“The problem is, Mr. Pratt, this end of the airport has been closed all day,” the clerk was saying, out of breath from running. “We haven’t been able to take off since six fifteen this morning.”
“I’m not supposed to take off until quarter to three,” Mr. Pratt told her, still striding along. He was carrying one large suitcase. He came into the waiting area and set it down. He nodded first to the young woman and then to Richard. Then he sat down.
The reservations clerk looked around, too. “These are the passengers from the eleven twenty-four flight,” she said. “They haven’t left yet.”
The young woman in the raw silk suit came closer. “Are we going to leave soon? It’s getting to be ridiculously late.”
The reservations clerk looked distressed. “Oh, we know, Miss Frazier, we know. It’s absolutely terrible. But there’s nothing we can do about it. Airport security simply won’t let us leave.”
“They’re going to have to let us leave sometime,” Miss Frazier said.
“They must realize by now that these bomb threats are hoaxes,” Richard said. “There have been at least four of them. There hasn’t been a bomb yet.”
The reservations clerk whipped around, looking more flustered by the second. “Oh, Mr. Fenster, yes, of course that’s occurred to everybody. But you really can’t blame airport security. Maybe all the bomb threats have been hoaxes up until now because somebody is trying to wear us down. Maybe somebody is trying to get us to stop paying attention. Then, as soon as our guard is down—”
“Oh, Jesus,” Miss Frazier moaned.
“That’s a load of crap,” Richard said.
“No,” the newly arrived Mr. Pratt said, “I don’t think it is. Better safe than sorry. I don’t want to get blown out of the air.”
“The only thing they have to do to make sure we don’t get blown out of the air,” Richard told him, “is to check out the plane.”
The reservations clerk was sliding from flustered into angry. In Richard’s experience, clerks were like nurses. They could be pleasant to the people they were supposed to be serving just as long as those people were accommodating and polite. One whiff of independence and rebellion, and they were ready for war.
“Well,” the reservations clerk sniffed now, “I know it’s been a frustrating day, but it’s been a frustrating day for all of us. MaineAir will be in the air as soon as it’s safe to fly.”
“Will MaineAir post a general boarding announcement?” Mr. Pratt inquired.
“Of course,” the reservations clerk sniffed. “MaineAir is always careful to follow mandated airport procedures.”
She turned her back on them and walked off into the corridor, bouncing along in her uniform suit, huffy and mad.
“I just thought if I had to wait forever anyway, I might as well get myself a drink,” Mr. Pratt said. “Either of the two of you want to come along?”
“Sure,” Richard said, getting out of his seat and stretching. He held out a hand. “I’m Richard Fenster.”
“I’m Kelly Pratt,” Mr. Pratt said, shaking his hand.
Miss Frazier was looking from one to the other of them, always pausing a little bit longer on Richard. She looked nonplussed.
“Excuse me,” she said finally. “Did you say your name was Richard Fenster? Richard Fenster?”
“That’s right,” Richard said.
“The Richard Fenster who’s going up to Hunter’s Pier, Maine, for the weekend?”
“That’s right again,” Richard said.
“Hey,” Kelly Pratt said. “I’m going up to Hunter’s Pier, Maine, for the weekend.”
“I take it you’re going there, too,” Richard said to Miss Frazier.
Miss Frazier was now looking more than nonplussed. She was looking downright annoyed. She kept giving Richard the once-over, up and down, back and forth, checking out every hole in his sweater and every frayed thread in his jeans. Richard was beginning to think she had them both mentally cataloged.
“I’m Mathilda Frazier. I’m with Halbard’s Auction House. I’m the one who’s coordinating the auction of the personal effects of… well, you see what I mean.”
“I see what you mean,” Kelly Pratt said. “This is wonderful. I’m Kelly Pratt of Kahn and Pratt. We’re the accountants.”
Mathilda Frazier ignored him. “You don’t look at all the way I expected you to look,” she told Richard. “You are the same Richard Fenster I’m thinking of? The one who bought the gold evening sandals Tasheba Kent wore in Dark Passions? At Christie’s in London?”