Coffee, Tea, or Murder? (6 page)

Strange
, I thought.

“You all right, Jessica?” George said, coming up behind me.

“I just saw the captain of our flight,” I told him.

“Oh?” George said flatly, reviewing some notes he had written.

“Yes. I wonder why he’s here at the airport,” I said.

George shrugged. “Seems a logical place for an airline pilot to be.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, “but I assumed he’d gone into London with the rest of us. He and Wayne Silverton had argued during the flight.”

This time his “Oh?” was delivered with more interest. “Tell me about it,” he said.

I recounted the confrontation between Silverton and Caine over the malfunctioning light on the control panel.

“I’ll ask Captain Caine about it. He’s on my list of those to interview,” George said. “By the way, I was in communication with my superiors at the Yard. It seems they’ve decided that I’m to stay on this case as lead investigator.”

My immediate, unspoken reaction was pleasure at the news. Whether George was pleased was another matter.

“You know what that means?” he said. “You may have another passenger on the flight home.”

“You?”

He nodded. “My superiors think it might prove worthwhile for me to accompany those who were on the flight, get to know them better, perhaps well enough to identify the murderer.”

“I, ah—”

He smiled and touched my arm. “Hardly a conventional reason for us to spend time together, Jessica, but I’ll take it.”

Cupid is a murderer,
I thought.

“Besides,” he said, “I’ll need your help. You have better instincts and observational skills than most professional detectives I’ve worked with.”

“That’s flattering,” I said, “but if it’s all the same to you, I’d just as soon leave it to professionals—like you.”

He looked at me and smiled, and I had to smile, too. We both knew that my natural curiosity gene had already kicked in, and that it would be impossible for me to remain uninvolved.

“I have to get back to headquarters,” he said.

“Of course. May I ride back with you, or would you rather I find other transportation?”

“No, you’re coming with me. I’ll drop you at the hotel. I’m afraid I’ve been assigned to break the news to the victim’s wife. You know her?”

“Yes, but not well. Her name is Christine. She’s a former airline stewardess—back when they were called that.”

“Would you consider—?” He stopped, as if weighing his request.

“Being with you when you tell her? Of course.”

“Thank you.”

We remained at the airport for another fifteen minutes while George issued a final set of orders. A uniformed officer who’d been standing guard over George’s Jaguar opened the door for me, and with George behind the wheel we headed back to London. He drove more slowly than he had on the way to Stansted, which caused me less anxiety. But while the pace might have been slower, my brain was racing.

“Who was the man you interviewed?” I asked after we’d turned onto the A406.

“An airport security guard assigned to the SilverAir plane. I have the feeling that he wasn’t especially diligent, although he did have something of interest to offer.”

“What was that?”

“He said he was there when Mr. Silverton entered the plane.”

“That could be helpful,” I said, “to establish the time sequence.”

“Right you are. But I was more interested in what else he saw. He claims to have seen someone follow Silverton aboard.”

I stiffened. “Who was it?” I asked.

“I’m afraid he wasn’t much help there. He says he’d gone to get a cup of tea from a vendor and was on his way back when this second person got on.”

“No one was on duty while he went for his tea?” I asked.

“He claims he never took his eyes off the plane because the vendor wasn’t far away. I doubt that, but I didn’t challenge him. The important thing is that he did see a second person.”

“A man?”

“Or a woman.”

“He doesn’t know?”

“Unfortunately, no. All he saw, he said, was a person wearing a dark coat of some type.”

“He didn’t board to see who it was?”

George laughed. “You ask the same questions I asked,” he said. “No, he did not. He says he didn’t want to intrude on Silverton. He’s well aware that Silverton owns—or owned—the airline.”

“A shame he didn’t follow up. He didn’t see this second person leave?”

“Not according to him. Of course, he assured me that he never left his post again, except—”

“There was an exception?”

“Nature called, he said. Tea will sometimes do that to you, especially a large take-out container.”

My sigh was long and loud.

