Through the second set of doors was a waiting area with a secretary typing busily. She was middle-aged and had an air of efficiency. Her plump, round face looked up expectantly, and she smiled as her fingers froze over the keys. “How can I help you, sir?”
Steve took out his shield case and showed her his identification. “I would like to see Mr. Chandler. I called for an appointment earlier today.” He hoped that Francis would be running late and Steve would be asked to wait in Francis’s office. Steve wanted to look around a little without an audience.
“Welcome to Chandler Mills, Inspector Walsh. Let me see if Mr. Chandler is available.” She turned to an intercom and pressed a switch. “There is an Inspector Walsh to see Mr. Chandler, Frances.”
She released the switch and turned to Steve. “Inspector? Would you like to take a seat?”
With a puzzled look on his face, he took a seat on the chesterfield and asked, “That Francis—wasn’t that Mr. Chandler?”
“Oh, no. That was Frances Waters, Mr. Chandler’s secretary. A lot of people make that mistake. Having two people in the same office with identically sounding names.” She went back to her typing, and Steve picked up a March 1923 copy of the National Geographic Magazine and flipped through, looking at the pictures of the “Old Spanish Roads in Mexico” and “Land of Montezuma.” He heard a double buzz of the intercom and looked up expectantly.
“There will be someone here directly, Inspector Walsh,” the secretary informed him, again with a pleasant smile.
Steve thanked her and stood, waiting. The door to the mill floor opened, and a smartly dressed young woman with her hair in a bun and wire-rimmed glasses perched on her upturned nose walked toward him. She held out her hand and introduced herself with a bright smile. “Good morning, Inspector. I am Sally Quinn. Will you come with me, please?”
Sally turned and ushered him into a roar of weaving machines and hurrying people. His guide shouted, “Straight ahead to the stairs. Sorry about the noise.” He followed her, dividing his attention between the trim figure in front of him and the organized turmoil around him. They passed a compact wooden office at the foot of the stair. A sign over the door identified it as the watchman’s office. Steve saw a metal stairway just beyond. The steps ascended to a catwalk, faced with doors and windows. He saw Francis as they walked past the office window. He was sitting at a massive oak desk speaking on the telephone. Francis raised a hand and nodded at Steve.
A few steps down the walkway, they entered an office occupied by a thin, stern woman who looked like she had forgotten how to smile a decade or two ago. “Thank you, Sally,” she intoned. “I will take care of the gentleman now.” Sally backed out the door and walked out of sight.
Frances opened an interior door and allowed Steve to enter Francis’s office.
Francis stood up. He was dressed in a dark brown double-breasted suit. He wore a white shirt with pale tan stripes and a forest green tie. The coat was unbuttoned, showing a matching vest with a gold watch chain, a gold “C” hanging from it.
“Hello again, Inspector,” he greeted Steve. “How is the investigation progressing?”
“I am waiting on the medical examiner’s report, and since I had never seen a weaving mill, I thought I would stop by. It was on the spur of the moment. I hope it is not inconvenient.”
Francis picked up a mahogany box from the desk and offered a cigar to his guest. Steve refused and lit a cigarette as Francis clipped the tip from his choice and lit his cigar to a smooth draw. Steve looked around the office. It was a large room with a full fireplace on the outside wall, which explained the bulge. Behind Francis’s desk were several awards, industrial books, and magazines in an ornate bookcase. A large safe stood in the corner near the window, its door slightly open. On the common wall with Frances’s office were several oil paintings. One, an idyllic scene of what looked like an alpine valley, was by R. Steiner. The other was a still life, the corners painted in shadow too dark to determine the artist. Steve noticed a darker space on the wall between the paintings where a plaque or smaller painting had once hung. The window to the outside, next to the fireplace, looked out onto the parking lot and the trees cloaking the low hills.
Steve indicated a trophy topped with a bicycle sitting on a shelf. “I understand you are an enthusiast.”
Francis smiled knowingly. “Yes, I am hoping to captain the Olympic road racing team next year.”
