by JC Simmons
Kathleen stirred as we walked up on the porch. J.L. went to her and kissed her lightly on the mouth. She smiled weakly and held her hand up to touch his face. "How was your trip to Monhegan?"
"Fine, fine. We saw Shorty. He sends his love." J.L. embraced his wife tenderly.
"Oh, Mr. Leicester." Kathleen looked at me. "It's good to see you again. I'm sorry I can't get up. I'm a little weak."
"I understand." Walking over, I took her hand in mine. "How are you feeling?"
"Besides being a little queasy, I'm fine. Bill gave me one of his magic potions." She attempted a smile. "J.L., please introduce Mr. Leicester to Nora."
Chamberlain introduced me to Nora Welsh as a close friend who stayed with Kathleen when he was away. She had a slender body; its lines long, fragile, and so exaggerated that she appeared unreal. She had gray eyes that were not ovals, but two long slits, and a narrow, vicious mouth. There was an air of cold serenity about her.
Nora Welsh was reading a book titled, A HOSTAGE TO FORTUNE. I had an inscribed copy by the author, Ernest K. Gann.
"Great book,” I said to her.
"Yes." She held up the book as if seeing it for the first time. Her skin was clear, almost translucent, and transmitted a faintly crimsoned, peach-glow of health. "My husband knew Mr. Gann. They both flew for American Airlines, and for the Air Transport Command in World War Two. Wendall was killed then, Mr. Gann was not."
"I'm sorry. We lost a lot of pilots in that war. I read recently where Mr. Gann died."
She looked strangely at me and smiled. It was not a happy smile; it was not a graceful one. It was a simple, easy smile and it was amused. "Yes, we all do, don't we?"
J.L. rescued me. "We've got to run into town. I'll be back in a couple of hours, Nora." He kissed Kathleen good-bye. We left.
"Strange woman, Nora Welsh."
J.L. laughed. "You don't know the half of it. I'll only say this about Nora; she's a true genius. A four page resume. Three degrees from MIT, speaks seven languages. Her field is Computer Science. She was a colleague of Admiral Grace Murray Hopper, the inventor of computer business language. They worked together building the first computer ever, for the Navy."
"She should make for an interesting evening of conversation."
"I used to leave the room when she and Kathleen got into one of their intellectual debates. Feelings of inadequacy would flow over me like a tidal wave. I was forced to leave, or be severely embarrassed."
"Let's stop by the airport,” I said, changing the subject before Chamberlain asked me what I knew about computers. "Maybe some of the local pilots could help us with this helicopter thing."
"Good idea. We can check with the two local helicopter operators later. They both fly from the docks, downtown."
The airport was strangely quiet in the dusk-dark of the late evening. There has always been something intriguing about lonely airports at night. I've never been quite sure what.
Chamberlain stopped in front of the FBO where Anastasio's G-IV had parked. We walked inside.
In the lobby of the brightly-lighted fixed-base operation an instructor and student were sitting at a table going over a flight plan. A lineman sat listening, obviously a student, also. They looked up as we entered. We were intruders in their world, a world I had been an intimate part of many years ago. A world I sometimes missed so desperately it ached.
"Hello, Gentlemen,” Chamberlain said. "This is Investigator Leicester. I'm Detective J.L. Chamberlain, Rockland Police Department. We want to ask you some questions about helicopter operations around here a week or so ago."
The three men looked at each other and laughed. It was puzzling. They seemed downright disrespectful.
Then the young lineman spoke up. "Oh, Mr. J.L., what you trying to pull with that formal sounding stuff? You helped raise all three of us, coached our Little League teams. Mr. Leicester, we know about him, the private investigator from down south, working with you on those two murders."
Small towns...
Chamberlain laughed. "Bill, Carl, Junior. Last week a helicopter made several trips to Monhegan. Had to refuel somewhere. We thought maybe it could have been here."
Junior, the lineman, stood up and scratched his head. "Last week? Yeah, an old FH-1100. I fueled him twice. I didn't know he was running to Monhegan, though. That's illegal."
