Dearly Departed

by Carly Winter

  Larry nodded.

  “I think we should leave him and make an emergency landing. Patty, you stand next to the door and try to keep him calm. Donna and I can start cleanup a little early and finish it without you. Breaking in the door is only going to cause more commotion and stress for the rest of the passengers.”

  She had a valid point.

  Pulling out the clipboard with a map of the plane, names of passengers and their assigned seating, she announced his name. “Samuel Jones.”

  Wow. I'd been spot on with the moniker I'd given him.

  “I'll talk to the captain. I’m sure he’ll want to land, then I’ll radio into Salt Lake City and let them know the situation,” Larry said.

  As I returned to the back of the plane, I tried to think of ways to keep Sweaty Sam calm, and came up with a fat zero. How did one pacify a nervous flier stuck in a bathroom?

  Unfortunately, I couldn't recall any previous training on the matter. Perhaps that should be rectified for new stews.

  I whispered our plan to Donna, who nodded in agreement. “I think he's crying,” she said. “He's very upset.”

  A grown man crying wasn't something I wanted to deal with, but I'd been tasked with it, so I would.

  I knocked on the restroom door. “Mr. Jones?”

  “Y-yes?”

  “Sir, we're almost at Salt Lake, where we’re going to land. At this time, we believe it's best for you to remain in there.”

  “No! No... you can't do that to me.”

  “If we try to break down the door, we're afraid it will hurt you. You don't want a broken nose, do you?” His silence indicated he was actually weighing his options. Unfortunately, he didn't have a choice in the matter. “I'm going to stay right here with you,” I continued. “Why don't you tell me a little about yourself?”

  “I'm stuck in a toilet in a tin can speeding through space.”

  Exactly what I didn't want him thinking about.

  “Are you married?” I asked, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning my forehead against the door.

  “Yes. Ten years.”

  “And what's her name?”

  “Mildred.”

  “Kids?”

  “Five.”

  “How old are they?”

  As he listed his children's names and ages, Donna and Marsha hustled throughout the plane to clean up before landing. A few passengers glanced over their shoulders at me speaking to the lavatory door, but I only smiled and motioned for them to turn around. Nothing to see here, folks.

  “You mentioned little Mary was a dancer,” I said. “Does she do ballet or some other form?”

  “Tap. She's a tap dancer,” Sweaty Sam replied. He grew quiet for a long moment, then began sobbing again. “I may never watch her dance again.”

  “Don't you think like that,” I scolded. “Everything is going to be just fine.”

  The plane dropped and I braced myself in between the two walls.

  “We're going to crash,” Sam muttered. “I'm going to die in a toilet.”

  “It's just a little turbulence,” I spoke soothingly. “We get it often flying into Utah. It's nothing to worry about.”

  A few passengers squealed at the next bump. The third one caused me to lose my balance and I almost toppled over to the floor.

  “The captain has advised that everyone take their seats,” Marsha said over the intercom. “Please make sure your seatbelt is buckled. We will be making an emergency stop in Utah.”

  Some passengers groaned in irritation.

  “That means you too, Patty,” Donna said. “You better grab a seat.”

  “What about him?” I asked, hitching my thumb over my shoulder. “I can't leave him.”

  “You're going to have to. Being up and around is a hazard, not only to yourself, but to everyone around you.”

  Pretty rich coming from the drunk stew, but I wouldn't argue. I turned back to the restroom. I couldn't remember Sweaty Sam's last name. “Sir? I need to sit down now. I advise you to do the same.”

  As the plane jumped again, I made my way over to the jump seat Donna had pulled out for me, steadying myself on the walls.

  When I reached it, I quickly snapped the belt and shut my eyes. I had full faith in our captains to land us safely but turbulence was the one thing I really hated about flying because I became ill with motion sickness so easily. My stomach rolled with the plane. Thankfully, I hadn't had anything to eat. If I had, I may have lost it all over the galley.

