Anchor in the Storm

by Sarah Sundin

  “I met him, not even an hour ago.” The sailor faced Arch, close in the darkness, his voice low. “Scar, the big man we saw in the bar.”

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “As good as I could in the dark.” Palonsky spoke with a thick Boston accent, slow and grainy. “Big man, about six foot, two hundred pounds. Blond hair, what I could see under his cap. Doughy face, tries to hide his scar by not looking you straight in the eye. But it’s there, the scar, covers most of the right side of his face, shiny and ugly.”

  “That’s a new accent for you.”

  “It’s his. He’s from Boston. Charlestown, if I had to bet. Doesn’t say much. I asked a lot of questions—”

  Arch winced.

  “Don’t worry, boss. Not too many. Just being a curious, friendly sort of fellow.” His grin flashed white in the dim light.

  “No name?”

  Palonsky waved his hand as if cleaning a blackboard. “Knew better than to ask. But I’ll find out Monday night.”

  “Monday?”

  “Scar said he likes me, hears good things about me. He invited me to join him and the boys at the Rusty Barnacle. Told me not to tell anyone, especially Kramer.”

  “Why not?”

  Palonsky leaned his hand on the brick wall. “He ain’t happy with Kramer, says he wants someone friendlier to drum up more business.”

  Arch rubbed his mouth. “I don’t like it.”

  “I don’t either. I’m not going to drum up new customers, and it won’t take long for them to find out I’m an imposter.”

  “Very well. I’ll talk to Buckner right away and get you transferred—”

  “Not till Tuesday. On Monday I’ll get names. You know me. You know I can get those fellows to chat, especially if I buy some beers. If I can get full names for Hank or Shorty or Scar, we’re finished. Tuesday morning, you and me and Miss Avery go to the police, and it’s over.”

  As if a swinging boom struck his chest. Lillian was no longer his partner, his Watson, his Holmes, his anything.

  What could he do? He needed the information Lillian had gathered. Somehow he’d get word to her. Surely she had enough personal investment in the case to follow through.

  “What do you say, boss?” Palonsky asked in his Scar accent.

  Arch clapped him on the back. “Tuesday morning—no matter what—I’ll get you out.”

  They headed back to the Ettinger. Now Arch had to deal with Jim.

  His former best friend stood at the base of the gangway. Arch motioned for him to follow, and he led Jim toward the same secluded location. He didn’t want a scene in front of the crew.

  Jim stomped behind him. “I told you not to hurt her.”

  Arch turned the corner between the workshop buildings. “In retrospect, I should have asked for an exemption in case she hurt me first.”

  “Lillian? She couldn’t hurt—”

  “Out of curiosity, what did she tell you happened tonight?” Arch faced him and crossed his arms.

  Jim spread his hands wide. “Nothing. She closed up. That’s what she does when she’s hurt. She said you’d broken up, and all she’d say was, ‘Archer Vandenberg isn’t the man I thought he was.’ The same words she used when she broke up with her boyfriend in college.”

  Clever ploy for sympathy, linking Arch to that Gordon. “So from that single statement, you conclude I’m to blame.”

  “I saw the bracelet. You tested her.”

  “And she failed.”

  The fist came from nowhere. Pain cracked through his left cheekbone, and stars shot in his vision.

  Arch slammed into the brick wall, righted himself, and struck the fighting stance. How many times had he and Jim squared off in the boxing ring at the Academy? Evenly matched. Never once had they exchanged blows in anger.

  Jim huffed, hunched over like a bull.

  With fists ready, Arch forced a calm tone. “If you care to keep your commission, I’d suggest you don’t throw another punch.”

  Jim wheeled away and paced across the walkway, arms swinging loose and wild. “She failed? Failed?”

  Arch tracked his opponent, prepared for the charge, his cheek throbbing.

  “Let me guess.” Jim flung his hand toward the sea. “You took her to your fancy house, and she had the nerve to like it. You took her to one of Boston’s finest restaurants and—shame on her—she liked it. Then you gave her a ridiculously expensive bracelet and—heaven forbid!—she liked it. What is wrong with you? Huh? How can you honestly expect her to share your . . . your neurotic hatred for wealth?”

