Murder, She Wrote: Coffee, Tea, or Murder? - Softcover

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Jessica Fletcher is a bestselling mystery writer who has a knack for stumbling upon real-life mysteries in her various travels. 

Donald Bain, Jessica Fletcher’s longtime collaborator, is the writer of over eighty books, many of them bestsellers.

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Chapter One

“We are about to embark on a new and exciting era in commercial aviation. The days of passengers having their knees jammed into their chins and three-dollar bags of pretzels are over. Today marks the introduction of a sensible and civilized approach to air travel. Passengers on SilverAir will be treated like human beings; people who are willing to spend a little more—and I stress ‘a little more’—can travel in comfort and style. I am extremely gratified that all of you are here today to help launch SilverAir. I see many friends here who are ready to experience this new dimension in air travel, and for the press who will travel with us—well, I hope you’ll write nice things about SilverAir.”

A few members of the press laughed as Wayne Silverton, founder and chairman of SilverAir, stepped down from the portable podium that been erected next to the freshly painted, sky blue 767-200 jet aircraft with the name of the airline emblazoned in silver on both sides and vertically on the stabilizer. The occasion was SilverAir’s inaugural flight from Boston’s Logan International Airport to England’s Stansted International Airport, an increasingly popular airport in the UK for start-up airlines. Located forty-five miles northeast of London, it had become the third busiest airport in the UK—home to forty airlines and handling more than twenty million passengers a year. Arriving there would be a new experience for me. On my many trips to London, Heathrow had always been my destination airport. But I always enjoy deviations from the norm when traveling, and flying on Wayne Silverton’s airline, to a different airport, certainly represented that.

Because the aircraft was parked in a specially designated spot at the airport, away from the main terminal with its Jetway access to planes, we boarded by going up a set of stairs that had been rolled into place. Wayne and his wife, Christine, stood at the foot of the stairs and personally welcomed each passenger.

“Ah, Jessica,” Wayne said, flashing his characteristic broad, brilliant smile. He was a stunningly attractive man by any standard, his perpetually tanned square face providing a contrasting background for very white teeth. “I am so glad that you could find the time in your busy schedule to help us celebrate this special day.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” I said. “How exciting to be a guest on a new airline’s maiden flight.”

“I never thought this day would come,” Christine said.

She was as beautiful as her husband was handsome. Christine had been a stewardess for Pan Am until that proud airline eventually went under. Of course, by the time that happened, stewardesses were no longer referred to by that name. They became known as flight attendants, the change having mostly to do with an influx of males working flights. You couldn’t very well refer to them as “stewardesses.” But no matter what they were called, I’ve always had a special fondness and respect for the men and women who make their living at thirty-thousand feet, keeping passengers happy, but most importantly assuring the safety of those in their charge, particularly when emergencies crop up. Fortunately, that was a rare occurrence in modern commercial aviation.

“You must be bursting with pride,” I said.

“And exhaustion,” Christine replied, the smile never leaving her finely chiseled, classically beautiful face. “But all the hard work was worth it, especially having so many of Wayne’s friends from Cabot Cove with us this morning.”

Wayne Silverton had been born and raised in Cabot Cove, Maine. A standout high school athlete—football, basketball, and track—he went to Purdue University on a full scholarship, majoring in aeronautical engineering, a discipline for which that Indiana university is well-known. It was assumed that he would forge a career in engineering, which was where he started out after serving three years as an officer in the air force. He was hired by Pan Am and quickly rose through its ranks to become executive vice president of that once dominant airline, which was where he met, and wooed, Christine. But an indomitable entrepreneurial spirit had taken hold of him, and he left the airline to join a well-financed real estate consortium that bought a series of small, unprofitable casinos and hotels in Las Vegas. The group renovated them into attractive properties, resulting in their sale for many millions more than the group had paid. Those deals made Wayne a rich man, and he left that real estate partnership to form his own construction company, building high-rise condominiums in that gambling Mecca. Unfortunately, he was ahead of the curve; it would be years before the condominium craze in Vegas caught hold. According to what I read in the business press, Wayne eventually fell on hard times, and it was rumored that he was on the brink of bankruptcy.

A few years later, I was surprised, and delighted, to read that he’d put together financing to launch a new airline, SilverAir. Shortly after that announcement, he and Christine returned to Cabot Cove to bask in the accolades thrown his way—local boy makes good, again—and to tout the airline to local civic and professional groups. That’s when I renewed my acquaintance with him and Christine, and I’d followed the progress of his start-up airline leading to the day when I, along with others from the town, received an invitation to join a group of dignitaries, members of the press, and friends on the upstart airline’s maiden voyage to England.

“But you are going, aren’t you?” I said to my friend of many years, Dr. Seth Hazlitt, who’d also received an invitation from Wayne Silverton.

“I can’t say I’m much inclined,” he replied. “You know I’ve never been a fan of flying. Bad enough on one of the big established airlines. But this one is brand spankin’ new. Might be smart to wait til’ they’ve gotten the kinks out.”

“It doesn’t seem to me that being new means much,” Mort Metzger, our sheriff, chimed in. We were having breakfast together at Mara’s, our favorite local eatery down at the Cabot Cove dock. “I’m sure Silverton wouldn’t get involved with anything unsafe.”

“You’re just parroting what Maureen says,” Seth said. “I’m sure she’s chompin’ at the bit to go. Your wife is always up for going somewhere.”

“She’s adventurous, that’s true,” Mort said, “but—”

“Wayne Silverton was always a little too slick for my taste,” Seth said, spearing the final piece of blueberry pancake on his plate. “Made his money out in Las Vegas. Sounds a bit fishy to me.”

“It’s a big city, Doc. Lots of people make money there,” Mort said.

“There may have been times he had to be ‘slick,’ as you term it, Seth, to have been so successful in business,” I said in Wayne’s defense. “Big business can be cutthroat.”

“Well,” Seth said, patting his mouth with his napkin and leaning back in his seat, “be that as it may, I’ll have to give this inaugural flight business a little more thought.”

Mara, who’d been busy in the kitchen, came to the table, a pot of coffee in her hand. She topped off Mort’s cup. “I’ve got another pot of decaf brewing,” she said to Seth and me. “Everything else to your satisfaction?”

“Always is,” Mort said.

“So?” Mara asked, taking in the three of us. “Are you going to Boston...