by Theasa Tuohy
The little plane then rocked from right to left, as Laura watched in amazement while first one wing tipped toward the earth, then the other. He did that on purpose! How could anyone be so irresponsible! I will report him to the authorities. But just who in the world might that be?
Her head was swimming; she shook it to rid the dizziness. The lapel of the leather jacket she’d borrowed from the nice little kid the pilot had called a monkey was softly flapping against her cheek; she adjusted her goggles and a slow, serence smile spread across her face. She was floating through clouds, soaring above the world like a bird.
What a story. She could hardly wait to find a typewriter!
CHAPTER TWELVE
ATCHISON
Laura’s daydreaming float was suddenly shattered. She lurched forward and bumped her forehead against the metal of her encasing tube. It felt like a taxicab that had just made a sudden stop in a Manhattan traffic jam. Jenny Flynn had implied yesterday that most airplanes don’t have brakes. Laura hadn’t had time to ask how one slowed down or stopped. She vowed to learn more as soon as they got on the ground, if they made it in one piece. She looked over the side and could see another tiny airstrip with one of those big garages with a flying sock. The field was swarming with people. As they lost altitude and the pilot circled, Laura could make out barriers and tape strung around, the kind of stuff that police used to cordon off a crime scene. Where can the pilot land, she fretted, without crushing a bunch of people? He flew so low over their heads that Laura could read the markings on several cars: Atchison Police and Atchison County Sheriff.
Suddenly they swooped up and circled, then buzzed again over the crowd. This is what I would call a topsy-turvy ride, she thought. But it was exhilarating. Downright exciting. What fun! No wonder these crazy people do all these crazy things. As they soared up and left the tiny specks of humanity below on the ground, she felt the wonder of it all—above the world, riding the wings of an eagle.
They came around again, and it looked as though someone on the ground was beginning to push the crowds away to make a small hole on what appeared to be a patch of parched grass.
I guess I should be afraid, Laura thought, but she had seen so many aerobatic stunts yesterday in Cleveland that she figured these fliers could do whatever they wanted.
The pilot suddenly turned the plane sideways, and made a steep descent, heading right for the open spot of grass. Laura was so close to the ground she could make out the round gold-framed spectacles on a fat woman in a faded blue sunbonnet. The woman disappeared in a blur as Laura was abruptly flipped back when the plane righted and touched down with a soft bump. The crowd on the ground let out a roar of approval, swarming around the plane as police and deputy sheriffs unsuccessfully tried to hold them back. Laura hoisted herself up from her metal seat with its inadequate cushion to bask in the adulation of the cheering throng. Good golly, she thought, as she waved and smiled for the excited crowd, these goggles and helmet can work wonders for a girl’s self-esteem.
She hooked her right leg over the side of the hole of a seat, and immediately realized that the awkwardness of trying to release herself from the confining and uncomfortable metal box would detract from the glamour image she had a moment before enjoyed. A barrel-chested young man with a crop of yellow hair that looked like it had recently been barbered with a bowl for a guide jumped up on the wing and gallantly lifted her straight up out of her seat, and then gently lowered her into the crush of admirers.
The police were not far behind.
As a blue-suited cop took a belligerent stance in front of her, Laura decided to keep the helmet on and just lift a side flap so she could hear. Clearly the helmet was some kind of badge of honor in these parts, and besides, she could envision with horror how its weight had crushed her marcel.
“So, what are you doing here?” the cop yelled over the noise of the crowd. “This airfield is closed off.” The words were gruff, but the officer had a peculiar, bemused look on his face.
“I’m a reporter from New York,” Laura replied in as haughty a manner as she could muster, considering the flaming blush rising in her cheeks. She realized that not only was she standing there in men’s clothing, but she was barefoot. She’d forgotten to retrieve the high-heeled shoes she’d removed when she boarded the plane.
“Now aren’t we lucky,” said the cop, the bemusement clearly fighting to overrule his sarcastic tone.
A fellow wearing a Sam Browne belt and a deputy sheriff’s patch pushed his way through the crowd circling around Laura. “We don’t need any more press, lady. You need to move along, go back wherever you came from. I’ve already told that to the fellow who piloted you in.”
“Do you know Amelia Earhart?” asked a dark-eyed girl of about five, perched on her father’s shoulders.
“Yeah, Amelia’s from here. This here’s her town,” said a gray-haired woman in a cotton print dress with great pride in her voice.
Laura felt a tug at her sleeve. It was the pilot.
“I’m gassin’ up and gittin’ outta here,” he said.
“But we can’t go back yet. I’ve got to find out what’s going on and call my office.”
“I don’t want no trouble with the cops,” the pilot said, starting to move off.
The deputy nodded. “You better take his lead, lady.”
“But I paid you for a round-trip,” Laura called to the pilot’s retreating back.
He turned. “No one stoppin’ you from goin’. But I ain’t waitin’ around fer ya.”
“Please,” Laura said to the city cop, who seemed a little less stern than the deputy, “I have to know what happened before I can leave.”
“It’s a crime scene,” he replied curtly, under the glare of the sheriff.
