"Heart of
Wings" Archives
Episode I (below)
Episode II (click)
Episode III (click)
Episode IV (click)
Episode V (click)
Episode VI (click)
Episode VII (click)
Episode VIII (click)
"Heart of Wings"
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode I
Welcome to a new Monterey Mystery, featuring Francie
LeVillard, the world’s greatest consulting detective. In "Heart
of Wings," life gets very personal with Francie; too personal.
But her mind stands up for her needs, and well, you’ll have to
read the story. Here is episode one of "Heart of Wings."
* * * * *
The last time Francie saw Harry was through half-closed eyes
as he slipped out of bed and got ready to fly back to Columbia,
a small town in the Sierra foothills where he was a flight
instructor. She just offered him an "mmm" when he stopped by the
edge of the bed and kissed her goodbye. She didn’t know it was
going to be forever.
Normally – well, normally as in three weeks – Harry would
call her before he took off from Monterey Regional Airport. But
because of weather – the insistant marine layer of fog sitting
on the floor at MRY when he was heading in to see her – he
landed at Salinas and rented a car for the drive to The
Peninsula.
With the drive, not a long one, but a different airport and
turning in the car, she wouldn’t start to notice the time until
two hours after he had left. After all, there might only be a
short window for take-off, and he might not call her until he
landed in Columbia after an hour flight. Being a former
broadcast journalist who’d worked in New York City and
Washington, D.C., she knew how to bank her worries, so she
wasn’t going to entertain even a hint of concern until noon.
They had stayed in bed late that morning.
As it happened, she didn’t have to wait that long. At
eleven-thirty she was finishing up some dishes in the sink when
through the kitchen window she saw a sight that slammed her in
the gut. A sheriff’s car pulled into her driveway. She was
drying her hands before Bogie Spivack climbed out of his car.
"How did she know?" the voice demanded painfully of her soul,
but she knew. She walked to the door and opened it and stared
into the sheriff’s eyes as he came slowly up the walkway.
"Oh, no," she wailed as he came to her. She crumpled into his
arms, he gently turned her and guided her back into the house,
then into the living room where he deposited her onto a couch,
sitting himself next to her, his hands on her shoulders.
Something inside her needed to know. "What happened? Was it
the plane?"
The sheriff had to parse the question, but then he shook his
head and waited for her to listen. Then he delivered the news.
"He was shot and killed. Instantly, Francie, he didn’t know what
hit him."
That so shocked her she sat up tall and just looked at him,
squinting at the absurdity of what she’d been told.
"Shot? No one would have wanted to kill Harry."
Bogie shook his head. "No, it was a mistake."
"A mistake," she said, anger creeping into her voice as she
looked for holes in this implausible story. "How do you shoot
someone by mistake?"
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "It was a gang
thing. Someone thought they were shooting someone else."
Suddenly the truth of it hit her as thought
she herself had been shot. "Oh, god," she cried futilely, and
then fell forward against her friend, sobbing. There was nothing
else he could do, and so he held her and let her cry. After a
bit, less than a minute, some voice inside her told her that
crying wasn’t accomplishing a damned thing and she needed
something more. She pulled myself upright and sniffed and found
a handkerchief in her jeans and made a vain attempt to clear her
sinuses.
"What happened, Bogie?"
And so he explained. "He had just pulled into a space in
front of the car return over at the airport. Someone pulled up
next to him and fired a shot through the window. Francie, he
didn’t see it."
"And? How do you know it was a mistake? Did you catch the
guy?"
Bogie nodded.
"You did?" she asked, surprised.
"He stepped on the gas without looking forward and someone
else had pulled into the lane in front of him. He wasn’t wearing
his seatbelt so the airbag knocked him for a loop. The airport
police got him."
"And he told you what?"
"When we asked him why he had killed Harry Connivor, he gave
us a blank look. I mean, for a moment he was going to be stoic,
but when he heard the name he asked ‘Who?’ That was a clue. He
was shocked and more disappointed that he missed his target,
some guy named Escovar who was also returning a car at the
airport, more upset that he had screwed up a hit."
"Did he say why he was trying to kill this Escovar?"
Bogie shook his head. "No, he had a flash and shut up. After
ten minutes he asked for a lawyer."
Francie tried to digest this but was having trouble. Her mind
was racing around like it was trying to get out of her head.
Suddenly a question presented itself. "How did you connect Harry
to me?" she asked, her voice softer and shaky.
He pulled an envelope out of his jacket pocket. "There was an
envelope on the seat next to him. It had your name and address
on it, and a stamp." He opened the envelope, took out a card,
and handed it to her.
She took it gingerly and smiled at the Disney-esque cartoon
drawing of a plane on the cover. She opened it and read in the
handwriting she’d only recently come to recognize, and love,
"Thank you for a marvelous two days, my dearest Francie. I’ll
try to keep my mind on my flying but you make it difficult. See
you next week. Love, Harry."
Tears flowed again, but no crying. She sniffed, closed the
card and held it to her chest. She looked at the envelope in
Bogie’s hand. He knew her question and simply shook his head.
She didn’t want to see it. She didn’t want to think about it.
She spoke to distract herself. "He must have bought it before he
left for the airport," she explained, mostly to herself.
Just a mistake, she repeated to herself. And the memory of an
episode of The West Wing came to mind. C.J. Cregg was
attending a Broadway performance of something grand with the
President, when her Secret Service boyfriend was gunned down at
a nearby deli. But he was just an actor and Harry was real. Only
three weeks, but he had been real and more real with every
visit, every email, every phone call. The first beau in her life
in three years; the first love since she could remember.
"Do you know where he was going, Francie?"
She was brought back. "He was flying to Columbia, you know,
up near Sonora?"
The sheriff nodded.
"He was a flight instructor. He was flying back to give a
lesson this afternoon." She had another thought I didn’t like.
"Oh, jeez, I guess I need to call them. To tell them he won’t be
coming back." She managed this time to hold back the tears. She
took a deep breath. "They’ll have to send someone down to pick
up the plane. It’s their plane, at the airport." She didn’t know
whether it was that she needed something to do to occupy her
mind, but she got up and walked to her office. She found Harry’s
business card in front of her monitor where it had kept her
company while he was away. She dialed the number on the card.
The phone answered on the first ring. It was Chet Garrow,
Harry’s boss, and friend. She recognized his voice from having
called Harry during the last few weeks. They’d gotten chummy on
the phone.
"Hey, Francie, where’s my boy? Can’t leave you, huh?"
She bit her lip. "Chet, Harry’s not coming back. He’s dead.
He was killed this morning in Salinas by some gang member who
shot the wrong person."
The silence at the other end was almost welcome. There was no
"You’re kidding!" or other such mindless nonsense that people
utter when they can’t take in news they never wanted to hear.
Finally he uttered an explicative that described her
feelings, but not far enough. "I’ll come down and get the plane
then, I guess." He was doing what she was doing, taking care of
business because there was nothing else to hold onto.
"Hold on a second," she told him and got set to yell out to
Bogie but her friend was standing in the doorway. "Do you have
his, his things?" she asked.
He nodded.
"Keys that would be for his plane?"
He nodded again.
"Chet, I can meet you at the plane with the keys. When do you
want to get it?"
"Today if I could. A front may be coming in tomorrow, and I
could get outta there, but I need to get in first."
"Sure," she said, though the word just sounded like okay.
"I’ll be there in about 75 minutes if that’s all right with
you."
She didn’t need to ask; someone would fly him down with him
so he could take Harry’s plane back himself.
"Yeah," she told him. "I’ll be there at two." She
disconnected the call. Suddenly she caught herself. "It’s okay,
isn’t it, Bogie?"
"No problem, Francie," he replied. "I’ll take you out there."
She shook my head. "You don’t have to, but thanks. I’ll need
my car afterward." Another thought. "Oh, criminy, I have my
class tonight. At six."
"You can cancel it. They would understand."
She shook her head, not sure the words were there, but then
they were. "I have to keep moving." She winced, and then asked
him, "You understand, don’t you?"
"Yeah, maybe, but cut yourself some slack. You’re not done
feeling this, you know?"
Her shoulders sagged, "I don’t think I’ve started yet."
* * * * *
Oof! you say. Yes. Life gets very personal sometimes, pushing
us to the brink. Francie bends but she doesn’t break. Find out
her next steps in Episode II of "Heart of Wings" coming to
MontereyMystery.com on November 1st.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Heart of Wings"
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode II
Welcome to the second episode of "Heart of Wings." In the
first episode, Francie learns the news of the tragic death of
her love. (You can read it in the archives.) Now it’s up to
Francie to take back control of events. It’s a process, as she
quickly discovers...here in Episode II.
* * * * *
By the time she arrived at the Salinas airport it was
one-forty-five. She had followed the sheriff over to his office
and retrieved the keys for the airplane. There were also some
personal effects, like Harry’s wallet and flight bag. They would
be more important in Columbia where he lived than down here. She
struggled with the notion that she was trying to shut him out of
her life, to prevent the pain, but she knew from past experience
that compartmentalizing went only so far. Even for a former
hardened news reporter, and now someone who dealt regularly with
criminals.
It was as she stood by Harry’s plane, waiting for Chet to
land, that she managed to release some of the constriction
around her heart. She rubbed her hand along one of the wing
struts and sent word down inside of her to her feelings that
they would not be neglected. They couldn’t be. It hadn’t even
been a month, but there hadn’t been a single bump in their road.
Nothing that would have signaled to either of them that this was
temporary. When you’re pushing forty, as she was, or a few years
more like Harry, you’re not interested in anything short term.
Those years are gone. What’s ahead is important, and not to be
wasted. It’s not a rehearsal; he had said to her one night.
