Coffee, Tea, or Murder?

by Jessica Fletcher

  “You did?”

  “Yes. And he swears he’s seen him, too, many times. He says it’s an honor. The ghost is very finicky about whom he reveals himself to.”

  “I could have done without that particular honor,” Maureen said with a shiver.

  “I think I would like to have seen him,” I said, smiling.

  She returned my smile. “Thank you, Jess.”

  “My pleasure, Maureen.”

  The return trip had taken longer than I had intended, leaving me with little time to enjoy reading. I’d just hung up my raincoat and taken out my book when George called.

  “I know I’m early,” he said.

  “I’ll be right down.”

  He was in the lobby, talking with a hotel employee, when I stepped off the elevator. I paused before going to him, taking a few seconds to simply observe the man. He wore his usual tweed jacket, blue button-down shirt, sharply creased tan slacks, and polished ankle-high boots, but it wasn’t his attire that I admired at that moment. It was the way he stood, slightly stooped as tall men often are from a lifetime of ducking low objects. He was listening intently to what the hotel staffer was saying, another admirable trait. He gave the same concentrated attention conversing with a porter or cleaning woman as he did with a head of state. He’s a superb listener, always more interested in what you were saying than in what he might have on his mind. His pose was relaxed, a man comfortable with himself.

  I closed my eyes for a moment, drew a breath, and joined them.

  After a cursory bow to me, the employee walked away.

  “Interesting chap,” George said. “Works maintenance here at the hotel, but collects rare musical memorabilia in his off time.”

  “I’m not at all surprised that you learned that about him. How long had you been talking?”

  “Five minutes or so. How was your lunch?”

  “It was fun. They’re such good people, easy to be with. Did you get to eat?”

  “A quick bite at the office.” He turned and looked through the main doors. “That’s one nasty day out there. Well, Jessica, ready for our chat with Mrs. Silverton?”

  “I think so. Before we do, though, I’ve been thinking about the time we spent this morning with Captain Caine.”

  “So have I.”

  “I think he was lying when he said he wasn’t aware that Gina Molnari hadn’t come into London with the rest of the crew.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Intuition.”

  “That famed women’s intuition?”

  “I don’t know whether it has anything to do with my gender, George, but I’m convinced that he and Ms. Molnari are romantically involved. All the signs are there.”

  “I’m quite sure you’re right. But how does that tie in with the murder of Silverton?”

  I laughed. “I haven’t the slightest idea, George. I’m good at tossing out questions, less good at answering them. Let’s see if Christine Silverton can shed some light.”

  Christine was not alone. She introduced the man in the suite as her attorney, Steven Bellnap.

  “Mr. Bellnap flew to London this morning,” she said after she’d invited us in, and we’d taken seats around a dining table adjacent to a Pullman kitchen.

  “I’m here at Mrs. Silverton’s request,” he said.

  “I imagine you’ve come to help sort out the business side of Mr. Silverton’s untimely death,” I said.

  “That, among other things. I understand, Inspector Sutherland, that you’re the lead investigator on the case.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s true.”

  “And that Mrs. Fletcher is sort of—well, how shall I say it?—she’s an unofficial part of your team?”

  “You might say that,” George responded.

  “I’m also here to represent Mrs. Silverton in any criminal aspects of your investigation. I understand, of course, that everyone who accompanied Mr. Silverton on the flight must be considered a suspect, including Mrs. Silverton.”

  George didn’t deny it. “A victim’s spouse is always among the first people we look at.” He peered into Christine’s eyes as he said, “Your cooperation will go a long way toward allaying our suspicions.”

  “I’ll do my best to answer your questions,” she said.

  “Provided that your questions remain focused on what’s pertinent,” Bellnap added.

  While George and Bellnap talked, I took the opportunity to take a closer look at the attorney. He was probably in his midforties, although I’ve never been an especially good judge of other people’s ages. He was nicely dressed. His lank brown hair had begun to leave him, and years of poring over legal briefs and other documents must have taken its toll on his eyesight. The lenses of his glasses were unusually thick. I decided on the spot that he was all business, a man with a thwarted sense of humor. Not that I intended to crack any jokes, but my summation of him would be helpful in how I approached my part of the meeting.

