Coffee, Tea, or Murder? (4 page)

“I trust you’ve enjoyed this first leg of the trip,” he said, “but there is a lot more in store. We couldn’t arrange to have everyone stay at the same hotel, but I’m sure you’ll find all accommodations to be satisfactory. There will be a line of limousines waiting to take you into central London. For your information, there is good train service from Stansted into the city’s Liverpool Street Station, but no need to be concerned about that. The hotel assigned to you is in your packet of printed material. Be sure and look for your hotel’s name on signs the limo drivers will be holding. Any checked luggage will be delivered to your rooms. The hotels have been alerted that you’ll probably be needing something to eat, and they’ve assured me that room service will be available. We will be meeting for breakfast at nine at the Savoy Hotel. Until then, thanks for sharing this historic event with me, and for helping introduce America’s new premium airline, SilverAir, to a discerning traveling public.”

People applauded again and began to gather their belongings. I took advantage of the long taxi to the gate to go through the printed material we’d each received. Advance information sent to us in Cabot Cove said that our contingent would be staying at the Savoy, one of my favorite London hotels, and the material aboard confirmed it. The Silvertons, along with the cabin and flight deck crew, would also be staying there, and I was pleased to see that the crew wouldn’t be relegated to spending the next two nights at a less opulent facility. Like any service business, SilverAir’s success would depend upon the men and women who work for the company and who present its face to the public. Wayne was obviously aware of this and committed to keeping those frontline people happy, at least at this juncture.

As we proceeded down the aisle toward the exit door, I saw that only First Officer Scherer stood by the cockpit to greet deplaning passengers. Where was Captain Caine? I wondered. I peered into the cockpit; his seat was empty. I looked to my right and saw Ms. Molnari through a gap in the curtain that closed off the galley. I had only a fleeting glimpse of her, but she appeared to be crying.

After making our way through the airport, we stepped from the terminal into a damp, chilly night. A heavy mist, almost rain, hung in the air. A fleet of limousines stood waiting, their engines running. Three drivers held large signs that read Savoy Hotel. Another lifted a sign indicating his vehicle was for the airline’s crew. Seth, the Metzgers, and I greeted one of the Savoy drivers, whose vehicle was a stretch Mercedes limo that easily seated ten people. We climbed into the back.

“Pretty posh,” Mort commented.

“Looks like Wayne is giving us the luxury treatment,” I said.

“Seems like a waste of money to me,” Seth growled. “Train would have been fine.”

“Sit back and enjoy it, Doc,” Mort said. “Like somebody once said, living well’s the best revenge.”

“Amen,” Maureen said, obviously responding favorably to the pampering that came with the trip.

We were joined by others who’d be staying at the fabled Savoy, whose history and list of notable guests has no rival in London, or in most other major cities. The last one into the limousine was Christine Silverton, who slid in next to me on the rear bench seat.

The driver took off, rounding the corner of the terminal to take the road out of the airport.

“Oh, look,” said Maureen.

I glanced over my shoulder to see a bank of spotlights trained on the fuselage of our plane, which was lit up like a Hollywood billboard. Christine didn’t bother to turn around.

“Where’s Wayne?” I asked, settling back beside her.

Her voice was flinty. “He has things to do here at the airport—he says!”

“There must be a never-ending list of things to do when starting up an airline,” I said. “What a daunting undertaking.”

She looked directly at me. Even in the dark car, I could see her eyes were moist from tears. “It isn’t all him,” she said in a hard voice, “although he may think it is.”

I wondered if anyone else was listening to us, but the others seemed busy with their own conversations.

“Are you all right, Christine?” I asked.

“Oh, I am fine, Jessica, simply fine.”

She turned away from me and I could hear, and feel, her heavy breathing, as though she was trying to bring in enough oxygen to inject some calm into her emotions. I considered pressing her but decided it was neither the time nor the place.

One thing was patently evident.

All might be well with SilverAir at thirty-five thousand feet.

But it wasn’t so on the ground.

