Secrets of the Red Box

by Vickie Hall

  I shouldn’t get involved…with anyone…not now. It’s dangerous, or could be. I mean, I’ve done this to myself. What I did there can’t be undone. I can’t go back and make it right. Bonnie heard herself laugh out loud. This is no time to grow a conscience, you idiot. You just need to be careful. Just have a little fun, don’t get too carried away. You can’t afford to get caught, and that means you’d better be cautious, keep things simple.

  Bonnie turned on her side and pulled her pillow beneath her neck. She closed her eyes, but that didn’t blot out the visions in her head. She knotted her fist and punched the pillow as if it were the pillow’s fault she couldn’t sleep. With a heavy sigh of resignation, Bonnie threw back the covers and got to her feet. She plodded into the kitchen without turning on a light.

  She wasn’t much of a drinker. She could nurse one drink for several hours. But tonight, alcohol seemed the most reliable answer to her insomnia, her haunted dreams, and the relentless drill of memories. Her fingers reached inside the open cupboard and found the bottle of Scotch. She wasn’t fond of taking a straight shot, but tonight she didn’t care. Tonight she poured the heavily scented amber liquid into a glass and sat on her new chair.

  Bonnie turned her face toward the curtained window. The moon was bright, illuminating the apartment in varying shades of gray. She raised the glass to her lips and swallowed a large gulp. It stung and burned her throat, hit her stomach with a burst of flames. And then the warmth spread through her gut, radiated into her limbs and her brain until she felt her body begin to relax.

  Already her mind let loose of the nagging thoughts that kept her awake. She tossed down the rest and felt herself drifting into a welcome relaxation, a sense of nothing, a state of languid ease. Her eyelids grew heavy and she let them close over her tired eyes. She rested her head on the back of the comfortable chair, grateful for the numbness that accompanied her to sleep.

  Chapter 7

  A lamp lit on Bonnie’s switchboard. She plugged in the jack and flipped the switch. “How may I direct your call?”

  The voice on the other end hesitated a moment. “Is this Miss Cooper?”

  “Yes. May I help you?”

  “Hi. It’s Paul.”

  Bonnie felt herself smile. “Yes, Mr. Warsoff?”

  Paul’s voice sounded as if he was smiling, too. “I get it. You’re working.”

  “Yes, Mr. Warsoff.”

  “Are you free Saturday?”

  “I believe so, Mr. Warsoff.”

  “Great. Do you like to dance?”

  Bonnie looked for Mrs. Kemp. She was supposed to make connections between calls as quickly as possible. “Of course, Mr. Warsoff.”

  “Tommy Dorsey is playing at Ak-Sar-Ben. I thought we’d go there and out to dinner.”

  Bonnie’s head began to swim. She’d seen both Dorsey brothers perform in San Diego and had loved it. “Yes, I can make that connection,” she said, restraining her enthusiasm.

  “Great,” Paul said. “I’ll pick you up at five o’clock on Saturday. What’s your address?”

  Bonnie cupped her hand over the mouthpiece of her headset and quickly whispered her address into it. “…Thank you, Mr. Warsoff. I’ll connect you.”

  “No, thank you, Miss Cooper. I look forward to us making a connection.”

  The line went dead and Bonnie’s fingers trembled slightly from anticipation as she pulled the cord free from the jack. She couldn’t seem to stop smiling.

  Mrs. Kemp tapped her foot behind Bonnie’s chair. “Was there a problem, Miss Cooper? Your call seemed a bit long,” she said with a sharp, accusatory tone.

  Bonnie flinched for a second, and then spun in her chair. “No, no, he just couldn’t locate the number he wanted to call.”

  Mrs. Kemp walked past Bonnie and sniffed. “Hmmm.”

  Bonnie waited until Mrs. Kemp went back to her office, then swiveled toward Janet. “What’s exsarben?” she whispered.

  “Ak-Sar-Ben? It’s Nebraska spelled backwards,” Janet whispered. She plugged in a jack and threw the switch. “Yes, sir, I’ll connect you.” She yanked the plug and shot a glance back at Bonnie. “Why?”

  Bonnie gave her a perplexed look. “Is it a place?”

  “Yeah. It’s a racetrack.”

