Manhattans & Murder Page 11

We walked to Jed’s single-engine Cessna 185 Skywagon, which was parked in a row of other small planes. Jed also owned two twin-engine aircraft, and I wished he’d brought one of them. Having to depend only upon one engine increased my general nervousness about flying.

  “Be the last flight in this honey,” Jed said, patting the small plane’s wing. “Got a fella going to pick it up next week. Got a right good price for it.”

  “Good,” I said. I was anxious to get inside; the open area in which we stood was like a wind tunnel, its chilled air biting into my cheeks. On the other hand, getting in meant taking off. No backing out now. Jed was there because I’d asked him to be, and I certainly trusted his flying ability. He’d spent years as a top-rated commercial pilot before opening his own small airline.

  I settled into the right-hand seat, and Jed got into the left. The engine turned over smoothly, and we were soon taxiing toward the operative runway that windy, cold December morning in Boston. Jed invited me to put on an extra set of headphones in order to hear the dialogue between him and the controller. I had trouble making out their words, but they seemed to know precisely what each other was saying. We were told there were two commercial airline jets cleared to take off before us. Jed leaned over to me and said, “Got to keep our distance from those babies. Damn vortex coming off their wings, and the thrust from their engines could blow us over like a piece ’a paper.”

  I laughed nervously: “Yes, by all means, Jed. Let’s keep our distance.”

  I watched the two commercial jets take off and formed the same question I always did—how can anything that big get off the ground?

  We were instructed to hold because a plane was landing. After it had, Jed received permission to take his position on the active runway. “Cessna six-seven-A cleared for takeoff,” the controller said.

  “Roger, Cessna six-seven-A rolling,” Jed replied. He pushed the throttle forward, the engine roared to maximum life, and we bounced down the seemingly endless strip of concrete, the wind doing its best to blow us off to the side. We hadn’t gone very far when Jed pulled back on the yoke and the plane waffled into the air. The controller instructed him to make a right turn and to climb on an assigned compass heading until reaching two thousand feet.

  I looked out my window and saw the city of Boston slide away beneath me. I had to admit that while I was still nervous—my stomach confirmed that—I also found it exhilarating. I looked through the front window at the blur of the whirling propeller. Just keep spinning.

  We achieved Jed’s requested cruising altitude of eight thousand feet, and the small plane moved smoothly through the air. He tapped me on the shoulder and pointed to his left. “There’s that front I told you about, Jess.” I followed the direction of his finger and saw a wall of black clouds. “See up on top of that big one over there? See how it’s shaped like an anvil?”

  “Yes.”

  “Big storm clouds always get that shape on top. We’ll stay plenty clear of that baby. Could toss us about like a tennis ball, snap the wings right off.”

  Stop talking about the terrible things that can happen to us, I thought. I held my tongue. Jed loved flying and took pride in pointing out such things to his passengers. Still ...

  We gave wide berth to all the unsettled weather enroute, and Jed eventually pointed out Cabot Cove to me. Try as I did, I couldn’t distinguish it from any of the other towns we’d flown over; thousands of hours of viewing things from the air develop a different visual acuity in pilots, I suppose.

  “There’s the runway,” Jed said.

  I squinted. “Where?”

  He laughed. “No need for you to see it, Jess. Just so long as I do.”

  Our relatively smooth flight had become bumpy. The small plane lurched up and down, left and right, and we once dropped what seemed like a thousand feet, although I suppose it wasn’t that far. Jed saw the frightened expression on my face and patted my knee. “Always gets rougher down near the ground,” he said. “Not to worry.”

  He approached the runway, which I could see clearly now, on an angle. When we were almost over one end of it, Jed turned the aircraft to the right and we flew parallel to the concrete strip on our left. “Got a left-hand landing pattern here,” he said. “Flyin’ downwind now. Always land into the wind, so well take a left when we get to the end, then take another left and smack into it.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  Then it happened, suddenly and without fanfare. I didn’t notice the propeller stop but I certainly heard the terminal cough from the engine.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Damn carb heat control acting up again. Been havin’ trouble all winter. Promised to fix it before the fella who bought it picks it up next week.”