  “Are you working in concert with a barrister here in the UK, Mr. Bellnap?” George asked.

  “My firm has an affiliate here,” he replied.

  “Good,” George said. He said to Christine, “I realize this may be uncomfortable for you, Mrs. Silverton, but I’m sure you understand the necessity of it.”

  “Of course I do,” she said, “although I don’t see why Jessica needs to be a part of it.”

  “Her presence is required,” George said.

  Bellnap frowned. “By whom?”

  “By me,” George said in a tone that ended any debate. “Now, Mrs. Silverton, you obviously knew your husband best. I’d like you to think back. What was his mood prior to the flight? Was there anything, either voiced or in his deportment, that indicated he felt that his life was in danger?”

  “No. Wayne had business enemies, of course. We both knew that. But to suspect someone was out to kill him? Absolutely not.”

  “Had he been acting out of sorts lately, changed his usual patterns of behavior or activities?”

  She shook her head. “He was excited about the flight, and maybe a bit concerned about everything being perfect. Wayne was very demanding of his staff. He wanted everything perfectly planned and perfectly executed. I imagine all CEOs are the same way.”

  “I imagine so. And did he demand perfection in you as well?”

  Christine glanced nervously at me. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Your marriage, Mrs. Silverton. I know this is sensitive, but I must ask it. Would you consider your marriage a happy one?”

  Christine cleared her throat. “Yes, it was, Inspector. Wayne was devoted to me and I to him. We were very much in love. We were not only partners as man and wife, we were partners in SilverAir. We did everything together. His loss will be a deep and lasting tragedy for me.”

  Except you said Wayne cheated on you, I thought.

  “I see,” said George. “Let’s go to the night in question, if you don’t mind. When did you last see your husband?”

  “On the flight, of course.”

  “And once you’d landed? He obviously stayed at Stansted after most of the others had left. When did you last speak with him?”

  She sighed, evidently eager for this to be over.

  “Wayne and I intended to come into London together. As I was ready to leave the aircraft, he said he had business to attend to at the airport and would join me later at the hotel.”

  “Did he say what sort of business?” George asked.

  She laughed. “As you said, Inspector, I knew my husband quite well. I’m sure the so-called business was nothing more than wanting to hang around the aircraft, get in the cockpit, and pretend he was flying it. He was an inveterate dreamer.”

  “A nice thing to be,” I said.

  “Unless you carry it too far,” Christine said. “Next question?”

  “Was anyone else aboard the aircraft at that time?”

  “I didn’t see anyone.”

  “So,” George said, “he was alive when you
left him on the plane and came into London with the others.”

  “Correct.”

  George paused; I knew what he was about to ask next.

  “Did you return to the airport after arriving at the Savoy?”

  “Of course not. Why would I do that?”

  Possibly to kill your husband, I thought.

  “Mrs. Fletcher noticed something in your suite at the Savoy that would seem to suggest otherwise.”

  “Oh? What’s that? I wasn’t aware you were spying on me, Jessica?”

  “You know I wasn’t, Christine. We’d come up to tell you about Wayne.”

  Christine’s voice was chilly. “So what was it that you found so interesting that you had to mention it to the inspector?”

  “It may sound silly,” I said, “but I noticed that your raincoat was damp.”

  “It was, after all, a rainy night,” she said.

  “More a misty one,” I said. “At the airport, you got into the limousine, and when we arrived at the Savoy, we were sheltered by the overhang. I just wondered whether you’d gone back out in the mist.”

  “Well, the answer is no.”

  “And I also saw that your luggage hadn’t been unpacked.”

  “So?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said, “but I remember talking with you once about that public relations program you’d launched when you were working as a flight attendant, the one where you gave talks at local civic and fraternal organizations about how to pack a bag.”

