Strangers in an Airport
As Stephen Merritt straightened his tie in the mirror, he looked at his wife's cosmetics strewn across the bathroom vanity and turned his head away in disgust. Not all of Max Factor's arsenal could make his aging wife anything other than a frumpy woman with an unremarkable face. In all truth—Stephen had many shortcomings but dishonesty was not one of them—it had not been her looks or her personality that attracted him to the former Veronica Throckmorton. He pursued and married the homely spinster, a woman twenty years his senior, solely because of her great wealth.
At first the union had been a satisfactory one for both parties. Veronica knew what she was getting: a good-looking boy toy, a trophy husband. In return, Stephen got a sports car, a closet full of designer clothes and a five-figure monthly allowance to spend as he chose.
Unfortunately, the handsome young man had not anticipated falling in love. If his wife were the object of his affections, his life might have been an extremely happy one; but it was a casual acquaintance he met at a cocktail party, a shapely and vivacious blonde, who stole his heart. For six months, the two were having an affair, enjoying clandestine trysts in out-of-the-way motels throughout northeast Massachusetts. The stolen hours, though, were no longer enough for Stephen. He wanted a more permanent relationship. He wanted to marry Shawna Adams, his mistress, but he already had a wife.
Damn that prenup! he thought angrily.
As long as he and Veronica were together, he would continue to lead the good life. If the marriage ended, however, so, too, would his affluent lifestyle.
"Leaving so soon?" his wife asked as he passed her in the hallway on his way toward the front door. "I thought we'd have breakfast together. I told the cook to make you an omelet."
"Sorry, dear. The meeting has been moved up," he lied—all right, sometimes dishonesty was one of his shortcomings. "That means I've got to catch an earlier flight."
Given his wife's net worth, Stephen did not have to work for a living. Still, he kept his part-time job as a marketing consultant out of pride. He did not want the world to see him as the kept man of a middle-aged heiress.
"When will you be back?" Veronica asked with a pout.
"Wednesday night," he replied.
Then he kissed her on the cheek and hurried out of the house. By his calculations, he had just enough time for a quickie with Shawna before catching his plane.
* * *
The traffic to Logan Airport was lighter than Stephen had expected, but when he entered the terminal, he learned his flight was delayed due to mechanical trouble. After checking his bag, he went to the bar for a drink. He had just ended a phone call with a perspective client when another delayed passenger sat down on the stool next to his and ordered a Scotch and soda.
"You waiting for Flight 106, too?" the stranger asked as the bartender prepared his drink.
"Yeah. Just my luck."
"Tell me about it! I've got a gorgeous babe waiting for me in Chicago, and I'm stuck here in Boston for two more hours."
The stranger took out his cell phone, punched in a number and spoke in a low voice, his head turned away from Stephen. His desire for privacy notwithstanding, a few phrases carried over the sound of the soft jazz playing on the bar's music system.
"I won't be able to make it tonight ... business in Chicago ... I love you, too."
"Cancel your plans with the hot babe?" Stephen asked, signaling the bartender to refill both glasses.
"No, that was my wife."
Stephen chuckled.
"A wife and a girlfriend: they go together like nitro and glycerin."
"You can keep the drink if it comes with a sermon," the stranger said.
"Don't worry. I'm the last one to preach that lesson."
"You in the same boat?"
"Sure am. I've got a girlfriend that would tempt the pope to break his vow of celibacy. Unfortunately, my wife made me sign a god-dammed ironclad prenuptial agreement. If we get divorced, I get nothing."
"Your old lady loaded?"
"Oh, yeah! Millions."
The stranger, who introduced himself as Dirk Waterhouse, whistled and ordered the next round of drinks.
"What about you?" Stephen asked. "You plan to leave your wife for the other woman?"
"Not likely. My wife's brother is a lawyer and a damned good one. If I left her, he'd make sure she got the house, the kids, the car, the dog and even the goldfish. I'd wind up living in a cheap studio apartment, weighed down by alimony and child support. How about you? You got any kids?"
"No," Stephen answered after he finished off another rum and Coke. "My wife is older than I am, and her childbearing days are behind her."
"What happens if she dies?"
