by Jan Burke
“The term ‘halcyon days’ comes from their story,” I said. “According to the legend, for seven days in winter, the days when the kingfishers nest, the gods forbid storms to break, and the sea is peaceful.”
Frank reread the letter. “Nothing peaceful here.”
“He’s drowned someone,” I said. “A man, this time.”
“I’m afraid that’s what it looks like,” Jack agreed.
Frank got up and made some phone calls. When he was done, I called the Express; they contacted John Walters, who had just gone home for the night. One of the nightside reporters called me back and told me John expected me to come in the next morning, and took a story from me over the phone. Another story on the Thayer murder was already planned for the front page. The staffers in Design were unhappy about seeing their day’s work on the A section completely rearranged, but John didn’t want to delay the story of the third letter.
WE TOOK THE DOGS out and watched the activity on the beach from the top of the stairway at the end of our street. We could see searchlights from boat patrols out on the water; more lights as jeeps and foot patrols searched the beach, pier, and marina. I wondered, with a chill, if Thanatos was watching it all with glee. I moved closer to Frank.
We went home after an hour or so, both of us feeling worn down. I tried to get Cody to come out of the closet and got clawed for my efforts. The dogs gave up scratching at the bedroom door. I tried not to make too much of the fact that Frank checked his gun before we crawled into bed. I don’t know what time it was when we finally managed to fall asleep.
The phone rang at dawn. An unidentified man’s body had washed ashore.
We dragged ourselves out of bed. Frank tried to talk me into staying home, knowing something about what bodies look like when the ocean has had a little time with them. I reminded him that even though I didn’t always like to talk about corpses, I’d seen my share of gruesome sights in my years of reporting. That probably didn’t sway him as much as my admission that I didn’t want to be left alone in the house.
We walked in silence to the end of the street and took the stairs down to the sand. A police department jeep met us there, and drove us to an area on the beach which had already been cordoned off and shielded from the stares of curious early morning joggers.
The trick in these situations is to not identify the object on the sand as another human being. The trick, I told myself, is to distance yourself, observe, and not think about this waterlogged casing as a person, and certainly not anything at all like yourself. If you start to think about who it might have been or about your own vulnerability to death, you’ll probably pass out or get sick or both.
So I used the trick. I noted the fancy yachting shoes and the Rolex and the neatly trimmed hair. Absolutely refused to let my glance settle for more than a brief moment on what was once the face. The thing on the beach wasn’t in as awful a condition as “floaters” usually are, leading the county coroner, Dr. Carlos Hernandez, to say the body probably hadn’t been in the water more than a few hours.
THAT SUNDAY’S EDITION of the paper was printed before the body was found, but a story on the third letter and an interpretation of its meaning ran on the front page. The Express got phone calls all morning from women who were frantic about their missing husbands, but it wasn’t until about nine o’clock that I picked up the one that I knew was Alcyone.
Her voice was shaky, and she started by saying, “My name is Rita Havens. I’ve been reading your articles, Miss Kelly. I think—” She took a deep breath and started over. “My husband, Alexander Havens, went sailing to Catalina Island yesterday. He’s fifty-four years old.” That made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. But it was as she whispered her next statement that I became convinced that she should get in touch with the police.
“His mother used to work at Mercury Aircraft. Have they found Ceyx?”
15
RITA HAVENS’ CALL to the Express had resulted in negotiations that came just short of requiring a U.N. Resolution. When I went into John’s office and told him about her call, he got in touch with Frank, but didn’t give out any names or addresses. Frank handed it over to Lieutenant Carlson, saying he couldn’t do otherwise.
Carlson, in turn, went bananas. When he started making threats, John hung up the phone, then called Carlson’s boss, Captain Bredloe. Bredloe, fortunately, saw the wisdom of seeking the help rather than the ire of the paper. He promised to get back to John within the hour.
Meanwhile, my own situation at the Express wasn’t exactly comfortable. Rita Havens insisted I was the only reporter she would talk to, but the Express was wary of putting me on a story involving the cops. John only gave in when it looked as if he wouldn’t get an interview with her any other way.
Bredloe called back as promised. In the interest of finding the killer as soon as possible, he was encouraging a more cooperative spirit. He told us he had “worked with Lieutenant Carlson” on “better defining a team for this set of cases.” Frank and Pete were to act as liaisons with the paper, and he asked that we forward any leads we received to them. Mark Baker was free to talk to any of the detectives assigned to the case, but Bredloe made it clear that the detectives would continue to use discretion regarding what information they released to the paper. No detective would release information which might jeopardize the apprehension or prosecution of the murderer. I could tell that John wasn’t happy about the possibility of Frank working with me, but he could hardly complain, since Bredloe was basically giving him what he wanted, and getting Carlson off his back at the same time.
I CALLED RITA Havens to talk about Frank and Pete joining me when I came to see her.
There was a long silence, then she said, “So you are quite sure it’s Alex.”
“I’m no more certain than you are, Mrs. Havens. But if it is, then the police will need to be informed.”
