Murdering Americans (3 page)

***

Chapter Three

‘Beverages!’ cried the flight attendant.

‘What a raucous voice,’ said the baroness loudly to the tall, broad, white-haired man in the next seat, as she put the in-flight magazine back in the rack. ‘She sounds just like my parrot. Though with a more limited vocabulary.’ She leaned into the aisle. ‘I wish she’d hurry up. What’s taking her so long?’

‘A few other thirsty customers to attend to, I expect, ma’am,’ he said, in a soft Southern accent.

The baroness settled herself back in her seat with a grunt.

‘’Scuse me, ma’am, but does that box in the seat next to you contain your parrot?’

‘It does indeed.’

‘So that explains why you were talking to your baggage at the check-in.’

She beamed. ‘You spotted me earlier, then.’

‘You’re hard to miss, ma’am. That was a very striking hat you were wearing.’

The baroness smirked. ‘No point in hats unless they’re striking.’

‘So what kind is your parrot?’

‘Horace is an African grey.’

‘He must be a very special little bird if he gets a first-class seat.’

‘I’m the special bird. He’s along for the ride. And someone else is paying.’

‘Does he talk?’

‘Nineteen to the dozen, when he’s on form, but I’m not encouraging him right now. He’s here on sufferance so I’ve asked him to mimic a Trappist monk. I don’t want the airline refusing to let him make the return journey. I’ve put that black cloth over the crate to make him think it’s bedtime.’ She snorted. ‘Unbelievable palaver finding an airline that would take him, getting him certificated and training him to put up with a crate. I even had to prove he’d served his time in quarantine. You’d think parrots were in the habit of taking a couple of mates down to the pub on a Friday night.’

‘So he won’t be talking on board. That’s a shame. I’d enjoy hearing what the little guy had to say.’

‘He might talk later. I’ll have to feed and water him at some stage. But I won’t be encouraging him to get chatty.’

‘Beverages!!’

‘Yes,’ called the baroness loudly. ‘I want a beverage.’

The flight attendant, who was three rows away, looked down towards her and glared. ‘You’ll be served when it’s your turn and not before. Beverages!’

‘So why are you offering beverages at the top of your voice then?’

Her neighbour touched the baroness on the sleeve. ‘If I were you, ma’am, I wouldn’t get into an argument with Rosa. It’ll do no good and she’ll only take it out on you.’

‘You mean she might deny me beverages?’

‘Sure. Rosa knows how to bring us to heel.’

‘Is she really called Rosa? Seems too nice a name for someone who looks and sounds like a bad-tempered serial killer.’

‘Oh, it’s not her real name. That’s Joan, but I don’t think anyone’s keen to get on first name terms with her. Rosa’s what some of us frequent flyers call her behind her back—after Rosa Kleb from the James Bond movie.’

‘Well she’s certainly old and ugly enough to have been in the KGB,’ grumbled the baroness. ‘Whatever happened to attractive young air hostesses? On Far East airlines they’re as young and beautiful as cherry blossoms.’

‘Anti-discrimination laws, ma’am.’

‘Ridiculous! The whole point of air hostesses is supposed to be that they do the job for a few years until they find a rich husband. Means they’re always agreeable as well as easy on the eye. What’s the point of having someone who’s so sick of her job it shows in her face.’

‘Beverages!’

The trolley and Rosa arrived.

‘I’ll have a….’

‘Not your turn,’ said Rosa and directed her gaze left. ‘Whaddayawant?’

‘Please help this lady first.’

‘’Gainst the rules.’

‘I’ll have bourbon on the rocks then,’ he said.

Crashing bottles and glasses, Rosa prepared his bourbon and handed it over. She stared with loathing at the baroness. ‘Whaddayawant?’

‘Dry martini. Straight up.’

‘Can’t.’

‘What do you mean you can’t? Martini is the American national drink. Has this airline no sense of national pride?’

Rosa said nothing.

‘You have gin. You have vermouth. I’ll make it.’

‘No vermouth. Just gin.’

The baroness locked eyes with her. ‘Vermouth is listed in the in-flight magazine.’

‘Noneonthetrolley.’

‘Then I suggest you search the galley.’

‘Whaddaythinkthisis? A cocktail bar?’

‘No,’ said the baroness coldly. ‘I think it’s a first-class cabin for access to which your employers charge a stack of money. I want vermouth. And a martini glass.’

‘No martini glasses,’ said Rosa. As she stumped off the man gazed with interest at the baroness. ‘Boy,’ he said, ‘you’re something.’

