by Sarah Sundin
Arch’s eyebrows rose. Odom had talked to the captain too?
“No excuse for cowardice and dereliction of duty, much less using drugs.” Buckner tapped his pen on the notepad. “Names?”
“Phil Carey, sir,” Odom said. “He’s always doping off. Possibly Warren Palonsky.”
Arch forced himself not to react, to keep his breath even.
“Phil Carey . . .” Buckner said as he wrote. “Warren Palonsky.”
“Mind you, no problems with Palonsky,” Odom said. “He’s a top-notch sailor. But I’ve heard rumors.”
If Arch jumped on board, it would remove suspicion that he and Palonsky were connected. “I’ve had problems with Carey too, sir. Engelman complains about him all the time. And I’ve also heard rumors about Palonsky.”
“Very well.” Buckner tucked his pen in his shirt pocket. “We’ll assemble all hands for inspection. But give the suspects extra scrutiny. Each officer inspect your own men.”
Chair legs scraped on the deck, and Arch’s cheeks went cold. Palonsky didn’t have any drugs in his possession, did he? He was supposed to flush them immediately.
Soon all the sailors stood at attention by their bunks while officers riffled through their possessions, feeling pockets and opening boxes and toiletry kits.
Arch wasn’t surprised when he found an envelope filled with tablets in Phil Carey’s locker.
Carey turned white. “Sir, those aren’t mine. They’re Fish’s. He asked me to hide them for him. I—I didn’t know what to do with them after he died.”
A cry of protest rose from a bunk farther aft. “I swear those aren’t mine, Mr. Gannett. Fish gave that envelope to me, told me to hold it for him. I had no idea what was inside.”
So that was the story they’d agreed on. If anyone were caught, everyone else would point to that man and no one else. They needed some explanation for why they didn’t have prescription bottles with their names on the labels.
“Looks clean.” Odom shut Palonsky’s locker.
Arch swallowed his sigh of relief and forced himself not to look at his collaborator.
Buckner strode down the crowded aisle. “What do we have?”
“Jenkins,” Mr. Gannett said. “He has some pills, claims they were Fish’s.”
“I found this envelope in Carey’s locker,” Arch said. “The same story about Fish.”
“I swear it, sir. Not mine.” The bleariness in Carey’s eyes said otherwise.
Arch handed the envelope to Buckner, and an idea leapt into his head. “Sir, we don’t actually know what the pills are. Perhaps we should compare them to Doc’s stock.”
“Excellent idea, Mr. Vandenberg. Come with me. Mr. Hayes and Mr. Odom, take Carey and Jenkins to the brig on shore.”
Arch followed the captain up the ladder and toward sick bay. Was that the first time the commanding officer had approved of something he’d done?
Pharmacist’s Mate Parnell Lloyd met them in sick bay, and he gave Arch a strange look—suspicious perhaps, or angry.
Captain Buckner showed him the envelopes. “Do you know what these are?”
Doc peered inside. “Can’t say I do. Do these have anything to do with Fish’s death?”
While Buckner and Doc discussed the situation, Arch scanned the small compartment. More of Doc’s art, each sketch and signature in the style of a master artist.
Arch’s hands coiled into fists. So the man was skilled at forgery. He opened the medication cabinet and inspected the bottles. Phenobarbital . . . phenobarbital . . . there it was.
He pointed to the bottle. “May we look inside, Doc?”
“Yes, sir.” Doc frowned at Arch and opened the bottle. “Not the same. Why do you ask?”
They weren’t the same? Arch peered inside and composed himself. “We were both concerned about the men taking sedatives, possibly barbiturates, you said. Like that.”
Doc shrugged. “If those tablets are phenobarbital, they come from a different supplier than the Navy uses. Perhaps they came from a civilian pharmacy—or a civilian pharmacist.”
Arch’s breath congealed in his chest as he stared into the pharmacist’s mate’s discerning, intelligent brown eyes.
It was no secret that Jim’s sister was a pharmacist. Did Doc think Lillian was involved, that Arch was the link? Or was this a ploy to deflect attention from Doc? And just what had he done to Fish before he died?
