Anchor in the Storm

by Sarah Sundin

“I don’t take questions from clerks, young lady. Put Cyrus on the line.”

  “Mr. Dixon isn’t working today, but I’m a pharmacist too.”

  Silence, then a long sigh. “All right then.”

  Not a good start, but Lillian schooled her face into a smile so she’d sound confident. “I’m calling about a prescription for phenobarbital for Mr. Norman Hunter.”

  “Norman Hunter? Not my patient.”

  “I have a prescription here from you for a man by that name.”

  “Impossible. My father’s name is Norman, and my mother’s maiden name is Hunter. I’d remember that name.”

  Lillian fingered the paper. “That’s strange. It was written yesterday and—”

  “Yesterday? I didn’t see any patients yesterday. I was conducting a symposium at Harvard Medical School. You must have the wrong number. I’m not the only Dr. Kane in Boston. In the future, please be more careful and don’t waste my time.”

  “Sir,” Lillian spat out before he could hang up. “The phone number is on the prescription form. It’s a printed form like the others you use, a prescription for two hundred phenobarbital tablets.”

  “Two hundred? That’s ludicrous.”

  “I thought so too, but this isn’t the only one we’ve received for large quantities of sedatives written by you.”

  “Me? You’re mistaken. They must be forgeries. Someone must have stolen a prescription pad from one of my examination rooms. Does Dixon’s Drugs no longer take care when filling prescriptions?”

  Lillian winced. She didn’t want to get her boss in trouble. “Sir, did you write a prescription for Marian Zimmerman for thyroid?”

  “Yes. I saw her this morning.”

  “I have both prescriptions in front of me.” She peered at them. “They look identical—the form, the handwriting, the signature, even the shade of ink. If it’s a forgery, it’s an excellent one. That’s why we never suspected anything.”

  “Never suspected? Do you honestly think I’d write such prescriptions?”

  “No, sir.” Lillian coiled her finger in the telephone cord. “That’s why I called.”

  “See it doesn’t happen again. Or I’ll send my patients elsewhere.” The receiver slammed down.

  Lillian sat hard on her stool. A forger. Not a sinister doctor, but an actual forger. That was a crime.

  “My word. I need to call the police.” She yanked the phone book from the drawer, found the number for the police department, and coaxed her fingers to dial. After a few explanations, she was funneled to Detective Mike Malloy, and she explained the situation.

  “Is the suspect in the store?” the detective asked.

  “No, he came yesterday.”

  “And you’re just calling now?”

  Lillian released a sigh. “It’s a long story.”

  “It doesn’t do any good to call after the fact. Not if we want to catch him.”

  “But I have his name and address right here.”

  “Miss, do you think he’d use his real name and address?”

  Lillian ran her finger over the forged signature. “Some of the prescriptions are for delivery.”

  “Mm-hmm. That way they can leave the store immediately and not get caught.”

  “But someone has to receive the delivery, so—”

  “So what? The crooks can use addresses for vacant apartments, leave the cash payment in an envelope under the doormat, and pick up the drugs on the stoop after the delivery boy leaves.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t considered that.

  “That’s why the suspect needs to be in the store. If it happens again, call us, but don’t tip off the suspect.”

  Lillian rubbed her temple. Mr. Dixon wouldn’t like that at all. “I—I will. Thank you, Detective Malloy.”

  “You’re welcome. I’m glad to hear there’s a vigilant new druggist in town.” He laughed. “But wait till I tell my wife. A girl druggist? What’ll they think of next?”

  “A girl detective?”

  He laughed again, a good, merry sound. “Don’t give my wife any ideas.”

  Lillian grinned. Fewer than 5 percent of pharmacists were women. She might be the world’s first female druggist-detective. How fun.

  She held up the two prescriptions for comparison. An excellent forger, who had fooled both Mr. Dixon and her.

  A chill swept up her arms. A forger this good would be a hardened criminal, and he probably had help. After all, he’d written quite a few prescriptions for a lot of phenobarbital, more than any one man would need. Other stores might be filling these prescriptions too.

  This wasn’t one drug addict forging for his own use. This was a ring. A good-sized ring. And Lillian stood right in the middle of it.

