Anchor in the Storm

by Sarah Sundin

“Hey, fellas. Leave any beer for me?”

  They all laughed. “Not a drop.”

  “Source One,” Palonsky murmured into his beer.

  Source One, and his name was Hank, not Norman Hunter. Arch studied the amber liquid in front of him, the same color as Lillian’s hair, not that he’d tell her.

  Hank. Hank. If only they’d used a last name too. If only Hank had greeted the others by name. Arch tuned his ear to the conversation, but he only heard snippets.

  Before long, Kramer left the bar, and Palonsky turned his head away as the coxswain passed.

  The door opened again. Hunkered over his beer, Arch stole a glance. A red-haired man approached the bar—that was Albert Myers, the delivery boy from Dixon’s Drugs. He greeted the bartender and gave him a paper bag.

  What timing! On the way home, he’d give Palonsky a hard time about that. The sailor wouldn’t have recognized Albert. “Able Mike from Dog Dog.”

  Palonsky’s eyebrows twisted in confusion.

  He’d gloat later. “Delivery from my girl’s employer.”

  Palonsky leaned back, rolled his shoulders, and surveyed the scene. “Bartender, huh?”

  “We need his name.”

  “Leave it to me. Finish the peanuts.”

  Arch scooped in another sloppy mouthful.

  Palonsky took the empty bowl to the bar. His mild limp and heavy gait aided his disguise as a wizened old sea salt. He greeted the bartender with a grin. “Say, can me and my pal here have more peanuts?” He sounded like a fisherman from Maine. What an actor.

  “Sure.” The bartender filled the bowl.

  Average build and height. In his forties. Auburn hair thinning on top and graying around the temples. A name. Arch just needed a name.

  Palonsky thrust out his hand. “Hal Miller. Folks call me Lob, for lobster.”

  “Folks call me Rusty.” The bartender shook his hand.

  Arch winced. He needed a last name too.

  Palonsky chuckled and leaned his elbow on the bar. “Rusty, eh? That how the place got its name?”

  “Sure is. Started as Rusty’s Bar. Sailors started calling it the Rusty Barnacle. I liked it. Made a new sign.”

  “Your last name Barnacle too?”

  Rusty laughed. “Nope. Carruthers.”

  Not just an actor, but a genius. The man deserved a promotion.

  Rusty filled a glass with beer from the tap. “Ain’t never seen you or your pal before. New in town?”

  “Yep. We’re boilermen on the SS—ah, no you don’t, young man.” Palonsky wagged his finger. “Loose lips sink ships, you know.”

  “Have another beer on me.” Rusty slid him the glass. “You’re wise to keep quiet. We get shady characters in here.”

  “Not this fellow.” Palonsky clapped Albert on the back. “Clean-cut boy like this.”

  Rusty gave him a mock scowl. “It’s the clean-cut ones you gotta watch out for.”

  The three of them burst out laughing.

  Someone bumped Arch’s chair from behind, and beer sloshed over the table.

  “Hey, watch what you’re doing,” someone barked.

  The nerve. Who bumped whom? Arch sat up straight and fixed a hard look on the man. “Pardon?”

  Oh no. It was Hank, his eyes dark slits in his angular face.

  The last thing they needed was an escalation into a brawl. Arch’s heart hammered, but he hefted up his shoulders and grunted. “Did me a favor. Lousy beer anyway.”

  Hank laughed and gave him a friendly punch in the shoulder. “Ain’t it? Hey, Rusty. Need a rag.”

  “Clumsy oaf.” Rusty fired a rag across the room.

  Arch snatched it from the air, glad he’d excelled at baseball, and scrubbed the table in rough strokes, pleased to show off his grease manicure. He’d salvaged that situation.

  But Palonsky rapped his knuckle against his thigh. What? What had he done wrong?

  The seaman ambled back to the table. “Five minutes. Let me down this beer, then we’ll scram. Not a word.”

  Arch popped peanuts into his mouth to justify the new bowlful, but salt and uneasiness dried out his tongue.

  Finally Palonsky jerked his head to the door and led Arch outside, tossing a good-bye to Rusty.

  “This way and fast.” Palonsky darted up a narrow street. “Never again, Mr. Vandenberg. Never again.”

