by Anthology
The sympathy and compassion in Caldwell’s eyes was nearly her undoing. Her mind went back to that moment earlier in the day when she’d found herself in his arms, letting her anguish take her over, allowing him to see her as the vulnerable girl she’d felt like at that moment rather than the tough professional pilot who could take whatever they threw at her. Maybe she was fooling herself, rationalizing why she’d let herself break down in front of him, or maybe he was simply that kind of man—the kind a woman could be vulnerable with and who wouldn’t think less of her for it.
Instead of answering Charlie, Caldwell said to Hank, “You found anything that might explain what happened?”
Hank took a stick of Beech-nut gum from his pocket, unwrapped it from its yellow paper, and popped it into his mouth. After a few chews, he said, “I’ve been checkin’ this little girl out for over six hours. Can’t find a damn thing wrong with her. Plenty of av-gas in the tank, hydraulics look good, engine works like a charm. I could go over it point by point with you, Captain, but the bottom line is, there ain’t a damn thing wrong with this Thunderbolt. I was the one checked her over when we got her, I cleared her for yesterday’s flight. She’s as fine a plane as ever there was and not a damn thing wrong that I could find.”
Charlie shook her head. “If that’s true”—she lifted her gaze to make eye contact with Caldwell—“the plane clearly didn’t malfunction. It obviously didn’t crash land. Edie set it down on purpose, and then… died.” She blinked several times, trying to make some kind of sense of a situation that made absolutely no sense. “What would have caused her to land the plane out in the middle of nowhere if there were no mechanical problems? Could the act of landing the plane have harmed her in some way, causing her death?”
Instead of answering, Caldwell addressed the mechanic. “Keep at it, would you, Hank? I look forward to reading your full report when you’ve finished.”
Hank gave him a mock salute. “You got it, Cap.”
Turning to Charlie, he said, “Time to make a visit to Sick Call, see what the doc has to say.”
As they walked toward the hangar exit door, Charlie spoke up. “Edie’d just undergone a complete physical. She did PT every day and was strong and healthy. I’d find it hard to accept she had some undiagnosed medical condition that took her life.”
Caldwell opened the door and held it for Charlie. As she began to pass by him, his words stopped her. “If there’s anything I’ve learned in my thirty-one years on this planet,” he said quietly, “it’s that life is full of surprises. Some are good. Some are bad. But the one constant is that they keep on popping up, whether we welcome them or not. Once we determine what happened to your friend, then we’ll be free to analyze it, accept it, reject it, but right now, we can only follow the clues that lead to the truth, whatever that might be.”
“You think she did something wrong, don’t you? You think she was drunk or confused or…”
He grasped her upper arm with his hand. But the touch was not hard or angry, but gentle, even reassuring. “I don’t think anything right now, Charlie. I can’t. It wouldn’t be fair to Edie.”
As difficult as it was, she had no choice but to agree.
He released her arm and though she immediately missed the warmth of his fingers, she stepped away.
“Okay,” she said finally. “Let’s go hear what the doctor has to say. Maybe then we’ll know.”
His lips pursed as though he were thinking it over. Then he nodded. “Maybe we will,” he said. “Maybe we won’t. But be prepared, Charlie. Hearing what the doc has to say might raise more questions than it answers.”
Chapter 6
Ground Loop: A high-speed skidding turn after landing, usually caused by loss of control
It was late afternoon by the time Joe was able to meet with the base’s senior physician. Captain Edward Gregory, M.D. stood a few inches taller than Joe. A professorial type in his early forties, the doctor’s general demeanor, movements, and manner of speaking made it clear that the man was career Army. He’d probably been close to retirement when the Japs bombed Pearl Harbor, thrusting the U.S. into yet another world war. That being the case, it explained why the good doctor was stationed on a base in Where-The-Hell-Am-I, Texas, rather than at the front in Europe.
