by Sarah Sundin
“So I should pray . . . and sing boldly.”
“Watch out, world.” Jim thrust Mary’s hand high out to the side, and he charged her down the dance floor as if doing the tango. “Mary Stirling is coming your way.”
Her bell-like laugh rang out, and at the front of the stage, Jim twirled her under his arm and back into his embrace. “I’m proud of you,” he said.
Mary lowered her chin and cast her gaze to the side.
He’d embarrassed her. One glance around the room proved it. A lot of people watched them and smiled at them. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to call attention to you.”
“It’s all right.” She looked up at him, her eyes warm. “That was fun.”
“I’ll restrain my exuberance from now on.”
“Please don’t. I—your exuberance is part of who you are.”
Exuberant like a giant puppy. Ladies cooed over puppies and patted them on the head, but Jim didn’t want a pat on the head. Not this time, not from Mary.
As he glided her around the dance floor, other men gave her appreciative looks. Mary was a gem. Why had he taken so long to notice? She didn’t dazzle like Quintessa, but she had a soft glow from within. Now that she’d caught his eye, she’d caught it indeed.
If only he could catch her eye and then capture her heart.
He gazed down at her hair rolled back from her forehead, pulled up on the sides in sparkly clips, and falling in dark waves to her shoulders. Begging to be touched.
All those years, she’d been right under his nose and he hadn’t bothered to notice. Now she was in his arms, and he didn’t want to let go.
15
Monday, June 16, 1941
Mary turned the corner and paused in the hallway, her breath bundled up inside her. Outside Agent Sheffield’s office, Jim leaned against the wall, gazing the other way toward the main entrance. He wore his dress blues, his hands in his trouser pockets, his long legs crossed at the ankle, his raincoat tucked under one arm.
He cut such a dashing figure—dashing her hopes that her crush would die a quick death. At the Totem Pole Ballroom he’d acted oddly enough to fan her dream that he might return her affections, but on Sunday morning at church, he’d been perfectly normal.
Raindrops beat on the window of the main door. This weather wouldn’t help the workers get the Atwood repaired so the ship could spirit her assistant gunnery officer back to sea where he belonged.
In the meantime, she had a job to do and a façade to maintain. She stood tall and headed down the hallway.
Jim turned to her, grinned, and pushed off from the wall. “Good morning.”
“Good morning. You know, you don’t have to do this.”
“I want to. I’ll let you do the talking, I promise. But he knows me from my lengthy interrogation. He likes me, and I think he’ll accept your ideas better if I show respect for you.”
“You mean he’ll be less likely to call this my pretty little Nancy Drew notebook?” She patted the notebook in her arms.
Jim grimaced. “He said that?”
Mary pressed a finger to her lips. “Shh. He’s partly right.”
“We men can be dolts.” He held open the door for her.
Why did she long to pat his cheek and tell him what a darling dolt he was? Mary entered the office and hung her raincoat and umbrella on the coatrack.
Agent Sheffield stood beside his desk, pulling papers out of a cardboard box. At another desk against the wall, a large dark-haired man in a charcoal gray suit did likewise. Sheffield gave Mary a wry look. “I thought you might be back.”
Time to be brave. “I thought you might summon me.”
“Ensign Avery.” The FBI agent stepped forward and shook Jim’s hand. “Are you acquainted with this young lady?”
“Yes, sir. We went to high school together.”
“Please have a seat.” Agent Sheffield motioned to one chair and pulled a second from the corner. “May I introduce my partner, Agent Walter Hayes?”
The younger man shook hands, quiet and dark and brooding, looking far more the part of an FBI agent than his slight, rumpled, light-haired partner.
“We’re all glad you found that bomb in time. No fingerprints, of course, but plenty of useful evidence. I’d hate to see it destroyed.” Agent Sheffield settled into his chair, rummaged in his breast pocket, and pulled out a cigarette case.
Jim shot Mary a comical look, and she had to look away so she wouldn’t laugh. All business, this agent—more concerned with the evidence in the bomb than a whole shipload of men.