  Bonnie scowled at the thought of going to a racetrack and answered another call. “I’m supposed to go dancing there,” she said when she’d finished. “But at a racetrack?”

  “Oh, there’s a ballroom there, too,” Janet whispered. “Who’s taking you?”

  Another lamp lit on the switchboard and Bonnie ignored Janet’s question. She wasn’t entirely sure she wanted Janet to know. Bonnie took another call and didn’t bother to pick up their conversation.

  When it came time for lunch, Bonnie met Christine in the foyer. “I need to cancel our lunch date,” she said.

  Christine arched an eyebrow at the gleam in Bonnie’s eye. “Why is that?”

  Bonnie couldn’t help the brief giggle that escaped. “Because Paul is taking me out this Saturday, and I want to buy a new dress.”

  Christine pursed her lips and gave Bonnie an up-and-down look. “I told you he’d ask you out.” Bonnie grinned. “So you did. So, tomorrow for lunch?”

  “Oh, no.” She laughed. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Christine linked her arm through Bonnie’s and tugged her toward the door. “You’d better believe it. I want to know what I’m missing out on.”

  “You might not be missing out on anything,” Bonnie teased.

  “Have you been to McClure’s?” Christine asked. Bonnie shook her head. “It’s the most darling dress shop. It’s a little pricey, but worth it. I know you’ll just love it.”

  ///////

  Bonnie and Christine crossed the street where a Zingleman’s Plumbing truck was parked in front of the little dress shop. Christine opened the door and motioned Bonnie inside. “Come on,” she breathed. “Mrs. McClure is just wonderful.”

  Bonnie surveyed the small shop, her eyes scanning the racks. She spied a royal blue dress on the closet rack, but before she could make her way to it, Christine grabbed her by the arm. She pulled her toward an older woman, fixed with a look of consternation. “Mrs. McClure? Is everything all right?”

  The woman turned and her mouth curved upward with a brief smile of recognition. “Oh, hi, Christine. Yes, everything’s fine,” she said, then leaned closer and began to whisper. “I let a woman and her little boy use the restroom. I didn’t want to at first,” she said, her hand clutched to her throat, “but the little boy was trying to be good, and she told me she’d had a devil of a time getting him toilet trained—anyway, he did something to back up the, uh, facility.”

  Bonnie turned her attention to the blue dress that had caught her eye and left Christine and Mrs. McClure to their discussion. She fingered the shimmering fabric and pulled it from the rack, rotating it from front to back, then checked for the size. She noticed the dressing room toward the corner and headed for it, the lovely dress accompanying her. When she’d disrobed, Bonnie stood in front of the three-way mirror. She stared at her image, peering at herself as though she were a stranger. Who are you? I don’t even know anymore…

  A knock startled her from her thoughts. “Yes?”

  “What did you find?” Christine asked.

  “Just a sec.” Bonnie slipped into the dress and opened the door. “Zip me, will you?”

  Christine sucked in a breath. “Oh, Bonnie, I love it.” Bonnie spun so that Christine could work the zipper. “It looks great on you. It really brings out the blue in your eyes.”

  Bonnie stepped out of the dressing room and twirled in front of the mirror, pleased at how well the dress fit. A movement behind her reflected in the mirror, catching her attention. She felt her pulse quicken as she saw Dave Miller staring at her.

  He pulled himself up short, his mouth slightly open. “Bonnie…”

  She turned from the mirror, observed the match
ing shirt and pants he wore with the name Zingleman’s Plumbing embroidered on the chest pocket. “Hello, Dave.”

  He shifted the tool box in his hand and tightened his jaw. “How have you been?”

  His voice sounded cool and perfunctory. She couldn’t blame him. She’d been almost cruel to him, and for a second she wished she could apologize. But what would be the point in that? An apology might only encourage him. “Fine, thanks.”

  Christine sidled up toward Bonnie. “Introduce me to your friend,” she said, nudging Bonnie with her elbow.

  Bonnie noticed the way he was looking at Christine now, as if she were no longer in the room. His eyes had settled on Christine’s pleasant face, travelled down the length of her and back to her smile. And Christine—she was grinning from ear to ear, obviously taken by Dave’s good looks. “This is Dave Miller,” Bonnie said casually, trying to ignore her suddenly dry throat. “Dave, this is my friend, Christine Burgess.”