It was when she brought out dessert for him, after preparing
a delicious dinner of Francie’s Chinese chicken, scallion in
mashed spuds, and fresh broccoli from a local farm. Dessert she
didn’t make. She set before him half of a macaroon cookie with a
dark chocolate base, and sitting atop a large scoop of raspberry
sorbet. It was the macaroon that made it, of course. She’d
stopped by Pavel’s Bakerei in Pacific Grove that morning, and
snagged the last one they had.
Her mind was flooded with images of them sitting together
before the fire, slowing savoring the melting desert. The
remnants of an Alaskan storm were pounding on the rocks below
the bluff at the far end of her back yard. The roar of the surf
and crackle of the fire, the soft smile of this wonderful man,
and thoughts of an endless future...were interrupted by the
sound of a small plane taxiing in my direction.
She reluctantly came out of her reverie and looked up to see
another Cessna Skyhawk with the same aqua and blue paint scheme
that she had told Harry just wasn’t his image. He had agreed,
though it wasn’t something that bothered him. The plane pulled
into a tie-down spot behind Harry’s plane, and the prop stopped
spinning. The door on each side opened a few moments later, with
a man getting out on one side and a woman on the other. He
looked just the way she had pictured Chet; maybe sixty,
wind-burned face, tight frame, Marine-short gray hair. The woman
was ten years younger but didn’t really look it. A lot of
coiffed blonde hair; the Dolly Parton look played well in the
more remote areas.
"Stay in the plane, Lorna," the man ordered. The woman
hesitated, giving Francie a long look before she relented and
climbed back into the cockpit, into the pilot’s seat. The man
walked toward Francie, mostly looking at the plane, but looking
her over, in much the same way. When he got close he said,
"You’re Francie. I would have known you from the way Harry
described you. I’m Chet. I’m sorry to meet this way. Life can be
a real bitch."
She knew neither of them wanted to prolong this and so
somehow managed to contain her tears, mostly. "Yeah, it can be."
She nodded toward the cabin of Harry’s plane. "I put his flight
bag inside. His wallet is in it. Here are the keys." She handed
them to him.
"Yeah," he said looking at them as though they might have
held answers to how he felt, but knew they didn’t. "I was saying
up at the office that we’d probably have some kind of service or
whatever. Harry had a whole bunch of friends up there."
"Yeah, he told me. Good people, he said."
Chet gave her a long look.
"He mentioned you a lot, Chet. He said you were not only a
good pilot but a good friend." She looked down and then back up
at him. "I’m sorry for you, too."
"Yeah, well," and he let out a deep breath. "Anyway, probably
next Saturday. If you could come up, that would be okay, if you
wanted, but if you didn’t, you know, we’d understand."
She smiled at him, surprised at how easily it came, and said,
"I’d like that. Thank you."
"Need a ride? I can arrange that."
"Let me check. I’ve got a pilot friend. He and his lady met
Harry down here. They liked him, too. I’ll ask if they want to
go and let you know."
There was nothing left to be said, and time to go before more
words would lead to real tears. They looked at each other.
Chet’s eyes were glistening. Francie’s hadn’t stopped. He
reached over and brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers.
Then he nodded and they turned at the same time; he to the
cockpit, she to the parking lot. She didn’t wait to see him take
off. She knew he had to first pre-flight the plane, and the last
three times she’d watched the pilot doing that, it was Harry
Connivor. She didn’t need to think about the fact that she would
never see him doing that again.
Francie drove away without looking back. She didn’t want to
go back to the house. She told herself it was because traffic
would be building, and also she wasn’t sure that if she went
home she’d want to leave. Instead she headed toward Pacific
Grove. She realized that she hadn’t eaten in hours and wouldn’t
for hours more, so she rode up Prescott to Compagno's where they
make probably the best deli sandwiches on The Peninsula. She
ordered a roast beef with everything on it on rye to go along
with a Dr. Brown’s cream – her New York days comfort food – and
drove back down to The Bay, circling around Ocean View
Boulevard, past Lovers’ Point, out toward the Pacific Grove
Municipal Golf Links to a turn-out on the other side of the road
from Crespi Pond.
She parked pointing toward the western horizon, and opened up
her sandwich and soda. Suddenly she was ravenous and she lit
into the sandwich. When she had finished one half, she
re-wrapped the other for later. She realized that she wanted to
think about Harry, something that she had deliberately avoided,
planning to wait until she got home, after her class. But she
could tap into her feelings a little. Like cracking open a valve
to relieve some pressure.
Again she thought about how she had met him only three weeks
ago. It was just after noon on a Friday, and she was at Monterey
Bay Aviation where she had just come back from a short flight up
the coast with some friends. There was this fellow, kinda good
looking but not pushy, and he was looking at her. She smiled at
him when their eyes met and then she looked away. Out of the
corner of her eye she saw him still watching her, and then saw
that he was walking over to her. He stopped an approach distance
away and said to her, earnestly but with warmth, "May I take you
to lunch?" He asked with the most open expression she could
remember ever having seen on a man. She didn’t even have to
think. "What kind of food?" she replied.
That was the beginning. They ate, they talked, they walked on
the beach. They went to bed together more naturally, with less
doubt than she had known. When he left on Monday morning, she
knew what they were doing was more than special. Most pleasing
was all the delight she felt. It wasn’t that head-over-heels
thing which was more about excitement than substance. She didn’t
think of him constantly, didn’t have a need to call him
incessantly, and she knew he was coming back, and that put a
smile on her face.
The next weekend and the next, and then this weekend. The
conversations were long and deep, about him and about her; ideas
without judgments. No feeling of possession, but instead
companionship, affection, trust. They didn’t talk about the fact
that they were living an hour apart by air, that they were
together three days and nights, out of seven. It all felt
comfortable and on track. Until this morning when he didn’t
call, and somehow she knew; before she saw the sheriff’s car,
she knew. As she sat staring out past the horizon, she knew that
she never wanted to know that feeling again.
Checking the time, Francie saw that she had an hour to get to
her class. She thought briefly about canceling it – she could
leave a note on the door – but decided that she didn’t want to
be alone. She still had time before she had to leave, and sat
quietly, trying to clear her mind. She had never been successful
when over the years she had tried to meditate. Always some great
thought would come to mind and she wouldn’t push it away.
This time they weren’t great thoughts. They might have
started off fine, but they ended in this meaningless death.
Finally she gave up the ghost – she chuckled sardonically at her
own mind – and she drove to the Monterey Institute of
International Studies, and being that her class was held in the
evening, found plenty of parking spaces on the street. She
walked through the door at five minutes to six. Francie was
always prompt, an innate trait from early childhood, honed by
ten years in broadcasting.
Typically, MIIS students straggle in to evening classes, but
not hers. They learned the first day about deadlines, and about
the meaning of respect. Rarely was one of her students arriving
later than a few minutes after the hour. This night, everyone
was seated when she arrived. She put her papers on the desk and
looked out at their faces, each one of them sharing her pain. It
was a small community. Word traveled quickly.
She scanned the room slowly, for maybe thirty seconds, and
then she looked down for a moment to regain herself. Then she
looked up again at her students and said, "You know what
happened. I thought that coming to class with all your healthy,
noble energy would be a cathartic process for me, but I don’t
think it will work. I don’t think I can give you all of the
attention you deserve. So please excuse me tonight. I’ll make it
up to you."
There was a buzz in the classroom as the students didn’t know
what to do. She could hear the depth of their own emotions. Two
of them, a man and woman who were colleagues in Johannesburg,
South Africa , walked up to her desk and invited her to join
them for a glass of wine or dinner at Café Fina. Francie didn’t
remember at the time, but she had introduced them to the
restaurant on Fisherman’s Wharf, a three blocks walk from the
classroom, at the beginning of the term.
Her first inclination was to beg off, but in the moment’s
hesitation before she answered, she changed my mind and nodded
her assent. She wasn’t ready to go home, not yet, to the dishes
unfinished in the sink when she headed to Salinas, only hours
ago; and to the bed she wouldn’t share with Harry any more. In
that moment, she realized that she wasn’t quite ready to
confront her heart; that she needed the distraction that these
two good people would provide.
When they arrived at the restaurant, the owner and chef,
Dominic Mercurio, was at the door. A dear man, he saw her coming
and walked out to meet her. He put his arms around her and
squeezed her. He didn’t say anything. There was nothing to say.
He didn’t let go until she said in his ear, "Thank you, my
friend. It was just what I needed. Thank you." She sniffed as he
let her go.
Francie turned to introduce her two students and that was
when she saw the other ten students from her class standing with
them. Her eyes couldn’t hold back the tears. She turned away,
back to Dominic who took her into his arms again. He spoke over
her shoulder to, Roxanne, his major domo, and told her to take
them all upstairs. Francie heard them go inside as she began to
collect herself. She pulled her head away from Dom’s shoulder
and started to apologize.
"Sha, sha, sha, sha, sha," he told her soothingly as he
stroke her head. "No one is in a hurry. You’re all right,
Francie. You’re all right."
"Yeah, I know," she said. "I just haven’t had time by myself
to process this. Those people are my journalism students at the
Monterey Institute. I thought it would be good for me to stay
distracted for a few more hours." She sniffed some more, digging
out her handkerchief to dry up the tears. "That’s why I came
down here with two of them, to try to stay out of my heart a
little while longer." She blew her nose. "Those other ten kids,
they followed us."
"You don’t have to go in, you know," Dominic said sternly.
"They would understand."
"Yes, they would," she agreed, touching his furrowed brow
with her fingertips, "but I’m not ready to be alone yet." She
looked at him, "You understand, don’t you?"
"Yeah, I understand," he said, taking her arm and leading her
into the restaurant. "Only you make sure that you take very good
care of yourself and call me for anything you need. If you need
a ride home, or anything. You will do that, yes?"
