“Grill me, you mean,” he said. “I’d rather talk to the sheriff here. He’s a real cop, not like those clowns at Scotland Yard.”
He walked in George’s direction.
“He’s got some attitude,” Mort said.
“Very unpleasant.”
“I’ve been putting things together, Mrs. F.”
“That’s right. You said you had a theory about the murder.”
“Not really a theory. I’ve picked up pieces here and there, news reports, gossip, slips of the tongue. And no thanks to you.” He laughed and patted my shoulder. “Just kidding.”
“I admit I haven’t said much, Mort. I’ve tried to be discreet.”
“And that’s the right thing to do. Anyway, I’ve heard about how our captain’s knife was used to kill Wayne and that his prints were on it.”
“I’d say you’ve done more than just pick up bits and pieces, Mort.”
“I’ve done okay. At any rate, Mrs. F., the logical suspect is Captain Caine. Am I right?”
“Yes, you are right. But let’s not rush to judgment.”
“I agree with that. Let’s say Caine didn’t do it. That means somebody stole his knife and used it to kill Wayne, maybe hoping to frame the captain.”
“Right again. George and I have discussed that possibility.”
“So—”
I waited.
“So, Mrs. F., if I were the investigating officer on the case, I’d start with whoever had the easiest access to that knife.”
I nodded.
“Put that person on the top of your suspect list—after Caine, of course—and work down to the one who would have had the toughest job getting to the knife.”
“A good idea, Mort. I’ll mention it to George.”
“No, Mrs. F., I’ll do it. He might take it better coming from a fellow law enforcement officer.”
“I think you’re right,” I said. “Why don’t you spend some time with him after he’s finished with Jason.”
“I’ll do that.” He sighed. “Nice and smooth now, huh?”
“Always nice to get up above the weather.”
I gravitated to the front of the plane where Christine sat alone reading a sheaf of legal-looking papers, half-glasses perched on the end of her nose.
“Hi,” I said.
She looked over her glasses and smiled. “Hello, Jessica. Sit.” She patted the empty chair next to her.
“You look busy,” I said.
“My eyes are giving out reading all these legal documents. I’d enjoy the break.”
I’d no sooner settled into the large, comfortable leather chair when she said, “I think I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“For the way I’ve been acting.”
“Christine,” I said, “you were entitled to act any way you had to. You’ve lost your husband in a brutal way, and you’re up to your neck in the business fallout from it. No apologies necessary.”
“You’re as understanding as your reputation says. You’re very much beloved back in Cabot Cove.”
“That’s always nice to hear.”
“I wish I’d gotten to know you better. Those trips to Wayne’s hometown were much too brief—and busy.”
“I know. There never seems to be enough time to spend with people we enjoy.” I indicated the papers on her lap. “Business?”
“Yes. My lawyer—you met him—brought enough papers to fill a couple of file cabinets.” She snickered. “Computers were supposed to result in a paperless society. It seems they create more paper than ever before.”
“I’ve noticed that, too.”
“I see that your friend from Scotland Yard is questioning people in the rear of the plane.”
“An unusual venue to interview people about a murder,” I said.
“I suppose that although he’s already spoken with me, he’ll want to do it again.”
“Probably. Mind a few questions from me?”
“Why did I sense that you’d be asking questions, Jessica? You’re not only loved in Cabot Cove, you have a reputation as an inveterate snoop.” She grabbed my arm. “And I don’t mean that in a pejorative sense. You’re a very curious lady.”
“A curse of my profession,” I said. “No offense.” I made sure that no one was within hearing distance when I said, “Christine, you told me that Wayne was quite a ladies’ man. I know this is a painful topic, but—”
“It was more painful when he was alive, Jessica, than it is now. Ask whatever you wish about it.”
“Are any of the women with whom he was involved on this flight?”
Her smile was rueful. “In other words,” she said, “was one of them his murderer?”
I confirmed with a nod.
“I assume you’re referring to Gina and Betsy.”
