Read Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote) Online

Authors: Jessica Fletcher

Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote) (33 page)

BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote)
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“I agree with what you say,” I told him, “but I don’t think we can wait that long. Kathy’s sister needs medical attention—fast. So do you. We’ll make it as long as you’re able to tell me what to do.”
 
 
“How many hours have you got in a plane?” he asked.
 
 
“Fifty-seven.”
 
 
“That ain’t much.”
 
 
“It’s enough,” I assured him.
 
 
I turned to where Kathy was sitting on the floor with Willie. “We’ve got to get moving,” I said. “We’ll take Willie first and get her settled in the rearmost seat. Then we’ll take Mr. Nice and put him where you and he were on the trip here. You can keep an eye on him that way.”
 
 
Kathy picked up a can of chili and waved it in front of Howard, who for additional security had been tied to the leg of a heavy table. “This comes with me, you creep,” she said. His eyes opened wide and he focused on the can. “Got it?”
 
 
He nodded. I smiled, and almost applauded. My docile, peaceful friend from Cabot Cove was showing an entirely different side.
 
 
“Then,” I continued, “we get Mr. Borosky into his right-hand seat. Okay?”
 
 
“Let’s do it,” Kathy said.
 
 
We fashioned a crude splint from a board taken from the top of the table and used it to stabilize Willie’s mangled leg, which was grotesque to look at—twisted, displaced, and colored in myriad shades of black and purple. We gave Howard’s weapon to Borosky to use if Howard tried anything, which was highly unlikely considering the way we’d trussed him up, but better safe than sorry. Between us, Kathy and I successfully got Willie, who held on to her sack of gold, to the plane. Squeezing her into the rear seat while trying to minimize her pain was an almost impossible chore, but we finally succeeded and returned to the cabin to transport Howard back along the same route. Carrying him was a torturous task that left us breathless. After wedging him into his seat and further tying him down, we sat on the dock to regain our energy.
 
 
“Why don’t you go back and get Mr. Borosky?” I suggested. “I want to get in the plane and acclimate myself.”
 
 
Kathy looked up into the heavy gray clouds that threatened to engulf us. She grabbed my hand. “Do you really think we’ll make it?” she asked.
 
 
Had I answered honestly, I would have said, “I don’t know.” But this was no time for pessimism. I said instead, “Of course we will. Flying this old Beaver can’t be that much different from the plane I fly back home. Besides, we have Superwoman with us.”
 
 
“Superwoman?”
 
 
“You.” I gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “And Mr. Borosky is an old hand at flying in these conditions. Between us, we’ll do just fine.” I stood and pulled her to her feet. “Go on, now, get him. Every minute counts.”
 
 
There was a moment right after Borosky had been settled in the right-hand seat when I thought he was about to pass out. But when I asked how he felt, he smiled and said, “Don’t you worry about me, lady. You just do what I say and get us home.”
 
 
“Yes, sir,” I said, and gave him a snappy salute.
 
 
I did not get off to an auspicious start. I followed his instructions about how to start the engine. That went fine. But then he said, “Might be a good idea if you untie us from the dock before you drag the whole damn thing behind us.”
 
 
I opened my door, got out, and did as instructed. I remembered the way he’d pushed off with his leg in Ketchikan, and I did the same, but my legs were shorter than his and I had to fairly hang out of the plane to accomplish it.
 
 
“Okay,” he said, “here’s where flyin’ a float and a landplane are different. On land, the plane’ll sit still unless you make it go. Out on the water, the current and wind’ll take it where you don’t want to go. Give it some juice.”
 
 
I advanced the throttle and we began to taxi slowly toward the center of the cove. “That’s it,” he said. “Pull that yoke back into your gut, lady, and hold it there. That’ll keep the nose up. Less spray on the prop.”
 
 
When we reached the middle of the cove, Borosky told me to position the aircraft facing into the wind. I would have done that even without his advice, knowingfrom my previous flying experience that you always try to take off and land into the wind.
 
 
“Okay,” he said, “let’s go down the CARS list.” He didn’t give me a chance to ask what that meant, and started ticking off a list of pre-takeoff procedures— carburetor heat control off, checking the area ahead to make sure it was clear, water rudders up, and the control yoke held back against my stomach: CARS—carb heat, area clear, rudders up, stick back. Borosky had to show me where things were. A floatplane, I quickly learned, had two sets of rudders, one on the rear of the floats for use in the water, and the other on the tail, just as in any airplane.
 
 
“You ready to roll, lady?” Borosky asked.
 
 
“I’d better be,” I said, trying to keep a rapidly developing set of nerves out of my voice.
 
 
“All right,” Borosky said, “here’s what you do. Give her full throttle, hold back that stick, and keep holding it back until you feel that it’s stabilized. Then you can relax the yoke and let it go to the neutral position, or maybe even a little forward. You’ll feel us start to plane. When you’ve got enough speed to lift off, I’ll tell you.”
 
 
I have to admit that at that moment, I considered canceling, turning around, heading back to the dock, and huddling in the cabin until we got lucky and someone came upon us—a fisherman or a hunter, or maybe the police once they realized we were gone. But I reminded myself that there was too much at stake. I didn’t think Borosky would last through the night, and I had my doubts about Wilimena, too. And, of course, there was the matter of our bound-and-gagged passenger in the seat behind me.
 