Gregory’s graying hair was G.I. short, his shoulders wide and square, as was his jaw; women probably thought he was handsome, maybe even debonair. Joe noticed that the doctor’s brown eyes seemed automatically to evaluate every face he saw as though he were performing a cursory physical. Doctors probably couldn’t turn it off any more than detectives could, but while Gregory’s evaluation gauged a person’s state of health, detectives were looking for signs of criminal intent.
As the doc shook Charlie’s hand, Joe sensed a certain weariness in the man, as though he’d witnessed more than his share of human suffering and carried with him the weight of every patient he’d ever lost.
Cops bore that same expression when they let go of a murder they’d been unable to solve. Not only did Joe carry in his own heart crime-scene images of victims who’d been senselessly or brutally killed, but the hurt and disappointment in the eyes of their families when he’d had to tell them he’d run out of leads, had no suspects, they would get no closure. The younger and more innocent the victim, the greater his sense of guilt and self-condemnation. That’s why he was determined to find out what happened to Charlie’s friend. He couldn’t let either of them down—could not, and would not.
Dr. Gregory’s large hand still clasped with Charlie’s, he said, “You’re doing the country a great service, my dear. I’m sure your parents are very proud of you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Charlie’s lips curved in a shy grin. “My parents seem more appalled by my service than proud, though I try to live up to their expectations.”
Joe watched the exchange with a mixture of fascination and irritation. He was fascinated that the doctor and the lady flyer had formed some kind of instant connection, but that very fact was also irritating. He wanted that kind of kinship with Charlie. Sure, it was jealousy, plain and simple—he didn’t want any other man getting close to Charlie, not even a mature, fatherly type.
Before Gregory and Charlie could get any cozier, Joe said, “So, Doc, have you had a chance to take a look at Lt. O’Day?”
With a nod of his head, the doctor indicated the two chairs opposite his desk. When Joe and Charlie were comfortably situated, Dr. Gregory eased himself into his own chair.
“As you know,” he began, “Avenger has no coroner and there is none in Sweetwater. The closest is the base at Fort Worth. Now, I can send the lieutenant’s remains there for a complete autopsy, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
Charlie clasped her hands in her lap and leaned forward. “Why is that, Doctor?”
Gregory sent Joe a look. “I understand you need to know COD, ehm, the cause of death, sooner rather than later.”
Joe nodded. “It’s imperative, especially if this was a homicide.”
“Understood.” His chair squeaked as he leaned back, his hands resting on his desk. “I’m not a coroner and have performed no formal autopsies, but I was able to check for obvious signs of internal or external trauma. My examination revealed no abdominal lumps, which might have indicated a burst or rupture. I noted there appeared to be no peripheries holding up circulation, so was able to ostensibly rule out pulmonary embolism.”
“Okay,” Joe said, trying to rein in his frustration at the doctor’s round-about way of getting to the point. “You were able to rule several things out. Good. But did you find anything you could rule in? Do you know what killed Lt. O’Day?”
“I believe so.” Dr. Gregory’s brown eyes rested for a moment on Charlie, then slid to Joe. “I noticed a puncture on the back of her neck. The nature of the wheal and flare…”
“And those are?” Joe interrupted.
“Wheal and flare,” Dr. Gregory pronounced patiently, as though explaining something he felt
should be obvious to anyone but a numbskull, “is a skin eruption that generally follows an injury or injection of an antigen. The swelling and redness is caused by the release of histamine. The reaction usually occurs in three stages, beginning with the appearance of an erythematous area at the site of the injury, followed by the development of a flare surrounding the site. Finally, a wheal forms as fluid leaks under the skin from surrounding capillaries. In layman’s terms, it’s simply a red, watery blister.”
“Got it,” Joe said. “What would cause this kind of wound?”
With a casual shrug, Dr. Gregory continued. “Given I was unable to find any other signs of trauma to the body, and given the nature of the puncture, I’d say Lt. O’Day was a victim of hymenoptera allergy, most likely, severe. Many people have the condition and don’t know it until they go into anaphylactic shock and succumb.”
