Echoes among the Stones

by Jaime Jo Wright

  Just like Hazel’s loafers. And just like Hazel’s trousers with the wide legs and belted waist. And . . . Imogene took a subtle but deep breath, breathing in the scent of Hazel’s fading perfume. She had rummaged through her sister’s closet and now wore Hazel’s red-and-white-checkered blouse with the feminine tucks at the shoulders creating tiny puffs. It made her feel closer to Hazel somehow.

  Imogene had spent the morning teasing her black locks into two victory rolls that framed her oval forehead and then finished the look off with a floral scarf that looped from the base of her neck and tied off at her crown. It was difficult not to primp further. She was never meant for factory work, war or no war. Imogene was schooled in fashion—pinup-girl fashion—to her parents’ dismay.

  She stared out the window as the bus clattered down the road. Trees rose on either side while it curved and wound through the hillside. Imogene would never be a pinup girl now. Not a model or an actress. Even her work at the beauty salon was thwarted in the wake of Hazel’s murder. She ran her damp palms down the navy trousers. She was Hazel now. Or at least she would walk in Hazel’s footsteps. Someone knew why Hazel died. It hadn’t been random—that much Chet had leaked to the family. There was no prying open of locked doors, no evidence of intrusion other than the struggle in Hazel’s room. A boot print had been discovered in the hallway, left on the carpet runner. The dirt had been examined and labeled as your typical earthen substance, mixed with small samples of manure and gravel. Nothing out of the ordinary for anyone in the Mill Creek area to have on the bottom of their shoes. The boot print was only a partial print, of normal size, not at all indicative of its owner. In fact, Chet said, it could even be their own father’s.

  The case was growing cold fast and it’d only been two weeks since Hazel’s passing. Chet had warned Imogene to stay out of it. Not to pry or try to play detective. He tried to convince her that he was working on it—wouldn’t stop working on it—but she found it hard to fathom that Chet would pursue the case with ongoing passion. He might be Hazel’s brother, but he was also a law officer in Mill Creek with many distractions. His intentions would be sincere, but his time limited.

  Imogene wasted no time obtaining work at the plant. The cafeteria needed help, and if she wasn’t working with the powder itself, being near those who did would give her access to the people Hazel had brushed shoulders with daily. She’d been in laundry. Washing the coveralls of the men who stripped out of them after each shift, the residue and chemicals needing to be carefully cleaned from the fabric. Imogene had hoped Hazel’s position in the laundry would be open, but it’d already been filled, leaving only the cafeteria as an option. The Mill Creek Ordnance Works wasn’t hiring. If anything, they were letting people go.

  “The war is over, after all.”

  The lilting voice broke into Imogene’s thoughts—words that fit perfectly with what she’d been musing about. She turned from the scenery out the bus window and looked across the aisle. A woman, not much younger than Imogene, smiled at her with a gentle ease. For a brief flicker, Imogene was jealous of the peaceful sparkle in the girl’s blue eyes and the frizz around her shoulder-length curls, indicative of a natural wave rather than a permanent.

  “I’m sorry.” The young woman folded and unfolded her fingers as though she were shy and for some reason intimidated by Imogene. “I didn’t mean to bother you. I was just thinking about how bright the sun is. But it makes sense, you know? With the war finally being over now?”

  “Of course.” Imogene offered a smile, but doubted the sun cared whether the world was at war or at peace. She gave the young woman a quick once-over, knowing instinctively and not at all pridefully that she was far prettier than the girl across the aisle. Maybe that was why she was timid.

  “I’m Ida. Ida Pickett.” The girl lifted her hand in a small wave. She waited, and Imogene mustered another smile.

  The bus drove over a pothole in the road, and they lurched in their seats.

  “Imogene Grayson.” Imogene offered her name and was surprised when the stranger’s eyes instantly dimmed.

  “Ohhhh.” Ida put her fingers to her lips, which had no color on them to begin with. “Are you related to Hazel?”

  The piercing agony of reality was never going to diminish at the mention of her sister’s name, Imogene was sure of it. “She was my sister, yes.”

