The Underground Lady (8 page)

After a quick shower, I dressed and drove to Lawyer Collinswood's office in Union. It was in a stand-alone building, located in the downtown area, and surprisingly neat with a modern brick façade, complete with the obligatory hand-carved wooden shingle hanging by ornate chains over the sidewalk.

Entering the building, a receptionist rose to greet me. She was mid-thirties, wore steel-rimmed glasses and a straight plain dress that could have been designed in the eighteen hundreds, and no wedding ring. I suspected she had a nice body under the "
Little House on the Prairie"
attire, but she seemed to have given up hope for marriage, or maybe simply didn't care anymore.

"You must be Mr. Leicester. Mr. Collinswood is expecting you. Please go in." She pointed to a doorway off to the side.

"Thank you, Miss…?"

"Pussy Galore."

I stared at her a little too long.

"My father was a big fan of Ian Fleming."

I nodded, and opened the door to Charles Collinswood's private office.

"Mr. Leicester, please have a seat," he said, offering me a firm handshake.

He was not a big man. I guessed five foot nine, a little on the heavy side with receding gray hair combed straight back. He was sober-faced with shrewd sensitive eyes, which registered every detail of his surroundings as precisely as a camera.

"I'll get right to the point, Mr. Collinswood. Hadley Welch?"

"Good, I like that in a person. I haven't thought about her in many years. After you called, I started to rethink our time together. When she went missing, we hadn't seen each other in almost a year. It was rather surprising, you just don't expect that to happen to someone you know."

"How long did you two…date?"

"Don't be coy, Mr. Leicester, we were both adults. It didn't last long, about six months. She was a brilliant woman. I wasn't in her league. It didn't take me long to figure that out. She was a widow, lonely. I was available. Why are you looking into this, now?"

"Her daughter wants to know what happened."

"I remember she had a child, but I never met her, and Hadley didn't talk about motherhood."

"You know if she had any enemies?"

"You mean someone who would want to harm her? I thought she died in a plane crash?"

"No one knows for sure."
"There was a guy from Decatur, a banker by the name of Pushkin, who was giving her a hard time. Some jealously thing. We ran into him at a restaurant in Meridian one night, there was a scene. We stopped seeing each other shortly after that. I think Pushkin is still around. You may want to talk to him, though from what I've heard, he wouldn't be the kind to murder someone."

"Thanks, I'll put him on the list. Was there anyone else in her life that you know of?"

He ran a hand through his hair, leaned back in his chair. "I think there was a Navy guy, and some man who had something to do with airplanes. She used to talk about him a lot."

"Earl Sanders?"

"That's him, Sanders, yes. Has a flying service in Meridian. She was gung-ho on anything or anyone that had to do with airplanes. I can't think of anyone else."

"You've been helpful. I'll see my way out."

"You live around here?"

"I bought Hadley Welch's old place out west of town."

"Well, by God, that's good. If you ever need any legal work, give me a call."

"One other thing, Mr. Collinswood, do you know anything about airplanes?"

"I flew to California one time, other than that, no."

"Good day, sir."

Outside, in the reception area, I said goodbye to Miss Galore who bowed her head as if embarrassed by her name.

"If it's any consolation, I loved the book,
Goldfinger.
"

She smiled, and I thought someone should shoot her father.

I had an hour to kill before meeting the jealous banker from Decatur.

Out west of town, located adjacent to the golf course, is the City of Union Airport, consisting of a grass strip and two hangars, used more often by local duffers than airplanes. One of the hangars houses my only prized possession, a 1941 Stearman, bi-winged, open-cockpit airplane. It was a gift from a grateful client. I could never have afforded to own this amazing machine on what monies the aviation consulting business generates. I fly it as often as time or business permits. Today, I rubbed my hand down the side of the fuselage, feeling the taught fabric, and thought about Hadley Welch and her love for flying. It was something I could relate to from deep in my soul. Earl Sanders thought that Hadley was the best and most natural pilot he'd ever taught. That is high praise, indeed, coming from someone like him. Taking a rag, I wiped a drop of oil from the bottom of a cylinder on the Pratt and Whitney radial engine, and said a silent prayer that Earl and Hadley were not involved in something that got one of them killed. It was time to meet banker Pushkin for lunch.

The Hot Spot is mainly a take-out barbecue restaurant with a few tables for the lunch crowd. Its decor is sparse, clean, neat, and the owners serve some of the best food in the area. I took a seat in the rear of the room with a view of the front door.

Peter Pushkin was a poster child for every banker I've ever known. He wore a suit and tie, expensive shoes, and carried himself with an air of confidence. I waved him to the table, and as we shook hands, I took a careful look at him. He was over six feet tall, much older than I thought, but still carried himself with the air of an ex-athlete. His skin was the color of polished walnut, and his face was marked with hard wrinkles, running horizontal on his forehead and vertical on the cheeks and neck. His hair was thin and gray, cut short, above the ears. He looked eighty and I knew he was a grandfather many times over.

"I do not have much time, Mr. Leicester, so let's get right to it, shall we?"

"You want to order?"

"I've already had lunch."
"Coffee?"

"That will be fine."

I went to the counter and ordered a sandwich and two coffees. Bringing them back to the table, I said, “Hadley's daughter, Sunny Pfeiffer, wants to know what happened to her mother. Did you know the little girl?"

"Yes, certainly, I knew the daughter, and if you are implying that I might be her father, you are wrong."