  15

  Concord, Massachusetts

  Saturday, March 7, 1942

  As soon as everyone stepped off the train at the Concord Depot, Quintessa dashed to the pay phone. “I can’t wait to surprise Clifford.”

  Jim, Mary, and Lillian formed a cluster nearby, but Arch hung back. Even the prospect of an outing with Lillian hadn’t lifted his spirits.

  Quintessa flipped through the phone book.

  “Did you forget to bring his number?” Mary asked.

  “Oh, he never gave it to me.” Quintessa tucked a blonde curl behind her ear. “His mother’s very ill. She won’t be around long, poor thing, and it distresses her when Clifford dates, so he doesn’t want me to call.”

  Arch frowned. How strange.

  Jim rubbed the back of his neck. “Should you be calling, then?”

  “We’ve been dating over two months, and I’m a little tired of this. He shouldn’t let his mother control him, even if she’s ill.” Quintessa closed the door of the phone booth.

  Lillian leaned closer to Mary. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was married.”

  Mary gasped and covered her mouth with her fingers. “I was thinking the same thing.”

  Jim draped his arms around the ladies’ shoulders. “You both read too many mysteries. It’s making you suspicious.”

  “Last time I was suspicious, I was right.” Mary gave him a smug smile.

  Arch approached the group. “Think about it. He won’t give her his phone number. He only sees her in Boston on Friday evenings and the occasional weekend. Either he’s a milksop mama’s boy or he’s married.”

  “Not you too,” Jim grumbled.

  “Oh, Jim. That’s why I love you.” Mary kissed his cheek. “You always think highly of people. But I’ll talk to Quintessa this evening in private.”

  The phone booth door opened, and Quintessa emerged with a fake smile. “He can’t get away. His mother’s feeling poorly. I don’t want to sound selfish, but now I’m feeling poorly.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mary said.

  Arch gave Jim an I-told-you-so look, but Jim just rolled his eyes.

  Quintessa pressed her hand to her forehead. “I do sound selfish. His mother’s ill, and I’m whining because I can’t surprise my boyfriend with a picnic at the North Bridge.”

  “Nonsense.” Mary hugged her. “You don’t have a selfish bone in your body. You’re just used to being adored by the men in your life, and when a man doesn’t dote on you . . .”

  Quintessa looked stricken. “That’s selfish.”

  “No,” Mary said. “Being used to something and demanding it are two different things.”

  Arch knew plenty of women like Quintessa. Gorgeous, intelligent, vivacious, accustomed to constant attention. At least Quintessa had a measure of humility and self-awareness.

  Then there was Lillian. His gaze swung to the lovely young lady in the green coat. Not only did she not demand attention, she seemed leery of it. He wanted to know why. He wanted to change her mind. But how could he do so when his dark mood had stripped away all semblance of charm?

  Arch lagged behind the group as they walked along tree-lined streets past graceful colonial homes. Everyone chatted, and Jim tried to draw him in to conversation
, but Arch gave short if polite replies. Jim took the hint and stopped trying.

  Lillian fell quiet. Her gait stiffened, and the hitch in her step increased. What was it like for her to walk with a prosthesis, with the stump of her leg bearing her weight with each step, perhaps rubbing in the socket? It had to hurt, yet she never complained.

  They passed the Old Manse, former home to both Ralph Waldo Emerson and Nathaniel Hawthorne, and then headed down a long pathway to the North Bridge.

  Lillian’s shoulders relaxed, but her gait slowed.

  Arch fell in beside her as they neared the bridge. “Would you like to rest?”

  Her gaze flew to him, bristling with barbs. “I’m not weak.”

  “No, but you do get sore,” he said gently.

  Her mouth drifted open, then she looked away. “I—I am a bit uncomfortable today.”

  “There’s a bench up ahead by the bridge. I could use a rest myself.”

  “I’m sorry I snapped,” she muttered.

  “Well, if your week was anything like mine, you have reason to snap.” Arch plopped onto the bench, exhausted inside and out.

  Lillian sat beside him and crossed her ankles a few times, probably seeking a comfortable position. “That destroyer that was sunk off the coast of Delaware, right?”

