“Fig,” he said abruptly. “Everybody calls me Fig.” She tried to withdraw her hand, but he tightened his grip.
She stared defiantly up at him, determined to insert a little sobriety into that mocking smile of his. “Did you actually know Major White, sir?”
“Not in the way your husband did—” She felt her mouth fly open, but before she could respond, he gave her hand a squeeze and disappeared behind the chapel doors. Her entire body was shaking over the indescribable feeling of—how would she put it?— of having been exposed.
Her staff, with the media in tow, was finally pulling in the parking lot, but behind Hickman’s sedan. Fortunately, North led the group to parking spots in the remote section of the lot. She guessed North, too, had noticed that their arrival with the general wasn’t ideal. In fact, as Chase was making her way across the parking lot, she noticed by the red brake lights that North hadn’t yet shifted the van into park. Cruise and Martinez parked near the van, yet their doors also remained closed. They were stalling. Damn, they were good Marines, astute, always thinking.
Hickman exited his sedan. She had to admit he looked distinguished with his graying hair and the rows and rows of colorful ribbons on his chest. She pitied him for whatever demons he lived with, but his disdain for women in the Marines was unacceptable. She saluted as he approached. Hickman returned the salute and gave her a half smile.
The second he disappeared inside the chapel, the car doors across the parking lot flew open as if on springs. Chase choked down a laugh as North jumped out and ran around to assist the reporters from the van. Cruise and Martinez were now opening their trunks, and reporters were pulling tripods, cameras, and camera bags from all three vehicles. They were halfway across the lot when four long black limousines bearing the families rolled to a gentle stop in front of the chapel. Chase feared the media might rush the cars for photographs, but they didn’t. Instead, they walked as somberly past the limousines as Marines had been walking all morning toward the chapel. A few of the reporters darted looks toward the limousines, but most pretended not to notice at all. The closer they got to the limousines, the more the reporters fidgeted with notebooks or camera gear. Nothing like a funeral to bring out the civil side of people.
North was the first to salute. “Good morning,” Chase said to the group. “We’ve reserved an area for you with electrical support for your equipment.” She glanced at the limousines and felt a protective rush of relief that the families were still sequestered behind black glass. As she turned for the chapel, a gust of wind surprised her. She was mid-stride up the steps, reaching with one hand for the headgear that was slipping away and losing her balance when Paul Shapiro from the Honolulu Current saved her from a fall. He grabbed her free arm and steadied her. “We’re going to have to nail you down, Captain Anderson.”
The double implication of his statement wasn’t lost on Chase, or maybe she was just feeling overly sensitive after the public attack from Hickman during the staff meeting. “Thanks, Paul,” she said, and straightened her cap before heading up the steps while North and Martinez sprinted ahead to open the double doors for her.
After the hymn Eternal Father, after the praise for Major White and the others by General Hickman, after the reassurance of God’s healing from the chaplain, after the funeral detail fired three volleys and the solo bugler played Taps, and after the poignant flyover, Chase finally got a good look at Major White’s widow, Kitty. If it were true what they said about men having a type of woman they preferred, then Major White would have been the exception. Kitty was, at least physically, nothing like the woman who had shown up at the Public Affairs office. Where the mysterious woman was all dark hair and shadows, Kitty, though she was dressed head to toe in black, emanated light. She was fair-skinned and blond with the look of someone who had most likely been a cheerleader in college, the sort of preppy and together girl Chase used to envy. Kitty White was not an officer’s wife who would have left her home in jeans and a tank top.
Chase never lost sight of the woman, tiny as she was, in a crowd that seemed to surround the widow while simultaneously providing her a respectful berth. Several women who Chase recognized as officers’ wives broke from the circle to embrace Kitty. There was Paige Abercrombie— the Martha-Stewart-perfect neighbor who lived next door to Chase and Molly. Her husband, Lieutenant Colonel Abercrombie, was the base ammo officer. Chase swept the parking lot for him, picked him out of a group of officers huddled in conversation outside of the circle that was slowly loosening its grip around the widow and her children. Just like men, Chase thought. They can plan wars and fight them but can’t manage a few words of condolence. Her eyes landed on the arrogant Figueredo who was matching cadence with Colonel Farris until both men stopped for words with General Hickman.
