can you tell us if that looks like your plane?”
“Oh, aye.” Magnus picked up another photo. “You can even make out some of the tail number here…and here.”
Oz had been intrigued to find out that actual plane crashes didn’t look like what he’d seen in the movies. The wide scattering of papers was the first surprise; it was like a giant had thrown a confetti party in the muddy field. Who knew there were so many papers in a small plane? And that they were the first thing you could see when you looked at the site? How well some parts of the plane had held together on impact, while other parts looked like they’d been run through a metal shredder had been another surprise. An armrest was intact, while one of the doors looked like someone had balled it up and tossed it out.
And in the upper left part of two pictures, what looked, very obviously, like remains. Some inside the plane, and some…not.
“I don’t think these would have convinced Sally,” Annette observed. “Not to be crude, Mr. Berne, but that could be anyone. Your friends—”
“Friend.”
Oz looked up. “Sorry?”
A finger the size of a bratwurst stabbed at one of the pictures. “I see one friend. Sue. I don’t see Sam anywhere.”
“Wouldn’t he be in the cockpit? Er…most of him, that is?” Nadia asked with unusual tentativeness.
“I certainly hope not, lass. Sue’s the pilot, not Sam.” A short, difficult pause. “Was the pilot.”
“But the body we can see…”
Tattered blouse, a small, feminine arm…
“And she wasn’t buckled in,” Annette observed. “And she didn’t shift to her other self. She didn’t even put her coat back on.”
“But that doesn’t make any… What about the black box?”
“Too many movies, lad,” Magnus said, kindly enough. “Smaller aircraft aren’t required to have them. They’re heavy, besides, and not as helpful as the movies make ’em seem.”
Why did she leave the cockpit? And why wasn’t she belted in? And where’s Sam? How could he possibly have survived the crash that killed his mate?
“Magnus, what’s a ferry pilot?”
The man blinked at what he probably thought was a subject change. “You live in Duluth or Dublin or wherever and buy a plane. I’m the one who flies it to you.”
“Huh.” From Annette. “I had that all wrong. I thought an actual ferry was involved.”
“And they haven’t cleared the crash site yet, right, Annette?”
“No. Only the cor—they’ve removed the remains and taped it off.” She looked across the table at Magnus. “Which I imagine is the other reason you’re here. To identify your friend.”
He nodded. “I’m to be at the ME’s office in an hour.”
“How about after?” Oz asked. “Feel like taking another trip?”
Chapter 24
Help! We’re cowering in your shed and Net will murder us SO MUCH so we live here now! Send snacks! And maybe Flanders’s cocoa!
That was the note Lila had found in her mailbox earlier. At the time, she’d packed a bag o’snacks and dispatched Sally with it while everyone was talking to Magnus Berne, who had popped up out of nowhere, was big and mildly terrifying, had a cool accent, but probably wasn’t the villain because it was never the first suspect. Except when it was.
Also: I have a shed?
Oh. Right. Her very first shed, in fact. The small brown building was tucked in the corner of the backyard against the fence, partially hidden by trees that should have been trimmed but never were. It was at the furthest point you could be on the property while still being on the property.
Once the IPA gang had left with Berne and Macropi went to chat with insurance adjusters, Lila had reorganized her OR schedule for the week—the Harrington kid’s teddy bear could wait, the Opitz twins’ Raggedy Ann and Andy, not so much—then went out to confront the vermin problem in her shed.
She looked to her left, even though it was dumb—you couldn’t see Macropi’s burned house from here, but she fancied she could still smell smoke. And there was no way to know if it was real. She’d smelled smoke on and off for over a year after…after what happened. Couldn’t even abide being around lit candles for the longest time. She fully expected the night terrors to return shortly, which was a bore. The nice thing about new trauma is that you got a break from your brain’s reruns.
She knocked. “Kids? You guys okay? Or are you planning more mayhem? I don’t care, I’m just trying to plan my day.”
Nothing.
Another rap. “Are you in