by Sarah Sundin
Helen pulled herself to her full regal height. “You do know we’ll have to inform Archer that you only want him for his money.”
Lillian lost all composure. It was rather embarrassing. She said we’d better keep quiet. Archer would never believe us anyway. Since Bitsy holds a torch for him, he’d think we were lying to drive Lillian away and let Bitsy have him.
Then she did the most unseemly thing. She said we didn’t have a leg to stand on, but she did. She raised her skirts—in public!—and thrust out a wooden leg. Of course, we were shocked at her behavior and rather unsettled. Then she stomped away in a temper like a common fishwife.
I hate to report this conversation, but for Archer’s sake, it is necessary.
Arch shoved the papers away, and his hands curled into fists. Someone was a lying schemer—either Pauline or Lillian. Two weeks ago, he’d assumed it was Pauline, but now he wasn’t certain.
It didn’t sound like the Lillian he knew and loved.
And yet . . .
He trusted Dr. Detweiler. He trusted his parents. They wouldn’t have passed on Pauline’s letter unless they believed her accusations had merit. And Arch had seen Lillian hike up her skirts and storm off in a huff. Both Lillian’s and Pauline’s explanations fit the action he’d witnessed.
And the shrewdness of the plan. If Lillian were indeed a gold digger, she would choose a clever approach like that. Chasing Arch would have raised his defenses, but inducing him to the chase caused him to lower his defenses.
And the timing?
Arch groaned and rested his forehead on his fist. One sentence knifed his heart—she hadn’t made up her mind until she saw the estate. Was that true? In a way, it was. She did make up her mind at the estate. Was the splendor the tipping point? If he’d declared his love while residing in a filthy tenement, would she have made the same decision?
His stomach whirled, as turbulent as the seas beneath him. Did she love him for who he was? Or had he been deceived yet again?
All the clues he’d brushed aside returned to his memory. Before the weekend in Connecticut, she’d supported the idea of selling his inheritance and giving away every penny. Then the day after the anniversary party, she told him to keep the estate. Now that she could potentially enjoy it.
Every time he saw her lately it seemed she wore a new dress, a new suit, a new hat—and nice ones. Having a rich boyfriend did tend to increase a woman’s appetite for the finer things in life.
Arch thrust the letter back in the drawer and bolted to his feet. He hated doubting her. He hated himself for feeling suspicious. And he hated the fact that he needed to test her.
But if he’d been deceived, he could be trapped for life. He’d hate that most of all.
If only he could find out the truth simply by showing her the letter. But if she were innocent, she’d say Pauline was lying. And if she were guilty, she’d also say Pauline was lying. Only a test would reveal the truth.
His peace of mind was worth a few months’ salary.
Now he had to set aside that business and focus on his duties. He headed up to the main deck. The mugginess remained, but the winds relieved the suffocating pressure.
Across rough gray seas, North Carolina’s shore made its siren call. How many ships had been dashed on those shallow shoals? How many had foundered in sudden storms? And how many more had been ripped asunder by German submarines in their favorite killing ground?
Cape Hatteras had earned her nickname of Torpedo Junction.
Arch got his bearings. The Ettinger brought up the rear of the convoy of twenty-two cargo ships, which would pull in to Hampton Roads, Virginia, tonight. The Ettinger would proceed north, escorting ships to various ports. East of Boston, Canadian ships would relieve them and escort the remaining merchantmen to Halifax to join a North Atlantic convoy.
Arch strode down the deck, greeting his men as the petty officers supervised the change of watch. No U-boats had bothered them since they departed Key West. As American defenses improved, the Nazis shifted their tactics. This month they’d found good hunting in the Caribbean and off the mouth of the Mississippi.
But no waters were safe in the Eastern Sea Frontier, especially around Cape Hatteras. Frequent sound contacts and too-frequent sightings of broken hulls and burnt life rafts kept the men of the Ettinger on edge. Always on edge.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Odom.” Arch greeted the first lieutenant on the quarterdeck.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Vandenberg.” Mr. Odom scanned a clipboard. “The watch went well. Only had one drowsy sailor.”