“Congratulations. It must be tough to get in any training, being busy with the company and all.”
“Inspector, I will give you five to one that you know all about my training regimen. Two or three times a week, I ride from the house to the mill. There is a stationary bike in the basement at the mansion for rainy days. The night my mother was murdered, I rode to the mill. The deputy who came and broke the news drove me home that night.
“Now, I’m afraid that I do not have the time to show you around, but I am sure that Silene is available.” Before Steve could stop him with some excuse, he depressed a switch and spoke: “Silene, do you have time to show Inspector Walsh around?”
Steve walked over to the window and looked out. Directly below the sill was the first of a set of U-shaped iron bars forming a fire escape down the wall. The iron was painted a dark red that almost matched the brick. When he turned, Francis was standing with a taunting smirk touching his lips and smoking his cigar.
“Yes, Inspector, I could climb out my window and down to where my bicycle is parked,” he said. “Across the lot, out of sight from the exit to the old farm road, is a gate in the fence. A few steps from there, a path winds through the forest to a spot near the estate wall. I often ride to work.”
Steve sucked in smoke and returned, “And, of course, why would you climb out the window when the door is handier?” He had the answer for which he had come. Steve thought Francis must be very confident to acknowledge the fire escape. He must be sure that no one could prove his guilt. His vague suspicion of Francis firmed into certainty. The only thing missing was that nagging proof.
Francis laughed. “Yes, no reason. When I leave work, I always take the stairs. Ah, here is my sister,” he said as Silene walked in the door, a broad smile on her face. Her green eyes sparkled. She was dressed in a smartly tailored linen dress. There was a tasteful pearl necklace around her slim throat. As she approached Steve, he realized that she was almost as tall as he was. She rose on one leg with the other bent, her hands on his arms. There was a quick peck on the cheek, and she said, “Well, it is good to see you. What brings you to my lair?” Her laugh carried a welcome with a hint of playful challenge. A definite change from how they had left things the last time they met.
“He wants a guided tour of the place, Silene. Would you mind showing him around? I have an important call to make. Take him to lunch. Show him a good time,” he finished and received an odd look from his sister.
“I would be more than happy to, Francis.” She wrapped her arm around Steve’s and led him off. When they reached the head of the stairs, he thanked her for the flask and she gave him a dimpled smile. “It was an apology for how I acted.”
She gave a thorough tour of all the buildings in the complex. Massive weaving machines roared on the mill floor, while the machines in the facility for spooling thread whirred much more quietly. The projects building where Chandler Mills had produced 3.2 million sterile medical packs containing surgical dressings during the war was now being used to investigate the viscose process for semisynthetic fibers. Chandler Mills was under license with Courtaulds Fibres of the United Kingdom to develop the process in America. The whole time, Silene retained a hold on his arm. Steve hoped Julie did not show up to research a feature on the sponsor of the flower show.
Steve weakly tried to beg off Silene’s invitation to lunch. He followed her to the family mansion and, in a cloud of dust from the gravel driveway, arrived in a shorter time than he ever wanted to again. “You must have learned to drive from Barney Oldfield,” he said.
Silene laughed at him merrily as he helped her out of her 1923 Kissel Gold Bug. She led the way up the stairs and into the house. There was a hive of activity, centered on the ballroom. She was bombarded with questions as she walked. She airily addressed the half-dozen tradesmen clamoring for her attention: “You must speak with Emma Black about any problems. She is in charge.”
She waved her hand in dismissal and led Steve through a discreet door in an alcove of the dining room and down to the kitchen. “Cookie,” she greeted the stout woman frosting a cake.
Without looking up, she said in a thick Irish brogue, “Miss Silene, if there is anything you want, just get it yourself. And leave the desserts strictly alone. Do you understand? You’re not too old to spank.” She picked up a large wooden spoon from the counter and waved it vaguely in the young woman’s direction.
