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.
Chapter Five
It 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.
“Would you like me to order something up from room service?” I asked softly so as not to startle her.
She turned. “Thank you, Jessica. Yes, I would like something. I haven’t eaten.”
“We had quite a big meal on the flight,” I said as I sat at a desk and found the room service menu. “Something simple?”
“Just tea,” she said. “Maybe some toast, or a scone.”
I placed the order. Christine sat on the couch, her long legs crossed, her foot bouncing up and down. She wore the same stylish, tailored blue pantsuit she had during the flight.
“How did you happen to go to the airport, Jessica?” she asked.
“I was having a drink downstairs in the American Bar with Inspector Sutherland—he’s an old friend I haven’t seen in a while—when he received a call that there had been a murder at the airport. I went with him.”
“You saw Wayne?”
“Yes.”
“I’m surprised that someone like you, a civilian, was allowed such access,” she said.
“As I said, I was with the inspector. Christine, do you have any idea who might have wanted to kill Wayne?”
“Would you like a list?” she replied. “I can write one out for you.”
I said nothing.
“Surprised?” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “You’re saying he had many enemies?”
“Many, and if you’re compiling a list of suspects, include me on it.”
My initial reaction was to call Seth and have him come to the suite. Had the shock now worn off and she was about to have a breakdown?
“Don’t take me literally,” she said. “I didn’t really want Wayne dead, although there have been times when the thought was appealing.”
“I thought—I assumed you and Wayne were happy together,” I said. “You have so much in common with your aviation backgrounds, and now this exciting new venture.”
“Unfortunately, Wayne’s ‘aviation background’ includes too much time spent with attractive flight attendants.”
I thought of the ravishing Gina Molnari.
Christine slowly shook her head. “Remember the book back in the sixties, Coffee, Tea or Me?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said. “I read it like millions of others did. It was—funny.”
“Those were the high-flying days of air travel, Jessica. It was so glamorous back then to be a stewardess, winging around the globe with planes full of happy, successful people, everyone in a good mood, the service wonderful, the crews tight-knit. We were all one big happy family. Of course, that book played up the sexual exploits of stewardesses.”
“Yes, I recall that, although it was tame by today’s standards.”
“I suppose it was. Wayne was very much a part of that era.”
“But that was then,” I said, “before he met you.”
“He didn’t change, Jessica. There was always another woman in the wings, always someone younger and more beautiful. I’m sure you’ve noticed what an attractive man Wayne is. Or was.”
I was gripped with mixed emotions. If venting this way would help her overcome the shock of learning that her husband had been murdered, I was willing to be a sounding board. At the same time, I was growing increasingly uncomfortable being privy to such intimate thoughts from a woman whom I knew, but not well.
“I shouldn’t be going on like this,” she said, and forced a laugh. “If being married to a philandering husband is motive for murder, you can put me at the top of your list.” She stood. “I appreciate you being here, Jessica, but I’m suddenly exhausted. And I need to make some phone calls before I go to bed. I’m sure tomorrow will be anything but pleasant.”
“Of course,” I said as someone knocked on the door. “Must be room service.”
“Tell them to go away,” Christine said. “Have it delivered to your room.”
“All right,” I said. “You’re sure there’s nothing I can do, nothing I can get you?”
“Positive. Thanks. Good night.”
I stepped into the hallway where a bellman in a starched white jacket stood by an elaborately set rolling service cart. “Sorry,” I said, “but there’s been a change. You can bring this to my room.”
Chapter Six
Although I was exhausted from the long day and the events of the past few hours, sleep was out of the question. I nibbled on a scone and sipped some tea, but food wasn’t on my mind at the moment. I suppose the shock of Wayne Silverton’s murder had now fully settled in with me, as I’m sure it had with Christine Silverton.
I’d found her reaction to be somewhat strange, but that wasn’t fair. Prosecutors in murder trials often try to find something nefarious in how a defendant reacts to the news of a loved one’s murder. But psychologists know that each individual projects a different emotional state when hit with such devastating news. There are those who remain stoic and pragmatic, while others fall apart. To assume that the stoic, pragmatic mourner must be guilty because of the lack of emotion is to come to a tenuous conclusion.