She flopped her head sideways onto his shoulder and they went
into the restaurant. They walked up the stairs to find three
tables pushed together, and her students standing, waiting for
her.
"You’re all set," Dominic told them, to a chorus of "thank
you’s" from her students.
* * * * *
As strong as Francie is, no one goes through what she did
purely by dint of will. That’s how life works. Time is an
essential factor. See how the therapy begins upstairs at Café
Fina in the next episode of "Heart of Wings" on November 15th,
right here at MontereyMystery.com.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Heart of Wings"
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode III
Here comes Episode III of "Heart of Wings." This Monterey
Mystery features Francie LeVillard, the world’s finest
consulting detective. If you haven’t read the first two
installments, please catch up at the archives. Now in the third
episode, Francie begins to get her feet back on the ground.
* * * * *
It’s interesting how the human mind works. Francie had so
much on her mind and she didn’t want to consider any of it. She
knew it would be a challenge staying present with these young
people, but she also knew it was something she had to do, not
only for them but for herself. It was an exercise, not really
new after a decade of covering the news, to be able to switch
away from thoughts she didn’t want to consider, and to do so as
quickly as they presented themselves to her conscious mind.
Thank goodness she had such a fine group of students to capture
her attention. A practical idea quickly presented itself to her
and she followed it to direct the course of the discussion.
"I appreciate you being here with me tonight, under the
circumstances, and I want to make what happened today work for
all of us. The issue that I would like to start with is about
how a journalist keeps herself from getting too close to a
story, and when you should withdraw." She took a breath that no
one could see. "For instance, there is no way if I were a
reporter I could have covered what happened today. Not only for
myself, but it wouldn’t be right for the station. It would raise
too many questions, even if I could be objective.
"That’s a blatant case, but I’d like to hear from you about
what restrictions you would place on yourself as far as removing
yourself from a story," she told them, "What are the rules of
separation for the facts and people of a story?"
That launched a spirited discussion, mostly among the
students, that continued for most of an hour. It was quite a
raucous, though contained free-for-all, interspersed with the
ordering of food and drinks, their arrival, and consumption.
Francie herself stuck with ginger ale.
Later she asked, "How much disclosure is required by a
reporter, or a news outlet regarding any connection between the
journalist and the story she is covering?" Some of the students
offered hard and fast rules, and others tossed out anecdotal
situations that challenged those rules.
Then they started into a lengthy discussion about the
profession of journalism, the different countries from which
they came, and how perceptions in their home cultures might
flavor their decisions. The opinions were as varied as their
choices of food and drink, and it was a delight for Francie to
hear their minds working so purposefully. Indeed, the events of
the day were gone, at least for the moment.
The next subject she raised with them was about the role of a
reporter in a story. "For instance," she told them, "it drives
me nuts when a reporter says something like ‘The fire chief told
me such and such,’ especially when the chief was speaking at a
press conference, to a bunch of reporters. But even when it’s a
one-on-one, to say he told me interrupts the flow of the news
report. The viewer now has to take the reporter into account."
That got them talking again. One student said that in his
internship at a station in Atlanta, the news director made it a
point of having her reporters all insert themselves in their
stories as much as possible, both in their copy and with as many
on-camera appearances as they could make without being obvious.
She said it was the best marketing the station could do; that it
created more of a human relationship with the reporters, that
the viewers would see them as friends.
"Did that make sense to you?" she asked.
The student thought for a moment and then said, "I understood
what she was saying, but I don’t think it’s the job of a
reporter to be friends with the audience."
Another student chimed in, "Any more than a doctor or an
airline pilot or a cop should be your friend, right?" The
question was directed to the teacher.
"That would be my take on it," Francie replied. She chuckled
and told them the classic story of WCBS reporter Frank Gardner
who had been exiled to the very early morning shift because he
refused to make a TV personality out of himself that way. "This
was particularly significant because he was one of the finest
journalists in New York. And this came through most vividly
early one morning when the aerialist Philippe Petit walked
across a wire between the two towers of the World Trade Center.
"It was a huge story at the time, perhaps especially because
it came the morning before Richard Nixon resigned the
presidency, and the nation was exhausted and tense. Here was
this man walking 400 feet between the two buildings, a
quarter-mile in the air. It was an heroic event and exciting,
and provided enormous relief, both for New Yorkers and the rest
of the nation. And the point of all this was that Gardner played
the story straight, like the great journalist he was, not
shoving himself into the coverage."
She beamed at the students her pride in her profession and
then added, "You can make a name for yourself in many ways, but
for my money, it’s the journalism that counts. Make sure when
you are looking for your first job, and later when you are
changing jobs, that you know the environment you are getting
into, and what will be asked of you. This is not to say that you
won’t likely have to compromise, especially at the beginning,
but at least, if there is one piece of advice you take from this
course, it is that you know what you are doing." She paused for
a moment. "You can alter your presentation, but never mess with
the truth. You jeopardize not only your own reputation, but the
very essence of journalism."
She told them an old story about a research project looking
at famous people who used the word "I" most often. Richard Nixon
came out on top, and Eleanor Roosevelt was last; most humble.
But the researchers had to revise their observations when it was
noted that whenever Charles De Gaulle spoke of France, he was
actually referring to himself. There was some tittering but few
got the import until she explained the characters behind the
names, from an earlier generation. Then the oh’s and laugher
ensued.
It was at that point, she was told later, that a colleague
from MIIS came to the top of the stairs, took in the sight of
the class and Francie, sitting at tables filled with wine and
beer, and then he left. If she had seen Reg Perquat, Francie
would have invited him over. Not because she liked him, she
didn’t, but because she thought he might have given a different
perspective to the students. Perquat had been an assistant
newspaper editor of a newspaper in Natchez, Mississippi for some
twenty years before going into teaching. She never understood
how he had landed a job at MIIS ten years earlier, but when she
was invited to teach there, she subsequently was told, he
opposed her appointment, even for a three-year adjunct position.
It was never clear to her if he just disliked all broadcast
journalists or just women or just her, but he had been
over-ruled by the two other members of the department, and
sadly, he had never accepted the decision. There is a reason to
reporting this, which will become clear later.
The evening went by quickly, and after the class dissolved,
Francie thanked Dominic heartily and headed south to her home.
She realized how much better she felt than three hours earlier.
She saw that she was processing the day’s events in the
background, like the back-up program on her computer did its
business transparently while she was working in her word
processor or doing something on the Internet.
Delicately she tamped down into her feelings, the way she
would test a muscle after a sharp pull. Most of the heavy-duty
pain was gone. The chaotic outrage was transforming into sorrow.
A nasty voice in the back of her mind wondered how much she
could have cared for Harry if she weren’t in such pain. That
voice has been with her since she could remember, bringing her
down and pulling her under, though in her later years she was
able to slap at that voice, and suffer a smaller wound. She
would still strangle that voice if she could. She had never
understood its purpose.
The night sky was a patchwork of clouds and darkness
cluttered with stars. Being five miles south of real
civilization, the ambient light level was lower and the privacy
greater. As she drove past the Carmel Highlands, she left the
clouds behind and there was the whole enormous sky with its
billion billion stars, and here was she, unknown to all of them
and yet living a vital life of joy and sadness. It was her task,
as an earnest, conscious human being, to celebrate this
existence as much as she could, taking respectful note of its
tragedies.
Francie eased her car into the garage, closed the door, and
walked inside the house. Somehow she expected it to be
different, but was glad it hadn’t changed. For several long
minutes, she stood quietly in the darkness, hearing the
assuaging surf against the rocks, listening for other sounds and
thoughts. It would be absurd to do the dishes – ye gods, how
compulsive could she be! – and just go to bed. She laughed
aloud. Then she hung up her jacket, rolled up her sleeves, and
washed and dried the two dishes, a mug and a glass that she’d
left in the sink less than six hours – but a lifetime – ago.
Then she poured herself a generous amount of Sambuca into her
favorite snifter, added a couple of ice cubes and three coffee
beans, and headed to her office. There was no one she wanted to
hear from – especially she didn’t want to get condolence notices
– but there were people who might need to contact her, and there
wasn’t a good reason not to at least know what they wanted.
Before she checked the email and voicemail, she went into her
bedroom, turned a light by the bed on low, and started a CD of
Saint Saëns piano works. Then, drink in hand, she went to her
desk. There were many emails, some from reporters asking to
speak with her, others from friends. She would deal with those
another day. There was also a note from Chet saying they would
have a service on Saturday, and he hoped she could make it since
there were a lot of people in the Columbia flying crowd who had
heard about her. He added that there were offers to fly her up
and back, if she couldn’t find a ride.
There was another email from her dear friend, Ariane
Chevasse, a business associate of sorts, and fellow aikidoist.
Ariane wondered if she might need the a ride somewhere. She and
her fellah, Geoffrey Lucerne, had met Harry, with the guys
talking aviation stuff while the girls chatted about their guys.
They were both very fine people, and clearly intuitive. She
wouldn’t have imposed on them, but she knew, too, that they
would be good support. As she processed that thought, she
realized that she wouldn’t need their support, but she would
certainly value it. She hit reply and told Ariane of the
details, and how grateful she was for the offer. She also told
her of the offers from Columbia if they were otherwise engaged.
"Cherie," Ariane responded later that night though Francie
didn’t see her message until morning, "we will pick you up at
your house at 8:30 and be in Columbia by 10:30, Geoffrey, my
wonderful aviateur tells me. Our hearts are with you.
Love, A."
She chuckled as she read it. It was funny, in that not funny
way, that she was so emotional about the side-stories...her
students, Dominic, and Ariane. She thought, that is what is so
rich about life – a well-lived life – that we have people who
are so important to us, to our well-being.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * *
And so...deep breath. Francie is more than surviving. And in
the next episode of "Heart of Wings," she put’s on her
proverbial deerstalker and plots to parse the killing. Check out
Episode IV right here, on MontereyMystery.com, on December 1st.