  “The Jacob Jones.” A sigh flowed out all the way from his toes. On February 28, the Jacob Jones had been searching for survivors from the sunken tanker R.P. Resor, when she was also sunk by a U-boat. “One hundred forty-nine men killed. Dick Reinhardt was one of them. We served with him. Survived the sinking of the Atwood, but not the Jacob Jones. He was married.”

  “Oh no. I’m so sorry.”

  Arch stretched out his legs and closed his twitching eyelids. “It just won’t stop. We don’t have enough warships to run convoys along the East Coast. In the Pacific, the Japanese pick off our ships as if shooting skeet. How many Allied ships were sunk in the Java Sea? How many hundreds of men died? Now Singapore’s fallen, and the Dutch East Indies, and tens of thousands of our men are besieged on Bataan.”

  “It does look bad.”

  “We’ve only been at war three months, and it’s one defeat after another.”

  “That’s only true on the outside.”

  “Hmm?” He opened his eyes.

  Lillian held up her chin. “We’ll rally. We always do. Think of the men who are enlisting, the ships and planes and tanks we’re building, the women flocking to work in the factories, everyone pulling together. We just have to keep our spirits up and—and lean on the Lord.”

  Arch gazed at the anchor necklace at the base of her pretty neck. “‘Which hope we have as an anchor of the soul.’ I wish my faith ran that deep.”

  “I wish mine did too.” Her eyes searched Arch’s. “I—I’m trying to lean on him, but . . .”

  Arch’s eyes closed again. “I don’t know why I don’t lean on the Lord more. I trust him. I do.”

  “Me too.” Lillian’s voice was soft and pensive.

  Something unwound in Arch, and he let it. “Growing up, I trusted in money and connections. My parents warned me not to. Trust in your mind, your character, they said—those things no man can touch. So I did. Now what do I trust in? What do I really trust in? My naval career.” That was his way to escape the privileged life and its dangers. But man could take away that career. Then where would he be?

  “My career.” The wretchedness in Lillian’s voice pried Arch’s eyes open. She gazed toward the bridge, where Jim, Mary, and Quintessa leaned on the railing, dropping sticks in the water and racing to the other side to watch them float away.

  “Your career?” Arch asked.

  She shook her head, eyes glistening. “I didn’t want to be weak like Lucy. She was sickly as a child, always depending on others, and I hated it in her. After my accident, my greatest fear was ending up like her. I pushed myself, forced myself to walk even when I bled. Then I saw how people recoiled from me. When I grew up, no one would take care of me, and I refused to burden my family. A career was my only hope, and I worked hard for it.”

  Arch watched her reddening face and reached into his breast pocket for a handkerchief, but she shook her head.

  “My family,” she said, her voice steady. “They all have such strong faith, but I resisted opening my heart to God. I do believe. I always have. But I kept him at a distance. I’m trying to change, trying to open up.” She looked Arch in the eye and shifted her mouth to one side. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t know why I told you my garbage either. I guess you needed to take a load off your feet, and we both needed to take loads off our chests.”

  “Well, I refuse to be down.” She stood. “Come on. We can’t come to Concord and not cross the North Bridge.”

  That optimism drew him to his feet. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Lillian headed up the wooden bridge. “It might not cheer you up, but it’ll take your mind off the war for a moment. I called Dr. Kane this week. He didn’t write the prescriptions. They’re forgeries.”

  “He’s telling the truth?”

  Lillian frowned. “I suppose he could be lying. I hadn’t considered that.”

  He didn’t want her to question her judgment. “A forger.”

  “Yes. I called the police, but they can’t do anything unless he’s still in the store. Next time, the detective said.”

  “Wait.” At the top of the bridge, Arch stopped and reached for Lillian’s arm.

  She glanced at his hand and eased away.

  Why did she distrust him so much? Even now? His stomach soured, but he let go and focused on why he’d stopped her in the first place. “Don’t call the police yet.”

  “Why not? Forgery’s a crime.”

  “Yes, but what if it’s a ring? What if more than one person is involved?”

