Puritan Airways 202

The office didn't like it, but after some smooth talking, I got them to authorize a flight to Cape Cod, Hyannis to be specific.  There was an untold story waiting for me over there, I could feel it in my bones. 

I boarded Puritan Airways, Flight 202 for the thirty-five minute flight to the highest-priced sandbar in the world.  The schedule revealed that Puritan Airways had only one other plane, Flight 101.  I guess if you are not big, think big. 

The pilot loaded the bags, checked the passengers, and I presumed had filled the plane with the fuel.   Eight passengers.  Two businessmen were off to eyeball some real estate, a retired couple were off to see the place where they had honeymooned fifty years ago, a college kid was going home for a funeral for some relative, a young lady who appeared to be the girlfriend of the pilot, a blond haired soldier headed home on leave, and me, a worn out cop chasing a hunch and a faint hunch at that.

I ate a bag of peanuts and did the crossword  puzzle in the morning paper.  Meanwhile, Corky, our tow-headed version of Charles Lindbergh managed to get all nine of us safely from here to there.  I grabbed the first cab available and hired Jerry and his turtle back Ford, painted in the colors of Beachcomber Taxis, for three or four hours of asking around about O'Hara, Blair, Brown and the other characters in this inbred case.  And to my surprise, the locals had a pretty good handle of all the comings and goings.

O'Hara had a sizable compound near Hyannis, four beach houses all hidden behind security gates.  Not much chance of breaking into that place without a warrant, but I did find the bartender at the local  tavern.  Tommy was his name and he loved to talk. 

For the most part, Blair ran the business of this weekend get-away for O'Hara and his friends, arranged the caterers for the summer parties, arranged for security when special guests came in, and according to Tommy, even arranged for the feminine hospitality for gentlemen spending a weekend away from their wives.

The one thing I did learn was that one of the houses in the compound was always kept up and ready for Miss Yellow Roses for whenever she flew into town.  Tommy said that young Miss Mollie threw some legendary boozers during her wild, little rich girl period, but lately she spent her nights entertaining Mr. Brown.  Tommy did overhear someone say that the arrangement was this ... whenever Mollie and Benji were in town, old man O'Hara was not to be, and vice versa.

I asked Tommy about Senator Watters.  He informed me that the senator did keep a place toward Provincetown, but pretty much kept to himself.  Then he added  a little something, almost as an aside, that snagged my attention.  Mrs. Watters, they said, had never been to the beach house.  She always stayed behind in either Boston or Washington.

I thought that strange; I thought that strange, indeed.


The End

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