One more piece of work remained for me to do for Ed.
I cornered Guy Oldenshaw. His gaze darted to the ED TATE embroidered on the bomber jacket. He knew, because everybody did by now, that I was Ed’s junior business partner. “Condolences.”
“There’s something he wanted you to know,” I told Oldenshaw. Which was true, I think. Ed had been an old-fashioned Catholic. The kind who plans to straighten up and fly right at the very end of his life. He’d wanted me to find the instrument panel bulb; he may have intended to come clean to the TAF tonight.
Perry Tucker sidled into earshot with curiosity written across his face. That was fine by me. With Perry spreading the word, a week from now a hundred people would know what I did, what should have been made public fifteen years ago—not to drag down the reputation of the dead, but to keep opportunistic lawyers from bankrupting the Mahler Aircraft Company. “Mahler Aircraft didn’t kill Smiley,” I told Oldenshaw. “Get-home-itis killed him. He knew he was flying on fumes, but he decided he had just enough fuel to make it home. He was wrong.”
“That’s not what the lawsuit said.”
“Men tell women things they won’t tell another man. Not long ago, Ed told me something important about the crash.” Making full disclosure to myself if not to Oldenshaw, I silently amended, Ed telegraphed it to me in a cryptic note, and a battered little bulb told me the rest of the truth. “When Ed got to the crash scene, after he saw Smiley dead, he found the fuel warning indicator bulb’s filament broken. That meant the bulb had been lit for a while before the Mahler Tern crashed. The filament was hot, and it broke at the impact of the crash, just like a light bulb filament will break if you jar it when it’s on. Ed removed the bulb from the crash scene.” He would have had time to switch it out with an intact bulb from elsewhere in the panel, whipping out his Leatherman knife to get the job done.
Alone in a bleak night fractured by the death of his best friend, Ed must have just intended to prevent an indelible stain on Smiley’s reputation. But his actions had made indelible uncertainty stick to the reputation of Guy Oldenshaw. I saw a glad, guilty flicker of realization in Oldenshaw’s eyes. Perry spoke it out loud. “If Smiley’d lived, he’d never have flown the Mozzie from any seat but the copilot’s. Not even the TAF could overlook pilot carelessness that bad.”
Oldenshaw had been Mad Mozzie’s chief pilot for twelve years now. He’d flown the rare warbird to countless airshows, kept her out of the jaws of bad weather in the sky, always gotten her home safe and sound. “Enjoy it,” I told Guy Oldenshaw. I meant it, and I thought Ed would have wanted me to tell Oldenshaw that too.
Enjoy finally knowing there’s irrefutable evidence that you were the better pilot.
Enjoy flying the Mozzie.
THE LEGACY OF LEDGEMONT INN by Linda Houle
“Oh my goodness—this is amazing!” Fran sprinted down the dormitory hall, littering the carpet with pieces of mail. Breathless, dimpled cheeks flushed, she clutched the precious piece of stationary against her chest and pounded on her best friend’s door.
“Open up already. Hey Justine!” Trembling, she looked at it again. In the corridor’s dim lighting she had to squint to see the hand-written words. Flowing black cursive penned on thick ivory parchment—a rarity in this day and age—a message proclaiming her legacy:
Dear Francis,
As your family’s long time lawyer, you know your grandmother asked me to continue watching over you after she was gone. I hope I’ve lived up to her expectations as I’ve administered your trust fund, and seen to all your needs while you attend college. My letter today is about the future of Ledgemont Inn.
You may remember three years ago, during the last month of her illness, your grandmother made special arrangements with your father, Arthur Sutton. She requested he move back from Hawaii to become the caretaker of Ledgemont Inn. He arrived following the funeral, after you’d already left for college.
Grace always hoped your mother would move back home and take over the Bed and Breakfast, sadly her dream was never realized. Your mother’s accidental death five years ago changed a lot of things, including Mrs. Montgomery’s endowments.
Now that you are about to turn twenty-one, I am obligated to reveal the final term of Grace Montgomery’s will. On the date of your twenty-first birthday, you, Francis Grace Sutton, will inherit Ledgemont Inn, all its contents, and all surrounding family owned property.
