Don't Die Under the Apple Tree

by Amy Patricia Meade

  “Funny. Very funny.”

  “I think so.” He chuckled. “In all seriousness, though, ya’d best watch yerself.”

  “Logan’s is owned by friends of mine, so I should be okay.”

  “I didn’t just mean Hansen. If someone put the fix in to make sure that batch of rivets were bad, then they’re not goin’ to be happy about you findin’ out and makin’ sure they can’t do it again.”

  “But why would someone substitute faulty rivets? And how? It just doesn’t make any sense, Kilbride.”

  “If I ’ad the answer to those questions, darlin’, I’d be makin’ more money than I do. Alas, all I know ’bout rivets is how to pound ’em into oblivion with my pneumatic gun.”

  “And all I know is how to catch them and then put them in place without getting burned.” She frowned.

  “And even that ya don’t do fast enough,” he teased.

  “Be quiet, Kilbride,” she objected. “If I were any faster, you’d fall off your rope swing.”

  “Now that sounds like a challenge I’m willin’ to accept.”

  With that, the whistle blew, prompting Kilbride to grab Rosie’s hand and lead her back to Pier Number One. He sang:

  Just give me your hand,

  Tabhair dom do lámh.

  Just give me your hand

  And I’ll walk with you,

  Through the streets of our land,

  Through the mountains so grand.

  If you give me your hand.

  Rosie broke free of Kilbride’s grip, but she followed behind him, laughing all the way.

  Two hours later, the Pushey Shipyard whistle blew to signify the end of the work week and the beginning of the day-and-a-half weekend.

  A tired, sweat-drenched Rosie bid adieu to her coworkers and exited through the front gate, where Katie waited. Sporting a red-and-white-striped, whirl-skirt dirndl dress with a button front, white slingback sandals, and a red straw hat that rested at a jaunty angle upon her golden head, she looked as if she had stepped right out of the pages of the Sears spring catalog.

  In her right hand she clutched her handbag. In her left, a brown paper grocery sack.

  “Hey, Katie-girl,” Rosie greeted “What’s in the bag?”

  “This is for you. I know how hot it’s been today and I thought you might want to slip into something cooler.” She passed the sack to her sister, who immediately peered inside.

  “Oh, Katie-girl! It’s no wonder you’re my favorite sister.”

  “I’m your only sister,” Katie corrected.

  Before Rosie could tease her sister any further, a voice came from just inside the shipyard fence. “Sister? How can so much beauty be in one family, I ask. ’Tis an embarrassment of riches, to be sure.”

  “Clinton Kilbride,” Rosie admonished. “You be on your best behavior.”

  “I will, Rosaleen Keefe.” He turned his attention to Katie and with an outstretched hand said, “Now that ya know our names, what’s yers?”

  “Um, Katie.” She made it sound more like a question than a statement.

  “Ah, but that must be short for somethin’, no?”

  “Katherine,” she offered happily. “Katherine Brigid.”

  “Ah, a name like a—”

  “Poem?” Rosie hit Kilbride on the back of the head, causing him to choke on the rest of his words. “That’s enough out of you. Now, I’m going to get changed. When I come back, I hope to find my sister alive, well, and bearing no visible fingerprints.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” He saluted cheekily.

  Rosie trotted back through the gates and into the holding area ladies’ room, where she slipped out of her work clothes and, after wiping herself down with a few moistened paper towels, slipped into a sleeveless blue and brown plaid sundress and a pair of strappy brown wedges.

  After undoing the kerchief and brushing her auburn locks, she stuffed her work clothes back into the bag and strolled to the Pushey Shipyard gates, where Kilbride was entertaining Katie with a few—thankfully clean—limericks.

  When Rosie appeared, the Irishman’s eyes grew wide. “Why, Rosaleen, darlin’. Look at ya! If that ain’t enough to send a man happy to his grave, I don’t know what else would.”

  “Save your flattery for Monday morning, Clinton.”

  He flashed a boyish grin. “I will. I will indeed, but may I at least kiss the hand of your baby sister before I go?”

