub.”

He let out a deep, rumbling laugh. “Of course she saw him, ma’am. He’s always here but decides to show himself only now and then. Seen him dozens of times myself. He’s fussy about who he shows himself to. She should be honored.”

“Thank you,” I said, and joined the others outside where the rain hadn’t let up a bit. There wasn’t a cab in sight, but everyone had been smart enough to bring along an umbrella, and we set out with them raised, not minding getting our feet wet and enjoying the exercise after a substantial meal. Eventually we found a taxi and the five of us settled into the cab’s roomy back, happy to be together but each undoubtedly engaged in thoughts not quite so pleasant.

Mort wasn’t the only one interested in the investigation. Wayne Silverton’s murder was understandably on everyone’s mind, imagined visions of what he must have looked like (I didn’t have to use my imagination, of course), speculating on how it happened and whether he was aware that he was about to be stabbed. If so, what ran through his mind the few seconds before the actual act? Did he sense it coming? Did he feel pain, or had the initial thrust of the knife severed a nerve that precluded his feeling anything?

The cockpit was too small, too cramped for someone to be able to enter unannounced. Wayne must have known his assailant, I thought. From what I’d seen in the cockpit that night, he hadn’t put up a fight, hadn’t raised his hands in self-defense. They were on the thrust levers. He fell forward when he was stabbed, his body pushing the control yoke, his hands doing the same with the levers.

Perhaps his killer had been in the cockpit for a period of time, however brief, prior to committing the act, which meant Wayne knew that the person was there, possibly welcoming his or her presence.

It was all well and good to conjure what the scene was like.

The more important question: Who was in the cockpit with him, the last person to see him alive?

“Jess,” Maureen said once we were inside the Savoy.

“Yes, Maureen?”

“You believe me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.” I made a point of leaning close to her ear and speaking in a low, conspiratorial tone. “I asked the bartender about the ghost.”

“You did?”

“Yes. And he swears he’s seen him, too, many times. He says it’s an honor. The ghost is very finicky about whom he reveals himself to.”

“I could have done without that particular honor,” Maureen said with a shiver.

“I think I would like to have seen him,” I said, smiling.

She returned my smile. “Thank you, Jess.”

“My pleasure, Maureen.”

The return trip had taken longer than I had intended, leaving me with little time to enjoy reading. I’d just hung up my raincoat and taken out my book when George called.

“I know I’m early,” he said.

“I’ll be right down.”

He was in the lobby, talking with a hotel employee, when I stepped off the elevator. I paused before going to him, taking a few seconds to simply observe the man. He wore his usual tweed jacket, blue button-down shirt, sharply creased tan slacks, and polished ankle-high boots, but it wasn’t his attire that I admired at that moment. It was the way he stood, slightly stooped as tall men often are from a lifetime of ducking low objects. He was listening intently to what the hotel staffer was saying, another admirable trait. He gave the same concentrated attention conversing with a porter or cleaning woman as he did with a head of state. He’s a superb listener, always more interested in what you were saying than in what he might have on his mind. His pose was relaxed, a man comfortable with himself.

I closed my eyes for a moment, drew a breath, and joined them.

After a cursory bow to me, the employee walked away.