  “I’m so sorry.” Ida reached for her handbag and pulled a handkerchief from it. She dabbed the corners of her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I don’t mean to make such a scene when it’s your sister who’s been lost. But I used to ride with Hazel. Every day to the plant, we’d sit right here.” Ida glanced at the empty seat beside her, then fell silent.

  Imogene hesitated only a moment before clutching her purse and rising from her crouched position, ducking to keep her head from hitting the roof of the bus. Struggling to keep her balance, she waddled across the aisle and plopped down onto the empty seat—Hazel’s empty seat—and resolutely tilted her chin up. She tried to muster a brave and confident smile as she looked down her pert nose at Ida. “I’ll fill her seat,” Imogene announced, swallowing back her grief.

  Ida offered a tiny smile in return. “That’s awfully sweet of you.” Imogene had no intention of letting this opportunity go to waste, yet she knew with someone as reserved as Ida Pickett seemed to be, that she’d need to temper her personality or she’d frighten the heebie-jeebies out of her.

  “Did you—were you close to Hazel?” Doubtful, Imogene had already determined, but it was a polite way to inquire as to the terms of Ida’s friendship with Imogene’s sister. Hazel had never mentioned an Ida Pickett before. But then, Imogene admitted to herself, Hazel hadn’t mentioned anyone from the plant.

  Imogene tucked the realization away in the back of her mind as Ida tucked a curl behind her ear. “Oh, we were close enough, I suppose. Considering we shared the bus together most every day.” Ida gave a small laugh. “I work in the cafeteria, and Hazel is in—was in—the laundry . . .” Ida’s sentence dwindled.

  Imogene snatched the opportunity. “I’m going to be working in the cafeteria.”

  “You are?” Ida’s head snapped up, and she met Imogene’s eyes. The friendly twinkle was back. “How lovely!”

  “I hope I do well.” Although Imogene was confident that making sandwiches and serving the workers wasn’t going to be any more difficult than wrapping old Mrs. Puttaker’s hair.

  “You’ll do just fine, I’m sure.” Ida patted the back of Imogene’s hand, and for a moment it stunned her. It was as though Hazel had somehow reached out of the grave to touch her. To be a part of reassuring Imogene that she was on the right trail. And to thank her for it.

  Then Ida’s hand lifted, and the moment was gone. Imogene studied Ida’s profile as the young woman stared ahead, the bus turning into the entrance of the massive plant. Her cheeks were rounded and blushed. She was plain, sensible, everything that Hazel hadn’t been. She’d been a dreamer—a responsible dreamer—trapped doing laundry at the plant instead of marrying some GI back from the front. Always dreaming, that was Hazel. Dreams that had ended in a nightmare.

  “Didn’t expect to see you here.” Oliver Schneider’s voice brought Imogene’s head up with a snap. She met his solemn eyes and had a moment of brief appreciation for his handsome smile. While it was reserved, there was warmth in it. The kind that seemed to imply had he a different past, his future would have been brighter. As it was, it seemed quite a few of the men Imogene had already served lunch to shared that look. The look that implied they’d seen things another human being should never see, and that they had stories they would never repeat, never shape into words and retell.

  “Well, Ollie Schneider.” Imogene didn’t even have to force the flirtatious tone into her voice. Good or bad, it came naturally, even if her insides were raw with grief. “I thought your daddy would have you working the fields, not brewing up potions at the powder plant.”

  The smile teased the corner of hi
s mouth again, and he bobbed his head. “Seems he got used to havin’ me gone.”

  Oh. Imogene swallowed hard. There was no good response to that. Everyone knew that the Schneiders had lost two of their nine boys to the war. Ollie’s homecoming was tainted with sorrow of a different kind than Imogene’s, but sorrow nonetheless. Sometimes that sort of hardship made the good things go unnoticed. Grief cast shadows over places of happiness and left them in permanent darkness.

  “Are you—farin’ all right?” Oliver’s question was delivered with a kindness that almost made tears spring to Imogene’s eyes. She hadn’t forgotten the way he’d traveled up the attic stairs with her to view the scene where she’d first found Hazel. Hadn’t forgotten that he’d helped her down the stairs after she’d memorized every piece of that room and then tried to descend from it with legs that had turned weak. His arm had been strong. Thin but strong.

