by Sarah Sundin
“What’s wrong?” Mary asked.
“Nothing.” Yvette grabbed an armload of dresses and stuffed them in the suitcase, her movements frantic and jerky. “I need to . . . too many dresses. I need slips, stockings.”
Tess held her breath. Something was horribly wrong.
“Shoes, a hairbrush—” Yvette’s voice cracked. She gripped the dresser, clothing tumbled from her hands, and a low moan spilled out. “Henri . . . he’s dead.”
“What?” Tess gasped. “Henri?”
“Oh no, oh no.” Yvette turned wild eyes to Tess. “I’m not supposed to tell. You can’t—you can’t tell anyone. Do you hear?”
“What do you mean?” Mary’s voice quivered. “Henri’s dead? How—”
“I was supposed to die too. That’s why I need to leave now.” She clutched the edge of the dresser, but her knees buckled and she slipped to the floor. “Oh, Henri. Henri.”
Tess fell to her knees in front of her. “What happened?”
“Start from the beginning.” Mary sat beside her friend and put her arm around her shoulder.
“We—we went to our usual hideaway.” Yvette’s voice trembled, and she pressed her hand to her forehead. “When I went to his room this morning, he—he opened the door, but he was down on his knees. He was bright red—like a cherry—and he was breathing hard. He said the pastries were poisoned, and—and he was glad he was greedy and hadn’t waited for me. He went into convulsions, and he—he died. It happened so fast.”
“The almond pastries that were delivered yesterday?” Lillian knelt, arms wrapped around her middle, her face pale. “Almond? Cherry-red skin? It was cyanide.”
Yvette’s gaze homed in on Lillian. “You took the delivery from Robillard’s. Tell me everything. Every detail.”
“Oh goodness. Oh goodness.”
Tess felt a bit sick. “From Robillard’s? Madame Robillard? Solange?”
“No,” Yvette said. “Definitely not. Please, Lillian. Every detail.”
Lillian stared at the ceiling, working her lips between her teeth. “The girl was in her twenties or thirties, taller than I, and slim—it wasn’t Solange. She had very red hair, and she wore a red beret. They clashed, and I wondered why she wore it.”
Tess’s fingertips dug into her forearms. Like Professor Arnaud’s mistress, Helga.
“Anything else?” Yvette leaned closer. “Eyes, facial features?”
“I didn’t notice.”
“That’s why she wore the red wig, the red beret, to draw your eye away. Tell me exactly what she said. Yesterday you told me Pierre Guillory sent the pastries as a gift.”
“Pierre Guillory!” Tess cried.
Yvette didn’t look away from Lillian. “Every word.”
Lillian drew a deep breath. “She said she had a delivery from Robillard’s. The pastries were a gift from Pierre Guillory to apologize for his behavior. He hoped Henri could forgive him and you could still be friends.”
“His behavior?” Mary asked.
Yvette gathered the clothing on the floor. “He called Henri a traitor and said he deserved to die, said all of us deserved to die. He carried out his threat. He bought almond pastries, because he knows they’re Henri’s favorite and he wants to make Madame Robillard look guilty. He poisoned them, then had his daughter deliver them wearing a red wig.”
Tess’s mind swam. “I know he’s a loudmouth, but a murderer?”
Yvette stumbled to her feet with an armload of clothing. “He’s the bomber too. A girl in a red beret.”
Tess frowned. Or it could have been Professor Arnaud and Helga, and they were taking advantage of Pierre’s death threat.
Clothing overflowed the suitcase. “That Pierre. He thinks we’re complacent, but he has no idea—no idea what he’s done.”
“What about the police?” Mary asked softly.
“They came. I called them. Of course, I called them. I’m not a suspect, so they let me go.”
“To New York?” Lillian’s forehead crinkled.
“They want me to go for my own safety.”
Tess picked up the straggling items of clothing. As Henri’s girlfriend and the only witness, Yvette would top the suspect list. Why would they let her leave the state?
She needed to call the FBI. Yvette was certainly innocent, but the FBI needed to know about the murder before she fled town. But she couldn’t call from the apartment with Yvette listening. She had to leave, to find a pay phone. What excuse could she give?
