Coffee, Tea, or Murder?

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Wonderful meeting you,” I said. “This is very exciting, being on a maiden flight.”

  “I’m excited, too,” he said, giving forth with an engaging smile. “I’m really happy to be working for SilverAir. I think passengers are going to come aboard as happy campers.” He laughed. “That’s not the case with the last airline I worked for. Hundreds of angry people on every flight. Mr. Silverton has the right idea: Charge a little more and give a lot more. Welcome aboard.”

  We all ordered juices; it was a little too early in the day for anything stronger.

  The cabin quickly filled up. Spirits were high, and there were a lot of “oohs” and “aahs” as people reacted to the posh cabin. Because we would be in London for only two nights, people had brought a minimal amount of luggage and stowed most of it in overhead bins. Maureen Metzger, however, who was affectionately known to friends who traveled with her as the “Luggage Queen,” had packed as though we’d be away for two weeks, much to Mort’s chagrin, although he was a good sport about it.

  “Pretty nice plane, huh, Doc?” Mort said. “Glad you decided to come along?”

  “It doesn’t matter how pretty it is, Mort. What counts are those two engines hanging from the wings. And I’ll tell you how glad I am at the end of the trip, if they function correctly and we land safely.”

  As drinks were being served, Wayne Silverton moved through the cabin, chatting with his guests and making everyone feel at home. He stopped to speak with us. As he did, I looked past him to where his wife, Christine, was engaged in an animated, I’d even say angry, conversation with the flight attendant who’d greeted us as we boarded. I couldn’t make out their words, but it was evident that Christine was not happy with something the beautiful Gina had said or done. Christine straightened her back and turned sharply in our direction, with her features relaxed back into a serene expression, a smile on her lips. The flight attendant, however, couldn’t cover her emotions so swiftly. She fixed Christine’s retreating form with a hateful stare.

  Oh, my, I thought as I returned my attention to Wayne, who was spouting forth on his determination to fix what was wrong with commercial aviation.

  “We’ll talk more once we’re airborne,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to hold up the departure. We’re anticipating a very smooth flight. Sit back and enjoy the trip. You’re about to experience air travel the way it used to be—and should be.”

  No turbulence expected outside, I thought, and with a bit of luck we would have the same conditions aboard. I hoped the exchange between the two women wouldn’t prove me wrong.

  Chapter Two

  Because the aircraft wasn’t parked at a gate, there was no need to have it pushed back. The powerful twin jet engines came to life, and we inched forward in the direction of our assigned taxiway and runway. I was looking out the window at other aircraft when Wayne suddenly appeared again.

  “What’s this I hear from Jed Richardson that you’re a pilot, Jessica?” he asked.

  I laughed. “I do have my private pilot’s license.”

  “She can fly a plane all right,” said Seth, “but still doesn’t have a driver’s license.”

  I responded with feigned indignation. “I’ll have you know that I am fully licensed to operate any bicycle with two wheels.”

  “Tell you what, Jessica,” Silverton said. “How would you like to sit up front during takeoff?”

  “In the cockpit?”

  “Yup. Give you a great view, and you can watch the pros up there in action.”

  “You lucky thing,” Maureen Metzger said.

  “Don’t pass this up,” said Mort.

  “Wonderful,” I said, undoing my seat belt and following Wayne to the locked door that led to the flight deck.

  “Mrs. Fletcher will be using the jump seat up front during takeoff,” Wayne told the flight attendant, who sat in a small seat that pulled down from the wall. She unsnapped her seat belt and used a key to open the door, causing the captain and his first officer to turn.

  “This is Jessica Fletcher, the famous mystery writer,” Wayne said in a voice loud enough to override the engine noise. “She’s also a pilot. I thought she’d enjoy watching the takeoff from up here.”