Jackpot! I thought to myself.
"How did he pay?" J.L. asked.
"Credit card." Junior's young face lit up. "I've still got the original hard copies. We send this month's receipts in to the Oil Company next week."
"Jackpot," I said out loud this time. "Did they transfer any cargo from the helicopter to an airplane? Maybe to the G-IV that landed here the other day? Did it come in before and pickup the cargo?"
Junior looked at us with a blank expression. "I didn't see any cargo. I remember a pilot, two passengers, but no cargo."
Scratching the back of my head, I said, "They must have off-loaded it somewhere else."
"Yeah, but where?" Chamberlain said, following Junior behind the counter to get the credit card receipts.
"That helicopter wasn't from around here,” the flight instructor offered. "I'd guess Portland or Augusta."
"How do you know it's not from around here?" I asked.
He looked at me with the tolerance the young sometimes have for the aged. It made me feel stupid, rather than old.
"Both helicopters operating out of Rockland are Hughes 500's. They are based down at the docks. You can check."
"I'll take your word for it,” I said, trying to salvage some dignity. He smiled.
Chamberlain returned with the tickets. "Come on, let's go to the office. We can check this out from there."
On the way back to the police department, I looked at the credit card receipts. The imprint read: WHOPPER CHOPPERS--YOU CALL, WE HAUL. 1386 Airport Boulevard, Portland, Maine.
Holding the receipts up to Chamberlain, I said, "We may have a break with this. They can tell us a lot."
"Let's hope." He accelerated around a line of slow moving cars. "Let us hope."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
On our way through to Chamberlain's office we passed by Sergeant Bowers' desk. He spoke to Chamberlain, ignored me. Chamberlain got a big kick out of it. I was not amused.
"Don't worry about our esteemed Desk Sergeant,” he said, with a grin. "He's been suffering from S.P.T.A. ever since he met Mabel two years ago."
"S.P.T.A.?"
"Slow Progressive Testicular Atrophy. In his case, it's a condition in which his ego has been destroyed by a good-looking woman leading to sleeplessness, humiliation, and confusion. A cumulative collapse of confidence and pride." Chamberlain was laughing. "He'll get over it."
It was good to see Chamberlain's sense of humor intact. What he was facing with the slow deterioration of his wife must be extremely hard. As far as Sergeant Bowers and Mabel were concerned, I would have to worry about them later.
"Let's see what we can find out about this Whopper Chopper outfit. We need the information from them before we call Anastasio tomorrow."
"I agree." Chamberlain sat down stiffly behind his desk. "This flying thing is in your realm of expertise. I'll listen in. You do the talking." There was a swift, involuntary look of eagerness on his face, the look of a competent person's appreciation. Smiling, he glanced at me and said, "Let's do it."
I punched in the numbers.
"Whopper Choppers. You call, we haul." A male voice answered the phone.
"Let me speak to the owner. This is the Rockland Police Department."
"You got him. Name's Charlie Walters. What can I do for you?"
"Last week, on the dates of the 13th through the 16th, did you have a helicopter operating in this area?"
"I could check." He was hesitant. "Who did you say you were?"
"Name's Leicester. I'm an investigator working with Detective Chamberlain of the Rockland Police." I said, putting as much officialdom in my voice as I could.
"Okay,” he mumbled. "Give me ten minutes, I’ll call you back. Collect."
"Fine. We need this information now, not tomorrow."
"I said ten minutes." He hung up.
"What do you think?" Chamberlain asked, propping his feet up on the desk.
"We'll wait ten minutes.
"Whopper Choppers calling for Investigator Leicester." Sergeant Bowers' cold, professional, voice droned over the intercom exactly ten minutes later. Chamberlain smiled.
"Leicester here,” I said into the mouthpiece after Chamberlain picked up the extension so he could listen.
"We had a charter operating in Rockland on the 14th and 15th,” Charlie Walters said slowly, as if reading from a printed flight schedule. "Is there a problem?"
Looking at the dates on the fuel tickets, I saw that they matched. "We need to know who chartered your helicopter, and we need to talk with the pilot."
