“Huh,” he said, stepping closer to the keyboard before shooting her a look. “You have your pilot license?”
She nodded. “I am a private instructor.” Private investigator was her true title, but Griffin wouldn’t know that. “I am hoping we can get Mr. Duran to believe the training is mandatory due to a recent addition in aviation enforcements,” she explained as he read the letter. “That way he will not argue with his family, and we can make sure the guests that sign up for his tours are safe.”
Griffin nodded. “That makes sense.” And just like that, he was copying the letter, pasting it into a new message box as she’d suggested, and then typing Emmitt’s name until his email address popped into place. “He gets a weekly newsletter from us,” Griffin said. “Hopefully he doesn’t think that’s what this is.”
“How about you typenew aviation mandatesin the subject line?” she suggested.
“Good idea.” She watched as he did just that. “Okay,” he said. “You think that’s good?”
She grinned. “Magnifique.”
Sloane watched as he hit send, a wave of triumph sweeping through her at the familiar swishing sound.
“Mission accomplished,” Griffin said in a low voice.
Sloane fought back a grin. “Indeed.”
The phone on the front desk rang, its tone so loud she wondered if there was a megaphone attached to it.
Griffin snatched the old land line phone off the cradle and brought it to his ear. “Hello?”
His eyes went wide. “Oh, um…is this…”
“This is Emmitt Duran,” she heard the caller say on the other line. There was hardly a pause before he was talking again. Ranting was more like it. He was told the course was complete, he already booked a bunch of tours…
Griffin cupped a palm over the mouthpiece and gave her a pleading look.
Sloane grabbed a notebook from her purse, rested it sideways on the counter and began to write:
Say this: I understand your frustration, and I apologize, however this new mandate has nothing to do with Copper Stone Aviation. Please see the email address and phone number at the bottom of the letter for further assistance on this matter.
Griffin began speaking the words robotically as he read the handwritten note. His cheeks turned a shade of pink, and a light sweat beaded his nose and chin.
Once he was almost done, Sloane motioned for him to put the phone back on the cradle and mouthed, “Then just hang up.”
“…further assistance on the matter,” Griffin finished. He lowered the phone back to its cradle, cringing from the voice pouring through the line.
“Hey, wait—”
The room went quiet, allowing the buzz from the circling plane to be heard once again.
“What if he calls back?” Griffin asked.
“Block him,” Sloane said, writing a character and number combination on the bottom corner of the sheet. She tore it off and handed it to him. “Here is how to do it.”
He looked down at the small square of paper in his hands then looked back at her with something akin to fear in his eyes. “This feels a little…”
“I know,” she said with a dismissive laugh. “What family will not do to avoid hurting someone’s feelings, no? They do not want to tell him he is dangerous, but this is about saving lives, which is why I am willing to go to lengths like this to help out. I hope you will be too.”
She tucked the notebook back into her purse and retrieved the tickets. “And since I see that you are a fellow Celtics fan,” she said, plopping them onto the table, “I hope you might be able to make good use of these. I have had something come up.”
“What? How’d you know I was a Celtics fan?”
She motioned to his backward ball cap.
“Oh,” he said with a laugh. He secured the tickets and shook his head as a wide grin broke over his face. “Are you serious? You’re giving these to me?”
“Think of it as a gift for helping me out today. I really appreciate this.”
