Coffee, Tea, or Murder? (15 page)

I was perplexed, to say the least. Things were complex enough without having this cocksure young man, with an overt hatred of both his father and stepmother, show up unannounced and unexpected, claiming to own SilverAir. Did he really have legal documents that would give credence to his claim? His name never surfaced when I read about the airline before flying it to London at Wayne Silverton’s invitation. There were a number of partners, with Mr. Casale and Mr. Vicks listed as major shareholders. There were a number of banks and investment companies also involved. Wayne was the largest stockholder, according to material issued by the company.
Jason Silverton?
Was he mentally unbalanced, fantasizing about being left the airline by his father? Judging from what he’d said, that was more than unlikely. They hadn’t had contact with each other for years.
Or had they?
If so, Christine evidently didn’t have any notion of it.
Or had she?
Had she been aware of the possibility that her husband’s son by a previous marriage might emerge from what sounded like a life of exile, and claim a stake in SilverAir?

Those questions, however, paled in comparison to what Jason charged had caused his mother’s demise. Surely, he was wrong. Could Wayne really have murdered his second wife, Jason’s mother?

Families!
No outsider can ever know for certain what goes on within any family, the tensions, rivalries, triumphs, and failures. Most families, at least the ones I know, seem to be solidly grounded and happy. But one can never be sure.

In the case of Silverton’s family, there had obviously been a fermenting cauldron of distrust, and even hatred. So sad. Had Wayne Silverton not been slain, they would have gone on protecting their secrets and shielding their unhappiness from all but those most intimately involved with them.

But that didn’t represent reality.

Wayne Silverton had been murdered.

Was the motive greed or jealousy or revenge? Caused by long-standing resentments, or a more recent business deal gone sour?

I knew one thing for certain. The plot had thickened, as happens in murder mystery novels, including my own. But this wasn’t fiction.

This was as real as it got.

T
he first thing I did after signing the check was to call George on his cell phone.

“Is everything all right?” he asked.

I stepped through the door held open for me by a uniformed staff member, and walked down the sidewalk, out of earshot of those waiting in front of the hotel for a taxi. “Everything is fine, except I came upon a new wrinkle in the case I thought you should know about.” I related my encounter with Jason Silverton.

“Well, well. You say he claims that he now owns the airline?”

“Yes.”

“And that his father killed one of his former wives?”

“That’s what he said.”

“That’s quite a development, indeed.”

“I thought so, too.”

“Does this young man strike you as someone with all his mental faculties?”

“You mean, do I think he’s unbalanced?” I thought about Jason’s demeanor during our time together. “It’s hard to say. He’s definitely having an emotional reaction to his father’s death, mostly satisfaction. I can’t be sure. I would need to spend a lot more time with him before I’d be willing to venture a guess on that. I did think it might be prudent, however, to see if he has a criminal record. He seems to have led an aimless life while here—he moved to London about eight years ago, according to him.”

“Easy to do,” George said. “I’ll run a check on him immediately.”

“Good. I can tell you Christine was stunned when he arrived.”

“On top of her previous shock. How does she appear to be holding up?”

“Well, I think. She’s a strong lady. She’s immersed in discussions regarding the restructuring of SilverAir now that Wayne is gone.”

“Should be a fascinating series of meetings,” he said with a chuckle.

“To say the least. Are we still on with Captain Caine at eleven?”

“Oh, yes. I might get there even earlier than anticipated. I’ll ring your room.”

“Or have me paged.”

“Till later, then. See you at eleven,” he said, and clicked off.

I closed the cell phone, replaced it in my handbag, and stood on the sidewalk, thinking.

A deep voice interrupted my reverie. “Those look like very serious thoughts.”

I looked up to see Jed Richardson coming toward me.

“Good morning, Jessica. Am I interrupting? Are you solving the problems of the world?”

“Good morning, Jed. Nothing quite so momentous. All set for a pleasant day in London? The weather is cooperating.”