  From the lavatory, I thought I heard prayers being whispered.

  I didn't blame him. The plane leapt around like a wayward soccer ball. I’d been on plenty of rough flights, but the aircraft seemed out of control as it bounced. Despite my confidence in the captains, I considered that we may die.

  It never hurt to pray so I sent up a silent request that our lives be spared. I didn’t want to die in an airplane crash.

  Chapter 20

  Once our wheels touched down and we came to a halt, it seemed like everyone gave one collective sigh of relief. Donna and I traded weary smiles. We hadn’t died.

  “That was a rough landing,” she said. “I actually feel a little queasy.”

  “Me, too. “I better check on our bathroom guest.”

  I unbuckled my seatbelt and stood, as did Donna. While she fetched coats and helped people retrieve their bags from the overhead bins, I tried to stay out of the way. Unfortunately, with the bathroom door being out of order, everyone would have to debark and the airline would find us another plane to take to San Francisco. It was going to be a long afternoon, and if we didn’t arrive back home until late night, it would be no surprise.

  “Sir?” I tapped on the door.

  No answer. I couldn’t recall his last name. Forget formalities.

  “Sam?”

  Again, I was met with silence.

  What if he’d died from an anxiety induced heart attack?

  As the passengers filed out the front, two members of the maintenance crew came in through the back.

  “There’s something wrong with him,” I said. “Hurry! We need to get in there!”

  We should have tried to break him out. Never had I experienced such horrible turbulence, and I couldn’t imagine trying to ride it out in the lavatory.

  As they worked on the panel, I reviewed cardiopulmonary resuscitation instructions from memory just in case I needed to perform them once the door came off.

  “How are things going back here?” Marsha asked once all the passengers had deplaned. “We sure have a lot of angry customers over this.”

  “Over a man being trapped in the lavatory?” I asked. “Why are they upset? They aren’t the ones in there!”

  “They wanted us to continue to San Francisco. No regard for anyone but themselves and their own schedules.”

  “He’s not responding to me,” I said, trying to remain calm and professional, not caring the least bit that people were upset their trip had been interrupted. “I think we better call in medical.”

  She nodded and hurried back down the aisle just as the maintenance crew removed the door to reveal Sweaty Sam sitting on the closed toilet, completely passed out, his face as white as the rice I’d served earlier. We all stared at him a moment, and I figured everyone was as taken aback as I was.

  “Is he dead?” Donna asked when Marsha returned. “He looks dead.” I didn’t argue. She wasn’t wrong.

  Marsha moved in and placed her hand in front of his mouth. “He’s breathing.”

  “Check his pulse,” Donna said.

  My heart thundered as Marsha’s hand moved to Sam’s neck. Maybe I was the one who was going into cardiac arrest?

  “His skin is clammy, but we have a pulse,” Marsha announced. At last, the two pilots rushed down the aisle toward us. We all sighed in relief. “Medical will be here in a minute,” Marsha continued, her voice calm and reassuring, which was why she was the head stew. “For now, I say we leave him right where he is until they get here. We don
’t know how badly he got knocked around in there during the turbulence.”

  The captains nodded in agreement.

  A short period later, medical personnel arrived and maneuvered Sam out of the restroom and onto a stretcher. We gathered our things and followed them off. A man with a clipboard waited at the bottom of the stairs wearing a suit—obviously airline management. Going from cigarette smoke to the smell of airplane fuel made me cough, and I longed for some fresh air.

  “This whole crew will be moving to Gate 3C and using the plane there to finish the flight to San Fran,” he said, his voice clipped. “Are we clear?”

  The five of us nodded.

  “Good. Run along now. We’re steering the passengers over that way as I speak. They need their crew to get the plane in the air.”

  Thankfully, the flight from Utah to San Francisco went off without anyone being trapped in the lavatory, no overly drunk people, and only one screaming child. When I stepped off the plane, exhaustion roiled through me and I couldn’t wait to get home.