T
he Savoy Hotel, located on the Strand on the bank of the Thames, has been a magnet for celebrities, heads of state, and other dignitaries since its construction in 1889 by an entrepreneur, Richard D’Oyly Carte, who’d originally discovered the works of Gilbert and Sullivan, and built the Savoy Theatre in which to present their operettas. He constructed the hotel next to the theater and followed his slogan, “Never compromise” to the extent that he hired César Ritz to manage it (Ritz eventually went off to create his own London landmark, The Ritz). Ritz, in turn, hired none other than the legendary Auguste Escoffier as chef. The standards were set high, and while the hotel fell into disrepair in the 1950s and 1960s, it’s since been restored to its original stature and beyond. Although Johann Strauss no longer plays waltzes in the restaurant, and the magnificent voice of Caruso isn’t heard there these days, the Savoy captures the hearts of everyone who stays there, including this lady. My late husband, Frank, and I spent our honeymoon there, and I’ve returned many times since when visiting London for pleasure or on business.

We were checked in and taken to our rooms. To my surprise, I’d been given one of the Edwardian riverside apartment suites, a favorite of visiting movie stars and other people of note. Noel Coward, Liza Minnelli, and Goldie Hawn are just a few of the hundreds of famous people, including kings and queens, who’ve basked in the luxury of the apartments, with their spectacular views of the Thames. The huge living room was filled with antiques and featured detailed plasterwork on the ceilings. The bed was king-sized and covered with fine Irish linen sheets; the spacious bathroom was a dazzling display of art deco marble and gleaming chrome fixtures.

I felt like a queen.

A tall vase holding a dozen long-stemmed red roses dominated a round table in the living room’s center. I pulled the small card from where it had been pinned to the covering paper and opened it.

The aroma of the roses was as pleasurable as the contemplation of seeing my dear friend George Sutherland. George is a senior Scotland Yard inspector whom I met years ago while in London as a guest of a mystery-writing colleague, Dame Marjorie Ainsworth. Marjorie was considered one of the world’s greatest writers of crime novels, as the British prefer to call murder mysteries. She had invited me to her manor house outside of London when I was in England as a guest panelist at an international mystery conference. While I was there, she was brutally stabbed to death in her bed. First on the scene was George Sutherland, to whom I took an immediate liking, even though he viewed me as much of a suspect as others in the house that weekend. We ended up collaborating in solving Marjorie’s murder and—well, I suppose you can say that we developed a keen interest in each other beyond simply having worked together. George is widowed, as am I, and although neither of us is impatient to develop another full-fledged romance, I must admit that George has championed that possibility at times, and the temptation has been strong for me, too. But we’ve agreed the prudent thing for us at this stage in our lives is to go slowly and see where things naturally evolve.

I’d called him prior to leaving Cabot Cove for the SilverAir inaugural flight and told him I’d be in London for only two days, and mentioned where I’d be staying. How sweet of him to have sent flowers. Among many wonderful attributes—he’s a handsome gentleman with a Scottish brogue modified by years of living in London—is a sensitivity not always found in men who spend their adult lives investigating the darker side of the human condition.

I went to the window, parted the drapes, and looked down at the twinkling lights of boats on the Thames as they glided by. I suppose I was lost in a reverie of sorts because when the phone rang, it startled me to the extent that I flinched and knocked over the receiver as I reached for the phone.

“Jessica? Are you there?”

“Hello,” I said, fumbling with the phone. “Yes. I—”

“I know I’m not waking you because I had the desk clerk at the hotel ring me when your party checked in.”

“George!” I laughed, delighted to hear the voice of the man I’d just been thinking about. “How did you get him to do that?”

“You might say I pulled rank,” he said, chuckling. “A nice young chap, very impressed that someone from the Yard called.”

“The flowers are beautiful, George. Thank you.”

“The least I could do. I realize you’re probably exhausted from the trip and the time change, your circadian rhythms thoroughly turned upside down, so I won’t keep you from getting some needed sleep. But tomorrow, I—”

“Actually, I’m wide-awake,” I said, glancing at my watch. “It’s only five o’clock back home.”

