by Sarah Sundin
His gut wrenched. Oh Lord, what have I done?
Emotions shredded him—worry for Palonsky, heartache over Lillian, tension with Jim, uncertainty over his career, and even the return of his nightmares.
After the Atwood sank, in his nightmares he was trapped below decks while the ship went down. But the last few nights, he’d had a new nightmare. He was on the deck of the Ettinger, under attack by U-boats. Lillian was there, and she went down to the engine room and dogged the hatch behind herself. Arch clawed at the hatch, screamed after her, desperate to get below. Waves crashed over the deck, threatening to sweep him overboard. No one heard his cries. He was alone.
Each time he woke in a cold, shaking sweat. This nightmare was worse than the previous one, and he didn’t know why.
Arch headed into the bridge superstructure and down to the office to fill out his morning reports.
If his greatest fear was being trapped with a gold digger, shouldn’t he feel peaceful and justified now that he’d broken up with Lillian? Shouldn’t the nightmares lessen?
Arch plunked down at the desk and shuffled papers. He felt no peace. Saturday night’s fury had dissolved into Sunday’s doubts and Monday’s ache. A great, gripping ache.
Now on Tuesday, the clarity finally arrived. And he hated it.
Alone in the office, Arch rested his forehead on his fists. In the nightmare, he experienced his moment of greatest terror when Lillian slammed the hatch.
She’d shut him out of her life.
That’s what she’d done. That’s what she did to people who hurt her. And Arch had hurt her with his accusations and his deliberately snobbish comments. “Don’t be gauche . . . Shall I order for you . . . ?”
His stomach filled with the chilled slime of certainty. She’d lied. Declaring herself a gold digger didn’t sound like Lillian, but shutting him out sounded just like her.
Because he’d hurt her. Because he hadn’t trusted her. Because he chose to believe Pauline Grayson over the woman he claimed to love. Because he never let her defend herself, and he wouldn’t have believed any defense she’d given.
His black eye and swollen cheekbone throbbed from Jim’s well-deserved punch. Arch had claimed Lillian had betrayed him, but he’d betrayed her first by giving in to his old suspicions.
“Oh Lord, what have I done?”
Arch poked at his ham-and-macaroni salad. Conversation around the wardroom table this afternoon sounded clipped, as if the loss of Arch and Jim’s joviality affected all the officers.
His former friend loomed on the other side of the table, silent and stony. He didn’t look at Arch, and Arch didn’t dare look at him.
At last, the stewards cleared the table. With the nation discussing the possibility of food rationing, throwing away a full plate seemed criminal. But how could he eat?
Captain Buckner cleared his throat. “Before you leave, I need to give you some bad news. One of our crewmen was killed last night.”
Palonsky. Arch’s blood slowed to a stop. Dear Lord, no!
“What happened?” Ted Hayes asked.
“Early this morning, someone found the body of a sailor behind a seedy bar in town. He’d been mugged and stabbed.”
The Rusty Barnacle. Arch’s hands coiled around his linen napkin, twisted it into a rope.
“There was no identification, so the police called around to the local bases and ships. We’d already shoved off. About an hour ago, we received a radio message. The description matches a sailor of ours who failed to return from liberty last night—Seaman Warren Palonsky.”
Arch’s groan joined those of his fellow officers. Why hadn’t he stopped him? Why had he pushed him? Why had he paid him?
“What a blow,” John Odom said. “The men will be upset. Everyone liked him.”
Hayes scrunched up his face. “Great guy. Always joking, cheering people up. I can’t believe it.”
Arch could, and his shoulders contracted in a hard mass, his hands mangling the napkin. He had to tell the police everything he knew. He had to warn Lillian. “We’re heading back?”
“No.” Buckner frowned at him. “We have a convoy to escort.”
“But the police will need to talk to us for—”
“Why? This happens all the time. Drunken sailor wanders into a bad part of town, gets jumped by hoodlums. It’s a local police matter.”
That was exactly what Scar wanted people to think. That’s why he told Palonsky not to tell anyone where he was going. Except Palonsky told Arch. Now Arch was the only one who knew who had killed Palonsky and why.