  Dave extended his hand to the pretty brunette. “I just washed it,” he said with a laugh. “I’m glad to meet you.”

  Christine laughed and shook his hand. “You too, Dave.”

  Dave glanced at Bonnie. “You never mentioned you had such an attractive friend. ”Bonnie swung back to the mirror without a response.

  Dave turned his attention back to Christine and smiled. “I have to get back to work, Christine, but could I buy you a cup of coffee, or perhaps a drink after work?”

  Christine’s face seemed to light up with the invitation. “Yes, I’d like that.”

  Bonnie leaned close and whispered in her ear. “What about Joe?”

  Christine gave her a dismissive look and smiled at Dave. “Call me at Johnson, Peck, and Sutter. It’s in the book.”

  Dave smiled at her. “Johnson, Peck, and Sutter. I’ll remember that, Christine.”

  Christine blushed and nodded. Dave touched the brim of his cap. “Good to see you, Bonnie.” He looked at Christine. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Bonnie felt her stomach knot. She couldn’t have Christine and Dave getting together. Dave knew her as Bonnie Denton from North Dakota. Christine knew her as Bonnie Cooper from New York. They were bound to compare notes. Maybe Dave didn’t mean to call Christine at all—maybe he was just trying to get back at her by feigning interest in her friend. Either way, she couldn’t risk it.

  Bonnie waited until Dave was gone. She spun toward Christine and took hold of her arm. “Don’t get involved with him, Christine,” she hissed. “Believe me, it would be a mistake.”

  Christine’s eyes grew large. “What? Why? He seemed like a perfectly nice guy to me.”

  Bonnie narrowed her eyes and homed in on Christine. “He came home from the war with more than just physical injuries, Christine. You noticed his limp, didn’t you?” She nodded and Bonnie continued. “He’s not right…not right in the head. His wife left him because of it. I figured it out soon enough. I could see why she left him. Stay away from him. I’m telling you, it’s for your own good.”

  “Wait—” Christine pressed her fingers to her forehead. “You said Dave worked for Union Pacific, that he was deferred—”

  Bonnie waved her hand. “That’s a different Dave.”

  Christine arched her brows. “Wow, you sure get around for someone so new to town.”

  Bonnie pursed her lips. “Never mind that. Will you do what I ask? If he calls you, say you’re not interested in seeing him.”

  Christine held up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay.”

  Bonnie took hold of Christine’s arm again. “Promise me.”

  Christine’s eyes grew large. “Okay, I promise.” She looked at Bonnie’s fingers pressed into her flesh.

  Bonnie let go and stepped back. “Sorry. It’s just that he unstable—”

  “What did he do exactly?”

  Bonnie let out a breath and reached for her ear. “We’d gone out to dinner. When we walked outside he grabbed my arm, twisted it and pushed me into an alley. He said something about me being a Nazi spy. He sounded crazy.”

  Christine gasped, her hazel eyes fixed on Bonnie’s. “How did you get away?” “I kicked him as hard as I could. He let go and I ran back into the restaurant. He didn’t try to follow me, so I waited inside and had one of the waiters check to make sure that he’d gone. I called a cab and hoped I’d never have to see him again.”

  Christine clasped her hands in front of her and gave Bonnie a worried look. “Does he know where to reach you? I mean, are you afraid he might try to find you now?”

  “I was still at the Rome. He can’t find me so long as he doesn’t show up at the Rose Building.”

  Christine crossed in front of the mirror and placed her hand on Bonnie’s arm. “Don’t worry about it, Bonnie. I’ll make sure he doesn’t find you. Thank you for being such a good friend. And you’re right. I need to stay true to Joe.”

  Bonnie smiled and laid her hand over Christine’s. “What are friends for? I just don’t want to see you get hurt. Now, what do you think of this dress?”

  ///////

  Bonnie opened her bedroom window a couple of inches. It was warm inside, and the April breeze felt good against her skin. She walked around the bed and clicked off the light, then lay down and stared up at the ceiling. Sleep wouldn’t come, she knew—too many thoughts, too many bits of unfinished business whirring through her mind.

