An Eye for Murder (14 page)

When it came to the budget, I was surprised at his lack of concern. “It takes what it takes,” he said. “We want to do it right. How much do you need up front?”

I swallowed. “Er, forty percent would be good.”

“No problem. We’ll cut you a check.” He got up from the table, a signal that our meeting was over. “Send me an invoice. I’m glad you’re on board, Ellie.”

I stood up, and we shook hands again. As I pushed through the door, Dory Sanchez stared after me.

Chapter Twenty

Paul Iverson claimed to be from modest origins. Raised in the coal-mining region of Pennsylvania, he moved to the Midwest as a young man and married Frances Chandler, daughter of William and Marie Chandler. William Chandler owned a pharmaceutical company and was friendly with the Fords. Iverson and Frances had two children, a boy and a girl. I printed out the article and made a note. I’d thought Marian was an only child.

Iverson was ambitious. And smart. While Sam Insull was stringing up electric lines on the North Shore and the Armours ran the stockyards, Iverson, with the help of his father-in-law, bought a moribund smelting operation. Over the next few years, according to the article, he built it into a thriving specialty processing plant and repaid his father-inlaw’s loan with interest. At its zenith, Iverson Steel developed a reputation for agricultural applications and employed over three thousand workers. That surged to four thousand during the war when they retooled to produce military parts.

Iverson Steel was also the first Chicago mill to let in the union, with the proviso that they stay out of management issues. Despite regular disputes over what constituted “management issues,” Iverson’s gamble paid off. In 1938, a strike of seventy-eight thousand Chicago steelworkers erupted into riots, killing ten people at Republic. But Iverson’s, just down the road, was untouched, and Iverson himself ended up mediating between the mill owners and the workers.

Another article described Iverson’s philanthropic activities. During the war, Iverson apparently contributed large sums of money to bring Jews out of Nazi Europe. Some of the money went to the Zionist organization to help Jews emigrate to Palestine. The rest went to help smooth immigration into the States, not an easy task with Cordell Hull at the State Department. Iverson’s efforts won the respect of the rank and file, many of whom were immigrants from Nazi-occupied countries or had family there, and the article included a picture of Iverson with William Green, head of the AFL, hailing Iverson as “a hero, one of the few to stick out his neck when others were burying their heads in the sand.”

I studied the picture I’d downloaded. Why would a tycoon from Lake Forest, whose in-laws were close to Henry Ford, stick out his neck for Jews? Iverson looked like a handsome man, somewhere in his forties, but the photograph was so degraded and blurred it was hard to tell. Tall, thin, elegantly dressed, he had dark eyes and a thick shock of what looked like white hair.

Reading on, I discovered that Iverson’s place in history was guaranteed not because of his philanthropy or entrepreneurial success. When American soldiers went off to fight World War Two, thousands of women moved into factories and plants to take their places. The government, in fact, launched a huge propaganda campaign designed to push women into the workplace. “Rosie the Riveter” featured posters, songs, and photos of young women on the factory floor, happily riveting bolts onto tanks, airplanes, and other heavy equipment.

Although most of them quit after the war, it was a significant milestone for women’s rights. Iverson Steel was thought to have hired more women more quickly than any other steel mill in the country. One historian speculated that the concept for Rosie the Riveter might well have originated on Iverson’s shop floor. Was that how Lisle Gottlieb got her job? I wondered.

Unfortunately, Iverson didn’t live long enough to enjoy his place in history. He died at the end of the war from a sudden heart attack.

The phone rang just as I finished the article.

“Ellie, this is Dory Sanchez?” Her voice rose on the word “Sanchez,” turning her statement into a question. Women in the workplace do that, I’ve noticed. It’s as if they’re still seeking permission to be in the club, and they’re not brave enough to make an authoritative declaration. Men don’t bother.

“Hi Dory.” My voice brimmed with authority.

“I hate to bother you, but Roger wanted me to find out whether you might want office space down here while you’re working on the video.”

“Office space?”

“We have a couple of offices available—at least until Labor Day. He wanted you to know you’re welcome to use one of them.”