"Heart of Wings"
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode IV
You are about to begin Episode IV of "Heart of Wings," the
Monterey Mystery starring Francie LeVillard, the world famous
consulting detective. To get caught up on what’s happened, you
need to go to the archives. Otherwise, dive in...
* * * * *
But she was getting ahead of herself because that night,
checking to see that no burners were left on the information
fires, at least none that needed immediate attending, she turned
everything off and carried her one-sipped Sambuca to her bedroom
where she put it on the bedside table. She took a largish
swallow, almost emptying the glass, and followed its trail down
as it warmed her insides. They she went to the bathroom and
washed up. She was surprised to see that she didn’t look
terrible, except that she didn’t feel terrible.
A few minutes later she slipped into bed. She reached up to
turn out the light, said no thank you to the last sip of Sambuca,
and switched the room into darkness. At least for a while. Soon
her eyes became accustomed to the lack of artificial light, and
fed instead on the bright stars shining through the french doors
to the west and the skylight above. She noted that this vista,
which she saw every night in some incarnation or another –
depending on the fog – seemed particularly vibrant this night.
She eased herself up into a sitting position and a few
moments later, started a silent paean to Harry. She told him she
was sorry for what happened to him, especially for him and for
her, and also for everyone who knew him. That she knew he was in
a better place did little to mitigate her sense of loss. She
told him that he had brought light and love into her life,
filling a once-deep hole that would never be empty again,
because he would be in her heart.
"Good night, dear Harry, my love," she said aloud. Then she
sat still for several minutes until she realized that she had
closed her eyes and fallen asleep, sitting up. She slipped back
down under the covers and was asleep in a trice.
She didn’t wake up until seven, almost nine hours of sleep –
quiet extraordinary for her – and she felt delicious. She had
risen up from a dream that was still almost as vivid as being
awake. She grabbed the ubiquitous pad and pen from the table and
wrote as quickly as she could the details of the dream.
What she remembered was being in a heaven-like place; at
least from what we’ve been shown in the movies with people
walking around amidst a lot of low clouds. She was sitting in a
teaching theater that was empty of students. She was sitting on
a stool by the professor’s desk. He was standing at the
blackboard explaining to the empty room, but looking over at her
every so often, and explaining how life and dreams were
connected.
The professor looked a lot like a Merlin character, with long
purple robes garnished with gold on the cuffs and collars and
sporting a tall pointy hat of shiny purple with scattered gold
stars.
"Where’s Harry?" she asked the professor.
"He’s giving a flying lesson, of course."
That seemed to satisfy Francie, and he went on explaining
about life and dreams. Apparently there wasn’t anything called
death. She thought it made sense. At least she did in the dream.
The rest of the dream faded away. She put down the pad,
sighed a deep sigh, and got out of bed to begin her morning. Tea
and a bagel with honey, some time on the computer. She was ready
to address the world.
One of the first calls she made was to Bogie Telford. He took
her call almost immediately.
"Hi, Francie, how are you this morning?"
"A lot better, thank you, Bogie."
"Good, good," he replied, relief loud in his voice, not just
from her words but from her tone. "What can I do for you?"
"Have you gotten the perp to tell you who ordered the hit?"
she wasn’t up to using words like murder and killing, not just
yet.
The sheriff sighed, "No, not yet. We’re gonna put him in for
a 36-hour psych exam, see if that loosens anything up."
"Thirty-six? I thought they were 72."
"They were. New budget. Docs say they can’t do the job in
that time, but law enforcement is pretty sure we’ll know
basically what we’re dealing with in a day’n a half. Like
whether they are suicidal or not, able to stand trial, that
sorta thing."
"Ahso," she responded. "So you’ll have him back in your
custody by Thursday, yes?"
The sheriff hesitated slightly, "Yes..."
"Good," she told him. "I’ll call you Thursday."
"What’s this all about, Francie?" he asked, and he could
push, despite the circumstances, because they were both friends
and colleagues.
"I think we should discuss it on Thursday, because if the
shrinks find out what you need to know, it won’t be relevant."
"Uh-huh," he replied, but that wasn’t what he meant. It meant
he knew from her voice that her decision was intractable. His
tone softened. "You let me know whatever you need, France,
okay?"
"I’ll hold you to that, Bogie. Thanks."
She spent the next couple of hours answering emails and phone
messages. It was another one of the funny-not-really situations
where the conversations did more to soothe the people offering
condolences than Francie herself. In fact the burden was always
on her. But that’s the way people deal with death, at least in
our culture. She don’t know how we might do it better, except
maybe to start by understanding what happened. Maybe Professor
Merlin would fill her in about that in another night of dreams.
She decided she needed a break from all the human comforting
and thought she’d like to be with some redwoods. She didn’t know
if it was their delicious smell or their longevity that offered
what she was needing, but it didn’t matter. She threw on some
jeans, a flannel shirt and a big sweater on top and drove down
to the Big Sur Lodge. This was off-season, and there were only a
few cars in the parking lot; probably employees. She walked off
into the trees, all her senses alive, breathing deeply, feeling
a part of these magnificent living towers.
After maybe an hour of stumbling around, looking up high for
the sky, breathing deeply, her body told her to sit down, and
she did, her back against one of the trees. She must have fallen
asleep because when she opened her eyes, the direction of the
light had changed. She checked her watch and it told her she’d
been gone for over 90 minutes, though she confessed to herself
that she wasn’t paying close attention to such details. But
thoroughly refreshed, and feeling very peaceful, she roused
herself, returned to her car, and drove up the hill to Ventana.
It’s high-class inn and spa, and their restaurant has
sprawling patios that sit 1,000 feet above the Pacific and
offer, as you might imagine, a spectacular view of the hills
reaching to the sky and of the ocean far below. It’s a place
Francie took out-of-town guests when the weather was right, and
today the sky was mostly blue with a few small cumulus clouds
scattered about. A light breeze blew up from the south, partly
overland, so it was warm.
She ordered a salad and a glass of Chardonnay, and sat back,
looking out over the water. It was, of course, the same Pacific
Ocean she had at the end of her backyard, but it was also
different. The altitude, yes, and the texture of the water;
smooth closer to shore, and ruffled further out. She thought
about the quality of aesthetics that were unique to our species,
and pondered why we saw beauty, in nature and in the works of
man. She wondered if everyone could see beauty, and if people
who didn’t could be taught to. Perhaps, she thought, aesthetics
were the gateway to higher consciousness.
An hour later, as she drove back up the coast, she also
wondered at her experience of the day. How the tragedy of
yesterday had led to the stellar experience of today? Could
today be replicated? Could one choose to live this way for a
lifetime? She chuckled as the expression "earn a living" crossed
through her thoughts. At some point, she decided we would
graduate to a world where that concept would be turned on its
Calvinist head.
But it wasn’t going to happen this afternoon, she knew, and
that awareness was driven home by the emails and phone messages
waiting for her when she arrived at her house. The important
communications were a call from Dominic asking her to call and
tell him that she was all right, and a glorious electronic card
from her students, expressing their great pleasure with our
"class;" they said that they had learned as much the night
before as they had at any session – with any teacher – in a
classroom. And they wished her well.
The sheriff sent her an email saying that Hector Alverez, the
young man they were charging with Harry’s killing – there, she
could say it now – was going to be back in the county lock-up on
Thursday morning and arraigned later that day. He would have
liked to ask her what she was referring to in her phone call to
him that morning, but he knew she would only frustrate him by
making him wait. She had her reason; he knew that, too.
The next day, Wednesday, she spent working....
Thursday was the big day. She called Mona Bothcart, the
sheriff’s secretary-cum-brilliant aide and learned that Hector
Alvarez was back from his psych exam and that he was expected to
be arraigned within the hour. And the sheriff, she said, was on
a phone call while in a meeting. Francie told her that she
needed to talk to him when he was off his phone call and out of
his meeting, noting that he was expecting her to call. Mona knew
of their relationship and so promised that it would happen.
He called back a half-hour later. "Hi, Francie, I’ve been on
pins and needles since you called on Tuesday. But first, tell me
how you are doing?"
"I’m doing fine thank you, Bogie. Actually, surprisingly so.
I walked in the redwoods down at Big Sur yesterday, and that
cleared out a lot of stuff."
"Yeah, I can hear it in your voice. You are a remarkable
woman, Francie. You ought to give a seminar for people who hang
on to their pain longer than they need to."
"Why, Sheriff, that’s an interesting idea. Maybe I’ll write
something about it, especially if it would help other people
suffering a loss."
"Some people, no doubt it would. Those who are ready not to
be in pain. Send me what you write, would you?"
"Of course, I will," she promised, "And in the meantime...."
"Yes, what do you need?"
"You didn’t find out who sent Alverez out, did you?"
"No, he only opens his mouth to eat."
"Has he had any visitors?"
"No, his mother and little sister came to see him this
morning, but he said he didn’t want to talk to them."
"Yes, that makes sense. From what I read about him in the
Herald article this morning."
"And so...?"
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * **
And so indeed. How can we leave it hanging there? Because
this is a serial and it’s supposed to leave you wanting more. In
this case, if you aren’t you should be, ‘cause it’s gonna get
really exciting in the next installment. Be sure to check back
in on December 15th for Episode V of "Heart of
Wings."
"Heart of Wings"
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode V
Welcome to Episode V of "Heart of Wings," the scintillating
Monterey Mystery featuring Francie LeVillard, the world’s
greatest consulting detective. For the previous four
installments, please check out the archives. The sheriff has
asked Francie what it was she wanted...And now, on with the
show.
