Dear Irene,

by Jan Burke

  “Irene? I thought you might be working today. I saw the article. Are you all right?”

  “I am, but it’s been a hard day. They found Ceyx. A man named Alexander Havens.”

  “Oh God.”

  “E.J. ever mention him to you?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I’ll look back through her papers for his name, though. I just can’t believe Thanatos is getting away with this. Every time, it’s . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Steven?”

  “Every time this happens—I keep wondering what it was like for her. I worry that she suffered, like Rosie Thayer.”

  “If it’s any comfort at all, the coroner has said that E.J. and Alex Havens died quickly. He’s fairly certain the first blow killed E.J., and he suspects Havens was strangled before he was put in the water.”

  Silence, then a quiet, “Thanks.”

  “Frank and I will come by for you at about a quarter to six tomorrow, okay?”

  “I’m not sure I’m up for this.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I insist. No more sitting around by yourself. Can you hang in there until Christmas Eve?”

  “Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The receiver wasn’t back in the cradle more than five seconds when the phone rang again.

  “Kelly.”

  “Irene Kelly? Oh, drat! Now I owe Austin five dollars. I told him you wouldn’t be in on a Sunday. Shouldn’t gamble on the Lord’s day, I suppose.”

  “Mr. Devoe?” I ventured.

  “Yes, Hobson Devoe. Mr. Woods tracked me down and urged me to call you.”

  “Thanks for getting in touch. I’d like to ask you some questions about Mercury Aircraft—you work there?”

  “Oh, well, in a manner of speaking. I’m officially retired, but they pay me a little something to act as the museum curator. I started working for Mercury back in 1938. I was in charge of what is now called Human Resources—personnel. But Mercury has a public relations department that I’m sure would—”

  “—I’d rather talk to you first, Mr. Devoe.”

  “Just exactly what is this about, Miss Kelly?”

  “You knew Dr. Blaylock?”

  “Oh my, yes, poor Edna,” he said, and was quiet for a moment. “I spoke with her a few times about her research, but I didn’t know her very well. I knew her mother—a longtime employee of Mercury. You are the reporter who received the letter from the killer, are you not?”

  “Yes. Three letters, now.”

  “Three! This has happened more than once? Oh, my!”

  “I take it you don’t read the Express . . .”

  “But I do! I read it religiously. Oh! I’ve failed to tell you, haven’t I? I’m not calling from Las Piernas. I’m visiting my daughter in Florida. Austin has been leaving messages on her answering machine, but we were in Orlando, taking my granddaughter to Disney World. Just got in today.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Devoe, I didn’t realize this was a toll call for you. Let me call you back.”

  “No, no. Austin is the one who’ll need help with his telephone bill. He left . . . I’ll just say numerous and lengthy messages exhorting me to call you. Tell me about these other letters.”

  Briefly, I described the letters and the murders which followed them.

  “Oh. I understand the urgency. Oh, my goodness, yes.”

  “You said you knew Edna Blaylock’s mother. Did you know Bertha Thayer, or . . .” I flipped through the notes I had taken at Rita Havens’ house. “ . . . or Gertrude Havens?”

  “Gertrude, yes, of course. And Bertha as well. Amazing, really, that I should. I’ve met tens of thousands of workers over my years at Mercury. But Gertrude and Bertha were some of the very first women to work in manufacturing. War workers, as you’ve noticed. I was responsible for programs for them at both of our Southern California plants.”

  “What sort of programs?”

  “Oh, I tried to help those first women workers feel welcomed and at ease. And to help workers cope with the transition, both for the women and the men. It was considered quite the new frontier in those days. Viewed as something of an experiment at first.”

  “Experiment?”

  “Goodness, yes. Something temporary. Most of the women lost their jobs not long after the war. There was even some gearing down after V-E Day. It was simply expected that the women would all be laid off—well, the corporation expected it, but I can tell you that not all of the women expected it. Not that they begrudged veterans a job; no, they had simply become dependent on the income. And I, in turn, hated to lose some of those women workers. I managed to persuade . . . oh my. Oh my.”

