Nothing to Lose (J.P. Beaumont #25)(69)

“What do you need?”

“My understanding is that during the initial investigation you told Lieutenant Caldwell that you didn’t believe Jack’s death was a suicide. How come?”

“Shelley had given them some sob story about his being depressed about not being able to fly again, and that’s bullshit.”

Chad Winkleman, like his sister, didn’t believe in mincing his words.

“Why’s that?”

“Who says amputees can’t fly planes?” Chad returned. “Shelley had filled his head with all kinds of crap about never being able to fly again. With the sorts of prosthetics they make these days, amputees can do damned near anything they want, including running in marathons, and that’s exactly what I told him, but I don’t doubt the man was depressed. If I’da been stuck with a bitch like Shelley, I’d be depressed, too. I think he was finally seeing the writing on the wall, that she had only married him for his money. He was fixing to do something about that when he crashed the plane.”

“You know this how?”

“He told me.”

“When?”

“A couple of weeks before the crash,” Chad replied. “It felt like great news. to me, I’ll tell you—like he was finally catching on to what she was really like. Next thing I knew, he was in the hospital with both legs hacked off below the knee. I was over in town on business one day and went to see him in the hospital in Anchorage. Shelley was there, acting like she was Jack’s self-appointed guardian angel. It made me want to puke.”

“Was there ever any indication that someone might have tampered with his aircraft?”

“None,” Chad answered. “The Air Transportation Safety guys ruled it an accident, a combination of bad weather and pilot error.”

“Was anyone else privy to that conversation between you and Jack where he told you his marriage was going south?”

“Nope,” Chad answered, “it was just the two of us. He had some upcoming maintenance work he wanted done, and he’d stopped by my office to talk about that. Before it was over, he ended up crying in his beer about what was going on at home.”

“Beer?” I asked.

“Not beer,” Chad admitted. “Jack was always partial to tequila, and so am I.”

Evidently tequila is something of a big deal in Homer.

“My understanding is that at some point after the crash he asked you to do some modifications to one of his planes.”

“I told him that was so much balderdash—that with the right prosthetics he’d be able to fly just fine, but there were a few adjustments that would have made it easier for him to get in and out."

“When did he ask you about that?”

“Not sure,” Chad said. “We talked about that on the phone. I’m pretty sure he was out of the hospital by then. Maybe he was home, maybe he was still in rehab. I can’t say. But like I told the cops back then, a guy who’s asking you to fix his aircraft isn’t someone who’s ready to do himself in because he can’t fly anymore. Unfortunately, once the M.E. in Anchorage determined Jack’s death as a suicide, that was the end of it. Next thing I knew, Shelley was on my doorstep asking for help unloading his planes.”

“What did you do?”

“What do you think?” he asked. “Jack was a friend of mine. Shelley might have been a ring-tailed bitch, but she was off the hook as far as law enforcement was concerned, and money’s money. I made whatever repairs were needed the planes and then sold ’em. Truth be told, I mighta charged a higher commission than I should have. Does my conscience bother me about that? Not one damned bit!”

“You sold them all?” I asked.

“All but one,” he replied. “She held back the newest Piper to keep for her own use.”

“Just to confirm, no matter what the M.E. says, you don’t believe that Jack Loveday committed suicide.”

“Absolutely not! Jack was a serious drinker. He wasn’t someone to sit around sipping fancy cocktails. I think she laced his tequila with a dose of whatever, and he drank it down without even tasting it. Hell of a way to treat your valentine.”

I couldn’t have agreed more.

“Do you need anything else?” he asked.

“Not at this time.”

Chad took a breath. “So how’d you meet up with my sister?”

“Just lucky,” I said. “I needed a driver, and she happened to be available.”

“She’s a good driver,” he allowed, “as long as you don’t mind breathing all that cigarette smoke. Why don’t you put her back on?”

I was tempted to tell him, You can say that again about the cigarette smoke, but I knew better. I kept my mouth glued shut and handed the phone over to Twink.





Chapter 24




Breakfast had taken longer than expected, and by the time Twink and I left Zig’s Place, it was verging on nine. Naturally Todd had provided addresses for that day’s worth of interviewees. While Twink navigated us to Betsy Norman’s place on Bonanza Avenue, I decided to give Mel a call.

As soon as I heard her groggy hello, I knew I had awakened her out of a sound sleep. “What time is it?” she mumbled.

“Nine here,” I told her, “so ten there. I didn’t mean to wake you.”