Exit Row (6 page)

F
IONA APPROACHED THE
row of rental cars, shaken. Overhead a large black bird, its feathers splashed with white, seemed to be circling her. A magpie? That was a bird of ill omen according to legend—but so were crows, ravens, buzzards, probably the whole darker half of the avian population. She wouldn't take it as a sign, but maybe she should.

It took a while to locate the lights, the windshield wipers, and the air-conditioning button, but she was finally ready to drive south into town. Switching on the ignition, she backed out and started down the road, passing under high wires strung with suspended orange balls. The line of single-engine planes she passed seemed tiny, dwarfed by the Sangre de Cristos. She wondered if any of the planes belonged to movie stars or other celebrities who owned second homes around here.

But not right around here. As in cities around the world, the area surrounding the airport was desolate. She drove past a gravel pit, a trailer park, and a wealth of rusting farm machinery before she turned onto the larger road that led to town. Soon she was driving by a collection of weathered adobe buildings with turquoise window frames. Turquoise, she knew, was meant to keep the evil spirits away.

She paused at a blinking light to look down at the car rental street map on her lap. If she were reading it right, she should be able to take Ranchitos to San Antonio to Valverde, south of the plaza. Finally she turned onto a residential street where the houses were narrow and crowded together. She slowed to look at house numbers and stopped in front of a bungalow whose deep blue-green trim had almost peeled away. The front yard was dirt except for two patches of red geraniums in pots beside the foundation. A string of chilies hung on the battered gold door.

If it meant anything, there was no car parked in the primitive driveway.

Fiona climbed the wooden steps that protested even her weight and knocked on the door, making the chili
ristra
bounce against the wood. On a visit to San Antonio, she had been charmed by the rubbery red peppers and brought a string home. They had quickly rotted in the Long Island humidity. Even here a pungent, chalky smell puffed out at her.

When no one came to the door, she shielded her eyes and peered through the front window. Large paintings that reminded her of maps but done in fantastical pinks and oranges were standing around the floor. So Mrs. Basilea painted a little. There were two wooden chairs and a sagging couch, but no attempts at a decorating scheme.

“Eve and Coral ain't home.”

She jumped at the voice. Turning, she saw a boy about ten, wearing only denim cutoffs.

“You scared me!”

“If you want Eve, she went away. We're feeding Mr. Briggs.”

“Who's Mr. Briggs?”

“Cat.”

“Oh.” She had hoped, briefly, he was some kind of elderly relative who could give her information. “What's your name?”

“Joey.” He picked a large scab off his elbow and held it between thumb and finger before popping it into his mouth.

Charming.
“And Eve and Coral went to Mexico?”

“Naw.” The boy watched her with knowing black eyes. “
Eve
went to Mexico. Coral went back to her dad.”

Like a needle testing battery power, Fiona's mind gave a quick jump. “They didn't both go to Mexico? It's okay if they did.” Better than okay.

Joey had picked up some kind of long reed and was drawing in the dirt, writing the answer. “Naw,” he said finally when Fiona did not bend down to read it. “Eve went with Rafe. They didn't want to take Coral too.”

“Who's Rafe?”

The eyes looked wiser. “Her power mower.”

Fiona had a wild image of Eve putt-putting south along the highway, hair flying, and then she laughed. “You mean her paramour?”

“That's what I said. That's what she calls him.”

Well
. It put a different spin on the idea of a mother absconding across the border with her child. She wondered if Dominick knew about Rafe. Bored artistic wife off to New Mexico, where she meets the man of her dreams. Coral, a golden ball bouncing between them. Except . . .

“Do you know when Coral went home?”

He screwed up his narrow face. “Sunday. Because we went back to school Monday.”

School started early out here. “How come you're not in school today?”

“I'm sick. Want to see my tongue?”

Before she could look away, she saw that it was coated a repulsive white.

“Bye, Joey. Feel better soon.”

She retraced her way to the main road and considered her plan. A quick stop at Holy Cross Hospital, which showed up as a light blue rectangle on her map, then on to Santa Fe to find a place to stay. Once she found Route 68 going south, it would be less than two hours.

T
HE HIGHWAY WOUND
south beside a river that looked brown and shallow. Every minute or two she passed a new group of rafters, and closer to the road a stand selling pottery and painted kiva ladders. To her left the cluster of mountains arched toward the sky.

Something that she first thought was a hawk descended slightly, and she saw it was a hang glider, a black silhouette against the blue. Ducking her head to see it better, she yearned to be up there herself, with nothing but the sun and wind currents on her mind. She missed those days of exploring new places, of following candlelit processions down darkened streets, of sitting in cafés to write her blog.

