Lies in White Dresses

by Sofia Grant

  Two doors down, he knocked gently. He’d gone to check on Frank last night after Harry drove himself to the hospital, but Frank had refused to open the door.

  “Frank?” Charlie called softly. “Hey, let me in, okay?”

  There was a long pause, and then the door opened to reveal Frank standing there with his prosthetic hand under his left arm. “Just in time,” he said flatly. “The buckles are a bit hard to manage. Besides, I think I bruised my knuckles when I hit Dad.”

  Charlie tried to mask his astonishment as Frank handed him the rubber prosthetic—this was the first time Frank had ever allowed him to see his stump. Frank had recovered in a field hospital, and by the time he came home, he had been fitted with the hand and even given it a nickname (“Stumpy,” which wasn’t particularly original but which caught on immediately with his friends in the marines). Their mother, predictably, had kept a stiff upper lip about the whole thing and had a half dozen dress shirts custom-made with a wider cuff on the left sleeve to fit around the brace. After which it was never spoken of within the family—even though Harry always found a way to work Frank’s war service into conversations with potential clients.

  They sat down on the bed and after a couple of false starts, Charlie got the thing secured in place.

  “What’s the hardest thing to do with that hand?” he asked impulsively.

  Frank got up and went to the mirror and began to tie his tie. “You know, I was going to say something like feel up a girl or flog my log,” he said after a moment. “But I guess I’ll go with buttons. They have you practice in the hospital—they give you these pieces of old blanket the nurses made up that have big buttons sewn on them and button holes on the other side, and zippers and hooks. I felt like a damn toddler, sitting there in the rec room with that thing—but then you look around and there’s guys with no arms or half their face gone or something . . .”

  “I’m sorry,” Charlie said. “I’m real sorry that happened to you, Frank.”

  Frank shrugged. “Well, I’m sorry you took all that shrapnel to the chest. Damn Nips, I’d like to carve ’em up and serve ’em to their families for dinner.”

  Charlie couldn’t help being moved—Frank was still looking out for him, after all this time. “Thanks, buddy. But that’s all in the past. No point in looking back.”

  “Listen, is Dad . . .”

  “He’s fine. I talked to him an hour ago. They patched him up at the hospital—he says he’s good as new.”

  Frank pulled the knot tight—perfect, as always. “I guess I probably shouldn’t have hit him. Especially since he didn’t see it coming.”

  “But maybe he had it coming.”

  “Yeah,” Frank said thoughtfully. “Yeah, maybe he did.”

  Chapter 53

  June

  June and Patty were waiting outside the hotel a little before 9:30 for Charlie to take them to the house. There she would meet the florist and the caterer, double-check the arrangements and explain where to prepare the food. Francie had talked to the pianist, but had been vague about when she would be arriving, so June would leave instructions with the caterers to let her in.

  After that was done, June would walk over to the cemetery to check on the chairs, the flowers, the tarp the funeral director had promised to lay on the uneven grass to prevent any mishaps with the ladies’ high heels. And . . . the casket, of course; she supposed she should be there when it arrived.

  Assuming everything went as planned, June would have plenty of time to spare before the service was to start. Everything had gone smoothly so far, and there was only one thing that had her worried: she hadn’t heard from Francie since bringing her dinner last night. Maybe it wasn’t all that surprising, given that her other children were arriving this morning with their families—but she would have felt better all the same seeing for herself how Francie was doing.

  Patty’s black velvet hair band kept slipping down. “How about if I just keep that in my purse, sweetheart?” June said, crouching down and sliding it off. She brushed Patty’s hair away from her eyes and tucked it behind her ears.

  “Can I play the piano when we get there, Mama?”

  “No, darling, I already told you, it’s just for grown-ups. But maybe after everyone is gone, while I’m cleaning up.”

  “Is Charlie helping?”

  “It’s Mister Carothers, remember? Listen, I’m just going to run upstairs and get some bobby pins. You can wait on the porch, if you like. Just stay there until I get back, all right? Don’t touch anything—I don’t want a speck of dirt on you.”

