As the Prop Turns

By Penny Thomas

When a suspicious airplane crash kills Fiona's soon-to-be ex-husband and owner of the local airfield, she becomes the number one suspect. Surrounded by antagonistic in-laws, land-hungry developers, and drug smugglers determined to get their hands on the airfield, she must find the saboteur before she becomes the next victim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hallard Press LLC
• Release date: Nov 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9781962326100

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

The phone chirping in my ear added another level to my annoyance, which was already in the red zone. I’d spent three hours battling the traffic from Manhattan for this early morning appointment with our marriage counselor in New Jersey. And now I’d have to reschedule because my no-good, woman-chasing pilot husband hadn’t shown up and wasn’t answering his phone. I’d had to take a day off work to get to this small town where I’d spent the past three years of married life.

The chirping stopped. Yo, this is Joe…I hung up on his over-long voicemail greeting. If I left another message, I might look needy, which would be bad for my hoped-for divorce.

I stopped pacing and turned to face the waiting counselor. Mustering my calmest, sweetest voice, I said, I guess that soon-to-be ex-husband of mine forgot we were meeting this morning.

We still have twenty-five minutes left of the appointment, Mrs. Tomei. We can talk about your conflict. We could explore your use of the phrase, soon-to-be-ex. What are your expectations about this counseling process? She settled her ample frame into her enormous, butter-yellow leather chair and made some sit-down and relax motions with her hands. I thought her smile had a touch of eager anticipation.

I suppressed my glower at her pleasure. No thanks. I want to have a face-to-face confrontation, I mean discussion, with Joe. No offense, but I don’t want to air my woes and grievances without him hearing them. He didn’t want to come to this meeting. He said we could work it out alone. Yeah, right! Work it out. This is how he works things out. He avoids the issues. I could murder him. I could feel myself slipping deeper into my pissed-off mode. I took a deep, calming breath. Letting this lawyer-mandated marriage counselor see me losing control would not do. I’m calling him again. I speed dialed.

Hello. Who’s this? The muffled voice on the other end of the phone didn’t sound quite right. Had I caught Joe in bed again with that flight instructor, Maria? And why didn’t he recognize my number?

It’s me. Who are you with? Where are you? Why didn’t you come to the counselor’s? If you want to fix this marriage, you’d better get your butt over here. I sucked in oxygen and waited for a fabrication of lies worthy of Pinocchio to spew out over the airways.

Instead, a vaguely familiar voice said, Fiona? Is that you? This is Chuck Boyd.

Now, Boyd was Joe’s flying friend, but that didn’t give him the license to answer Joe’s phone. What was going on? Boyd? Why are you on Joe’s line?

There’s been an accident. Joe is hurt.

Boyd’s words hung in the space between my ears and brain. There was an unexpected tightness in my chest. All of a sudden, my knees felt wobbly. I collapsed into the nearest chair.

How bad? My voice came out all squeaky.

Bad. The EMTs are on their way. You’d better get here.

Where?

On the airfield. On the west end of the runway, by the ultra-light strip. I gotta go; here comes the ambulance. Boyd hung up.

Oh my God. My husband is hurt. I gathered up my bag, struggled from the depths of my chair, and headed for the door.

The counselor bleated a few questions at me and made a futile attempt to get out of her chair. I fled, fearful that if she succeeded in separating herself from the butter-yellow leather, she would clutch me to her ample bosom in a consoling embrace.

I broke my personal best running record as I raced across the parking lot. I could hear the distant wail of an ambulance over my screeching tires as I two-wheeled it onto the county road leading to the airfield. What the hell was Joe doing at the ultra-light strip? He promised he’d make the counselor appointment. Had he been flying? Why didn’t I ask Boyd if it was an airplane, car, or motorcycle crash?

I ignored the two Stop signs on the three-mile route to the airfield. After what seemed an eternity, I turned up the access road and raced past the flight school. I skidded through the perennially open security gate and onto the apron. At the far end of the runway, I could see the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles. They acted as a beacon, urging me on. I tore across the apron, past the flight school and rental fleet of Cessnas, and headed towards the runway. I was just about to cross when the years of training by Joe and other airfield denizens brought me to a sudden halt. Their mantra, check for any aircraft in the pattern, filtered into my brain. I scanned the skies for any imminent takeoffs or landings for this small, no-control-tower, general aviation airfield. There was nothing in the bright blue October sky. No aircraft were in the pattern, nor were there any on the shimmering runway. I crossed and roared up the main taxiway. My tires squealed in protest as I swerved off the blacktop onto the unpaved ultra-light field access road. Skidding on the cinders, I overcompensated and zig-zagged at high speed towards the lights.