“An improvement.” Arch’s dry tone matched Odom’s. Captain Buckner’s purge had made the men more careful—but no less addicted.
“The glass is falling, and I don’t like the look of that sky.”
Arch nodded at the roiling dark clouds. “Storm’s coming.”
“Agreed.” The first lieutenant pointed toward shore. “Keep an eye on the tanker in position 15. She isn’t keeping station. The shipping lane is narrow here, with lots of shoals and submerged wrecks, but she’s hugging the shore. She’s ignoring our signals.”
Arch shook his head. The Navy had finally resumed tanker traffic, and the Allies couldn’t afford to lose thousands of gallons of oil during a severe shortage.
After Mr. Odom departed, Arch performed the routine muster of the lifeboat crew of the watch. Down by the bow, the boatswain’s mate piped for the sweepers to begin their late-afternoon chore.
Coxswain Earl Kramer reported on the condition of the motor whaleboat and its provisions, and Arch worked down his checklist. The signalman had his semaphore flags, and the pharmacist’s mate had his first-aid kit. The boat’s crew stood by, as did the crew to lower the boat to the water. All looked well.
A low thunk sounded closer to shore. The tanker in position 15 shuddered and stopped.
Arch sucked in a breath. No explosion. Was it from a torpedo? Or an underwater collision?
At the starboard lifeline, he scanned the waves. No sign of a periscope.
Up on the wing of the bridge, the executive officer, Ted Hayes, studied the tanker with binoculars. Hayes called to the signal bridge above him, but Arch couldn’t hear a word.
Back on the port side, Arch stood so he could see the blinking signal lights. The tanker had grounded.
The destroyer changed course. The convoy steamed north toward the haven of Hampton Roads, but the Ettinger remained behind to screen the tanker while she freed herself. Arch glanced at his watch. Three hours of daylight remained. By day, the U-boats liked to hide in the deep waters off the continental shelf. By night, they hunted.
General quarters hadn’t sounded, so Arch guided the deck division in the routines of the watch. Signals flashed between destroyer and tanker. The tanker hadn’t budged, but murky water churned behind her as she ran her engines in reverse. Since the tide and the barometer were falling, they had to act quickly before the tanker was torn to pieces.
At 1700, the crew performed the routine of closing and checking all watertight doors and hatches, but the men were distracted by the stranded tanker and by the little red Civil Air Patrol plane overhead.
Arch thanked God for the CAP plane as the volunteer civilian pilot flew in circles to seaward. Just the presence of the aircraft would keep U-boats away.
“Mr. Vandenberg?” A talker waved to him. “Captain summoned you to the bridge.”
Arch gave his khaki uniform a quick check and headed up the ladder. In the pilothouse, Captain Buckner and Ted Hayes conversed near the helm.
Buckner’s steely gaze turned to Arch. “The tanker’s stranded. She ran her engines too hard in reverse and fouled her propellers.”
Arch winced. “They need a tow.”
“We radioed Hampton Roads, but it’ll take several hours for a tug to arrive. By then, it’ll be low tide.”
“With a storm coming, it might be too late.” Hayes shook his head. “We need to do the job, but we can’t get any closer in these waters.”
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br /> Arch peered across the distance. “We’re too far away to shoot the line-throwing gun. What do you think, sir? Should we send a line across with the whaleboat?”
Hayes smiled. “That’s why we called you up here.”
Would Buckner give him credit for coming up with the correct solution? Either way, Arch would make the most of this opportunity.
Down on the main deck, he summoned Chief Boatswain’s Mate Ralph Lynch and explained the plan. Lynch went to the stern, where he’d prepare the heavy towlines and the lighter messenger line.
Once again, Arch mustered the lifeboat crew, but for an actual mission this time. Parnell Lloyd wouldn’t come with them, since first aid wasn’t needed. Just as well. Arch avoided the pharmacist’s mate.
But he couldn’t avoid the coxswain. Earl Kramer, Arch, and five other men climbed into the 26-foot boat hanging by its davits over the gunwale.