  “Nonsense. We have new information, names—”

  “Pardon?” He pursed his mouth and looked down his nose like a caricature of an aristocrat. “I do believe you caused me to spill my libation.”

  Arch groaned. “It wasn’t that bad.”

  “It was a test, sir. Don’t you see? Hank bumped you on purpose so you’d look straight at him—and to see how you’d react. Didn’t you notice he went back to the table afterward?” Palonsky glanced behind him and steered Arch right on the next street.

  The peanuts tumbled in his stomach. “I failed the test. Do you think he recognized me?”

  “Don’t know. But I guarantee they know you ain’t a boilerman on the SS Sea Salt.” A sharp left turn. “Take off that wig and cap, stuff them in your coat. We’ll come to the girls’ place from the opposite way.”

  “They’re following us?”

  “Not that I can tell, but they were having a heated talk. Couldn’t hear, but it looked like Hank wanted to beat you up, big guy told him, ‘not on your life,’ little guy backed up big guy. Guess who’s in charge?”

  “Big guy.” Arch sighed. “And we don’t have his name or the little guy’s, and we only have Hank’s first name. Although now we know Hank was definitely following Lillian because of the drug ring and he’s using an alias. And we know Rusty Carruthers is involved.”

  Palonsky headed left, up the hill toward Monument Square. “And we know Ensign Archer Vandenberg is no actor.”

  Maybe not, but he’d fulfilled a purpose. Only he could have matched Palonsky’s source to Lillian’s shadow. Only he could have recognized Albert and discovered Rusty’s involvement. He grinned at Palonsky. “So, next week—”

  “I’ll throw myself overboard. I swear I will, sir.”

  Arch laughed. “From now on, I’ll leave the spying to you.”

  32

  Boston

  Thursday, May 21, 1942

  Lillian studied the prescription Mrs. Harper gave her for elixir of aminophylline, and she addressed ten-year-old Denny Harper. “Could you swallow a pill?”

  Denny raised anxious brown eyes to his mom. “I hate pills.”

  “I know.” Lillian leaned over the counter. “I hated them at your age too.”

  “Miss Avery.” Mrs. Harper shifted the weight of the little girl she carried on her hip. “I’d sure appreciate an elixir.”

  Lillian nodded, but she slid the prescription across the counter toward the boy. “Denny, you can read. There are a lot of strange symbols, but what’s that word?”

  “Sugar. That’s too easy. And that one’s alcohol and that’s glycerin.”

  “Well, you know sugar’s rationed. But did you know they need alcohol to make those big shells the Navy uses on battleships? And glycerin is needed for explosives. The nation is running low on all of these.”

  “Oh.” Denny bit his lower lip.

  Lillian shrugged. “I could make this elixir and use up a little more sugar, a little more alcohol, a little more glycerin.”

  Something fierce flashed in his eyes. “Or I could swallow a pill like a man.”

  “Like a soldier serving his country.”

  Mrs. Harper chuckled. “How can I argue with patriotism?”

  One quick phone call that even Mr. Dixon wouldn’t mind, and the doctor changed the elixir to a tablet. Lillian filled the prescription and placed the bottle of manly tablets in a paper bag. Then she extended the jar of marbles to both brother and sister. Mr. Dixon offered them only to boys, but Lillian knew girls liked marbles too. She certainly did.

  After they left, she glanced at the clock. Only eleven. Mr. Dixon wouldn’t
be in until one, and Reggie, the junior clerk, was stocking shelves. Now she could call Dr. Sharp. The past week she’d worked evenings, and Dr. Sharp’s office closed promptly at five.

  She grabbed the phone and the prescription she’d set aside, called the office, and waited for the nurse to fetch the physician. What did it matter if Mr. Dixon fired her for calling? He’d fire her in a few weeks anyway. She’d typed up a dozen copies of her resume, and tomorrow on her day off she’d start applying for a new job.

  “Dr. Sharp here.”

  “This is Lillian Avery. I’m a pharmacist at Dixon’s Drugs. Pardon me, but I’m new to town, and I wanted to verify a prescription that seems unusual to me.”

  “All right.”

  Deep breath. “It’s for Harry Carruthers. One-half grain of phenobarbital, three hundred tablets. And the delivery address is a bar, the Rusty Barnacle.”

