by Jan Burke
“Of course I do. There was only one hardship plea that J.D. would listen to.”
“J.D?”
“J.D. Anderson, founder and president of Mercury Aircraft. Deceased now, of course. But back then, I begged J.D. to let the war widows stay. That wasn’t good enough for him. War widows with good work records, I asked. Still not enough. But then I practically got down on bended knee and begged him to allow war widows with young children to support to stay on. He finally agreed to that, provided they had good work records.”
“Wait a minute. You’re saying that all three of these women were widows?”
“Not only widows, war widows. And war widows who had not remarried by the end of the war. I lost my own father in World War I, when I was eleven. So I knew something of what these children would know, growing up without a father. My goodness, yes, I think that’s why I fought for them. I had watched my own mother struggle to find work that would pay a decent wage. She eventually went into business for herself, and managed quite well, but at first it was simply horrible.”
“How many of these women were kept on, would you say?”
“Oh, at a guess, well, perhaps no more than a hundred.”
One hundred. Manageable research, even if it turned out to be a dead end. “Would Mercury still have records on these women? The ones who were allowed to stay?”
There was a long silence. “Yes,” he said at last.
No “oh my” or “goodness.” Shaky ground.
“Mr. Devoe, before you answer my next question, please think about what happened to the children of three women you helped — and what might happen to the children of other women war workers if we don’t learn more about why Thanatos is targeting them.” I drew a deep breath. “If I never published or revealed how I learned…”
“I understand,” he interrupted in a firm voice. Another long silence. “The personnel offices will be empty on Wednesday,” he said at last. “The employees who work there won’t be back until the day after New Year’s. Perhaps Wednesday would be a good day for you to come to see my museum. I’ll call you again after I’ve arranged a flight back to Las Piernas.”
“I can’t tell you how much—”
“No need to. Merry Christmas, Miss Kelly.”
“Merry Christmas, Mr. Devoe. And thank you.”
I CLEARED THE COMPUTER screen of the jumbled letters. Hobson Devoe had given me a thread of hope. I found I was able to start writing the story of Rita and Alexander Havens.
As I finished and signed off for the day, I looked at the blank screen, seeing my reflection in its darkened glass. Images of Rita Havens staring at her dead husband came unbidden. I stood up and left quickly.
CHRISTMAS EVE DINNER was even better than I had imagined it would be, which is saying a lot. We ate, laughed and chatted happily over cioppino and linguini con vongole and a variety of other meatless pasta dishes.
Apparently, most women suffer a standard reaction of near catatonia when they first look at Steven, because even Mrs. Pastorini — Lydia’s mom — spent some time… well, appreciating him. But once that wore off and Rachel and Mrs. Pastorini found their speech restored, Steven fit right in with the gathering.
At midnight, the non-Catholics humored the rest of us and we all went down to St. Patrick’s for Mass. Even though I’m basically a lapsed Catholic, I seldom miss this tradition.
Afterwards, we thanked the chefs, and with a last “Merry Christmas!” headed for home.
“Did you have an okay time?” I asked Steven as we dropped him off.
“I had a great time. You have terrific friends.”
I acknowledged it was true. As much as I look forward to those rare times when Frank and I can spend a day alone, this time, I was glad we hadn’t run off to cocoon with one another in the mountains. Our close friends, in many ways, comprised a family.
The dogs had completely torn up the backyard by the time we got back home. Cody had shredded part of the couch. None of it mattered. Our problems were small ones and we knew it. We climbed into bed and held each other. I was grateful just to be able to hear his heart beat. It was Christmas.
AS IT TURNED OUT, Frank and I both had to work on Christmas Day. John called and said that since my story on the Havens was causing the phones to ring off the hooks, I should get my ass down there, and Merry Christmas. The Express was inundated with calls from children of Mercury Aircraft wartime workers; from people who were sure they knew who Thanatos was; from readers who had been angry to find murder on the front page on Christmas Day; from readers who thought we were aiding and abetting a murderer by running the letters at all.
I left the Thanatos identifications and the editorial complaints to the handful of other people who were working that day; I concentrated on the children of war workers.
I took names and numbers and whatever useful information I could, including the caller’s age, marital status, and parents’ names. I asked if the caller’s parents were still living — and if not, when they died. I asked about any current connection the caller might have to Mercury Aircraft or to the three victims. Finally, I sought opinions about Thanatos’ identity. I had to assure each and every one of them that there weren’t any new letters from Thanatos. I made a list of the callers; there were over sixty by late that afternoon.
Fewer calls were coming in by then, so I found time to make a second list, eliminating those who weren’t fifty-four years old, praying to God that wasn’t just a coincidence. For the third list, the smallest, I excluded the ones whose fathers had survived the war. The third list had twelve names on it.
I remembered Hobson Devoe’s guess that about one hundred women had stayed on after the war; I worried that I had somehow eliminated too many of the callers.
John and I had one of our conferences to review what I had learned and decide what could be discussed with the police. He gave me his consent to tell Frank about my discussion with Hobson Devoe. I noticed that John was backing off from his previous hard-line attitude about my working on the story. I suppose he had come to trust Frank a little more as well. “For a cop, he’s done all right by us,” he confided. Merry Christmas again.
