by Sarah Sundin
“You gave us your blessing.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to see it.”
Lillian rolled halfway out of Arch’s embrace and gave her brother a saucy tilt of her head. “For the past four months, I’ve watched you cuddle with my friend, and now you have to watch me cuddle with your friend. I’d say we’re even.”
Jim burst out laughing and ducked his head. “Point taken. Now, are we going sailing?”
“What do you say?” Arch gave Lillian his best roguish smile. “Want to go cuddle on the sailboat? I might even kiss you.”
“Oh, I hope so.”
Jim groaned and jogged down the stairs. “Hurry up, or we’ll shove off without you.”
Arch followed. “Never thought the most cheerful man in the world would turn grumpy.”
“Grumpy indeed,” Lillian said in a loud voice. “Maybe that’s what happened to Mr. Dixon. Maybe his sister fell in love with his best friend.”
Jim laughed. “All right. All right. Now get moving.”
Before long, Arch and Jim put the Caroline out to sea and trimmed her sails. Jim and Mary took the helm, and Arch sat with Lillian at the bow, snuggling in the cool breeze.
Lillian chatted about the weather and the homes on the shore and the changes she was making in the pharmacy, and Arch watched her, marveling at the sudden openness.
She loved him. He loved her. Such freedom.
Yet a potential trap. She knew enough to hurt him, even to ruin him.
The gray-blue waves surged by, tipped with white froth. He was drifting away from the safety of port, exposed to the elements.
“This is so relaxing,” Lillian said, one amber lock dancing in her face. “Do you really plan to sell this place, the yacht?”
He captured the errant lock and twirled it around his finger. “Yes. You know why.”
“I do. And I know why you like the simple life. I like it too. But wouldn’t it be lovely to have the estate for a vacation getaway, a weekend retreat?”
Arch stared at his finger, trapped in the golden coil.
“I think you can trust yourself, sweetheart.” She kissed his chin. “Trust how you’ve changed, trust how strong you are in the Lord.”
He fought the tightening of his jaw. He had to stop being suspicious. She only said such things because she believed in him.
Lillian teased her hair free and tucked it under the red ribbon. “Either way, whether you keep it or sell, I know you’ll make the right choice.”
Arch released a breath, absorbed the truth, and nuzzled a kiss on her wind-chilled lips. Yes, he’d exposed his deepest feelings. Yes, he could be trapped. But he and Lillian were in this together, and they weren’t alone. God would be with them.
28
Boston
Monday, April 27, 1942
It couldn’t be.
Lillian stood outside Dixon’s Drugs, where the windows were plastered with ads and posters.
Five minutes earlier, she’d been concerned that her giddiness from the weekend in Connecticut would make it hard to concentrate on her work. Now her concern flipped to something darker.
What happened to her pretty spring window? She’d already planned her next display. With sugar rationing scheduled to start May 5, she’d designed a “Who needs sugar to be sweet?” theme, showcasing perfumes and scented soaps and lotions on a floral background.
Lillian opened the door, setting the bells to jangling. Her window display—gone. The cosmetics display—gone. Why, even the tin collection bin was gone.
“I’m sorry, Miss Avery.” Mrs. Connelly stood by the soda fountain, wringing her hands. “Mr. Dixon went on a rampage this weekend. He was in a foul mood.”
Beside the cashier, a sign read, “Due to sugar rationing and shortages of metal parts for the fountain, the soda fountain will close May 5.”
Lillian’s breathing grew shallow. She managed to give Mrs. Connelly an acknowledging nod and to move her feet down the aisle. On the way, she passed Albert unloading boxes. His expression brimmed with sympathy.
She hung up her purse in the stockroom and put on her white coat.
In the prescription area, Mr. Dixon had his back to her, mixing an ointment. “Before you say a word, let me remind you I agreed to a one-month experiment. Your month is over.”
“But I thought . . . didn’t sales increase?”
“Nothing worth the humiliation.”
“Humiliation?”
