by Alice Duncan
However, Mr. Gerald Kingston's presence as an engineer in the Underhill factory explained a thing or two, one of them being how he and Miss Betsy Powell had met each other. When I thought back, I realized that, while Miss Powell had been a regular attendee at the First Methodist-Episcopal Church, Mr. Kingston had begun attending services perhaps six months prior to this date.
At Robert's question, however, I started slightly and resumed walking down the corridor. "Oh, I just recognized another member of our church. Mr. Gerald Kingston. I didn't know he worked here."
"Oh, yes. He's one of our engineers, and he's an excellent product tester."
"I see. Interesting."
"Maybe. I wouldn't want the job, but these fellows don't seem to mind being cooped up in smelly offices all day long six days a week."
"The offices are smelly?"
"Not all of them. Depends on what they're working with on any particular day. I noticed Mr. Kingston wasn't wearing a face mask, so I expect he's testing something benign today." He chuckled.
Hmm. But sometimes the things he worked with weren't benign, eh? Could he have...? But why would he risk his neck in order to kill Mr. Underhill when Underhill was already under such heavy fire from his own board of directors? Nuts. It was all too much for me. I stopped thinking and walked with Robert to the stairs at the other end of the corridor. We descended those steps, walked down the dismal corridor to the door to the reception room, he opened it for me, and I sailed through, ready for my lunch.
Robert escorted me out to the parking lot where, sure enough, I learned the only folks who parked there were the scientists, engineers, and executives of the Underhill Chemical Company. Those line girls deserved a big raise, darn it.
"What kind of food do you like?" asked Robert as he opened the door to his Chevrolet for me to enter. His model of Chevrolet was a couple of rungs above our Gumm/Majesty Chevrolet, but I didn't care. I loved our new (to us) automobile.
"I pretty much like all kinds of food," I told him honestly. I didn't add that, no matter where he took me to lunch, I'd almost certainly get better food at home because I lived with the best cook in the entire United States of America.
"How about Mexican? There's this place called Mijares that opened a couple of years ago. I love the food, although it can be spicy."
"I've been to Mijares, and I love it," I said happily, my mouth beginning to water as I contemplated whether to order an enchilada or a taco or a tamale. Or maybe one of each. Robert was paying, after all.
I didn't mean that.
Oh, bother. I did, too, mean that.
So Robert tootled his fancy Chevrolet up Fair Oaks, made a turn on some street the name of which I couldn't see, made another turn, and we were in the parking lot of Mijares Mexican Restaurant. I pretended to be a lady and waited for Robert to open my door for me.
We walked together into the restaurant where a colorfully clad woman—she wore a Mexican peasant blouse and big flowered skirt—led us to a table for two. Robert said, "Do you have anything a little more private?"
Private? He wanted to be private with me? Hmm. I wasn't sure about this. "This is fine with me, Robert," I said with what I hoped was a winning smile.
"All right," he said promptly, gent that he was. "I was hoping we could have a quiet conversation in a more private spot, but I don't mind."
So he nodded to the waitress, who left two menus on the table, Robert pulled my chair out for me, and I sat, still smiling.
"I love the beef enchiladas they serve here," said Robert.
"I don't believe I've had one of those."
"Have two. They're small." He grinned, as if he'd made a superior joke.
I laughed a bit to make him feel good.
He shifted in his chair and appeared nervous for a second or two before he passed his hand over his face and said, "I'm sorry, Daisy. I think I lured you here under false pretences."
"Oh?" Good Lord, he couldn't be about to declare some kind of deathless passion for yours truly, was he? No. That was too stupid a thought even to warrant a second's contemplation.
"What I really wanted—No. What I really needed was someone just to talk to who might understand about Elizabeth. I... I just can't seem to get over her death. I feel as though a huge chunk of me was ripped out by talons or something." He laid his hand on the table and bowed his head. "That's why I wanted to get away from the crowd. Nobody else understands. It's true I received lots of sympathy at the time of her passing, but lately... I don't know. It just seems as though I should be over the worst of my grief, and I'm not. I'm just... not." He looked as though he feared he'd said something disgraceful or embarrassing.