Why had she assumed it would go on forever? Come to that, why had she assumed that Lee would always be there, that their life could only get better?

Lee, send me a message—wherever you are
.

As she drove south, the mountains crept closer to the road, their red shape restrained by fences and a mesh covering. Even here there was the familiar sign, “Watch for Falling Rocks.” She wondered if falling rocks had anything to do with the wooden crosses on the edge of the road, wreathed by artificial flowers, and decided they probably marked car crashes the way they did at home. But then she saw two white crosses at the top of a cliff and wondered.

As she turned onto the larger Route 84, the mountains took a step back again, replaced by brown hills tufted with small green bushes. The sides of the road were crowded now with businesses and signs for Santa Fe. She passed a neon-tubed outline of a huge cowboy in front of the Round-Up Motel and decided she could not face a room with a bolted-down TV and venetian blinds.

T
HE
T
URQUOISE
T
RAIL
Inn was a Territorial-style building with authentic furnishings and shared bathrooms. Fiona's room had a white kiva fireplace in one corner, a red tile floor, and French doors leading to her own patio outside. Even without her own shower it had been more than she wanted to pay, but most places on the highway had “No Vacancy” signs and she was happy to be in the center of Santa Fe. Besides, what did the money matter? If she found Lee, it would be worth it. And if she didn't . . . who cared how much she had left in the bank?

Activating the ceiling fan, she let herself stretch out on the white bedspread. She had promised to stop by Susan Allmayer's house, but the Dramamine still in her system was compelling. It was too late to go to the Day Star corporate offices. She let herself sleep.

When she woke up, the world was dark.

T
HE
D
AY
S
TAR
offices were located west of the plaza on the Paseo de Peralta in an adobe building set back from the sidewalk. Its glass windows looked black under a porch formed by brown pillars. Above the door a large brass sun face had been pressed into the clay. Junipers, cacti, and other succulents lined the entrance walk.

Fiona waited across the street under a cottonwood tree. The people approaching the building, laden down by newspapers, canvas bags, and Styrofoam cups, reminded her of her days as a lawyer. She had drunk no more coffee than usual today, but her stomach was seizing up in the same way. Why hadn't she gone to Lee's apartment in Brooklyn and photocopied his passport? It would have been a good thing to have with her. Was it too late to tell them she was his wife?

The wooden handle and glass door were heavier than she expected. Holding the door awkwardly as she stepped around it, Fiona moved into a pastel world, a world with a vanilla scent. Most of the pictures on the walls were large R. C. Gorman prints of Indians, which she had never liked. She was happy that he had found success as a Navajo artist. But why did he have to make his women so meek?

Looking at the triangular shape of a woman bent placidly over a basket of corn, she gave her head a shake.

“And they're originals too.” A woman at a modular gray desk was grinning at her as if she shared Fiona's feeling. Though plump, she was wearing the white company shirt and a bright yellow jumper with wide straps. She had curly gray hair and small, very white dentures. Her half-glasses made Fiona think of Mrs. Santa Claus. “How can I help you?”

Get these paintings off the walls.
“I'd like to speak to whoever's in charge. My name's Fiona Reina.”

“Well, hi, Fiona. Is it about employment?”

“No. No, I'm not looking for a job. It's about something that happened. Something important.”

The woman hesitated. “Why don't you just wait there a moment?” She motioned to a sectional sofa, a pale salmon and mint-green design. Fiona sank into its comfortable pillows and waited, noticing that the off-white walls were actually wallpaper with a diamond-shaped pattern.

It was not what she had expected. After the office in Taos, after the way the FAA rep complained about Day Star equipment, Fiona had assumed that they were a no-frills airline, operating out of storefronts and vacant hangars. If their equipment wasn't up to snuff, why this office? Why the original Gormans?

The woman behind the desk smiled at her again, but did not pick up the telephone to tell anyone she was there. Fiona imagined her pressing an unseen button for security. Had she given her name when she called yesterday?

A moment later she heard the wheeze of the heavy door and the staccato click of cowboy boots. A woman hurried past, almost bumping the corner of the reception desk. She looked to be in her late forties, dressed in white jeans and a coral Western-style blouse. Patting her leather shoulder bag, she called, “Wait till Will gets a load of these RPMs!” Her voice was emphatic, but Fiona could not tell if she was upset or jubilant. “And we're getting another Better Business award.”

