He or she just painted the skull on the plane this time! Where’s the nuance in that? It’s no Grim Reaper on a ski lift, I can tell you that. A skull in the clouds would’ve been more imaginative.
In all of the Henry Tibbett books I’ve read so far, his wife, Emmy, seems to usually be a prop for him to take on vacation or call occasionally, saying he’s going to be late so keep the roast warm because what else could she possibly be doing than making dinner for him. Sometimes she gets the honor of being a plot device. But in this one, she gets to be center stage!
Emmy attends a reunion of her air force unit during WWII. Emmy had had her first real love during on the war at her base with the famous pilot, Beau. Unfortunately for Emmy (but a win for Henry, I guess), the pilot is married and also grounded with vertigo, making him temperamental and making enemies to add to the who-might-have-wanted-to-murder-Beau list. The brash Beau then accepts a bet for a night flight that becomes his last, whether the crash was an accident or an elaborate suicide, no one knows (I do, it was murder, it’s always murder, too many people have flimsy motives for wanting him dead to be anything but murder). Emmy eventually moves on with her life and becomes the dutiful wife of Tibbett, until that reunion night. Revelations are made at the revelry that suggest the pilot was murdered (I told you).
It’s just the type of short murder mystery romp that I like to pick up as my pick-me up, popcorn books. Not a lot of substance, but I’m not looking for substance, just a few hours to kill in (usually) London while some nondescript, but sharp as a tack detective solves a crime.