Chase looked back to Paige, who was now reaching out with gloved hands to the widow: Paige with her sleek, shoulder-length hair and sleeveless black shift, Paige who resembled a modern version of Jacqueline Kennedy. Kitty reached for the gloved Paige and pulled the woman to her. The embrace, several seconds, hinted that the two women knew each other beyond the casual wives’ club meetings Chase never bothered to attend. When the two women pulled apart, Paige delicately stepping backward to the outer edge of the circle, it was Samantha Harold who was next to step forward. She lived with her husband and daughter on the other side of Chase and Molly. Another gust, as if fueling a brush fire, gave life to Samantha’s prairie-inspired skirt, blousy top, and wild red hair. Samantha brushed the hair from her face and pushed her right hand toward Kitty, who cradled the handshake with two hands. Samantha relinquished all attempt at controlling her hair and cupped Kitty’s hands. For several seconds, the women remained locked in hands and words, oblivious to the cocooning of Samantha’s billowing skirt around the widow’s legs.
Chase had been encircled with these same expressions of grief after Stone’s death. She turned away from the scene, too consumed by the picture of grief. She’d taken her eyes off Paul Shapiro for less than two minutes and now he was AWOL from the group. Her eyes darted through the crowd. She found General Hickman talking with Colonel Farris, and she exhaled.
North was with the reporter from the Associated Press, Cruise was with two television crews, and Martinez was with a reporter from CNN. But where was Shapiro? She willed herself to walk calmly through the crowd, willed herself to suppress the rising hysteria that was reminding her of the time she and Stone had nearly lost Molly at King’s Dominion in Virginia. Molly had wandered off toward a koi pond while Chase and Stone were fishing for money to pay for shaved ice cones.
Her eyes finally landed on Paul Shapiro. He was standing under the banyan tree across the parking lot, though he was not alone, and she panicked to think who he had sequestered for one of his man-on-the-street interviews. She was heading in his direction when she felt a soft touch on her arm. She turned and came face to face with Kitty White, this time the real Kitty White, whose blue eyes were forming pools large enough to drown both of them. A speechless Chase could only stare.
“I’m sorry,” Kitty White said. Her voice had the warmth and richness of a woodwind, an oboe. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Chase extended a hand, rather reluctantly, into the widow’s soft warm flesh, as if the handshake might be a conduit for transferring Kitty’s recent bad fortune upon Chase, and she’d had all she could handle. Molly was all she had left, and God help her if anything ever happened to Molly. “Please don’t apologize,” Chase said, slipping free her hand the second she thought it acceptable. “I hope the media haven’t been too intrusive.”
Kitty let her newly freed hand rest upon the purse strap that was draped over a forearm. “No, they’ve been fine, which is what I wanted to tell you. Thank you for—everything you’ve done.” There was an unmistakable emphasis on that word, everything, that sent Chase’s mind into a flashback of throwing away the dog tags belonging to Kitty’s husband.
“You’re welcome,” Chase managed to mutter. “And—I’m so
sorry about your loss.” She was a Public Affairs officer, and this was the best she could offer?
The woman’s eyes, rimmed with the longest lashes Chase had ever seen, fluttered quickly until tears trickled over the rims and down her cheeks. “Oh no,” Kitty said, reaching inside her purse for a tissue. “The dam is breaking. I promised myself I wasn’t going to do this, not here—”
“I’m sorry to say I know what you’re going through.”
“Of course you do,” Kitty said. “Tony and Stone flew a lot of missions together. All this time, and this is how we finally meet. Hysterical, isn’t it?”
Chase sensed the reprimand, the insinuation that it was her fault she remained outside the circle of wives’ club activities that included teas and bridge and emotional support. But Chase’s identity wasn’t wrapped up in being an officer’s wife. “I suppose we’re all a little guilty of taking too much for granted.” And then, remembering Major White’s mistress, immediately regretted the comeback.