I changed into my nightclothes and a comfortable robe provided by the hotel, sat by the window, and tried to make sense out of what few facts had emerged since I learned of Wayne’s death.
He’d been stabbed in the cockpit of the 767, and was there, according to Christine, because he enjoyed fantasizing about being a commercial airline pilot. How many other people besides Christine knew of this harmless bit of playacting? Whoever had killed Wayne was aware of where he was, or would be, at that particular moment.
Obviously, the airline captain, Bill Caine, had not gone into London with the rest of the crew. He’d argued with Wayne during the flight. I’d seen him at the airport while there with George Sutherland. There was nothing unusual about that, except that when he saw me, he rushed away. Surely, he recognized me. Why hadn’t he approached and asked what I knew about the scene taking place at the departure and arrival lounge? Why had he disappeared so quickly?
Christine’s admission that her husband was a womanizer was off-putting. I’d been uncomfortable being on the receiving end of her sad confession, and felt deeply for her—if what she said was true. If it was, she had every reason to be angry with Wayne. Angry enough to kill him? It appeared to me that she hadn’t stayed in her room at the Savoy once we arrived. Her coat was damp, and she hadn’t bothered to unpack the suitcases. She’d had enough time to go back to Stansted and return to the hotel before we arrived at her suite. I realized I was viewing her as a suspect in her husband’s murder, which was perhaps premature. But how could I not wonder who was the murderer amongst us?
Wayne’s business partners in SilverAir? The Brit, Churlson Vicks, with his unsavory reputation? Mr. Casale, Wayne’s former real estate partner in Las Vegas? He hadn’t sounded especially enamored of being a partner in an airline.
I decided that the best thing I could do at that juncture was to put these thoughts, along with dozens of others, out of my mind and get some sleep. But I had to laugh as I attempted to force that to happen. As a psychiatrist friend of mine says, tell someone not to think of purple elephants and that’s all they’ll think of. I finally dozed off, thinking that given a choice between purple elephants and murder, I’d settle for colorful pachyderms
every time.
Chapter Seven
After a few hours of fitful sleep, I was up, showered, and dressed by six. I went downstairs where it looked like a number of my travel companions had also found sleep to be difficult. They milled about the lobby, some with coffee or tea they’d brought from their rooms, others sitting quietly with blank expressions on their faces. I joined Seth Hazlitt and the Metzgers.
“Doc told me about breaking the news to Mrs. Silverton,” Mort said. “I don’t envy you that job. It’s the one I always dread the most.”
“She took it quite well,” Seth said. “Jessica stayed with her after the inspector and I left. How did she hold up, Jessica?”
“Relatively well. Naturally, she was shaken and eventually wanted to be alone.”
We all turned at the arrival of a camera and sound-man and a reporter from a TV station. They were followed by a man and a woman who had the hungry look of reporters from a different medium, probably print. The man had an expensive digital camera hanging from his neck. They came directly to me.
“You’re Jessica Fletcher, the crime writer,” the female reporter said without hesitation.
“Yes.”
She introduced herself as being from a notorious London tabloid. While she did, her photographer sidekick took a succession of photos of me and everyone nearby.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” I said to the photographer, who’d inched toward me and had the lens of his camera only a few feet from my face.
He moved even closer.
I turned away.
Mort intervened, stepping between me and the photographer. “The lady doesn’t want her picture taken,” he said.
“Who are you?” asked the reporter.
“Morton Metzger, sheriff of Cabot Cove, Maine.”
The man and woman looked at each other and shrugged.
“Come on, Mrs. F.,” Mort said, leading me away from the pair. “Couple ’a ghouls.”
“Maybe we should go into the dining room,” I suggested.
“Breakfast is in one of their private rooms,” Mort said. “The hotel changed it because of what happened last night, to give us some privacy.”
Coffee, Tea, or Murder? Page 5
