Turning the Tables: An Alex Peres Mystery Page 11

  At last I asked the manager if he knew Mills might have a drinking problem and was told, “We do not socialize among our employees and do not inquire into their personal lives.” Thank you, Your Majesty.

  I knew when I was licked. I might snoop around and dig up a little more but probably nothing important. I had the feeling anyone I spoke with would be bound by the old nil nisi bonum reticence to dish a guy who was already well on his way down. I almost felt the same myself.

  Walking back to my car I felt light-headed. Probably I needed food, although I really didn’t feel hungry. Was the curse still in effect? Damn that old woman, anyway. I drove a few hundred yards down Route 7 and spotted a Chinese restaurant. I lucked out; the food was quite good. Then there was the fortune cookie. A successful career buys more food than romance. But does it warm you on a winter’s night, Confucius? I got back into the dreaded vehicle and wended my now weary way to I-95 and started northeast once again, hoping to make Providence before I succumbed to battle fatigue. My wrist hurt and I felt like I’d been driving for a month, but it was the only way I could complete this trip in three days.

  I really wanted to get home on schedule. Already I badly missed Fargo. I missed my house . . . the Wharf Rat . . . my mother . . . my friends . . . Hell, I missed my enemies. I wanted out of this car. And into one of my delicious grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches with the tomato falling out and the mustard all over my fingers. These happy thoughts got me to the outskirts of Providence and a motel that really was “pretty good.”

  After the day I’d had, I figured Choate Ellis owed me a lobster dinner. I enjoyed it without remorse. Returning to my room, I called Mom and learned that she and Fargo were fine, my house was standing last she knew and she would look forward to my early return. Duty performed.

  Later, I found the bed firm, the sheets crisp, the pillows ample, yet I tossed and turned long into the night with visions of Mimi Trinler dancing through my half-dreams. In my waking moments, I wondered if there might be any way at all to make them come true. I realized there was not, and felt absolutely no better. I thought of her comment about my needing a longer rope and appreciated what she meant. I decided I was sort of like a paraphrased Saint Augustine: Tie me to someone, Lord, but not too close.

  Finally, I slept. So, of course, the next morning I resented getting up. But I turned off my alarm and grumpily arose. Unsurprisingly, I got shampoo in my eyes and managed to put my finger through my hose as I dressed. I must say I have never given much thought to witches in my young life, but I never thought unkindly of them. Why was all this happening to me?

  I always get lost in Providence, today being no exception. When I finally found the campus and finally found the dean’s office, my reception was neutral. Cynthia was a bright student. Yes, I could have the transcript. No, the dean did not remember her. Further, she felt it would be a waste of my time and the faculty’s for me to “wander around trying to ferret out some instructor who did recall the young lady.” Thank you and good morning.

  On to Kudlow Securities, where I was shown into the office of Mrs. Kudlow herself. She was a midsize model with graying blonde hair pulled into a severe bun, but with those classic middle European features that let her get away with it. She was attractive, warm, charming, and in the ring with a gorilla, my money would have been on her.

  “I’m so glad you’re here.” She smiled warmly. “My husband and I have been very hopeful that this Fishermen’s job would work out for Cynthia.”

  “Sounds like you’re trying to get rid of her.” I smiled back.

  “I am . . . but only because she deserves to be rid of us at this point. Let me explain. We are not a large company—we’re family-run and owned. My daughter is in graduate school but will join us next year. My husband and I would like to retire while we have breath, and had figured on Cynthia to be ready to take over by then.”

  She fiddled with a pencil on her desk and frowned slightly. “What we had not figured on was our son,” Mrs. Kudlow continued. “He had decided on a military career rather than finance. However, he was badly wounded in Iraq and will be unable to resume an active role in the military. He has decided to join the firm. Of course we could not say—had no wish to say—no to him under the circumstances.”

  I nodded. “And with two children in the company, there isn’t room for Cynthia.”