Your father has planned a special celebration in your honor, and requests that you join him in Texas next weekend. He wanted me to tell you he’s looking forward to seeing you again. Enclosed is a check to cover your travel expenses.
Congratulations!
Ronald W. Trumble
Justine’s door opened several inches. “Franny—you’ll wake the dead with all that pounding. What’s going on?” Rubbing her eyes and yawning, the attractive auburn-haired twenty-year-old swung the door wide open then stumbled backward. “I was up late last night studying, and now you’ve interrupted my nap.” She smiled and winked.
“Oh really? Whose body were you studying this time?” Fran looked around, but Justine was alone. She knew all about the curvy coed’s ‘study’ habits. The over-sexed girl cared little about her education at Blythe Academy, having already earned an honorary Master’s Degree in men.
Plopping down on her friend’s messy double bed, Fran held up the lawyer’s letter.
“You’re going with me next weekend—no arguments!” The petite curly-haired blonde squealed as her toes tapped out a staccato rhythm on the wooden floor.
“Where?” Justine snatched the paper from Fran’s shaking fingers. “Well I’ll be damned. Texas!”
“I thought Gram left the B&B to my father. Well, she once told me she was leaving it to my mother, but with community property and all, everything of my mother’s belongs to him. I figured I’d be a middle-aged woman before I inherited Ledgemont. This letter says she changed her will after my mother died. Gram never mentioned...”
She stopped in mid-sentence and yelped as lightning flashed and a thunderous boom rattled the windows.
Justine draped her arm around Fran’s shoulders. “I thought you were over your fear of thunderstorms.”
“Oh Justine, it’s not the thunder, I’m so nervous. I haven’t seen my father since I was a baby—do you think he’ll be upset I’m inheriting the Inn and all the property?”
Justine was the only person who understood Fran and her fears. Justine’s parents enrolled her in the private college on their way to Europe three years ago—she seldom heard from them except to receive her expense checks and an occasional postcard. Alone in a different sense, Fran had never desired to return to Texas, with both her mother and grandmother gone. She and Justine made the best of it and were more like sisters than best friends. Always watching out for one another, they lived year round in the old Wembly Hall dormitory house.
The thunderstorm intensified, increasing Fran’s apprehension, the clouds turned daylight into darkness. Hail hit the bedroom window like blasts from a pellet gun.
“Franny, I’ll be there with you. Don’t worry.” Glancing at the clock on her nightstand and realizing she was going to be late for a class, Justine yanked off the oversized t-shirt and tossed it onto the floor.
“Oh heck, I’m late too! Meet you over at the Academy.” Fran picked up her letter and hurried out the door, gathering scattered mail all the way back to her own room.
* * * *
“I’m glad we’re finally here. I hate flying. Well, you know I’m a nervous wreck most of the time anyway.” Fran snatched her brown leather suitcase off the luggage carousel. “Look, isn’t that yours?”
Justine looped her arm through the black satchel’s strap as it snaked past. “Got it. Let’s go look for Lurch!”
Laughing at Justine’s new nickname for Fran’s middle-aged chauffer, during the flight she’d tried to forewarn her friend about the ‘unusual’ man. She’d described him as resembling the monster-like butl
er from the Addams Family television show.
“His real name is Nathan. I’m surprised my father kept him on staff. He never showed any interest in having a life outside Ledgemont—I guess poor Nathan had nowhere else to go, besides his apartment over the garage.”
Leaving the baggage claim area, the girls stepped through the automatic glass doors and out to the curb as a black stretch limousine with the Ledgemont Inn logo pulled up.
Justine gasped. The dark-haired man who stepped out towered over them, his movements stiff and ungraceful as he took their suitcases and deposited them in the trunk. Fran’s description of a giant reanimated corpse with pasty skin suited him perfectly.