  The captain, a heavyset man with close-cropped gray hair, didn’t look especially pleased with the suggestion. He grunted and pointed to a small seat directly behind him, which I knew was used for airline check pilots, FAA officials, or off-duty pilots hitching a ride back home. Having a civilian outsider in the cockpit was evidently okay, since this was a special promotional flight and the request came from the airline’s owner. Under normal circumstances, and especially after the tragedy of Nine Eleven, the notion would have been unthinkable.

  I settled into my assigned seat, secured my seat belt, and watched wide-eyed as the two-man cockpit crew skillfully maneuvered the huge plane to its assigned location on the busy field. The first officer, considerably younger than the captain, seemed to be doing most of the work. After completing a rundown of the preflight checklist, he looked back at me, smiled, and said, “Welcome to the flight deck. We should have a smooth flight for most of the trip.”

  “I’m looking forward to every minute of it,” I replied.

  “Now that we’ve got a real pilot aboard, maybe you’d like to switch seats with me and handle the takeoff.”

  I laughed and said, “Careful. I might lose my mind and take you up on it.”

  He returned to his duties, and the captain turned to me and said, “Welcome aboard, Mrs. Fletcher. Don’t listen to Carl here. He’ll do anything to get out of working.”

  “Carl Scherer,” the first officer said over his shoulder. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

  “My wife’s a fan of your books, probably has every one of them,” the captain said.

  “I’m always happy to hear that,” I said, pleased that his initial gruff demeanor had softened.

  “Name’s Caine, Bill Caine,” he said, managing to reach around his seat back to shake my hand.

  “Thank you,” I said, “for allowing me this experience.”

  “What do you fly?” he asked.

  “Nothing as big as this bird,” I replied. “I have all my hours in a Cessna 172.”

  “Love that plane,” he said. “I own one myself, fly it on weekends.”

  “A busman’s holiday.”

  “That’s real flying, Mrs. Fletcher. Up here we pretty much sit back and let the computers do the work. I fly my Cessna on my time off to stay honest. Why don’t you put on those headphones and listen in to the tower and traffic control.”

  I did as he suggested. I knew that preparing for a takeoff or landing was the busiest time for pilots. In fact, regulations prohibited any conversation in the cockpit that wasn’t directly related to the tasks at hand. I listened as Captain Caine and First Officer Scherer ran down an extensive checklist of pretakeoff items, and conversed over the radio in a shorthand unique to pilots. Their crisp professionalism was a joy to witness.

  We pulled behind a line of other aircraft awaiting permission to take to the active runway, and slowly moved up in line as plane after plane took off before us. We were second in line when the first officer pointed to a small light amidst the myriad dials, switches, gauges, and buttons of the control panel. It wasn’t illuminated. After some terse back-and-forth about the light, Captain Caine said, “Let’s take her back.” With that, he informed the control tower of a problem with the aircraft and that we were returning to the terminal for maintenance.

  “We’ll have to have this checked out,” he said, turning to me.

  “Not serious, I hope,” I said.

  “Probably just a burnt-out bulb, but I don’t take anything for granted.”

  Nor should you, I silently agreed. I wouldn’t.

  The captain got on the plane’s internal PA system and announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is Captain Caine from the flight deck. We’ve got what appears to be a minor problem with the aircraft and are returning t
o the terminal to have it checked out. Sorry for the inconvenience. Hopefully, the maintenance folks will straighten it out quickly and we can be on our way.”

  As the 767 turned away from the runway and began its lumbering trip back to where the problem could be rectified, Gina Molnari opened the cockpit door and poked her head in. Immediately, Wayne Silverton took her place, pushing her out of the way.

  “What the hell is going on?” Silverton asked angrily.

  Scherer explained about the light not functioning while Captain Caine continued to guide the plane.

  “It’s probably just a two-dollar bulb,” Silverton said. “Let’s get going.”

  “Sorry,” Caine said, “but we don’t go anywhere as long as that light doesn’t come on.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Silverton said in what could only be described as a snarl. “I’ve got a hundred VIPs back there, including plenty of press.”

  “I don’t care if you’ve got the president of the United States,” Caine said, never looking up at Silverton. “This plane is under my command, and I say it’s a no-go until maintenance checks it out.”

