Order of the Air Omnibus: Books 1-3 (84 page)

The truck reached the end of the turn-around, and swung left to retrace its path, idling to let the other trucks finish their first pass. In the relative quiet, Alma said, “I’m sorry.”

“What?” Mitch frowned, not at all sure what she meant.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she said. “In the cemetery. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“I screwed up,” Mitch said. “I should be the one apologizing.”

“No,” Alma said. She glanced sidelong at him, her mouth twisting in a wry smile. “That necklace — do you think you were the only person it tried to influence? I know how powerful it was.”

“It did influence me,” Mitch said. He fixed his eyes on the stands, the restless mass of people still cheering for them: anything to block out the memory of Eden and Jeff Lanier in the hall…

“Somebody gets the short straw,” Alma said. “I’m sorry it was you. And I’m sorry I yelled.”

In spite of everything, Mitch smiled. “Did you really mean you’d suck the marrow from my bones?”

“At the time?” Alma’s answering grin was unrepentant. “Absolutely. But I am sorry. About everything.”

The truck lurched into motion again, and the noise of the crowd drowned any further conversation.

T
he Biltmore might actually be the fanciest hotel they’d stayed in over the course of the race, Alma thought, or maybe it was just that she had a moment to enjoy it. She let herself slide down a little further in the enormous bathtub, a cool breeze belling the gauze curtains. In three hours, they would have to be at the victory party, dressed in their best and ready to make more speeches to the reporters and polite conversation with the sponsors, but for now… She splashed more water on her face and let her head rest gently against the edge of the tub. For now, she was going to enjoy every bit of this, from the soap that smelled of exotic flowers to the soft cotton dressing gown that hung on the wall. Henry had already arranged for a hotel maid to do her hair for the evening.

Lewis knocked at the door, came in without waiting for her answer, a tall glass in each hand filled with pale green liquid.

“Limeade,” he said, and Alma thrashed herself to a safer position to take it from him. She took a sip: gloriously sweet and tart and with a definite kick of gin.

“Thank you.”

“Compliments of the hotel,” Lewis said.

“Including the gin?”

“I’m getting the very strong impression that Prohibition isn’t popular here.”

That was the sort of thing that made people think Lewis was naive, but Alma saw the amusement in his eyes.

“They also sent up some sandwiches and fruit,” he went on. “I thought you might want some before you had to start getting ready.”

“I probably should.” Alma handed him back the glass and hauled herself out of the tub, shivering a little at the breeze on her skin. Lewis watched with frank appreciation as she dried herself with a towel twice as soft as anything she’d ever had before, and handed her the robe from the door.

The bedroom was enormous, almost the size of a studio apartment in some of the places Alma had lived as a child, the bed set between two arched windows, a sofa and table and chairs set closer to the door. The carpet was plush under her bare feet, the inlaid marble chill, and she wiggled her toes a little at the contrast. The tray, sandwiches and fruit and a dish of celery olives, sat on the table next to the sweating pitcher of limeade, and she realized she was hungry after all. She grabbed the first sandwich that came to hand — crustless bread with cucumber — and then a slice of orange, all trace of pith peeled away to show only the jewel-colored fruit.

Lewis settled himself on the sofa. “When we get home, I need to find a way to learn more about what I’m doing. I know we need the money, but maybe now — if I’d known how to read my own mind, understood what I was showing myself — you know what I mean — we might not have had to cut it so close.”

Alma topped up her glass just to use the crystal pitcher. “You need more than any of us can teach you,” she said. “And with the prize money — I know we can find someone. Jerry or Henry will know someone.”

“I’d rather go with someone Jerry picked.”

“Henry’s a good guy,” Alma said.

“I know,” Lewis said. “I do know. I just think Jerry’s friends are more likely to be — congenial.”

Alma nodded. “Maybe. But I promise, we won’t put it off any longer.”

“Thanks,” Lewis said, and Alma settled into the curve of his arm. For a moment, she wished they could stay like that all night, together in a room that didn’t move and didn’t smell of metal and gasoline — but the party was part of the price of victory, and one she would gladly pay.

Chapter Twenty Two

"W
hat the hell is that?" Lewis said, then blinked self consciously at Mabel Kershaw. "Beg your pardon." In the trees above their heads roosted a flock of…something. Bigger than big geese. Big as swans. In the dusk they looked something like ostriches.