I called Frank. For the past two days, he had been trying to talk to people who saw Alex Havens set sail. The police had located only two or three people who had noticed Havens, and they didn’t see anything unusual. The Lovely Rita had been found smashed to pieces on a rocky jetty several miles south of Las Piernas. The police were working with the Coast Guard to figure out if it could have drifted there by itself, or if it was deliberately wrecked there, just as Havens’ body must have been deliberately left where it would most likely come ashore at high tide.
Friends and coworkers of Alex Havens spoke repeatedly of the couple’s devotion to one another. As it turned out, over a dozen people knew of his plans to go sailing, and he had mentioned the trip to Catalina in places where he could have been easily overheard.
The police had also received numerous calls from children of Mercury Aircraft workers, with about the same percentage of promising names. Frank had already used much of the same criteria to narrow his list of callers. I told him about Hobson Devoe’s call.
“Hmm. That does add another factor. I guess I’ll have someone call the people on my last list and ask them if their mothers were war widows,” he said. “Then we can combine our final lists before we talk to Devoe.”
“We?”
“Do you mind if I tag along?”
I thought about it. “If Hobson Devoe doesn’t mind, it’s fine with me. But if he has any qualms—”
“Just run it by him and see what he says.”
We talked about our schedules for the evening. It looked like we’d each get off work in time for round two of the Christmas festivities. Frank would be home first, so he agreed to take care of the animals. “One other thing, Frank. It doesn’t look like I’ll be able to take tomorrow off. Will you still be going out to see your mom in Bakersfield?”
“I’ve
already called her,” he said. “I’m not going to be able to leave, either. Don’t worry about it. She was married to a cop for a lot of years — she knows all about cancelled plans.”
“She’s probably disappointed all the same.”
“Probably. But I told her we’d get out there to see her as soon as we can.”
MOST OF THE DAYSIDERS were gone from the newsroom when I signed off the computer. I was clearing off my desk when the phone rang.
“Kelly.”
Nothing.
I hung up. I was putting on my coat when the phone rang again. I hesitated, then picked it up again.
“Kelly.”
“Questioning the scared little rabbits about their fathers, Cassandra? My, you’ve been a very clever girl. Too clever, perhaps. But oddly, it pleases me.”
“Whoopity-damn-do.”
“Don’t make the mistake of ridiculing me!” Even synthesized, the growling voice betrayed his anger. But his next words were spoken calmly, quietly, and distinctly. “Keep in mind that I always know where you are, what you’re doing, and with whom you’re doing it. Remember that, Cassandra. As I’ve remembered you with a little gift. Merry Christmas.”
He hung up.
When I told John and Frank about the call, I had to listen to warning after warning from both of them about not tempting Thanatos to turn his anger toward me.
I WAS CAUTIOUS when I walked out to my car that evening; I asked Danny Coburn to escort me. I dreaded any thought of what Thanatos might consider a “gift.”
But when we got to the car, everything seemed to be just as I had left it. No parking lights on or strange men watching me from nearby shadows. Danny, who was just ending a long shift in the press room, waited patiently in the chilly night air while I walked around the outside of the car, looked underneath the hood and below the car. Nothing. I opened the door and glanced around the interior. No jar of ants on the front seat. I climbed in and started the motor. No windshield wipers flapping or horns blaring or any of the other problems I half expected. I wished Danny a Merry Christmas and drove off.
I looked in the rearview mirror. No one following me. Maybe he had given up on the car, having grown bold enough to enter our house, to leave letters on our doorstep. What might be awaiting me at home? I shivered. I turned on the heater to take the chill out of the car. It warmed up quickly, but I was still shivering.
A present for Cassandra. Having done some reading on the subject, I decided I didn’t enjoy being called Cassandra. Her family thought she was nuts, men mistreated her, and she met a bad end.
I had just stopped at a red light when something cold and sinewy moved across my right ankle.
17
I DON’T REMEMBER opening the car door or jumping out of the car. I might have yelled or screamed — I think I must have. But I only remember finding myself standing next to the car, shaking. Another driver got out of his car. For a moment, I wanted to run from him.
“Lady, are you all right?”
He took a step closer, and I stumbled toward the front of the Karmann Ghia. I must have looked about as calm as a horse being led from a burning barn. But as my initial panic subsided, I realized that he was a teenager. I pictured Thanatos being much older. The boy had long, straight brown hair and big brown eyes.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, staying where he was.
I found my voice and said, “Snake. In the car. There’s a snake in my car.”
“Really?” He walked toward me, slowly this time, holding his hands out at each side, as if to show me he meant no harm. I glanced around and realized traffic was backing up. It had all but come to a complete standstill as other people started getting out of their cars and walking toward us. I calmed down a little.
The boy came closer. “I’m Enrique.”
“I’m Irene.”
“You’re not scared of me, are you?”
I took a deep breath. “No, I’m not. I’m not even afraid of snakes. I just wasn’t expecting to find one in my car.”