"Oh, dear. I'm so sorry. If I'd known, I'd have—"
"No, that's all right. You didn't know my motives." He lifted his head, tried for a grin and almost made it.
Putting my own hand over his on the table, I said, and I meant it, "You know, Robert, you don't get over losing a loved one. I'll never get over my husband's death. But in time—and I know this from experience—a scab will grow over the wound. It will still hurt, but eventually you'll discover that you're... Oh, I don't know. You'll discover that you're enjoying something small that you haven't thought about in months. It can be... How can I explain it? The view of the mountains or something. The feeling of basking in a tub of warm water. That sounds silly. But after a while, and it may be a long one, not every single thing in the world will remind you of Elizabeth and your horrible loss. It takes time though. I know that from bitter experience."
"I hope you're right. I can't even seem to make it through a day without thinking of her every other minute or so. And each time I think about her, my heart has such a gigantic spasm, sometimes I think I must be having a heart attack."
"I know exactly what you mean. After my Billy died, I just stopped eating. The mere thought of food made me feel sick to my stomach. And there wasn't a single moment during the day when I wasn't bogged down in a pit of grief." I hesitated for a moment and then said, "You know, I think men may be harder hit than women when they lose a loved one. Women are supposed to be weak and emotional and so forth, and when we cry, people figure it's just because we're stupid and can't hold our emotions in check. Men are supposed to be strong and not feel things and show a brave face to the world. But you do feel deeply, and I know it. I have a very good friend who's a widower of maybe four years, and we've talked about this same thing. When did your Elizabeth die?"
"November."
"Well, it's only barely March, for heaven's sake. Give yourself some time. It's only been four months. Barely four months. Four months after Billy died, I was sick as a dog, and everybody said I was starving myself to death. But I couldn't help it. It was just awful. Billy's been gone for almost two years, and I still cry when I think about him." To prove it, I wiped away a stray tear.
"After two years?"
"After two years. It will be two years in June, and my heart hurts every time I think about him and what he went through. Oh, Robert, his last few years were so terrible. He didn't deserve that." I sniffled and had to dig into my handbag for a hankie, taking my hand from on top of his. As I proceeded to wipe my eyes, a figure loomed beside our table.
I looked up, smiling, expecting to see a waiter bringing us water or something.
It wasn't a waiter. It was Sam Rotondo.
I cursed myself as an idiot for not wanting to sit in a secluded corner with Robert.
Uh-oh. Sam Rotondo's gaze locked with mine, and he frowned hideously.
Oh, dear.
Chapter 20
As I sucked in a huge breath and wished I could disappear, Sam looked down at me as if I were a squishy bug he'd just encountered on his breakfast toast and said, "Daisy."
"Hey, Sam," I said in a voice that trilled a bit and sounded unnatural.
Robert rose from his chair and smiled at Sam uncertainly. "Detective. I didn't know the two of you knew each other."
"Yes," I said. "Sam and I are... old friend
s. Good friends. Really good friends." Oh, dear. Oh, dear.
"I didn't know you two knew each other, either," said Sam, sharing his scowl equally between Robert and me.
"Did you come here for lunch, Sam?" I asked, trying to sound bright and cheery and failing miserably. "If you did, perhaps you can join us, because you could really add to our conversation."
Both Sam and Robert eyed me doubtfully. I sucked in a huge breath of delectably scented air—Mexican food smells so yummy—and said, "Robert lost his fiancée last November, Sam, and he's having a hard time handling his grief." Golly, I hoped Robert wouldn't mind that I spilled the beans like that. "So I told him about how you and I have both had trouble with our own losses."