The metal spatula scraped over the marble ointment slab. “The Chamber of Commerce met on Thursday night, and I got an earful. Mr. Morton, the owner of the store on Winthrop Square—he said he never thought he’d see the day when Cyrus Dixon let a little girl boss him around.”
Lillian gasped. “I never—”
“And I found out you disobeyed me. Two doctors—two!—asked about the new girl pharmacist who loves to ask questions.”
She pressed her hand over her writhing belly. She only called when necessary, and she was always polite and succinct. “I only called—”
“I told you not to.” He threw a dagger of a look over his shoulder. “You went behind my back and made me the laughingstock of the Charlestown business community.”
Lillian leaned against the counter for support. “It won’t happen again.”
“No, it won’t. I won’t have an employee undermining me, telling me what to do. This is my store, and I’ll run things my way.”
“I never thought I was—I’ll do better, sir.”
He grunted. “Well, see if you can behave yourself until June.”
“June?”
His shoulders heaved. “Pharmacy school graduation. As I told you in January, I’m looking for your replacement.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” She hated how her voice shuddered, but she couldn’t make it stop. “I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. I was just doing my job.”
Another grunt. “Well, get to work. I’m still paying you.”
“Yes, sir.” Eyes burning, she picked up the next prescription on the counter and rolled a label into the typewriter.
How on earth would she find a new job? It had taken six months last time, but now it’d be worse. A crippled woman who had been fired. The black mark of career death.
She pounded out the prescription directions on the typewriter keys. How had she gone from the most glorious weekend ever to one of the worst days of her life in a matter of hours?
Lillian paused outside the door to her apartment, exhausted and drained. She’d hoped her improvements to the store would increase sales and make her indispensable. Now there was nothing she could do. In two months, she’d be unemployed.
If only she didn’t have to enter her apartment and run the gauntlet of sympathy. But the past few months had taught her that opening up to friends did help.
She opened the door.
“Hello, Lillian,” Quintessa called. “Your dinner’s waiting for you in the oven.”
“Thank you.” Her voice came out limp.
Mary looked up from her novel. “Are you all right?”
Her smile was even limper. “No. I’ll tell you after I change.”
“You poor thing. Go change and quickly.”
In her room, Lillian sank down on her bed. Her prosthesis ached to be removed, as did her fitted suit jacket, but both actions required effort.
Out in the entryway, the phone rang. Lillian shook herself from the stupor and unbuttoned her jacket.
Quintessa knocked on the bedroom door. “Sweetie, it’s Arch.”
“Arch?” How did he know she needed to hear his voice?
She dashed to the phone. “Arch?” Her voice broke.
“Darling, listen. I can’t talk long. Buckner allowed me to come ashore to make a call only because it’s an emergency.”
“An emergency?” Lillian grasped the table.
“Sweetheart, Fish is dead.”
Fish? The source. Mrs. Harrison’s grandson. “Oh no. What happened?”
“On
Friday night when we were in Connecticut, some of the boys were celebrating our victory at the Rusty Barnacle. Fish had too much to drink, and he’d taken at least one pill.”
“Oh no.” Lillian pressed her hand to her forehead. “Barbiturates and alcohol are a dangerous combination. But only one pill shouldn’t—”
“This is where it gets fuzzy. Palonsky wasn’t there, but he and I are piecing together the story. Apparently Earl Kramer egged Fish on, dared him. A drinking game, but with pills too.”
Lillian squeezed her eyes shut. People could be so stupid.
“He passed out at the bar,” Arch said. “They revived him enough to walk back to the ship, but his friends were worried. He didn’t look well. So they took him to Doc.”
“Your pharmacist’s mate.”
“Yes. Within an hour, Fish was dead.”
“Oh my goodness.”
“We don’t know what happened. It could have been a simple accident, drinking and sedatives and poor judgment. Or Kramer could have been acting deliberately, trying to get Fish caught or killed, so he could take his place. Or it could be Doc. He has medications, and he was alone with Fish. He could have fed Fish more pills. The man was in no state to resist.”
“Oh, Arch, how horrible.”