  “I—I think it is a ring. It’s too much phenobarbital for only one addict.” She glanced to the far end of the bridge, where Jim and her friends stood by the Minuteman statue.

  “Then please wait. If you have one man arrested, what will the others do? You could be in danger.”

  Fear sparked in her hazel eyes, but defiance sparked brighter. “You want me to do nothing while these criminals—”

  “I want you to wait.” He sank his hands in his coat pockets so he wouldn’t reach for her again. “Let’s investigate some more, find the links. For one thing, Palonsky and I made progress.”

  “You did?”

  His fingers closed around the folded envelope in his pocket, and he pulled it out. “I asked him to complain about his nerves in front of Hobie McLachlan. He did so. It took a few days, but Hobie pulled Palonsky aside and gave him this.” He opened the envelope.

  Lillian pulled out a tablet and gasped. “That’s phenobarbital!”

  “Thought so.” He jiggled the envelope.

  Lillian dropped the pill inside. “Palonsky didn’t take any, did he?”

  “No, but the next day he told Hobie he’d had the best night’s sleep in ages.” Arch stuffed the envelope back in his pocket. “Hobie offered to supply him with more. For a price, of course. Palonsky agreed. After all, I’m covering his costs.”

  “Hobie McLachlan.” Lillian scanned the clouds. “The name doesn’t ring a bell. I wonder where he’s getting the med. From a physician? From Dixon’s under a fake name? Or from a middleman?”

  “He said he had a prescription, but I don’t trust him one whit.”

  Lillian strolled toward the statue. “That’s nice of you to cover the costs.”

  “Plus a monthly stipend.” Guilt jabbed his belly. But he wasn’t using his wealth to manipulate. He’d hired an assistant, perfectly acceptable.

  A breeze rustled the empty branches, and Lillian brushed hair off her cheek. “He should be careful not to spend too much in front of the other sailors. They’ll wonder why he’s suddenly so rich.”

  “I told him something similar.” Only he hadn’t used the word rich
. “He’s saving it. He wants to go to Hollywood after the war, get into the movies. If the war ever ends, that is.”

  “No more of that.” Lillian marched to the statue. “Where’d they go?”

  Down on the riverbank, Jim set down the picnic basket, and the ladies spread out a blanket. “There they are. Lunchtime.”

  Lillian stared up at the statue, head tilted, fingers tapping on her crossed arms. “Look at him. He left his plow behind and picked up his gun to fight.”

  A smile tugged on his lips. “Just like 1942.”

  “Exactly.” She gave him a determined look. “In 1775, who would have guessed a ragtag group of farmers—untrained, undisciplined, and unorganized—would defeat the greatest military power of their time?”

  Arch turned toward the bridge. Those farmers had stood their ground, marched toward the uniformed ranks, and fired “the shot heard ’round the world.”

  He inhaled freedom and courage and hope. “We’ll prevail too.”

  “Yes, we will.”

  Arch faced Lillian. She was good for him with her stubborn optimism. If only he could convince her that he’d be good for her as well.

  16

  Boston

  Tuesday, March 10, 1942

  Lillian peeled tape off the time-faded ad for Bayer aspirin and savored the afternoon sunshine slanting through the window.

  Mr. Dixon handed her a poster of a pilot in his cockpit, proclaiming, “You buy ’em. We’ll fly ’em. Defense Bonds and Stamps.”

  Lillian set it in position. Why did a man who hated paying for electricity block God’s own free lighting?

  With a few pieces of tape, she secured the patriotic poster. How could she present her ideas to Mr. Dixon?

  On a recent Sunday at Park Street Church, Dr. Harold Ockenga had preached about Daniel standing up to the Babylonians so he and his friends could avoid unclean foods. Daniel hadn’t acted in angry defiance. With respect and kindness and prayer, he’d proposed an experiment.

  An experiment. Lillian sent up a prayer and cleared her throat. “Mr. Dixon, I’ve been thinking about why we don’t sell a lot of cosmetics here.”

  “What do you mean? We sell plenty.”

  She smoothed down the last piece of tape. “Not compared to other stores where I’ve worked. I think we could increase sales with a feminine touch to our cosmetics display.”