Three police cars, an ambulance, a fire truck, and a knot of people obscured the accident scene, so I couldn’t see what vehicle Joe had crashed. I bumped off the cinders onto the grass and came to a stop. For a moment, I couldn’t move. The adrenaline that had borne me this far faded. I did not want to get out and face the results of the accident. My hands were frozen to the steering wheel. Was it a good or bad thing that all the activity was a little apart from the ambulance? I couldn’t tell by sitting here. I had to get out of my safe cocoon and go and see. A few uniforms turned around to look when I slammed the car door shut. A police officer peeled off from the crowd and approached me with his arms wide, stopping me from getting any closer. I didn’t recognize him. He hadn’t been on the force when I left town six months ago.

You can’t come any further, said the young officer.

I dodged to one side, and he feinted left, blocking my move, and we ended up nose-to-nose. Under any other circumstances, it would have been funny. I took a step back to reassess my position, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone break away from the crowd and walk quickly toward me.

Fiona, you made it. Boyd put his arm around my shoulders.

He won’t let me through. I pointed accusingly at the officer, who merely shrugged and stood his ground.

Let her through. She’s his wife. Peter Ward, retired cop and, pre-divorce proceedings, my flight instructor, was one step behind Boyd. The EMTs are with him. Come on.

The cop gave up his position in the face of the two well-known town residents. As I got closer, the wall of people parted before me. I saw the blanket-covered body on the ground and two EMTs being busy over it. The blanket wasn’t pulled up to cover his face. He’s still alive. I knelt and put my hand on Joe’s forehead. He looked peaceful, lying there with his eyes closed. I couldn’t see any blood.

Hey, Joe, I whispered. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I love you, just didn’t seem appropriate right now. And neither did, What the hell happened? So, I just held his head and wished he’d open his eyes. My wish came true. Joe’s baby blues fluttered open, and he stared straight at me. His lips moved. I thought I heard the word Water. I lowered my ear to his lips, What?

Water. This time, I heard the word clearly and so did one of the medics nearby.

We can’t give him water, Ma’am, until we know what internal injuries he has.

I’ll get you some water later, Joe, I whispered.

He struggled a bit and said, No. Water, water… and then his eyes closed.

The EMTs started doing something around the lower half of his body. I stroked his curly, dark hair. I thought back on what had attracted me to him first. Was it those black curls or his blue eyes? The contrast was startling, and when you added in that wry smile from his generous lips, the combination was fatal to any woman who crossed his path. And, believe me, a lot of women came into his orbit.

Ma’am, you have to move. The voice startled me out of my reverie.

The EMTs were ready to lift Joe onto a gurney. Reluctantly, I took my fingers out of Joe’s curls and stood up. Carefully, they half wheeled and half carried him over the bumpy turf to the ambulance.

I felt a touch on my arm and turned to see Peter. He had tears in his eyes. Go with him Fiona, I’ll follow in my car.

The notion that Peter expected me to go with Joe threw me for a moment. Didn’t he know we were getting a divorce? I noticed the police, EMTs, and some of the airfield people were watching me. Did they know? Were they waiting to see if I got into the ambulance? Had Joe shared with them our marital woes? It was a small town, and Joe knew everybody. Heck, most of the people standing around had gone to his high school. Many graduated with him. They must know, and I didn’t care. I hitched up my too-short and too-tight suit skirt and clambered up the ambulance step.

Then I heard the scream.

Let me through. Joe, Joe, where are you? What happened?

I twisted around on the top step to look. The mass of blue uniforms swayed and moved aside to reveal my nemesis and arch enemy, part-time waitress at Mama Rosa’s, and part-time instructor at the flight school, Maria Avernus. She was also, in my opinion, the airfield slut and the reason for my impending divorce. She was running towards the ambulance, crying and sobbing. The watching population moved back as if distancing themselves from the scene. I froze to the top step of the ambulance, trying to squash down the urge to fling myself at her and scratch her eyes out.

Get in and sit down. Peter reached up, placed his hands on my butt and shoved hard. He slammed the door behind me, hitting me in the rear. I heard him rap sharply on the door as a signal to move on. The ambulance rumbled into life and lurched across the lumpy, dry grass. I looked through the little window and watched Maria chasing after us. If I were a better person, I’d feel sorry for her. But I wasn’t. I hoped she’d trip on one of the many gopher mounds that dotted the grass.