“Thank you for your help, Doc.” Buckner headed out of sick bay. “I’ll turn these pills over to the authorities.”
Arch followed the captain. He’d give Doc a wide berth.
30
Boston
Tuesday, May 5, 1942
“Nicer than Dixon’s, isn’t it?” Arch held open the door to Morton’s Drugs on Winthrop Square.
“Much.” Lillian inspected the uncluttered windows, the classy displays, and the abundant lighting. “I’d shop here too.”
“Snob.” He winked at her. “Now go be Watson and ask your questions. I’ll wait for you.”
“Holmes.” She winked back and headed toward the prescription area, past attractive bins to collect tin, waste paper, metal scrap, and rubber scrap, each emblazoned with patriotic posters.
Well-labeled aisles beckoned the customer, and several clerks greeted her. No skimping on staff as Mr. Dixon did.
The past week, several patients had complained about the reversals to Lillian’s changes, and some left the store, annoyed that Dixon’s had stopped collecting tin. But if sales had fallen—or risen—Mr. Dixon remained silent.
Behind the prescription counter, a middle-aged man with receding blond hair smiled at Lillian. “Good morning. How may I help you?”
“Good morning. My name is Lillian Avery. I’m the new pharmacist—”
“Yes, yes.” He chuckled. “I’m Henry Morton. What an honor to meet the girl who’s shaking things up for old Cyrus.”
Her smile faltered. Not anymore she wasn’t.
“Good for you.” He poked a finger in her direction. “Cyrus needs shaking up. That store of his hasn’t changed since eighteen—”
“Seventy-eight.”
Mr. Morton laughed, big and hearty, then rested his elbows on the counter. “So what brings Charlestown’s newest sensation to my store?”
Strange how Mr. Morton’s depiction of her varied so widely from Mr. Dixon’s. She straightened the jacket of her brand-new green suit. “I was . . . well, I’m asking around. Have you seen a high number of prescriptions for barbiturates? In large quantities, like two hundred tablets?”
“Oh my. No, I haven’t. I’d call the doctor about that.”
In the six stores she’d visited today, each druggist had said something similar. Lillian’s smile rose in vindication. Fat lot of good it would do her when she was fired, though.
“Why?” Mr. Morton asked.
“Oh, it’s just that I’ve seen prescriptions that made me wonder.” She leaned closer. “Would you do me a huge favor? Please don’t tell Mr. Dixon I came by.”
His eyes twinkled. “Going behind old Cyrus’s back? I’m on your side, Miss Avery.”
“Thank you. It was a pleasure meeting you.” When she started applying for jobs in late May, she’d visit Morton’s first.
Arch met her partway down the center aisle, so handsome in his dress whites, and he took her arm to stop her. “On our way out, I want you to look down the aisles to your left, casually, as if you were browsing. There’s a tall, dark-haired man, probably in his thirties. Don’t be obvious, but try to get a good look at him.”
“Why?” Lillian whispered.
“I’ll explain outside.” He led her down the center aisle.
Lillian glanced down the rows, trying to appear nonchalant. Soon she saw the man Arch had mentioned—a lanky man in a work jacket and a newsboy’s cap. His angular face jolted her memory. Thank goodness he was reading the label on a bottle and didn’t look her way.
Arch led her across the street to Winthrop Square, marked off w
ith a wrought-iron fence. “Recognize him?”
“That’s Norman Hunter, one of our phenobarbital patients.”
Arch’s lips pressed into a hard line. “He’s been at the last three stores we’ve visited.”
“He’s following us?”
“Yes. We need to solve this case and fast.”
Lillian picked up her pace. “We need to shake him too.”
“That’s easy.” Arch held her hand. “We stroll around and act like lovebirds. He’ll assume we finished our rounds.”
“You just want some kisses.”
“Don’t you?” His eyes gleamed in the way she loved, and he leaned closer, irresistible.
She didn’t resist, even in broad daylight in the middle of Winthrop Square. He wrapped his arms around her waist, ducked under the brim of her new hat, and kissed her.
Oh my. Her knees failed, but how could she fall, braced against Arch’s broad chest?