Joe blinked a few times, then tilted his head. “And in layman’s terms…”
Dr. Gregory’s tone became somber. “It is my opinion, and I believe it is a correct one, that Lt. O’Day died from being stung by a bee. If she were allergic to the venom, just one sting would have been enough to kill her.”
Charlie looked at Joe and then back at the doctor. “But I haven’t seen any bees around the base. And I talked with Edie less than an hour before she took off and she said nothing about a bee sting.”
Gregory nodded. “I would assume she was stung immediately prior to entering the cockpit, or shortly thereafter. Once she was stung, she would have begun to feel ill within a few minutes and might well have decided to land the plane rather than risk a crash.”
“According to the preliminary report by the unit that discovered the landing site,” Joe said, “it looked like she’d done a ground loop after landing, but the mechanic told us this morning that there was no sign of anything wrong with the Thunderbolt.” Joe lowered his brows. “So, if Lt. O’Day was in enough control to safely land the plane, why didn’t she radio for help?”
“She would have been too ill, practically comatose. Generally, victims with this kind of hypersensitivity die within an hour of the inciting event.”
A long silence followed as Joe considered everything he’d just heard. He turned toward Charlie, who appeared just as bemused as he.
“A bee sting,” Charlie said. She shook her head and murmured. “Edie died because she was stung by a bee? I can’t believe it. I mean, of all the risks we’ve taken in all the planes we’ve piloted… Take off’s, landings? And Edie dies because she was stung by a bee?” She narrowed her gaze on the doctor. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sorry,” Gregory said gently. “I have a few more tests I’d like to run, but my initial conclusion is that your friend died from anaphylactic shock as the result of a bee sting.”
Charlie looked at Joe. Their eyes met. “Back home,” she said, “I had an aunt who kept bees as a hobby. I was just a little girl when she died, but I learned a few things about bees from her. They hibernate in winter. They stay inside their hives and huddle together for warmth and eat the honey they’ve stored up. They don’t come out of hibernation until the weather warms up in spring.”
Joe flashed a look at the doctor. “That being the case, how in the hell did a hibernating honey bee end up at Avenger Field in winter?”
5 December 1942
Dear Dad,
How in the hell are you? Must be damn wet in the Northwest right about now. A far cry from the dry cold here in Texas. I’m sorry you and Ma are going to have your first Christmas without us boys, so buy something pretty for her from me, would you? I don’t know what’s available, with rationing and everything, but make sure it’s not something she needs, but something she wants, just because she’d like it. If there’s anything I learned from you, it’s that women don’t want a new vacuum cleaner or iron skillet for a present. They want something all pretty and girly. Maybe a comb for her hair or some kind of necklace thing. Thanks, Dad. I owe you one.
Speaking of favors, Detective Caldwell, I need another. I’ve only been here at my new duty station for a handful of days and haven’t had a chance to get to know everybody, such as who I can trust and who I can’t. Without going into detail, we’ve had an incident. It’s serious and the circumstances have raised all my cop hackles. It appears to be an accident, but I have my doubts. What I need are some background checks with as much information as you can find. I don’t want to go through official channels because it’s wartime and personnel files are FUBAR, plus Army wheels do move slowly and I need the low down as soon as you can get it to me. Thanks, Dad.
There are three people I need you to check out for me. The first is Charlene Thompson of Detroit…
Chapter 7
Flying Under The Hood: A training exercise in which the pilot wears a visor, limiting vision and forcing her to navigate by instrumentation only. A second pilot “buddy rides” to keep lookout for other aircraft.
As Charlie walked with the captain back to his office after their meeting with Dr. Gregory, Caldwell suddenly said, “When we’re alone, you and me…” He paused for a moment, then cleared his throat. “When it’s just the two of us, it’s okay for you to call me Joe.” He smiled hesitantly, as though he were afraid his request would offend her. Hardly. She found his reticence charming, disarming, even a little endearing.