  “I’m telling you that I own this airline,” Silverton said, barely able to control his anger.

  “And I’m telling you, Mr. Silverton, that as captain on this flight, I make the decisions, not you.”

  “We’ll see about that when we get to London,” Silverton snapped.

  He’d been speaking as though I wasn’t there. But he suddenly seemed to recognize my presence. He managed a small smile for my benefit and stormed from the flight deck.

  “I’d better get back with the others,” I said, hanging the headphones I’d been using on a hook and unbuckling my seat belt.

  “Sorry for the delay,” Captain Caine said. “Careful walking back to your seat.”

  My friends were filled with questions after I’d rejoined them in the passenger cabin.

  “Nothing major,” I assured them. “A little light that was supposed to come on didn’t. I’m sure they’ll have it fixed in no time.”

  I glanced at Seth, whose expression wasn’t happy. I patted his hand. “Not to worry,” I told my friend. “We’re in good hands.”

  My prognosis was sound. A two-man maintenance crew arrived and spent fifteen minutes on the flight deck. They left, and Captain Caine came on the PA. “Looks like the problem has been fixed and we’re ready to roll. Again, sorry for the delay. We’ll make up for any lost time en route. We’ve got strong tail-winds forecast, which should get us to London ahead of schedule even with this late start. I’ll get back to you once we’re up at cruising altitude. If Mrs. Fletcher wants to come back up here for the takeoff, she’s welcome.”

  One of the flight attendants escorted me to the flight deck, and I again took my privileged seat. This time, everything went smoothly. We roared down the runway until we’d reached a point at which aborting the takeoff would be unwise. The first officer called out in a loud voice, “V-One,” indicating that we’d reached that spot where there wasn’t enough runway left to be able to safely stop the jet. No matter what happened next, the takeoff had to be continued, even if an engine had failed. Sophisticated aircraft like the 767 are certified to take off on one engine if necessary.

  “Rotate,” was Scherer’s next call. Based upon many factors preprogrammed into the onboard computers, this was the moment when the aircraft had gained the necessary speed to lift off. Captain Caine pulled back on the yoke, the landing gear broke free of the runway, and we were airborne. It was exhilarating to be up there on the flight deck while this was happening, an experience I would not soon forget. Taking off in a small, private plane is exciting for me, too, but the sheer power of the 767, and the choreographed coordination between the captain and the first officer, gave flight special meaning for me at that moment.

  I remained there until we’d reached our cruising altitude of thirty-five thousand feet over the Atlantic, thanked Captain Caine, and returned to the passenger cabin. Jed Richardson, owner of our Cabot Cove air service, took my place in the cockpit.

  There was a festive air among the passengers. The flight attendants had started serving drinks again the minute we left the ground, and it seemed as though a few of the passengers had already consumed too much. Seth and I ended up chatting with a couple of business writers from Boston and New York newspapers.

  “What do you think of Wayne Silverton’s idea of how to run an airline?” one of them asked us.

  “Makes sense to me,” Seth replied. “Unless you can afford to fly first class, those other airlines cram you in like sardines. This is a lot more comfortable.” He indicated the cabin with a sweep of his hand.

  “How about you, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “I agree with Dr. Hazlitt,” I said. “Of course, according to what I’ve read, a passenger who usually flies coach will have to pay more to fly to London on SilverAir than on, say, British Airways or American Airlines. But as Wayne stresses, not that much more. I suspect there are millions of people who’ll be willing to pay a little extra for this sort of comfort.”

  We gravitated to other groups as the flight attendants continued to deliver drinks and an array of hors d’oeuvres—caviar on small white crackers, cold shrimp, hot lamb skewers, and other tasty snacks. Soft jazz played through speakers. It had become one big party, and I wondered whether there was the possibility of it getting out of hand. But an announcement by a flight attendant put my mind at rest: “Ladies and gentlemen, please take your seats. We’ll be serving dinner shortly.”