“Thank-you, Nathan. We appreciate you coming all the way down here to get us. I could have rented a car, you know.” Fran’s call last week to Ledgemont confirming her plans left the girl puzzled. Instead of reaching her father, an unfamiliar woman answered the phone. Jean Davis claimed to be the new manager. Arthur Sutton had taken ill again and was confined to his bed, unable to take her call. He’d left strict instructions for his daughter not to rent a car, instead Nathan would pick her up.
Justine snuggled into the plush upholstery and stretched out her legs, admiring the TV, DVD player, and fully stocked bar. “This is nice. And now it’s all yours, Franny.”
Nathan’s large head jerked to the side as he glared at Justine. “Miss Francis, we weren’t told you were bringing someone along this weekend.”
“Is the Inn full of guests? In that case Justine can bunk with me, in my old room.”
“Noooo.” Nathan answered in a long low growl.
Justine poked Fran in the ribs and whispered to her, in a voice loud enough for Nathan to hear. “Yep, he’s just like Lurch all right—even sounds like him!”
“Shhhhh—stop it. Be nice.” Fran covered her mouth so Nathan couldn’t see the big grin on her face.
* * * *
Friday’s sunset glowed like a raging forest fire burning in the woods behind the Ledgemont Inn. Justine’s first view of the imposing estate sent shivers down her spine.
“It’s not much like you described it to me—it’s rather creepy. I thought there was a rose garden out front.”
Fran gasped at the ruinous sight. “What’s happened, Nathan? Gram’s beautiful gardens...” Tears filled her eyes and she crossed her arms, disgusted with the decaying façade and dead foliage. Thick mold smothered the once charming stone building, which now seemed better suited for a horror film than a country Inn.
“Your father doesn’t like roses.” His gruff voice barked the answer.
“What about the groundskeeper? Is Luke still working here?” Luke loved tending Grace’s award-winning roses and arranging bouquets for the tables. Fran’s heart sank even further knowing her one real friend at Ledgemont must be long gone, like the flowers.
Pulling the limo up in front of the house Nathan hit the brakes hard, sending the girls tumbling onto the floor.
“My goodness, you needn’t stop the car like that! I’m sorry if I upset you, and you must miss Grandmother too. How very sad...” Struggling to get off the floor and out of the car, Fran bit her lip and tried not to bawl. Gone only three years, how could the grand manor deteriorate so much? Shaking her head to straighten her blonde curls, Fran smoothed down her beige skirt and tugged at the hem of her matching blazer.
“Luke...errrrr...yes. He’s still employed by Mr. Sutton. Only part time, though.” Nathan grumbled at the girls. Yanking their bags out of the trunk, he followed them up the stone stairs to the massive arched walnut double entry doors.
“So Luke’s still around...” Uneasy, Fran embraced the fast encroaching twilight, thankful she could no longer see the rotting remnants of the gardens. Shaky legs carried her up the precarious leaf-covered steps. As her hand touched the doorknob it abruptly swung inward, opened by an unpleasant, dried up old crone. Thin as a rail and wearing a tight long-sleeved black dress, her skirt almost touched the floor. Worn black loafers, the type of shoes that wouldn’t make a sound as she sneaked around the house at night, peeked out from underneath the frayed hem.
“Gee, you startled me.” Heart pounding in her chest, Fran frowned, staring up at the odd-looking woman. “Ms. Davis, I presume?”
“Yes.” A single croaked syllable replaced the Inn’s customary warm Texas welcome. Fran turned to glimpse her friend’s reaction to the grey-haired woman. Nothing moved except Justine’s eyes, they shifted from the woman in the doorway to Fran and then back again. Tight-lipped for once, the girl blinked a few times, then her hand reached out to clasp Fran’s clammy palm.
“May we come in, ma’am?” Justine’s shivers returned, resonating in her words, and her knees almost knocked together when the woman finally moved aside to let them enter.
“Francis, you did not inform me you’d be bringing a guest. Now we’ll need to make some adjustments...” The impertinent woman turned her back to them then headed for the staircase.