Silene laughed and set about pulling bread from the box and assembling ham, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, cheeses, and condiments. After she poured two enormous glasses of fresh milk, they sat at the kitchen table and Silene attacked her thick sandwich with gusto. She had no apparent intention of talking while she ate. Steve watched, fascinated. This image was completely different from the spoiled, elegantly dressed, teasing rich girl he had first met.
Silene looked up halfway through the stacked sandwich. She wiped the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand, then her hand on her napkin. “What?” she asked, noticing his stare.
“You’re probably eating like a right proper barbarian, young lady,” answered Cookie. “Her dear sainted mother tried to teach her manners, but she sets down to the table like a country farmer,” she threw at Steve.
“Come on, Cookie. Steve here is a friend. I know how to act in public.” She defended herself with an exaggerated pose, holding her glass of milk with her pinky stuck out.
Steve was amazed at the earthiness she showed, and the title of “friend” startled him. He had formed an opinion and she had shattered it. From the cool, indifferent, slightly stuck-up daughter of the rich, she had shown him a different picture. And he was fascinated.
“How are things coming for tonight?” she asked the cook.
“Oh, it will be done all right. You just keep that Emma Black out of my kitchen. You know I won’t take any interference.” She waved her spatula, scattering frosting.
“I will, Cookie, but if you feel you need to take action, hide the body.” Silene’s laugh cut off suddenly. She looked at Steve, embarrassed. “I guess that wasn’t very funny, was it?”
Silene quickly changed the subject. “You are coming tonight, aren’t you? We are doing the annual unveiling of the quilt to the Madding Crowd. The Regional Agricultural Fair committee, the sponsors, big exhibitors, and so on. Starts at seven o’clock. Sorry, no open bar—but I can top off your flask for you,” she teased.
Steve looked embarrassed. Maybe because she had shown herself human and he was self-conscious about the expensive gift. Before it had just been a whim from a spoiled, rich brat.
He shook it off and brought up another topic: “When we interviewed the professor, he was a little nervous about his parents in Hungary.” He went on to relate what he and Buck had heard.
Silene finished her sandwich and wiped her hands on a napkin. She made sympathetic noises for the senior Poltovskis. “I’ll have a word with Senator Bosk and find out what I can do. Francis can be so cruel at times. I can see if any of our ships are in the Adriatic Sea area. I will get them to the British Mandate if I have to hire a boat and sail them myself. But will it be safe for them there?”
“The new Hungarian government is not too fond of Jews and has a lot of quota laws, and there is the backlash against the Kun government. The Poltovskis are Quakers, but there may be someone who remembers them from when they were practicing Jews. I imagine that they will be as safe in the British Mandate as anywhere.”
Silene replenished the milk and, despite Cookie’s warning, stole two tartlets from the tray. “Okay, time for twenty questions,” she said, taking a bite and dribbling juice down her chin. She leaned over her plate and snatched up her napkin and wiped herself clean.
“What questions?” he asked.
She waved her hand in front of her mouth and finished the bite. “I ask you a question and then you ask me a question. It’s easy.” She settled in her chair. “We ask each other questions, and we both have to answer. Now, me first. What is your favorite color?”
“Green.”
“Mine is yellow. A sunny, bright yellow. Your turn.”
Steve thought for a moment. “Home cooking or formal dinner?”
“Easy. Home cooking. When it is formal, I feel like a little girl dressing up.”
He nodded. “Definitely home cooking.”
She mused for a moment. “Travel or stay at home?”
He laughed. “When traveling, stay at home; when I’m home, I want to travel.”
Silene snorted. “What a weaselly answer. No fair. I get to ask another one. I like to travel. Read a book or listen to the radio?”
“That’s easy: read a book.”
“Me too.”
They continued, discovering that Silene preferred riding and both liked cross-country skiing. Steve would live in an apartment to hold in check his tendency to fill empty space with “stuff,” and she loved a big house. He found he was growing more and more comfortable with the surprising depths he was discovering in Silene.
Silene pointed to the bulge under his left shoulder. “Do you always carry a gun?”