  “Would you ladies like to grab a drink with us?” Large Larry asked. “I think we all deserve one after that New York flight.”

  “Has anyone heard if Sam’s okay?” I asked. Going for cocktails was the last thing on my mind. I worried that our decision to leave him in the restroom had killed the poor man.

  “No word at all, but hopefully they’ll let us know,” Marsha said. “And I for one would love a glass of wine.”

  “Count me in, too,” Donna said.

  I shook my head. “Not for me. I’m heading home.”

  “Don’t be such a downer, Patty,” Donna said. “Come join us!”

  “No, thank you. I’ll see you all sometime soon!”

  I didn’t wait to be chided further. Instead, I grabbed my bag and hurried through the airport while dreaming of slipping off my girdle and curling up on the couch with Ringo. A blast of cool, damp air hit me as I exited the airport. I inhaled deeply, glancing up at the sky. Sprinkles of raindrops pelted my face and a chill ran down my spine as the cold took its grip. Finally, fresh air.

  As I slid into the cab, I did wish Donna would have come home with me. The thought of going into our empty apartment alone gave me a case of the jitters. Would I find a murderer waiting for me? Or a cat that had peed on everything? And which would be worse?

  How Donna kept up with her lifestyle, I’d never understand.

  When the cab pulled in front of the apartment building, I paid and then exited. Our super, Mr. Killian, was planting flowers in the new planters installed outside the building. The pink and purple petunias really added a nice touch to the front entrance.

  “They look wonderful, Mr. Killian!”

  He rose to standing and grinned. “I think so, too. I only hope no one comes along and picks them. I’d hate to have all this work destroyed.”

  “I’m sure they’ll be fine,” I said. “People still respect others’ property.”

  He placed his hands on his hips. “Tell that to those dang protestors. Where are you coming back from?”

  “We started this morning in New York, then to Utah and here.”

  “Busy day.”

  I laughed and shook my head. “You have no idea, Mr. Killian. I can’t wait to get out of this uniform and relax for a bit.”

  “Well, don’t let me stop you. Have a nice evening, little lady.”

  Instead of trudging up the stairs, I waited patiently for the elevator. When the doors parted, I stepped inside, pressed the button to my floor, and leaned against the wall. The short ride seemed to take forever.

  I pulled out the keys to my apartment as I exited the elevator. Just as I pushed open my door, Mrs. Wilson came out into the hallway carrying Ringo.

  “Patty!” she exclaimed with a wide grin. “I was just going to fetch some food for this sweet prince.”

  “Thank you so much,” I said as she handed the tabby off to me. “We felt awful about dropping him in your lap like that, but the call came in before dawn that we had to work. We had no notice and he doesn’t like being alone.”

  “It was no trouble at all, dear. I was happy to help you out.” Ringo jumped from my arms and into the apartment, scurrying across the living room and into the bedroom. “So tell me about your travels.”

  “Come on in,” I said, motioning for her to follow me. “Have I got a story for you!” I dropped my bags by the door. “Take a seat. I’m just going to change really quick. I’ll be right back.”

  I found Ringo sitting on top of a bed pillow, glaring at me, when I entered the bedroom. “I’m sorry we had to leave,” I whispered as I undressed. “We need to work to buy you food. How was your time with Mrs. Wilson?”

  He shut his eyes and turned away from me.

  Ugh. Such a cranky cat.

  Once I’d slipped on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, I joined Mrs. Wilson in the living room.

  “I hope you don’t mind, Patty. I helped myself to some tea.”

  “Not at all,” I replied, sinking into the couch. “You’re always welcome here.”

  “Thank you, dear. Now tell me your tale! You’ve got my mind spinning with what it may be!”

  As I told her the story of the passenger trapped in the bathroom, I tried to remember every detail. My memory for names might not be the best, but since meeting Bill Hart, I was focusing on remembering things I’d normally overlook—like the color of Sam’s shirt and the time of day when he’d first reached out for help.