Yvette snatched toiletries from the dresser top. “That’s why I have to leave now. If Pierre finds out I survived, he’ll come after me. That’s why the—why the police don’t want me to tell anyone about Henri yet. They won’t go to arrest Pierre until I’m safe, in case he has accomplices or he escapes. You must promise to be quiet.”
“We will,” Mary said.
Tess had no intention of keeping quiet. She rose to her feet. Lord, give me a reason to leave.
“Oh no.” Yvette bowed her head over the suitcase. “Madame Robillard. She’s in danger. Pierre used her pastries. He hates her too. I—I have to warn her. She’s like a mother to me.”
“Call her,” Lillian said.
“No!” Yvette whirled around. “The phone might be bugged—ours, Madame Robillard’s. I have to go in person. But I—I can’t be seen. And I have to leave town.”
What a quick answer to prayer. “I’ll go.”
“Would you?” Yvette turned grateful, red-rimmed eyes to her. “Tell her in private. Tell her not to tell a soul. Solange mustn’t know. She can’t keep a secret. Tell Madame Robillard to leave town for a few days. I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to her.”
“I’ll tell her all that.”
“Thank you.” She closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips to her eyelids. “Would you mind? I need some privacy.”
“Of course.” Tess led her friends out of the bedroom and shut the door behind her. “I think you two should leave the apartment for a while.”
“That sounds like an excellent idea,” Lillian said. “And the choice of movie . . .”
“It doesn’t matter anymore, does it?” Mary’s eyes glistened. “Poor Henri. Poor Yvette.”
Tess squeezed her friends’ hands. “Be careful. I’ll see you later.”
She grabbed her raincoat and cover from the coatrack and jogged down the stairs to Monument Avenue. Lord, guide me every step of the way.
41
South of Greenland
Saturday, May 22, 1943
The Avenger streaked past Dan’s position on the machine gun sponson, and propwash blustered in his face.
A perfect landing. Two of the four TBFs from the morning patrol had returned. The third would supply plenty of material for Dan’s reports.
The U-boats had discovered Convoy ON-184.
The Bogue had been informed that twenty-three U-boats were converging on the convoy as well as on Convoy HX-239, which was steaming nearby in the other direction.
Before sunset the previous evening, Lt. Cdr. William Drane, the squadron commander, had spotted a surfaced U-boat. To avoid ricocheting depth bombs, he’d slowed down by lowering his landing gear. The bombs straddled the U-boat and damaged the conning tower, but the U-boat dove and escaped.
This morning, the American destroyers George E. Badger and Greene had each attacked U-boats, Lt. Roger Kuhn’s Avenger had attacked a sub to the southeast, and Lt. Richard Rogers’s Wildcat had spotted another to the southwest.
Twenty-three U-boats. Thirty-nine Allied merchant ships. The six warships of Canadian Escort Group C-1. And the Bogue and her five destroyers.
Dan drew a deep breath of cool air. It was going to be a long, tense, and exciting day. He was ready.
Kuhn’s TBF approached with flaps and landing gear down. Dan frowned. The torpedo bomber seemed a bit high. Sure enough, it glanced over the arresting wires and slammed into the net barrier.
Dan’s groan was echoed by the machine gunners behind him. Alt
hough the Bogue had increased her complement of Avengers from nine to twelve, she couldn’t afford to lose any to damage.
The deck gang rushed to the TBF, and the crew climbed out unharmed.
Dan scrambled down the ladder to the aviators’ ready room. Before long, Kuhn’s three-man crew arrived, and the air officers debriefed them while Dan filled out his reports and asked clarifying questions.
Kuhn had spotted the U-boat fifty-five miles away from the convoy. Taking advantage of the clouds, he sneaked up on the Germans, then dove. To his shock, the U-boat’s gunners shot back—something the squadron hadn’t encountered yet.
After Kuhn let loose his four depth bombs, the U-boat settled by the stern and trailed oil.
Following the latest protocol, the pilot radioed his attack to the Bogue. However, he sent incorrect coordinates, and the other aircraft and escort ships couldn’t locate him. For an hour, he circled the damaged sub, out of depth bombs.