“That’s encouraging.”

“It is?”

“Are you up for a nightcap?”

“I believe I am. Where are you?”

“Downstairs in the lobby.”

“You’re—?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “You are more devious than you let on, George.”

“We shan’t make it a long drink, Jessica. The American Bar, say, in ten minutes?”

“Make it twenty minutes. I need to unpack and freshen up.”

“Take all the time you need,” he said. “I’ll secure us a proper table.”

George sprung to his feet as he saw me enter the Savoy’s American Bar, which has its own history. Legend has it that it was where the martini was introduced, although that’s subject to debate. Certainly, it was where the cocktail was popularized in London. It was bustling with people as we smiled at each other, closed the gap, and embraced. Once seated, George said, “You look absolutely splendid, Jessica. Obviously, the long flight didn’t take its toll on you.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I said, waving away his compliment. “I suspect that in a half hour I’ll be ready to fall on my nose.”

“We can’t have that,” he said. “Much too pretty a nose to have that happen.”

“You look wonderful, George,” I said, “very relaxed and at peace with the world.”

He wore what could almost be considered a uniform for him: a blue button-down shirt, a Harris tweed jacket, a muted tie, tan slacks with a razor crease, and ankle-high boots shined to a mirror finish. A little gray had crept into his hairline, but not much. It was his eyes that always drew me, probably because they seemed fascinated by everything and everyone, soft eyes the color of Granny Smith apples, but eyes that never missed a thing.

“Thank you, Jessica. What will you have to drink?”

“A glass of sherry would be nice,” I said. George had what he almost always orders, a single-malt scotch.

Drinks in hand, we toasted to being together again.

“So,” I said, “tell me what sensational crimes you’ve been solving since the last time I saw you.”

“Afraid there’s not much to report,” he said. “The usual, angry or unhappy spouses killing their better halves—I will never understand why they don’t simply walk away rather than taking a life. But that’s for the sociologists to answer, I suppose, and they don’t seem to have a clue. You, Jessica? Working on a new book?”

“Not at the moment, although I am putting together a plot for the next one. I’m enjoying not being tied to my computer and having to produce pages. That’s why I agreed to come on the first flight of SilverAir.”

“How was it?”

“Very nice. The airline’s founder, Wayne Silverton, grew up in Cabot Cove.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“When you told me about your invitation, I did a little checking into the airline. It’s gotten quite a bit of press here in the UK.”

“I imagine it would since London is one of its original destinations. What does the press have to say?”

“Mostly mixed. Some of our travel writers and editors applaud Mr. Silverton’s courage in starting an airline in the midst of so many airline bankruptcies, and think providing more comfortable surroundings is good for the traveling public. Others? There are detractors.”

“Who consider it foolhardy?”

“Not exactly. A few business writers have delved into Mr. Silverton’s financing for the airline. They aren’t terribly impressed with those he’s chosen to partner with, including some chaps here in the UK, one of whom has a rather unsavory reputation.”

“Oh? I met one of Wayne Silverton’s partners on the flight, a Mr. Casale.”

“Ah, yes. His name has come up, too.”

“It sounds as though you’ve done more than just a little checking into the airline.”

“In the genes, I suppose. There’s been considerable interest in how your Mr. Silverton and his airline managed to circumvent the usual means of gaining approval to use Stansted Airport. It seems they hired some very well-connected lobbyists here in the UK who—how shall I say it?—greased the skids for their client.”

“Greased the skids, as in bought access?” I asked.

“Exactly. Who paid that money, and more important, who received it in the Civil Aviation Authority, is still closely guarded information. I should hasten to mention that this is all alleged. What we do know for a fact is that SilverAir gained access to gates at Stansted far faster than any other airline looking for accommodation there.”

I sat back, processed what he’d said, and sipped my sherry. “You said the name Casale came up, too, George. In what context?”