Don’t jerk the controls. Just a little nudge here, a slight turn there, and the plane pretty much flies itself.” I gently, tentatively placed my hands on the control yoke of the single-engine Cessna 172 and moved it an inch to the left. The plane responded by starting a slow turn. “That’s it, Jessica,” Jed said in his low, calm voice. “See how easy it is?” Jed Richardson had been a top commercial airline pilot for years before moving to Cabot Cove to start his own small charter airline, flying out of a bare-bones, compact airport on the town’s southern edge. Jed is a central-casting image of a pilot, a wry, knowing, infectious grin always on his round, tanned, deeply creased face. He wore his usual uniform, a distressed brown leather aviator’s jacket, white silk scarf about his neck, and a blue peaked cap with Jed’s Flying Service emblazoned in gold on it. “This is so exciting,” I said, barely able to control my glee. “Makes you feel free, doesn’t it?” he said, smiling.
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