  Dr. Sharp sighed. “I suppose that would look unusual. Poor Harry has a violent case of epilepsy and requires five grains daily. As for the bar, his brother owns it. He cares for Harry. Saddest thing you’ve ever seen. Rusty keeps the poor man in a room behind the bar so he can help if Harry has a seizure.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “That Rusty—he’s rough around the edges but has a heart of gold. Most brothers would put Harry in an institution, but Rusty won’t hear of it.”

  Lillian fought to keep inappropriate disappointment out of her voice. “Thank you for explaining. I wanted to be sure.”

  “A wise choice.”

  When she hung up, her delayed disappointment seeped out in a sigh. Rusty Carruthers was a red herring. A legitimate prescription, not a forgery. It was merely a coincidence that the same bar was used by the drug ring for deliveries.

  What more could she do to solve the case? The men who brought in forged prescriptions used aliases, and they certainly wouldn’t divulge their identities to her.

  That was all they needed. Names to add to the faces. Hank she recognized, but they needed a last name. The smaller man Arch saw at the bar sounded like the customer who used the alias Arnold Smith, but the larger man didn’t sound familiar.

  “Lillian Avery, standing around doing nothing.”

  She whipped around at the familiar voice. “Daniel Avery, standing around being annoying.”

  Dan gave a rare smile, removed his cover, and smoothed his wavy black hair. “So this is where you’ve been getting into trouble lately.”

  He didn’t know the half of it. “You realize you’ve been in Boston three months, and this is the first time you’ve visited Dixon’s.”

  “Well, you know gas is rationed here on the East Coast.”

  Lillian burst out in a laugh. “Only for the past week, and you don’t even own a car, and Boston has the best subway system.”

  “Worth a try.” Dan’s eyes twinkled, and he glanced around. “You’ve done well for yourself.”

  If only it would last. “So what brought the busy lieutenant into my drugstore?”

  “Telegram from Mom.” He slid her a piece of paper. “Good news.”

  “Lucy had her baby?” Lillian snatched up the telegram and gobbled it down. “A girl? How fun. They named her Barbara. I like that. I can’t wait to see a picture.”

  “I’m hurt.” He flicked the paper in her hand. “Mom says Lucy wants to know when Lillian’s coming to see the baby. Not when Dan’s coming, or Rob, or Jim. Only you.”

  Since Dan never had any patience with Lucy’s histrionics, Lillian felt free to tell the truth. “Simple. She wants to gloat that she has a husband and baby, and I don’t. When I say I can’t come home because of work, she’ll have another excuse to call me coldhearted.”

  Dan made a face. “I’ll never understand women. That’s why I’ll never marry.”

  “Just wait. Someday a special lady will make you change your tune.”

  He raised one dark eyebrow. “Never thought I’d hear my sensible sister spout romantic hogwash.”

  She smiled. “Even sensible sisters fall in love.”

  “Well, Arch is a good man. Almost worthy of you. Do you know where he and Jim are?”

  “No. They sailed on the tenth. That’s all I know.” Eleven very long days.

  Dan leaned forward with a glint in his eye. “Coastal convoy. Key West and back.”

  The proper response was, “It’s about time,” so Lillian said it, even though her brain was calculating how long the voyage would take, how long until she could savor Arch’s brilliant eyes and kind words and vertigo-producing kisses.

  “About three weeks total,” Dan said, his eyelids fluttering in annoyance. “Looks like love has made my sister much less sensible.”

  “And much happier.” She gave him a beaming smile just to see him grimace.

  He did. “I’d better get back to work, and so had you. If you have any work, that is.”

  “It’s been quiet lately.” She spied Mr. Dixon coming up the aisle, early for his shift. “There’s my boss. Quick—buy some war stamps. We’re below our sales quota.”

  Dan grumbled about already aiding the war effort, but he bought five dollars’ worth.

  Mr. Dixon paused in front of the counter and inspected Dan. “Just how many naval officers do you know, Miss Avery?”

  She laughed. “Mr. Dixon, this is my oldest brother, Lt. Dan Avery.”

  The men shook hands, but Mr. Dixon looked distracted, and Dan took his leave.

  Lillian put away the bulk bottle of aminophylline, but what could she do next? She had so few prescriptions today. With less compounding of elixirs and syrups, she even had less to clean up.