Something about the woman's twist of golden hair and her drawl were familiar. She knew that voice. As the woman started down the hall, Fiona cried, “Wait!” Her voice ballooned into the room like a loudspeaker announcement.

The woman whirled around. Her lovely features—wide blue eyes, a small, perfect nose, and sweet mouth with an ancillary dimple—looked affronted.

“You're Miss Ginger!”

It had been years since she'd watched
The Jesse Wilcox Show
, but when she was eleven, she had waited anxiously for Friday nights. At the ranch, Ginger Lee had acted as the Bar J-G's den mother. She would gather unhappy young cowboys around the kitchen table and declare, “Now you just tell Miss Ginger all about it.” Then she would proceed to make things right, either by intervening with Jesse, or by giving them her own worldly-wise counsel. Fiona had daydreamed about having the rips and tears of her own life repaired by Miss Ginger.

And now, here she was! It was like being invited to meet the president.

“I loved you. I wanted you to be my mother!”

Ginger Lee laughed and moved back toward Fiona, raising her palms in the air. “Guilty as charged. Where did you grow up?”

“Oh, you never heard of it. Lamb's Tongue, Iowa?”

“No, but I know these small farm towns. I grew up in Nebraska. I left when I was very young, of course.” Her look turned studiedly wistful. “Life disappears so quickly. Please don't tell me that I ‘haven't changed a bit.' ”

“But you haven't!” Should she ask for her autograph? No, she was an adult now. “I was devastated when the show ended.”

“So were we.” Ginger Lee gave her a warm smile, then turned and moved back down the hall.

“You have a good memory for faces,” the receptionist complimented Fiona. “That show's been off the air for twenty years. And they weren't exactly Roy and Dale.”

“No, they were better. But why is she here?”

The receptionist peered over her half-glasses, surprised. “You didn't know she and Jesse started Day Star? Will Dunlea, Ginger's son, is the CEO.”

“I didn't know at all. Is Jesse here too?” She had not been as taken with Jesse Wilcox in the series. He had been generous and pleasure loving, but too strict about enforcing the rules.

“Oh, I haven't seen him for ages. So sad the way his mind has gone. He mostly stays at their ranch in Colorado now.” She gave a sudden giggle. “Will and Ginger Lee look like twins. Plastic surgery is a wonderful thing.”

Fiona didn't like that comment about her almost-mother. “Is she still acting?”

“Not for years. After the show ended, she tried, but she was typecast. Now she's busy accepting civic awards and being a presence in New Mexico.”

“I thought you said she lived in Colorado.”

The receptionist grinned. “This is an airline, honey. These people hop in their helicopter to go to the supermarket. There's an airfield at the Ranch, and Santa Fe has an airport too.”

At Fiona's look of surprise, she added, “Small. Three runways. But Day Star's negotiating with a wilderness travel outfit to do charter flights from there.”

“Huh. Did you tell anyone I was here?”

“Oh, Will's not in yet. Ginger's cooling her boots back there too.” She didn't sound as if the prospect saddened her. “Most of us work from nine thirty to five thirty, except for two girls who take bookings in back until nine o'clock. But Will works Will-time.”

“This is your main office?” It seemed important to learn everything she could about Day Star.

“Pretty much. We have an airfield in Denver to maintain our planes. There's always one or two there. But our flight attendants are trained by American in Dallas.”

“What kind of—”

She stopped as the door wheezed open again and a man came in. He had smooth light hair worn close to his head and was very tan. Inherited dimples that showed as he smiled at them. Intelligent blue eyes the shade of washed denim. The only anomaly was the narrow nose that ended in a sweeping point.
Get him an Alpine hat and teach him to yodel!

Still, he was impressive. His flashing teeth were perfect and he had the aura she was familiar with from interviewing celebrities for
Gusto!

“Mom's waiting for you,” the receptionist said, teasing.

“Haven't seen her in a bobcat's age.”

They both laughed. “And so is Miss—”

“Reina. Fiona.”

“Yes, Miss Reina. Pretty name, like a queen. She wants you too.”

That smile again. “Now I'm flattered.” He disappeared down the light gray hall. Fiona noticed that he did not carry a briefcase.

“Maybe you'd like to use the restroom first? It's right around that corner.”

So the receptionist could speak to Will Dunlea about her? But she said, “Sure.”

The bathroom was small, with wallpaper in a pale peach half-circle design. A white basket of artificial flowers decorated the toilet tank. The sweet floral scent made Fiona think of funeral homes.

