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

little gray had crept into his hairline, but not much. It was his eyes that always drew me, probably because they seemed fascinated by everything and everyone, soft eyes the color of Granny Smith apples, but eyes that never missed a thing.
    “Thank you, Jessica. What will you have to drink?”
    “A glass of sherry would be nice,” I said. George had what he almost always orders, a single-malt scotch.
    Drinks in hand, we toasted to being together again.
    “So,” I said, “tell me what sensational crimes you’ve been solving since the last time I saw you.”
    “Afraid there’s not much to report,” he said. “The usual, angry or unhappy spouses killing their better halves—I will never understand why they don’t simply walk away rather than taking a life. But that’s for the sociologists to answer, I suppose, and they don’t seem to have a clue. You, Jessica? Working on a new book?”
    “Not at the moment, although I am putting together a plot for the next one. I’m enjoying not being tied to my computer and having to produce pages. That’s why I agreed to come on the first flight of SilverAir.”
    “How was it?”
    “Very nice. The airline’s founder, Wayne Silverton, grew up in Cabot Cove.”
    “I know.”
    “Do you?”
    “When you told me about your invitation, I did a little checking into the airline. It’s gotten quite a bit of press here in the UK.”
    “I imagine it would since London is one of its original destinations. What does the press have to say?”
    “Mostly mixed. Some of our travel writers and editors applaud Mr. Silverton’s courage in starting an airline in the midst of so many airline bankruptcies, and think providing more comfortable surroundings is good for the traveling public. Others? There are detractors.”
    “Who consider it foolhardy?”
    “Not exactly. A few business writers have delved into Mr. Silverton’s financing for the airline. They aren’t terribly impressed with those he’s chosen to partner with, including some chaps here in the UK, one of whom has a rather unsavory reputation.”
    “Oh? I met one of Wayne Silverton’s partners on the flight, a Mr. Casale.”
    “Ah, yes. His name has come up, too.”
    “It sounds as though you’ve done more than just a little checking into the airline.”
    “In the genes, I suppose. There’s been considerable interest in how your Mr. Silverton and his airline managed to circumvent the usual means of gaining approval to use Stansted Airport. It seems they hired some very well-connected lobbyists here in the UK who—how shall I say it?—greased the skids for their client.”
    “Greased the skids, as in bought access?” I asked.
    “Exactly. Who paid that money, and more important, who received it in the Civil Aviation Authority, is still closely guarded information. I should hasten to mention that this is all alleged. What we do know for a fact is that SilverAir gained access to gates at Stansted far faster than any other airline looking for accommodation there.”
    I sat back, processed what he’d said, and sipped my sherry. “You said the name Casale came up, too, George. In what context?”
    He smiled and came forward in his chair, leather-patched elbows on the table. “I hope I’m not sounding like some naysayer,” he said, “dragging up for you only the bad news about your friend’s partners in his airline. There’s millions of dollars invested in it from reputable banks here in London and New York.”
    “I’m not taking it wrong, George. I’m naturally interested. Please go on.”
    He sat back again and rubbed his chin. “Well,” he said, “Mr. Casale—I believe his first name is Salvatore—Mr. Casale is reputed to have very solid connections with the Mafia in the States. Las Vegas casinos.”
    “Wayne Silverton told me that he and Mr. Casale were involved in some real estate business in Las Vegas.”
    “Not surprising. Of course, we have our own shadowy investor here in the UK, Churlson