  She checked her watch as Patty climbed obediently into the wicker chair.

  Five minutes until Charlie would be there—plenty of time.

  Chapter 54

  Virgie

  Virgie was on her knees with a pailful of coffee grounds and eggshells. Yesterday she’d spread them around the Crimson Glory rosebushes along the side of the house, and today it would be the Peace roses that her mother had the gardener plant in front of the porch after the end of the war. Virgie was hurrying through her chores so she’d have plenty of time to get dressed for the funeral—Willy had given her a lipstick and an eyeliner pencil that she didn’t need anymore, and Virgie was hoping that her mother wouldn’t notice if she put on a little makeup.

  As she worked the grounds and crushed shells into the earth, she heard footsteps on the porch stairs above her, and a man’s voice. “Hey, kid, it’s me!”

  Curious, Virgie crawled out from behind the bushes. A man crouched in front of one of the wicker chairs, then abruptly stood and turned around—with a child in his arms.

  Not just any child—Patty. She was wearing a little black dress with poufed sleeves and shiny black shoes, and as the man hurried down the stairs, she started to wail.

  “Hey!” Virgie shouted. It had to be the man from Mrs. Samples’s room, her former accomplice who still thought she had the ring, and now he was kidnapping Patty to force Mrs. Samples to give it to him! “Put her down!”

  The man looked over, and then he took off running—just as Mrs. Samples came flying down the front stairs.

  “Put her down!” Mrs. Samples screamed, trying to race after them, but she stumbled in her high-heeled black shoes and nearly fell while the man tore down the street toward town.

  “Mrs. Samples!” Virgie yelled. She’d never catch up with him, not in those shoes. “Can you drive?”

  “What?” she said. “Please, help me! He’s got Patty!”

  Virgie grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the side of the house. “We’ll take Clyde’s truck—he always leaves the keys in it!”

  Mrs. Samples kicked off one shoe and then the other, leaving them lying in the dirt, and then she ran so fast toward the truck that Virgie could barely keep up. She was already turning the key when Virgie got in. The engine roared to life, and Mrs. Samples did something that made a horrible sound of metal grinding on metal, and then the truck shot forward and nearly hit the hedges at the edge of the garden before she yanked the wheel and they barreled toward the exit. She barely checked for traffic before she drove into the intersection.

  “Which way?” she yelled.

  “That way!” Virgie could just make him out, running toward an old black sedan parked on the side of the road. “There he is!”

  Mrs. Samples pressed the pedal to the floor.

  Chapter 55

  Francie

  Francie stood under the awning at the Mapes Hotel with Jimmy and his wife, Evelyn, who kept repeating that she was perfectly fine, despite her greenish complexion. Francie had seen enough pregnant women in her life to know exactly what the problem was, but she couldn’t say anything, of course, until she’d been officially told. Meanwhile, Margie and her husband had checked in early and were up in their room getting the children dressed.

  Francie had taken a taxi, planning to tell the driver to wait while she fetched Jimmy and Evelyn and Alice, but Arthur had apparently suggested that he ride with them while Franc
ie rode with Margie and Roy and the kids. He must have called for his car, because it was waiting in the drive, a couple of young valets ogling its sleek styling. She would have been more irritated that Arthur had overridden her plans, but she was worried about Alice, who never kept anyone waiting.

  There came Arthur—by himself, thank heavens—dressed in a dark suit she’d never seen before with a yellow silk square in the pocket. Francie wondered if she could go hide in the ladies’ room until Arthur and the others had gone so she wouldn’t have to face him yet. Eventually, she was going to have to apologize for her behavior at the restaurant, but not today.

  But it was too late—he was heading straight for her.

  “Francie,” he said, his face an inscrutable mask. “Good morning.”

  She was saved from having to respond when a black sedan went roaring past, honking as pedestrians scrambled out of the way. Seconds later, a familiar old truck whizzed by in hot pursuit—and was that June at the wheel?