With a confused grimace, Sam stood up straight. He had been looming over Robert and me with his hands flattened on the table. "Huh?" Typical Sam comment.
Robert didn't appear especially pleased to have his secret tossed in Sam's face, but he made a noble effort. "I... I don't know what you've been through, Detective, or what your loss was, but I... Well, I wanted to talk to Daisy about losing my fiancée, Elizabeth Winslow, who passed away last November."
"Of the influenza. It went into pneumonia, and they couldn't save her at the hospital," I added, trying to be helpful.
"Oh. Is that the truth?" Sam looked at me, not benevolently, as he asked the question.
I'd have made a face and smacked him on the arm if we weren't in a public place and I didn't feel so sorry for Robert.
"Yes, it's the truth, Sam Rotondo!" I whispered. Loudly. "What did you think we were doing?"
He didn't respond for a moment. Then he said, "Well, if that's what you're talking about, why don't you do it at a less public table?" He turned and waved to the waitress who'd just seated Robert and me. She trotted over at his imperious command.
"Yes, sir?"
"I'll be joining these folks for lunch. Can you put us in a table that's more out of the way?"
The waitress, after a split-second of looking offended—for good reason, I fear—said, "Certainly, sir. Please follow me."
So Robert and I got up and trailed Sam, who tramped after the waitress to the back of the restaurant. I felt so stupid. The bad part was that feeling stupid wasn't a new sensation to me.
However, after some initial conversational fumbling, and with a few interruptions from the wait staff, Sam, Robert, and I had a pretty decent chat about our various bereavements, and Robert seemed relieved to hear his wasn't a strange or out-of-the-way problem. It was a bad problem to have but not at all unusual, especially in those days after the Great War and the influenza pandemic, when it seemed as though everyone had lost at least one loved one.
In fact, as we all finished our scrumptious meals—I had an enchilada stuffed with beef and cheese, smothered with a spicy sauce, with some rice and beans on the side—Robert said, "Thank you for joining us, Detective Rotondo. When Daisy mentioned a friend who'd lost his wife not too long ago, I had no idea she meant you."
"I'm not surprised," said Sam. He didn't even sound sarcastic. "I mean, it's not something you talk about with people you're interviewing, if you're a police detective."
Robert nodded and smiled.
"It's as I told Robert, Sam. Men hold things in. Women let them out. I sometimes think women have an easier time of it during periods of grief than men do."
After gazing at me for a second with his brow furrowed, Sam said, "You mean that?"
"Of course, I mean it! I wouldn't have said it otherwise."
"She told me the same thing," said Robert.
"Huh. In that case, I think you're right."
Robert and I exchanged a smile. Sam, I noticed, appeared suspicious of our individual smiles. I sighed.
"I'd better get back to work now," Robert said after a moment of silence. "I'll drop you off by your automobile, Daisy. Unless you want to interview anyone else, of course." He chuckled.
"That's all right. I'll take her," Sam said before I could respond to Robert's offer or laugh at his joke.
"But our Chevrolet's in the Underhill parking lot, Sam," said I.
"That's all right. I... need to tell you something," said Sam. He cleared his throat, as if he were nervous. I think he was just feeling kind of like a dog in the manger, if I understand the meaning of that expression correctly.
I decided not to argue, but to submit with as much grace as I could. I held out my hand to Robert. "Thank you so much for lunch, Robert, and I really do hope that our chat did you some good. There's no way anyone can take away the pain, but... Well, you know."
"You two helped me a lot, actually," he said. "The pain's not gone, but I don't feel so much like a fool for feeling it any longer."
"No one can help feeling grief when a woman you loved with all your heart dies," said Sam, nearly shocking me out of my flesh-toned stockings. He said it in his usual gruff voice, but he meant it. I could tell.
So, evidently, could Robert, because he lifted his napkin and dabbed at his eyes. "Thank you. Thank you both."