  “Not at the level she deserves. We talked it over with her at once. It would be to our benefit to keep her as long as possible, but it wouldn’t be fair. She has worked too hard and been too valuable. The sooner she gets her career on the climb again, the better. Fishermen’s sounds perfect for her. She is capable. Handles subordinates well and deals well with customers. Should I call this Mr. Ellis and talk with him? I could fill in any details her resumé may have missed.”

  I suggested that I have Ellis call her when I got back. We talked a bit more, but I couldn’t punch any holes in the story. I did ask casually if she knew anything about Cynthia having a misunderstanding with a police officer regarding an injured cat.

  Mrs. Kudlow allowed herself a small laugh. “You phrase it very delicately, Ms. Peres, but I think I’ll let Cynthia tell that story herself.”

  That was all I was going to get, so I thanked her and left.

  On the way to the elevators I saw a serious-visaged young woman coming down the hall toward me with a purposeful stride. She was nicely plump, wore a sensible navy blue skirt and lighter blue sweater, and had her hair in a no-nonsense ponytail. It had to be our Cynthia. I’d have loved to ask her about that contempt of court charge, but that was Ellis’s purview, not mine.

  I couldn’t resist. Giving her my friendliest smile, I asked, “Picked up any stray cats lately?” She gave me a startled look and reversed her course quickly. One of those people with no sense of humor, I supposed.

  Chapter 11

  I sat in a small deli near Kudlow’s, savoring a pastrami on rye, chips and a small cucumber salad. Okay. I had done my bit for Ellis. Now how did I go about getting home? As I pondered, weak and weary, there was a nearly soundless twang! as a bra strap parted. Ah, my ubiquitous witch! But I was too eager to solve my travel problems to give her much time. I whipped into the ladies’ room, yanked off the bra, stuffed it in my purse and hardly missed a thought.

  None of my get-home options thrilled me. I could drive to Hyannis, turn in the car and call someone to come and get me. But Mom worked Wednesdays, and Aunt Mae was a reluctant (and terrifying) driver. Sonny was away. Cassie was God knew where—too complicated. I could drive back to Boston, turn in the car and catch the afternoon flight, but that meant more driving—in the wrong direction.

  There was another possibility. If Offshore Airways had not switched to their curtailed winter schedule, maybe they had an afternoon flight from Providence to Provincetown, and I could turn the car in at Providence Airport.

  I finished my cholesterol special, downed my Diet Coke—God, how I missed the Rat!—and looked around for a pay phone. My cell phone, of course, was safely locked in the compartment of my car at Ptown Airport. Moments later I fed quarters into a wall phone. Offshore assured me they had seats on a 3:15 flight, and I was on my way to the Providence, R.I. Airport. I’d have an hour’s wait, but who cared? I wouldn’t be in a car!

  Fortunately the airport is easily found. I turned in the car without parting sadness and walked into the terminal. About to hand the Offshore agent my credit card, I heard a voice behind me say gruffly, “Now, just come quietly, miss. Don’t make me have to use force.” I spun around.

  “Cassie! Am I glad to see you! What the hell are you doing here?” She was dressed in her uniform of khaki shirt with white ascot, navy slacks, a light blue suede jacket with “Outer Cape Charter” embroidered in gold over the breast pocket. A brimmed officer’s cap with gold wings finished the look of a modern-day Amelia Earheart, and the Offshore agent was batting her eyes furiously.

  “I just brought four women down to catch a Delta to Atlanta. They’re go
ing to some teachers’ thing. I’m heading home. Want a ride?”

  “Do I ever! I’ll ride on the wing. Anything to be going home.” I turned to follow her outside.

  The agent called after me, “Do I take it you will not be flying Offshore Air this afternoon?” She sounded plaintive. Had I been the only passenger?

  I turned back. “Afraid so. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. See you next time.” I waved and left. I caught up with Cassie. “What are you doing at the Offshore terminal?”

  “Same as Boston and Hartford. I buy my fuel here, have the plane serviced, etc., and they let me use their facilities. They’ve cleaned the plane and filled it up. We can leave anytime.”

  “Let’s go.” I followed her aboard the neat, sleek little twin-engine plane. It was easy to see why she loved it so.