Her roommates gathered around, eyes wild for answers, and Lillian faced the wall since she didn’t have any.
“I wanted you to know for Mrs. Harrison’s sake. And to warn you to be careful, darling. Very careful. These people are dangerous.”
“Poor Mrs. Harrison.” She loved her Giffy, the only one who paid her any mind, she’d said. How could her family neglect such a sweet lady?
“I have to go now,” Arch said. “I don’t know when I’ll see you again. Buckner’s cracking down tonight—he just got back. And we’re sailing soon.”
“I understand.” She longed to see him, to hold him. She hadn’t even told him about her problems, but they’d have to wait.
“I love you, darling. Please be careful. Please.”
“You too. And I love you too.” Lillian settled the receiver in place and faced her three roommates. “Mrs. Harrison’s grandson died this weekend. He served on the Ettinger. I—I need to go to her.”
“Oh, the poor thing.” Quintessa clapped her hand over her mouth.
Lillian buttoned her suit jacket again and ventured upstairs. She was no good at consoling people, but after all Mrs. Harrison had been to her, she had to pay her respects.
A sliver of light under the door announced the poor woman was still awake.
Lillian couldn’t put this off until tomorrow. She sent up a quick prayer and knocked.
Mrs. Harrison opened the door, gray-faced and empty-eyed.
“Oh, Mrs. Harrison, I’m so sorry. I just heard about your grandson.”
The older woman’s face buckled, but she motioned Lillian inside. “It was kind of you to come.”
Lillian scanned the apartment, but they were alone. Where was the rest of her family?
Mrs. Harrison sat on the couch, and Lillian joined her.
“He was so young.” Mrs. Harrison’s gaze reached across the room to her grandson’s portrait. “He was so patriotic, so proud to be a sailor. And he was celebrating. His destroyer sank a sub. Did you read about that in the paper?” Her eyes turned to Lillian, hungry for affirmation.
“I did.” Lillian gave her a small smile. “He must have been thrilled.”
With a fluttering hand, Mrs. Harrison covered her eyes. “He was celebrating with his friends, like boys do. But they say . . . they’re saying horrible things. Couldn’t be true.”
“I know.” Lillian clasped the woman’s trembling hand, certain of her innocence. “The phenobarbital. He told you he needed it for his nerves. He was afraid he’d get kicked out of the Navy. So he talked you into having prescriptions filled in your name. It wasn’t right of him, but how—”
Mrs. Harrison’s eyes turned to blue knives.
Lillian clamped her lips together, but the horrid words had already left her mouth. She’d violated two great social laws—“never speak ill of the dead” and “blood is thicker than water.”
“Pardon?” The older woman’s voice cut as hard and sharp as her eyes.
“I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t—”
Mrs. Harrison yanked her hand free and stood. “How dare you? How dare you come into my home and accuse my Giffy—accuse me—”
“I’m—”
“Get out.” She pointed to the door. “Get out and never come back.”
Oh, what had she done? Lillian dashed out of the apartment, tossing another futile apology over her shoulder as the door slammed.
She sagged against the wall outside the door. How insensitive of her! Just because something was true didn’t mean it needed to be spoken. Especially to a woman in the depths of grief.
Lillian doubled over. She’d thought she’d changed, but she was as coldhearted as ever.
29
Boston
Monday, April 27, 1942
Arch climbed the gangway under a moonlit sky. If only he could have told Lillian in person. Not only was it improper to relay news of a death by telephone, but he should have held her.
At the top of the gangway, Arch faced aft and saluted the flag, then saluted the officer of the deck tonight, Lt. John Odom. “I report my return aboard, sir.”
“Very well. Captain Buckner has called a meeting of all officers in the wardroom at 2200.”
Arch glanced at his watch. Half an hour. “Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Vandenberg, sir.” Seaman Warren Palonsky greeted him with a salute. “I completed the inventory of the repair party lockers.”
Their code that they needed to discuss the case. “Very well. Let’s start with number five.”