By the time Rosa came pounding down the aisle with a bottle, the baroness had commandeered the trolley, filled a glass with ice, shaken it several times until she thought it acceptably chilled, emptied it and almost filled it with gin.

‘Whatchadoin’?’ shouted Rosa.

‘Your job.’ The baroness leaned forward, took the bottle from Rosa, added just a couple of drops of vermouth, handed the bottle back and sat down. ‘Now I want a twist of lemon.’

‘No twists. Only slices.’

‘Then please cut some rind off a slice and bring it to me.’

There was another face-off, after which Rosa took a slice of lemon to the galley and returned with some rind, which she dropped haughtily into the baroness’s glass. ‘Beverages!’ she shouted at the next row of passengers.

The baroness had her first sip of martini, smacked her lips approvingly, and turned to her companion. ‘The seat’s uncomfortable, the décor is shabby, and they don’t know how to make a martini. If this is what it’s like in first class, what’s it like in economy?’

‘I’m too rich to know, ma’am.’ He held out his hand. ‘Edgar S. Brooks of Jackson, Mississippi, at your service.’

She shook his hand vigorously. ‘Jack I. Troutbeck, presently of Cambridge, at yours.’

***

‘I’d better see to Horace,’ said the baroness, two hours into the journey, extracting from her capacious handbag two small dishes, some pellets, and a bottle of water. Brooks watched with interest as she opened the crate and cooed at its occupant. After Horace had lost interest in the contents of his dishes, he emitted an ear-shattering sequence of wolf-whistles, which not only attracted the attention of everyone in the first-class compartment, but brought Rosa out of the kitchen. ‘Who’s making that noise?’ she shouted.

The baroness stood up. ‘It’s my parrot.’

‘Ohmigod,’ said a large woman two seats behind. ‘We’ll all get bird flu.’

‘Rubbish,’ said the baroness. ‘Even if my parrot had avian flu, you couldn’t catch it unless he bit
you
or you
ate
him.’

‘Who said you could bring a parrot on board?’ asked Rosa threateningly.

‘Your employers,’ said the baroness icily. ‘In exchange for a lot of money.’

‘Pieces of eight, pieces of eight,’ cried Horace.

‘How do we know it hasn’t got bird flu? And how do we know we won’t catch it from breathing the same air,’ cried the large woman.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said the baroness. ‘Why would I travel with a diseased bird?’

‘You might be a terrorist.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, woman,’ began the baroness, as Horace launched into ‘God save the Queen.’ Brooks tugged at her sleeve. ‘Leave this to me, Jack.’ She sat down; he squeezed past her and stood in the aisle. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said soothingly, ‘y’all have nothing to worry about. This parrot hasn’t met another bird in two years, he’s been given the all-clear by his vet, and he’s got less chance of having bird flu than I have. This lady I’m travelling with is an aristocrat and a member of the British parliament and is a fan of our great country, so let’s all give her and her smart little parrot a warm American welcome.’ There was a small ripple of applause which turned to laughter as from Horace’s crate came a rasping cry of ‘Beverages! Beverages! Beverages.’

‘He’s certainly talented,’ said Brooks as he sat down. ‘He’s picked up an American accent in no time. Pity it’s from the Bronx.’

***

‘And remember to tell them that chicken was rubber. When something’s made of rubber, I want it to be natural rather than synthetic. Preferably, it should come from a plantation in Malaysia.’ As Rosa shot her the dirtiest of dirty looks, the baroness nodded at her reprovingly and walked out of the plane.

‘You never let up, Jack, do you?’ said Edgar Brooks, half in admiration and half in weariness.

‘Not knowingly,’ she grunted. ‘Anyway, that’ll teach her to be sarcastic and ask me if I’d any more complaints. I could have made a much bigger fuss than I did. The pasta wasn’t fit to be served to a horse and my favourite cat would have had harsh words about that excuse for fowl.’

‘Your life must be a constant battlefield.’

‘I enjoy battle.’

‘I can see that.’

They walked along in companionable silence for a few minutes until Brooks stopped. ‘This is goodbye, Jack. I’m going thataway to collect my bags and you’ll be heading thataway to catch your connecting flight.’ He handed her the crate he had insisted on carrying. ‘That trip was a lot of fun.

‘Now remember what I told you. Get sassy with immigration or customs and you could be dead or on your way home in no time. And any problems at Freeman—just give me a call.’

They embraced and then began their separate marches down the long long corridors of the enormous Chicago airport.

***

‘Whatyougotthere, lady?’

‘My parrot.’

She thrust some documents at the customs official. ‘You’ll find these are in order.’