A woman who was holding a hand of each of Kitty’s two children approached and stopped short of interrupting. Kitty turned from Chase to her children.
To reach Paul Shapiro, who was still chatting away under the banyan tree, Chase decided she’d have to sidestep the crowd as far right as she could to keep from being noticed by Hickman, who seemed, for once, to be doing all the listening in the conversation with Farris and Colonel Figueredo. Oddly, Figueredo appeared to be doing all the talking. From the way Hickman continued to glance out toward the ocean instead of directly at Figueredo, and from the way Hickman would begin to place his hands on his hips, then cross and uncross them over his chest, Chase had the impression the conversation was much terser than any of the three men was willing to give away in public. At any rate, Hickman was too preoccupied to notice Chase.
She was twenty yards or so away from Paul Shapiro and still couldn’t make out the conversation he was having, thanks to the uncooperative direction of the breeze. He was practically head-to-head with a woman in a black-and-white bold print dress and wide black hat that the woman was forced to clutch to her head from time to time. At least she wasn’t a Marine he’d be quoting on tomorrow’s front page.
“Paul!” Chase shouted, unable to hide her irritation.
When he turned, Chase saw that Paul Shapiro had been talking to Major White’s other woman.
As Chase approached the two, the woman bolted to Shapiro’s left, but he grabbed her wrist. “Captain Anderson should hear this.” The woman looked nervous enough to jump off the cliff. During their assignment to Okinawa, Chase and Stone had visited the cliffs from which women had jumped to save themselves from what they believed would be humiliation of rape and torture by U.S. Marines. Those too afraid to jump had been shoved over by fathers, brothers, and uncles. Major White’s mistress looked as if she could make the leap on her own.
“You know the rules, Paul. I need you to rejoin the group.”
Shapiro was still gripping the woman’s wrist, as if he, too, thought she might be frightened enough to jump. “If you don’t tell her, I will. Someone’s got to know.”
The woman shook her head. She looked as if she might cry.
Chase saw North and Cruise herding their media teams across the parking lot toward the vehicles. Hickman was thankfully climbing into his sedan. The black limousine bearing Mrs. White and her children pulled away from the chapel.
“Time to go.”
Shapiro looked back at the woman. She was shaking her head. “Not yet,” she whispered.
He ignored her. “We think—” he glanced at the woman and back at Chase, “Melanie—Dr. Appleton—and I have reasons to believe Major White’s accident was no accident.”
“Really—” Chase said, staring down White’s mistress.
Shapiro continued. “We think Major White will be used as a scapegoat by those who want to protect the 81.” He released his hold on the woman.
For a second, Chase thought the woman might seriously jump. The woman was shaking. “I hope you’re not planning on running with that kind of story,” Chase said. “We’re in the middle of an investigation, Paul.”
North was standing beside the van, looking their way. She waved, and North acknowledged with the same. “The others are waiting, Paul. As soon as the investigation is complete, you’ll know the findings.”
The woman finally spoke. “I told you.” And she dashed toward a small white compact.
Chase and Shapiro stood in silence for a moment. “What’s going on, Paul?” She herded him toward the parking lot. The only cars left now were hers and those of North, Cruise, and Martinez, who were pulling up to the front of the chapel for Shapiro.
“Listen, Captain Anderson,” he said, stopping short of North’s van. “I have information that 464 has been forging maintenance records.”
Another breeze caused Chase to nearly lose her cap, and this time she damned the regulations, and took it off. To look up at him, and she would look him in the eye, she had to shield hers from the sun with a hand. “Why would 464 need to forge their maintenance records, Paul?”
“Because the truth of what’s happening with the 81 could cause the fleet to be grounded indefinitely.”
“Paul, have you any idea how many channels clear those records?” Before his second deployment, Stone had been 464’s operations officer. His job was to sign off on maintenance records. If something were awry, he’d have confided in Chase. Paul Shapiro was fishing.
“Major White knew about the forged records, Captain. We—I don’t think his crash was an accident.”