  She stared at me blankly.

  “You made a point that savvy airline passengers always unpack the minute they get to the room, hanging up clothes to get the wrinkles out. I remember it well because it’s something I’ve been doing my entire traveling life.”

  “As I recall, Jessica, I also said that the first thing every veteran traveler packs is plastic bags of assorted sizes. Can you find something ominous in that?”

  “Of course not,” I said with a smile. “Why didn’t you unpack when you arrived in the room? When we saw you, it was hours after we’d been at the hotel.”

  “How do you know I hadn’t unpacked and simply reclosed the bags?”

  “When I went to hang up your coat, the closet was empty.”

  “This is all so silly,” she said. “If you don’t have anything more substantive to cover, I have other things to do.”

  “I do have a few additional questions,” George said. “I’ll try to make them brief. I assume you are the beneficiary of any insurance policies Wayne owned.”

  “Of course. He took his responsibilities seriously. Life insurance was an important part of his financial package, along with investments and savings.”

  “The airline?” George said. “Did he leave his share of SilverAir to you?”

  The attorney spoke up. “Negotiations are currently underway regarding SilverAir’s financial and management structure. I don’t feel it is in Mrs. Silverton’s best interests to discuss the matter at this time.”

  “I understand,” George said. “Maybe we’ll have a chance to talk some more on the flight to Boston. Thank you for your time.”

  George put his pen and pad away and stood.

  I debated saying anything more, but decided it was necessary. “Just one other thing before we go,” I said.

  All eyes turned to me.

  “I realize, Christine, that what you confided in me about Wayne’s infidelities is a highly personal matter. But a murder has taken place. Don’t you think you should share those thoughts with Inspector Sutherland? They could have a bearing on the case and—”

  “I think that is very much out of place, Jessica,” Christine said.

  “I don’t think this line of questioning is relevant,” Bellnap said.

  “It goes to motive,” George said. “Mrs. Fletcher is right. If there are any factors that potentially impact this investigation, I urge you to be straightforward with me about them,” he said to Christine.

  Christine began to respond, but was interrupted by a knock at the door. She opened it to reveal her stepson, Jason, standing in the hall.

  “Come in,” she said pleasantly to him. “The inspector and Mrs. Fletcher are just leaving.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Who’s the young man?” George asked when the door closed behind us.

  “That’s right,” I said. “You haven’t had the pleasure. It’s Jason Silverton, Wayne Silverton’s son.”

  “Ah. Paying a visit to his stepmother?”

  “Looks that way. What I find interesting is her greeting to him. As I told you, I was with Christine when he first showed up. She seemed horrified to see him, and he didn’t have anything warm and affectionate to say to her, or about her. Her mood has obviously changed. I wonder why.”

  The elevator arrived and several people stepped back to make room for us. When we reached the ground floor, I asked, “Do you have time for us to talk a bit?”

  “Afraid not, my dear. I have many things to do before we leave.”

  “Will you be riding with us to the airport?”

  “No. I’ll drive myself and use a car park at Stansted.”

  “All right. I’ll see you on board then.”

  His eyes twinkled. “I’ll see you at Stansted Airport in time for our departure. I know one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Trying to solve a murder at thirty-five thousand feet will be a first for me.”

  “An ideal setup. All the suspects huddled together and nowhere to go.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  After George had left the hotel, I decided to go into the American Bar for tea, iced this time, and some quiet think time. I doubted the lounge would be crowded at that hour, but I was wrong. Still, I stayed, and was shown to a small table in a relatively peaceful corner. Peace was fleeting, however. I’d no sooner been served when Jed Richardson walked into the room.

  “Mind company?” he asked.

  “Not at all. Where’s Barbara?”

  “Out shopping, I’m afraid. I suspect we’ll be traveling back to Boston a lot heavier than when we left.”

  He ordered a scotch, neat.

  “I did some checking on our two pilots, Jess; even made a few phone calls to friends back in the States.”

  “I didn’t mean for you to go to all that trouble, Jed.”