“So much for security,” George said. “Tell me again about this argument between Silverton and the captain. Blaine, was it?”

“Caine,” I corrected, and told him again what I remembered of the flight deck dispute.

“Doesn’t sound like much of a flap, but I’ll raise it when I have a word with him,” George said.

“I think we—you—should check taxi services to see who might have taken a fare earlier in the evening to Stansted Airport.”

“Good suggestion, Jessica. As far as you know, were any of your fellow passengers intending to extend their stay in London beyond the return flight?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

We said little else for the rest of the trip. My thoughts were focused on the unpleasant task of telling Christine Silverton of her husband’s murder. I also pondered whether to wake Seth, Mort, Maureen, and the Shevlins to give them the news. I decided against it. The news would be broken to everyone at breakfast the following morning.

As we got out of the Jaguar and walked into the lobby, I realized that of everyone at breakfast, there might be one person for whom the news wouldn’t come as a shock.

Whoever murdered Wayne Silverton would already know.

I
t became immediately apparent as we crossed the lobby that the news wouldn’t have to wait until breakfast. It seemed that half of my fellow passengers were there. Upon spotting me come through the door, Seth Hazlitt, Mort and Maureen Metzger, and Mayor Shevlin jumped up from couches and surrounded George and me.

“And where have you been?” Seth asked sternly.

“I was—”

“We’ve been worried sick about you,” said Maureen.

“I’ve been with George. You’ve met Inspector Sutherland.”

“Ayuh,”
Seth said, accepting George’s outstretched hand. “Good evening, Inspector.”

“Good evening, Doctor,” George said.

The others greeted George, too. They’d met when he visited Cabot Cove, and he and Seth had spent time together when the three of us were in Washington, D.C. I was aware that Seth wasn’t particularly fond of George, the reason pure speculation. Because of my close friendship with Seth for so many years, and the fact that we were both single, there had been occasional conjecture that he and I were linked romantically. That wasn’t true, but rumors like that are hard to dispel. What was behind Seth’s discomfort with my closeness with George was, I felt, perhaps the protective instincts longtime friends have for each other. Seth and I weren’t far apart in age, but he tended to assume a paternal stance with me, like a father concerned that his daughter might choose the wrong man. It was all silly, I know, and totally unnecessary, but that was Seth. On the one hand, I loved him for it. He obviously had my best interests at heart. On the other hand, I did find myself occasionally irked at being treated like a flibbertigibbet incapable of making sound adult decisions. I suppose I had given him cause at times through sticky situations in which I’d found myself, particularly when they involved danger. And here I was again in close proximity to a murder, the stickiest of all possible situations.

“Is it true?” Maureen asked. “Wayne is dead?”

“I’m afraid so,” I said. “How did you know?”

“There was a reporter here asking questions.”

“Then does Christine know?” I asked.

They looked at each other before Jim Shevlin said, “I haven’t seen her. Have you, Mort?”

“No,” Mort answered.

“She’s got to be told,” I said. “George and I came to break the news to her.”

George said, “It would be good if Dr. Hazlitt would accompany us. Having a physician on hand might be prudent.”

“I’m willing,” Seth said.

By now, the circle of people surrounding us had grown to a few dozen, including one of the reporters on the trip. A flurry of questions erupted asking for details of what had happened at Stansted, none of which, I knew, George would be willing to answer.

“I’ll ring Christine’s room,” I said, and walked toward a bank of house phones. George and Seth followed, the lingering questions fading behind us. I picked up the phone and asked for Mrs. Silverton’s suite.

“I’m afraid we don’t put through calls to guest rooms at this hour,” the operator said, “unless there’s been prior approval.”

“This is an emergency,” I said. “Mrs. Silverton will want to receive my call. I’m Jessica Fletcher, another guest at the hotel.”

“I appreciate that, ma’am, but—”

George gently took the phone from me. “This is Scotland Yard Inspector George Sutherland,” he said in a calm, yet firm voice. “This call to Mrs. Silverton is official police business.”