Mary smoothed the skirt of her pale gray summer suit. “Agent—”
“I’m impressed with your keen observations, Ensign.” He lit his cigarette.
“Only because of Miss Stirling.” Jim gestured her way. “If she hadn’t raised my suspicions, I wouldn’t have investigated.”
Agent Sheffield turned to her as if seeing her for the first time. “Tell me again what you have.”
“Yes, sir.” Mary laid the notebook on the desk and repeated everything she’d told him two weeks earlier. “As you see, I’ve recorded each person’s possible motive, means, and opportunity, plus my notes.”
“The gossip.”
Her mouth tightened. “I transcribe conversations.”
“Entire conversations.” Jim leaned his elbows on his knees. “She can take shorthand over two hundred words per minute.”
Agent Sheffield leaned back in his chair and blew out a column of smoke. “All right. Tell me your theories, Miss Marple. Although you’re too young to play that amateur sleuth.”
She’d pretend she hadn’t recognized his patronizing tone. “The obvious suspects are any Nazi sympathizers, perhaps members of the German-American Bund.”
“I agree. Any names come to mind?”
“No, sir. A lot of people suspect Heinrich Bauer, but he’s never said or done anything wrong that I know of. He just happens to be German.”
“A suspiciously silent German. Does he talk to you?”
“No, sir. But it all seems rather obvious, don’t you think? The swastika and the ‘Sieg Heil’? If he wanted to be subtle, he failed.”
Agent Sheffield tipped his head in an indulgent manner. “One thing I’ve learned in this business is criminals have immense egos. They want to draw attention to their cause or to their own brilliance. And the folks in the German-American Bund are thugs. They don’t know anything about subtlety.”
Mary sat forward. “But do they want to be seen as saboteurs? They want to rally Americans to their cause, not drive them away. It seems more likely that the saboteur is an interventionist who wants to make it look as if the Nazis are wreaking havoc. That would fan a public uproar, wouldn’t—”
“The other thing I’ve learned in this position.” Agent Sheffield rocked forward, and the front legs of his chair thumped on the floor. “The obvious scenario is usually true. The obvious suspects are usually guilty. Framing is very rare outside of Hollywood.”
Mary tucked away her theory that an isolationist could be framing an interventionist, making it look as if he were framing a German. Agent Sheffield would burst into laughter at her convoluted logic.
Jim turned his cap in his hands. “Mary’s idea makes sense to me. I think the saboteur wanted the bomb to be found. Why would he hide it in a busy place like a handling room?”
“If it weren’t such a crudely designed bomb, you wouldn’t have discovered it.”
Jim gave Mary an apologetic look.
“Listen.” Agent Sheffield thumbed through Mary’s notebook. “I can’t tell a bright young girl not to think, but you’d be better off not trying to figure this out. Let us do our work. Now that we have facts and evidence, the investigation will go into full swing. And your notes might prove useful. I appreciate the work you’ve done.”
“Thank you, sir.” Somehow his condescension allowed Mary to accept his praise. “And I’ll continue—”
“No!” He fixed a strong gaze on her. “Leave the in
vestigation to the professionals.”
“I can still take notes. They might—”
“No. Absolutely not. It’s only a matter of time until people figure out you’re spying on them. This saboteur is dangerous. He was willing to kill two hundred men for his cause. He won’t hesitate to hurt you. Leave it to us.”
Mary rose from her chair, her legs wobbly. “Thank you for your concern, sir.”
“And thanks for listening.” Jim stood and shook the man’s hand.
“Yes. Well, keep an eye on this young lady. Make sure she keeps her dainty little hands out of this. Of course, you know how women are.”
“Don’t worry, sir. Miss Stirling is smart. She’ll do the right thing.” Jim held the door open for her.
Mary gathered her belongings and scrutinized Jim as she left the room.
He gave her a wink, shut the door, and headed down the hallway. “Have time for lunch?”
She glanced at her watch. “Barely. What did you mean by that?”
Jim laughed and slipped on his raincoat. “I meant you’re too smart not to keep investigating. That you’ll keep doing the right thing.”