"Just a minute, now. We can't give out that kind of information." He sounded arrogant. "That's against company policy. You would need a court order."
Winking at Chamberlain, I said, "A Fairchild-Hiller, model 1100, N819WC, made four trips to, and landed illegally on, Monhegan Island the 14th and 15th of this month. We have six witnesses willing to testify to that effect. I'm sure the local FSDO, (Flight Standards District Office) which oversees your certificate, would like to have this information. On top of the Federal Aviation Regulations your pilot violated, he also hauled a cargo of stolen goods extorted from an old couple on the island." I paused, waiting for Mr. Walters to assimilate this information. It did not take long.
"My pilot who flew the charter is out on an overnight. He will call you tomorrow afternoon around three o'clock with all the information you requested. Is this satisfactory, Mr. Leicester?"
"Yes, thank you. I'm glad you were able to come around to our way of thinking, Mr. Walters. We'll be waiting to hear from your pilot." I hung up.
"Well done." J.L. smiled and hung up his receiver. "We'll wait until we talk with the pilot before contacting the 'Chairman of the Board." He got up and turned out the lights. "Come on, I'll escort you out past the Desk Sergeant's office. I want to be sure you get safely out of the building."
Chamberlain dropped me off at the Navigator Inn. It was seven-thirty. Entering the lobby to get a newspaper, I found that Henry was nowhere in sight. The place seemed deserted. A toilet flushed somewhere in the rear. Henry appeared, wiping his hands on a paper towel.
"Ah,” he said, spying me. "Room 412. We have messages for you. How was Monhegan?"
"Nice. Let's you and I retire, liquidate our assets, and build a house on the island. Spend the rest of our days fishing."
"I'm ready,” he said with overt eagerness. "Here are your messages."
"Newspaper?"
"Sorry, they didn't deliver any today."
Shrugging, I started out the door, then paused. Looking back at Henry, I said, "Don't wake me in the morning. I'm going to try and sleep late."
"Okay. Sweet dreams." He reached over and turned on a small television.
Up in my room, I opened the sliding glass doors to the balcony and let the cold night air pour in. Sitting down at the table, I read the messages. They were the same as last night. One was from Guy Robbins, the other from Sandy. There was one sealed in a white envelope. I opened it: 'There's a fire in the fireplace and a bottle of champagne in the fridge.' There was no signature.
Feeling the chill of the night air against the back of my neck, I dialed Guy Robbins, but got no answer. Reaching Sandy's answering service, I left a message saying I would call at ten o'clock tomorrow morning.
It took me ten minutes to get to Mabel's house.
* * *
We lay on a blanket in front of the fireplace. The flames had burned low. One log lying atop the grate still kept its shape. It was checkered into squares and glowed without flame. Sweat glistened off both our bodies. Mabel lay, one leg draped across me, rubbing the hair on my chest. I had no idea what time it was. Or cared.
"Are you and J.L. going to find out who killed those two men?" She asked, holding me unashamedly.
"We already know. Proving it will be something else." Running a hand through her hair, I smelled the soap in it, a clean, earthy, musky odor.
A car light flashed through the window. I wondered if it was a certain policeman on the way home. "You know, Sergeant Bowers won't speak to me anymore because of you."
"Sergeant Bowers never had a claim on me." She climbed on top of me, and straddled my waist. "No man's had a claim on me until you came along. I still don't know why I'm attracted to you."
It did not matter why me as long as she didn't figure it out in the next few minutes and stop what she was doing.
* * *
Awaking cold, I was wrapped in the blanket. A breeze wafting down the chimney ruffled the remnants of last night’s fire in the fireplace and blew a faint scent of charred ashes and wood into the room. Mabel was gone.
Shivering as I dressed, I read a note on the dining table that said Mabel had gone to work, and asked me to stop by for coffee.
Driving back to the motel, I went up the back way. There was time to shower and shave before calling Sandy.
Deciding to give Guy a call first, his secretary said he was in court. I told her I would try again, tonight.
Sandy answered on the first ring. "Have you found out anything?" She asked immediately.