  There was silence now, the only sound a whoosh of air passing the cockpit. The prop was dead. So was the engine.

  “What do we do now?” I asked, picturing us pitching nose-first into the woods.

  “Got to dead-stick her,” Jed said, his voice as calm as usual.

  “But we don’t have an engine.”

  “Don’t need one. We’ll just glide ourselves right on down.”

  Jed never varied from his planned approach. It seemed to me at the last minute that we were getting dangerously close to the ground, but we crossed the end of the runway and, within seconds, touched down for a perfect landing.

  “Biggest trouble is gettin’ this thing to the hangar,” Jed said as he reached a taxiway using the plane’s remaining forward momentum. We came to a stop halfway between the runway and hangar. “See if I can raise anybody in Unicom,” he said, speaking into the handheld microphone. There was no answer. “Guess Joe Harley ain’t arrived yet. You sit tight, Jess.”

  I watched him trudge toward the hangar that also served as the airport office. No engine meant no cabin heat, and I began to shiver. But my spirits picked up when I saw Jed leave the hangar accompanied by two familiar faces, Seth Hazlitt and Sheriff Morton Metzger. I opened my door and was outside when they arrived. After hugs all around, Jed said, “Let’s go. This baby won’t move on her own.”

  I got behind one wing with Seth, and Jed and Morton took the other. Together, we pushed the plane to the hangar.

  “Sorry about that, Jess,” Jed said. “Should of fixed that damn carb heat a long time ago.”

  “You’d better fix it before your buyer arrives,” I said. “Actually, it was kind of exciting. I felt like I was in a glider.”

  “That’s because you were. Call any time you need another ride.”

  “That will be tomorrow,” I said. “Can you fly me back to Boston?”

  “Ayuh. What time you plannin’ on leavin’?”

  “I have to be back in New York City by noon. I suppose I should take the nine-thirty shuttle.”

  We set a time to depart Cabot Cove, and I went with Seth and Morton to where Morton’s squad car waited. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” I told him.

  Metzger, who wore a green down coat with a fake fur collar with his tan uniform, earmuffs, and a large Stetson hat, said, “Had nothin’ else to do, Jessica.” He started the engine. “Where to?”

  “Nancy Morse’s house.”

  Mort looked at me. I was in front with him, Seth in the back. “What are we goin’ there for?” Metzger asked.

  “I have to speak with her about something. Actually, I have some unpleasant news to deliver.”

  “About Waldo?” Metzger said.

  “Yes. I assume Seth told you.”

  Metzger looked over his shoulder. “Can’t say he told me everything, but enough for me to get the gist.”

  The Morse house was in a lovely community ten miles north of Cabot Cove Center. Each house was nestled into its own unique natural setting of rocks and trees. The Morse house was especially nice because it was poised on a rise that gave it the development’s highest vantage point. A steep, narrow road led up to the driveway; you couldn’t see the house until you were almost upon it. This day, it was
also hidden behind a large moving van.

  We parked in front of the truck and walked to where the driveway began. From there, I could see a figure passing back and forth behind a large picture window. I assumed it was Nancy. “Coming with me?” I asked my companions.

  “Might as well,” Seth said. “Judgin’ from this truck, you didn’t get here any too soon.”

  We walked three abreast up the driveway and paused in front of the entrance to the house. “Here goes,” I said. I climbed the steps and, as I reached for the doorbell, the door opened and Nancy Morse looked down at me.

  “Hello, Nancy. I’m Jessica Fletcher.”

  She scrutinized me closely. When she accepted that I was who I claimed to be, she turned her attention to Seth and Morton.

  “Momin’, Mrs. Morse,” Seth said. Mort grunted and tipped his Stetson.

  “What do you want?” Nancy asked.

  “Just a little time to talk,” I said pleasantly. “May we come in?”

  Two moving men carrying a couch came up behind Nancy and excused themselves. They passed, and I repeated my request.

  “Can’t you see I’m busy?” Nancy said.