* * * * *
So Francie told him she wanted to meet with Alverez. After
the sheriff sort of exploded, and said absolutely not, Francie
asked him if he were in her position and someone had shot Mary
Lee, his wife, would he expect her to get in the way of his
resolving the case. He might have expected that but from the
long silence on the other end, he hadn’t, and it took him some
time to process it.
When he grunted to signify that he had gotten her point, she
said she needed only five minutes, that he could be in the room
with her, or he could station a deputy who didn’t speak Spanish
in the room. Of course Bogie wanted to know what that was about,
and she said because she would speak to Alvarez in Spanish and
she didn’t want anyone else to hear what she had to say.
"But you’d trust me?"
"I’d always trust you, Bogie."
"This is so irregular, I don’t know if I could keep it under
the radar."
"Does he have a lawyer?"
"The public defender’s office is supposed to send someone
over for the arraignment, but they’re squeezed. Whoever breaks
away for the hearing won’t be his attorney since the DA is going
to make this a capital case."
"Death penalty?"
"No, but life without parole."
"Jeez, for an eighteen-year-old? And didn’t you tell me
didn’t have a record?"
"No priors. He was trying to start something."
"So why is the DA going for LWOP?"
"Whose side are you on, Francie? I know you don’t believe in
the death penalty, but considering what happened, I thought
you’d be willing to make an exception."
"Bogie, my main argument against the death penalty is that if
you put a killer to death, not only does it scar the conscience
of the state, but it ends the suffering of the killer." She let
that sit for a moment and then said, "And the way the death
penalty is administered in this state, he would just become a
martyr figure for a couple of decades. Even though he shot the
wrong person." At that her voice cracked, and Bogie waited to
speak again. When he did speak, his voice was less
conversational and more personal.
"All right, I’ll give you your five minutes, Francie, but I
want to be clear about one thing."
"Yes?"
"This isn’t personal, is it? This is about finding out who
ordered the hit?"
"That’s right."
She heard Bogie sigh deeply. "Okay, come directly to my
office. Be there at ten to twelve. I’ll tell Mona to be
expecting you."
"Thanks, Bogie. You won’t regret it."
"No, I know. Will you be carrying?"
"I’ll leave it in your office."
"You bet you will."
* * * * *
Francie was sitting in his office at 11:50 as promised.
Mmoents earlier, walking down the hall, she saw a reporter from one of the local
television stations. The reporter recognized her, and Francie
saw plainly the conflict in the woman’s face between wanting to
give Francie her privacy and wanting to pursue the story. Before
the reporter could say anything, Francie held up her hand to
stop her, and then proceeded to the sheriff’s office.
Bogie was out when she arrived but he returned just a few
minutes later. She stood when he walked in the door and handed him her S&W
with the slide open together with the magazine. He took them and put them
on his desk. Then he put his arms around her and gave her a long
hug.
"I don’t know if you needed that more than I did," he said as
he let her go. Then he circled his desk, unlocked a drawer, put
her gun and clip in it, and re-locked the drawer.
"Anything else I should know before we go in there?"
"No, Bogie. It will be short," she said, "not sweet, but
painless."
Bogie shrugged his shoulders and gestured toward the door in
a back corner of his office. As she approached it he opened it
for her and they headed down an empty corridor. They came to a
metal door with a small window in it. Bogie looked through it.
Then he held up his hand for her to stay put and he went inside.
She heard voices and then another door opening and closing.
Bogie came out and signaled for her to join him. She took a deep
breath and followed.
Hector Alverez – she recognized him from his perp walk photo
in the paper – was a frail young man who was wearing a faux
macho expression on his face as he slouched in a chair on the
other side of a small table. Her first thought was that Bogie
wouldn’t have needed to protect her from him, even if it wasn’t
personal. Never taking her eyes off his eyes, she sat down in
the chair opposite him, folding her hands on the table in front
of her.
"Here’s the story," she began. "You killed someone who was
very important to me, and I know that doesn’t mean anything to
you. Unless maybe you’re curious why I am here."
He didn’t say anything but she noticed the smirk he was
trying to keep on his face was twitching slightly. She looked
hard at him, a slight smile on her lips. "You’re strong, aren’t
you? At least that’s what you’d like me to think. But I know
that you’re just a kid, a punk, who is going away to prison for
the rest of your life." His eyes flickered slightly.
"I’m here because I can see to it that you life will be long,
or really short."
The flickering and twitching ratcheted up a notch.
"Here’s the deal. I’m going to walk out of this room in just
a couple of minutes. There are some reporters outside. They know
me. And if I’m looking smart and confident, they’re going to
know that you told me who ordered this killing. And you know
what, you won’t be alive for breakfast tomorrow."
She heard Bogie, who was standing against the wall, shift his
weight. Fear showed in the eyes of the killer in front of her.
"The other choice is for me to look sad and angry, in which
case the press will think that I didn’t learn anything and I’m
still looking. If that happens, well, the chances of you being
alive tomorrow will go up significantly. You may even be around
to serve out your term. Do you understand what I’m saying?"
Alverez shot a look at the sheriff who was wearing a poker
face with hard eyes. Then he looked back at Francie. He replied
in Spanish. "Lady, I’m sorry about your friend, but I can’t tell
you. They would kill me."
She replied in Spanish, clearly surprising him. Her tone was
caustic. "Are you just stupid? Did you not hear what I said? In
a way it doesn’t matter what you tell me. All that matters is
how I go out of here and what face I show the press. If I show
cocky, you’re dead."
He got it. He’d gotten it the first time but was stalling,
looking for an out.
"I decide if you see tomorrow. Get it?" she sharpened the
edge in her voice. "I’m not going to waste my time or your last"
– she looked at her watch – "maybe twelve hours. The deal is
simple. You tell me who gave you the contract." She waited a
moment. "You’ve got thirty seconds, and then you can start
saying your goodbyes to your mother and your sister."
He took a deep breath. She thought he would hyper-ventilate.
She waited ten seconds and then looked at her watch again. He
unfolded his arms and put his hands palm down on the table.
"Okay, okay, I’ll tell you. It was Marcello Espinosa."
She looked at Bogie. The sheriff said nonchalantly, "He’s
small time."
"That doesn’t work," Francie told Alverez with eyes so cold
they made the young man shiver. "I want the person who gave the
orders to Espinosa."
"Come on, lady, I can’t, I can’t. I’ll be a dead man."
She slowly pushed her chair back and stood up. She looked
down at him and gave him a cocky sort of look. "You are a dead
man," she said evenly, and turned around to go out.
"Wait!" he said, the word getting stuck in his throat. "Don’t
go, please." As she told Bogie later, she’d never heard such a
voice before, but neither had she heard anyone plead for his
life before. She turned around but just stood there looking at
him. He swallowed hard and looked down at his hands. Then he
spoke. Just two words. A name. [NB: I won’t repeat it here because
you don’t want to know it.] But looking at Bogie’s face she could
tell that he knew the name, well.
She looked back at the kid, for that’s all he was, and after
a short while he raised his head and looked at her. When their
eyes met, she told him, "I hope you never feel the pain you
caused." Without waiting for a reaction, she turned and walked
to the door. Bogie opened it for her. "Stay here," he said to
her in the hallway and he went back inside. She heard him open
the other door and deliver the young killer into the hands of
his deputy. Then he returned to join her in the hallway. They
walked back to his office in silence.
Still not saying anything, he unlocked the back door to his
office, stood back to let her go first, and then followed her
in. She walked to the other side of the desk and stood. He
unlocked the drawer of his desk, removed her gun and magazine
and handed them to her. She inserted the clip, pulled back the
slide to chamber a cartridge, flipped on the safety, and slid it
into the holster on the back of her belt. There was a time when
she wouldn’t have had it ready to fire like that, but this
wasn’t that time.
She looked up at Bogie. "Thanks," was all she could think to
say.
"I wish I had ten of you, Francie," the sheriff effused.
"That was incredible. And it worked."
"Yeah," she replied. "I hope it does some good."
Francie left his office through the front door, giving Mona
Bothcart a smile of appreciation as she left. "Good luck to you,
Francie," she said.
Francie walked down the hall and out of the building where,
to no great surprise, she discovered the television reporter,
her cameraman, and two print reporters standing outside,
obviously waiting for her. She didn’t smile at their
perspicacity. She didn’t feel like smiling at all.
"Francie, how’re you doin’?" asked the TV reporter as the
camera rolled and the three reporters held mini-recorders in her
direction. They knew each other but they weren’t friends. She
unloaded on them, not in the sound of her voice, but in her
meaning.
"How am I doin’? You can't imagine. Someone you care about is
the victim of some stupid mistake. Some kid wants to get into a
gang, so he kills someone, and he doesn’t even kill the right
guy. What does that say about our society? That it’s not an
isolated incident but what we are used to." She stood there
shaking her heading, clearing away the emotional charge that had
been built up inside.
"You people in the media, it’s not enough to report on the
killings. You have to get to the heart of the problem. The
failed parents, the incompetent politicians. Talk to those who
are responsible and put their futures at stake. Otherwise, it
will just get worse, and someday, you’ll be standing where I am,
wondering why you didn’t do more to end this insanity when you
had the chance."
As she drove back to the coast and then south, she thought
about what she had said to them. It was righteous anger,
justifiably based, but she doubted if they heard anything but
the anger. It was a lousy job they had, working in this small
market, running around a huge area, trying to cover more stories
than was reasonable. She didn’t imagine that they aspired to go
to a bigger market, like Fresno, with hopes of making it to the
network. It was probably just a job for them, like sales, or
working for the county.