  Francie’s confusion instantly turned to horror. For June to look so terrified—for her to take Clyde’s truck in the first place—

  “Oh no, that was Stan! Quick, Arthur, let’s go!” Arthur had always been a lead-foot, and if they had any chance of catching up, he’d have to push the Cadillac to its limit. “Go!” she said, giving him a shove before sprinting for the passenger side.

  “Who’s Stan?” he demanded as he swung himself into the driver’s seat.

  “What about us?” Jimmy called.

  “Go with Margie! Or call a cab! I’ll be there as soon as I can!”

  Arthur was already pulling away from the curb. Good old Arthur—he hadn’t even hesitated.

  Up ahead, both the sedan and the truck had been forced to stop at the Second Street intersection, a tour bus stuck in the middle, unable to make the turn. The driver’s door of the sedan opened and a man stumbled out. He lurched around to the other side while cars honked all around him and June jumped out of the truck and started running toward him. Francie was astonished to see that she was in her stockinged feet, but that didn’t seem to slow her down—at least not until she collided with a man on a bicycle and fell.

  Stan reached into the car and pulled Patty from the passenger seat, slung her over his shoulder and started running down Second Street. Patty was wailing, her face red, struggling to get out of his grasp.

  “Stop the car!” Francie hollered as they reached the traffic jam. “He’s got Patty! Arthur, call the police! I’ve got to stop him!”

  “Francie, what do you think you’re doing?” Arthur called, but she was already out the door and running. Thank God she was wearing her sturdy black mid-heels rather than the towering pumps that Alice had wanted her to wear.

  “Mrs. Meeker!”

  Francie turned her head to see Virgie hopping down from the truck’s running board. “Virgie, what are you—”

  “I’ll get her back!”

  “No, it isn’t safe! Stay right there!”

  Virgie raced past her at an astonishing speed in dungarees and a pair of boys’ rubber-soled sneakers, her yellow braids flying, her fists pumping. And sure enough, she started gaining on Stan, whose progress was hindered by the squirming child in his arms.

  Stan glanced back over his shoulder and, seeing Virgie gaining on him, made an abrupt turn into an alley between a coffee shop and a hotel. Seconds later Virgie followed him, disappearing from view. Francie’s heart sank; here in the heart of downtown, Stan could duck into any of a dozen casinos and disappear in a labyrinth of slot machines and gaming tables. All he’d have to do was exit through another door and he’d escape with Patty.

  Francie ran back to June, her heart pounding so hard she could barely breathe. Arthur had made it to her first and was trying to help her up.

  “Please, let me go!” June cried. “He’s got Patty!”

  “Did you call the police?” Francie shouted at Arthur.

  “A man in that shop already did,” Arthur said. “They’ll be here soon, Miss. Stay here with Francie and I’ll go!”

  “Arthur—your heart!” His doctor had counseled Arthur at his most recent checkup to avoid overexerting himself due to an irregular rhythm. There was only one thing to be done. “You stay with June, I’ll go!”

  Francie turned and started running again. If one of her own children were in danger, nothing would stop her from trying to save them. She reached the alley and ran past garbage cans and produce crates and a man pouring out mop water and emerged onto another busy casino-lined street. A small crowd was forming in front of the Prospector, a dozen people staring up at the enormous sign towering above the building, a figure of a mule loaded up with a pack and pick-ax outlined in colored lightbulbs.

  Francie followed their gazes and spotted Stan climbing up the sign, using the bulb casings as footholds, Patty clutched in his free arm. She wasn’t fighting him anymore—instead she was looking down at the street in terror, wailing for her mother. The crowd was pleading with Stan to come down, but he paid them no mind as the sound of sirens split the air.

  When Stan reached the top of the sign, he set Patty in the crook between the pack and the mule’s neck, and rubbed his arm. He had to be extremely strong to have carried her up there, but it had obviously exhausted him. Patty gripped the sign tightly and sobbed.

  “Nobody come any closer!” Stan called down, steadying himself with a hand on the mule’s pack, his feet resting on the metal that formed the strap.