  “No.”

  Kilbride winked at Katie. “Jealous type. I get lots of those.”

  “Oh, and this is yours.” Rosie returned the kerchief she had used to shield her head from the sun.

  He took the piece of cloth and held it close to his nose. “Ah, the scent of your hair lives up to your name, fair Rose.”

  “Get out of here, Kilbride,” she instructed with a playful punch in the arm.

  “All right, I’m goin’. I’m goin’. Try not to miss me too much, darlin’.”

  As Katie giggled, Kilbride whistled his way down Beard Street.

  “I like him,” she stated. “He’s funny.”

  “Yeah, he’s a hoot, all right. So, how did everything go with the move?”

  “Good. Ma helped me pack and then got Saul, the grocer, to bring his truck over. As of eleven thirty this morning, everything I have, Charlie included, was at Ma’s place. Everything except you, that is. And go ahead and call me silly, but until you’re back there with me, it’s not quite home.”

  Rosie embraced her sister and valiantly tried to fight back her tears. “Oh, Katie, my lamb, I’ll be there soon. Don’t you worry.”

  “But I do worry,” she cried.

  “You shouldn’t. We’re going to head over to Finch’s apartment, find the financial records, and put this whole thing to rest.”

  “Really?” a sniffling Katie asked.

  Given that the police had already searched the Finches’ apartment, Rosie was doubtful she’d uncover anything new, but she refused to admit that to her sister. “You bet. Now dry your eyes and let’s get going.”

  Katie took a lace handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed at her eyes.

  “So which way is it?” Rosie asked and pointed a thumb in either direction.

  “I don’t know. I just know the address, but I have no idea where it is.”

  “Oh, Katie.” Rosie laughed.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t look it up on a map.”

  “No, no. That’s okay. I didn’t think of that either. We’ll just ask a cab driver or a train conductor or something. It will be fine.”

  It was, indeed, fine. After consulting with the local beat cop—a touch of irony that Rosie found amusing—they continued on to the Finches’ Van Brunt Street apartment.

  The red brick, semi-attached apartment building featured six windows in the front—two for each of the three floors. Granite steps, flanked by scrolled wrought-iron railings led to an off-center front door—toward the left on the left unit, and toward the right on the right unit. Long alleys running between the buildings provided space for trash cans.

  “How are you going to get inside?” Katie asked.

  Rosie eyed the front entrance, but soon realized that she’d most likely be greeted with a locked apartment door. “I don’t know,” she confessed. “You said their place is on the second floor, didn’t you?”

  “That’s right. But how—?”

  Before Katie could ask, Rosie had moved from the front of the building to the side alleyway closest to the Finches’ unit, examining every possible access point of the three-story building as she did so. “Look.” She pointed upward excitedly. “There’s an open window in the Finches apartment, right near that fire escape.”

  Katie gazed up at the window indicated. The bottom sash had been left open approximately two inches, allowing just enough ventilation in to keep the red geranium on the sill from wilting in the summerlike heat, while protecting the puffy white eyelet tie-back curtains from getting doused by a passing rainstorm.

  From there, she looke
d down at Rosie’s wedge-soled shoes in disappointment. “I guess bringing that change of clothes wasn’t such a good idea after all.”

  “Hey, I didn’t think of it either. How could we possibly have known? It’s not as if we went to cat burglar school. There’s not much we can do about it now, though. It’s not like I’m going to strip down and change back into my coveralls.” She walked over to the base of the fire escape, slipped out of her shoes, and set them and the paper sack containing her work clothes down on the asphalt. “Give me a boost, will you?”

  Katie obliged by tucking her handbag in one armpit, crouching down, and weaving the fingers of both hands together.

  Rosie lifted her right leg and stepped into her sister’s hands. After a few failed attempts and several grunts and groans, she managed to get a foot onto the bottom rung of the fire-escape ladder. From there, she positioned her other foot on the rung and, using her arms, pulled herself upright.

  “Once I’m in,” she informed Katie, “I’ll go out the front door. Unless you see someone going in. Then give me a whistle like when we were kids, remember?”