Chuck Boyd and Peter Ward sat silently on either side of me on the cold, hard orange plastic chairs lined up against the gray wall of the emergency waiting room. A handful of uniformed and two plainclothes police stood at the farthest corner. They didn’t talk but kept shooting looks over to me under cover of changing positions. What were they thinking? The only sound was the ticking of a wall clock marking, minute by minute, the interminable passage of time.

A distant door slammed in the silence, making me jump. Footsteps drummed over the linoleum, getting louder and closer. I heard a shout, Joe? Joe? Where is he? The waiting room door burst open, and Maria came to a halt at the entrance. I watched her eyes sweep the room and come to a stop when she saw me. She pointed her finger at me. You! Why are you here? Joe belongs to me. You have no business here. She took a couple of steps towards me, her hands forming claws aimed straight at my face.

For a nano-second, nobody else moved. Then, we all reacted as one body. I stood up, ready to do battle. This was my chance to inflict bodily harm on this marriage destroyer. Boyd and Peter leaped to their feet. The cops unfroze from their huddle and moved towards me.

Somebody swore. Another said, We’ve got to get her out of here. The cops rushed to Maria, swept her up in their midst and hustled her out of the room. The mass of bodies created a bottleneck at the door. I couldn’t see her, but I could hear her. Let me go. Is he alright? I have a right to be here. She doesn’t. Her voice became fainter as the mass of blue uniforms propelled her down the hall. Peter and Boyd, being the furthest away from the exit, gave up the struggle and came back to take up their self-appointed positions of guarding me from the world’s evils.

Don’t worry. The guys will take care of her, Boyd said.

You’ve got to feel sorry for her. Peter peered through the window of the now-shut door.

Why? She was sleeping with my husband. I hate her. The sound of the venom in my voice shocked me. And, judging by the intake of breath, it also shocked my two bodyguards. Without another word, they resumed their positions on the orange plastic chairs.

The wall clock ticked on.

This time the footsteps came from the emergency room side of the double doors. They were slow and measured and got louder. I couldn’t take my eyes off the doors. The steps came to a stop, but the door didn’t move. I could see a shape through the round porthole. It stayed still for a couple of heartbeats. For some reason I felt I had to stand up to meet whoever it was. Peter and Boyd also stood and flanked me. Mesmerized, I watched the doors swing slowly open.

Mrs. Tomei? The person in green scrubs looked at me. I nodded, unable to trust my voice. I’m so very sorry. There wasn’t anything we could do.

I didn’t hear the rest. All the pent-up anger I’d been hoarding for months evaporated. My legs trembled and turned rubbery. The room went into a kaleidoscope of green scrubs, gray walls, and orange chairs. I groped for a seat and collapsed onto it. Joe, the man I once loved, was gone. I couldn’t breathe. I heard sobs coming in big gulping gasps and realized they came from deep inside me. Tears poured down my cheeks and snot dripped off my nose. I searched futilely in my pocket for a tissue.

Boyd dug in his pocket and held out a rag. Here, use this. It’s sort of clean.

Ignoring the black stains and faint smell of engine oil, I thankfully blew my nose and scrubbed my eyes.

Would you like to see him? Green Scrubs’ voice penetrated my fog.

For a second I hesitated. Did I want to see the shell of my one-time lover, friend and husband? I felt the urge to preserve my memory of him as a vibrant person. I was afraid of dead bodies. I thought of my last vision of him on the gurney. That would remain with me always. Did I want a worse one? I opened my mouth to say No. There was a commotion by the door. I looked up to see the cops, sans Maria, filing in. Everyone’s eyes were upon me. I could sense them all—Peter, Boyd, the green scrubs person, and the blue uniforms—waiting for me to do something. Small-town New Jersey people took body-viewing very seriously, it indicated respect for the dead and the living. These rather cold and calculating thoughts calmed me. I had no choice. I nodded, then followed Green Scrubs through the swinging doors.

Inside, I saw everything in high definition and slow motion. Shining steel glinted in the harsh overhead light. The smell of antiseptic was overpowering. The soft murmurs and rustlings from three other Green Scrubs working around the periphery of the room stopped when I moved in on the stark white sheet-shrouded body in the center of the room.

Someone gently folded back the top of the shroud and I looked down into the face of my husband. It was surprisingly serene. As if he didn’t know what had happened. He looked like he was sleeping. I moved closer and gently smoothed back a lock of his hair. Oh Joe, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me for being mad at you. Then, damn it, the tears started again. A hand touched my elbow. I shrugged off whoever it was at my side and raised the dirty, oil-smeared rag to wipe away my tears. I didn’t want to have to say the final goodbye. Waves of exhaustion flooded my body, but I had to do it. Goodbye, Joe. I touched the white shroud about where his heart once beat, then brought my