Slowly and steadily, the crew lowered the boat. The signalman’s eyes grew wider as the water approached, but Arch’s pulse quickened with the joy of adventure and purpose.
If this succeeded, Buckner might be impressed for a change. And what if Arch solved the case? How could Buckner fail to commend him?
The boat plopped into the water, and Kramer started the engine. Soon, the whaleboat bumped over the waves, the messenger line stretching between her and the Ettinger.
Kramer’s square face bunched up in concentration as he manned the tiller in the heavy seas.
Arch studied the bouncing messenger line so he wouldn’t study the coxswain, a man who sold drugs but managed to do an excellent job. Thank goodness, this case would soon come to an end.
Kramer had briefed Warren Palonsky on the sources on shore. No names were given, and Palonsky was warned not to ask. The larger man was indeed the leader, and Palonsky was scheduled to meet him at the Navy Yard when they returned to Boston. Kramer had nicknamed him Scar for a large scar on the right side of his face—the side turned toward the wall that night at the Rusty Barnacle.
Since Scar had access to the Navy Yard, he had to be an employee. Over thirty thousand men and women worked there, but how many had similar scars? After Palonsky met with the culprit and got a better description, Arch would ask around. Perhaps Mary Stirling could help, since she worked in personnel. Then they’d notify the police, and the ring would collapse.
The whaleboat drew nearer to the massive tanker. The Ettinger’s signalman communicated with the tanker’s crew using semaphore flags. The tanker’s engines had stopped to allow the whaleboat to approach, and sailors at the stern lowered a weighted line.
Arch peered into the choppy water, praying they wouldn’t be grounded also.
Kramer slowed the whaleboat’s motor and maneuvered behind the stern toward the dangling line.
At the top of a wave, a seaman reached up and grabbed it. “More slack,” he yelled, and the signalman repeated his request.
Arch scooted out of the way as coils of rope dropped into the whaleboat. Two seamen scrambled to bend the line from the Ettinger to the line from the tanker in a solid square knot.
“Done, sir.”
“Very well. Stand clear.” Arch turned to the signalman. “Tell them to hoist away.”
The whaleboat crew pulled gear, limbs, and necks far from the lines, and the signalman flashed his semaphore flags while yelling, “Hoist away!”
Sailors on the tanker hauled in their line, and soon the messenger line cleared the deck of the whaleboat.
“Take us ten yards to starboard,” Arch told Kramer.
“Aye aye, sir.” The coxswain swung the whaleboat away from the swooping lines but close enough to assist if the lines parted.
The Ettinger had positioned herself farther south, with her stern facing the tanker’s stern. The tanker’s crew hauled in the light manila messenger line, which was bent to the heavy wire-rope towing line. Signals flashed between the two ships, asking for slack or strain, until the end of the towing line cleared the gunwale of the tanker.
“Take us home, Kramer,” Arch said.
“Aye aye, sir.” The coxswain revved the boat’s motor and sped over the rising seas under a darkening sky.
Arch had accomplished today’s mission, and soon he’d solve the case. His personal insurance policy against a lifetime sentence in the Vandenberg business.
In the war, the United States was finally digging in her heels. The East Coast convoys and air patrols were driving the U-boats farther south, and in the Battle of the Coral Sea, the Navy had foiled a Japanese landing for the first time, although at a heavy cost. The current defensive successes hinted at future offensive successes.
Someday the Allies would win. They had to. And when the war was over, Arch wanted his Navy career firm and settled.
The whaleboat sliced into a wave, and cool water splashed Arch’s face. Like sailing on the Caroline, with Lillian curled up at his side. The same day Lillian had gushed over the beauty of the Vandenberg estate and encouraged him to keep it.
He groaned and squeezed his eyes shut. Pauline’s letter was poisoning his memories. Or was it bringing clarity?
For the first time since he’d met Lillian, he didn’t relish returning to Boston, because then he’d be forced to test her.
If she passed, all would be well.
But if she failed, how could he stand it? He loved her deeply, more than any woman he’d ever known. He’d told her things he’d never told a soul. He’d pictured a life with her, raising a family with her, loving her forever.