“That’s right. I’m not accusing them, Christine. I’m just trying to fit the pieces into the puzzle. Of course, I can ask them directly—and will. But any information from you would make it easier.”
She rested her head against the seat back and closed her eyes. When she opened them, she turned to face me. “They both had their fling with Wayne.”
“Both?” I didn’t expect that would be her answer.
“Uh huh. Wayne played his own version of the Hollywood casting couch, Jessica. Some men use expensive gifts to keep their mistresses interested in them. Wayne did that, too, of course. With all his business acumen, he wasn’t very adept at concealing those purchases. A credit card receipt would show up now and then for a piece of jewelry, expensive handbag, or hotel stay that had nothing to do with me.”
Her admission of her deceased husband’s multiple infidelities was painful to listen to, and I considered getting off that subject. But what she was saying might have bearing on the murder, and I wanted to develop as much information as possible.
“Ms. Molnari and Mrs. Scherer received such gifts?” I asked.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably. In their cases, Wayne used the appeal of working for a fancy new upscale airline as the lure. He insisted upon personally interviewing and selecting SilverAir’s flight attendants. I told him that because I had once been a stewardess, I should assume that role. But he was adamant, and I knew why. I think Wayne truly believed that I didn’t know about the other women. Besides being a dreamer, he could be terribly naïïve about some things.”
She straightened in her chair and laughed. “Do you remember that scandal at TWA years ago when the airline introduced a program to encourage the wives of businessmen to travel with their husbands?”
“No, I don’t.”
“It caused quite a stir, Jessica. Someone in TWA’s PR department came up with the plan, and it was initially very successful. Wives received a discount when accompanying their husbands on business trips.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
“Oh, it was. But then some bright guy in public relations decided to take it a step further. The airline sent a letter of thanks to every wife who had supposedly flown with her husband on business trips. Of course, many such ‘wives’ weren’t wives at all. They were secretaries or girlfriends, and you can imagine how many divorces resulted from that letter arriving in the mail.”
“A perfect example of taking a good idea too far,” I said.
“There are lots of stories like that in the airline business, Jessica. That’s why I love it so. Sorry. I know I interrupted your train of thought. Gina and Betsy were handpicked by Wayne. They’re union, of course, and receive union wages. But in going through the books, I saw that Wayne was paying them cash bonuses off the books. When Bill Caine found out about it, he was furious.”
“Oh? Why would he be upset that Wayne was doing that?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Bill and Gina have been having an affair since they started working for SilverAir. Bill came to me and said that if Wayne as much as laid a hand on Gina again, he’d kill him.”
“He said that? He would ‘kill him’?”
“His words precisely.”
“Did you tell Wayne what Caine had said?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He laughed it off, denied that he and Gina had been sexually involved. Of course, I knew differently.”
“Did Caine ever confront Wayne about it directly?”
“I don’t think so. Bill Caine is lucky to have this job. His reputation in the industry isn’t what you’d call pristine.”
“So I understand.”
“But there was no love lost between them. Frankly, I’d been rooting for Bill to punch Wayne in the nose. Maybe that would have woken him up. Too late now, though. Does that sound terrible?”
“Not at all. Sometimes people need a good punch in the nose to wake them up to appreciate what they already have. Why didn’t you tell Inspector Sutherland what Caine said to Wayne?”
“I’d forgotten about it until now.”
Not something easily forgotten,
I thought.
“What about Betsy?” I asked. “She’s married to the first officer.”
Christine’s roll of her eyes said much.
“That bad?” I said.
She looked to where Betsy was serving dinner to a couple of male passengers who obviously hadn’t eaten before the flight.
“Isn’t she cute?” Christine said derisively. “Miss all-American-girl cheerleader. The older Wayne got, the younger the women he pursued. She may look like all peaches and cream, Jessica, but she’s hard as steel.”
It was hard to reconcile Betsy Scherer’s exterior personality with Christine’s assessment of her, but I accepted what she said and asked her to explain.
“Why do you think her hubby is sitting up there on the flight deck, Jessica?”
“I’m sure he’s qualified,” I replied.