So he was human after all. And on top of all that, she had to admit, he was one damn fine-looking man.
“All right,” she said slowly, watching for any signs that he might simply be making a pass at her. But he wasn’t. She knew that in the Army, when soldiers worked closely together or were old friends from way back, no matter the disparity in their ranks, the formalities were dropped. Caldwell had treated her with nothing but respect and didn’t seem to think less of a girl who could fly an airplane, but in fact, appeared to think the better of her for it. “My given name is Charlene,” she offered. “But only my mother calls me that, and then only when she’s angry at me or we’re attending one of her stuffy social functions. To everyone else, I’m Charlie.”
“I figured,” he said, his mouth slowly widening into a mischievous grin. “In my head, I’ve been thinking of you as Charlie since we met.”
“And I’ve been thinking of you as Captain Caldwell.” She arched a brow. “Or Sir.”
Silence stretched tightly between them as their walk took them past the Wishing Well. “But that was before,” he said, a hint of sarcasm in his tone. “When you didn’t know me and I was just another arrogant pilot on the make.” It was his turn to arch a brow.
Charlie nearly snorted, but stopped herself in time. She knew she blinked, though, signaling him that he’d seen right through her, for that was exactly what she’d thought of him.
“Well aren’t you the good little detective,” she drawled. “Okay, I give. You’re right… Joe.” She elongated his name and felt herself smiling up into his eyes in spite of herself. “By this you imply you’re not an arrogant pilot on the make? You’re just good ol’ Joe?”
“Yup,” he pronounced, nodding, as though to add emphasis. “Just Joe Caldwell, of the Seattle Caldwells.” He looked askance at her, as though shocked in some way. “Surely you’ve heard of us? My family goes wa-a-a-ay back.”
She shook her head. “Sorry, Just Joe. But that does beg the question. What have the Caldwells done in Seattle since wa-a-a-ay back that makes them renowned?”
He scoffed. “Why, fine furniture, of course. We make it. Our specialty for almost a hundred years has been hand-tooled, hand-carved rocking chairs.”
She envisioned a dense Northwest forest—dark and cool and smelling of evergreens and earth. “Gotta do something with all that wet wood up there, hmm?”
He laughed, and she felt her heart squeeze.
“Exactly,” he said. “In fact, we still have several of the original rocking chairs they made around the turn of the century. They’re family heirlooms now, one of which is in my parent’s attic, just waiting for me to…”
His voice drifted off and he fell silent. Unsure of what had brought about his change in demeanor, Charlie didn’t know what to say, so she remained quiet, listening to the crunch of gravel under their boots as they walked. In some far-off place, a crow complained noisily, the harsh grate of its string of caws undoubtedly carried for miles on the cold Texas wind.
Abruptly, Joe returned his attention to Charlie and smiled. She felt herself respond as though the sun had been hiding behind a cloud for too long and finally emerged to warm the day.
That smile of his did something to her, got her all twisted up inside. She didn’t know whether she liked it or not. No, that wasn’t true; she knew all right. If she were being totally honest with herself, she’d have to admit she definitely liked it, liked how his smile, his attention made her feel—how he made her feel.
“Suffice to say,” he continued casually, “I’ll pass my chair along to some future Caldwell.”
Charlie kicked a small pebble out of the way with the toe of her boot. “Do all the Caldwells carve rocking chairs?”
He laughed out loud then, an honest, hearty sound, masculine, and she felt her heart squeeze even more, as though hugging a loved one close.
“God no.” He chuckled. “I have no talent for it. I couldn’t carve a Halloween jack-o-lantern, let alone a chair.” He made a gesture of helplessness with his hands. “My dad suffered from the same affliction, which was why he became a police officer. I take after him in both areas, and I think people who value artistry and aesthetics in their rocking chairs would applaud that decision.”
“No doubt,” she said in friendly agreement. Then, “Tell me, Joe, what do you think of Dr. Gregory’s results?”