  A grumble scraped Arch’s throat. “More than that. She admitted she was a gold digger.”

  A scoffing laugh. “Lillian? You’re crazy. Flat-out crazy.”

  His fingernails bit into his palms. “She said those very words. She said she wants it all—the house, the stables, the yacht. She told me outright she only wanted me for my money.”

  “That doesn’t even sound like her. What is wrong with you? Why couldn’t you listen to me? I warned you. I told you to stay away from her.”

  “Believe me. I wish I had. I wish I realized the warning was for my own protection.”

  Jim lunged, but Arch brandished his fists. This time he’d get in some solid blows of his own.

  With a snort, Jim stopped, and he thrust one finger at Arch. “I never want to see you again. Tomorrow morning, I’ll apply for a transfer.”

  The idea seized Arch. “Don’t. I’ll transfer. I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to see that sister of yours, and I don’t want to see this city ever again.”

  Silence gaped between them. Almost seven years of friendship, and it ended like this.

  “Very well.” Jim marched away. “This time you’d better keep your promise.”

  “Tuesday morning. Don’t ask why the delay. Tuesday morning.”

  Jim gave a dismissive wave over his shoulder.

  Arch leaned back against the brick wall and probed his pulsating cheek. He’d have a bruise, probably a black eye, but it was better than being trapped.

  On Tuesday morning, he and Palonsky would submit their transfer requests. For once, he didn’t care if he was assigned to a dead-end desk job. At least he’d escape.

  36

  Boston

  Monday, June 8, 1942

  Lillian nibbled the piece of toast, but despite the blandness of the breakfast, her stomach turned. Since Saturday night, she’d barely eaten or slept. How was she going to get through her shift?

  Mary and Quintessa and Yvette bustled around the kitchen, and she tried to block the smell of eggs and oatmeal and sausage.

  Yesterday, she’d wanted to be left alone in her righteous anger, but Jim and Mary had insisted she attend church with them.

  In the historic Park Street Church, with its white steeple pointing over Boston Common, Lillian sat in the pew and tried to absorb the sermon. The topic seemed unusual for a nation rejoicing over America’s recent naval victory at Midway, the first real cause for celebration in six months at war. After all, Romans 12 emphasized living at peace and not repaying evil for evil.

  Yet that was the point. While the country had just reasons to fight, the people mustn’t let vengefulness and hatred poison their actions, or they would be no better than the oppressive regimes they battled.

  The verses drilled through Lillian’s skull: “Recompense to no man evil for evil . . . If it be possible, as much as lieth in you, live peaceably with all men . . . Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord . . . Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.”

  Lillian hadn’t tried to live peaceably with Arch. She’d chosen vengeance. Evil for evil.

  Yvette sat at the table with an omelette. “Lillian, you must eat something. It is not good to go hungry.”

  Mary joined them. “Sweetie, I know it hurts, but it’s not your fault. He wronged you.”

  A piece of crust crumbled between Lillian’s fingers. She hadn’t opened up to her friends.
She’d only told them it was over. Then Jim saw the bracelet, and she let him draw his conclusions. “But it is my fault.”

  “Nonsense.” Quintessa poured milk into her oatmeal. “He accused you of being a gold digger, which is—”

  “No.” Lillian pressed her fingers to her dry, burning eyes. “I mean, yes, he accused me, but I didn’t handle it well. Not at all. I didn’t try to understand why he reacted so strongly. I didn’t reason with him. What did I do? I lashed out in anger. I wanted to hurt him so badly he’d never come near me again. And I succeeded.”

  Yvette sniffed. “He deserved everything you said.”

  “No one deserves that. No one.” She lowered her fingers, her vision blurry from the pressure on her eyeballs. “You know what I said? I told him I was a gold digger. I told him I did love him only for his money. All a lie, but I knew it would hurt him most. And I—I betrayed a confidence. I belittled him. I was cold, vengeful, cruel.”

  Her roommates fell silent, staring at their plates.