  She cursed herself, angry that she hadn’t made up one story and stuck to it. But hadn’t that been what she’d been doing for the past four years? Living a lie? Lying had become second nature to her now. It took more effort to speak the truth than to lie. Maybe she couldn’t change that now—maybe it was a habit and one she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, break. It had always been easier to pretend to be someone else, someone better than her real self, someone more exciting, more accomplished. No one would want to know the real Bonnie, she thought. No one would want such damaged goods, such a worthless human being.

  The night air filled the room, cool and clean, washing over her like a lover’s hand. She slipped beneath the covers, rolled onto her side, and watched the curtains ruffle beneath the window. She thought about her date with Paul the following evening, wondered how she would handle him. It wasn’t too late to back out, she thought, back out before she got caught in a trap. Wouldn’t it be better if she just went to Chez Peree and danced with strangers? With men she didn’t know, didn’t have to know? But then, if she could just be content with an uneventful life, she wouldn’t be looking for something that always seemed to elude her. It was as if her hands were always outstretched, reaching for something she couldn’t quite touch, wanting more than she was allowed to have. Never satisfied, she thought, never happy with what is.

  Bonnie let out a long sigh, pulled the covers to her chin, and closed her eyes. Her lids flicked open again and her gaze fixed on the window. It was pointless, she knew. Her chest tightened as if a band of steel had been forged around her, squeezing, slowly squeezing the breath from her lungs. A sudden sense of dread drove Bonnie to a sitting position, her hand clutched at her throat. She stiffened her arms and braced them against the bed, took in long, deep breaths.

  She felt tears pool in her eyes. They welled and overflowed, streaming down her face, hot and unwanted. For all her independence, her self-determination, Bonnie unexpectedly felt needy, felt alone and comfortless. She leaned back, pulled the pillow to her face, and cried into it to muffle her heart-felt sobs. There was no accounting for the tears, other than a sense of loneliness that she managed to quell most of the time. She pushed back those feelings of being alone, kept them repressed and subdued with great success. Yet somehow, tonight, alone in her bed, they swelled within her like an uncontrollable tidal wave of emotion rising in her throat and into the pillow.

  She fought to gain control, smashing her fists against her eyes, demanding that the tears stop. She bolted from the bed, went to the closet, and found the red leather box. Bonnie hurled it onto the bed, her heart now pounding in her ears. “Da
mn you!” she shouted at it.

  Grabbing the box, she stormed into the kitchen, pulled out the trash bin, and slammed the box into it, pushing it down hard. She stood over it, her fists clenched at her sides. “Damn you,” she cursed at it again.

  Opening the cupboard, Bonnie took down the bottle of Scotch, hesitated, put it back, and banged the cupboard shut. She took in a deep breath and held it. Closing her eyes, she let out her breath in a slow, steady stream. She had to regain control, had to reposition herself behind the sea wall that stemmed her tide of emotions.

  Bonnie peered into the trash bin, reached down, and retrieved the red leather box. She held it in her trembling hands, stared at it, and sighed. “Damn you,” she whispered, impotent against the hold it had on her. She returned to the bedroom and put the box back on the closet shelf.

  Chapter 8

  Bonnie slipped into Paul Warsoff‘s sleek, two-door 1940 Packard 120 convertible. She loved the long, sinuous line of the vehicle, the elegant leather upholstery, the sound of the powerful engine as Paul started it up. He smiled at her as he shifted into gear. “You smell great,” he commented. “What’s that perfume?”

  “Arpege,” she replied. “I’m glad you like it.”

  He leaned close to her and sniffed, closing his eyes. “Mmmm,” he said as if tasting her. He straightened up and backed the car away from the Drake. “Do you like Italian food?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “I know this great little café,” Paul said. “It’s not fancy, but it has some of the best food in town. It’s called Comento’s. Have you heard of it?”

  Bonnie felt her spine stiffen. That’s where Dave Miller had taken her the night of her cab ride, where she’d met Mr. Caparelli, the owner. Maybe she shouldn’t go there—maybe Dave would be there. But what were the odds of that? She grew angry with herself for worrying about such things. What did it matter? And what if Mr. Caparelli recognized her? That didn’t matter either. Still, she was left with a nagging concern in the back of her mind. “Yes, I’ve been there.”