  “Swell,” she lied.

  He knew it. Oliver’s eyes darkened, and he gave her an understanding nod as she handed him a sandwich on a plate. Turkey. No mustard. Just a decent slice of cheddar cheese between two slices of white bread.

  “Well,” he said, shuffling his feet awkwardly, “you have a good day now.” His expression told her he recognized his lame attempt at etiquette. They’d stood together over the drying pool of Hazel’s blood. A “good day” was far, far from Imogene’s future—if ever.

  She spun around, thankful Oliver was the last worker through the line. The next hour was spent cleaning the kitchen. She skirted Ida several times as they wove in and out between two other women doing dishes in the massive sinks. At this rate, Imogene was hard-pressed to see how she’d ever get to know anyone, let alone find any clue, any anything about why Hazel had been killed. Let alone who had done it.

  As Imogene wiped down the counter with a wet rag, she second-guessed her decision to take a job at the plant. The day had been long. The conversation limited. A sick feeling formed in the pit of her stomach that she was on a wild goose chase. Not to mention, Chet was going to have her head on a platter once he found out what she was up to.

  She tossed the rag into a pail of dishwater.

  “Life doesn’t move along fast enough sometimes.”

  Well, for Pete’s sake! If Ida Pickett didn’t have a way of breaking into Imogene’s thoughts with just the right phrase to make Imogene wonder for a moment if Ida was somehow in her head.

  “No, it doesn’t,” Imogene responded.

  Ida smiled as she untied the apron from around her waist. “Days here get so long, I sometimes feel as if I’m trapped in an unending cycle.”

  Imogene drew a deep breath.

  “Walk to the bus with me?” she offered to Ida.

  Ida gave a quick shake of her head. “I’d love to, but I need to go to the administrative offices. My brother works on one of the lines, and he asked me to pick up his paycheck.”

  “Can’t miss that, then,” Imogene acknowledged, squelching another wave of defeat. She wouldn’t even be able to nudge through Ida’s memories of Hazel.

  Ida gave Imogene a wave, and the plain girl walked away, her simple dress floating around her legs like a curtain of brown.

  Imogene stood in the now-empty kitchen. Even Oliver had disappeared from the cafeteria, along with the last shift of workers for the day. The dishes were all washed. Her sigh echoed in the kitchen.

  “Miss Grayson?”

  The strident voice startled Imogene. She spun on her heel and met the sharp gaze of the cafeteria manager, Marjorie Harris. Mrs. Harris’s hawkish nose and beady eyes reminded Imogene of a vulture.

  “Best leave now. The last bus heads into town at 5:35. You miss that, you’ll be here all night.”

  “Thank you.” Imogene tipped her head and furrowed her brow as she brushed past the older woman. She sensed Mrs. Harris’s eyes burrowing into her back long after she exited the building.

  Shrew. Imogene hiked down the walk. The grounds of the Ordnance Works were akin to a small town. In the distance, she noted the administration building Ida had referred to. To her left were the Clock Alleys, where the workers punched timecards upon arrival and departure. Beyond them, the Change Houses, where they stripped out of their work clothes and returned to wearing street clothes.

  Even now, a large group of men and women seemed to be drifting her way. The last of the shift for the day. Some split off toward the barracks, originally intended for Army housing during the war, but now simply housed permanent staff and their families. Others neared Imogene until she was surrounded by a cluster of folks waiting for the string of buses to take them back to Mill Creek. It registered in Imogene’s mind that Hazel had done this every day and every evening. Waited here for the bus that would drop her at the stop, and then she’d walk the last two miles to the farm. The only difference was that Hazel’s shift ended at 3:30.

  Imogene scanned the people around her. All were unfamiliar faces. Except for one. Oliver stood several yards away, oblivious to the fact she watched him. He seemed lost in his own thoughts. A shoulder banged into Imogene. She stumbled, hitting a woman to her left.