  Now the sheer ugliness of her heart would drive her friends away too. Just like Arch and Mrs. Harrison.

  She pushed away from the table. “I need to go to work.”

  Quintessa captured her hand. “No, honey. You need to stay home and have a good cry.”

  “I can’t.” Tears only came from soft hearts.

  “Mr. Dixon would understand,” Mary said.

  Lillian shook her head. What would she do if she stayed home? She’d wallow in guilt and grief and hurt. She’d finger the bracelet that mocked her with its beauty, because she wasn’t worthy of being cherished after all. She’d read the note in Arch’s hand reminding her that God’s grace was sufficient for her, that his strength was made perfect in weakness. She’d remember how she chose to act in her own brittle, feeble strength.

  “No, I need to work.” She needed to get on with her lonely life, the life she deserved.

  Only half an hour remained in her shift. Lillian surveyed the aisles and greeted a few customers.

  “When did you put those up?” An elderly woman pointed to the signs Albert had installed, so sleek and modern.

  “This weekend.” Lillian’s lips tingled, her vision went dark, and she gripped a shelf. The handful of saltines she’d forced down for lunch hadn’t been enough.

  “Now I can find what I need. Dixon’s is such a pleasant place to shop now.”

  “Thank you.” But she couldn’t look at the signs she’d coaxed Mr. Dixon to buy.

  No wonder Arch would take her statement the wrong way. He was used to girlfriends who really would wheedle him into buying the matching earrings and necklace. Of course he was sensitive to the notion that Lillian would use her wiles to induce a man to spend.

  “Are you all right, dear?” The lady settled her gloved hand on Lillian’s arm and gazed at her with kind brown eyes. “You look pale.”

  “I’m fine.” Her smile wobbled. What was one more lie after the whoppers she’d told Arch? “Thank you for shopping at Dixon’s.”

  Lillian headed for the center aisle.

  A man strode toward the prescription counter, lanky and tall. Hank!

  She pretended to straighten the bottles of aspirin. Another forged prescription to add to her records. But why bother? Without her partner, the investigation would die.

  Lillian peered down the aisle after the suspect. All she needed was his last name. One single word. Then she could go to the police. The detectives could contact Arch to fill in his section of the puzzle.

  They’d have to contact him quickly. After church, Jim had said the Ettinger had received a new assignment and would ship out soon. He’d also said Arch planned to apply for a transfer. He’d be leaving.

  The loss hollowed out her heart, but purpose filled in the hole.

  “Thanks, Mr. Dixon,” Hank said.

  “You’re welcome. I’ll have Albert deliver it later.”

  Lillian realigned bottles of cough syrup until Hank left the store. Poor Mr. Dixon. Shame on those criminals for taking advantage of him, maybe even blackmailing him. If she could get them locked up, he’d be grateful forever.

  Back behind the counter, she filled two more prescriptions, then cleaned up after herself. Five o’clock at last.

  Albert headed for the door. “One last delivery and I’m done for the night. See you tomorrow.”

  Only one bag sat in Albert’s box by the door, Hank’s phenobarbital.

  Something rash swept through her. What if she followed Albert? Then she’d find out if Hank used a real address or a vacant apartment as Detective Malloy had suggested. If it were a real address, the phone book could reveal Hank’s last name. Arch had forbidden her to trace deliveries, but he couldn’t boss her around anymore.

  A surge of freedom and a thrill of adventure. She could solve this case tonight.

  “I’m also done, Mr. Dixon. Have a good evening.”

  “You too.”

  Lillian darted to the stockroom, and her vision darkened. She groped for the wall and almost knocked down the flashlight Mr. Dixon hung by the door in case of a power outage. “Sorry.”

  “Be careful. Bull in a china shop.”

  A bull who hadn’t eaten anything of substance in over forty-eight hours. She’d force herself to eat dinner.

  Lillian shrugged off her white coat, grabbed her purse, and left the store. She couldn’t lose Albert.

  Out on Main Street, she scanned the road. There he was—one block away. A perfect distance.