‘Thasfurmetosay, lady. Open up the box.’

The baroness summoned up her failing reserves of patience. ‘Do I really have to? He’ll be distressed by the light and the noise.’

‘Open.’

Grimly, the baroness undid the buckles, opened the lid slightly, said, ‘There, there, Horrie, everything’s fine,’ and then half-opened the lid so the official could peer inside.

‘He talk?’

‘A bit.’

There was a whistle from inside the carrier and then Horace shouted at maximum volume, ‘Pass the ammunition.’

The official froze. ‘What?’

‘Pass the ammunition,’ repeated Horace obligingly.

‘You come with me, lady. We’re gonna visit with Homeland Security.’

‘You cannot be serious, Officer. Are you suggesting my parrot is a terrorist? Where about his person do you think he would conceal explosives?’

‘He ain’t a terrorist. But he cuddabeen keeping company with some. He’s certainly saying some funny things for a parrot.’

The baroness struggled to keep her temper. ‘“Pass the ammunition” is just part of an American phrase, Officer. I taught him to say “Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition,” but he often forgets one bit or another.’

‘So it’s profane as well as threatening, is it?’

‘It was said by a U.S. chaplain during the defence of Pearl Harbour.’

‘Oh, yeah? Well, we’ll see what Homeland Security thinks.’

‘I’ll miss my connecting flight.’

‘That’s your problem, lady. Mine is the defence of the good ol’ U.S. of A. Follow me.’

***

Pushing a laden trolley, the baroness emerged exhausted out of Indianapolis airport more than three hours later. Her red velvet Tudor cap was slightly askew, so the pheasant tail-feathers stuck out at a strange angle. With a mixture of relief and disappointment, she spotted a large piece of cardboard reading
LADY IDA TROUTBECK
, behind which was a tiny blonde in micro-shorts and flip-flops with a t-shirt reading I ♥ FREEMAN U.

‘Hi, Lady Ida. I’m Betsy. It’s like really great to meet you. Wow, that’s totally such a cool hat.’

‘Thank you, Betsy. I’m glad you approve. Now where’s the Provost? She said she’d meet me.’

‘Hey, she was totally pissed she couldn’t come, but she had like some crisis with her programme. She’ll catch you at the hotel. I’m your roadie for the next few days so she asked me to pick you up. It’s just as well, really, since you’re so late. She’d have been like totally freaked waiting that long.’

‘I’m totally freaked myself.’

Betsy’s face fell. ‘Hey, that’s too bad. Wasn’t the journey cool? I’ll get you to the hotel quick as I can so you can chill. Can I push your cart?’

Although the baroness was not too tired to appreciate the physical attributes that Betsy had generously on show, she was in grumbling mode. ‘I’m not Ida. I’m Jack. And not Lady Jack either, but Lady Troutbeck. I need to talk to the Provost. I’ve been travelling for 14 hours, I nearly missed my connection because of arguments about the parrot which your security people suspected of being a member of Al Qaeda, and the last 60 minutes were spent circling this airport in a toytown plane shaking in a violent hailstorm, which isn’t my idea of cool.’ Spotting that Betsy’s pretty little face was registering increasing confusion and worry, the baroness added, ‘I’m sorry. I’m tired and I’m cross. And thanks, you can look after my luggage.’

Betsy flashed her perfect teeth. ‘Hey, way to go, Lady! You follow me and we’ll be at the car in a minute. And the storm’s over, which is really like cool.’ She grabbed the trolley and set off at a brisk trot, with the baroness treading heavily behind her. As Betsy rounded a pillar, it clipped the edge of the crate, which fell to the ground on its side. Horace emitted a series of squawks followed by an eloquent, ‘Oh, shit!’

‘Well you may say, “Oh, shit,” Horrie,’ remarked the baroness, as she set about putting him the right way up. ‘No, no,’ she shouted at Betsy, who was dancing with anxiety and asking if she should call for help. ‘Don’t fuss, girl. He’ll be fine. He just needs to find his bearings and have some light refreshment. Like me. We’ll go to the bar for a few minutes and pull ourselves together.’

Betsy’s little forehead wrinkled. ‘It’s like Sunday. There won’t be like any bar open.’

‘Oh, God.’ The baroness failed to notice Betsy’s look of distress. ‘What? I thought this was supposed to be a civilised country.’

‘Sunday’s like serious in Indiana, Lady Troutbeck. It’s very Christian here.’

The baroness gave a mighty yawn. ‘All right, all right, Betsy. Let’s get going. I’ll sort Horace out in the car.’ She looked at her watch. ‘How far are we from the hotel?’