  “Gracious, yes. I certainly can see that. I can’t imagine anything more disruptive than moving. Where are you going?”

  She started to answer, but her words trailed off as an angry expression crossed her face. “Please. Leave me alone,” she said.

  “Nancy, I don’t wish to cause you any problems, but I’ve flown here this morning from New York because I have something important to tell you.”

  Her eyes widened, and she placed her hands on her hips. “So, tell me and let me get out of here.”

  “Nancy, Waldo is dead. He’s been murdered.”

  “I know.”

  “You do? Who told you?”

  “It doesn’t matter. If that’s why you came here, you wasted a trip.”

  I looked closely at her and saw two things—the gradual erosion of the youthful, blond beauty she’d been as a high school cheerleader, and the beginnings of an older woman of whom life was beginning to take advantage. Behind her defiant, angry mask was a soft vulnerability that she worked hard to keep in the background. I said, “Nancy, if you will give me just ten minutes, I promise well get out of your hair for good. But I witnessed Waldo’s murder. I have some questions. Please, if you’ll just give me—”

  She turned and went into the house, the door still open. The moving men returned and entered. Seth, Mort, and I went right along with them.

  Although the house was in disarray because of the move, the interior was every bit as beautiful as the exterior. The living room was massive and dominated by a huge natural stone fireplace that spanned an entire wall. An Indian family could have cooked in it. Lived in it.

  “Jess, maybe we should ...” Seth said.

  “No. She has to talk to me.”

  I didn’t know where Nancy had gone so I went through the first open door, which led to the kitchen. All the appliances were restaurant grade and size. Another door from it led to a large deck overlooking a lavishly landscaped yard. I was about to retrace my steps to the living room when Nancy suddenly appeared. “How dare you come in here,” she said.

  I extended my hands in a gesture of pleading. “Nancy, I not only saw Waldo murdered, I discovered the body yesterday of a young woman with whom he was involved. She also was murdered. I know these two horrible incidents are related.”

  “So?”

  “So, that means that your life could be in danger.”

  Her laugh was scornful. “Don’t you think I already know that? Why the hell do you think we’re moving, leaving this beautiful house, yanking the kids out of good schools? Come on, Mrs. Fletcher, give me a break. Stick to writing murder mysteries and leave us real people alone.”

  Her words stung but I pressed on. “Do you remember a young man from Cabot Cove named Joe Charles?”

  “No.”

  I started to ask another question but she turned on Seth and Morton. “Why are you two standing there gawking? You have no right in here. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  I wanted to keep her talking. If the presence of Seth and Morton upset her, I’d stand a better chance if they left. They knew what I was thinking, excused themselves, and departed, leaving Nancy and me alone in the kitchen. “Joe Charles was a musician,” I said. “His real name when he was going to high school was Johnson. They called him Junior. Does that ring a bell?”

  She said, “Yes, I think I remember somebody with that name.”

  “Have you seen him since he departed Cabot Cove? He left to make a career in music.”

  “I don’t know anything about Junior Johnson, or this Joe Charles.”

  “The reason I ask, Nancy, is that Joe Charles and Waldo were friendly in New York. In fact, they lived together, at least some of the time. It was in Joe Charles’s apartment that this young woman, Susan Kale, was murdered. Joe Charles has disappeared, and quite suddenly” I sighed, shook my head, and leaned against a large center island above which copper pots and pans hung. “I know there’s a connection between all of this, Nancy, and I came here hoping you might help me make that connection. Did you have any contact with Waldo after he went into the witness protection program?”

  “Damn it, Mrs. Fletcher, don’t you ever get the hint? Of course I never heard from Waldo. That’s the idea of the program. People disappear in it, leaving everybody else swinging in the wind.”

  “But he must have sent you money” I extended my arms to take in the kitchen. “Surely, someone from the government supported you.”

  “That is between me and the government.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s the way it must be. Still, it’s hard for me to conceive of a husband and father never making contact with his family again.”

  “That’s your problem,” she said.