"I would become a very rich and very happy man, but there's not much chance of that happening. Veronica is in excellent health."
"It doesn't seem fair," Dirk pondered aloud. "The happiness of four people is in jeopardy all because your wife and mine are determined to hold us to our wedding vows. Hell, people die every day. The newspaper is full of obituaries of both young and old. Maybe we'll luck out and become widowers."
"You also read about people winning the lottery or hitting the jackpot in a casino, but the odds aren't in our favor," Stephen joked.
Dirk then leaned forward and whispered confidentially, "You ever seen the Hitchcock movie Strangers on a Train?"
"Not that I recall. Why?"
"It's about two guys who meet on a train. Robert Walker wants his rich father dead, and Farley Granger would like to get rid of his wife. They decide to trade murders. That sounds like a swell idea, doesn't it? You kill my wife and I'll kill yours, and no one would be any wiser. You inherit your wife's millions, and I get to keep what's rightfully mine, not to mention the added benefit that we'd both be free men to openly pursue other relationships."
"You've got it all figured out, don't you?" Stephen laughed.
"Thank Hitchcock, not me. What do you say? Have we got a deal?" Dirk asked, offering his hand to seal the pact.
"Sure, why not?" his drinking companion replied, shaking the proffered hand.
Stephen knew the stranger was well on the way to falling down drunk and that he, himself, was not too far behind. When they sobered up, they would no doubt forget the entire conversation.
An hour later the malfunctioning system was repaired, and the passengers boarded the airplane. That was the last Stephen, who was travelling first class, saw of Dirk Waterhouse, who headed toward coach. He promptly put the drunken stranger and his Alfred Hitchcock-inspired plan to swap murders out of his mind.
* * *
Nearly five months later, Stephen Merritt flew home to Boston after a meeting in San Francisco. When his Ferrari turned the corner of Commonwealth Avenue, the returning businessman was alarmed to see several police cars in front of his brownstone.
"What's going on?" he demanded to know.
"Are you Mr. Stephen Merritt?" a young officer inquired.
"Yes. Now tell me what the trouble is."
"I'm sorry to inform you that your wife was found dead by the housekeeper this morning."
"Dead?" Stephen echoed with disbelief. "I didn't even know she was ill."
"She wasn't. At least she didn't die of natural causes. Your wife was shot. Detective Shickley will fill you in on all the details."
The patrolman then led the shocked widower into the house.
"Shickley," the officer called, "here's the victim's husband."
The detective's eyes widened as though he had received a startling but pleasant surprise.
"Just the man I want to talk to," Asa Shickley said with a self-satisfied grin. "Would you mind taking a ride downtown with me, Mr. Merritt?"
"As a matter of fact, I do mind. I just got back from San Francisco, and I want to clean up and get some much-needed sleep. Can't all this wait until tomorrow morning?"
"For a man whose wife has just been murdered, you don't seem too broken up about it."
Hearing a reference to murder come from the detective's mouth placed Veronica's death in a whole new perspective. Stephen had seen enough Law & Order episodes to know that when a woman—especially a rich one—is murdered, her husband invariably becomes the prime suspect. Lucky for him, he had been in San Francisco at the time.
"I don't care for your insinuation, Detective," Stephen countered, trying to maintain the upper hand to which he believed his newly acquired wealth entitled him.
"I'm not implying that you murdered your wife," Shickley declared in a tone that was not in the least apologetic. "I just naturally assumed you'd want to assist the police department in apprehending the perpetrator."
"Of course, I do."
Once again, Stephen felt the shift of power leaning toward the detective.
"I just don't see how I can be of much assistance since I was three thousand miles away when my wife was killed."
"That's convenient, don't you think? I know if I wanted my wife dead, I'd arrange for someone to kill her while I was out of town."
"I didn't hire anyone to murder my wife!"
"I'd much prefer we discuss this down at the station."
"Very well. Let me get my car, and I'll follow you."
As Stephen got behind the wheel of his late model Ferrari, he wished he had bought a BMW or a Mercedes, cars that would have made him look more like a respectable businessman and less like a money-grubbing gigolo.
During the course of the interrogation, the detective made it quite clear that he believed Stephen had conspired to have his wife murdered. He had the means to hire a contract killer, the motive (several million of them, to be precise) and the opportunity not only to hire a killer but also to create an airtight alibi for himself.
