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ABOUT POPPY REDFERN AND THE FATAL FLYERS
“You’ll love this character so much, you’ll want her as your best friend.”—Alyssa Maxwell, author of the Gilded Newport Mysteries and a Lady and Lady’s Maid Mysteries
Poppy Redfern is back on the case when two female fighter pilots take a fatal dive in an all-new Woman of World War II Mystery by Tessa Arlen.
It is the late autumn of 1942. Our indomitable heroine Poppy Redfern is thoroughly immersed in her new job as a scriptwriter at the London Crown Film Unit, which produces short films featuring British civilians who perform acts of valor and heroism in wartime. After weeks of typing copy and sharpening pencils, Poppy is thrilled to receive her first solo script project: a fifteen-minute film about the Air Transport Auxiliary, known as Attagirls, a group of female civilians who have been trained to pilot planes from factories to military airfields all over Britain.
Poppy could not be more excited to spend time with these amazing ladies, but she never expects to see one of the best pilots die in what is being labeled an accident. When another Attagirl meets a similar fate, Poppy and her American fighter-pilot boyfriend, Griff, believe foul play may be at work. They soon realize that a murderer with a desire for revenge is dead set on grounding the Attagirls for good.
Here’s an excerpt from the book:
The door opened, and a tall man with gray hair walked into the mess. “Sir Basil, just in time to join us for a drink before lunch. I’d like you to meet Miss Redfern from the Crown Film Unit: she’s here to write a script for tomorrow’s film. And her American friend, Captain O’Neal,” she turned to the older man, her right arm extended with a particularly proud expression on her face. “Sir Basil Stowe, Ministry of Aircraft Production,” she said with a smile that could have been almost interpreted as winsome.
Griff and I walked over to shake hands with Sir Basil. He was one of those men who become more attractive as they age. Sir Basil Stowe was probably in his early fifties: broad shouldered, still slim, and elegantly fit. He wore a flawlessly cut suit that whispered Savile Row, as if it was comfortable old tweeds, and he had a look of burnished well-being as if he had just returned from somewhere in the Mediterranean. He stood a hair taller than Griff, and the two of them immediately fell into conversation leaving me stranded with Edwina.
I took a deep breath and decided that the best approach, as with all sizeable egos, was to spread the butter nice and thick. “Since you are our star, I would love to have some background on you—I have only two lines from Crown Films. How long have you been flying? And when you say you love Spitfires; do you fly other planes too?”
Ilona, the protagonist of the mystery novel I wrote, often floats her observations into my head when I’m feeling tense or tongue-tied, and this little creature made me feel extraordinarily nervous. Just let her do all the talking, Ilona advised. I don’t think she’s much of a girl’s girl.
Edwina ripped her gaze away from Griff and folded her arms. “Flying solo since I was eleven,” her voice was flat with ill-concealed boredom. “I’ve flown everything there is to fly, but I won’t fly heavy-fighters. I’m not sure why we have them in this flick, they look ugly on the ground, and they’ll look even worse on film. I mean,” she laughed and shrugged her shoulders, “The Spitfire is the real star here, no one gives a damn about all the different planes we have to deliver.” Her tone was sharp, and Bess got up and trotted back to the group of women by the bar who were laughing at a story that Grable was recounting.
I hadn’t a clue what a heavy fighter was, but I struggled on. “So, tomorrow you are going to give us a demonstration—an aerial performance in a Spitfire?”
There was no humor in her laugh. “I can’t imagine a performance on the ground being much fun!”
This was the star of our picture? I felt the beginning of alarm. “I don’t actually know very much about aeroplanes.” I felt an awkward need to explain and perhaps to elicit some understanding of my ignorance. Let her be the expert if that’s what she wanted.
She was only about five foot two, but her confident immaculate presence made me feel like my hands and feet were too big and that I should do more than just brush through my hair in the morning.
“Why are you writing the script if you don’t know anything about planes?” The question was so direct that I couldn’t think of a thing to say. “I mean it seems a bit ridiculous to send someone who doesn’t actually know anything about aeroplanes. Oh, and by the way, we don’t call them aeroplanes—we just say ‘planes.” She was still staring at Griff’s back, her arms folded, her forefinger with its long scarlet lacquered nail tapped the pale blue of her uniform shirt.
I flashed her a bright smile. “Actually, I don’t really need to know anything about aircraft at all,” I replied. “Because I have all of you to tell me about them.”
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