Steve looked down and said, “Been carrying one for too many years to stop. I would feel naked, and there are a lot of bad guys out there.”
“Your turn,” she said.
“Not until you answer.”
She hopped up and raised her arms over her head and did a slow turn. “Where would I keep one?” Steve admired what the snug outfit revealed and hid. He had to admit the gun would have to be about the size of his little fingernail to be secreted on her person. “I can shoot, though. Grandfather and Father thought we all should know. The first time I went skeet shooting, I used Father’s gun, and I was knocked on my—well, I fell down,” she finished.
“I see what you mean.” He hesitated and then blurted, “Married or single?”
Silene’s face froze; her grin turned serious. “Haven’t been married, but would like to try it with the right man.”
Steve coughed nervously, realizing that he had just broken one of his own taboos: he had started asking questions that were too personal. “Maybe with the right woman, it wouldn’t be so bad.” He felt the familiar knot form in his stomach.
She stared at him for a moment. “Children or none?”
He gulped. “Children.” He tried to lighten the mood by quipping, “As long as they don’t look like me.”
She said quietly, “Me too. A lot or a couple?”
Just as quietly, he said, “That’s two questions in a row for you.”
Silene leaned forward, her lips slightly parted and asked again, in a voice so low he barely heard her from a few feet away, “A lot or a couple?”
Sweat began to gather on his brow. He could not avert his eyes from the green pools in front of him. “A lot. A baseball team, at least.”
She broke their gaze and sat back in her chair, chuckling nervously. “Maybe not a baseball team, but a lot.”
Steve dipped his head and looked at his watch. “Getting late. Don’t you have to go back to work?”
Ignoring him, her eyes seemed to lose focus. “I was always a tomboy. There wasn’t a tree in the orchard that I hadn’t climbed by the time I was ten. Mother was always having the servants cleaning me up and putting me in a dress. She always had to have control, and I don’t think she really knew how to be a mother. She called me rebellious. I guess it was the only way I could get her attention. I would want my girls to be what they wanted to be.” She brought her eyes back to Steve and gave him a vulnerable, serious gaze.
“My dad was easier to talk to. He u
sed to take me around with him when he looked over the farm. He really liked people, all kinds. One time we were walking around the stable and I saw Tommy Green, who had been there forever, sleeping in the sunshine outside the barn. I asked dad why he wasn’t working, and he told me that Tommy was retired and didn’t have to work. I was puzzled and asked him why he was still here, and he told me that Tommy could stay as long as he wanted, that people were not a disposable commodity. I have always remembered that and even had Tommy help me carve it in a piece of wood for my dad one Christmas. He put it up in his office. Francis took it down.”
Steve saw a glint of tears in her eyes and remembered the bare spot on the wall in the office. She dashed them with the back of her hand, tossed her head, and gave him a slightly shaky smile. “Got off track there. Now, your turn.”
He thought for a moment and risked a quick end of the camaraderie of the moment. “Are you the tease that you are trying to seem?”
Silene froze for a moment. She hesitated and then said quietly with a hint of sadness, “I’m sorry you think I am a tease. I don’t try to be, really. Mother kept trying to make me a lady, and I guess she never succeeded.” A sparkle of tears glinted, again, in her downcast eyes.
The conversation had veered from the gay and pleasant to the deep end of the pool. Steve’s nervousness with weeping women started to cause his flight instinct to kick in.
“My question, now,” she said with forced cheerfulness. “How often do you see your family? Holidays? Reunions? When?”
He wanted to end this suddenly serious game immediately. “I haven’t seen my family since I left home when I was sixteen, except for my mom a few times when she came up to Hartford. You may think that your mother couldn’t make a lady of you, which I disagree with, but my father couldn’t seem to make anything out of me. My brother was the one who always did right. He took to farming and school and everything. The most common phrase in my life was, ‘By the time your brother was your age, he could ... ’ (fill in the blank).”
The Rose Quilt Page 13