When the U-boat submerged, Kuhn sent another radio report, allowing the Bogue to fix his position. But the sub escaped.
Dan rubbed his neck as he filled in the last of the data. So many U-boats, so many attacks, but nothing to show for it.
Since no more planes were due to land for a while, he’d visit the Combat Information Center and check the latest transmissions.
Dan headed down the passageway that crossed to starboard. An officer in khakis was coming toward him, and Dan’s stomach clenched.
The chaplain.
“Good morning, sir,” Dan said.
“Good morning, Mr. Avery.” The chaplain gave him a serene smile. “We missed you in services last week. Will we see you tomorrow?”
“If the battle situation allows.” Dan gave him a polite nod and continued on his way. For once, he hoped the battle would keep him busy.
Dan climbed the ladder to the outside catwalk. He worked his way forward, passing guns and gunners, cool briny air filling his lungs.
He didn’t want to hear God nag him. After he gave his letter to Commander Lewis and exposed Mr. Randolph’s deeds, then he’d listen. But not yet.
If he couldn’t have the woman he loved, he’d better have the career he loved. And if he couldn’t have that, at least Randolph was going down with him.
When Dan reached the bridge tower, he descended the ladder into the cluster of compartments at the base. He passed the aerology office and entered the Combat Information Center.
It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit compartment and for his ears to adjust to the cacophony of radar pips, sonar pings, crackling radio “squawk boxes,” and the two dozen crewmen calling to each other and speaking into phones.
In Dan’s opinion, the CIC ranked high among the Navy’s best ideas of the war. All combat information flowed into and out of this compartment. Radio, radar, sonar, Huff-Duff, and intelligence were received and marked on the plotting table. The officers evaluated the information and sent filtered reports to the bridge, gunnery, other ships, or the aircraft.
A radio operator took off his headphones and turned to the CIC watch officer. “Sir, a transmission from Doty. One hearse, two-six-zero, eighteen.”
Dan charged to the plotting table. A surfaced U-boat, bearing 260 degrees, eighteen miles from the Bogue—to the west. Since the Bogue was now permanently stationed behind the convoy, the U-boat was in an ideal location to attack the merchant ships. Doty had better sink that sub or keep him occupied.
The officer repeated the transmission to the talker to send to the bridge, while a sailor marked the U-boat’s position on the plotting table.
“Sir!” The Huff-Duff recorder looked up with bright eyes. “I’m receiving something.”
Dan strode over, heart beating fast. “Dits and dahs” of Morse code filled the air. A U-boat was sending a message. While Dan would have loved to have been able to decode the message, the content didn’t matter—only the location of the sub. On the round oscilloscope screen, a neon green figure eight flashed, tipped at an angle. A contact.
The operator tuned the oscilloscope until one of the lobes of the figure eight grew larger than the other, pointing to bearing two-six-zero. It worked! Apparently the U-boat was signaling the wolf pack about Doty’s Avenger.
The talker informed the captain that Huff-Duff confirmed Doty’s sighting and reported back that another TBF was preparing to launch.
Dan marched to the plotting table. Dozens of little circles indicated the Allied warships and merchant ships, and X’s indicated U-boat sightings. Far too many.
And getting far too close.
Boston
Tess held open the door of Robillard’s for a lady who was leaving with a baby in one arm and a pastry box in the other.
No other customers remained. And where was Madame Robillard?
A grunting sound came from toward the kitchen. Oh no! What happened?
Tess dashed to the half-door that led behind the counter. Madame Robillard was down on hands and knees scrubbing with a rag. “Madame? What happened?”
“Oh, Quintessa.” Madame Robillard sat back on her heels and smiled at her, but then she made a face. “That Solange. She spilled a full gallon tin of cooking oil. It is hard to get oil now, and she is careless.”
“Oh dear.”
“I am so angry, I sent her home early. It is a quiet time of day anyway.” Madame Robillard flung oily rags into a wicker basket. “What would you like? Bread? Croissants?”
Tess gripped the top of the half-door. “I’m afraid I came with bad news.”
“Bad news?”
