fate of Frannie and Colt.”
“One of these days I want to meet ‘the people,’” an older woman grumbled, “because I don’t give a rat’s ass about Frannie and Colt, either. I just care about that last piece of coconut pie sitting over in that case.” She raised her voice. “Miss, you earmark that pie for me, okay?”
Wyatt managed to get in an order of grilled ham and cheese on rye and coffee while listening to the reporters grouse and catching the locals—two men in flannel shirts at one of the booths—grinning at the wild-goose chase Penelope Chestnut had put them on. From what he gathered, she’d done this sort of thing before. Maybe not this precise thing—crying wolf about a famous long-missing plane—but stirring up trouble in her small lakeside village.
Then he got it. A scrap of conversation, a link between what was being said on one end of the diner and the other.
Miss Penelope was a pilot.
Wyatt smiled. Pilots he understood. He wasn’t one himself, but he’d hung out with them, used their services and appealed to their sense of adventure for most of his twenties and the first two years of his thirties. Now he was thirty-four, a suit behind a desk. He grimaced and drank his coffee and ate his sandwich. When he paid his tab, he got directions to the airport from the waitress.
“Penelope won’t be there,” she said. “She’s flying today. And she’s not talking to reporters.”
Wyatt didn’t disabuse her of her notion that he was a reporter. As instructed, he followed the main road the way he’d come, turned left at a flower shop, followed that road—its massive potholes and frost heaves required bright orange warning signs—until he came to a perfunctory green sign that said Airport. Bingo. He turned onto a barely paved country road, bounced over it until he came to a precious stretch of flat land. The Cold Spring Airport. It wasn’t much of an airport, but he hadn’t expected much. The one runway and three small hangars fit with his image of the woman who said she’d found Frannie and Colt’s plane, then said she didn’t.
He rocked and rolled over the undulating dirt parking lot and did his best to avoid the huge holes that had opened up with the warming temperatures. They’d filled with water that, presumably, would ice overnight and melt again tomorrow. Leaves on the trees, flowers and green grass all seemed a long, long way off.
Wyatt parked next to a mud-spattered hunter-green truck. It had four-wheel drive. So did the SUV next to it. His car did not. The air was damp and cold, the kind that got into the bones. He picked his way through water-filled holes to a small, squat building with a crude sign indicating Office. People did get to the point around here.
A sixtyish man stood out front, glaring at the gray tree line. Without even glancing at Wyatt, he said, “If you’re from the press, the story’s over. You can go home.”
“I’m not a reporter.”
He turned, but Wyatt sensed his mind was still on whatever he expected to find on the tree line. “What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for Penelope Chestnut. As I said, I’m not a reporter, but I would like to talk to her about what she found in the woods.”
The older man’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re a Sinclair.”
His tone hadn’t changed. He fit the stereotype of the naturally stoic, taciturn New Englander. Wyatt checked his surprise. “Yes, I’m Wyatt Sinclair. Colt was my uncle.”
“You’re Brandon’s boy.”
It wasn’t a question, but Wyatt said, “That’s right.”
A heavy, fatalistic sigh, as if he should have expected a Sinclair to wander into town. “Your father sent his own investigator, you know. Jack Dunning. He’s flying up—he’s taking a detour over your family’s land first. I suppose he’ll try to spot Penelope’s dump.”
“Jack’s thorough. I’m here for my own reasons.”
“I see. Well, Penelope’ll be coming over those treetops in about three minutes. She’s low on fuel. Not paying attention. Too damned much going on. I never should have let her fly today.” He bit off an irritated sigh. “I’m her father, Lyman Chestnut.” He put out a hand, and they shook briefly. “I knew your grandfather, and your father and uncle.”
Wyatt nodded. His father had never mentioned Lyman Chestnut.
“I was fifteen when Colt disappeared,” the older man went on. “Tough break. It happens. We had a plane go down about an hour west of here a couple years ago, and it still hasn’t been found.”
He stared at the horizon, and Wyatt got the message. Whatever he might believe about what his daughter had found on Sunday, Lyman Chestnut was on her side.
The office door opened, and a heavyset woman thrust her hands on her ample hips and said, “Jesus Christ, Lyman, I can’t believe that girl! She says she’s running on fumes. She’s going to land. You want me to get the ambulance and fire department up here?”
“Get the police, because when this is over, one of us is going to be arrested. Her or me. I’ve had it, Mary. She’s crossed the line.”
Mary snorted. “Now, how many times have I heard that?”
A small Beechcraft materialized above the treetops, and Lyman Chestnut held his breath. Wyatt thought everything looked just fine. It seemed to have good speed. A normal descent. It landed smoothly on the single paved runway without a hitch.
Lyman breathed out with a whoosh, but his relief only lasted a moment before he clenched his teeth. “Goddamn it, this time she’s grounded.” He turned to the gray-haired woman, who still had her hands on her hips and was shaking her head in disgust, whether because Penelope had landed safely or didn’t have the close call she apparently deserved Wyatt couldn’t tell. Lyman pointed a thick finger at her. “Mary, you hear that? I’m grounding her. I own the goddamned plane. I’m her goddamned boss. I can goddamned ground her.”
So much for stoic and taciturn. Wyatt judiciously kept quiet.
“For how long?” Mary asked.
“Thirty days.”
“She’ll go crazy. She’ll drive all of us crazy.”
“Three weeks, then.”
Wyatt stood between two dripping icicles and watched Lyman march up to the Beechcraft. He moved at a fast, determined clip. He wasn’t a big man, a couple inches under six feet, and his granitelike features didn’t bode well for the woman in the cockpit, given that they were related.
By the time he arrived, Penelope Chestnut had jumped onto the runway, beaming, no indication she’d given herself a scare.
“Well, well,” Wyatt said under his breath.
He assessed her from a distance. Gray flight suit that would have done NASA proud, dark blond hair in a fat braid that had long since gone wild, athletic body, height just an inch or two under her father’s—and attractive. Not cute or elegantly beautiful, but striking. Unless the package all fell apart a few yards closer, Penelope Chestnut was not what Wyatt had expected. On his way north, he’d developed two different images of what he’d find. Both were older than he was. Neither had her flying planes. In one, she was the stereotypical pinch-faced New Englander with no makeup, faded turtleneck and tweeds, sensible shoes. In the second, she was the dairy farmer and earth mother. Cows, kids, land, gardens, dogs, cats, maybe a few chickens.
Obviously he’d been way off the mark.
Lyman Chestnut started in on her, pointing a callused finger, and Penelope about-faced and walked off as if they’d done this all before. Her father hollered so half the state of New Hampshire could hear. “I don’t give a good goddamn if you were in control of the situation, you’re still grounded!”
She stuck her tongue out at him. Without turning around. That bit of prudence was the only point Wyatt had seen so far in Lyman’s parenting