 
I closed my eyes for a moment, opened them, and advanced the throttle as far as it would go. The idling engine responded immediately and roared to life. As it did, the Beaver started its takeoff run down the length of Walker Cove, picking up speed, but not as quickly as I’d assumed it would. The spray from the front of the floats cascaded over the windshield, making it almost impossible to see. I remembered what I’d been taught when taking flying lessons in Cabot Cove: to use a light touch on the controls and to let the airplane fly itself. Once I did that, I could feel what Borosky had said would happen—the nose of the plane stabilized, followed by the sensation of the floats skimming over the water. The aircraft was becoming lighter.
 
 
“That’s it,” Borosky said into the microphone attached to his headset. “Take her up.”
 
 
I pulled back on the yoke, just a bit, enough to cause the floats to lift off the water.
 
 
We were airborne!
 
 
Kathy let out a gleeful yelp, and I exhaled a breath I’d been holding since starting the takeoff roll. Borosky was instrument rated, of course, which meant we could have flown in the clouds had he been at the controls. Because he wasn’t, we had to stay beneath the base of the clouds, which were only a thousand feet above us. Altitude, as every pilot knows, can be your best ally in the event of an emergency such as engine failure. I was uncomfortable maintaining our low altitude, but as the flight progressed I became less tense. I had the feel of the plane now, although it took a lot more work to keep it in straight-and-level flight than it did in my trusty rented Cessna back home.
 
 
Borosky used his left hand to operate one of the Beaver’s radios and reported to the appropriate en route air-traffic-control people. “We’ve got us some medical emergencies,” he barked into his microphone. “A woman who looks like death warmed over and whose leg is pretty badly busted up, and yours truly. Got shot in the shoulder, and it ain’t worth much at the moment. Oh, one other thing. We’ve got us a criminal all wrapped up in the backseat. Request the law be at the dock in Ketchikan when we arrive.”
 
 
“Trooper McQuesten,” I said. “And Detective Flowers.”
 
 
Borosky added those names to his radioed request.
 
 
As we exited the Behm Canal and made a right turn in the direction of Ketchikan, I sensed that Borosky was breathing heavily, actually gasping at times. I glanced over to see him leaning against his door, opening and closing his eyes, and slowly shaking his head.
 
 
“You okay?” I asked.
 
 
Kathy leaned forward and placed her hand on his neck. “He’s getting cold and clammy,” she said.
 
 
“Great,” I muttered under my breath. “Don’t fade out on me now, Mr. Borosky.”
 
 
The radio crackled to life, asking for an update on our position and condition. I pressed the microphone button on the yoke and responded, explaining what was happening in the aircraft and telling them of my limited flying experience. I was told to continue in the direction we were heading and to await further instructions.A few minutes later, a different male voice came through my headset.
 
 
“This is Roy Mann,” he said. “I’m a floatplane pilot. Sounds like you’re doing just fine.”
 
 
“I was,” I replied, “but the injured pilot to my right has started to fade in and out of consciousness. He’s been talking me through it up to now. I’ve never landed a floatplane and—”
 
 
Mann interrupted me. “Not to worry. I’ll get you down safely. Sounds like Bobby’s not doing too good.”
 
 
“He needs to get to a hospital quickly. So does the female passenger.”
 
 
“We have two ambulances on the way as we speak. Now, here’s what I want you to do—”
 
 
Mann’s soothing, unflustered voice calmed me, and he guided me every step of the way. I followed his instructions to the letter, leading us down to a smooth landing I didn’t think I had any possibility of making. It was difficult controlling the plane because of the current and the winds, but I managed, and soon the Beaver nudged gently against one of many docks in the downtown Ketchikan area. I looked through my window. There must have been a hundred people standing there. Ambulances and police cars, their red emergency lights flashing, created a multicolored kaleidoscope.
 
 
I killed the engine, opened my door, and got out on shaky legs, grabbing the wing for support. Kathy followed. A man tied the plane to the dock. Applause broke out. Trooper McQuesten and Detective Flowers, followed by a cadre of uniformed officers, came over to us.
 
 
“I have never been so happy to see anyone in my life,” I said to McQuesten.
 
 
“That goes double for me,” Kathy added.
 
 
McQuesten looked inside the plane at Howard. “Him?” he said.
 
 
“Yes,
him
,” I said. “He’s a murderer. On top of that, he tried to steal Wilimena Copeland’s gold.”
 
 
McQuesten shook his head. “You’ll have to sort this out for me,” he said.
 
 
“Happy to,” I said, “but over a good dinner. I am absolutely starving.”
 
 
“It’ll be my treat,” McQuesten said.
 
 
Some of his officers removed Howard from the plane and carried him to one of their vehicles. Once that had been accomplished, emergency medical technicians went to work extracting Willie and Borosky from the Beaver and rushing them into the waiting ambulances. Wilimena still clutched the bag of gold, but Kathy gently took it from her as the stretcher passed. “It’ll be safer with me,” she told her sister, who didn’t argue.
 
 
Bush pilot Roy Mann joined us.
 
 
“We all owe you a large debt of thanks,” I said.
 
 
“It was my pleasure,” he said, laughing. “I felt like I was in one of those Doris Day movies talking down a stewardess flying a 747 after the pilots were killed. Hey, you did great flying Bobby’s Beaver. Anytime you want a job flying the bush, give me a call.”
BOOK: Murder, She Wrote: Panning For Murder: Panning For Murder (Murder She Wrote)
7.44Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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