Coffee, Tea, or Murder?

by Jessica Fletcher

  He’d seemed to tense. Now he relaxed. “Bill? He doesn’t talk much about anything. He defines taciturn.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed that. I understand that Wayne Silverton took special pains to have you join SilverAir.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “Is it true?”

  I could almost hear his mind working.

  “That’s right,” he said. “It worked out pretty good for me.”

  “So it seems. Mind if I ask why he took such special interest in you?”

  “Maybe because he saw that I was a damn good pilot.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a second,” I said. “It’s just that when someone goes out of his way for another person, it’s usually because of some extra-added dimension to that person.”

  “I’d say ask Wayne, but we know we can’t do that, can we?”

  “No, unfortunately we can’t. How do you feel about your wife working as a flight attendant on the same flight you’re piloting?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll have to forgive me, but I have an insatiable curiosity about how and why things work. I imagine it makes your life easier having the two of you on the same flight. Come to the airport together, do your work, share a hotel room, and drive home together.”

  “Yeah, it does have its advantages.” He shifted in his seat and looked directly at me. “What are you getting at, Mrs. Fletcher? I get the feeling you’re more than just curious.”

  My sigh said that I agreed with him.

  “The inspector from Scotland Yard has already questioned me back in London.”

  “Yes, he told me he had, and that you were very forthcoming.”

  “So, let’s talk about something more pleasant than Wayne’s murder. I’ll show you what all these doodads do.”

  He spent the next five minutes instructing me in the layout of the control panels and how the computer system and its autopilot functioned. I enjoyed the brief tutorial and had just thanked him when Captain Caine returned.

  “You two getting along okay?” he asked.

  “Just fine,” I said, getting out of his chair and squeezing against Scherer’s shoulder to allow the hefty pilot to resume his seat.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Captain Scherer showed me how things work up here.”

  “Ready to take over?” Caine asked.

  “Another ten minutes and I might.”

  When I returned to the passenger cabin, George was sitting next to Seth, who’d awoken and looked fresh as a daisy.

  “Everything all right up front?” Seth asked.

  “Everything’s going fine, smooth as can be.”

  “Well,” said George, “I’d better get back to work. Enjoyed our chat, Doctor.”

  “Likewise. I think I’ll take a little walk. Wouldn’t do to come down with a case of deep-vein thrombosis, would it?”

  George and I watched Seth start out unsteadily on his stroll around the cabin, gaining stability as he went.

  “He’s a good man,” George said.

  “The best,” I said. “How did it go with Jason Silverton?”

  George smiled. “It occurred to me as we talked that I would like to incarcerate him on general principle. But as far as the murder is concerned, he seems to have a very good alibi. He claims he had dinner that night in an Indian restaurant in London; he showed me the receipt.”

  “Was he with anyone?”

  “He says not.”

  “He obviously knew his father would be in London. The flight was covered by all the media.”

  “I’m aware of that. He has no hesitation to say how much he detested his father. It must be dreadful to be hated by your own flesh and blood.”

  “Wayne may not have been father of the year,” I said, “but Jason’s attitude is despicable. Is he a murderer?”

  “That remains to be seen. Offhand, I’d say not. How was your visit to the cockpit?”

  “They call it a flight deck,” I said.

  “Of course.”

  “It was instructive. But even more interesting was the conversation I had with Christine Silverton.”

  “Let’s repair to our private corner where you can tell me all about it.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I filled George in on my conversation with Christine. He listened intently and without response. When I was finished, he rubbed his nose, raised his eyebrows, and asked, “Your analysis, Jessica?”

  “Based upon what she said, members of the crew should top the suspect list.”

  “That’s always been the case, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes, except there are others—Mr. Casale and Mr. Vicks, and Wayne’s son, Jason.”

  “You’re forgetting someone, aren’t you?”

  “Christine.”

  “Are you ruling her out after your recent conversation?”

  “No. If anyone had a motive to kill Wayne, it was Christine. When I give talks at writers’ conferences, I point out that there are basically two reasons to murder. One is in reaction to something, an event, an argument, a long-standing grudge. It generally involves rage or jealousy, and often revenge.”

  “From what you’ve learned about her marriage to Mr. Silverton, all those things are present. What’s the second motivation?”

  “Monetary gain, of course. Greed. A quest for power. Christine stands a good chance of being a part owner of SilverAir. That could be a powerful reason for wanting Wayne out of the way.”

  “It all adds up to a compelling reason to put her right up there at the top of the list, along with the crew,” he said.

  “Did Mort speak with you?” I asked.

  “Yes. I like him. As he pointed out, having access to the murder weapon is certainly a key to solving this case.”

  Gina Molnari asked if we wanted a drink or dinner. We passed on both.

  “While you’re here, Ms. Molnari, I wonder if you’d be good enough to take a short break from your duties and talk with me,” George said.

  She looked back over the cabin. “I suppose so,” she said, “but I’d better ask Christine.”

  “I’m sure she’ll approve,” I said. “If you’d like, I’ll go mention it to her.”

  She agreed to that and took a chair across from George.