“Little cold out for snakes,” he said as he came closer. He looked inside the car, then said, “Damn, whatcha know? There is a snake in there!” He started to reach into the car.
“Don’t!” I warned. “It could be poisonous.”
“Him? Naw,” he said, not taking his eyes off the reptile. “He’s a little ol’ gopher snake.”
Before I could stop him, Enrique had moved like lightning to grab the snake behind the head. He pulled it from the car and held it out, away from his body. The “little ol’ gopher snake” was over two feet long and mad, if all that hissing meant what I thought it did.
“Can I keep him?” Enrique asked.
“I wish I could give you a simple ‘yes,’” I said, watching a traffic cop on a motorcycle make his way toward us. “But the snake is probably going to jail for a while.”
“Lousy thing to do on Christmas,” he said. “Even to a snake.”
WE WERE A LITTLE late picking Steven up for dinner, given all the hullabaloo which followed my close encounter of the serpentine kind. Frank asked me if I wanted to just stay home, but by then I had gone from scared to angry, and I was determined not to let Thanatos spoil my Christmas the way he had spoiled the snake’s.
At first, the snake was the talk of the dinner gathering. Steven theorized that the warmth from the car heater might have made the reptile restless.
Jack recalled the story of Cassandra — that she and her brother were left in a temple one night, and when her parents looked in on them the next morning, the children were entwined with snakes, which flicked their tongues into the children’s ears. “That’s what enabled Cassandra and her brother to tell the future.”
“A lot of good it did Cassandra,” I said.
“Disgusting!” Mrs. Pastorini made a face, and then waved a hand as if to ward off a bad odor. “Snakes licking children’s ears! It’s not good to talk of such things on Christmas.”
“You’re right,” Guy said. “No more talk of sadness and danger and worry.” Guy nodded slightly toward Steven, who was looking a little pale. Steven didn’t notice the subtle gesture, but the rest of us caught the hint. Throughout the rest of the evening, a concerted effort was made to distract Steven from his grief.
You wouldn’t think that we could stuff ourselves two nights in a row, but we did. It was after ten o’clock when we finally got home. Frank lit a fire and asked me to stay up with him for a while. We sat on the floor, on the big rug in front of the fireplace. I reached behind the couch and pulled out the package with his sweatpants in them; he opened it and thanked me. He moved over closer to me. He put his arms around me, gently pulling me between his thighs, my back against his chest, then handed me a neatly wrapped, small box. I started crying.
“What’s wrong? Aren’t you going to open it?”
“I give you sweatpants, and you give me this?”
“It’s not as big a package, I admit, but…”
“Very funny. You know what I mean.”
“Open it. I don’t believe in gift-giving as a competitive sport.”
I didn’t say or do anything.
“Open it.” He said this gently, kissing my neck. Frank has learned that kissing my neck gives him a big advantage in the persuasion department.
I tried to open the package with shaking fingers, fumbling with the wrapping until I gave up and ripped the damned paper to pieces.
Frank laughed and said, “Well, I guess that won’t get pressed into the family Bible.”
I opened the small velvet case. Two sapphires and a diamond twinkled back at me. I shut the case and started crying again.
He put his hands around mine and opened it again, took the ring out of the box, and put it on my left ring finger.
“Have I asked you lately if you’d marry me?”
“We’ll check our files. What was the name again?”
I got a bite on the earlobe for that one.
“Yes, I will marry you. Will you marry me?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
We fell asleep on the rug in front of the fire, moving to the bed after waking up in a cold room with cricks in our backs and necks, but this is a small price to pay for true romance, which is generally harder to come by than square eggs.
18
HOBSON DEVOE CALLED ME at work early Wednesday morning. “My conscience troubled me after we spoke, Miss Kelly.”
Uh oh, I thought. He’s got cold feet. “Troubled you how?”
“I’ve worked for Mercury for many years. Oh my, I’ve worked for Mercury for more years than you’ve been alive, I’d wager. I decided I wasn’t willing to go sneaking around behind Quincy’s back.”
“Quincy?”
“Quincy Anderson. J.D. Anderson’s son. He’s been the president of the company since J.D. retired. Quincy is my boss.”
His habits of speech must have been contagious, because the sound of my hopes sinking was reduced to a simple “Oh.”
“So I called Quincy and I explained what I wanted to do. He was a little perturbed with me at first. But eventually, I persuaded him that it is in the company’s best interest to allow you to investigate this particular group of records. Can you meet me in the museum at nine o’clock?”
“Yes, I can. Mr. Devoe — I have to admit, you had me worried for a moment.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!”
“Which entrance should I use to get to the museum?”
“Well, first I should explain one other matter. Quincy did ask that you meet a few of his conditions.”
My worry button was back in the “on” position. “What kind of conditions?”
“Just three rather simple ones. First, he wants us to cooperate with the police. Quincy doesn’t want to deny the police access to information that might help them catch a serial killer. Will this be a problem?”
“In this case, no. I’ll even bring a homicide detective with me today.” So far, Quincy Anderson had saved me some trouble. “What are the other two?”
“Second, he doesn’t want the names of the workers released to the public, by you or the police.”