What a good friend she had in him. She pulled on her coat too. The rain hadn’t relented all morning.
Jim reached for her umbrella. “May I? I doubt your dainty little hands could hold it.”
Mary laughed and handed it to him. “The man’s impossible.”
“And I’m selfish.” He nudged the door open and raised the umbrella. “The only time an officer is allowed to use an umbrella is when he’s shielding a lady.”
“Taking advantage of my friendship so you can stay dry?”
“Guilty as charged.” He offered his arm.
Mary clutched it, taking advantage of the umbrella to stay near to him. Guilty, although she hadn’t been charged.
Jim strode forward through the rain toward the yard restaurant. “Agent Sheffield might not want to hear your theories, but I do. What are you thinking? One of the interventionists?”
“Yes. Someone who wants us to fight.”
“Like Kaplan—that’s his name, right?”
“Right. He’s making a lot of noise, asking why Bauer hasn’t been fired, much less arrested.”
“Who else? Winston somebody?”
Mary hopped over a puddle. “Weldon Winslow, naval architect.”
“Now that’s a highbrow name. Sounds like he’d associate with Archer Vandenberg and his friends.”
“Perhaps. He’s heir to the Winslow Shipbuilding fortune.”
Jim stopped and faced her. “Why does he work here?”
A raindrop scuttled down Mary’s collar. She guided Jim back along the way. “His family rejected him when he married a working-class British girl. He renounced his inheritance.”
Jim’s lower jaw crept forward, and his eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“People are saying he lied about the feud, that he wants to undermine work at the Boston Navy Yard so his family’s company will receive more Navy contracts. Plus, he loves England and desperately wants to help the British people.”
“Because of his wife. Makes sense.”
“But Mr. Winslow says he thinks his family sent the saboteur.”
“Ah, to discredit the wayward son.”
“Yes.”
“Complicated.” His eyes sparkled.
“Not as complicated as my other theory.”
“What’s that?”
Mary held his arm tight and frowned. “What if an isolationist is framing an interventionist?”
“An isolationist . . . ?”
“Think about it. What’s one of the strongest isolationist arguments? That the British used false propaganda to trick us into fighting the First World War. Now, what would happen if an interventionist made it look as if the Nazis were trying to sink our ships and kill our men? How would the public react?”
Jim nodded. “They’d be furious. It might tip the scales and make people want to enter the war.”
“Exactly. But what if that interventionist were proven to be framing the Germans? What if he were caught in the act of tricking the public?”
“I see. Then the public would be even more furious that they’d been fooled. They’d be even more opposed to entering the war or helping the Allies. Say, that’s clever, Mary.”
She stopped at the entrance to Building 28. “I don’t know about clever. Remember what our dear FBI agent said about the obvious scenario usually being right. He’s far more experienced than I am. Reading mysteries isn’t the same as solving them.”
Jim opened the door for Mary and shook out the umbrella. “Well, keep up your work. I promised him I’d keep an eye on you, after all.”
“Now who’s being clever?” Mary stepped inside and unbuttoned her raincoat.
“One thing’s for certain—the saboteur succeeded in his primary purpose. My ship is not at sea, and everyone here is busy putting her back together instead of building new ships.”
Mary sighed and hung her coat on a row of hooks. “And with all the tensions whipped into a frenzy, productivity has slowed to a crawl.”
Jim shrugged off his coat. “All the more reason for Mary Stirling to continue her amateur sleuthing.”
“I will.”
In the restaurant, the tables were crowded with workers. Mary smiled at some of them and greeted others. After four years, they felt almost like uncles and cousins. Some were rough around the edges, but they were the salt of the earth, hardworking and trustworthy.
How could any one of these men commit sabotage? Would any of them really try to hurt her?
“Mary?” Jim’s voice sounded husky.
She faced him. “Yes?”
He gripped her arm, right above the elbow, with an intensity in his gaze she hadn’t seen before. “Be careful.”
In that crowded room, surrounded by boisterous conversation, all she could see was the concern in his eyes. “I will.”