  “The first few bars of ‘Whistling in the Dark,’” Katie confirmed with a nod of the head. “Got it!”

  Having grown accustomed to climbing scaffolding at the shipyard, the rest of Rosie’s ascent was easy; within a minute, she was on the fire-escape landing adjacent to the open window. Opening said window and climbing in, however, required a bit more effort.

  Leaning over the edge of the fire-escape railing, Rosie pushed at the bottom pane, but the spate of warm, humid weather had caused the wood of the sash to expand and its layers of white paint to stick. Trying to be as quiet as possible, she gave the window a few hard bangs with the palm of her hand and then, using all her strength, inched the bottom sash of the window upward along the tracks until there was enough space to climb inside.

  Katie cringed as she watched her sister step over the edge of the fire-escape railing, balance herself, and then slide, head-first and legs dangling, into the open window. Gliding her torso over the windowsill and, inside, the cast-iron radiator, she put her hands down on the carpeted apartment floor and pulled herself to her feet.

  Rosie found herself in a twelve-foot-by-twelve-foot square room. In the center rested a full-sized spool bed wrapped in a chenille coverlet bearing a floral pattern in shades of green, yellow, pink, and blue. Two nightstands designed in the Colonial fashion from orange-toned maple stood on either side of the bed and, across the room, a matching orange maple triple dresser with attached mirror was lined with a silver ladies’ vanity set consisting of a tray, brush, comb, and hand mirror.

  She drew a deep breath and fixed her dress. Well, here is as good a place as any to start.

  Setting to work, she rummaged through the drawers of the dresser and nightstands, checked the bedroom closet, and examined the hatboxes beneath the bed. Finding nothing of interest, she turned her attention to the bathroom, including a thorough search of the medicine cabinet and laundry hamper. As expected, they turned up empty as well.

  Having marked the bedroom and bathroom off her list, she traveled to the adjacent kitchen. To her left, a black-and-white dinette set with aluminum trim served as the eating area. To the right, a small stove and icebox acted as the heart and soul of the corner-style galley kitchen, which apart from their presence, was lined, top and bottom, with an array of white metal cabinets.

  White metal cabinets that would take an intimidatingly long time for a single human being to search.

  Rosie took a moment to ponder the situation. Should she start tearing into the cupboards? Or was it a waste of time? Seeing as it was considered to be the woman’s, and hence Marie’s, domain, the kitchen was probably the last place Finch would hide important paperwork. It would simply be too difficult for him to predict and control whether his wife would stumble upon it.

  Following this assumption, she decided to head, instead, into the living room. Overlooking the street, the living room was a light, airy space that served as a warm entry to the rest of the apartment. The front picture window was accented by a set of floral pinch-pleated drapes with wide-slat venetian blinds for additional privacy. On the wall perpendicular to, and left of, the window stood the front door. To the left of that, a gilded framed mirror reflected the brilliant sunlight that streamed between the slats of the blinds, while beneath it, a solid brown sofa covered with crocheted antimacassars offered seating for three. On the wall to the right, two mismatched armchairs flanked a small, round wooden table with a large ceramic lamp. And in the center of the room rested an orange maple coffee table.

  Rosie did a quick search of the room, but apart from the spaces underneath the furniture and drapes, the room appeared to lack any viable hiding spaces. Deciding to return to the kitchen, she turned around, only to spot a narrow door on her right, just between the two rooms.

  A smile stretched across her face as she opened the door to reveal a coat closet, at the bottom of which rested a large red metal lockbox. It wasn’t a toolshed, but perhaps if she were lucky ...

  Grabbing the box by its handle, she slid it closer and eagerly flipped open the two latches. The lid popped open, exposing a bevy of tools inside. Taking each piece out she did a mental inventory: Hammer ... Phillips screwdriver ... flat screwdriver ... adjustable wrench ... tape measure ... hand drill ... level ... a jar of nails ... putty knife ... hacksaw ...

  Alas, with the removal of the hacksaw, the box was empty. Rosie picked up the box and shook it to ensure she hadn’t missed anything. All was silent.