  “Mr. Devoe? Is something wrong?”

  “Wrong? No, no. Oh, my goodness. Why, Miss Kelly! I just realized that the workers you named had something very unusual in common.”

  16

  MY PEN FROZE above the notes I had been writing. “What did they have in common?”

  “Those three workers weren’t laid off at the end of the war.”

  “Was that really so rare?”

  “Oh yes. Oh yes indeed.”

  “Do you remember why were they allowed to keep their jobs?”

  “Of course I do. There was only one hardship plea that J.D. would listen to.”

  “J.D?”

  “J.D. Anderson, founder and president of Mercury Aircraft. Deceased now, of course. But back then, I begged J.D. to let the war widows stay. That wasn’t good enough for him. War widows with good work records, I asked. Still not enough. But then I practically got down on bended knee and begged him to allow war widows with young children to support to stay on. He finally agreed to that, provided they had good work records.”

  “Wait a minute. You’re saying that all three of these women were widows?”

  “Not only widows, war widows. And war widows who had not remarried by the end of the war. I lost my own father in World War I, when I was eleven. So I knew something of what these children would know, growing up without a father. My goodness, yes, I think that’s why I fought for them. I had watched my own mother struggle to find work that would pay a decent wage. She eventually went into business for herself, and managed quite well, but at first it was simply horrible.”

  “How many of these women were kept on, would you say?”

  “Oh, at a guess, well, perhaps no more than a hundred.”

  One hundred. Manageable research, even if it turned out to be a dead end. “Would Mercury still have records on these women? The ones who were allowed to stay?”

  There was a long silence. “Yes,” he said at last.

  No “oh my” or “goodness.” Shaky ground.

  “Mr. Devoe, before you answer my next question, please think about what happened to the children of three women you helped—and what might happen to the children of other women war workers if we don’t learn more about why Thanatos is targeting them.” I drew a deep breath. “If I never published or revealed how I learned . . .”

  “I understand,” he interrupted in a firm voice. Another long silence. “The personnel offices will be empty on Wednesday,” he said at last. “The employees who work there won’t be back until the day after New Year’s. Perhaps Wednesday would be a good day for you to come to see my museum. I’ll call you again after I’ve arranged a flight back to Las Piernas.”

  “I can’t tell you how much—”

  “No need to. Merry Christmas, Miss Kelly.”

  “Merry Christmas, Mr. Devoe. And thank you.”

  * * *

  I CLEARED THE COMPUTER screen of the jumbled letters. Hobson Devoe had given me a thread of hope. I found I was able to start writing the story of Rita and Alexander Havens.

  As I finished and signed off for the day, I looked at the blank screen, seeing my reflection in its darkened glass. Images of Rita Havens staring at her dead husband came unbidden. I stood up and left quickly.

  * * *

  CHRISTMAS EVE DINNER was even better than I had imagined it would be, which is saying a
lot. We ate, laughed and chatted happily over cioppino and linguini con vongole and a variety of other meatless pasta dishes.

  Apparently, most women suffer a standard reaction of near catatonia when they first look at Steven, because even Mrs. Pastorini—Lydia’s mom—spent some time . . . well, appreciating him. But once that wore off and Rachel and Mrs. Pastorini found their speech restored, Steven fit right in with the gathering.

  At midnight, the non-Catholics humored the rest of us and we all went down to St. Patrick’s for Mass. Even though I’m basically a lapsed Catholic, I seldom miss this tradition.

  Afterwards, we thanked the chefs, and with a last “Merry Christmas!” headed for home.

  “Did you have an okay time?” I asked Steven as we dropped him off.

  “I had a great time. You have terrific friends.”

  I acknowledged it was true. As much as I look forward to those rare times when Frank and I can spend a day alone, this time, I was glad we hadn’t run off to cocoon with one another in the mountains. Our close friends, in many ways, comprised a family.