"Peacocks," she said.

"Peacocks?"

"One of our neighbors thought they'd be lovely," Mabel said wearily. "Ornamental. They'd walk around the lawn and look pretty. Only they got away, and when their wings aren't clipped they fly rather nicely."

"They shit on my cars," Henry said loudly. "Useless damn birds. They roost on anything and they shit on my cars and anything else that goes under them. So watch out."

Lewis cast a worried glance treeward. He was wearing his brand new white dinner jacket, and the last thing he wanted was for a bird to mistake him for a bathroom. And Alma would kill him if anything looked wrong for the reporters.

She looked stunning. Her dress was white, absolutely simple with a plunging neck that showed off her tanned skin and made her blue eyes bright as stars. They were the same age, Lewis and Alma, but while not quite forty two years had marked him with streaks of early gray at the temples, her hair was untouched yet. Or maybe you just couldn't see it as well against blond hair as you could against Lewis' black. Stopping beside Henry and Mabel for the photographers to get a shot, they looked like they belonged together. And they ought to. On top of the world, the big winners.

"How does it feel to have proved you're the best pilots in America?" one of the reporters asked.

"You know, I don't think that's a fair question," Alma said. "I think the finest pilots in America are the search and rescue pilots who fly every day to protect lives, not people who compete in an air race. We're lucky and we're good, but the only thing we risked was losing. The unsung reservists who fly the skies of this country to help those in trouble risk their lives all the time and we never know their names."

One of the other reporters, one who'd done his homework, piped up. "Aren't you a reserve pilot, Mr. Sorley? Mr. Segura?"

"Um," Mitch said. Stasi stood between him and Jerry, her black dress set off nicely by their black tuxedos.

"Mr. Sorley is a major in the reserves of the US Army Air Corps," Alma said. "Mr. Segura is a captain."

The reporter turned to Lewis. "And you fly search and rescue missions?"

"When I'm called to," Lewis said, glancing sideways at Alma. "People lost in the mountains, accidents, avalanches, that kind of thing. Situations where some eyes in the sky can see what people on the ground might miss."

"Are there special planes for that?" the reporter asked. "What planes do you fly for the Air Corps?"

"We fly our own planes," Mitch said. "There aren't any special ones. We just fly our own. The Air Corps doesn't have a lot of money."

The reporter's eyebrows rose. "You fly Gilchrist Aviation planes? The same plane you flew in the air race?"

"Not usually the Terrier," Mitch said. "It's a bigger plane and it needs a real runway. We usually take the Jenny." He looked at Lewis. "Usually, right?"

"Pretty much," Lewis said.

Henry was smiling beatifically. "See boys? Not just winners, but real American heroes. Now come on in and grab a bite of grub. Maybe something stronger, if it's not against your principles."

"We won't tell on you, Mr. Kershaw," one of the reporters grinned. "We never see any bathtub gin."

"Well, I hope you won't see good Scotch whiskey either," Henry said, clapping the reporter on the shoulder. "Or there's champagne." He gave Alma a wink as he led them inside.

One of the reporters hung back waiting for Stasi. "So what do you do on the plane, Miss?"

"I'm ornamental," Stasi said, twining her arm with Jerry's. Jerry looked like he wanted to deck her. Mitch looked like he was trying not to laugh.

The reporter laughed. "You sure are. But you came on halfway through. What's the story?"

Stasi tossed her head. "You see the other team's passengers. Mrs. Segura thought she needed a babe too, and I'm an old family friend, so why not?"

The reporter had his notebook out. "You're an old family friend of Mrs. Segura's? What's your name, honey?"

"Anastasia Natalia Elisabeth Maria Ivanova Rostov," Stasi said. "Countess Pancetta."

Mitch made a strangled noise, but he didn't say a word, standing quietly behind Jerry and Stasi, who had twined her arm with his lovingly.

"Italian?"

"My husband was Italian," she said, a little quaver in her voice. "My dear Count Pancetta served with Dr. Ballard in the war. In the Veneto. He was killed. It was terribly sad. Dear Dr. Ballard was a lifeline for me. Simply a lifeline!"

The reporter looked up. "Isn't pancetta a kind of ham?"