Midway through the questioning, Stephen began to get nervous. His left eyelid started to twitch, and perspiration beaded on his forehead. Should he demand to speak to a lawyer, or would such a request make him appear even guiltier in the detective's eyes? In the end, he decided against asking for legal advice. True, there was no way he could prove his innocence, but then there was no way anyone could prove his guilt since he had not been involved in the murder. Veronica's death was a complete surprise to him.
Just after 4:00 a.m., the detective concluded his questioning. Despite his best efforts, Shickley had not gotten the husband to admit to anything. Nevertheless, this was only the start of the investigation. He would run a thorough check on Mr. Merritt and see what came up. He was confident he would be speaking to the wealthy widower again.
* * *
Veronica Merritt's funeral was well attended not only by friends and family but also by the morbidly curious. Here was the murder of a rich socialite with a handsome young husband—a crime worthy of a Dominick Dunne commentary.
Stephen, acting the part of the grieving husband, was oblivious to the thinly veiled looks of accusation from the other mourners. During the three days of viewing and the church service, he projected the image of a man keeping his sorrow under tight control. It was only when the coffin was lowered into the ground that his composure broke, not because he would miss Veronica but because he spied Dirk Waterhouse in the crowd.
After the mourners passed by the casket one last time, they formed a line to offer condolences to the widower. As the stranger from the airport approached him, Stephen's left eyelid began to twitch again.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Dirk announced, as he shook Stephen's hand. He then leaned close and said, "We'll discuss our business arrangement in a few weeks—once you've had time to get your bearings again."
"I wasn't aware you and I had any business arrangement."
Dirk gave a conspiratorial wink of his eye.
"We'll talk again. I promise."
Did the drunken stranger from Logan Airport murder Veronica? Stephen wondered. If so, does he now expect me to murder an innocent woman in return?
* * *
For Stephen the next few weeks were marked by recurring bouts of fear and anxiety. If it was not Detective Asa Shickley harassing him, it was Dirk Waterhouse repeatedly popping up like a stalker wherever Stephen went. As in a James Patterson novel, the suspense mounted. The climax occurred one night in November when the detective confronted him with proof of his affair with Shawna.
"Yes, I was unfaithful to my wife," the widower reluctantly admitted when presented with irrefutable evidence of his adulterous liaison, "but infidelity won't convict me of murder."
"Tell that to Scott Peterson," the detective laughed. "Oh, you can't, can you? He's on death row."
Despite the appearance of culpability the affair presented, Stephen was an innocent man. As such, he was convinced he would never be convicted of first degree murder. His confidence, however, was about to crack, as he encountered Dirk Waterhouse in the police station parking lot.
"Things getting a little hot for you?" the stranger asked.
"Nothing I can't handle," Stephen replied.
"Yet. But what's going to happen when they find the gunman and he produces a tape implicating you in the murder?"
"That's impossible. I never ...."
Dirk reached into his pocket and took out a microcassette recorder. When he pressed the PLAY button, the conversation at Logan Airport was repeated with exceptional clarity.
"How much do you want?" Stephen asked, foolishly hoping the man was nothing more than an amateur blackmailer.
"I don't want any money. I just want you to keep your end of the bargain."
"I never made a bargain with you. It was nothing more than a drunken conversation while we were waiting to board the plane. I never took it seriously."
"Tell that to the police. Look, I killed your wife; now you have to kill mine."
"I'm not a murderer."
"Then hire someone to do the dirty work for you, but either way you owe me."
"If you give that tape to the police, you'll implicate yourself as well."
"All they'll have on me is a nameless, faceless voice. They'll never know my identity."
"I'll tell them."
"And what makes you think I gave you my real name?" Dirk laughed.
Stephen felt himself being painted into a corner.
"If I do reciprocate, will that be the end of it?"
"Quid pro quo. I killed your wife. You kill mine. Afterward, we go our separate ways and never speak again."
What choice have I got? Stephen thought. It's either her or me.
As usual, self-preservation won out.
* * *
The mysterious stranger, who refused to give his or his wife's real name, contacted Stephen again three weeks later.