That was the direction the industry had been headed for a
long time, with the calling of journalism being lost among the
blow-dried egos, and the need to put food on their table. The
old pros when she was in broadcast news would recall the heyday
of the biz, back before Walter Cronkite left the anchor seat in
1981. Since then it had all been downhill. She had jumped out at
the right time, a decade earlier. She could never have worked
with people for whom The News was just a job.
* * * * *
Bogie was right. With ten Francies, he could get a lot done.
But there weren’t ten of her, just this one unique woman, the
world’s greatest consulting detective, whose pain and brilliance
had produced a name. What would happen with that information?
Find out in two weeks on January 1st, when Episode VI
of "Heart of Wings" is posted here on Monterey Mystery.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Heart of Wings"
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode VI
The adrenaline must be pumping as you tune in for the latest
installment of "Heart of Wings" here on Monterey Mystery,
featuring the world’s most famous consulting detective since
Sherlock Holmes. To catch up on the plot if you’ve missed any of
the previous episodes, go to the archives. But if you are
current, here’s Episode VI with Francie LeVillard.
* * * * *
On Friday, the day before Francie was going to the service
for Harry at his airport in the Sierra foothills, she got an
email from the administrative dean asking her to drop by her
office. Margaret Wentwood was a good ole gal who had been with
the Monterey Institute since it had been started. Francie liked
the woman and respected the work she had done. During the
formative years, Margaret had been the glue that kept the
administration from coming apart under some unfortunate early
appointments. She maybe had stayed longer than she should have,
she was tired, but she kept putting off her much-deserved
retirement.
"Hello, Margaret," Francie said as she walked into her office
at the appointed time. One thing she appreciated about the woman
was that she kept to the clock. No one sat in the outer office
past their scheduled time. It was an important statement of
respect.
"Hi, honey," she said to Francie, and gestured for her to sit
down. She had happened to see her earlier that week and had made
her condolences so they weren’t needed now. Still she asked
Francie, "How are you holding up?" and in a voice that had her
heart behind it.
Francie replied that her she was doing fine, and thanked her
for asking. They both had things to do, so the dean got right to
business..
"What happened with your class Monday night?"
"What?" Francie asked her, having no idea what this was
about.
"You didn’t have your class in your regular classroom?"
Margaret asked.
"Uh, no," Francie answered, trying to get up to speed without
knowing the direction. "In fact, I canceled the class. That was
the day that Harry was killed."
Margaret nodded, "Yes, and again, I’m so sorry, Francie."
Francie acknowledged her comment with a brief nod of her
head.
"But then you went out to dinner with them, is that right?"
"Sort of," she replied. "What is this all about, Margaret?"
The woman sighed. "Reg Perquat said he saw you – ‘carousing,’
was his term – at a restaurant at the time you were supposed to
be teaching the class."
"That sonova..." Somehow Francie managed to bite off the rest
of the word. She didn’t swear much, and especially not before
professionals. She stopped and collected herself before she
spoke. "I wasn’t holding a class there, Margaret. As I told you,
I had canceled it." Then she described to the dean what had
happened, how she’d been invited to join two of her students and
the rest, unbeknownst to her, had come along. "It was truly a
marvelous time that we had together, and very productive."
Francie proceeded to outline some of the key discussion points
that they had covered. "It wasn’t what I had originally planned,
but it was material that I would have covered later in the
term."
When Francie finished, the dean sat looking at her quietly
for a moment, the wheels in her head turning. They didn’t have
to go very far. "He is a sonovabitch, and I’m sorry I even had
to bring this up to you."
"Oh that’s all right, Margaret." Francie gave her a broad
smile. "You calling him a sonovabitch made it all worthwhile."
The dean laughed and shook her head, "You are a fine teacher.
I’m so glad you’re here for the students." She stood up behind
her desk, "Now please, go take care of what you need to and
don’t give another thought to what happened. It’s done." A smile
crossed her face. "For you. I’ll finish this with him. Thank you
for coming in."
"Thanks, Margaret," she said, and headed to the door. As she
was closing the door after her, she looked back and saw the
woman watching her. Francie paused. Her eyes met Margaret’s, and
flashed her appreciation. Then she left.
* * * * *
"I hope they’re doing whatever they’re doing inside,"
Geoffrey Lucerne told Francie as she walked into the office at
Monterey Bay Aviation. "The weather we’re having here" – he
waved his hand toward the low clouds and the drizzle – "is the
same as they’re having up there."
"Are we okay to fly, Geoffrey? It’s not essential to me. You
know that, right?"
He shook his head. "She loves this kind of weather," he said,
"to fly in."
"Why is that? To wash the plane?"
"Yes, that but also when the weather is marginal, there are
still a lot of VFR (visual flight rules) pilots up there, and
they can get into trouble. But when it’s total IFR like this,
only instrument pilots would think of going up."
"That makes sense," Francie agreed. "As far as the plans up
there, I don’t know. I was just given a time." She gave him a
slight grimace. "It’s a little complicated." She was going to
tell him why but he told her to save it for the plane.
"Ariane is on board. Our departure window opens in ten
minutes. You’re all set? You don’t need to use the facilities?"
"Thanks, Geoffrey, all set."
They walked outside into the heavy mist to where Geoffrey had
parked Avionne, his Cessna Skylane, close to the
building. He opened the passenger door and Ariane greeted her
from the back seat. "Cherie, the mist does you well. It
is very good for our complexion, n’est-ce pas?"
"Tr s délicieuse," Francie agreed. "Wouldn’t you
rather sit in the front?" she asked.
"Mais non, I like it back here. I feel like the
celebrity who has her own private pilot."
Francie laughed.
"Would you like to join me?" Ariane asked. "I am willing to
share my private pilot, and I don’t think he’ll need any help
for our one-hour flight."
"Delighted," she replied and climbed into the back seat with
her. Geoffrey closed the door and Francie reached forward to
latch it.
Ariane gave her a warm, long hug, and then with her hands
holding her shoulders, she pushed her slightly away and kissed
her on both cheeks. "I am sorry about the reason, ma ch re
amie, but I am also very glad to see you."
"Yes, and I am so appreciative that you are coming with me."
Geoffrey had climbed into his seat and fastened himself in.
He put on his headset, and called ground control for their
departure clearance. He had pre-flighted and pre-set the plane
before taxiing over from their own hangar. "Saddle up, ladies,"
he said. They checked their seatbelts and put on their headsets.
"Everyone can hear me?" he asked.
"Oui, cher Geoffrey," Ariane told him.
"Me to, private pilot," she told him. "I like it back here."
In five minutes they’d departed into the westerly wind and
then made their turn toward the northeast. Geoffrey had been
handed off from the Monterey tower to air traffic control and
they were climbing through the clouds to 7500 feet. When he
leveled off the plane at the cruise altitude, he checked his
avionics and reported that they would be on ground in Columbia
at twenty to eleven.
"Okay, Francie, what’s the complication up there?"
"I don’t know that it will be a problem, but the operation
there is run by a fellow named Chet Garrow. He and his wife
Lorna. They flew down on Monday so Chet could fly back Harry’s
plane. Well, it’s Chet’s plane but Harry used it for
instruction, and to come down here to see me." She swallowed the
sudden feelings as quietly as possible.
"When they came down, Lorna was going to get out of their
plane, but Chet told her, rather firmly I thought, to stay in
her seat. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but when I
got home, I remembered that Harry had said there was a situation
at the airport, and it was one of the reasons why he was glad he
had found me. It seemed that Lorna had developed a crush on
Harry, which he adamantly didn’t reciprocate. Not only because
he wasn’t interested in her, but he didn’t want to jeopardize
his relationship with Chet."
"And someone like that is allowed to fly an airplane?" Ariane
asked sharply.
Geoffrey nodded his agreement. "Ariane will protect you from
the crazy woman," he said in a comforting tone.
"Oh bosh, Geoffrey," Ariane said, "Francie and I will give
her a demonstration of our aikido skills."
"Two against one, do you think that would be fair?" he asked.
"Especially you two?"
"What is fair? If there is a fight, you win," she declared
with finality.
It sounded right to Francie. Not about Lorna, but about life.
Was it fair that she had forced Hector Alverez to tell her who
had directed the murder? It never occurred to her what might be
fair to him. Ariane was right. There are situations where losing
isn’t an option.
Thirty minutes later, Geoffrey put the plane into a slow
descent. He had taken off from Monterey where the runway was 257
feet above sea level. Now he was bringing them into Columbia
where the altitude was 2,118. They broke through the clouds at
five thousand feet, but he still flew the GPS instrument
approach to bring them all the way in. They touched down at
10:37, and two minutes later he turned off the engine at a
tie-down spot near the Sierra Aviation facility where Harry had
worked.
Chet Garrow came out of the office as they were getting out
of Avionne. Francie introduced him to Ariane and
Geoffrey. The greetings were solemn and professional. "We are
going to be still today. You won’t need to tie her down," Chet
told him.
"Good," said Geoffrey and the two men started for the office.
It was misty but trying not to be. Ariane put her arm through
Francie’s and they walked along behind the men. Chet brought
them into the lounge and explained the schedule.
"We’re gonna start right at eleven. I’m gonna officiate, or
emcee or whatever you want to call it. Explain why we’re all
here. Say a few words about Harry. Then people who want to say
something individual can come and talk. I’ve told ‘em to keep it
short. So if you’d like to say something you can," he said to
Francie.
She had wondered if she would have the opportunity to say
something, and if there was anything she wanted to say, being
that she was a complete outsider to all these people. "Thanks,
Chet. I don’t know. If it’s all right, I’ll see how I feel when
other people have spoken, if there’s anything left."
"Sure, hon," he said, understanding. "We have some coffee and
brownies and things out there, if you’d like a little something
before we get started." He gestured toward the door to the
hangar, and they all walked out.
Harry’s plane was sitting toward the front of the hangar.