  Once I finished my story, Mrs. Wilson stared at me wide-eyed, enthralled by my tale, her tea disregarded.

  “My word,” she muttered, shaking her head. “I’m not sure whether to laugh or cry for that poor man.”

  I nodded in agreement. “Hopefully, we’ll find out he’s just fine. It was a terrible thing to happen to anyone, but he was nervous before he even stepped foot on the tarmac.”

  “What a shame. I hope they put some mechanical thing in place to prevent that from happening again.” Smart woman. After the incident, it seemed they’d do something to avoid future passenger trappings.

  “Have you heard any more about Charles’ murder?” I asked. “Has the police been by?”

  “No. It’s been so quiet. I hate to say it, but with Charles gone, I’m sleeping through the night and not waking up to his screaming any longer, bless his soul.”

  “How odd,” I replied. “I would think the police would have come to talk to us again.”

  “I’m afraid not. I worry that they are just going to let the murder slide and it’ll become another cold case. There’s so much crime these days, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if that’s what happened.”

  “It would be a shame,” I said, completely uncomfortable with the idea. “That would mean that a murderer could possibly be living in our building! Or walking the streets ready to strike again!”

  “Oh, I’m aware of that. It’s truly frightening, especially for women like us who live alone. At times like these, I wish my husband was still alive.”

  And I wished Donna had come home with me.

  “I better get going, Patty. I’ll leave you to rest.”

  Standing, I walked her to the door, then bent down and gave her a hug. “Thanks again, Mrs. Wilson. I appreciate you so much.”

  “The feeling is mutual, Patty. I couldn’t ask for better neighbors.”

  Just as I was about to shut the door, she turned to me. “Oh! I should give you your key back.” She fished it from her pocket and placed it in my palm. “Here you go. Anytime you need me to watch Ringo, just let me know.”

  I shut the door behind me, walked over to the key drawer and tossed it in. After it landed with a clink, I gazed at it for a moment before picking it up again.

  As I held it up in front of my face, my heart raced and sweat broke out on my brow. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

  Gripping the counter with one hand, I grabbed the other two keychains from the drawer and brought them all over to the couch, then fli
pped on the side table lamp. Laying all the keys out on the coffee table, I stared at them for a long time.

  My goodness.

  Had I just discovered the murderer?

  Chapter 21

  I grabbed a pad of paper and pen from the side table and wrote with a shaky hand.

  Motive.

  Opportunity.

  Once I filled those out and jotted other miscellaneous notes and a timeline, I tossed the notebook to the side and rubbed my temples. I had either solved a murder or I was losing my mind.

  A knock sounded at the door, but I didn't answer. Too distracted. Besides, what if it was the killer?

  I hesitated to share my findings. After all, I'd been reminded many times I wasn't a police officer and had no training in the art of finding killers. But yet, as I stared at my notebook and the keys, I realized I had to tell someone. And if I was wrong? I'd be the stupid stew with an overactive imagination. If I was right... well, I'd just solved a murder.

  Which was more important? Justice for Charles or my delicate ego? I'd been underestimated my entire life, so I was used to that. But Charles deserved to have his killer put away. Those surrounding the case deserved safety.

  After locating Detective Peterson's number, I picked up the phone and dialed, my hands still trembling. My call was answered on the second ring when I was told Detective Peterson wasn't in and I'd need to leave a message.

  “Please tell him Patricia Byrne called regarding the Charles Bernard murder.”

  When I hung up, I immediately decided to phone Bill. If he could use his badge and crankiness to track down a stew in New York, he could hunt down a cop in San Francisco. I hurried to my bag and fetched his number then returned to the couch. After dialing, I studied the evidence in front of me. All of it was well and good, but I had no proof. Only a very strong suspicion.

  “Bill Hart,” he answered with a sigh, as if his phone had rung far too many times during the day.

  “Bill, it's Patty Byrne.”

  “Well, hello, Patty. It's nice to hear your voice.”

  “I think I may have solved Charles' murder.”