“Yes, sir.”

George handed me the phone as Christine picked up.

“Christine,” I said, “it’s Jessica Fletcher. I’m sorry to be calling so late but—”

“You’re not waking me,” she said. “What is it?”

“We . . . need to talk with you. May I come up to your room?” I said. “Seth Hazlitt is with me, and another man, George Sutherland.”

“What is it?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

“May we come up?” I said.

“Yes, of course.”

We rode the elevator to her floor, found the suite, and I knocked. Christine opened the door immediately. She covered her mouth with her hand and retreated into the suite’s recesses. “Something’s happened to Wayne, hasn’t it?” she said without turning to face us.

“Yes, ma’am,” George said. “I’m Inspector Sutherland, Scotland Yard. I’m terribly sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I’m afraid your husband has been found dead at Stansted Airport.”

She remained with her back to us. There was a discernible heaving of her shoulders, and then the sound of gentle sobs. I placed my hands on her upper arms and asked, “Would you like to sit, Christine?”

She didn’t reply, simply pulled away from me and went to a small swivel club chair covered in a floral print on which she’d flung her navy blue raincoat. She dropped it to the floor. I picked it up. It felt damp. I took it to the closet and reached in to remove a hanger. The closet was empty except for unused hangers. I hung the coat and turned back to the room where I noticed that four suitcases stood unopened on folding racks.

“How?” Christine asked no one in particular. “What happened? A heart attack? An accident?”

“Your husband was murdered,” George said.

“Murdered?” she said, her face angry. “That’s absurd. There must be a mistake.”

“Afraid not, Christine,” said Seth.

“Do you think you could answer a few questions, Mrs. Silverton?” George asked.

Christine popped up out of her chair. “Questions? At this time? Of course not,” she said pacing back and forth.

“We’ll make it tomorrow, then,” George said.

“But
I
have questions,” she said, her voice rising to a shriek.

“Maybe tomorrow would be a better time for them, too,” Seth suggested.

Christine stopped pacing, eyes narrowed, lips a slash across her pretty face. “How was he killed?” she demanded.

George looked at me and Seth before answering. “He was stabbed,” he said.

“Where?”

“In his back.”

“I don’t mean that,” she snapped. “Where did it happen?”

“On the flight deck of the aircraft that brought us here,” I said. “He was found in the captain’s seat.”

Her laugh was sardonic. “Good God,” she said. “Wayne was always a frustrated airline pilot. He loved to sneak into the cockpit of one of our SilverAir planes when no one else was around and pretend he was flying it. It was all fantasy with him. The whole thing was a fantasy. Owning an airline was a fantasy.”

That knife sticking out of his back was no fantasy
, I thought. But of course, I didn’t express it.

“Would you like me to prescribe something for you, Christine?” Seth asked. “Something to help you sleep, perhaps.”

“No, I’m all right,” she said. “I don’t want to sleep.”

“Would you prefer to be alone?” Seth asked.

She nodded.

“I’ll stay a few minutes,” I said, my expression indicating that I thought Seth and George should leave.

“I’d best go now,” George said. “They’re expecting me at headquarters. A word, Jessica?”

“I’ll be right back,” I told Christine, and accompanied the men into the hallway, using my foot to keep the door ajar.

“I think it’s a good idea for you to stay with her,” Seth said in a low voice, “at least for a while. I’ll be in my room if she changes her mind, or if you need anything.”

“Good,” I said. To George: “When will I see you again?”

“In the morning. You say there’s a breakfast planned?”

“At nine. That’s what the schedule says.”

“I’ll be here earlier than that.”

“Call me when you arrive.”

“She appears to be all right at the moment,” Seth said, “but the shock really hasn’t hit home. Keep an eye on her, Jessica.”

I assured him I would, said good night, and watched them walk down the hall and disappear into a waiting elevator. When I returned to the room, Christine was standing at the window.