Mystery

Mrs. Spence shoved her sunglasses back up her nose. She was a good-looking woman who obviously knew the names of every member of the Founders Club, and her legs were almost young enough for her miniskirt. “Are both those suitcases yours?”

Tom nodded, and Mrs. Spence looked at his suitcases through her dark glasses.

“Pilot ought to be here waiting,” said Mr. Spence. “That was the deal. I guess I better go look for the guy.” He cast another look at the bar, and set off toward the baggage area and the yellow puddle.

“Well, I don’t see the reason for last-minute changes,” said Mrs. Spence, speaking to the air. Then she fixed Tom with a smile that went all the way to the corners of her sunglasses. “And your mother is Gloria Upshaw, isn’t she?”

“She was Gloria Upshaw,” Tom said. “Before she got married.”

“Such a dear,” said Mrs. Spence.

“Okay, we got it straightened out,” said Mr. Spence. “The pilot’s waiting for us in the Redwing lounge.”

“Of course he is,” said Mrs. Spence.

Mr. Spence lifted his enormous suitcase and began moving toward a door next to the thatch of the bar, and Mrs. Spence muttered something and followed after with her medium-sized suitcase rolling after her handsome legs, and Sarah hugged him while their backs were turned and hit him in the back with her tiny suitcase and whispered, “Don’t mind them too much, please, and don’t pay any attention to anything they say.”

On the other side of the door, black leather couches and chairs had been arranged around marble coffee tables on a thick grey carpet. A waiter in a white coat stood behind a bar on which stood a pitcher of orange juice, a silver coffeepot, and trays of breakfast rolls covered in Saran Wrap.

“Oh, my!” said Mrs. Spence. “Well, I knew it!”

A tall, well-tanned man in a dark blue uniform set down his coffee cup and stood up before one of the couches. “Spence family?”

“And a person named Tom Pasmore,” said Mrs. Spence. “Did you know he was coming too?”

The pilot smiled. “There won’t be any problem, Mrs. Spence.” He opened a door beside the bar, and they stepped out into the heat. A sleek grey jet with a heraldic letter R sat on the tarmac a short distance away. “I am Captain Mornay, by the way, but Mr. Redwing’s guests usually call me Ted,” said the pilot.

“Oh, Ted, thank you so much,” said Mrs. Spence, and swept across the tarmac toward the staircase leading up to the open door of the jet.

The interior of the plane matched the Redwing lounge. Grey carpeting covered the floor and bulkheads, and black leather chairs stood around black marble tables. A bar with a steward in a white jacket stood next to a curtained-off galley. On the other side of the bar and galley Tom saw two compartments separated by smoked glass. A door in the rear of the plane opened, and a porter began handing in their suitcases to the Steward, who placed them on shelves at the rear end of the plane and secured them behind a carpeted door.

The steward asked them to choose their seats and fasten their seat belts, and slipped into the galley.

“Well, Tom, I think we’ll sit in this nice little area right here,” said Mrs. Spence, and smiled brightly. She took a seat in the second complement of chairs, looked at Sarah, and patted the chair beside hers. There were three chairs around the black table.

“Tom and I can sit here,” Sarah said. “That way, we’ll practically be at the same table.” She sat in the chair of the first group nearest her mother’s table, and swiveled it around to show how close they were.

Mr. Spence sat down, grunting, and put his cowboy hat on the table. Tom took the chair beside Sarah’s. They all fastened their seat belts. Mrs. Spence pushed her sunglasses up into her hair, and smiled ferociously.

“Only twenty men in America have jets like this,” said Mrs. Spence. “Frank Sinatra has one. And Liberace, I think. Some of the others are showier, but Ralph’s is the most tasteful. I’m sure I’m happier in this jet than I would ever be in Frank Sinatra’s. Or Liberace’s.”

“Oh, I’d like to be Liberace’s private jet,” said Sarah. “I’m sure I’d be happy in a jet where everything was piano-shaped and covered in ermine. Don’t you think that private jets shouldn’t be tasteful?”

“I suggest that you learn to like this one.” Her mother’s voice could have shaved a peach. “You’ll be seeing a lot of it.” She swiveled her chair, hitching her skirt even farther up her thighs, and looked back at the rest of the cabin. “Aren’t those little booths cute? I adore those little booths. I can just see Buddy sitting in one of those little booths. Or in the cockpit. Buddy is sort of the pilot type, isn’t he?”

“I can see Buddy piloting the bar,” Sarah said.

“I don’t understand you,” her mother said. “You just say these things.”

“Tom is very high-spirited, mother. He goes on wonderful excursions. He has interesting friends everywhere.”