Sam reached for his pocket, but Robert held out a hand and stood. "This one's on me, Daisy and Detective Rotondo. You've helped me a lot, and the least I can do is treat you to lunch."
It looked for a moment as if Sam were going to argue with Robert about the meal ticket, but I poked him in the ribs with my elbow, and he merely grunted and said, "Uh. Thank you." Then he frowned at me. But that's all right. Robert felt better after chatting with the two of us, and that's what mattered. And he had more money than Sam or I did. Probably.
The waiter returned for one last visit, Robert paid him, and we rose from the table tucked away in a far corner at the back of the restaurant. We walked to the parking lot together and Robert climbed into his fancy Chevrolet. Sam and I waved him away as he took a slight turn right and headed for Fair Oaks, where he'd turn south and head back to the Underhill plant. Sam and I didn't speak as we trod to his Hudson. There he opened the door for me and I climbed in, wondering what hell he had in store for me as he took the same route Robert had taken to get to the Underhill plant and my own less-fancy-than-Robert's Chevrolet.
But he didn't scold me. Rather, he said, "Talking about that guy's dead fiancée was the only reason you two went to lunch together?" I could tell he didn't want to ask the question.
I said, "Yes."
"But he's a young, good-looking fellow, and you appear to have known him for some time."
"He was in Billy's graduating class in high school. He went on to college. He was drafted but never got off American soil during the war, so he finished college and went to work at Underhill."
"Huh."
"That's all, Sam." I put one of my hands on the one of his that was closest to me as he gripped the steering wheel. "Honest. He said he'd never been able to talk to anyone about Elizabeth. She only died in November, and he actually told me he thinks he should be over his grief by this time. As if anyone could be."
Sam shook his head. "Sorry if I made you uncomfortable there at the restaurant at first. I was... um... surprised to see you with another man."
"Oh, Sam, you silly person. I've known Robert Browning slightly for years. He interviewed me when I went to the Underhill plant. He knew I'd been fairly recently widowed, and he asked if I'd mind talking to him about his Elizabeth. I didn't mind."
"Until I butted in."
"Actually, I was irritated at first, but I think you helped him more than I did."
With a startled glance at me, Sam said, "You do?"
"I do."
"Oh. Well, then." And he said no more.
Because the silence became uncomfortable after a few seconds, I said, "Oh, but Sam, I learned something today at the Underhill place."
"Yeah?" He'd started frowning, but I figured that was just Sam being Sam.
"Did you know that both Miss Betsy Powell and Mr. Gerald Kingston work at Underhill's? She's in the stenographic pool and he's an engineer. He was dripping something into a glass retort when Robert took
me on a tour of the plant. The lines are all downstairs, and the engineers and scientists—"
"Work upstairs. Yes. I know all that. We did interview the folks at Underhill, you know, Daisy. Trust me, we don't need your help."
"Oh." Only faintly daunted, I said, "Well, I thought it was interesting. I think, although I'm not sure, that Miss Powell and Mr. Kingston met at the plant, because Mr. Kingston started going to our church a few months ago, and he and Miss Powell seem to have some sort of romantic relationship in the works now."
"Huh."
All righty, then. "Never mind," I said.
"I won't," he said. "However, I do want to know what in Hades you were doing at the Underhill plant taking a tour of the place."
Whoops. I guess only Pa knew about my job interviews. "Um, I read in the classified section of the Star News that the Underhill plant needs to hire line girls. So I sort of applied for a job there."
"Sort of?"
"Well... Yes. Sort of. You see, I just thought it might be worth my while to go down there, talk to a few people, and..." Oh, dear. If I told Sam I'd wanted to investigate the place, he'd blow up at me. "Um, I just wanted to see the place."
"And interview for a job. Because you'd make so much more money as a line girl at Underhill's than you do as a fake spiritualist."
"Oh, very well. I was snooping. There. Are you satisfied?"
"No."
"I'm not going back," I said. "So you can save your lecture."
