But to her mind, the cigar was a fatal flaw.
Why on earth would a woman want to get intimate with someone like him? she mused.
April cautioned herself that, objectionable or not, he’d seated himself around the fireplace first. But he’s stinking up the whole place with that thing.
“Excuse me,” April said, giving in to her irritation.
“Yes?” the man answered without looking at her.
“Would you mind not smoking that in here, please?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, taking an even deeper drag on the cigar and blowing the smoke out slowly. “As a matter of fact, I would mind not smoking this in here.” He grinned at her. He was in his thirties, she figured, and obviously an arrogant maverick. “After all, this is the smoking section,” he said. “That’s why they have ashtrays here.”
April tried to suppress her surprise. “They allow smoking here?”
“Yes, ma’am. This is Alaska. We aren’t very po-litically cor-rect up here,” he said, emphasizing the first syllables. He grinned at her, flashing surprisingly perfect teeth as he pulled on the cigar once more.
April rolled her eyes and stood up, moving away from the fireplace seating as she punched the number Gracie had provided into her cell phone.
“Puffin Flying Service,” a male voice answered on the second ring.
“This is April Rosen. I believe a Miss Gracie O’Brien arranged a charter from Anchorage to Valdez for me today?”
“That’s right, Miss Rosen. It’s all ready for you.”
“Yeah, well, I was told the pilot would meet me in the lobby of the Regal Alaskan, and I have yet to find him.”
“I know for a fact he’s there,” the man said, his voice echoing slightly, which was puzzling. She checked the volume of the cell phone’s earpiece, but it seemed normal.
“Have you talked to him? Where exactly is he?”
“Well, in a way I’ve talked to him, because he is me, and I know I’m here waiting for you. I’m your pilot.”
“You’re here?”
“Yes. In the lobby.”
April scanned the front desk and the entrance to the bar as well as the staircase without success.
“But where? I don’t see you.”
“Right this second I’m watching a very attractive lady who hates cigars talk on her cell phone.”
This time the echo of his voice in her free ear was too loud to ignore, and April turned toward the fireplace. The man with the handlebar mustache was grinning as he waved his cigar at her and nodded toward his cell phone.
Oh, great! she thought, punching off the call. She waited for him to approach, taking his offered hand reluctantly as she tried to ignore the firm grip and slightly calloused feel of his palm.
“Do you always treat your clients this rudely?” she asked.
He chuckled. “Just having a little fun. April, is it?”
“Miss Rosen will do fine,” she replied, a frosty edge in her voice.
“All right. Miss Rosen, then,” he said evenly.
“I’m not flying with an armed incendiary device. Understood?” she said, pointing to the cigar.
“It’s actually a Cuesta-Rey number ninety-five, but if you insist…”
“And I do.”
“Then I’ll be glad to put it out of your misery.” He pulled a black tube from his pocket and carefully inserted the still-burning cigar before screwing the lid in place.
“What are you doing?” April yelped. “That thing’s still on fire.”
“This is a new toy. It keeps a burning cigar nice and fresh for later,” he said, grinning at her, “although I’m sure you think a fresh cigar is an oxymoron.”
“Where’s your aircraft, Mr. McDermott?”
“Captain McDermott, if you please,” he said with mock seriousness. “Or, you can call me Scott. Your choice.”
“Very well, Captain. Where’s your plane?”
“Off the back deck of the bar, Miss Rosen.” He offered his arm. “May I escort you?”
“You may not. Just lead the way.”
“You have baggage?”
Just you, she thought, barely stifling a strong urge to voice the comeback that popped into her head. Gracie was obviously a bad influence. She nodded instead and pointed to a shoulder bag and a wheeled overnight bag, which he picked up after putting on his parka. He motioned her out through the Fancy Moose bar onto the terrace and the concrete walkway that was slick with Canada goose droppings all the way down to the water.
The small, six-seat 1952 Grumman Widgeon amphibian Gracie had chartered was tied up to the hotel’s tiny dock. Two small engines sat atop the wing, close into the fuselage, making the diminutive flying boat almost an abbreviated version of her father’s Albatross.
McDermott opened the side door along the left flank and loaded the bags before stepping back to let her maneuver herself inside and up between the seats into the right seat of the cockpit. He followed, securing the door and handing her a headset.
“Now, Miss Rosen, this aircraft can take off and land on water, and—”
She had her right hand up to stop him. “I’m a licensed private pilot with an instrument rating. And, I’ve got a floatplane ticket. So please don’t try to snow me.”
McDermott looked hurt. “What makes you think I’d do such a thing?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Let’s just call it instinct.”
She saw him studying her eyes for a few seconds before chuckling and turning his attention to pulling an ancient, yellowed checklist from a sidewall pocket. He plopped it in her lap and pointed to it.
“If you’re a licensed pilot, you’re working crew, and in this case, you’re my copilot, whether you’re paying the bill or not.”
“Okay.”
“You read the checklist, follow my instructions, and speak up the instant there’s anything you think I should know.”
“Like, how to treat a woman and a client?”
“Well, what I had more in mind was a dramatic reading of the before-starting-engines checklist.” He arched his eyebrows in an attempt to look innocent, and the effect was too comical to ignore. In spite of herself, April started to chuckle. She tore her eyes away from him and looked at the checklist, clearing her throat and adjusting the microphone before speaking. “Very well. In the beginning, ’twas a dark and stormy night. Master switch?”
“Now, that’s dramatic,” McDermott said, grinning. “And my line is, ‘On.’”
“Preflight?”
“Complete.”
“Control locks?” April continued to the end of the checklist items and watched as he cranked both engines.
The takeoff from the glassy surface of the lake was quick, the Widgeon lifting off smoothly at eighty miles per hour and pitching up rather dramatically as McDermott banked to the east and began climbing, topping the Chugach Range at ten thousand before setting a course directly for Valdez. The engine noise was deafening, and April spent the time concentrating on the beauty of the passing terrain, aware that McDermott was sneaking long looks at her, running his eyes along her body when he thought she wasn’t looking.
Male chauvinist porker, she concluded, forcing her thoughts back to the challenge of raising her father’s aircraft.
The focus was the propeller on the Albatross’s right engine. She hoped, when they pulled it to the surface, only two of the three propeller blades would still be in place, and the third would be either partially or completely missing. The conclusions would then be obvious and ruinous to the FAA’s case. A thrown blade in flight would horribly unbalance an engine, creating an unbearable vibration sufficient to tear the engine off the wing, or lead to the loss of the aircraft.