“I suppose I’m only delaying the inevitable.” There was a little catch in her voice, but after a moment she said, “Bring them, of course.”
WE PULLED UP in the sweeping drive of the Havens’ mansion, a great monument of a place. The door was answered by an honest-to-God butler, and I caught myself developing a bad attitude as we stood in the entryway. I find I have to fight a prejudice I have about the wealthy when I encounter them. However, while I’ve certainly met my share of the obnoxious well-to-do, I’d be lying if I said that I haven’t found the same types among the other economic strata.
But if Rita Havens was a nouveau riche snob, then she fooled me. In any other setting, I think she still would have been as genuine and as warm. She was a petite salt-and-pepper brunette with dark brown eyes. There was something about her manner that made me feel instantly comfortable with her. Although it was easy to see that she had been crying, she greeted us as if we were there to visit as friends, rather than to discuss the possibility of her husband’s death. She invited us to join her for a cup of coffee in a cozy sitting room, and asked us to call her by her first name.
We chatted about the weather, about the newspaper, about a new building that was going up where the Buffum’s department store used to be. Frank didn’t rush her, and neither did I. She took a sip of coffee, looked outside for a moment, and then, as if realizing that small talk would not change what had happened, started talking about her husband.
Alexander Havens was a prosperous manufacturer of special fasteners used on airplanes — airplanes made by none other than Mercury Aircraft. Alex, as she called him, had gone to work at Mercury while his mother was still working there. He had seen an opportunity in Mercury’s need for reliable fasteners, left on good terms, and started his own business. It had been a highly successful venture for all concerned. He had branched out into supplying other aerospace companies with a variety of parts, but Mercury had always been his mainstay.
I asked her about his business, his hobbies, his interests. As she worked her way toward the question at hand, her devotion to him was apparent.
“Ale
x loves to sail. He’s very good at it. I get sea-sick just looking at the boat, so usually he finds someone else to go with him. This close to Christmas, and with the weather so chilly, he couldn’t find anyone who wanted to brave the choppy seas between here and the island. I tried to get him to forget about it…” She couldn’t finish. She didn’t start crying again, just bit her lower lip and looked away from us.
“Forgive me,” she murmured.
I’m not sure she meant it for us.
“So he went sailing alone?” Frank asked.
She nodded.
Pete, usually an animated chatterbox, was quiet and still. I remembered that he once told me that contacting victims’ families was always hard on him, no matter how often he had done it. I wondered if he usually left this part of the job to Frank.
Frank continued asking questions, his tone gentle. “Your husband left yesterday — the twenty-second?”
“Yes.”
“From the Las Piernas Marina?”
“Yes.”
“Could you describe the boat?”
“It’s a small sailboat, at least, Alex says it’s small. A thirty-foot Catalina — I think that’s right. It’s white — I guess most of them are.”
“And the name of the boat?”
She waited a moment before whispering, “Lovely Rita.”
Frank gave her some time to recover, then asked a few more questions. She thought there were at least six or seven other people who knew he was sailing; she named them. He had left early yesterday morning.
She looked over to me. “He was going to sail back today. He was supposed to call before he left. I became worried, and then I read your article. I had this — well, call it a feeling, a very strong feeling — that Alex was Ceyx.
“Alex and I had talked about this serial killer whenever there was a story in the newspaper. One of your stories mentioned that Dr. Blaylock and Miss Thayer were daughters of women who worked at Mercury Aircraft. Alex was upset when he read that. He thought he might have known the two women who were killed — when they were children. Thought they might have gone to school together. But he said he couldn’t be sure, because it had been so long ago.”
“Any recent contact with them?”
“Oh no. As I said, he wasn’t even sure he had known them in school. But since they were all the same age and their mothers all worked for Mercury, maybe he did know them.”
“Did he mention any ideas or theories he may have had about the murders?”
“No, I can’t say that he did. At least, none that he discussed with me. Just that the killer sounded like a very sick individual.”
Frank asked her a series of questions that brought her around to describing what Alex Havens was wearing when he left the house to go sailing, as well any other articles of clothing he might have taken with him. She watched Frank’s face as she described them. If he gave something away, she was the only one who saw it.
“You need for me to come with you, don’t you?” she said suddenly. “You’ve found him, haven’t you?”
“We may have. Is there someone you would like to call to be with you?”
“No, no, I — we have friends, but — no, I’d rather not call anyone else.”
“Why don’t you ride with us?” Pete said, speaking for the first time since they were introduced. “I’ll make sure someone takes you home again.”
She nodded, unable to stop the tears as she rose from her chair. I stood beside her and she reached for my arm, suddenly seeming very unsteady on her feet. I put my hand over hers, and Frank asked the butler to please get her purse and coat. Frank helped her put the coat on, and we slowly walked out with her between us. I sat in the backseat with her as we drove down to the morgue.
I hadn’t intended to go in with them, figuring this to be a private moment, but she never let go of my hand. I didn’t have time to do any mental bracing. This time, the view of Alex Havens’ body was more disturbing. This time, I knew who he was. This time, someone who cared about him was holding my hand as if it was the only thing keeping her from collapsing.