He shoved the napkin away. “Captain Buckner, may I have a word with you in private? It’s about the murder. I have important information.”
The captain’s frown deepened. “I need to assemble the crew for the announcement.”
“Sir?” Hayes said. “Perhaps I could make the announcement.”
Buckner regarded his executive officer. “Very well. You have a better way with the men than I do. Mr. Vandenberg, come with me.”
“Arch.” Jim’s voice sliced across the table. “Is my sister—”
“Yes.”
The look on Jim’s face said more than a thousand cuss words, and Arch deserved it. He’d used his money and rank to have his way, and Warren Palonsky had paid the price. And Lillian was in danger.
Arch followed the captain to his stateroom. For the next hour, the two men sat at the captain’s desk, and Arch outlined everything they’d done in the investigation. Buckner listed names and drew circles and arrows, and Arch showed where all the arrows pointed.
After Arch finished, Buckner laid his hands flat on his notes. “Is that all?”
“No. Lil—Miss Avery—she has a list of all the forged prescriptions, and she can verify that the men who filled the prescriptions are the same men Palonsky identified. She’s the link. She needs to be notified right away so she can go to the police.” So she’d be on guard.
Buckner ran a finger over the circle he’d drawn for Dixon’s Drugs. “As you know, we have to observe radio silence now. When we arrive in New York tonight, we’ll send word to Miss Avery. In the meantime, write up a report of all you told me. We’ll have you speak to the police in New York, and it’ll go faster if you have a report. We can’t allow them to delay us. Wartime needs take precedence over civilian matters.”
“Aye aye, sir.” If only he could shout his warning across Massachusetts Bay.
The captain’s lips set in a thin line. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
“With all due respect, sir, I tried. You wouldn’t listen.” He’d crossed a line that would destroy his career, but it didn’t matter. Arch had sent a good man to his death, and the Navy had every right to strip him of his commission.
Buckner’s eyes went as hard as onyx, but then he blinked, revealing a wash of regret. He sniffed and jabbed his finger at the list of names. “Earl Kramer is in deep. Do you think he’s to blame for the murder?”
No, Arch was. He sighed. “Scar told Palonsky not to tell Kramer. I don’t think he knew.”
“But he could have. He could have ordered Scar to use those exact words. I don’t trust the man. I’ll lock him up until we reach New York. Anyone else?”
Arch scanned the list of names. “Most of these fellows only used the drug. They didn’t sell it. They need medical help, psychological help, but I don’t think they’re dangerous. This fellow, though—he was right below Kramer. I’d watch him. And Doc too.”
“Doc?”
“Parnell Lloyd.”
Buckner’s gaze roved over his notes. “You didn’t mention Doc. How is he involved?”
“I don’t know.” Arch rubbed the back of his neck. “I can’t figure out where he fits in, but he does. From the start, he’s asked a lot of questions. And he knows too much. Either he was investigating or he was involved.”
Buckner crossed his arms. “I need more than suspicions if I’m to lock up a respected member of my crew.”
Arch drumm
ed his hands on his thighs. “He was very concerned about the men’s anxieties and wanted to treat them, and he was angry at how the Navy handles men with combat neuroses.”
“Yes, he told me that.”
“He knew I was concerned too. He asked me to keep tabs on the men who showed signs of either anxiety or drug use.”
“That’s his job as pharmacist’s mate.”
Arch pointed at the circle with Fish’s name. “He told me Fish was involved. Not long after that, Fish was dead. Doc was alone with him when he died. Then last week, he told me he’d heard rumors that Palonsky was involved, and now Palonsky—” His voice broke. “Now Palonsky’s dead.”
“Okay.” Buckner scribbled more notes.
“I think he’s the forger. Someone in the ring has to have the medical knowledge to write prescriptions. Miss Avery said they were credible—the terminology, abbreviations, everything. The other suspects are sailors or shipyard workers, but Doc has the knowledge. And . . . and you’ve seen his sketches, the different signatures he uses. He has a gift with a pen—he could apply it to forgery.”
“Those are excellent—”
Someone knocked on the stateroom door.