  “No trouble at all. They have interesting backgrounds.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Okay. First, there’s Captain Caine. His flying record is pristine, no mishaps, no sanctions against him by the FAA or the airlines he’s flown with.”

  “I sense a ‘but’ coming.”

  “Yeah, there is a ‘but.’ He was fired from the last airline he worked for because of his attitude.”

  “Attitude? About flying?”

  “No, about authority. Seems he’s got a short fuse, a really short fuse. It got him in trouble a couple of times, once with management, once with a passenger. He hit one.”

  “Hit a passenger?”

  “That’s right. Slugged this guy after they’d landed at LAX. This passenger, according to what Caine reported, mouthed off at him about the flight, said it was lousy, no food, that sort of thing. Nothing new about that these days. Planes are filled with disgruntled passengers. Plenty of air rage to go around. I know one thing. I’d hate to be a flight attendant in this atmosphere, standing at the open door to an aircraft and having to face hundreds of unhappy travelers. God, they come on dressed as though they were going to a mud wrestling competition, hauling steamer trunks that they try to shove into the overhead bins, surly from the minute they board. And who can blame them? They’re treated like cattle, only cattle are better fed. That’s why Wayne’s notion to start an airline that treats passengers the way they used to be treated appeals to me. I tell you, Jessica, the worst thing that ever happened to air travel in the States was deregulation. It’s created one hell of a mess.”

  I listened patiently to Jed’s rant. I’d hea
rd it many times before. I tended to agree with him, although I knew many people who would argue with his support of airline regulation.

  I got him back on track. “Tell me more about Captain Caine’s confrontation with this passenger.”

  “Right. This passenger evidently said some things to Caine that he didn’t like and poked him in the chest to emphasize his point. Caine hauled off and punched the guy, which led to a civil suit against Caine and the airline. It was settled out of court, the terms sealed. But Caine lost his job over it.”

  “And ended up being hired by Wayne for SilverAir,” I said.

  “Right. Like I say, he’s a good pilot, fully qualified on the 767. Just don’t say anything to set him off.” He laughed. “With the number of qualified pilots having been laid off, I’m surprised that Wayne chose Caine, considering his temperament.”

  “I suppose anyone can lose his cool under the right circumstances,” I said in Caine’s defense.

  “Not when you’re wearing four stripes on your uniform sleeve and working for a major airline. Anyway, speaking of qualifications, the first officer, Carl Scherer, is an enigma.”

  “How so?”

  “How he got to ride the right seat in an aircraft like the 767. One minute he’s flying small regional jets; the next thing you know he’s 767-qualified.”

  “Are you saying that he’s not certified to fly that aircraft?”

  Jed shook his head and sipped his drink. “Oh, no, Jessica, he’s FAA-certified all right. It’s just that Wayne put him on the fast track to certification, plucked him from his job at the regional, paid for accelerated simulator and flight training in the 767, and got him certified in time for SilverAir going into service. Again, with lots of veteran 767 pilots laid off, you have to wonder why Wayne wanted Scherer so badly.”

  “We’ll never get to ask him,” I said.

  “Afraid not. Well,” Jed said, finishing his drink, “I’d better go check on Barbara, see if she’s back yet and hasn’t broken the bank. See you at seven.”

  It seemed that everyone I spoke to fueled the fires of speculation surrounding Wayne Silverton’s murder. There was plenty of raw material to ponder. The problem was linking it up, finding correlations between this nugget of information and the next. Did the backgrounds of the cockpit crew, Captain Caine and First Officer Scherer, mean anything in the larger picture? As hard as I tried, I couldn’t make the connection. I thought of the first officer’s wife, Betsy Scherer, one of SilverAir’s flight attendants who’d served us on the trip to London. I’d meant to ask Jed if it was unusual for an airline to hire a husband and wife, and particularly to have them work the same flight. My conclusion was that because SilverAir was a small airline, it could do what the larger carriers wouldn’t do, especially when a single individual like Wayne seemed to be calling all the shots.