I felt like a Christian on the way to the coliseum. This stunned me. Was this what this was all about? Sunny Pfeiffer was trying to find out who her real father is and what happened to her mother. Was this the reason Rose English wanted her to accompany me during the investigation? It never crossed my mind that Hadley's husband wasn't the father. Suddenly my job seemed to take a new and bitter twist.

"No, Mr. Pushkin, I'm looking into why and how Hadley Welch disappeared, not who's the father of her daughter. Could you be?"

"No, I am not. I knew Hadley before the baby was born, but it was strictly business."

"There was never a crash site found, no body recovered. You have any idea what may have occurred?"

"It was a long time ago and I have no idea what happened to that woman."

"Did you and she date later, after the death of her husband? I heard it was a brain aneurysm that killed him."

"We did go out for a short time, before I met my wife. I don't know how her husband died."

"I heard you were the jealous type. True?"

He stood up. "I have nothing else to say to you."

"Sure you do. Sit, we'll parse sentences together. Do a textual exegesis of the love life of southern bankers. We'll talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs, and with teary eyes write sorrow on the bosoms of our violated whores."

He remained standing, looked at me like I was somebody Noah left off the passenger list. "I shouldn't have come." Throwing a five-dollar bill on the table, he said, “Do not contact me again." He walked away.

My barbecue sandwich was left uneaten. I needed to talk with Rose English.

Driving straight to Rose's house, I parked in the drive, got out and stood for a moment beside the truck. Far in the distance, a dog barked four times, after that…silence.

Rose walked around the corner of the house. She wore a padded vest, blue jeans, and rubber boots. "I thought someone drove up. Come on in, I'll make some coffee."

"Is Ed Pfeiffer Sunny's father?"

Rose walked up close and stared at me with unblinking eyes that were as expressionless as the muzzles of a 12 gauge double-barreled shotgun. "Come inside."

The kitchen was warm and cozy. Rose busied herself with making the coffee. I sat at the table and waited. Finally, she poured two cups, handed me a hand-painted clay honey jar and a dipper. Stirring in a dollop of the honey, I said, "The banker, Pushkin denied he was the father without me asking. What do you know about it?"

"Pushkin is one of those men who holds the conviction that the only thing worth achieving is the long-term certainty of short-term pleasure, and that any attempt to analyze or understand other people's feelings is a complete waste of time."

"Sounds like you dated him?"

"I did, but only once, a long, long time ago. Didn't take any longer than that to figure out what he was."

"What about Hadley?"

"Took her a little longer."
"She had an affair with him? You said she didn't fool around."
"I said she didn't go with married men. Hadley was a…strong woman with a brilliant mind. She did what she wanted. I don't think marriage was something she was ready for. There were men. When she got pregnant, the rumors started, but that was all they were. Rumors. She told me Ed was Sunny's father. I never questioned her."

"So you don't think the daughter is looking to prove who her biological father is?"

"I do not."

"Hadley's promiscuity didn't bother you?"

"Sometimes in this world we must grasp the moments that are offered us. Promiscuous is too harsh a word for Hadley. There were only one or two men while she was married, and those were early on."

"After her husband died?"

"She mourned for a long time. I think she grew to love Ed Pfeiffer after she married him. She also matured a lot after Sunny was born."

Finishing the coffee, I got up and took the cup to the sink. "The lawyer and the banker were today, the Navy guy tomorrow."

"It just didn't seem relevant, Jay. The men."

"Let's hope it doesn't become relevant."

Leaving Rose's house, I drove to the cottage thinking maybe sometime in the future I will require no particular understanding of the past, but only of the present. For it is time that makes us.  

***

As I walked to my truck for the hour's drive to Meridian for the meeting with the Navy guy, a chill was in the clear air. A pickup truck passed by on the gravel road in front of the cottage, the muffler long rusted away, a common malady in this rural area, yet still much better than the thumping boom boxes of the city hotrods.

It was a pleasant drive to the gated subdivision, though the entrance stood unattended, the gate open. Raymond Spruance opened the door to his neat, one story, ranch style home. He was a strongly built man with orderly, handsome features and a generous expression, a look that inspired instant confidence and respect. His silver gray hair and neatly trimmed mustache and blue eyes cast an expression of warm concentration and interest. I could imagine that this tall, sculpted man, decked out in formal Navy whites, with his officer's command and social status, would entice any young woman. I could see what Hadley Welch would have seen in him when they were both young.

"Please come in, Mr. Leicester."

We sat in a comfortable, lived-in den. The decor was what one would expect from a retired Naval Aviator. There were the usual photos of aircraft carriers, squadrons, and scale models of the airplanes he had flown. Photos of wife and family stood on the mantel over the fireplace. He waited patiently for me to get to the reason for my visit.

"Sunny Pfeiffer, the daughter of Hadley Welch, hired me to find out what happened to her mother. Your name came up as someone she was seeing around the time she disappeared. Can you shed some light on the event?"

"I remember her like it was yesterday. I would have married Hadley, but she had no desire to become a Naval Officer's wife. Our one true common interest was flying."

"Were you involved with her when she went missing?"

"No, we hadn't seen each other in several months. I got the impression there was someone else."

"Do you know who?"

"I accused her of being in love with her flight instructor, some man named Sanders. He ran a civilian flying service at the local airport. She talked about him all the time, but denied going with him, insisting he was a married man and that she would not do that to his wife. I believed her. Hadley was a good person." A far off look came across his face. "I wish I could be of more help, Mr. Leicester."

"You have been a lot of help. I won't take up anymore of your time."

He walked me to the door.

"Did Hadley ever mention a man by the name of Pushkin, a banker from Decatur?"