  “Miss Avery, I’d like a word.”

  She winced, but she schooled her expression to neutrality and faced him. Had he hired her replacement already?

  The druggist did up the buttons on his white coat. “I sat down with the books last night. No doubt about it. Sales have fallen this month.”

  “Well, it is spring. Fewer cases of cold and flu.”

  “No, sales are also down from last May. Since you came.”

  Lillian’s shoulder muscles tightened. He was blaming her? “Don’t forget the government’s price freeze.”

  “That’s not it.” He tugged the hem of his jacket. “However, April sales were significantly higher than March, and over April of 1941. It was due to the changes you made.”

  Her jaw swung low. “It was?”

  “We’ve had complaints too.” He frowned toward the main store. “Mrs. Connelly and Miss Felton say customers have left the store as soon as they saw the tin collection bin was gone. And the ladies miss your froufrou displays.”

  “Oh.” Her heartbeat scampered ahead, but she refused to let her mind catch up.

  Mr. Dixon flung his hand toward the front of the store. “Put it back the way you had it. All of it. The window, the tin box, the cosmetics table, anything else you want.”

  “Anything?”

  He lowered thick gray brows at her. “Run your ideas past me first.”

  Her mind joined her heart in its frolic. “Of course.”

  “Well, get to it. What’re you waiting for?”

  Lillian could have hugged the grouchy old teddy bear, but he’d fire her on the spot. “Thank you, sir. I’ll get right to work.”

  “Good. Only reason I came in early.”

  She went to the stockroom where he’d stashed the tin collection bin with all her fabric inside. Her changes had increased sales! She’d done it. She’d made herself indispensable. He’d never fire her now.

  She carried out the box and grinned at Mr. Dixon as she passed. “We’ll get you that cottage on Nantucket and a boat for your nephew before you know it.”

  Something soft washed over those dark eyes, and then he grunted and marched away.

  Let Lucy call her coldhearted. It wasn’t true. Only warmth could have melted Mr. Dixon’s stalwart defenses.

  33

  Off Cape Hatteras, North Carolina

  Friday, May 29, 1942

&n
bsp; The seas around Cape Hatteras tossed the Ettinger, but not as much as Mother’s letter tossed Arch.

  The letter had arrived the day they left Boston, almost three weeks earlier. On first reading, Arch dismissed it outright, but each day’s reading fueled his doubts. Alone in his cabin, waiting for the first dog watch at 1600, he smoothed the stationery on the desk. Muggy air pressed on his chest.

  For several days, I’ve pondered how to address this. I liked Lillian very much and found her kind and gracious. You know I don’t tolerate gossip, but since this came from our trusted friend Dr. Detweiler, it carries weight and bears serious consideration. He never spreads gossip either, and he was quite impressed with Lillian that evening.

  His granddaughter Pauline was concerned when you brought home a new girlfriend. She and her friends know you’ve been hurt by gold diggers, so Pauline recorded their conversation with Lillian. She showed it to her grandfather, and he thought you should be informed. Your father and I concurred. I have enclosed Pauline’s notes.

  Arch unfolded the second sheet of stationery, steeling himself, praying Pauline’s words would form new and less-incriminating sentences. But they wouldn’t.

  Helen, Trudy, and I arranged a private talk with Miss Lillian Avery. We made pleasant conversation until I asked how long she and Archer had been dating.

  Lillian said, “We aren’t dating.”

  Helen voiced her surprise, since Archer seemed smitten. Lillian stated she was aware of his affections.

  Then Trudy asked if Lillian was playing hard to get.

  Lillian smirked. “There’s a reason playing hard to get has worked for generations. The man thinks it was his idea and not yours.”

  We giggled as if we agreed, and Helen leaned closer with a conspiratorial whisper. “When a man is used to being chased for his money, it’s important that he does the chasing.”

  “Oh yes,” Lillian said. “He mustn’t think I’m a gold digger.”

  I chimed in. “But all this wealth is tempting, isn’t it?”

  She laughed. “Who wouldn’t want it?” Then she confessed she hadn’t made up her mind whether or not to date Arch—until she saw the estate.

  An admission of guilt from her very lips. Our first goal was accomplished, but our second goal remained. We couldn’t allow her to deceive our friend.