  She matched her pace to his. Up Main Street they continued until Albert reached a square with a little park.

  A man stepped out from the trees and approached Albert. “Hey, Bert.”

  “Hiya, Hank.”

  Lillian gasped and slid behind a tree by the sidewalk, but neither Albert nor Hank looked her way. What was going on?

  Albert handed Hank the bag, Hank gave Albert an envelope, and then they strolled up Main Street. Together. Chatting.

  They knew each other? Her heartbeat picked up, and she fell in behind them, careful to keep a block away.

  The men turned right.

  “Bother.” Lillian didn’t want to rush to catch up, but she didn’t want to lose them. She rounded the corner just in time to see them turn left down another street.

  Her prosthesis chafed her stump, but she kept going. So Albert and Hank were friends. Were they acquainted because of the frequent deliveries? Or had they known each other awhile? Albert had said he’d run with a bad crowd when he was younger, and Hank ran with the worst of crowds now.

  The men climbed the steps to a house on her left. Lillian crossed to the far side of the street and edged closer, careful to keep the line of trees in front of her. All she needed was the house number. There it was—126. She hadn’t paid attention to the street name, but she’d catch it later.

  The front door opened, and a large man in a newsboy cap greeted them. “Hey, what do you think you’re doing, coming together? Get in here.”

  “Aw, don’t blow your top, Chuck.” Hank sauntered inside, and Albert followed.

  The big man leaned forward and peered up the street away from her, the late-afternoon sun illuminating a shiny scar on the right side of his face.

  Scar!

  The tree wouldn’t conceal her. Lillian strolled back down the street, trying to look like any other young lady on the way home from work, while her heart ricocheted off the walls of her chest.

  Would he recognize her? She’d never seen him before. But what about her stupid, glaring wooden leg? Had Hank told Scar about her? And what about Albert? He was part of this too.

  Lillian zipped around the corner and leaned back against the building’s clapboard siding. She pressed her hand over her roiling stomach, and sparkles danced in her vision.

  Oh no. Albert was involved. Dear, kind Albert. Was that why the forgers had chosen Dixon’s? Because of Albert?

  He’d said Mr. Dixon had given him a chance. This was how he repaid the pharmacist’s faith in hi
m?

  She groaned and bent over at the waist, trying to catch her breath. Tomorrow this would end. Now she had one full name—Albert Myers. And she had Hank’s first name. And Scar’s first name was Chuck. And she had a street address.

  Tonight she’d scour the phone book, entry by entry, until she found that address, found out who lived there. Then tomorrow after work, she’d—

  No. Tuesday she worked the closing shift. At home in the morning, she’d make sure her notebook was complete. At the drugstore in the evening, she’d gather the forged prescriptions. As soon as the store closed, she’d call the police.

  It was a plan. A good plan.

  She straightened up and pushed the hair off her face, her heart as empty as her stomach. If only she didn’t have to execute this plan alone.

  37

  Boston

  Tuesday, June 9, 1942

  The Boston skyline slid away, gray and gold in the morning sun. The Ettinger had shoved off at 0800.

  Without Warren Palonsky.

  Arch’s stomach writhed as he stood at the stern of the destroyer. Something had gone wrong. At 0600 Palonsky was supposed to relay what had happened at the Rusty Barnacle so they could notify the police before they shipped out.

  But Palonsky hadn’t returned from liberty. Absent without leave.

  “Lord, keep him safe.” Arch had known the plan was dangerous. He should have forbidden Palonsky to go. As an officer, he had the authority to do so, and he had the responsibility to protect the men under his command.

  Instead, he’d yielded to the old temptation to use his wealth to obtain what he wanted. Information. Prestige. Security for his career.

  And he’d had the nerve to accuse Lillian of succumbing to the lure of wealth? How arrogant. “Remove that plank from your own eye, Vandenberg,” he muttered.

  Arch strode down the deck, greeting his men as they stowed lines and gear, preparing for another three weeks of convoy duty, down to Key West and back.

  Three long weeks. If only he could have submitted his transfer request before he shipped out. But he’d been waiting for Palonsky.