"It's named for the village where it was first produced, darling," Stasi said. "Like Weinerschnitzel. My dear husband's family had been there since the fourteenth century when the first Count Pancetta fought against the Moors!"

The reporter glanced up at Jerry. "And after her husband's death you…comforted the widow?"

"He did, darling." Stasi beamed at Jerry. "I probably would have killed myself if it weren't for him. Dr. Ballard gave me a new reason for living!"

"I…" Jerry began.

"Shhh," Stasi said. She looked coyly at the reporter. "Don’t give away our secret! Let's wait and announce it properly."

Jerry looked like he was on the verge of a stroke, so Lewis dove in. "I think Alma and Henry want us inside," he said, tugging on Stasi's arm. "Sorry, but we need to go." He all but dragged Stasi along, Jerry helpless in her wake since she had his arm in a vise-like grip.

Behind him, Lewis heard the reporter ask Mitch, "Have you known Countess Pancetta long?"

"Just met her this week," Mitch said cheerfully.

T
he house was a cozy bungalow bloated to outrageous proportions. The living room could have comfortably housed a game of field hockey. At the other end of it double doors led to a screened porch arranged elegantly with potted palm trees and white wicker furniture and several long white wicker plant stands filled with some kind of lily. Alma had drawn Henry onto the porch and she glanced back meaningfully at the others. It was as far from the bar as possible, so there was no one else there.

"Once more into the breach," Jerry said grimly. "Let's go explain this latest fiasco to Henry."

Mitch shrugged. "He won't be too upset," he said. "We just won his air race."

"We did," Lewis said. It still seemed kind of incredible. He had just won a coast to coast air race. He was just what they said, one of the top pilots in the country. And it felt good. Alma might hate having their pictures on the front page, but Lewis couldn't help but be proud. He'd worked hard, he'd risked his life on Alma's gamble, and every gamble had paid off. They belonged. If he never did anything else in his life again he was still the guy who had won the Great Passenger Derby. He'd flown Alma's plane, risked everything on her word, and now he laid the trophy at her feet. This must be how a knight felt, Lewis thought, the tournament over and to the victor the spoils, for friends and company and his unconquerable lady fair!

Alma looked at him, her expression growing quizzical. "What?" she asked, turning so that he could say something quietly.

"I was thinking that I love you," Lewis said. A slow blush rose in her cheeks, speechless as she sometimes was. "Just saying so," he said quietly. "Because I do." Her smile could have lit an aerodrome.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" Henry asked. "If it's to give me a song and dance about missing the refueling stop, I've got to say I don't care. I don't care how you did it. You did it."

"No," Alma said. "I wanted to give about this." She gestured to Jerry, who reached in his pocket and produced a silk handkerchief wrapped bundle. He handed it to Henry, who took it gingerly. He untied it, and the links of iron slid out into his hand, steel flowers delicate and dark.

"This is Miss Rostov," Alma said, not quite pushing Stasi forward. "She stole your necklace and now she's returning it."

Henry looked baffled. "What?"

Stasi cleared her throat. "I was hired to steal it. But I'm terribly sorry and I'm bringing it back. So we're completely clear and friends, yes?"

Jerry made a sound like he wanted to disagree, but Alma gave him a quelling look. "Miss Rostov is contrite," she said. "And she did help us win the race. So it would be nice if you didn't call the police, Henry."

"I'm terribly sorry," Stasi said in a tone that Lewis didn't think was entirely convincing. "I've absolutely reformed. I will never steal your necklace again. Or anything else," she said brightly. "I'm sure my darling Dr. Ballard will keep me straight."

"I don't think straight is the word here," Henry snapped. "I'll believe Jerry's reformed you with his love shortly after hell freezes over! What kind of BS is this? You expect me to just drop the charges because you apologize?"

"There's no harm done," Alma said. "Come on, Henry. Be big."

"Mr. Kershaw! We'd like a picture of you with your winning team for the Miami Herald!" A reporter and a cameraman crowded in. "Can you all stand next to each other and smile?"

Henry slipped the necklace into his pocket. "Of course, boys. Happy to! Alma, you stand here next to me. Lewis, on the other side, that's right." He looked at Stasi. "And we'll talk about your problem later, Miss."