  Damn! she thought. I thought for sure—

  Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Katie’s whistles: Toot-too-too-too-tooooo, Toot-too-too-too-toooooo.

  So startled was Rosie that she dropped the box with a loud clatter. Fumbling, she picked it up only to discover that the inside bottom—a false one—had tumbled onto the floor, and with it, a paper-clipped stack of approximately three bank statements.

  Rosie’s jaw dropped open and she was tempted to shriek and dance with joy, but Katie’s second set of whistles prompted her to pack up and run: Toot-too-too-too-tooooo, Toot-too-too-too-toooooo.

  Hastily, she placed the tools back into the box, fastened it, and shoved it back into the closet before shutting the door. Then, amid yet another set of whistles, she ran on her tiptoes to the open bedroom window. Needing the full use of both hands, she stuffed the bank statements into her brassiere and, without a glance to the alley below, reached out to the fire-escape railing, grabbed hold, and pulled herself out the window and onto the landing.

  From there, it was a simple matter of stepping over the railing and onto the platform and then following the series of ladders to ground level.

  Simple, that is, until she looked down from the top of the second ladder to see Lieutenant Riordan standing directly below her.

  Rosie felt her face grow hot, her palms sweat, and her heart start to race. Part of her distress was due to having been caught breaking and entering the Finches’ apartment. The other part was due to the fact that Riordan, from his position on the ground, could look right up her dress.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed and struggled, with one hand, to pull the back of her skirt forward between her knees. Rosie’s attempt to transform her dress into a romper had been unsuccessful, but it had been quite effective in causing her to lose her grip on the ladder’s metal rungs.

  “Oh!” she cried again as she forgot about her dress and tried, in vain, to keep both feet and hands on the slippery metal rungs.

  With a short shriek, she plummeted to earth and braced herself for the feel of the asphalt as it smashed against her skin.

  It therefore came as quite a surprise to be greeted, upon landing, by the feel of cotton and the warm scent of musk. Rosie opened her eyes, which had been tightly closed in fear, to find herself, quite literally, nose to nose with Lieutenant Riordan.

  “Next time you feel like dropping in, give me a call first, will you?” He smiled
.

  “Oh!” Disoriented, she looked around, only to find herself cradled in Riordan’s arms. “Oh!”

  “I think you said that already.”

  Rosie bit her lip. “Could you put me down, please?”

  “Absolutely.” He placed her feetfirst onto the pavement.

  She looked about for a trace of Katie, but the only other things in the alley were some trash cans, her shoes, and the brown grocery sack that contained the day’s work clothes. “Well, I guess I should be glad she didn’t take those with her.”

  “Sorry about that. Your sister got a glimpse of me, started whistling, and then shouted, ‘I wasn’t sleuthing, I promise!’ before taking off.”

  Rosie clicked her tongue. “I should have known. She did the same thing when Mrs. McCarthy caught us soaping up her parlor windows one Halloween.”

  Riordan laughed. “So, um, what were you looking for up there?”

  “Up there? I wasn’t—” She smiled, fluttered her eyelashes, and tried to act casual, but it was no use; there was no way she could pretend she wasn’t snooping. “Oh, never mind. You already know what I was doing up there. I was giving the place another search, just to make sure your guys didn’t miss anything.”

  “You know I can have you arrested for breaking and entering, don’t you?”

  “That would sound more like a threat if you weren’t already planning on arresting me tomorrow.”

  Riordan looked away sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Of course, if you do it now, that would save you and your men the time it takes to travel to Manhattan,” she teased. “Save gas, too. The government is talking about rationing fuel, you know.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He looked at her, eyes questioning. “So, um, did you find anything?”

  “Nope. Nothing. Your men did an excellent job at cleaning up the place.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, there wasn’t a clue left to be found.”

  Riordan glanced at the front of Rosie’s dress with a grin. The bank statements she had secured in her brassiere had worked their way up her dress during the fall. “Excuse me,” he pardoned as he reached just below her neck and extracted the small stack of documents.