  It took a while for everyone to comply, but eventually all the seats were filled, although many passengers had chosen to change places in order to talk with others. As the flight attendants went about their predinner chores, I saw Wayne going from group to group, introducing another man. He eventually arrived where I sat with Seth and the two reporters; Mort and Maureen had temporarily joined another four-seat configuration with Mayor Shevlin and his wife, Susan.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, Dr. Hazlitt, I’d like you to meet one of my partners in SilverAir, Sal Casale.”

  Mr. Casale was of medium height and compactly built: It wouldn’t have surprised me if he spent a portion of each day in a gymnasium. He was a handsome man in a crude way. His coal black hair was combed straight back. He wore an obviously expensive black suit, a dazzling white-on-white shirt with a large, high collar, and a muted pale yellow tie. He had an exaggerated old-world courtly manner, his speech somewhat reminiscent of actors I remember from The Godfather movies. I judged him to be in his fifties.

  “I understand you’re a famous doctor,” he said to Seth after introductions had been made.

  “Afraid not,” Seth answered. “I’m just a local chicken-soup doctor. The only famous person here is Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “That’s right,” Casale said. “The writer. I can never understand how anybody can write books. I get all tangled up even writing a letter.”

  “We all do what we do,” I said brightly. “I write books, and you own an airline.”

  “Sal owns part of an airline,” Wayne corrected.

  Casale laughed. “Wayne, here, never lets me forget I’m just a partner.” He leaned close to us and spoke in a conspiratorial voice. “You know what I think? I think owning an airline is pretty dumb. You know any airlines that make money these days? I don’t.”

  “SilverAir will be the exception to the rule, Sal,” Wayne said, a slight edge to his voice. “JetBlue and Southwest do all right, but we’ll top them.”

  “We’d better,” Casale said, straightening.

  “Sal and I did some real estate deals together in Las Vegas,” Wayne said, seeming to want to change the subject. “He’s not my only partner in SilverAir. You’ll meet my British colleagues when we get to London.”

  “Nice meeting you,” Casale said and walked away.

  Wayne smiled, shrugged, and said, “Enjoy your dinner. The chateaubriand is prime, carved seat-side like it used to be in the good old days of flying.”


  Dinner was wonderful. I’ve never understood people who complain about airline food, at least the way it used to be before deregulation and the demise of airlines in this country. To me, whenever I flew and was served dinner, I considered it a miracle of sorts to be served a hot meal of any kind while flying at thirty-five thousand feet in an aluminum cigar tube known as an airplane. Of course, those days have changed, except for those fortunate enough to fly first class, particularly on some of the international airlines for whom passenger service still ranks as a top priority.

  After dinner had been cleared, and as a popular movie was about to start on the video screens, I headed for a forward lavatory that was adjacent to the galley where the flight attendant, Ms. Molnari, was cleaning up. The lavatory was occupied, so I passed the time chatting with her.

  “Will every SilverAir flight serve such an elaborate meal?” I asked.

  “Afraid not, although each flight will feature a hot, three-course meal. Wayne—Mr. Silverton—pulled out all the stops for this special flight.”

  “It certainly makes for a pleasant trip,” I said. “Did you work for another airline before joining SilverAir?”

  “Sure. We all did. Christine, um, I mean Mrs. Silverton, was with Pan Am, but I wasn’t lucky enough to have worked for an airline like that.”

  “Did many people apply for a job with SilverAir?”

  “Loads. As the airline expands, I’m sure lots more will be hired.”

  “You must enjoy your work, traveling the globe and meeting so many interesting people.”

  “It’s not so glamorous anymore,” she said, and added with a chuckle, “The Coffee, Tea, or Me? era is over. The good old days. Of course, I haven’t been doing it as long as a lot of gals have. Like Christine. She goes way back—and loves to flaunt it.”

  “Oh?”

  “Forget I said that,” she quickly corrected. “Excuse me.” She disappeared into the passenger cabin.