Colleen McCullough - Too Many Murders

In his heart of hearts he knew that divorce was inevitable, for he knew that even if he did get Larry Pisano’s job, Maureen would find something fresh to pick about. A clunky second car, an unsatisfactory kitchen, Gary’s acne due to eating junk food-what the raise in pay wouldn’t stretch to fix, she would nag about. Not for any other reason than that she was permanently discontented, and how could you fix that? If it weren’t for the kids he would file for divorce tomorrow, but for the sake of the kids he couldn’t do that, ever. No fool, he knew that they loved him as the bearable side of their home life, their coconspirator and ally. In a war?

Well, he decided as midday became early afternoon, the Marshall family just has to get through this. It won’t end until Denise is at college and no one’s left at home except Maureen and me. Then the shit can hit the fan in all directions, and I won’t care.

His preoccupation vanished the moment a passenger van drove through the gates and crept across to the Lear. The crew, Corey decided as they got out, talking cheerfully among themselves, chiefly about the fact that the rain had stopped. A flight crew of three men in tailored navy uniforms, the captain with four rows of gold braid on his sleeves, the other two with three rows. Wow! The Cornucopia Board wasn’t stinting on what they paid the guys responsible for keeping them safely in the air. Two slender, very pretty women in navy uniforms Corey put down as the cabin crew. No stinting here either. The steps were let down, and the men entered the cockpit, one armed with a clipboard; the two girls went to the back of the van and dealt with foil-wrapped containers, a big styrofoam chest for cold food, and various towels and linens. Amazed, Corey watched the girls work for some time. Even several small flower arrangements were unearthed.

The ground crew turned up; one of them connected the Lear to a fuel source, taking exquisite care that not a drop spilled onto the concrete. Hoses were hooked up, tires checked, a dozen and one tasks performed. In the cockpit Corey could see the heads of pilot and copilot, their hands fluttering over what he presumed were the toggles and switches of gear on the roof above the instrument panels.

Next to arrive was a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost, two men seated in its front: Wal Grierson and Gus Purvey. They alighted and went into the shed, Corey guessed to use the rest room-a bigger facility than available on an airplane, even a private jet. Each was carrying a briefcase, but neither was dressed formally. Jeans, open-necked shirts, button-up sweaters, jackets over their arms. Laughing, they walked to the Lear and climbed the steps. As they disappeared inside, a small Ford drove up, two men aboard. One got out, went to the Rolls and got in. Then Ford and Rolls drove away. That’s how you do it when you don’t feel like a chauffeur, Corey thought. A peon picks up what you’ve discarded.

A fire engine from Station Two trundled in, the special truck fitted out for airport duty. No plane bigger than a joyriding specimen could take off or land without a fire truck’s presence. Its crew looked pleased to be liberated from a rainy shift, and patently admired the neat little jet they were obliged to shepherd off the runway in as much safety as tanks full of avgas allowed.

Only Phil Smith and Fred Collins to come. Activity died down as the hostesses entered the plane for good. The van drove away, the fire truck went to its designated position.

Corey didn’t huddle down again. Instead, he turned in his seat to look back up the road, idly noting that beyond the pool where the road had subsided a little, a four-inch steel pipe had risen through the asphalt and lay right across the road like a ship’s cable or a filled fire hose. A silence had fallen with the cessation of the rain, and in the distance Corey heard the roar of a powerful sports car approaching. Going far too fast, it appeared in his vision on the heels of its grunty sound, a twelve-cylinder XKE Jaguar painted British racing green, Phil Smith behind its wheel, Fred Collins beside him. They too were laughing, “away at last!” written all over their faces.

The front wheels of the Jag hit the pipe, and the rest seemed to happen in slow motion. First the sensationally long hood of the sports car rose vertically into the air, followed by the remainder. The car actually did a somersault, Smith and Collins spilling out onto the road before the Jag crashed, top side down, and lay next to the pool with its front wheels spinning crazily.

“Ambulance! Ambulance to airport, road emergency!” Corey was barking into his radio before the Jag came down. “Medics! Need medics! Road emergency at airport! Road emergency!”

Almost before he had finished speaking, Corey was out of his car and running, suddenly aware that no one else had seen a thing. He went first to Fred Collins, closer, and bent to find a carotid pulse. Yes! Strong, and there didn’t seem to be a widening sheet of blood. One leg was twisted under him and he was groaning. He was probably all right unless he had internal injuries.

Now to Smith, who lay on his right side, eyes closed. Yes! A carotid pulse, and fairly strong. He wasn’t moving.

The wind gusted; a sheet of paper blew into Corey’s eyes, was brushed away impatiently. Then Corey saw Smith’s briefcase, still in his hand. Had the fool tried to drive a stick-shift sports car hanging on to a briefcase? Or had he grabbed for it even as the accident happened? It was beautifully turned and crafted stainless steel with two combination locks, but the force of the impact had sprung them, and there were papers everywhere. Most had settled on the surface of the pool.

“Nothing I can do for you, buster,” he said, “but I can pick up your papers before they blow away.”

Working in a frenzy, he gathered every sheet he could find. Many were wet from immersion in the water, but Corey didn’t care; he collected them as the sirens wailed in the distance, then ran for his car. The firemen were coming, but he had the excuse of needing to use his radio again, and who’d remember that he was carrying loads of papers? Their attention was on the accident.

The papers went into his trunk, just in case some nosy Cornucopia guy came looking. He picked up his mike and talked to Dispatch, who informed him that Captain Delmonico was on his way and that two ambulances should already be there.

“Thank God it stopped raining,” he said to Carmine a minute later. “Want me to tell those turkeys on the jet that they’re not going anywhere unless they want to leave two Board members behind in the hospital?”

“Abe’s got that,” Carmine said, eyeing Corey shrewdly. “I want to know why you look like the mutt that got to the pedigree bitch ahead of her designated mate.”

For answer, Corey led him around to the back of his car and popped the trunk. “The contents of Phil Smith’s briefcase,” he said. “I wish I could say I’d gotten all four briefcases, but one is a start. The way I saw it, there the guy is, lying unconscious in the road, and his papers drowning in that pool there. So I did what any considerate citizen would do-I picked them up. Then I figured I could always say later that our police labs have great facilities for drying papers that would otherwise have disintegrated, so I saw it as my citizen’s duty to save them if I could. He won’t buy it, but he can’t argue about it either.”

“Great work, Corey,” Carmine said sincerely. “Our luck that the accident happened, but your initiative and presence of mind that Smith’s papers have fallen into our hands.”

The two men walked back to the road, where both ambulances were loading up. Thanks to Corey’s having demanded medics, two of the new physician’s assistants had come with the standard crews.