“Yes,” Laura said, trying to hide her exasperation at the statement of the obvious. “What was the crime? That’s all I want to know.”
“A woman died yesterday. Then another woman showed up today and stole the plane the dead one had jumped from. Go talk to your fellow hacks. They’re all over the place.”
“Can’t you help me with anything more?” Laura pleaded to the cop’s answering shrug. She turned to the woman in the sunbonnet. “Can you help?”
“Of course,” the woman said. “I don’t know what you think you’re hiding, Tom,” she addressed the officer. “It’s all over The Daily Globe. That’s our paper,” she said in an aside to Laura. Others in the crowd were all volunteering details at once.
“She flew right outta that barn yonder.”
“The chute didn’t open.”
“Fell right there,” another called out, “saw with my own eyes.”
It was all a garble of voices and information.
“Will the pilot have to go far to buy gasoline?” Laura asked of no one in particular. “Is there a filling station nearby? I need time to get this straight, and find Western Union.”
“Lady, you’re not going to have time to get to town for Western Union,” said the sheriff’s deputy. “They have fuel pumps right there in the hangar. Now go on and leave with your pilot.”
“The woman you’re talking about, what was her name?” Laura asked the assemblage.
“We know the one from here,” the lady in the cotton print spoke up. “She’s Sally Culpepper. Family has a farm just west a town. Hit the ground with a crack right over there.” She pointed to the circle of police cars. “Terrible thing,” she added, momentarily adopting a face of pious remorse, then her jaw hardened. “But she should have thought of her child before she did such a fool stunt.”
“Child?”
“No one knows about t’other one who stole the plane,” yelled someone Laura couldn’t see at the edges of the crowd.
“Yes,” piped in the dark-haired young father with the child on his shoulders. “She just landed in one plane, a guy on the ground jumped into hers, and she took off with the plane the district attorney had impounded.”
“Oh my gosh,” Laura said. “You m
ean someone really did steal a plane?”
“You betcha.” The yellow-haired fellow who had helped Laura from the plane surveyed her with an approving grin. “Can I give you a ride to town, ma’am? My Model T is right over there. I could take you to Western Union.”
Laura had never been much of what one would call a flirt. She had learned early on to duck and bob to avoid tight spots; first with her mother’s many boyfriends and later in the city room where she was the only woman in a sea of men. She’d had a friend whom she met at a Barnard/Columbia mixer who encouraged her to write, but she hadn’t seen him since he graduated and went off for an advanced degree at Stanford. There always seemed to be plenty of fellows around to open doors or hold coats, so she’d never bothered to perfect the coquette. But at this moment, she decided she needed all the help she could get, so she dredged up her most radiant smile.
“Thank you so much,” she said to the young man, “but I really need my shoes. Do you think you might get them from the plane?”
A photographer with The Globe emblazoned across his camera bag pushed in and snapped a picture of Laura.
“Don’t do that!” she shouted, sticking her hand flat out in the direction of his flash. “You don’t want me, I’m a reporter.” And heaven help me, she thought, no pictures in these outlandish clothes. I would be the laughing stock of the newsroom.
“So where you from?” he asked, lowering his camera.
“The New York Enterprise-Post, and I need a phone. Can you help?”
“Talk to the society editor, Mary Anderson. I saw her a few minutes ago in that clump of folks on the other side of the pasture. She’s been talking to the dead woman’s family.” He gave a vague wave over the multitude to what looked like quite a distance to Laura, especially barefoot.
At that moment, Yellow Hair came pushing through the throng, holding high and waving Laura’s shoes.
High heels with pants, she thought. Who would ever have guessed I’d be so grateful?
Shoes on, she explained her next two goals to Yellow Hair: get to the pilot and stop him from leaving; then find this Mary Anderson in the crowd; or short of that, get to Western Union.
“Quick as said, done,” replied her savior. In no time, he had pulled her through the crowd, and she found herself in the hangar confronting the pilot just as he was handing cash over to a sweet-faced, curly headed young man in blue overalls.
“Chaz, my lady friend here has a problem,” Yellow Hair said by way of introduction. “Do you think you could hold off a bit moving the plane in here to get gassed up? Might be hard to roll her through that crowd, don’t ya think?”
Chaz looked from Laura to the pilot and smiled. “Sure, Billy Bob, whatever you say.”
Gosh, thought Laura, I didn’t even think to find out his name, and here he has two of them. “Hi, Billy Bob,” she said, sticking out her hand.“My name is Laura.”
Billy Bob nodded his head and turned red. “Pleased to meet ya, ma’am.”
“Now wait a minute,” said the pilot, “I already paid you for the gas.”
“Sure you did,” replied Chaz, “but Billy Bob here has a point about all them people out there. Wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt.”
“I’m not staying.” The pilot glared at Laura. “All she has to do is take off them pointy shoes, and she can get in and we go.”
“I can’t leave yet,” Laura said. “I have to get details from the cops then call my office. You can’t leave me stranded here.”
Chaz grinned. “Say, little lady, if all you need is a hop, we can arrange that any time you want. We got plenty of barnstormers looking to make a buck or two. If your pilot here has reason to fear the police, let him go on.”