“Yes. I’ve hooked up with an old friend from my airline days. We’re having lunch at Heathrow.”

“Sounds like fun. Have you had a chance to chat with Captain Caine since we arrived?”

“No. He’s stayed pretty much to himself.” He lowered his voice. “I did hear him the other night, though.”

“Hear him?”

“Yeah. My room’s across the hall from his. He got into a shouting match that was pretty heated.”

“Was it with the flight attendant? Gina Molnari?”

“No, actually, I believe it was a man. In fact, I thought he was yelling at his first officer.”

“Oh my. Could you tell what they were arguing about?”

“I don’t know, Jess. I did listen for a while, but I never made out their words, just an occasional one now and then. That’s how I know it was the first officer in the room with him. I heard him say, ‘Cut it out, Carl.’ And later I thought I heard Caine call him ‘Scherer’ once.”

I lightened my voice as I said, “Somehow, having the captain and first officer fighting doesn’t bode well for the flight home.”

“They’ll get over it,” Jed said. “I’ve had my share of disagreements with first officers when I was flying commercial, but it never lasted. Too much at stake once you’re in that cockpit. Speaking of cockpits, how did you enjoy your ride up front?”

“Loved it, of course.”

“I thought you might grab an hour of dual piloting instruction while here, you know, get a taste of how the British general aviation system works.”

“No time for that,” I said. “Enjoy your lunch with your friend. We’ll catch up later.”

“Shall do. By the way, that flight attendant you mentioned. Isn’t she the one who tried to take her life? She okay now?”

“I haven’t heard anything,” I said. “She evidently wasn’t in any danger. I suppose she’s staying in her room, embarrassed about what she did.”

“She shouldn’t be,” he said. “I just hope she’s all right.”

“I’m sure she’s fine. Jed, before you go, is there some way that you can check on the background of Captain Caine and First Officer Scherer?”

“Background?”

“In aviation. I’m just curious how they ended up flying for SilverAir, what other airlines they worked for, things like that.”

“Sure. I can ask around. Where will you be this afternoon?”

“Not sure, but I’ll be here somewhere. The limos pick us up at the hotel at seven for the flight back.”

“We’ll catch up,” he said. “Have a good one.”

I wandered back into the hotel, debating whether I needed to change clothes before taking the walk I’d promised myself earlier. But the decision was made for me. Churlson Vicks, Wayne’s British partner in SilverAir, called my name as he closed the gap between us with long, purposeful strides.

“Good morning, Mr. Vicks.”

“Not a very good morning, I’d say,” he said. Although he was a man who obviously maintained control of himself in stressful situations, he demonstrated exasperation.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said.

“The question is,” he said, “what part do you play in this circus?”

“Pardon?”

“This perversion, this—” He realized he was sputtering, and forced calm into his voice. “Silverton’s kid,” he said.

“Jason?”

“You
are
involved.”

“Involved in what?”

“This travesty, this, this—”

His control was ebbing again.

“Mr. Vicks, I assume you’re talking about Wayne’s son showing up and claiming he now owns at least a part of the airline. But why you would accuse me of being involved is beyond my comprehension.”

“That young rotter has some bloody nerve. How dare he come in here and claim he owns anything? He said he’d been meeting with you.”

“That’s absurd. I was standing with Christine when he arrived unexpectedly. She walked away, and he and I had a cup of tea together. Coffee, actually, for him. He indicated to me that he had papers of some sort that entitled him to ownership of SilverAir. That’s all I know. But to claim we had a meeting is preposterous.”

“No surprise, coming from the likes of him. Nothing but a young hooligan, a grifter if I’ve ever seen one.”

“I wouldn’t know about that, Mr. Vicks. The question is, does he have some sort of legally binding paper that substantiates his claim?”

A derisive laugh exploded from his lips. “So he says,” he said. “He presented us with what he claims is proof that his departed father left him his share of the airline. Pure rubbish! It’s a letter his father had written him years ago—many years ago—saying in it that he one day intended to launch a new airline, and that he would be pleased to have his only son as his partner. Balderdash! A worthless scrap of paper if I’ve ever seen one.”