  The dogs had completely torn up the backyard by the time we got back home. Cody had shredded part of the couch. None of it mattered. Our problems were small ones and we knew it. We climbed into bed and held each other. I was grateful just to be able to hear his heart beat. It was Christmas.

  * * *

  AS IT TURNED OUT, Frank and I both had to work on Christmas Day. John called and said that since my story on the Havens was causing the phones to ring off the hooks, I should get my ass down there, and Merry Christmas. The Express was inundated with calls from children of Mercury Aircraft wartime workers; from people who were sure they knew who Thanatos was; from readers who had been angry to find murder on the front page on Christmas Day; from readers who thought we were aiding and abetting a murderer by running the letters at all.

  I left the Thanatos identifications and the editorial complaints to the handful of other people who were working that day; I concentrated on the children of war workers.

  I took names and numbers and whatever useful information I could, including the caller’s age, marital status, and parents’ names. I asked if the caller’s parents were still living—and if not, when they died. I asked about any current connection the caller might have to Mercury Aircraft or to the three victims. Finally, I sought opinions about Thanatos’ identity. I had to assure each and every one of them that there weren’t any new letters from Thanatos. I made a list of the callers; there were over sixty by late that afternoon.

  Fewer calls were coming in by then, so I found time to make a second list, eliminating those who weren’t fifty-four years old, praying to God that wasn’t just a coincidence. For the third list, the smallest, I excluded the ones whose fathers had survived the war. The third list had twelve names on it.

  I remembered Hobson Devoe’s guess that about one hundred women had stayed on after the war; I worried that I had somehow eliminated too many of the callers.

  John and I had one of our conferences to review what I had learned and decide what could be discussed with the police. He gave me his consent to tell Frank about my discussion with Hobson Devoe. I noticed that John was backing off from his previous hard-line attitude about my working on the story. I suppose he had come to trust Frank a little more as well. “For a cop, he’s done all right by us,” he confided. Merry Christmas again.

  I called Frank. For the past two days, he had been trying to talk to people who saw Alex Havens set sail. The police had located only two or three people who had noticed Havens, and they didn’t see anything unusual. The Lovely Rita had been found smashed to pieces on a rocky jetty several miles south of Las Piernas. The police were working with the Coast Guard to figure out if it could have drifted there by itself, or if it was deliberately wrecked there, just as Havens’ body must have been deliberately left where it would most likely come ashore at high tide.

  Friends and coworkers of Alex Havens spoke repeatedly of the couple’s devotion to one another. As it turned out, over a dozen people knew of his plans to go sailing, and he had mentioned the trip to Catalina in places where he could have been easily overheard.

  The police had also received numerous calls from children of Mercury Aircraft workers, with about the same percentage of promising names. Frank had already used much of the same criteria to narrow his list of callers. I told him about Hobson Devoe’s call.

  “Hmm. That does add another factor. I guess I’ll have someone call the people on my last list and ask them if their mothers were war widows,” he said. “Then we can combine our final lists before we talk to Devoe.”

  “We?”

  “Do you mind if I tag along?”

  I thought about it. “If Hobson Devoe doesn’t mind, it’s fine with me. But if he has any qualms—”

  “Just run it by him and see what he says.”

  We talked about our schedules for the evening. It looked like we’d each get off work in time for round two of the Christmas festivities. Frank would be home first, so he agreed to take care of the animals. “One other thing, Frank. It doesn’t look like I’ll be able to take tomorrow off. Will you still be going out to see your mom in Bakersfield?”

  “I’ve already called her,” he said. “I’m not going to be able to leave, either. Don’t worry about it. She was married to a cop for a lot of years—she knows all about cancelled plans.”

  “She’s probably disappointed all the same.”

  “Probably. But I told her we’d get out there to see her as soon as we can.”

  * * *

  MOST OF THE DAYSIDERS were gone from the newsroom when I signed off the computer. I was clearing off my desk when the phone rang.