“That’s kind of him. And you.” I hesitated. “But I don’t think I’ll need it.”

“Oh.” She sounded disappointed.

“I’ll be on location quite a bit, and then in the editing room. And…well…you know…” I bit the inside of my lip. “I’ll tell you what,” she said cheerily. “We’ll leave it open.

I’ll put a phone in one of them. In case you change your mind. By the way, would you mind giving me your cell number? For emergencies.”

I frowned. “I—I guess not. It’s 847-904-5566.”

“And your E-mail?”

I told her.

“Thanks. You know, I hope we’ll be able to talk at some point. I’d love to hear more about your work.”

“Sure,” I replied. “I’ll be around.”

“Great. I’ll give this number to Roger.”

After lunch I investigated the Rosie the Riveter story. An hour of calls to various trade associations and libraries unearthed the name of Linda Jorgenson, considered by many to be the unofficial historian of the Chicago steel mills. Her family’s been in the business for several generations, and she’s collected all sorts of documents and records.

When I got her on the phone, I asked if she knew anything about the Rosie the Riveter campaign.

“Oh, yes. That was quite a time for the steel industry.”

“I’ve been doing some research, and one of the articles said that the campaign might have originated at the Iverson steel mill. Would you know anything about that?”

“Are you kidding? I’m surprised nobody told you.
Movietone News
came out from Hollywood to do a story about the women at Iverson’s. It helped launch the Rosie campaign.”

“Really. When was that?”

“Let me think. My father saw it. It would have been early forty-two, I think.”

I straightened up like a pointer who’s picked up a scent.

“
Movietone News
.” I made a note. “That’s owned by Fox.”

“If you say so.”

“I wonder if they have a copy of it.” Cradling the phone on my ear, I surfed over to Fox Movietone News and jotted down their number. I’d call them later.

“You know, I have some other things from Iverson’s you might want to take a look at.” She explained that when Iverson’s was sold, the new owners didn’t feel it was necessary to keep all the old records and handed them over to Linda. She had boxes of files stored in a warehouse.

I said I’d keep them in mind. “I’ve gotta ask you. How did you get into all of this?”

“My family owns a small steelyard on the East Side. It used to be part of Republic.”

“Republic was one of the big ones.”

“It was huge. My grandfather, my father, and my uncles worked there. But it got hit hard in the Sixties along with the others. My cousins and I pooled all our money and bought part of it for a song. We turned it into a wire and cable operation.”

“When was this?”

“Late Seventies,” she said. “We had to downsize, retrofit, streamline. But it has a happy ending. We’re finally turning a profit.”

Marxists be warned. The means of production had passed from the owners to the workers. Capitalism works in mysterious ways. “That’s a great story.” I made a note. After the campaign video, who knew?

“You know, it was really a shame the way everything ended up,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“With Mr. Iverson,” she said. “No one ever understood why he did it.”

“Did what?”

She hesitated. “Why he killed himself, of course.”

Silence swirled around me. “Paul Iverson committed suicide?”

“Yes.” She coughed. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”

“I thought he died from a heart attack.”

“That was the public version. I guess the family didn’t want it to get out. But everybody knew.”

My father called that night to remind me that tomorrow was
Shavuos
, and I was expected to say
Yiskor
for my mother.
Yiskor
, an extra service tacked onto the liturgy to memorialize those who have passed on, comes four times a year, always in conjunction with another holiday. That’s one of the problems with being Jewish. There are so many holidays during the year that it’s entirely possible to spend all your time preparing to observe them, observing them, then recovering from observing them. Some Jews do little else. I hang on to a few traditions. I won’t bring ham in the house, I don’t celebrate Christmas, and I won’t eat bread during Passover. I call it Kosher Lite.

Fouad’s pickup was in the driveway when I got back. He was pulling the lawn mower from the bed of the truck. He eyed my skirt, long-sleeved blouse and good shoes. “You are busy?”

I shook my head. “I was at synagogue. It’s
Shavuos
.”

“Would you like me to come back another time? “Not at all. Just give me a minute.”