  I went to where Jason and Christine sat together and told her that Gina was being questioned by George.

  “Fine,” she said.

  “I think he thinks I did it,” Jason quipped. “Jerk!”

  I ignored him and was about to rejoin George when the muffled sound of a weapon being discharged came from the direction of the flight deck.

  “What was that?” Christine said, sitting up ramrod straight.

  “It sounded like a gunshot,” I said.

  The plane suddenly lurched hard to the right, causing those standing to fall against other passengers, or over seat backs. It then righted itself and banked to the left, reversing the mayhem in the aisles.

  “What’s going on?” someone yelled.

  “Are we going to crash?” the Boston council-woman shrieked.

  We were flying straight and level again. Christine stood and said, “I’d better see what’s happening up front.” She turned to Betsy Scherer. “Knock on the door.”

  Betsy did as instructed. There was no response.

  “Do you have a key?” Christine asked. I would have been surprised if she had one. One of many security measures put into place on commercial aircraft was to deny flight attendants a key to the flight deck to preclude the possibility of one of them being held hostage and forced to give it up to a terrorist.

  “Gina has one. She always keeps it on her.”

  So much for following security regulations.

  “Then go get it!” Christine snapped.

  Betsy returned with Gina, and the key to the flight deck, which Betsy used to open the door. The sight shocked our small group into frozen silence. Captain Caine lay on the floor on his stomach, his feet between the twin seats, his head
at the flight deck’s threshold.

  “Oh, my God,” Christine said, her hand to her mouth.

  Caine managed to turn on his side, exposing a dark circle of blood on his white uniform shirt, just below his sternum. He pressed an open hand against it and looked up at us.

  “Bill,” Gina said, falling to her knees and touching his face.

  I looked past them into the cockpit. Carl Scherer had twisted in his chair and stared at me. His expression was vacant, almost like someone in a coma. And he held an automatic weapon in his right hand.

  Seth had come forward.

  “Help him,” Gina pleaded. “Oh, my God, someone please help him.”

  “Bring him out,” Seth said, aware that Scherer’s weapon was pointed in our direction.

  George and the male flight attendant, John Slater, grabbed Caine beneath his arms and slid him out of the cockpit to the carpet just outside the door.

  “Hey,” Mort said to Scherer, “put that gun down.”

  Scherer’s reply was to motion for Betsy to come to him.

  “Don’t,” I told her.

  “Betsy, I need you,” Scherer said in a voice that verged upon cracking.

  “Please,” I said through the open door, “put down the gun. You have a plane full of innocent people. Don’t compound what’s already happened.”

  “Betsy!” he commanded, his voice stronger now.

  She looked to me. I shook my head and again said to her husband, “I’m pleading with you to be sensible, Mr. Scherer. Put down the weapon and come out here.”

  George was at my side again. “Don’t make a bad situation worse,” he added.

  Betsy said nothing as she entered the cockpit and closed the door behind her, taking the key to the flight deck door with her.

  We looked at each other, aware of the ramifications facing us.

  Seth and Mort had dragged Caine to a bulkhead where there was room for Seth to administer to the wound. He tore open the pilot’s shirt, grunted in response to what he saw, looked up, and said, “I need a clean towel, and make it quick!”

  Gina fetched one and handed it to him. He pressed it against Caine’s stomach. “I presume you have a first aid kit aboard,” he said sternly. Gina got that for him, too, and Seth used items from it to help stabilize Caine and to make him more comfortable. He stood and came to me, whispering in my ear, “He’s not in good shape, Jessica. We’ve got to get him to a hospital.”

  “Scherer’s in command of the flight,” George said, glumly.

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Jed joined us. “That nut is still up front?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can’t anyone talk sense into him?”

  “I tried,” I said.

  “Did the captain say anything?” Jed asked.

  “No.”

  Jed repeated the question to Seth.

  “He says he tried to take the weapon from the first officer, and it went off in the struggle,” Seth reported.

  “Why did he pull it out in the first place?” Mort asked. He’d retrieved his handgun from his carry-on bag and had slipped it into his waistband.

  “The only important thing now,” Jed said, “is to get control of the aircraft.”

  “We can bust through the door,” Mort said.

  “Bad idea,” Jed countered. “The doors have been reinforced since Nine Eleven. Besides, he can send us into a spin we’ll never recover from. He has that flight attendant with him.”

  “His wife.”

  Seth returned to Caine’s side, and we stood over them.

  “Can you talk?” Jed asked.

  Caine looked up, grimaced against his pain, and said, “Yeah. A little.”

  “Not too long,” Seth cautioned.

  “We’re on autopilot, right?” Jed said.

  Caine nodded.

  “Is he capable of deliberately crashing us?” Jed asked. “Mentally?”

  “I—I think he is,” was Caine’s reply.

  Christine gasped.

  “We’ve got to get inside that cockpit,” Mort said.

  No one offered any solutions to the obvious.

  “We’ll just have to wait him out,” Christine said.

  Jason, who’d remained in his seat throughout what had transpired, now joined us.

  “Are we going to die?” he asked no one in particular.