16
Tuesday, July 1, 1941
Lieutenant Reinhardt signed the form with a flourish and passed it to Jim without a glance. “Take that up to the captain.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Jim exchanged a look with Gunner’s Mate Homer Udell. Ever since they’d discovered the bomb, Reinhardt had rarely looked them in the eye. Could be he was angry at Jim and Udell for going over his head. Or it could be he was embarrassed that they’d been forced to do so, that he hadn’t acted himself.
Either way, Jim handled the gunnery officer as he would a caged bear. Feed him regularly with work well done. Don’t provoke him. Don’t get caught alone in a room with him.
Jim stepped out the door of the handling room onto the main deck. He fanned his khaki shirt against his sweaty chest. In the high eighties today with plenty of humidity and a chance of thunderstorms.
For the past two weeks since they’d returned to Boston, everyone had worked hard tearing the ship apart and putting her back together again—under the supervision of armed Marine guards. Would they get liberty before they shipped out for their second attempt at a shakedown cruise? Jim hadn’t seen Mary since their meeting with Agent Sheffield.
The granite and brick buildings of the Navy Yard taunted him with their nearness. How could he pursue Mary if he never saw her?
Jim huffed out a breath and climbed up to the bridge. Friday was the Fourth of July. Surely Durant would give the men a break for the holiday.
Durant’s voice floated down from the bridge—and another, more familiar voice. Jim doubled his speed up the stairs. Could it be?
Sure enough, out in the sunshine on the wing of the bridge, Durant stood chatting with Jim’s oldest brother, Lt. Daniel Avery, wearing dress whites in contrast to the khakis worn by the crew of the Atwood.
“Dan!” Jim sprang forward to shake his brother’s hand. “I mean, Mr. Avery. Good to see you, Mr. Avery.”
“Good to see you too, Mr. Avery.” Dan’s hazel eyes sparkled beneath strong dark brows, and he gave Jim a hear
ty handshake.
“What are you doing here?”
“The Vincennes put in to Hampton Roads. I have a week’s leave. Thought I’d see how my little brother is getting along.”
Although Jim stood two inches taller than Dan, he still felt like a gangly, goofy kid next to him. Dan had a way about him, had it all his life—commanding, confident, no-nonsense.
“Your little brother is doing well for himself.” Durant nudged Dan in the arm. “Earned a medal. He’s the one who found the bomb.”
“And Gunner’s Mate Udell, sir. He alerted me to the situation. And don’t forget Mr. Banning gave the orders.”
Durant and Dan gave him matching appreciative looks—both men valued competence and disdained boasting.
Why did Jim feel like a puppy receiving a pat on the head? Ridiculous. He was a grown man. He pulled himself tall, glad of his height, and gave the report to the captain. “Sir, from Mr. Reinhardt. All four 5-inch guns are back in working order.”
“Good. Good.” Durant perused the form. “Sooner we can get this ship in shape the better.”
“We need destroyers out there,” Dan said.
“I know.” Durant nodded to Jim. “Your brother’s ship has been out on Neutrality Patrol.”
Now Jim felt like the boy being asked to sit at the grown-up table for Thanksgiving dinner. Best to keep his opinions to himself in case he sounded foolish. “What’s it like out there, Da—Mr. Avery?”
A flicker of a smile from Dan. He’d never been much of one for laughter. “Tense. As you know, we aren’t escorting convoys yet. But we patrol the Security Zone and report any German ships.”
Roosevelt had extended the Security Zone past Greenland, almost reaching Iceland, making a giant portion of the Atlantic off-limits to Axis ships.
“Anything to report?” Durant asked in a confidential tone.
Dan edged closer. “Our sonar operator made a sound contact, but it disappeared in minutes. Could have been a whale.”
Despite the heat, a chill raced up Jim’s arms. “Or it could have been a U-boat.”
Dan adjusted his white cover. “I like to think the Vincennes scared it away.”
“The Nazis can’t afford another mistake after they sank the Robin Moor,” Durant said.