“Barely. Wayne arranged for accelerated certification to the 767.”
“Why?” I asked, although it struck me that I probably knew the answer.
“Part of the deal with Betsy,” Christine said. “Hire me as a flight attendant and my husband as first officer.” Christine shook her head. “God, Wayne could be such a pushover when it came to a pretty face and centerfold figure. Betsy got her way, and just in time. She and her hubby have jobs and don’t have to put up with their benefactor anymore. How convenient!”
I started to respond, but Christine continued. “It’s really very sad, Jessica. I could never understand why Wayne, who was a very bright guy, didn’t see through the other women and what they wanted from him. Sure, he was good-looking and had a certain charm, but he was getting older. Did he really think women like Gina and Betsy and God knows how many others climbed into bed with him because he was so sexy? They used him, and he was blind to it. Male ego, I suppose, doing a comb-over to hide the bald spot and pulling in your gut when you look in the mirror.”
I could sense that these unpleasant thoughts were eating at Christine. Venting them to me probably provided some relief, but her lower lip began to tremble, and she brushed away a tear that fell to her cheek. Her face turned solemn. “Do you know how many times I wanted to kill Wayne, Jessica?” she said through tightened lips. “Every time I found one of those receipts for a hotel room or piece of jewelry, I wanted to stab him in the heart. I wanted him dead. No, I wanted him to suffer the way I was suffering.”
“Why didn’t you leave him?” I asked.
“Because—because I decided that living well truly was the best revenge. I’ll say this for Wayne. He was as generous to me as he was to his hotties, and I didn’t hesitate to take advantage of it. Why do you think I’m fighting so hard for control of SilverAir? Why would you think I’d join up with Wayne’s son, Jason? He’s a despicable young man, Jessica. But with that letter Wayne wrote to him, combined with the papers I have, I think we can win the battle with Vicks and Casale.”
“Is it really worth it, Christine?”
“I think it is.”
Betsy, who’d just taken a call from the flight deck, hung up and came to me. “Captain Caine wonders whether you’d like to come up front, Mrs. Fletcher.”
I was torn. I wanted to continue my conversation with Christine. But I had the feeling that she was about to shut down. She’d turned from me, and I could see her reflection in the small window next to her, a sad, bitter face, aging before my eyes.
“I’d love to,” I told Betsy.
I looked back to where George was still engrossed in a conversation with Jason. “Will you tell Inspector Sutherland where I’ve gone?” I asked Betsy.
“Sure.”
She tapped on the door to the flight deck in some sort of code. Captain Caine opened it. “Sorry I didn’t ask you up for takeoff,” he said, “but we were kind of busy.”
“I can imagine.”
Stepping onto the flight deck of a jetliner at night is like entering a video game of some sort. Outside, there was nothing but blackness. Inside, a hundred tiny lights on the console and above it made me think of Christmas and all the lights on the tree. I started to take the jump seat, but Caine said, “Sit up here,” indicating the left-hand chair.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” I said. “I—”
“No, it’s okay. If this weren’t a promotional flight, I wouldn’t do it. It’s more comfortable, gives you a better view.” He said to Scherer, “Okay with you, Carl?”
Scherer nodded but said nothing.
Caine helped me into the captain’s seat. “Just don’t touch anything,” he said. “I need to stretch. Back in a few minutes.”
He shut the door behind him, leaving me and the first officer on the deathly still flight deck. Scherer ignored me as he inputted information into one of the aircraft’s onboard computer systems. I didn’t want to say anything to distract him, so I sat quietly, taking everything in with a sense of awe. It was surreal being there, a fairyland high above the Atlantic, winging along at nearly six hundred miles an hour, a hundred or so men and women in the passenger cabin, unaware of the incredible technology and training that went into their safe passage from London to Boston.
After a few minutes of silence, Scherer asked as though querying someone when the next train was due, “You solve the murder yet?”
I didn’t say anything for the moment. “I think we’re getting close,” I said.
“Really? Tell me about it.”
“I’d rather have you tell me about it,” I said.