“You would have been proud of me, Fouad,” I said after changing into cutoffs and a T-shirt. “I was up in Lake Forest the other night, and I was able to tell the difference between shade and sun plants.”

He smiled at me.

“There had to be at least an acre of impatiens and hostas in front of the house I was at.”

“Really.” He pushed the mower over toward the grass. “It’s the old Iverson estate. On the lake. I’m producing a campaign video for Marian Iverson. She’s running for the

Senate.”

“Ahh.” He walked back to his pickup and retrieved a thick pair of canvas gloves. “And what did you learn today? In synagogue?” he asked, pulling the gloves over his hands, evidently unimpressed with my new client.

“Learn? I didn’t learn anything.”

“That’s hard to believe. Yours is a heritage of learning. Every time you observe you give yourself the opportunity to learn.” He sounded a lot like the rabbi I just heard, imploring people like me to come to
shul
more often to reacquaint themselves with the joys of Judaism.

I hooked my hands over the belt loops of my cutoffs. “I don’t know if I’d call it learning, but when I was a little girl I’d go to services with my parents. Whenever
Yiskor
came, the kids were shooed out of the sanctuary. You weren’t allowed to stay unless one of your parents was dead. It was all very grown-up and secretive, and I remember wanting to spy. Find out what the mystery was.” I looked down. “Now I’m supposed to be there, and I don’t want to be.”

“Because of your mother.”

My throat was suddenly tight.

“Everyone is going to taste death,” he said. “The Koran says death is part of the cycle of life. We all have our turn. Your
Yiskors
, perhaps in some way, they are preparing you for that time. Teaching you how to accept death. Your loved ones, as well as your own.”

I dumped my hands in my pockets.

“There can be great solace with those of your own faith.” He bent over the lawnmower. “Now, Ellie.” He ripped the cord, and the motor roared to life. “You will learn how to mow the lawn.”

Chapter Twenty-one

Rachel was supposed to spend the Memorial Day weekend with Barry, but he never called. I left a series of messages on his machine, but by Saturday morning I gave up.

“He must have gone on an unexpected business trip, honey,” I lied.

Rachel nodded bravely and said she understood, but her lower lip quivered. I busied myself with cleaning the kitchen, trying to suppress my concern. Barry was rarely out of touch for more than a week at a time, and he never missed a weekend with Rachel. Should I call? No. He was a responsible adult. Well, an adult.

I opened the back door and emptied the trash, mentally casting around for last-minute plans. The sun spilled down, coating everything with a seductive layer of warmth. The newly mowed grass smelled fresh, and the lilac blossoms were so fragrant we might have been in a tropical paradise, not a windswept prairie.

“I have an idea.” I transferred some money to a fanny pack and motioned Rachel out to the garage. We wheeled out our bikes and pedaled up to the Botanic Gardens, sniffing all the way.

After parking the bikes, we wandered through the Japanese garden, admiring the bonsai sculptures that stand guard over the tranquil lagoon. Then we headed over to the English walled garden, where Rachel meandered through trellised walkways, checkerboard box elders, and primrose hedges, and I studied water lilies in the goldfish pool, pretending I had nothing more pressing to do than to read Jane Austen. But my thoughts weren’t on the British landed gentry. I was wondering how I would make it through the summer without child support.

That night we picked up a pizza and a video. We watched the video in bed, but Rachel lost interest and fell asleep halfway through. I was nodding off myself when the trill of the phone startled me awake. I scrambled for it. Barry, probably. With another lame excuse.

“Is this Ellie Foreman?”

I didn’t recognize the voice. “Yes?”

“This is David Linden.”

“Yes?” I rolled over. The clock read eleven-thirty. Was Barry hurt?

“I believe you sent me an E-mail a week ago.”

A breeze bowed out the blinds. It smelled earthy and wet. “You’re DGL.” I breathed.

“I hope this isn’t too late to call. I—I’ve been out of the country.”

Sure. I always get calls from strangers at midnight on

Saturday night. “It’s okay.”

A long silence followed, which I realized I was supposed to fill.

“ Thank you for getting back to me. You’re…you’re probably wondering what this is all about.”