  I asked Gina, “Can I speak with Officer Scherer over the internal phone system?”

  “Sure.”

  “Set it up for me.”

  She went to the cabin phone hanging on the wall just outside the flight deck and dialed in a number. She handed the phone to me.

  “Captain Scherer?” I said.

  There was no reply.

  “Captain Scherer, this is Jessica Fletcher. I’m sure you can explain what’s happened, and I’m also certain that you’ll receive a fair hearing. You’re a professional, a highly trained and skilled commercial airline pilot. I know that you put the safety and well-being of your passengers first and foremost. I have tremendous respect for what you do, and so do the others standing here with me. Dr. Hazlitt has tended to Captain Caine’s wounds, but unless we get him to a hospital quickly, he might not make it. You don’t want that on your conscience, Captain. I know you don’t.”

  I waited.

  I shook my head and looked for input from those near me. They had nothing to offer.

  “Let me try,” Jed said, taking the phone from me. “Captain Scherer? This is Jed Richardson. I used to sit in that same seat you’re in, sir. We share a bond as professional pilots, one based upon the trust our passengers place in us. The men and women in this passenger cabin are counting on you to get them safely down to the ground. Your colleague, Captain Caine, needs immediate medical help. How about letting me come up front with you and give you a hand in getting this bird to Boston? We can’t be more than an hour from there. How about it?”

  “Leave me alone,” Scherer said.

  Jed placed his hand over the mouthpiece and repeated to us what Scherer had said. His voice could be heard again, and Jed returned the phone to his ear. “What’s that you say, Captain?”

  Jed handed the phone to me. “He wants to talk to you, Jess.”

  “This is Jessica Fletcher,” I said. “I’m listening.”

  “Maybe you’ll understand,” he said.

  “Understand what?”

  “What happened to Wayne Silverton.”

  “I’ll certainly try,” I said. “Will you let me come in with you? I promise I’ll be the only one. We can discuss whatever you’d like.”

  A female voice came through the phone from the flight deck. “Carl, please,” Betsy Scherer said. “We can work this out. Please!”

  The phone went dead. I put it in its cradle. “He hung up,” I announced.

  “We’ll just have to wait him out and hope for the best,” Mort said.

  “That’s not good enough, Mort,” Jed said.

  I was aware that everyone on the flight had come to the front of the cabin and was jammed together, attempting to learn what was transpiring. I said to Christine, “Someone had better pass along some information before we have hysteria.”

  She got on the PA. “Ladies and gentlemen, you’re all aware that there’s been an accident on the flight deck. Captain Caine has been injured, but Dr. Hazlitt is taking good care of him. Captain Scherer is in command of the flight now, and we’re proceeding as scheduled to Boston. Please, I ask everyone to return to your seats and fasten your seat belts in the event we should encounter clear-air turbulence.”

  Gina Molnari approached the crowd and urged them toward the rear of the aircraft, deflecting their anxious questions in a clear, calm voice. “Everything will be just fine,” she repeated over and over. “Everyone stay calm, and we’ll be in Boston before we know it.”

  Jed moved us to one of the galleys. “Look,” he said, “chances are he’s not about to kill himself by crashing the aircraft. We’ll have to do what Mort said, wait him
out. But we’d better have a contingency plan in the event we have to physically take control of the plane. You’re armed, Mort. Right?”

  Mort patted the weapon in his waistband.

  “You?” Jed asked George.

  “Afraid not,” George said.

  “If my calculations are correct,” Jed said, “we’re about forty-five minutes from Boston.”

  “Can you fly this plane?” Mort asked.

  “I haven’t flown a 767 before, but it’s not all that different from the 757. Boeing designed the 767 to be flown by 757 pilots with a minimum of training.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Jim Shevlin said. He’d come from the rear of the plane and stood in the galley entrance.

  “Do you think he’d listen to me?” Christine asked. “You know, as the airline’s owner?”

  “Sounds to me like Jess or Jed has the best chance of getting through to him,” said Mort.

  “Here’s what we should be prepared to do,” Jed said. “In the event there’s a change in the flight, I suggest we—”

  We all stood a little straighter as there was a discernible change in the aircraft’s motion. Jed cocked his head and frowned. “We’re turning,” he said. “He’s off the autopilot. We’re heading back to sea.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jed got on the phone. “Mr. Scherer, this is Jed Richardson. Why have you come off autopilot?”

  Scherer said nothing.

  “What’s your fuel?” Jed asked.

  Again, no response.

  Then Scherer said, “I’d like to talk to Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “He wants you, Jess,” Jed said, handing me the phone.

  “This is Jessica.”

  “I want to talk to you, explain things.”

  “Of course. What is it you want to say?”

  “Come up here.”

  “To the flight deck?”

  “Yeah.”

  I told George and Jed what Scherer wanted.

  “Absolutely not,” George said. “He’s already shot one person.”

  “We’d better do something,” Jed said, “and fast!”

  “I’ll do what he wants,” I said.

  “Jessica, I—”

  “It’ll be all right, George. Jed is right. We can’t simply stand by and wait for him to run out of fuel and kill us all. I’ll be fine.”