No tricks would work against that.
LATER, BACK AT the paper, I encountered a rare moment of writer’s block. I found myself staring at the flashing cursor on the computer terminal, willing it to help me get going. Every opening line sounded corny or trite when considered next to what I had actually seen and heard. I had given up on the screen and was staring blankly at my fingers — lifting them up one at a time from the a-s-d-f-j-k-l and ; keys — when the phone rang, startling me into pressing them all down at once. The terminal beeped in annoyance as I answered the phone. It was Steven Kincaid.
“Irene? I thought you might be working today. I saw the article. Are you all right?”
“I am, but it’s been a hard day. They found Ceyx. A man named Alexander Havens.”
“Oh God.”
“E.J. ever mention him to you?”
“No, I’m sorry. I’ll look back through her papers for his name, though. I just can’t believe Thanatos is getting away with this. Every time, it’s…” His voice trailed off.
“Steven?”
“Every time this happens — I keep wondering what it was like for her. I worry that she suffered, like Rosie Thayer.”
“If it’s any comfort at all, the coroner has said that E.J. and Alex Havens died quickly. He’s fairly certain the first blow killed E.J., and he suspects Havens was strangled before he was put in the water.”
Silence, then a quiet, “Thanks.”
“Frank and I will come by for you at about a quarter to six tomorrow, okay?”
“I’m not sure I’m up for this.”
“It doesn’t matter. I insist. No more sitting around by yourself. Can you hang in there until Christmas Eve?”
“Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The receiver wasn’t back in the cradle more than five seconds when the phone rang again.
“Kelly.”
“Irene Kelly? Oh, drat! Now I owe Austin five dollars. I told him you wouldn’t be in on a Sunday. Shouldn’t gamble on the Lord’s day, I suppose.”
“Mr. Devoe?” I ventured.
“Yes, Hobson Devoe. Mr. Woods tracked me down and urged me to call you.”
“Thanks for getting in touch. I’d like to ask you some questions about Mercury Aircraft — you work there?”
“Oh, well, in a manner of speaking. I’m officially retired, but they pay me a little something to act as the museum curator. I started working for Mercury back in 1938. I was in charge of what is now called Human Resources — personnel. But Mercury has a public relations department that I’m sure would—”
“—I’d rather talk to you first, Mr. Devoe.”
“Just exactly what is this about, Miss Kelly?”
“You knew Dr. Blaylock?”
“Oh my, yes, poor Edna,” he said, and was quiet for a moment. “I spoke with her a few times about her research, but I didn’t know her very well. I knew her mother — a longtime employee of Mercury. You are the reporter who received the letter from the killer, are you not?”
“Yes. Three letters, now.”
“Three! This has happened more than once? Oh, my!”
“I take it you don’t read the Express…”
“But I do! I read it religiously. Oh! I’ve failed to tell you, haven’t I? I’m not calling from Las Piernas. I’m visiting my daughter in Florida. Austin has been leaving messages on her answering machine, but we were in Orlando, taking my granddaughter to Disney World. Just got in today.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Devoe, I didn’t realize this was a toll call for you. Let me call you back.”
“No, no. Austin is the one who’ll need help with his telephone bill. He left… I’ll just say numerous and lengthy messages exhorting me to call you. Tell me about these other letters.”
Briefly, I described the letters and the murders which followed them.
“Oh. I understand the urgency. Oh, my goodness, yes.”
“You said you knew Edna Blaylock’s mother. Did you know Bertha Thayer, or…” I flipped through the notes I had taken at Rita Havens’ house. “…or Gertrude Havens?”
“Gertrude, yes, of course. And Bertha as well. Amazing, really, that I should. I’ve met tens of thousands of workers over my years at Mercury. But Gertrude and Bertha were some of the very first women to work in manufacturing. War workers, as you’ve noticed. I was responsible for programs for them at both of our Southern California plants.”
“What sort of programs?”
“Oh, I tried to help those first women workers feel welcomed and at ease. And to help workers cope with the transition, both for the women and the men. It was considered quite the new frontier in those days. Viewed as something of an experiment at first.”
“Experiment?”
“Goodness, yes. Something temporary. Most of the women lost their jobs not long after the war. There was even some gearing down after V-E Day. It was simply expected that the women would all be laid off — well, the corporation expected it, but I can tell you that not all of the women expected it. Not that they begrudged veterans a job; no, they had simply become dependent on the income. And I, in turn, hated to lose some of those women workers. I managed to persuade… oh my. Oh my.”
“Mr. Devoe? Is something wrong?”
“Wrong? No, no. Oh, my goodness. Why, Miss Kelly! I just realized that the workers you named had something very unusual in common.”
16
MY PEN FROZE above the notes I had been writing. “What did they have in common?” “Those three workers weren’t laid off at the end of the war.”
“Was that really so rare?”
“Oh yes. Oh yes indeed.”
“Do you remember why were they allowed to keep their jobs?”