The poor woman would be devastated. Tess held open the door. “Let’s have a seat.”
“Oh no.” The baker pulled herself up and darted to the nearest table. “Is it Yvette?”
Tess nodded and sat in a chair with her knees facing Madame Robillard’s. “She came home early from her weekend away. Henri—I’m afraid Henri is dead.”
“Henri?” Her hands flew to her mouth. “My Henri? He cannot be dead.”
“I’m so sorry, but it’s true.” An ache spread throughout her chest.
“And Yvette? She is fine? That is good. But—but how?”
“Someone poisoned him. And—and I’m afraid they used your pastries.”
“My . . . ?” Fire flashed in her brown eyes. “Pierre Guillory. Oui. He bought two pastries on Friday. The almond, Henri’s favorite. He threatened to kill Henri and Yvette. You heard him.”
“I—I did. But we don’t know who it was. A redheaded woman delivered them to Yvette’s apartment, but—”
“Pierre’s daughter in a red wig. I know it. A red beret too?”
Tess nodded, but her mouth went dry. Why would she ask about a beret?
“Like the bomber. I knew Pierre did it.” Madame Robillard slapped her knees. “He used my pastries? He knew almond would hide the taste of cyanide. How dare he?”
She’d put that together even faster than Lillian.
The front door opened, and an elderly couple entered the bakery.
“Oh, I cannot!” Madame Robillard cried. “I must close. Bad news. Very bad. Please forgive me.”
The couple nodded, concern on their faces, and they left.
Madame Robillard stood, twisting her apron. “I must close. Oh! I am so sad. So angry.”
“How can I help?”
The baker bustled behind the counter. “Turn over the sign on the door, then draw the shades. I’ll close down back here. Oh, poor Henri. And Yvette—she did not eat?”
Tess flipped the sign from open to closed. “He warned her in time, thank goodness.”
“Oui, thank goodness.”
“She is very upset of course, and she’s scared. She thinks she’s still in danger.” Tess found the cord for the blinds and released them to cover the door. “She thinks you’re in danger too. The murderer used your pastries.”
“Me? In danger? Non.” By the cash register, Madame Robillard flapped her hand. “Pierre would never hurt me. We are old friends.
”
Tess pulled down a shade in the seating area. “We don’t know for sure it’s Pierre.”
“Yes, we do.”
Tess frowned. For an old friend, she was quick to accuse. “Still, Yvette wants you to leave town for a few days, just to be safe.”
“Oh, but my bakery!” The cash register drawer slammed shut.
“You’re closed today anyway, and tomorrow is Sunday. You should leave town. The police won’t make any moves until they know Yvette is safe.”
“Safe? What do you mean?”
Tess pulled down the next shade. “The police want her to leave town immediately.”
“Leave town? No, she cannot.”
Why wouldn’t she want Yvette to flee? Tess studied the older woman’s face. “She must. For her own safety.”
“She—she would leave? Without saying good-bye to me?”
Tess’s breath came more easily, and she headed for the next window. “She sent me to say good-bye for her. She doesn’t dare come out in public. She can’t take the chance of the murderer seeing her.”
“Oh dear. Oh dear. I have to tell—”
“Tell? No! You can’t tell anyone, not even Solange. She only wanted you to know so you could leave, to protect you. But you can’t tell anyone until the murderers are behind bars.”
Madame Robillard lowered the window shade at the end of the counter. “Oh dear. All right. I—I would like to be alone now. My poor Henri.”
Tess drew down the last shade. On such an overcast day, she hated to snuff out the little bit of light. “Are you sure you don’t want me to help you close up?”
“No, you go. I have so little to do. I need to be alone.”
Just as well. Tess had postponed calling the FBI to warn Madame Robillard, but she shouldn’t wait any longer. “Promise me you’ll leave town.”
“I—I promise.” She disappeared into the kitchen. “Good-bye, Quintessa.”
Tess opened the front door, making the bells jingle, but she paused. Maybe she was too hasty. Should she leave Madame Robillard alone in her grief?
From back in the kitchen came the clicking of a phone dial.
Tess sucked in her breath. She’d told Madame not to tell anyone. Whom was she calling? And why?