A Fatal Feast by Jessica Fletcher Page B

laughs it off, but he had to be concerned about it at some level. He’d recently purchased the plane that we were flying that day, and although he’d bought it used, I knew that it stretched his finances. It’s a lovely four-seat single-engine airplane, and Jed had added state-of-the-art electronic gear and avionics to bring it up-to-date. Of course, what was most important was his piloting skill honed by thousands of hours in large commercial jet aircraft, preceded by five years as a military pilot. He’s a capable, meticulous professional, and I’ve never had a moment’s apprehension flying with him.
    “All gassed up and ready to go?” I asked as Nick drove away.
    “Yes, ma’am,” Jed replied.
    If a film director were to contact Central Casting for the quintessential pilot, Jed would fit the bill. His face is square, his jaw strong. He’s stocky and keeps himself fit. The multitude of lines around his eyes and on his forehead testifies to all his hours in a cockpit squinting into the sun. He hadn’t lost a single strand of his salt-and-pepper hair despite being in his midfifties. He wore what he usually did when ferrying people in one of his aircraft: jeans, a blue button-down shirt, and a tan vest of the type worn by photographers, which as he proudly pointed out had twenty-six pockets: “My answer to a woman’s purse. I can live for a week on what I carry in these pockets.”
    After a preflight walk around, we climbed into the plane. Jed had me take the left-hand seat because I’d be doing the actual flying, at least until we entered the crowded sky around Boston. That’s when things get busy and complicated with all the necessary communications with air-traffic control. But on a recent flight to Boston, Jed had insisted that I pilot the plane all the way, with him handling the radio chatter: “Might as well get used to it,” he explained. At the time, I’d been as nervous as a cat up a tree when we entered the city’s airspace, but managed to land with only one or two hops, and Jed had flashed me the okay sign when we drew to a stop in the airport’s designated area for small craft. Today, if Jed gave me the same freedom, I hoped to pull off a no-hop landing.
    We took off. I looked down as my beloved Cabot Cove slipped away, becoming smaller and smaller the higher we climbed. Jed dialed in the receiver for the global-positioning satellite; we’d fly on autopilot right up until approaching Boston’s Logan Airport. It was a lovely day to fly, crisp and cool, the sky a cobalt blue with only a rare wispy white cloud far above us. Once we reached our desired cruising altitude, we sat back and allowed the autopilot to guide us to our destination.
    “Understand you’re havin’ a desperate time with that book of yours,” he commented. “Can’t make any headway, the way I hear it.”
    “And where did you pick up that piece of news, Jed?”
    “Somewhere in town.”
    “Well,” I said, “the rumor is true, but I’ll figure out a way to finish it. It’s too important not to.”
    “You’re probably just excited about seeing your Scottish beau.”
    I laughed. “I am excited to see him, but I wouldn’t call George ‘my beau.’ We’re close friends, that’s all.”
    He nodded that he agreed, although the wry smile on his rugged face said something else.
    “He staying with you?” he asked.
    I shook my head. “No. Seth Hazlitt has agreed to put him up.”
    “How’d you wrangle that?”
    “George coming for Thanksgiving was a last-minute decision. All the hotels and B-and-Bs were booked. I asked Seth, and he said yes.”
    “Doc’s a good man, but you already know that. He give you that package he picked up yet?”
    “What package is that?”
    “Aw, now, mebbe I shouldn’t have said anything.”
    “But you already have,” I said.
    “Well, I flew Doc up to Portland last week. I was going up there anyway to pick up some parts and he hitched a ride with me. He said flying with me would