Away from the big doors, there were maybe fifty folding chairs,
three-quarters filled, facing a table that had been set up in
front of the plane. On top of the table was a small lectern. On
the side of the hangar by the office door were two more tables,
one with a couple of coffee urns and trays of cups and
containers of whitener and sweeteners. On the other were a dozen
plates of cookies and other things to eat, along with a some
small paper plates and napkins.
"Would you girls like something?" Geoffrey invited.
Ariane and she looked at each other. "Coffee sounds good,
doesn’t it?" Ariane asked her.
She smiled and nodded. "I hope so," she replied. They poured
half-cups, uncertain about what they might face. Geoffrey put an
assortment of cookies on a plate for them all, and they found
seats together toward the back.
Francie had felt a lot of eyes on them as they had come in,
and presumed that most everyone there had to be local. Ariane
and she had talked about what to wear and agreed to dress down;
black slacks and dark tops. They were the only ones not wearing
some form of jeans. That was fine. We all do what we have to do
in our own ways.
* * * * *
It feels a little like they’re in a foreign country. Or at
least an outpost. It’s been less than a week since Harry’s
murder, and Francie’s calm is challenged. See what happens when
Lorna comes on the scene in Episode VII, right here at
MontereyMysetery.com on January 15th.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Heart of Wings"
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode VII
We move toward the conclusion of "Heart of Wings." In Episode
VII, Francie is at the airport where Harry was based, attending
his funeral. Catch up at the archives if you have missed any
previous installments. Otherwise, here’s the latest Monterey
Mystery.
* * * * *
The ceremony played itself out as Chet had told them it
would. Chet spoke briefly and was followed by eight people from
the airport community. They told flying stories about Harry,
causing a lot of heads in the audience to nod in agreement.
Geoffrey liked them, too, but for Ariane and Francie, they
didn’t mean a lot, except that they were about Harry and what he
had meant to them. That was a lot.
There was a lull, and Chet announced that he wanted to read,
High Flight, which he said was a favorite of Harry’s. For
the sake of those who weren’t part of the aviation community, he
explained, "If you don’t know about this poem, it was written by
19-year-old John Gillespie McGee who had been an American
fighter pilot flying for Canada during the early part of the
Battle of Britain, before the United States got into the war.
The poem came to him when he was test flying a new Spitfire to a
new altitude of 30,000 feet.
Chet recited the poem from memory, and from his heart. It
started with the lines, Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of
Earth And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings. And
it finished with, Put out my hand, and touched the face of
God. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house, including
Francie’s. Harry had recited the poem to her, one night when
they were sitting under the stars. He made it sound so personal,
as she thought it was for many pilots.
After an appropriate pause, he asked if there was anyone else
who had anything to say about Harry Connivor, looking at Francie
to make sure she knew she was welcome. While she didn’t have any
idea what she might say, she found herself standing and walking
up to the lectern. As she arrived, Chet told the audience that
"This is Harry’s friend from Monterey. She was very important to
him. He told me that several times."
Francie supposed she knew that Harry had spoken of her to his
friends, but suddenly it struck her and hard. She stood behind
the lectern, looking out at the expectant faces, expecting at
least that she would say something. She needed to get herself
back under control.
She looked down at her hands clutching the sides of the
lectern and then brought her hands to her side and looked out at
the people. "I envy you for all of the time and conversations
and friendship that you had with Harry. You were blessed. I only
had a few weeks with him. But they were a special time, and I
prized those hours with him as deeply as anything my heart has
known. He was a good man, bright and funny and dear. I’m so very
sorry, for your loss, and mine."
There was nothing else to say, so she nodded her head down
and walked back to Ariane and Geoffrey. Their eyes were red.
Ariane stood up, sobbing quietly, and took her friend in her
arms, holding her as they both cried. They sat down so the
ceremony could be finished, and Chet, also clearly moved,
thanked everyone for coming and invited them to have some coffee
and cookies.
Francie hadn’t noticed Lorna, off to the side, her big blonde
hair wrapped in the black scarf. She felt Ariane stiffen as the
woman approached them. Francie stood up to receive her.
Lorna stood looking into her face for what must have been a
minute, but it was without any threat. She reached out and took
Francie’s hands in hers and squeezed them gently.
"I was so angry at you, so angry," she began, shaking her
head in disappointment. "I was angry that you could have him and
I couldn’t. I didn’t understand what you could give him, over
there in Monterey. And I was hurt when he came back and he was
so happy." She looked down at the floor of the hangar and then
quickly up to Geoffrey on one side of her and Ariane on the
other, and then to Chet who had walked up quietly behind her.
"But what you said, you spoke what I felt, and my anger went
away. I had no one else to be angry at. I’m sorry I felt that
way. And, and...I just want to say thank you for giving Harry
that happiness."
Then she dropped her hands, and in tears, turned away, with
Chet, his arm around her, leading her toward the office.
The coffee wasn’t very good, though the oatmeal raisin
cookies and butterscotch brownies met a sudden need. Several
people came over to thank her for coming and what she said. Chet
returned to thank them for coming. "What you said meant a lot to
all of us, especially for Lorna. She had a thing for Harry, and
even I could understand it. I’m glad he found you, even if it
was for only a little while." With that he gave a quick nod of
his head and walked away.
"I think we can go now," Ariane said to Geoffrey, and
together the three walked out of the hangar and over to
Avionne. Geoffrey got the women settled inside and proceeded
with the pre-flight of the aircraft. Ariane took Francie’s hand
and held it. A few minutes later Geoffrey had the prop spinning
and they were taxiing out toward the runway. There is no tower
at Columbia; pilots coordinate their activities with each other
over the radio. No one else was in the run-up area nor in the
landing pattern, so Geoffrey took Avionne onto the runway
and soon they were on our way back to Monterey.
* * * * *
The following Monday, a week after Harry was killed, Francie
received three dozen roses delivered to her house. Two dozen
red, one dozen white. Gorgeous, but there was no card. She
called the florist and was told the person requested to be
anonymous. Someone brought in cash to pay for the flowers.
She had no idea who might have done it until a month later
when another piece – actually three pieces – of the puzzle were
put on the table. She was having lunch with the sheriff at
Tarpy’s, and she asked him how the cases were going against
Alverez, Espinosa and the unmentionable. He took a long look at
her before answering. "Yes, I want to know," she told him,
guessing he needed to hear that.
He raised his eyebrows and lowered his head, looking at her
from under his dark brows. "There all complete."
"What? So soon? I didn’t see anything in the news."
"No, they didn’t pick it up and we didn’t call ‘em up."
"Bogie, what are you talking about?"
"They’re all dead, Francie."
She was stunned. "What? All three? What happened, for
goodness sakes?"
"The three of them were killed, separately of course, but all
on the same day, last Friday, around the same time."
He broke her look.
"Same time?" It wasn’t as though she would miss that.
He looked are her and said softly, "About the same time that
your friend, Harry, was killed."
Francie’s jaw dropped. She stared at him for a long time,
trying to digest this. "I know you’re not joking. You wouldn’t,
but jeez, that’s incredible. What happened? Why? How did they
know?" She paused to give him a chance to answer but then added,
"Do you know who did it?"
"The scuttlebutt is that someone in another gang decided to
take them out."
"But why, for giving gangs a bad name?" That’s how crazy it
sounded to her.
She could read Bogie when he slid back to an earlier
question. He sighed deeply and explained, "The minute the third
report came in, I had our people come in and sweep the
interrogation room."
"Ah-hah."
"No ah-hah," he replied, "they didn’t find anything." He
smiled at her. "So I called in your friend, Ariane – your spook
friend, right?"
She smiled. "Yes, my spook friend."
"And she turned up a bug."
"That’s my girl."
"There was voice-activated transmitter that only worked when
the light was on."
"And it being a windowless room, the light was always on when
it was being used."
"That’s right."
"Could she trace where the signal was going?"
"Yes, but the place had been abandoned a day or so earlier."
"That makes it scary, doesn’t it?"
"Yeah, I don’t know where it’s safe to talk or with whom.
Your friend said their technology was far more sophisticated
than anything we were using, or even knew about."
"Ouch," Francie said, wincing, "And with the budget the way
it is, Sacramento is going to give you more money to upgrade,"
she said sarcastically.
"I still don’t think we’d catch up."
She sat back in her chair sorting through the wealth and
depth of the news. She knew why he hadn’t called her to tell
her. He wouldn’t have said anything unless and until she asked.
She let out a deep breath. "Tells you the power of prayer,"
she said, thinking aloud.
He took her up on it. "Meaning...that you prayed for their
deaths? That wouldn’t be like you. That you prayed for their
transformation? That would be more like you, I think."
She was very thoughtful. "You know, when you told me that you
would let me talk to Alverez, many thoughts passed through my
mind, as you might imagine."
The sheriff nodded.
"As I was driving over that morning, I thought about what it
would be like to be so close to him. So close that I could kill
him, though I wouldn’t. You’re right, that’s not me. But when I
saw him, the hollow eyes. There was no soul in him, Bogie. There
was no person there. There was no way he was going to be
transformed or saved or anything." She looked down at the table
and finished processing the thought.
"No, I didn’t pray for them to die, or for them to get
religion or whatever would shift them." She looked at her
friend. "I was praying for myself...to not hate them. I got
there, to not hating them, but not right away." She wasn’t
finished. She looked up at the sheriff. "I’m glad it wasn’t my
call."
It was good that they were at the end of their meal. Winter
was making an early appearance, and they were sitting outside
under heaters that kept their heads and hands almost warm but
did nothing for their feet. She wanted to get home, climb into
the hot tub, maybe with another glass of something, and weigh
what the sheriff had told her. She might have told him about the
roses arriving on the day the three criminals were – telling it
as it was – executed, but she hadn’t. She knew the two were
connected, and she didn’t want him spending any time looking
into it.