“But does it have validity?” I pressed.

“The lawyers are looking it over as we speak. I apologize for accusing you of being in cahoots with him, Mrs. Fletcher. Frankly, if I were that despicable young man, I’d be in fear of my life.”

“That’s a harsh statement,” I said.

“Not if you know Sal.”

“Mr. Casale?”

“Did you read about his goons being arrested last night?”

“I read about two men being arrested at the airport. Are you suggesting that—?”

“I’m suggesting nothing. But the next time you have tea, or coffee, with Mr. Jason Silverton, you might do him a bloody favor and tell him he’d best disappear again or face the consequences.”

I wanted to ask about Christine, whether she, too, had laid a claim to a piece of SilverAir, and what her response had been to her stepson’s rival claim, but Vicks walked away before I could.

I visited the ladies’ room off the lobby, my multiple cups of tea taking their toll, then hurried from the hotel lobby to the Strand, and set out on my walk before I could be waylaid by anyone else. I turned left and walked toward Charing Cross Station. When it opened in 1864, Charing Cross turned the Strand into Europe’s busiest street, replete with lavish hotels, majestic theaters, and many restaurants. The Strand is no longer the posh thoroughfare it once was, but a sense of history prevails, as it does on virtually every street in London. As I walked, I could almost feel and see those literary giants whose foot-steps preceded mine on this celebrated section of the city: Samuel Johnson, James Boswell, Charles Lamb, William Thackeray, and Charles Dickens, among dozens of other great names from a bygone era. I looked down Craven Street, where Benjamin Franklin lived during two extended stays in London, and paused in front of the magnificent Adelphi Theatre, built by a wealthy tradesman to launch his daughter’s acting career, and the scene of an infamous shooting of the actor William Terris by a madman. And another theater caught my attention, the Vaudeville, dating from 1870. A complete restoration in the 1960s turned it into one of the city’s nicest theaters; I’ve enjoyed more than one production in its elegant surroundings.

I walked as far as the station; then, refreshed in body and spirit, I returned to the Savoy and went to my room. The message light was flashing on my telephone. I retrieved two messages. One was from Seth, informing me that he wouldn’t be at lunch. He’d made contact with the British physician who’d been summoned to the Savoy to minister to Gina Molnari, and had been invited to spend time with him at the hospital where he was affiliated. I wasn’t surprised. Seth often does that, befriending doctors from different places and learning how they conduct their practices. The United Kingdom, of course, has socialized medicine, vastly different from our health care system. I’d be interested in Seth’s reaction to being exposed to the British version.

The second call was from George. He said he was heading for the hotel and would be there by ten thirty. I looked at my watch. It was almost that time now.

I freshened up and was waiting when he called the room.

“Tea?” he asked.

“I’ve had my fill of tea for one day,” I said, pleasantly. “But I’d be happy to meet you downstairs.”

We found a small couch in a secluded corner of the large, ornate lobby. He handed me a computer printout of Jason Silverton’s rap sheet. I took a quick look. “Whew,” I said. “Hardly an upstanding citizen.”

“Not as bad as some, but bad enough.”

According to the printout, Jason had been arrested six times since arriving in London. Two of the offenses were domestic battery.

“He’s been married?” I asked.

“No,” George replied. “That code there indicates he battered two live-ins, significant others I suppose you call them, although judging from his behavior, one would have to question just how significant they were.”

“What does this code mean?” I asked.

“The one charge was dropped when the victim declined to press charges. In the other case, he pleaded no contest and received probation.”

“Fraud?” I said, referring to another entry on the sheet.

“Yes. I went back into the files to learn a little more about his two fraud cases. It seems he tried to sell what he purported were rare, first-edition copies of books. He evidently was a good salesman. His pigeons bought, discovered they’d been had, and brought suits against him.”

“Criminal suits.”

“Criminal and civil. As you can see, he was found not guilty of both charges.”