“Enter,” Buckner said.
Ted Hayes stepped in. “Sir, Doc would like to speak to you about Palonsky’s murder.”
Arch and the captain exchanged a glance.
“Very well,” Buckner said.
Doc burst in. “Sir, I need to warn you about—” His gaze landed on Arch, and he blanched.
Arch eyed him. Hard to believe such a pleasant, earnest fellow could be a cold-blooded murderer.
Doc stood at attention and addressed the captain. “I need to warn you about Ensign Archer Vandenberg.”
“Pardon?” Arch said.
“He’s responsible for Palonsky’s murder.”
Arch sprang out of his chair and stood at his full height. “I beg your—”
“Mr. Vandenberg.” The captain motioned for him to take his seat. “I ask you to keep silent. You’ve had your say. Now it’s Doc’s turn. Go ahead, Lloyd.”
“Sir, Mr. Vandenberg is dating a civilian pharmacist. She has access to phenobarbital. She knows how to write a prescription. She could have told the forger what to write.”
Buckner narrowed his eyes at Arch. “Miss Avery? You didn’t mention you were dating.”
Arch sank into his chair. “It isn’t relevant to the case. And we’re not—we’re not dating any longer.”
“Mm. That explains the cold front between you and Jim Avery. Does it explain that shiner?”
The bruise throbbed. “Yes, sir. It does.”
Buckner looked up to Doc with heightened interest. “Continue.”
Behind his back, Doc twisted his hands. “Sir, Mr. Vandenberg came to me several months ago asking about combat fatigue and how to treat it, which drugs we use. I thought he was concerned for his men, but now I don’t think his motives were so pure.”
Arch mashed his lips together, determined to keep silent as ordered.
Doc shifted his weight. “I found out Fish was involved, sir. I told Mr. Vandenberg, and right after that, Fish died.”
How could he keep silent? “Captain, I was out of town that weekend.”
“Convenient alibi, sir.” Doc glared down at Arch. “That doesn’t mean a murder couldn’t be arranged.”
Buckner raised a hand as if to cover Arch’s mouth. “Anything else?”
“Yes, sir. This is the worst.” Doc bent closer to the captain, his brown eyes wide. “Last week I told him I’d heard rumors that Palonsky was involved. Now he’s dead. Sir, Mr. Vandenberg ordered those thugs to kill him to keep him quiet. I know it.”
Waves of panic set Arch’s fingers to trembling. He never thought he could be implicated. And Lillian? How could anyone implicate her?
Buckner’s gaze bounced between the two men, revealing nothing. “I appear to have a conundrum.”
Arch’s eyes slipped shut. If anything happened to Lillian, he could never forgive himself.
38
Boston
Six o’clock. If only the clock’s hands would move faster. Lillian couldn’t gather the evidence until after Mr. Dixon left, and she wouldn’t call the police until after the store closed. Why disrupt business more than necessary?
“Man the counter, would you?” Mr. Dixon lugged a box out from the stockroom. “With Albert home sick, someone’s got to stock those shelves. I’ll have to stay late. Boy, am I going to have a word with that Reggie—not even answering his phone.”
Lillian murmured her understanding and tapped out the instructions for Mr. Robertson’s digitalis on the typewriter. How suspicious for Albert to call in sick the day after his meeting with Chuck and Hank. But what a relief. How could she face him knowing he was involved?
Her finger slipped on the D key and struck the S key as well, and the type bars tangled. Lillian huffed and pried them free, trying not to get ink on her fingers.
Scar’s full name was Charles Leary, the phone book had revealed last night. Now she had evidence Detective Malloy could use. The police could contact Arch for his side of the story.
Her heart seized. Again. He wouldn’t be by her side tonight when she called the police. He wouldn’t hold her and encourage her.
Nor did she want him to. As much as she missed him, as much as she regretted her cruel words, when it came down to it, the man didn’t trust her.
What was wrong with him? Maybe in his strata of society it was impolite to appreciate beautiful gifts, but Lillian had been taught it was impolite not to. Did he expect her to say thank you, heave a bored little sigh, and stuff the bracelet in her jewelry box with dozens of other extravagant baubles? Honestly.