“Really?” Laura felt like hugging the mechanic. “I already paid him for a round-trip.”
“I’m sure we can work that out.” Chaz turned to the pilot. “I’d say before we roll the plane in here, wouldn’t you think?”
That settled, they all headed for the plane. While Chaz recruited several men in the crowd to help shove, the pilot climbed up on the wing to retrieve Laura’s satchel and hatbox. For a moment, it looked as though he was going to just heave them over. But a funny look appeared on his face as Billy Bob lifted up his arms to take the objects. The pilot then bent one knee down on the wing, and handed over the luggage with the care of someone transferring fine china.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GETTING THE LOWDOWN
When Billy Bob and Laura arrived at the offices of the Atchison Daily Globe, they found Mary Anderson, hairpins flying from her salt-and-pepper bun, already banging out her story of the Culpepper family’s loss. Mary was cordial enough. She waved Laura to a seat, told her to feel free to use her phone to call Barnes. But she couldn’t talk, she said, as she typed and yelled, “Copy!” A kid came running to rip a page from her typewriter and sped with it to the composing room.
It was the same copyboy who had guided them to Mary’s desk a few minutes earlier.
“We got to get this edition on the street,” he’d said, with clear excitement and puffed-up pride in his voice. “United Press, AP, and the Journal-Post all sent reporters from Kansas City for yesterday’s story, so they were Johnny-on-the-spot when today’s thing broke. The Journal’s trucks’ve already dropped off their latest papers. They’re our big competitor, you know.”
Indeed, Laura had already spotted a copy of the Kansas City Journal-Post lying on the next desk over, and had begun to read while the kid droned on. She also found a Kansas City Star and a St. Louis Globe-Democrat that had bylined stories as well.
“You see,” the kid said proudly, “nobody got to the Culpepper family but Mary.”
With the last yell of “Copy!” and the final page ripped from her typewriter, Mary turned in her swivel chair to Laura with a businesslike, “And what can I do for you?”
Mary looked like the newswoman Joe Bailey had described to her on the train. She was a large, matronly woman whose skin was parched and deeply wrinkled from the Kansas sun, wearing heavy-duty lace-up shoes. She had a no-nonsense air, nicotine stains on her fingers, and was puffing on a small cigarillo.
“I need some information, and I’m told you’re the society editor,” Laura said.
“Now that’s a joke,” Mary replied with a quizzical squint, as though she were taking stock of Laura. “Do I look like the society type?”
“Oh, I . . .”
“Don’t worry, just funning you,” Mary said. “I do whatever needs to be done. This is a small town. I know most all the families.”
“Okay, help me get this straight, if you would,” Laura said. “As I understand it, this Sally Culpepper fell out of a plane . . .”
“She jumped. Paid a buck fifty for the privilege. An air show passing through town.”
“Jumped?” Laura’s eyebrows rose a notch.
“Parachute didn’t open,” Mary said. “Flying acts are big entertainment in these little towns. Barnstormers come through doing aerobatics, guys walking on wings. Had one daredevil pair, so help me God, played tennis, with a net and everything, strapped on the wing of a plane in flight.”
“That’s crazy, all right,” Laura replied, “but what about Culpepper? What did her family say? And why did they impound the plane, was it the plane, and who stole it? I noticed some of the papers said it was the girl who flew under all the bridges in New York. Others said she hadn’t been ID’d.”
“Is this the way you get your news in New York? Ask other reporters?” Mary let out a loud guffaw, slapping her hand against her knee.
Laura’s eyes blinked from the heat in her cheeks; she knew she’d gone beet red. “Look,” she took a deep, calming breath, “I’m clearly running to catch up. But I can assure you that I will give full attribution to The Globe.”
“The Atchison Daily Globe,” Mary retorted.
“Absolutely.”
Mary filled her in, and Laura then called Barnes in New York.
“A woman paid a dollar f
ifty to make a jump from an airplane!” she yelled into the phone in a rush, worrying about how much this call halfway across the country would cost and if the Globe would ask her to pay for it, “and the chute didn’t open. The DA impounded the plane, and another woman came in the next day and flew off with it.”
“I know all that,” the city editor bellowed. “The wires have it. What do you think I’m paying you for?”
“I got plenty more,” Laura said in a huff. “I’m just making sure you got the basics. This guy Chaz, at the airfield, described a woman who sounds to me like Jenny Flynn, and he suspects she was heading to Ponca City, Oklahoma, because that’s where the stunter was planning his next show. DA says the guy’s name is Roy Wiggens. Since it was his plane that was impounded, the guess is that he figured the guards would stop him from getting in it, but wouldn’t notice a woman. Figured right. She moved so fast, they hardly had time to see her.”
“Fine, then go to Oklahoma,” Barnes said. “What else?”
“But say, boss, shouldn’t I be getting back to Cleveland, instead of some wild goose chase?”
“Goose chase?” he bellowed. “When are you going to learn to do what you’re told? I said what else!”
Laura filled him in briefly on the sad story of Sally Culpepper and the four-year-old tyke she’d left behind. With her story already on the way to press, Mary had given Laura all the intimate details of the family farm, where Sally had lived with her parents after her divorce.
