Coffee, Tea, or Murder? Read Online Free PDF Page A

has no rival in London, or in most other major cities. The last one into the limousine was Christine Silverton, who slid in next to me on the rear bench seat.
    The driver took off, rounding the corner of the terminal to take the road out of the airport.
    “Oh, look,” said Maureen.
    I glanced over my shoulder to see a bank of spotlights trained on the fuselage of our plane, which was lit up like a Hollywood billboard. Christine didn’t bother to turn around.
    “Where’s Wayne?” I asked, settling back beside her.
    Her voice was flinty. “He has things to do here at the airport—he says!”
    “There must be a never-ending list of things to do when starting up an airline,” I said. “What a daunting undertaking.”
    She looked directly at me. Even in the dark car, I could see her eyes were moist from tears. “It isn’t all him,” she said in a hard voice, “although he may think it is.”
    I wondered if anyone else was listening to us, but the others seemed busy with their own conversations.
    “Are you all right, Christine?” I asked.
    “Oh, I am fine, Jessica, simply fine.”
    She turned away from me and I could hear, and feel, her heavy breathing, as though she was trying to bring in enough oxygen to inject some calm into her emotions. I considered pressing her but decided it was neither the time nor the place.
    One thing was patently evident.
    All might be well with SilverAir at thirty-five thousand feet.
    But it wasn’t so on the ground.

Chapter Three
    T he Savoy Hotel, located on the Strand on the bank of the Thames, has been a magnet for celebrities, heads of state, and other dignitaries since its construction in 1889 by an entrepreneur, Richard D’Oyly Carte, who’d originally discovered the works of Gilbert and Sullivan, and built the Savoy Theatre in which to present their operettas. He constructed the hotel next to the theater and followed his slogan, “Never compromise” to the extent that he hired César Ritz to manage it (Ritz eventually went off to create his own London landmark, The Ritz). Ritz, in turn, hired none other than the legendary Auguste Escoffier as chef. The standards were set high, and while the hotel fell into disrepair in the 1950s and 1960s, it’s since been restored to its original stature and beyond. Although Johann Strauss no longer plays waltzes in the restaurant, and the magnificent voice of Caruso isn’t heard there these days, the Savoy captures the hearts of everyone who stays there, including this lady. My late husband, Frank, and I spent our honeymoon there, and I’ve returned many times since when visiting London for pleasure or on business.
    We were checked in and taken to our rooms. To my surprise, I’d been given one of the Edwardian riverside apartment suites, a favorite of visiting movie stars and other people of note. Noel Coward, Liza Minnelli, and Goldie Hawn are just a few of the hundreds of famous people, including kings and queens, who’ve basked in the luxury of the apartments, with their spectacular views of the Thames. The huge living room was filled with antiques and featured detailed plasterwork on the ceilings. The bed was king-sized and covered with fine Irish linen sheets; the spacious bathroom was a dazzling display of art deco marble and gleaming chrome fixtures.
    I felt like a queen.
    A tall vase holding a dozen long-stemmed red roses dominated a round table in the living room’s center. I pulled the small card from where it had been pinned to the covering paper and opened it.
    Welcome to London, dear Jessica. It will be wonderful seeing you again.
    Love, George
    The aroma of the roses was as pleasurable as the contemplation of seeing my dear friend George Sutherland. George is a senior Scotland Yard inspector whom I met years ago while in London as a guest of a mystery-writing colleague, Dame Marjorie Ainsworth. Marjorie was considered one of the world’s greatest writers of crime novels, as the British prefer to call murder