  “It’s become my problem only because I witnessed Waldo’s murder. Waldo was working as a volunteer Santa Claus on Fifth Avenue when he was shot. Do you have any idea why he might have taken such a visible job, considering his need to remain in hiding from the drug dealers he turned in?”

  “Not so visible. Santa Claus wears a beard, doesn’t he?”

  “Not a very good one. Have you ever heard from any of the drug dealers who went to jail as a result of Waldo’s testimony?”

  She snickered. “If I had, Mrs. Fletcher, I wouldn’t be standing in this kitchen talking to you. They don’t play by the same rules as the rest of the world.”

  “But it would seem to me that they would know Waldo had a family. From what I hear about the way they do business, they wouldn’t hesitate to take out their anger on the family of an informer.”

  “Look, Mrs. Fletcher, I know I’ve been rude and I apologize for that. I’ve been under a tremendous strain.”

  “I understand,” I said. “I dread the day I ever have to move.”

  “I’m talking about the strain of having a husband leave me and his children, then be accused of smuggling drugs, and then testify against the others he was involved with in return for disappearing, a new life, one that didn’t include me or the kids. It has hurt them terribly. I ask forgiveness every day for that.”

  “It seems Waldo’s the one who should ask for forgiveness.”

  “That wasn’t Waldo’s nature. Excuse me. I need to talk to the movers.”

  Alone in the kitchen, I went to the window and looked outside. The movers were carrying a large dresser to the truck. Then, I heard a voice from inside the house. A man’s voice. Nancy said something. They both sounded angry. I was tempted to go in search of them, but thought better of it. Nancy was upset enough. Who was the man? I had a hunch about that.

  I meandered the kitchen’s perimeter. Everything was obviously expensive; no cost had been spared to create a stunning and functional kitchen. On one countertop in the comer was a pad of lined, yellow legal-size paper. I glanced down at the first page. Nancy had been writing a letter using a blue ballpoint pen
that rested on the pad. It started with that day’s date; it began, “To whom it may concern.” I started to read the first paragraph when she returned to the kitchen, saw what I was doing, and tore off the pages.

  “It’s possible you’ll hear from Junior Johnson, also known as Joe Charles,” I said.

  “I doubt that. No one is going to know where we’ve gone.”

  “That may be your goal, Nancy, but it’s not easy to completely disappear. My point is that if you should hear from him, I would appreciate knowing about it. Believe me, this is not to satisfy my idle curiosity. It has to do with murder ... two murders ... and I’ve found myself more involved with both than I’d like to be. ”

  “I’ll let you know if I hear from him,” she said.

  “Thank you. If you can’t reach me—I’ll be in New York through the new year—you can call Dr. Hazlitt, or Sheriff Metzger.”

  “Sure.”

  I knew I had overstayed my welcome and that she was getting ready again to tell me to leave. I would spare her that. “Thank you for talking to me, Nancy. I wish you and the children well wherever you go. Where are the children?”

  “With my mother.”

  Instead of accompanying me from the kitchen, she left by herself. I hesitated, then tore off a few sheets of paper from the yellow pad, leaving enough pages so that it wouldn’t be noticed. I put them under my coat, walked through the living room, and rejoined Seth and Morton in the driveway.

  “You should have gotten in the car and used the heater,” I said. “You both look frozen.”

  “Not so bad with the sun shinin’,” Seth said, looking up and squinting into a brilliant blue sky. “Nancy Morse certainly was some ugly”

  “I feel sorry for her,” I said.

  “Looks like the storm they forecast missed us,” Morton said.

  “And a good thing it has,” I said. “Know what I want to do? I would like to go to my house, get a fire going, and have some clam pie. Is Charlene Sassi still making pies and selling them?”

  “Sure is.”

  “Splendid. Let’s stop at her house and get some. The treat’s on me.”

  I bought the last two clam pies Charlene had to sell, and we headed for my place. I felt like a little girl anticipating arrival at a special amusement park. I couldn’t wait to be in my own home again, to sit around the table with friends, and enjoy Charlene’s clam pie that someone once described as “like going to heaven.”