  “Come up and be my copilot, if you promise not to curse my airplane.” Cassie grinned. I was delighted to serve. I’d learned a few of those duties and jumped at any opportunity to perform them. If I ever could afford it, flying lessons were on the list. I closed and locked the outside door behind us and followed her into the cockpit. “Close the curtain to the cabin,” she said. “That way we can smoke later, without getting the smell into the cabin—I hope.”

  We fastened seat belts, Cassie started the engines and waved goodbye to the Offshore crewman who’d been standing by with a fire extinguisher. She and I both donned earphones with mouthpiece—me just to listen. I heard her amplified voice, slightly tinny as she began her ritual conversation with the Providence control tower.

  Very shortly we clattered and bounced along the taxiway. Strange how planes seemed so clumsy on the ground, as if they knew it was not their milieu. She halted next to the end of the runway as a big 737 flared out and roared past us about thirty feet overhead. Then there was a squeal and puff of smoke from the tires and it was down.

  “Give me twenty degrees flaps,” Cassie said, and I carefully set the lever. She spoke into the mike. “Providence Control. This is Outer Cape Charter twin Beech two-one-seven, at the threshold of runway two-three, requesting takeoff instructions.”

  “Outer Cape, Providence Control. You are number one to take off on runway two-three. Wind is southwest at ten. Barometer is two-niner-niner-four and steady.”

  Cassie ran up the engines, slipped the brakes and we were rolling. Even in a small plane the power was wondrous to feel. The plane actually seemed to yearn to be away, pressing forward into the wind like a woman running pell mell toward her lover’s arms. There was a little lurch, the nose went up and Cassie turned toward me. “Wheels up.” I reached for the switch and heard the reassuring whine, followed by a solid thunk as they settled into the wells.

  “Flaps up.” I carefully reset the lever.

  As we climbed toward the bright fall sun and the crystal blue around it the words came out unasked. “ ‘Oh, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth and danced the skies on laughter silvered wings.’ ”

  Cassie smiled. “Had to be written by a pilot.”

  “It was. A fellow named Magee. He was in the RCAF in World War Two.”

  “Any more to the poem?”

  “Quite a bit. I just can’t remember it. It ends with something like, ‘climbing through grey to brilliant sun, and reaching out to touch the face of God.’ Magee was killed in combat right after that. Age nineteen. A bit young to put a lid on it.”

  Cassie answered softly, “Maybe he’d done all he needed to.” I put that away to think about later.

  “Straighten out on sixty degrees and level off at three thousand. I’ll go get us some coffee from the thermos.” She was standing up before I realized she was talking to me.

  Then suddenly there I was with my very own airplane! I could understand why Cassie loved to fly. She’d been taught by her Air Force father but had bypassed the military as a career herself—for the obvious reason. She’d gotten into the pilot training course of a large airline but had left it when she discovered how unfairly female pilots were treated. Cassie’s dad staked her to the down payment on the sweetheart Beechcraft, and the rest was history.

  Cassie returned with two plastic mugs. I was very proud when she simply set the automatic pilot and lit a cigarette. “So how was the trip?”

  I told her the generalities. I did mention my reaction to the very attractive Dean Trinler, though I did not go into the lurid details. She shook her head sadly. “That’s your problem, Alex. You’re too damn careful. You should have invited her to dinner and then gone for it!”

  I yawned. I wasn’t sleepy but my ears were plugging up. Funny, altitude usually didn’t bother me. “She probably has a husband and four kids.” I pulled out the ashtray on my side and joined her in a smoke.

  “So she says no thanks. You really need to be more assertive.”

  “Yeah, like with the blonde at your party. I’m making my move and she damn near kills me.”

  “She—the blonde—whatsername—felt awful about that. She really was put up to it. I’m sure she’d like to see you again.”

  “So she can break my leg?” I tapped Cassie’s arm and indicated another small plane several hundred feet below us on a reciprocal course.

  “Thanks,” she acknowledged. “Plenty of room. How’s your wrist? Lainey says a sprain like that can feel worse than a clean break.”