Chase switched hands over her eyes. “Who’s your source?”
Shapiro glanced down at his feet.
“Major White’s bereaved mistress?” The shock on his face gave her great pleasure. “Look, Paul, I’ve got to warn you—you need to tread lightly over here. It’s one thing to ambush a few drunk Marines on liberty to get a story, quite another to insinuate a conspiracy.” She walked to the van and opened the door.
CHAPTER 5
That evening was crisp for Hawaii, with temperatures in the upper sixties. At home, Chase poured herself a glass of white wine, changed into her favorite yoga pants and a tank top, and set the table for dinner.
She was outside on the tiny patio, the glass of wine in one hand, grilling chicken with a set of tongs in the other, and lost in a replay of the scene with Shapiro and White’s mistress, when a man’s voice startled her.
“I said, you could use a little water on that fire.” Of all people, it was Colonel Figueredo. Correction: Fig, as he wished to be called. Damned if she would oblige his arrogance.
“Are you lost, Colonel?” She guessed he was looking for one of her neighbors, either Paige’s husband or Samantha’s. Both houses appeared quiet, deserted.
“I tried your front door—” He was smiling again but looked a bit disarmed himself, perhaps just realizing his own arrogance at showing up uninvited in her backyard. He was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved white shirt that made his features appear even darker, especially in the fading light of sunset.
Chase nodded toward the patio’s sliding glass doors. “My daughter’s probably engrossed in her movie and didn’t hear the doorbell. What can I do for you, Colonel—”
“Fig, just call me Fig.” He was rolling up his right shirtsleeve above one of those large sporty watches with a wide leather band. “Better hand me those tongs,” he said.
“Excuse me?” She flipped over a chicken breast, then rolled over both drumsticks, leaning back when flames shot upward.
“Here,” he said, “let me take over.” His outstretched hand, that she was refusing to fill, created a long, awkward moment.
Finally, Chase handed over the tongs. “I could use a glass of water for this fire,” he said. “You should have let the coals die down more before you started cooking.”
“Are you always this impertinent?” And then realizing she had just insulted a senior officer, quickly added “sir?”
H
e pushed the chicken from the hot center of the grill to the edge. “Are you always so sensitive, Skipper?” His face softened into a look of sympathy, the one thing she couldn’t tolerate from anyone. Sympathy cracked her open and calved her from a glacier of icy resolve. She didn’t want to think of herself as a woman who wore her feelings too close to the surface. Any outpouring of sympathy over her current situation— why couldn’t she just say it, Stone’s death, for crying out loud—caused her grief to surface and spillover.
“I should check on my daughter,” she said, sliding open the door to the kitchen.
“A glass of wine would be nice,” Figueredo called out.
Could the man be anymore impudent? she thought, drawing the sliding door behind her.
Molly was curled up in Stone’s old recliner, her lifeless dolls strewn like dead bodies on the floor. Chase poured a tall glass of water. Out the window above the sink, she watched Figueredo. He’d left the grill long enough to drag over one of her teak chairs, and that was where he’d settled by the time she was tapping at the sliding door with a foot, in her hands the water and two glasses of wine. He jumped to his feet to help.
“Thanks,” she said, as he relieved her of the water and a wine glass.
He walked back to the grill and moved the chicken back to the hot center. “I saw you talking with that reporter from the Current at White’s memorial— ”
“Yes, sir. That was Paul Shapiro.”
“Look, Chase, you don’t have to stand on such formality with me, okay? Call me Fig.”
“Formality? You’re a colonel. I’m a captain. I’m just—”
“I know, but relax, will you?” He set the glass of water on the table. “I think the coals are perfect right now.” After settling back against the chair, he raised his wine glass toward her in a half-mockery of a toast and drank.
“Colonel,” she said, still standing and now leaning against one edge of the table, preferring the advantage of a little height, “just why are you here? If you’re looking for Colonel Abercrombie or Colonel Harold, they live over there.” She pointed in the two directions of her neighbors’ homes.
An Unlawful Order (The Chase Anderson Series) Page 5