Fran noticed dust and grime had built up on the hardwood floor and paneling, cobwebs hung from the banisters, and the foul scent of mildew permeated the vaulted entryway.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Davis. Justine can stay in my room, I don’t mind.” Fran expected Nathan to bring up their luggage, but he’d vanished. She shrugged to her friend and they picked up their bags and followed Ms. Davis up the massive staircase. Fran’s and Justine’s high heels clattered on the oak, but the old woman’s shoes made no sound—until she reached the second step from the top, and the loose board creaked.
“That’s not necessary, we have vacancies. There are ten guest bedrooms after all, each with their own private bath. Having grown up here you already know this, of course.” In the landing at the top of the stairs she turned to face Justine. “It’s a grand southern home, with expensive furnishings and an artwork collection befitting a gallery. That’s why Fran’s Grandmother decided to make this into a B&B. You can stay in the blue room, across the hall.” Opening the first door on the right, Ms. Davis gestured for her to go inside.
“Thank you, we’ll get settled as fast as we can, then I’d like to see my father.” Fran’s high-strung nature ran on overdrive, dealing with so much stress all at once—she bit her lip and her body tensed.
“Perhaps.” The prune-faced woman glared at the girls. “I’ll see if he’s up to it tonight. I told you he’s been very ill, confined to bed for over a week.”
“Isn’t he feeling any better? I should go to him right now.” Fran started down the hallway.
“No!” Jean took a hostile stance, blocking Fran’s path. “Please, girls, go freshen up, and then come downstairs to dinner. I’ll see if he’s up to joining you.”
Frustrated, yet feeling obliged to comply, Fran had to satisfy her curiosity about something else. “Ms. Davis, how many guests are here this weekend?”
“Only two. My brother and his wife, Earle and Mary Davis.” The woman hurried away before Fran could ask any more questions.
“That’s odd, just her family? Probably staying here free, too. No wonder this place is going to hell. Come into my room for a minute.” Fran opened the door to her old bedroom, hoping everything in it hadn’t shriveled up and disappeared like the rose bushes.
Fran held her breath as she turned on the light, then she sighed and relaxed, relieved for the first time since she’d arrived. “Thank goodness. I was so worried after I saw the grounds. I don’t see how they can stay open as a Bed and Breakfast, the way they’ve let the place go.”
“I love your room! It’s like a fairy tale—with a bed fit for a Princess.” Justine giggled and dove onto the pink satin comforter, propping herself up on the mountain of embroidered and tasseled pillows. Her jaw dropped when she looked up at the ornate carved crown molding. White dressers trimmed with gold leaf, handcrafted chairs with pink velvet cushions, and expensive paintings of the English countryside completed the room’s decor.
“Your room is nice too. It was my Grandmother’s suite. I hope they�
�ve kept it as it was...” Fran headed across the hall to help Justine get settled.
Justine managed a half-smile at her accommodations. “It’s comfy, but nothing like your room.” The hair on her scalp prickled. “Didn’t you tell me she died in her sleep?” Both girls stared at the bed.
“You silly thing, she’s not haunting this house, if that’s what you’re thinking. I don’t for a moment believe in ghosts!” Fran laughed then shoved her friend farther into the large suite. Decorated all in blue, almost as big as Justine’s room, large paintings of roses covered the walls.
“Unpack, change, and we’ll go see what the charming Ms. Davis has prepared for dinner.” Fran choked on the word charming.
“First I met Lurch the butler, and now the ‘Wicked Witch’ housekeeper is probably boiling some eye of newt. There had better not be a zombie in the closet...” Justine’s joviality didn’t sound convincing.
* * * *
Trying not to make a racket with their shoes this time, the girls tip-toed down the curved staircase. Looking around the too quiet house, Fran noticed cobwebs in every corner. The place needed a thorough dusting, and patches of mold and mildew dotted the dingy and neglected wooden floor. Fran reached over to turn on another table lamp in the dim living room and discovered a burned out bulb.
“I can’t believe this filth. My Grandmother is probably turning over in her grave right now.”
“Please don’t say that. I’m sleeping in her bed tonight. Holy crap!” Justine grabbed Fran’s arm when a previously invisible door almost hit them as it popped open out of the wood paneled wall.
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