  Stan took off his belt and looped it around the strap to give himself something to hang on to. Never mind that there was nothing to prevent Patty from falling to the pavement below if she got spooked and let go. What was wrong with the man?

  “Nothing’s going to happen if everyone just does what I say,” Stan shouted. Four men had moved underneath the sign, joining hands to make a sort of net for Patty to land in if she fell. “I want to talk to my wife.”

  A buzz went through the crowd, everyone looking around to see who he was talking to, but June was with Arthur, out of sight down the street. Francie pushed through the crowd, breathing hard from all that running.

  “Stan!” she shouted, waving her arms above her head. “Stan, over here!”

  He scowled as his gaze landed on her. “Who the hell are you?”

  Before Francie could respond, a murmur went through the crowd—and then Francie saw why: up on the roof below the sign, inching along the edge, was a small figure with yellow hair. She was moving slowly, only her head visible above the low parapet that ran along the edge, using the sign to block herself from Stan’s view. But people in the crowd were beginning to point.

  If Stan saw Virgie, there was no telling what he’d do.

  “Everyone quiet—please!” Francie yelled, praying they wouldn’t give her away. “Stan, I’m a friend of June’s.”

  “You ain’t any friend of hers—you’re that broad who’s been taking her all them fancy places. Filling her head with nonsense!”

  “No, you’ve got it all wrong,” Francie said. “I—I needed her help. My best friend died and I didn’t know what to do, but June’s been—well, she’s taken care of everything.”

  “June don’t need people like you taking advantage of her,” Stan yelled. “She needs to get home where she belongs. She needs to take care of me and our kid, not some stuck-up rich lady!”

  A pair of police cars screamed to a halt behind the crowd, their sirens nearly drowning out his last few words. Two cops got out of the first with their guns drawn. “Drop back!” one of them shouted at the crowd. “Everybody out of the way!”

  Francie stayed rooted to the spot, keeping an eye on Virgie, who’d made it almost all the way to the mule’s hooves, Patty clinging to the sign a few yards up. Virgie peered over the edge and, seeing Francie, gave her a thumbs-up. When the cops looked up she dropped back down, disappearing from view.

  “Bring the little girl down,” the other cop boomed into a megaphone. “Nobody wants her to get hurt. If you get her down saf
ely, things won’t go as rough for you.”

  “It ain’t my fault any of this happened,” Stan hollered, getting worked up again. He leaned closer to Patty, grabbing her arm roughly. “Nothing’s gonna happen to her, I got a hold of her. Now get me my wife or I ain’t making any promises.”

  A chill went through Francie—was he really threatening June with their daughter’s safety? What kind of father would do such a thing? For all his many flaws, Francie knew that Arthur would use his dying breath to try to save his children if they were in danger.

  “Not like this,” Francie yelled. “You think she’s going to want to talk to you when she sees what you’ve done? Putting Patty in danger? Come on, Stan, bring her down and—and I personally guarantee June will talk to you.”

  “You going to guarantee it?” he echoed mockingly. “Where is she, then? Why ain’t she with you if you’re such good friends?”

  “Ma’am, get out of the way!” one of the police officers ordered her.

  “I can’t,” she called apologetically.

  “Move, or you’ll be arrested!”

  Francie had just about had enough. There was a child to worry about, and all these men were acting as if they thought they could solve the problem by threatening each other and waving guns around. “Then you’d better come over here and arrest me. I won’t even resist. Though I’d appreciate it if you could wait until after you rescue the little girl.”

  More sirens were approaching. The two cops huddled together, arguing.

  “June told me she left because you didn’t appreciate her,” Francie yelled to Stan, improvising as she went. “She said you never notice when she fixes your favorite supper or dresses nice when you come home. A lady needs those things, Stan.”

  “Like you’d know!” he said, though there was a note of uncertainty in his voice.

  “She’s going to be here any minute now. How’s she going to feel when she sees Patty in such a dangerous spot?”