  “I’m so sorry!” She reached for the woman, who tripped forward, even as she tried to catch sight of whoever had slammed into her. There were too many people to identify and no one brave enough to come forward with an apology.

  Regardless, Imogene made right with the woman, who assured her she was fine. She gripped her purse tighter to her side and then realized it’d come unclasped. Looking down, Imogene moved to clip the latch of her clutch together, then paused. An envelope stuck up from the innards. White, with no stamp, no penmanship on the outside, and yet sealed.

  Frowning, Imogene slipped the envelope from her purse and ripped open its end. A thin sheet of blue paper pulled out at Imogene’s tug, folded in half, with typewriting on the inside. She unfolded it, her fingers rubbing the indentations from the typewriter keys on the back of the page.

  It’s over.

  The message made absolutely no sense. Imogene glanced around her as the mass of workers readying to get on the buses and return home grew thicker. Even Oliver had disappeared, and for a brief moment, Imogene felt a pang of fear stabbing through her. She rotated on the platform. There were a few men behind her, chatting amiably. The woman she’d knocked into had stepped forward a few paces and was laughing with another lady, who was so rotund she took up the spaces of three women. But they were happy.

  Everyone was happy.

  The war was over.

  The powder being crafted here at the plant would now go to fueling rockets instead of smokeless grenades made to blow off the arms and legs of enemies overseas.

  Yet . . .

  Imogene’s attention shifted back to the two words on the typewritten page.

  It’s over.

  Whoever had slipped it into her reticule as they’d, more likely than not, purposefully bumped into her was delivering a very pointed message.

  Little bumps rose on Imogene’s arms. She made quick work of refolding the paper and slipping it back in its envelope, ignoring the way her heartbeat increased.

  It was obvious the war was over, and the powder plant was a new setting for Imogene—starkly different from the beauty salon. Yet someone had already noticed her. Recognized her? Made plans to leave her a cryptic note that, if it didn’t imply the war, could only have one other association with Imogene’s newly acquired position in the cafeteria.

  Hazel.

  As the buses rolled to a stop and the throng pressed forward to gain their seats, Imogene crammed the envelope into her purse. One could make the argument that Hazel was, indeed, over. She was dead. In which case what point did it serve to remind Imogene of that? Unless someone wanted to make certain that Hazel stayed dead. In everyone’s minds. And that the case around her murder became colder than the icehouse in the back of the Grayson family farm.

  CHAPTER 11

  Imogene was resistant to admit it even to herself, but by the time she’d gotten off the b
us and started the two-mile walk home to the farmhouse she was loath to return to, she was thoroughly shaken. What had at first seemed to be a simple stumble now grew in its ominous undertones.

  It’s over.

  They might as well have typed the words Stay the heck away. Stop nosing in what was nobody else’s business. Let go of Hazel and leave it to the police. Or maybe . . . Imogene halted on the side of the road, gravel crunching under her feet. Maybe this didn’t have anything to do with a threat to stay silent. Maybe it was a consolation. A short, stilted recognition that Hazel was gone, that Imogene needed to move on, that . . .

  Footsteps behind her made Imogene spin on her heel. Oliver strolled toward her, his hands in his overall pockets, the calm look on his face set as though not much could dislodge it. It wasn’t much unlike his expression the morning of Hazel’s murder.

  “Going my way?” Imogene opted for a half smile and a lilt to her voice. Anything to ward off the concern that flickered in Oliver’s blue eyes and then disappeared.

  “Yep.” His one-word answer relieved her. Anyone else would have probably asked a dozen or more questions as to how she was holding up. Or “Has Chet made any breaks in the case?” Or “How’s your mama faring?” Or since this was Oliver, he could straight-out ask her how she was managing after seeing all that gore. The kind of horror no human eyes should ever behold. But he didn’t. Instead, he moved beside her and matched her steps.

  One, two, three, four . . . Imogene found herself counting them. Distraction. Anything. She was light-headed, dizzy even, as a wave of exhaustion and emotion raced unexpectedly through her. To cover it up, she looped her arm through Oliver’s and hugged it. He tripped against her and cast her a bewildered look. She was quick to cover it up with another red-lipped smile.