After all, the bracelet was the loveliest gift she’d ever received. The most meaningful.
A wave of grief crashed over her, but after it receded, Lillian plucked the prescription label from the typewriter and fixed it to the bottle.
Arch might not even be in town. Jim had said they’d sail soon. Since Mary worked at the Navy Yard, she’d know when the Ettinger departed.
One last inspection of the prescription bottle, and Lillian called Mr. Robertson.
The older gentleman peered through reading glasses at the label. “Same as before?”
“Yes, sir. One tablet every day.” Lillian rang up his purchase and gave him his change.
“Thank you.” He tipped his fedora to her. “Be careful out there, young lady, with a murderer on the loose.”
“A murderer?”
“Haven’t you heard? Of course it’s not in the paper yet, but everyone’s talking about it.”
“No. I haven’t heard.” Lillian gripped the edge of the counter.
“They found a sailor stabbed to death behind the Rusty Barnacle this morning.”
Dizziness rolled through her head. “The Rusty Barnacle?”
“Not the kind of place a nice young lady like you would know about.”
But she did, and her face went numb. “Who—who was it?”
Mr. Robertson shrugged. “It’ll be in the paper tomorrow. Some boy in the Navy, probably got in a fight over a girl.”
Or over a drug ring. Was it Earl Kramer? Or—no, please, not Warren Palonsky. Was that the purpose of the meeting at Scar’s house last night? To plot a murder? Oh goodness, Albert was involved. Was that why he’d called in sick?
She felt more than a little sick herself.
Mr. Robertson’s mouth puckered with concern. “I shouldn’t have worried you, miss. As long as you stay out of the bad parts of town, you’ll be safe.”
Lillian worked up a smile, but how could she be safe with Scar and Hank and Albert on the loose?
After Mr. Robertson left, Mr. Dixon returned to the prescription area. Although Lillian wanted her boss to leave so she could gather evidence, a horde of patients arrived, and she was glad she had help. After all, the news of the murder made concentration difficult.
Mr. Dixon pou
red tablets onto the counting tray. “Sure is busy in the evenings now with all the women gone to work during the day.”
“It is.” Lillian gathered an armful of bottles to return to the shelves. “We could almost use a third pharmacist.”
“If sales continue to climb like this, I might consider it.”
On any other day, the news would have made her giddy. But now it only buffed the pain and worry, taking off a few sharp edges.
In the back corner of the store, Lillian climbed a step stool and replaced a bottle on the top shelf.
“Uncle Cyrus! Uncle Cyrus!”
Lillian climbed down from the stool and peered around the end of the shelf. She’d never met Mr. Dixon’s nephew, didn’t even know his name.
A young man leaned over the counter, his face red and wild-eyed and mottled by a scar.
Charles Leary! Scar!
She ducked behind the shelf, pulse thrumming in her ears. What was Scar doing here?
“What are you—I told you never to come here.” Mr. Dixon’s voice came out hard but quiet.
“It’s an emergency. Just got off work, got here as fast as I could.” Scar sounded frantic. “Hank botched it up last night.”
“Shut up,” Mr. Dixon said.
“And Stan quit. He ran away and enlisted. Don’t you see? It’s all over without—”
“I said shut up.” Mr. Dixon’s voice shook with quiet intensity. “Get out of here. Call.”
The silence clawed at Lillian’s ears. What were they doing?
Footsteps headed down the aisle. Scar must have left.
Lillian leaned against the shelf and shut her eyes, her mind spinning. Lord, help me, help me, help me.
How should she respond? Mr. Dixon had to know she’d heard. How would she respond if she knew absolutely nothing about the drug ring?
She’d inquire with friendly curiosity. Yes, she would. Ignoring the situation would be an admission that she knew too much.
Lillian grasped the anchor necklace at her throat. Lord, be my strength.
With an airy smile, she returned to the counter. “Was that your nephew? I was up on the step stool. Shame I didn’t get to meet him.”
Mr. Dixon grunted and dumped pills from the counting tray into a bottle. “Yes. That was my nephew.”