But her intuitive was telling her that a man for whom she’d
done an important job was very connected to that other world,
the dark side. She had known it at the time he hired her for a
personal matter that had nothing to do with his professional
side, and she made it clear that she was separating the two; and
that she didn’t want anything to do with him beyond this case.
He was fine with those restrictions, and when he paid her an
exorbitant fee upon resolving his issue – faster and more
efficiently than either of them had expected – she knew that he
felt he’d gotten the better value.
She had suspected that the man was the source of the roses
when she couldn’t think of anyone else who didn’t want to be
known. All of her friends would have sent a card. Now with the
news that the three killings had taken place on that same day at
the same time, there could be little doubt.
It created one of those paradoxes of appreciating the facts
but not wanting to. As she had told Bogie, she had been working
to clear her own heart of pain and anger. She had not prayed for
revenge, and yet, in a way she had gotten it. She couldn’t take
responsibility for their deaths. Or credit considering the lives
these men had led. Still, she had truly enjoyed the roses, and
she was also glad that they been added to the compost pile
before she had known of the other events of that day.
* * * * *
Curious, isn’t it, how much of the world is hidden from us?
And we’re probably better off for it. The conclusion of "Heart
of Wings" will be posted in just two weeks on February 1st,
right here on MontereyMystery.com. Don’t miss it.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
"Heart of Wings"
A Francie LeVillard Mystery
Episode
VIII
Now the conclusion of "Heart of Wings," the Monterey Mystery
featuring world renowned consulting detective Francie LeVillard.
If you haven’t read all of the previous episodes, just click
over to the archives. And then read this uplifting end to a
poignant tale.
* * * * *
It was a week later, six weeks after the killing, and Francie
had brought her journalism students back to Café Fina for an end
of term hoisting of glasses. This was explicitly not a school
function; she made that clear several times. All the students’
papers had been handed in, graded, and returned. And to be on
the safe side, she sprang for some hors d’oeuvres and they were
responsible for their own libations.
She had called ahead to see if they might get the upstairs
again, if that wouldn't interfere with the normal course of
business. It being the second Monday in December, there was
always the chance that Christmas parties would fill a
restaurant, or a discrete area like the upstairs at Dominic's
place, but that wasn't the case. Plus it was raining, and so
there was little business of any sort on Fisherman's Wharf.
When the group finally broke up, a little before eight – the
restaurant was going to close early because of the weather and
empty tables – Francie and her students said their good-byes at
the door, avoiding tears where possible. Dominic cocked his head
at Francie, indicating that he wanted her to stay. She followed
him down the hall and around the corner to a table that, unlike
the rest of the tables that had been set with paper for lunch
the next day, was fully decked out in linens, with two candles
lit in the middle.
"Dominic, what is this?" she asked, pleasure written all over
her face.
"It's for you, Francie. I thought maybe after all that with
the students, you'd like to spend a few minutes with a
grown-up." He smiled at her graciously as he pulled out a chair
for her to sit.
She peered at him, a swarm of thoughts flying around behind
her eyes. There was never a chance that she would refuse him.
This dear man had a special quality about him that demanded her
appreciation, and her affection. More than once she had closed
his place, or Domenico's, his other restaurant that he ran with
his brother, on the other side of the wharf. Mostly the talk was
of family and traditions. He had deep roots in the Sicilian
community. She had no roots at all.
Listening to her friend over many late nights, she realized
what she had missed, but she also wasn't sure that she would
have chosen differently, given the option. She treasured her
solitude; more than that, she needed it. Her brief relationship
with Harry scratched at the surface of her certainty, but
ironically, his death resealed it.
Dom leaned his head out into the hallway and called,
"Roxanne?" She obviously heard him because he gave a quick wave
of his hand, and he returned to the table and sat down. "You
didn't eat much with your kids," he observed to her, not quite
in a parental tone, and at that moment Roxanne came around the
corner followed by a waiter. She stepped around the table and
poured Veuve Cliquot into their glasses, her smile as
effervescent as the Champagne. Meanwhile the waiter served them
tomatoes with mozzarella and fresh anchovy fillets drizzled with
vinaigrette over a bed of arugula. The vegetables, she knew,
were grown at Dominic’s farm in Los Banos in the San Joaquin
Valley.
Roxanne put the bottle in an ice bucket and draped a napkin
over it. "Buon Appetito," she said, and then left them.
"My goodness, Dominic, you've out-done yourself."
"You just wait," he replied proudly.
But there really was no waiting involved. They sat, they
talked, they ate. Luckily the portions fit the time of night.
Larger than a taste but not so large that they wouldn't leave
room for the other dishes.
Roxanne magically appeared as they finished each course,
clearing their plates and serving another. Next came
Mediterranean mussels – grown in Canada, Dom said with a "Hey"
shrug of his shoulders – and cooked to perfection in a sweet
white wine tomato broth with a fine piquancy produced by the
addition of Thai chili.
Then, to cleanse the palate, prosciuto and cantaloupe. The
melon – sweeter than she could ever remember having, but still
firm – was also from his farm.
And finally, Monterey spot prawns, decorated with roe, and
prepared in a traditional garlic, white wine and butter over
linguini.
It was certainly one of the most memorable meals she ever
had. And it wasn't over. Roxanne arrived with a delicious
ricotta cheesecake, light but not delicate, made with cheese
especially imported from, of all places, Francie was informed,
Buffalo, New York. Then Roxanne poured an exceptional Averna
digestif.
"Dominic, this was splendid," Francie told him warmly,
holding up her glass to him. He reached his glass across the
table and clinked with her. They smiled at each other.
"You have a smile from so deep you can see in it the light of
your soul."
"Dominic, what a lovely thing to say." she squinted at him
and then smiled again and laughed. "I don’t think much of my
smiling actually. I don’t do it a lot."
"You may not do it broadly, but you have a subtle smile."
"Say what you said again," she ordered.
"You have a smile from so deep you can see in it the light of
your soul."
"That is lovely, and no offense, but it doesn’t sound like
you."
He chuckled, "No, a writer friend of mine said it. He told me
he didn’t know where to put it in what he was writing so he gave
it to me."
"Good job," she told him.
"Thank you," Dominic replied, pleased.
"No. I meant your writer friend." she was able to hold her
face expressionless but only for a couple of seconds and then
she broke into laughter.
Dominic blushed slightly and said, "But you deserve it, you
know?"
"Do I?"
"Well yeah...." he said and shot her an expression that said
he was surprised that she didn't know already. "But you know
what I was wondering?"
"What, Dom?"
He crinkled his face as if he were having trouble with his
words. It wasn't as if; he was. "I was wondering, why we didn't
ever...you know..."
"What?" she asked, knowing full well but not showing it.
"You know," he repeated, showing something that might have
been taken for impatience, or maybe embarrassment.
"You mean, like, uh, getting it on?"
"Yeah, like," he said, relieved.
"Oh Dominic, that's so nice but, I wouldn't want to
jeopardize our friendship," she said pleading for his
understanding.
"That old line," he said, amused more than disappointed.
"And besides, you know it would never work with us."
"Why do you say that?"
"My dear friend, you are one of the world's great lovers of
women. You couldn't tie yourself down to just one."
"Huh," he said, and she could tell from the quick movement of
his eyes that he wasn't really thinking of the same kind of
relationship as she might have had in mind.
"Your idea of long term is, ‘Okay, stay for breakfast’," she
chided.
"Oh, no, now Francie you know that's not fair," he protested
but he had trouble hiding a smile.
She couldn't help herself . She chuckled, first silently, and
then she had to let it come out.
"So how about us, then?"
"Dominic," she scolded, "You're old enough to be my father."
He arched his eyebrows, "I would have been very precocious."
She tilted her head to one side as she looked at him. "I
didn't think that would be a word that you would use," she told
him softly and sincerely.
"There's a lot you don't know about me," Dominic said to her
evenly. "Maybe you should find out."
"Hmm," she said, gazing at him. He might be right, but it
wasn't going to be this night. "I don't know," she said,
returning to a lighter tone. "I mean, we would be having a good
time and then somehow we would get to talking about politics and
you'd say you liked Sarah Palin."
"I thought she was good-looking, that's all," Dominic
insisted, "Not as cute as you, of course." He gave that a moment
to sit and then added, "And I never would have like, voted for
her."
"Aha, but you'd vote for me?" she asked.
He looked across the table at Francie, his eyes locked on
hers, and answered slowly and distinctly, "In a heartbeat."
Her smile broadened until it almost hurt, that joyous
response of humor and happiness. "My dear friend," she said to
him, reaching across the table to take his hand in hers. "You
are very attracted to me as I am to you, but it’s not about sex.
You presume that’s what you’re feeling excited about, but it’s
not physical, it’s emotional. It’s your heart and your mine."
She paused and enjoyed the acknowledgment in his expression.
"Maybe some day we’ll hit the sheets, but we’ll both know it’s
the right time and for the right reasons."
Dominic gave her a long look. "Sometimes I think you’re too
smart for me," he said with some distance, but then, more
softly, added, "And then I know you’re just right."
When they parted a short time later, Francie made sure
Dominic got a good hug. And in the car ride back down the coast,
she marveled at how wonderful she felt, realizing that much of
that feeling was about going home to her own house alone. "No
offense," she said aloud, leaning forward and looking up through
the windshield at the sky to Harry. She felt her eyes moisten as
she thought of him. She had no doubt that they would have stayed
together, but she didn’t know how long. Not that they didn’t
love each other – yes, love – but their lives were different.
She didn’t know that then, but it was clear to her now. Clear
like the dark sky and all those stars.
* * * * *