“I’m glad you’re back,” she murmured against his lips. “Even a short patrol feels long.”
“I’m afraid I’ll be gone for longer periods.” He resumed their stroll, his arm around her waist. “The Ettinger was officially assigned to the Eastern Sea Frontier, so no more North Atlantic convoys. But later this month, they’ll start full coastal convoys, down to Key West and back. That’s us.”
“Oh.” She rested her head on his shoulder. “I can’t be disappointed when convoys will save hundreds of lives. Right?”
“Right. But the timing is bad. Not just with you, but with the case. The answers lie in Charlestown, not at sea.”
“Well, I can dig for more clues when you’re gone. I want to investigate more of the delivery addresses.”
Arch stopped, his eyes alarmed. “That isn’t wise with this Hunter fellow following you. Let’s use the phone book instead.”
“You’re right.” Lillian frowned in the direction of Morton’s, almost obscured by trees. “I’ll look up the names of the patients, see if they even exist, if the addresses are the same.”
“Mm-hmm. If you’re bored, you can scan the phone book for the delivery addresses.”
“I’m glad the Charlestown phone book isn’t thick.” Lillian measured a fraction of an inch between thumb and forefinger. “Maybe I’ll find a connection, a real address and a real name.”
“Or maybe they’re fake names and vacant apartments.”
“That’s what Detective Malloy said.” She sighed and strolled past the Civil War Monument. “I wish I had something to report to him. All I have is a list of prescriptions, one of which is for a—for an elderly lady who gave pills to her sailor grandson.”
“She may or may not be connected to the ring. Just in case, steer clear of her.”
“She isn’t connected.” Her voice quavered. “But she won’t even look at me. I miss her.”
“Oh, darling.” Arch folded her in his arms and kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry. Perhaps she’ll see the truth about Fish and—”
“She loved him, and he died, and I called him a drug addict.”
“He was a drug addict.”
Lillian played with the brass buttons down the front of his jacket. “I miss our talks. I think she’d be proud of me, how I opened my heart to you.”
“I know she would.” Arch captured her hand and kissed it. “I’m proud of you too. But mostly I’m just selfishly pleased. I got my girl.”
Another kiss that melted her muscles, but she managed to pull away after a minute. “We should have lunch soon. I have to go to work at one o’clock.”
“I think we lost Mr. Hunter.” Arch gazed around the park. “I wonder if he’ll have the nerve to show his face at Dixon’s today.”
“Depends if he needs his meds.” She took Arch’s hand and headed toward the apartment, where they planned to make sandwiches. “Looks like the ring only targets Dixon’s Drugs.”
“Probably because Mr. Dixon never asks questions. The other pharmacists said they’d call.”
“‘Never turn away a paying customer,’ he always says. The forgers take advantage of that. They can’t risk a phone call to the doctor. They’d be found out. But I wonder . . .”
Arch swung their clasped hands as they turned onto Winthrop Street. “What do you wonder, my lovely Watson?”
Lillian nudged his shoulder. “Holmes is the one who comes up with the theories. Call me Holmes or I won’t tell you.”
Arch laughed. “Your brothers did anything you wanted, didn’t they?”
“Jim did. But not Dan, and Rob could go either way. Now call me Holmes.”
“This had better be good . . . Holmes.”
“I do love you.” She grinned at him, then sobered. “My other theory. I wonder if Mr. Dixon is being blackmailed. Maybe the gang forces him to fill the prescriptions.”
Arch lifted one shoulder. “A bit farfetched.”
“Maybe not. I’ve been thinking. He dotes on his nephew, the only family he has. Albert told me he and this nephew used to run in a bad crowd. They both turned their lives around with Mr. Dixon’s help. But what if this crowd is related to our ring? What if they had something really bad on the nephew? A murder, perhaps. They could blackmail poor Mr. Dixon to keep his beloved boy out of the electric chair.”
Arch faced her in the shadow of a large stone church. “So now it’s poor Mr. Dixon, is it?”
“I do feel sorry for him. He doesn’t have anyone other than his nephew. Maybe that’s why he’s such a grouch.”
“I don’t feel charitable to the man who’s making life miserable for the woman I love.”