"We're pretty sure Anastasio's responsible." I explained all we had learned on Monhegan Island, telling her about the upcoming meeting with the helicopter pilot.
Sandy sighed. "I know someone's following me. I don't like it."
"It's Anastasio's people." I reminded her of our earlier conversation. "Don't worry about them. They want to see what you do, if you go to the police, or contact anyone else. He's playing a game."
"Well, it's not a fun game." Her voice was cold and serious.
"I'll let you know what we learn from the pilot. Also,
if someone were to dump the Kent Collection on the market, could there be any way to check and find out about it? Some 'Art World' network?"
"No way. Too many avenues. Think about it, the thousands of galleries, museums, boutiques, and private collectors. Impossible."
"Well, I needed to know,” I said, feeling stupid. Maybe I should have known, but I was going through a learning curve with this art thing. "I'll be in touch."
"You call every day. You promise me."
"I promise."
Walking out on the balcony, I saw a low cloud line lying barely visible far out to sea, the last vestiges of the cold front. The wind was calm. The sun was warming the air into a truly nice spring day in the State of Maine. A flock of sea birds, too far away to identify, moved in an ever-changing line toward Vinal Haven.
Leaning back in the chair, I let the morning sun wash warmly over my face and thought about last night, and Mabel. She is quite a woman. It was going to be hard to leave when the time came.
Then I thought about the face of defeat. The helpless look of Ben Barnes as he stared vacantly in despair. His courage had failed. The sad thing about courage is that a man must be a little careless of his life in order to keep it. Courage to me had always been not in blindly overlooking danger, but in recognizing it and conquering it. But what could a little old man on an isolated island in the Atlantic Ocean do up against a powerful Mafia figure like Gino Anastasio? I made a silent promise that Mr. Boss of Bosses would somehow pay for the suffering he had caused this old couple.
The coffee shop was empty except for three people sitting around a table near the cash register. Two of them were Mabel and Henry. The other one had his back to me. I did not realize it was Sergeant Bowers until we looked at each other face to face.
Expecting some form of antagonism from Bowers, he surprised me with an invitation to sit and have coffee. Henry excused himself, saying he had work to do. Mabel went for the coffeepot.
"Look, Mr. Leicester,” he said, peering into his cup
. He had a prominent nose and brown, intense eyes. The hair at the sides and on the back of his head curled like shavings in a boat-builder's shop. "I'm sorry about the way I've been acting. It's been childish. I had a talk with Mabel. She pointed out some things I seemed to have overlooked. You being from out of town, a stranger and all..."
It took guts to say what he was saying. "Forget it, Sergeant. Water under the bridge. I'd feel the same way if the situation were reversed."
What motivated Sergeant Bowers to have such a change of heart? Had he done it on his own, or from something Chamberlain said to him. He and Mabel could be involved in these killings in some way. Maybe she pointed out how his petty jealously could blow their scam.
Sergeant Bowers excused himself. I spent an hour talking with Mabel, drinking coffee, drawing her out. We had not had much conversation since that first night. She told me how her husband died, drowning at sea, his body never recovered. We talked a little about the murders. Henry finally interrupted us, saying Detective Chamberlain wanted to talk with me on the phone.
Leaving, I promised Mabel that I would see her tonight.
* * *
Picking up the phone at the front desk, I said, "Yeah, what's up, J.L.?"
"Mr. Walters from the helicopter service phoned, his pilot's flying in from Bangor. He'd planned a fuel stop in Augusta; he'll stop in Rockland, instead. Walters said he would have all the information we'd need."
Looking at my watch, I asked, "Arrival time?"
"In about forty-five minutes. I'll pick you up out front of the Navigator in ten minutes." He hung up.
* * *
"How's Kathleen?" I slid into the passenger side of J.L.'s unmarked police car.
"She had a good night. Bill was by this morning checking on her. He seems to think this crisis is over."
"I'm glad." We turned onto the highway in front of the hotel and headed for the airport. "Did you say anything to Bowers about this situation with Mabel?"
