Deadly Detail (22 page)
“Alex, you could call me next time you’re in town. We really do dance well together, and Mother will be leaving soon.”
“You can count on it. We’ll find a mutual friend to introduce us and start all over.”
Jessie had parked the 310 in the hangar. The Beech and the Cessna 180 were gone, the Piper covered, and he had the cowling cover off the Taylor Craft.
“Hi, Jess, 310 ready to travel?”
He wiped his hands on a rag and came to lean against the 310’s wing. “Yeah, she’s pristine. Why did you think the oil was contaminated? It looked brand-new.”
“Just a hunch, never take chances. When I’m flying, that’s dangerous enough without aircraft problems.”
“Yeah, that’s what everybody says about you.” He pulled a clipboard down from the key rack. “Three hundred twenty bucks. Fuel tanks were almost empty, so I filled them, and price includes the car rental. You got cash?”
“Sure you wouldn’t rather have a credit card?”
“Why leave paper trails when there’s no need?”
That was between him and the IRS. I pulled out the roll, and it would have been short without the extra income from Interior. As it was, there were very few bills left and I suspected several of them were singles. I traded him the cash and the car keys for the keys to the 310. He brought a little gadget like a gasoline-powered hand truck, hooked it to the nose wheel and pulled the airplane outside. He turned it so I could start it without blasting his shop.
I flew the plane back to International and traded it for the Buick, then drove to the Jeep Chrysler dealer. I had an idea about how to spend some more serious money, and that idea felt really good. They took a check and a promise, and agreed to deliver the Jeep.
When Angie came out the back door, I had the Buick parked beside it. I reached over and shoved the door open.
“Wow, on time three days in a row? Maybe men really can be reformed. I’ll call Connie and tell her you’re a new man. Hey, where are we going? And where’s that classy limousine from Phillips Field?”
“Limousine’s returned to Goldstein, and the airplane’s ready to fly. We’ll have to make do with the Buick tonight.”
I’d turned right on Cowles Street instead of left toward home and hearth. “We’re headed for The Broiler, of course. We have reservations in twenty minutes and they have another bottle of nineteen seventy-one.”
“And we’re celebrating?”
“It’s over, Angie. Next time Turk meets you on the road, you may assume it’s porcupines.” I parked in the lot at The Broiler beside a brand-new Jeep Wrangler. We were escorted to the same table we’d used before, and the sommelier met us with the Pouilly-Fuissé in a silver ice bucket. He poured, we saluted each other and sipped.
“It’s really over, Alex? You found out who’s been trying to kill us?”
“It’s over, Angie. All packaged and delivered to the cops. I suspect you’re going to have a little problem canceling campaign ads, though.”
“It was Reginald?”
“Nope, Reginald is as innocent as any politician can be, but the scandal is going to end his ambitions, if it doesn’t actually kill him. It was Freddy’s girlfriend Marlene, but Freddy went along, and I didn’t really believe it until he confessed.”
“Alex, you said, ‘when Turk meets me.’ You’re going back to Bethel?”
“Unless you’d like to take me up on the offer of a ride to Crooked Creek. If you’d like to do that, I’ll help you close up the house and such.”
“No, you’re right, I’m staying here. I’ll have to pick up a car, but I do have a good job and I love the house. I’m through going crazy.”
“Car’s taken care of, Angie. That Wrangler out front is yours. Here’s the keys.” I handed them across the table. She hesitated, reached for them, pulled back. “Why, Alex?”
“Because I want my sister to ride in style, and I may want to borrow it next trip, if I date a blonde.”
“Thanks, brother. So you will be visiting?”
“Angie, anytime I’m in Fairbanks, the first and last dinner will be right here with you. The occasional blonde in between is possible. Remember we talked about the Mardi Gras? I can always get a few weeks off in February.”
“You’re kidding. Wouldn’t you rather take a blonde?”
“Nope. The thought of you and me strolling down Bourbon Street, sipping Hurricanes from paper cups and listening to the music will keep me warm all winter. Ever hear of Preservation Hall?”
“Bunch of guys about a hundred years old, playing jazz? Sure, everyone’s heard of them. Do you have the whole trip planned?”
“Yep, rooms at the Royal Sonesta, fried oysters in their coffee shop….”
“Just one room, Alex. I rather like listening to you snore in the other bed. But why me?”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, but blondes come and go. You’re the only sister I’ve ever had, and I’m really getting into this family thing.”
We both reached at once, clasped hands in mid-table and squeezed.
The waiter brought our lobsters. I’d ordered them in advance, along with the wine.
“I’ll hold you to that, Alex. If I catch you with a blonde before you check in with me, hell hath no fury.”
We shed the lobster shells, a solid fork thrust under the tail, a quick twist, discarded the husks and dug in. The lobsters were perfectly done, flaking off by the forkful, and the garlic butter was lightly salted and smoking hot.
“You said you really like your job at the station?”
“Yes, actually I do. Fun people, interesting work, advancement on the horizon.”
“And it pays pretty well?”
“Oh, oh, I see where this is going. Alex, you don’t have to worry about me. Yes, the job pays very well, the house is paid for, and Stan was a fanatic. You know, even when we had plenty of money, he had that macho hang-up, always worried about taking care of me. I tried to talk him out of it, but a stubborn macho male he was. He bought a life insurance policy for half a million dollars, then fussed and fumed about whether it was enough. So, no, dear brother, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m accepting the car as a gesture of love and a symbol of the bond between us, not because I need it. Is that what you had in mind?”
“That’s perfect, and speaking of perfect, how’s your lobster?”
“Couldn’t be better, but you’re not drinking your share of the wine.”
“No, it’s a nefarious plot to get you drunk. And then, too, I’ll be flying in an hour, so one glass is my limit.” We’d eaten every bite of lobster. That seemed to be a habit with us. “So, I’m to drink the bottle and then drive home?”
“The Jeep is four-wheel drive if you run off the road, but take the bottle with you. Light a candle and share it with our mutual memories. Ready?” I stood.
“The check?”
“Paid in advance. You can do that when you know what you’re going to order.”
“How about the Buick?”
“I’ll drop it at the airport, no problem.”
Our waiter brought a paper sack, mashed the cork back into the bottle, bagged it, and handed it to Angie. I offered my arm and we marched outside. We stopped beside the Jeep and I opened the door.
“You go first, I don’t want you to see a macho man cry.”
We hugged, long, hard, intimate, loving. She slid into the Jeep, inserted her key, and fired the engine.
“Thanks for dinner, Alex. See you next trip.” She backed out of the lot and drove away.
It was a long, cold, lonely drive to the airport.
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