  “Sore and achy. I’ve been driving all over. The bandage helps, but I haven’t been wearing it much. Anyway—moving along from homicidal blondes, what’s new at home?”

  “Same old, same old. Oh, Peter and the Wolf are looking for you. I ran into them at the Wharf Rat, and Lainey saw them at the market. They were asking if we knew how to reach you. Didn’t say why. I didn’t realize you were so friendly.”

  “We aren’t close, really. It’s their houseboy who got killed the other night. They’re probably afraid it makes them or their place look bad and just want reassurance. I can’t think of any other reason.” Actually, I could think of several, the first being that Mitch was all over them, the second being that perhaps he had good reason.

  I stared down at the now choppy bay and recalled last Saturday. Wolf had been livid at the memory of how Lewis had insulted Peter by breaking his father’s watch. Wolf had started drinking early. He might well have continued into evening, nursing his anger as he went along. What if Lewis had returned to his room for something he’d forgotten? He and Wolf might have met. If the confrontation and taunting had started all over again, I doubted Wolf would have contented himself with a little shove or two and a good cry. Wolf was tall, in good shape. He might have been able to give Lewis a fair pounding. But was he capable of killing him?

  “Probably,” I sighed. Cassie looked at me questioningly. I just shook my head and she shrugged.

  “Okay.” She turned off the autopilot. “Start a turn to two-twooh degrees and begin your descent at three hundred feet per minute. Oh, and see if you can dislodge that witch and her cat from the tail section, will you?”

  “Don’t laugh.” I sighed. “Halloween night I found myself chasing an old lady up Commercial Street, thinking she was the witch. Two hours later your friend Kerry had me tied in knots. It’s gone on and on. How do witches pick their victims? Why me?”

  “Because you are an innocent at heart.” She adjusted the trim slightly.

  Soon I was happily involved with the aircraft and forgot about the hapless Lewis. When I had the plane lined up with Runway 22, Cassie took over and greased it in. As she performed shutdown procedures, I asked if she needed a ride. She said no, she had several chores to do.

  “Like what? Should I wait for you?” I asked.

  “Oh, like vacuuming the plane. Doing the exorcism ritual. You know, routine.”

  “Oh, bug off about that!” I growled. “I’m getting paranoid as it is.”

  She laughed and ten minutes later Fargo was licking my face and whining to tell me how mistreated he had been. Then he remembered he was mad at me and sulked under the kitchen table, staying there un
til Mom put a plate of food in front of me.

  She fed me an early dinner of leftover meatloaf, mashed potatoes and little brussels sprouts with butter and caraway seed. It tasted infinitely better than the lobster and steaks I’d been eating. I gave her a rundown of my trip. She told me Sonny, Mitch and Peter and the Wolf were looking for me. The list was growing.

  After my warm welcome and hot meal, everything seemed to catch up with me, and I couldn’t stop yawning, this time for real. Mom suggested I go home before I fell asleep at the table.

  As I got to my feet the small gold buckles on the side of my slipons interlocked and I fell against the sink. I managed to grab it, almost hitting my chin, and clumsily pulled myself erect.

  “Fucking bitch witch!” I hissed. “I’m sorry, Mom, excuse me.”

  “Are you hurt?” Mother leaned down and disentangled my shoes.

  “Only my dignity . . . for the twentieth time.” I was so angry my head was spinning.

  “Alexandra, you worry me a little. Are you really letting this so-called witch’s curse bother you? Surely you don’t believe it?”

  I sighed. “Oh, of course not. Not really. But crazy things keep happening—all in a row, it seems. I scraped my shin on Mary’s boat. Spilled tea all over Wolf’s living room and made a fool of myself in front of Sonny’s girl. Knocked a guy’s beer over in the Rat. I hurt my wrist at Cassie’s, had not one but two pens dry up on me during an interview and lost a bra strap in Providence. I don’t know—I seem to be falling apart. I’m just tired . . . and my ear hurts, it plugged up on the plane. It’s nothing, Mom. I’m just frazzled. And everybody teases me—well, Joe and Cassie.” I sounded so childishly piqued even I had to laugh.