"Tonight's the night," the voice on the phone announced.
"That doesn't give me much time to prepare."
"It also doesn't give you much time to change your mind. If my wife isn't dead by midnight, the tape gets delivered to Detective Shickley first thing in the morning."
"Okay. How will I know where to find your wife?"
"She's got a late appointment at the beauty salon, so she'll be in the parking garage at the Ocean View Mall right around 10:00 p.m. She always parks on the lower level and walks up the staircase in front of Sears. The stairwell is dark, so no one will see you if you stay in the shadows. She'll be alone. When she passes you, fire two shots to the head and run."
"How can I identify her?"
"She'll be wearing a red coat with a leopard collar and cuffs and a matching hat."
"After I shoot her, I'll never see you again, right?"
"Hey, do you think I want the police to connect the dots between the two murders? Even though Massachusetts has no death penalty, I don't want to spend the rest of my life in prison."
Stephen saw the logic in Dirk's argument. If the police could not connect the two men, they would never connect Stephen to the murder of a strange woman, a person he had no motive to kill.
* * *
That night was a cold one, even for November. By 10:00 p.m. most of the Christmas shoppers had gone home, and there were only a few cars parked in the lower level of the parking garage. The would-be killer stood shivering in the shadows of the stairwell, searching for Dirk's wife. At 10:15 he finally spied the red coat with the leopard trim. Fortunately, there was no one else around.
Stephen waited until the unsuspecting woman reached the bottom of the stairs, not more than two feet from him, and then he fired two shots in the back of her head. The force of the impact pushed the woman against the wall, and she bounced off and landed at her killer's feet. When Stephen saw the face of his victim, he let out a bloodcurdling scream. Dirk Waterhouse's wife was his lover, Shawna.
* * *
Detective Asa Shickley smiled at Stephen triumphantly.
"We caught you red-handed in the murder of your sweetheart, so why not come clean and admit your involvement in your wife's death?"
"I didn't kill my wife. That's the truth; I swear it. Look, it all started when I met Shawna's husband at Logan Airport. We both had a few drinks, and he began talking about the Hitchcock movie Strangers on a Train. He made a joke about killing my wife in exchange for my killing his—at least I thought it was a joke at the time."
"And did you agree to this pact?"
"I suppose so, but I thought he was joking. The guy was half in the bag."
"So you're telling me your girlfriend's husband arranged for you to kill his wife?"
"I didn't know he was Shawna's husband. He told me that his name was Dirk Waterhouse."
"I'll bet you were surprised to see who it was you killed," the detective goaded the suspect.
"That's an understatement."
"Today's your day for surprises then because your girlfriend's name wasn't Shawna Adams. It was Sharon Wellington."
Wellington was a familiar name, an old and respected one in New England, a name that was backed by as much money as Throckmorton was.
"And there was no way her husband could have made a deal with you to murder his wife," the detective added as he placed a photograph of an elderly man in a wheelchair in front of Stephen. "Norman Wellington hasn't left his home in more than eighteen months."
Stephen's shoulders slumped and his eyes closed in defeat. The stranger in Logan Airport had not even been Shawna's husband.
* * *
Carter Ellison was waiting patiently in the drawing room of the Wellington mansion when the reclusive owner appeared.
"I want to thank you," the wheelchair-bound billionaire said. "Your assistance was invaluable."
Norman Wellington then handed Carter a thick stack of hundred dollar bills in a plain manila envelope.
"Here's a more practical expression of my appreciation, and there'll be more where that came from when Mr. Merritt is sentenced to life without parole."
Carter smiled as he took a microcassette recording of his conversation with Stephen Merritt out of his pocket and handed it over to Sharon/Shawna's husband.
"You might want to keep this, or better yet destroy it. It wouldn't be good for the police to find any evidence corroborating Merritt's story."
Carter Ellison then showed himself out and promptly disappeared into the night. He would not risk another meeting with the man who had hired him to get rid of his cheating wife and her adulterous boyfriend. As he drove away in his unassuming Subaru, though, he had no doubt that the second cash-filled envelope would reach him soon enough.
On a train, in an airport or on Hitchcock's arm, there is no one stranger than Salem!