She assumed she would have to wait to see Will Dunlea until he was finished with his mother, but when she came back into the lobby the receptionist pointed to the hallway. “Last door on the right. Just go in.”

She found Will in there alone, arms spread over a huge burled walnut desk. Above his head, suspended by wire, was a paper model of what must have been the first Day Star plane. Jesse and Ginger Lee's private ride.

She sat down in the yellow leather chair he beckoned her toward.

“What can I do for you, Fiona?”

“I need some information, Will.”

He continued to look pleasant, fingers drumming on one side of the desk. “What kind of information?”

She hesitated.
Shoot for the moon and land in the stars.
“It's about the flight out of Taos to Denver Sunday morning. I understand you had to make an emergency landing.”

He stared at her, mouth turned down, genuinely puzzled. “Who told you that? We had to make a refueling stop; the pilots thought the flow seemed irregular, but it was no emergency. This is the way rumors start.” A reproving look. “Changing the fuel out made us late, but we got everyone to Denver.”

“Not everyone. Because several people who were supposed to go on to New York never got there.”

“But we don't fly to New York.”

“No, I know you don't. They were supposed to get the flight in Denver, but never did.”

“And these people were on the Day Star shuttle?”

She lifted her hands, palms turned up. “That's the question.”

He straightened up soberly. The collar on his blue-and-white-striped shirt was high in an oddly old-fashioned way, his navy tie thicker than normal. “And what's your interest in this?”

“The man I live with was on the plane. He never got to New York, and he hasn't called. But there are other people too. Nobody from other places has contacted you about missing passengers?”

“No.” His eyes flicked to a far wall, then back at her.

You're lying.

Calm down. You're not interrogating a witness.
“So I need to see a passenger list, to see who was on that plane.”

His expression was a blend of amusement and incredulity, as if she had asked him to hand over his watch. “I'm sorry, but that's information I can't give out. It would be violating every rule of confidentiality. Airlines are hog-tied by regulations you couldn't begin to imagine, but that one's pretty clear. Before I could release anyone's name I'd have to contact them and get their permission.” He looked stern, then added, “And I'd have to have a damn good reason for doing it. What I can do—though I probably shouldn't—is check and see whether your party was on the flight.”

Why do you think I came?
But she said,
“How do I know you'll tell me the truth?”

Will Dunlea jerked back in his leather chair, the movement stirring the paper plane above his head. Tenting his fingers, elbows on his desk, he gave her a long look. “What have I said that would give you the feeling I would lie to you? You come in here without an appointment, I take the trouble to see you right away because my receptionist says you're upset, I try to address what's on your mind. Then because I can't give you everything you want, you accuse me of lying!”

“You know what? You look like Robert Redford in
The Sting
.”

He gave a surprised bark of laughter. “And why should I believe
you
?”

“People must tell you that all the time.”

“Look—Fiona. Will you at least let me look up the information about your friend for you?”

“Of course. Thanks.”

He moved in his seat, angling the computer screen at the edge of his desk so she could not see it. “What's his name?”

“Lee Pienaar. It sounds like pine air, but it's spelled P-i-e-n-a-a-r.”

After a moment of tapping in various commands, Will said, “We have him flying out of Islip MacArthur and into Taos on August 19.”

“That's the date he left Long Island,” she agreed.

Will Dunlea looked back to the screen, tapped another several keys, and then turned to her with sympathetic eyes. “I'm afraid that's it.”

“What do you mean?” She felt as if he had reached out and shoved her against the chair back. “That's
it
?
But he texted me from the airport when he was about to board! Why wouldn't he have gotten on the plane?”

“Maybe he gave up his seat to someone. I see by the roster that the plane was full. You're sure he was at the airport.”

“He said he was.”

“Plans do change.”

“Can you at least check the name of
one
of the other people?”

When all else fails, negotiate.

“I told you, Fiona, I can't do that. The families would have to inquire themselves.”

“But it would really clear things up.”

“I'm sorry . . . ”

She sighed theatrically. “I guess this has been a wasted trip then. I'll have to scrounge around and buy a ticket home.”

Now he looked alert. “If money's a problem, I'm sure we can work something out. Like every airline, our flights aren't always full. If you're flexible, I know we can find a spot for you.”

“Really?”

“When were you thinking of going?”

The question caught her off guard. “Well, if I wanted to do any sightseeing—Friday morning?”

“Good. Then you can have dinner with me tonight.”

Was it a serious invitation?

“You don't know anyone else in town, do you?”

“No. But you don't have to do that.”

“I want to. Where are you staying?”