W is for Wasted (Kinsey Millhone 23)

I pulled into the parking lot at 4:59 P.M. just as a United flight was trundling along the runway toward Gate 4. It was a small commuter craft, one of the no-frills short hops where the best one could hope for in the way of food-and-beverage service is a box containing two small pieces of Chiclets chewing gum. The flight attendant would offer the gum in a wicker basket and you were welcome to help yourself as long as you took only one. I was in no particular rush, thinking William would be last off the plane, hampered by his painful, possibly life-threatening condition.

I passed through the ticketing area and out the French doors into the small grassy courtyard. I took my place near the chest-high stucco wall and watched through the length of window glass along the top as a uniformed gate agent pushed a wheelchair toward the prop jet. The engines shut down. Stairs were rolled into place. After a brief delay, the door was wrenched open, and William appeared, his cane hooked over his arm. The natural eddies of air along the runway ruffled his white hair and tugged at his suit coat. A stewardess followed in his wake, supporting him gently by the elbow as he came down the stairs. He didn’t actually smack her hand, but he was visibly offended by the gesture, and he jerked his arm free. He was properly attired for travel in the same dark three-piece suit he wore for funerals and visitations. He took his time, descending the portable stairs like a toddler, first one foot down and joined by the other before he undertook the next. The remaining passengers crowded against the doorway, trying to determine what the traffic jam was about. William was not to be hurried. He was an elegant gentleman, with the same lean frame Henry had been graced with. When he reached the tarmac, he turned and waited at the foot of the stairs, leaning on his cane while the other passengers pushed past him, giving him cross looks.

The pilot appeared next, carrying a bulky red canvas duffel bag with a mesh panel on each end. Behind the pilot, the copilot, or possibly the flight engineer, stepped out of the plane toting William’s black rolling suitcase. Somehow he’d not only claimed the right to deplane first, but he’d enlisted the assistance of the entire crew. They’d probably jumped at the chance to be shed of him. Whatever the motivation, William seemed to take the personal ministrations for granted.

As far as I could tell, he was fine—ambulatory at any rate. He had the pilot place the canvas duffel in the wheelchair, which he manned himself, pushing it toward the terminal. When he caught sight of me, he winced and placed a hand at the small of his back as though stricken with sharp pain. The copilot/flight engineer extended the handle on William’s suitcase and tagged after him dutifully, pulling it along behind. As William and his merry band approached the terminal, I moved out to meet them and took over responsibility for the suitcase, murmuring my thanks to the crew.

William paused and leaned his weight on the handles of the wheelchair. “Let me catch my breath,” he said. “It’s been a rough trip. Three stops and just as many changes of aircraft.”

I suspected he was hoping to generate a touch of sympathy, which I offered obligingly before he could up the ante. “You must be exhausted,” I said.

“Not to worry. I just need a moment.”

“Why don’t you take advantage of the wheelchair and let me push you? It’ll save you a few steps.”

“No, no. I like to do for myself . . . while I’m able,” he added. “You might bring the car around. I doubt I can make it as far as the parking lot. I’ll rest on one of the benches out front.”

“What about checked bags?”

“This is it.”

I decided I might as well take the duffel as long as I was heading for the car. I could put it in the trunk and then swing around and pick him up. I grabbed the satchel by the handle and lifted it from the seat of the wheelchair. It was heavier than I’d anticipated and the contents shifted as though he’d packed a bowling ball without securing it properly. I said, “Whoa! What have you got in here?”

I set it down and leaned over so I could peer through the mesh. A hissing white cat, topped with patches of caramel and black, put its ears back and spat. I jerked away, my heart hammering. This cat was the equivalent of the one in horror movies, jumping out when you’re expecting the guy with the bloody butcher knife. “Where did that come from?” I asked, patting my chest.

“I brought the cat,” he said complacently. “I couldn’t bear to leave it behind. Lewis was going to take it to the pound.”

“I’m not surprised. Talk about a cranky beast.”

“Not as cranky as it would have been if I hadn’t prevailed. I wanted to have the cat with me in the cabin, but the ticket agent refused. I knew there’d be room under the seat in front of me, but she said it was the cargo hold or nothing. Her supervisor was just as argumentative until I mentioned my attorney.”