Arch led the way into the center superstructure and into the locker, a small compartment crammed with tools and supplies.
Palonsky shut the door behind them, took off his white “Dixie cup” cover, and ran his hand through his sandy hair. “Sir, I just met with Earl Kramer. He took Fish’s position, which makes me the new middleman. I don’t like it, sir. I’m supposed to sell to other men. I can’t do that.”
Arch rubbed the spot between his eyebrows. “I agree. You can’t. It’s wrong and it’s dangerous.”
“I’ll tell you what’s dangerous.” Palonsky leaned his hand against the bulkhead by his head, his fingers drumming the steel. “As Kramer’s apprentice, I’m supposed to meet the sources on shore.”
“Sources? More than one?”
“Yes, sir. Civilians. A group of thugs, sounds like. A leader, a forger, and fellows who steal prescription pads, get the prescriptions filled, and deliver them. Some of the deliveries take place at the Navy Yard, some at the Rusty Barnacle.”
Arch set his elbow on a shelf and rested his forehead in his hand. A full-blown ring, just as they’d feared. Far more than Fish’s grandmother.
“Sir, I don’t like this.” Palonsky slapped the bulkhead. “I want out.”
If he lost Palonsky, he’d never solve the case. “I did promise you could get out any time.”
“The time is now, sir.”
Arch puffed out a breath. “We’re so close. If we could identify even one fellow on shore, we’d have something to take to the police.”
“Sir, they framed Hobie. They probably killed Fish.”
“What’ll it look like if you back out now? You know too much.”
Palonsky cussed. “Then get me out of here. Get me transferred to another ship, far from Boston.”
He needed to solve this case to prevent more deaths. “Did Kramer say when you’d meet the sources?”
“After our next patrol. Next time we both get liberty.”
“Can you wait until then? Soon as we get a name—just one man—submit your request. I’ll see it goes through.”
Palonsky scrunched up his face, wagging his head.
Arch needed to buy more time. He swallowed some bile at the thou
ght of what he had to do. “Would more money help?”
The sailor leveled a hard expression at him. “Ten more dollars a month.”
“Twenty.” Arch shook Palonsky’s hand, but his heart sank low in his belly. Once again using wealth and influence to get his way. What was wrong with him?
Lt. Cdr. Alvin Buckner stood at the head of the table in the wardroom. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the death of Torpedoman’s Mate Gifford Payne.”
The officers murmured their shock and grief.
“The doctors say he died from a combination of alcohol and a sedative called phenobarbital. He had an envelope containing the pills in his pocket. It seems we have a problem on the Ettinger. When Seaman Hobart McLachlan was arrested two weeks ago, he had withdrawal symptoms from the same drug.”
Arch pressed his lips together. Hadn’t he informed the captain about the problem over a month ago? Hadn’t the captain told him just to make the men buck up?
Buckner leaned his fists on the table. “Some of the boys claim they saw Fish taking pills, even giving them to others, but no one will name names.”
Arch studied his folded hands in his lap. It was too early to report what he knew. He needed at least one source on shore, a link between Dixon’s Drugs and the Ettinger—a link other than the unbelievably unlikely Opal Harrison. If he spoke now, the investigation would fall apart and the ring would continue, supplying other ships and incapacitating other sailors.
“Mr. Taylor, Mr. Avery,” Buckner said. “Any problems in engineering?”
“No, sir,” Emmett Taylor said. “Our boys haven’t seen as much carnage as the men topside.”
“Gunnery obviously has a problem.” Buckner turned piercing dark eyes to Lt. Miles Gannett, the gunnery officer.
The knuckles of Gannett’s clenched hands turned white. “Fish always did his duties well, sir. Stein, on the other hand . . . Melvin Stein. Bill Jenkins.”
“Melvin Stein, Bill Jenkins.” Buckner scribbled on a notepad. “Anyone else?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Deck division.” The captain’s upper lip curled. “The worst division on board. What do you have to report?”
Odom’s mouth pursed. “As I told you earlier, sir, many of my men have problems with their nerves.”