She stroked her thumb along the back of his hand. “I don’t feel miserable when I’m with you.”
“You’re too softhearted, darling. It’ll get you in trouble.”
Softhearted? She’d never heard that term applied to her before, and it made her heart feel very soft indeed.
“It’s already gotten me in trouble.” She kissed his cheek. “It got me mixed up with you.”
31
Boston
Friday, May 8, 1942
Arch stared at himself in the little stand-up mirror propped on the ladies’ kitchen table. He didn’t recognize himself in beat-up work clothes and a scraggly salt-and-pepper wig. The stage makeup Palonsky had borrowed from a theater friend in town had transformed him into a grizzled old merchant marine. Palonsky assured him the Rusty Barnacle was so dark and smoky no one would be able to tell they were wearing makeup.
“You need grease under your fingernails.” Lillian stretched his hand across the table and rubbed a black makeup pencil around his nails. “Don’t forget to slouch. And watch your manners. Don’t be such a—”
“Dandy,” Palonsky grumbled.
Arch shot him a look.
Lillian laughed. “A gentleman. You’re no dandy.”
“Still don’t think this is smart.” Palonsky turned the mirror his way and added smudges under his eyes. “I’m the actor. I can pull this off. But the fellows at the bar will see right through to your fancy officer ways.”
“We both need to be there. You said Kramer’s picking up a delivery there tonight. You met two of our sources, but they won’t tell you their names. All we need is one name. And I’m the only one who’d recognize the man who followed Lillian.”
“I would too.” Lillian gave him a mischievous smile. “Why shouldn’t I be there? I’m the one who spent hours poring over the phone book. I’m the one who discovered the bar’s address is one of our delivery spots. I could dress as a pirate. I already have the peg leg.”
Arch grinned. How far she’d come from bristling at the mention of her prosthesis to making jokes about it. “Argh, me hearty. No wench of mine—”
“Mr. Vandenberg, sir. Please don’t talk.” Palonsky shook his head. “Just grunt and glower. Don’t open that . . . gentlemanly mouth. Let me do the talking.”
“Then don’t call me ‘sir,’ matey.”
“That’s as grungy as I can make you.” Lillian squeezed his han
d and giggled. “I’d kiss you good-bye, but I’d mess up your lipstick.”
He gave her his best pirate glare, and he and Palonsky headed out into the night. On the way to the bar, they reviewed their codes and signals. If Arch acted too gentlemanly, Palonsky planned to rap his pinky on the table, code for “I’m gonna smash that raised pinky of yours.”
The Rusty Barnacle stank of liquor and cigarette smoke and hardworking men. Arch kept his head down and scanned the dim, smoky interior. Sailors from the Ettinger and other ships occupied a couple of tables, and workmen and merchant marines occupied others.
Palonsky headed to the bar. “Two beers.”
Arch didn’t plan to drink his. Not only did he need his wits, but he’d never cared for beer. However, a glass made a good prop. He’d just pretend to drink.
Palonsky led him to a table closer to the civilians—but not too close.
A bowl of shelled peanuts sat on the table, and Arch selected a nice plump one.
Three raps of a pinky knuckle. Palonsky dug his hand into the bowl and shoveled in a bunch of peanuts, chewing messily.
Arch mimicked the seaman’s actions. A peanut even fell out of his mouth. A nice touch, if he did say so himself.
“Source Two and Easy King,” Palonsky said in a low voice. “Bearing zero-six-zero.”
Source Two? And Earl Kramer? Arch aimed a glower through the smoky haze toward the coordinates, sweeping well past the target.
Three men sat at the table. Kramer had his back to Arch, thank goodness, but the other two men showed their profiles. A heavyset, meaty-faced man with a cap low over his forehead, and a small man with a dark look about him.
Arch pretended to sip his beer. “Big or little?”
“Little.”
Another fake sip. He imprinted both men’s features in his mind so he could describe them to Lillian.
The door opened. Arch cradled his glass, watching out of the corner of his eye.
Norman Hunter! “Nan How coming our way,” he muttered.
Hunter passed their table and joined Kramer and friends. “Hey, Hank,” the smaller man said.