Dear Lord, please. Please let her pass.
34
Boston
Saturday, June 6, 1942
Lillian lost herself in Arch’s kiss, wrapped in his arms in the entrance to her apartment, the door wide open because she hadn’t taken time to close it.
“It’s so good to see you.” She nuzzled her lips on his warm, firm jaw. “Four weeks is too long.”
“You counted?” He pulled back with his usual intent gaze, but without the usual sparkle.
Tonight she’d bring back the sparkle. “Twenty-nine days.”
He held her by the shoulders. “You look nice. Is that a new dress?”
“It sure is.” The kiss had dislodged her new hat, so she turned to the mirror over the mail table to fix it. “When Jim called last night and said we were going to Parker House, Quintessa took one look in my closet and declared I had nothing suitable. She dragged me to Filene’s this morning and helped me pick this out.”
Lillian jammed a pin into the hat set atop the curls piled on her head, with a little net veiling puffed to the side. She never would have picked out the shade of coral pink, but Quintessa said it flattered her complexion. The cut was so chic, fitted to her figure with a slim skirt, capped sleeves, and a scalloped neckline. And the back! A row of fabric-covered buttons curved down her spine, ending above a bustle-like flounce.
Arch didn’t speak. He leaned against the doorjamb in his dress whites, his arms crossed.
Lillian pulled on short white gloves. For once, she felt elegant enough to belong on the arm of Ensign Archer Vandenberg. “It was more than I wanted to spend, but I do have a job. Why should I worry about spending a little money?”
“That’s important to you, is it?” His voice, his face showed no emotion at all.
What an odd thing to say. “Don’t worry. I’m not turning into a spendthrift.”
A flicker of a smile, and he motioned to the stairs. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.” She grabbed her purse and led the way to the cab on the dimmed-out street. “It was romantic of you and Jim to insist on separate cabs.”
“I wanted time alone with you.” He opened the door, then joined her in the backseat. “The Parker House,” he told the cabbie.
“Yes, sir.”
Arch set his cover in his lap. He didn’t put his arm around Lillian or take her hand.
Was he all right? She slipped her hand in his, sighing in relief when he squeezed back. “How was the convoy?
”
“Uneventful.”
Short. Lukewarm. Her stomach squirmed, but she refused to be one of those women who took everything personally. He was prone to melancholy, Jim had said, and she’d seen it herself.
She leaned against his shoulder. “Considering all you men have gone through, an uneventful cruise sounds like a nice change of pace.”
“It was.” A tinge of sadness bent his smile. “The only crisis was when a tanker grounded on a shoal and we towed her off. She wasn’t damaged badly, though, and she made port under her own power.”
Something wound tight around her heart. He hadn’t told her everything. She stroked his cheek, smooth and freshly shaven. “Are you all right?”
His cheek twitched under her touch. “I’ll find out.”
Whatever did he mean? She opened her mouth to ask.
His face crumpled. “Darling, I don’t want anything to change.” He gathered her in his arms and kissed her, the poignant and hungry sort of kiss seen in war movies when everyone knew the soldier was going to die in the next scene.
Her stomach in knots, she pushed away. “Arch, are you all right?”
His lips and eyes reached for her mouth, and then he looked her in the eye. In an instant, his expression cleared, composed once more. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I—I just missed you.”
“I missed you too.”
He settled back, his arm around her shoulders. “So, Watson, what’s new in the case?”
A smile flowed up. “I’m afraid Holmes has nothing to report.”
“In four weeks?”
She shrugged. “More prescriptions, but for the same patients. And the Carruthers lead was a dead end. I called the doctor, and the prescription is legitimate. The bartender’s brother has epilepsy.”
“Oh. Nothing else? Nothing at all?”
Lillian fought back irritation. “What more can I do? The patients don’t use their real names, and they aren’t about to tell me.”
“I suppose not.” His brow furrowed.
Somehow she had to turn this evening around. She flashed a smile. “But I do have good news. Mr. Dixon changed his mind. Can you believe it? My improvements had increased sales, and sales dropped when he put things back to normal. So he ordered me to do anything I want.”