  “Kelly.”

  Nothing.

  I hung up. I was putting on my coat when the phone rang again. I hesitated, then picked it up again.

  “Kelly.”

  “Questioning the scared little rabbits about their fathers, Cassandra? My, you’ve been a very clever girl. Too clever, perhaps. But oddly, it pleases me.”

  “Whoopity-damn-do.”

  “Don’t make the mistake of ridiculing me!” Even synthesized, the growling voice betrayed his anger. But his next words were spoken calmly, quietly, and distinctly. “Keep in mind that I always know where you are, what you’re doing, and with whom you’re doing it. Remember that, Cassandra. As I’ve remembered you with a little gift. Merry Christmas.”

  He hung up.

  When I told John and Frank about the call, I had to listen to warning after warning from both of them about not tempting Thanatos to turn his anger toward me.

  * * *

  I WAS CAUTIOUS when I walked out to my car that evening; I asked Danny Coburn to escort me. I dreaded any thought of what Thanatos might consider a “gift.”

  But when we got to the car, everything seemed to be just as I had left it. No parking lights on or strange men watching me from nearby shadows. Danny, who was just ending a long shift in the press room, waited patiently in the chilly night air while I walked around the outside of the car, looked underneath the hood and below the car. Nothing. I opened the door and glanced around the interior. No jar of ants on the front seat. I climbed in and started the motor. No windshield wipers flapping or horns blaring or any of the other problems I half expected. I wished Danny a Merry Christmas and drove off.

  I looked in the rearview mirror. No one following me. Maybe he had given up on the car, having grown bold enough to enter our house, to leave letters on our doorstep. What might be awaiting me at home? I shivered. I turned on the heater to take the chill out of the car. It warmed up quickly, but I was still shivering.

  A present for Cassandra. Having done some reading on the subject, I decided I didn’t enjoy being called Cassandra. Her family thought she was nuts, men mistreated her, and she met a bad end.

  I had just stopped at a red light when something cold and sinewy moved across my right ankle.

  17

  I DON’T REMEMB
ER opening the car door or jumping out of the car. I might have yelled or screamed—I think I must have. But I only remember finding myself standing next to the car, shaking. Another driver got out of his car. For a moment, I wanted to run from him.

  “Lady, are you all right?”

  He took a step closer, and I stumbled toward the front of the Karmann Ghia. I must have looked about as calm as a horse being led from a burning barn. But as my initial panic subsided, I realized that he was a teenager. I pictured Thanatos being much older. The boy had long, straight brown hair and big brown eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, staying where he was.

  I found my voice and said, “Snake. In the car. There’s a snake in my car.”

  “Really?” He walked toward me, slowly this time, holding his hands out at each side, as if to show me he meant no harm. I glanced around and realized traffic was backing up. It had all but come to a complete standstill as other people started getting out of their cars and walking toward us. I calmed down a little.

  The boy came closer. “I’m Enrique.”

  “I’m Irene.”

  “You’re not scared of me, are you?”

  I took a deep breath. “No, I’m not. I’m not even afraid of snakes. I just wasn’t expecting to find one in my car.”

  “Little cold out for snakes,” he said as he came closer. He looked inside the car, then said, “Damn, whatcha know? There is a snake in there!” He started to reach into the car.

  “Don’t!” I warned. “It could be poisonous.”

  “Him? Naw,” he said, not taking his eyes off the reptile. “He’s a little ol’ gopher snake.”

  Before I could stop him, Enrique had moved like lightning to grab the snake behind the head. He pulled it from the car and held it out, away from his body. The “little ol’ gopher snake” was over two feet long and mad, if all that hissing meant what I thought it did.

  “Can I keep him?” Enrique asked.

  “I wish I could give you a simple ‘yes,’ ” I said, watching a traffic cop on a motorcycle make his way toward us. “But the snake is probably going to jail for a while.”