An Eye for Murder (18 page)

“Perceptive, too.” I grinned. “I used to make documentaries. You know, getting back to our…I mean your family…I have a question. If you don’t mind.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I told you about Skull—Mr. Skulnick—on the phone—”

“And I told you I didn’t know him.”

“I realize that. I was just thinking. I saw a snapshot of Skull, which was taken around the time of World War Two. He was standing next to a woman. She had dark hair, and there was a baby in her arms. I assumed the woman and the baby were his family. The picture was taken someplace in Europe.”

He sipped his tea. “Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you have it? The picture?”

“No. Unfortunately, it—no.” I toyed with my spoon. “But they were standing on a bridge. A cobblestone bridge. And there was a castle in the background.”

“That could be almost anywhere.”

The Gatsbys passed our table, the children skipping carelessly, their parents arm-in-arm. All was forgiven.

“Maybe I’ve been looking at this backwards.” He looked over.

“What if the connection to your mother was the woman in the picture, not Skull?”

“You mean the woman and my mother knew each other?”

“Exactly.” I brightened. “Maybe they were close friends. And Skull knew it. Maybe he figured your mother could help him track her down. Did she ever talk about her friends in Europe?”

He shook his head. “She rarely talked about her life before the States. That’s one of the reasons it’s been so hard to find out anything about her. It’s as if she built a wall between her life before and after the war.”

I drew little circles on the tablecloth with the spoon. “I guess I’m grasping at straws.” I sighed.

“My father was sent back to Germany during the war. But you already know that. He died over there, too, but I couldn’t really say—”

I stopped drawing. “What did you say?”

“I said, my father was sent—”

“No. The other part.”

“That he died over there, but that I—”

I laid the spoon down. “Kurt Weiss didn’t die in Germany.”

“Of course he did.”

“No. Kurt Weiss died here. In Lawndale. At a concert in

Douglas Park.”

He tipped his head. “What are you talking about?”

“My father was there when it happened.”

“That’s impossible. My mother said he worked for the

OSS. That he came home at the end of the war, but then, because so many Nazis were trying to escape to North and South America, they sent him back for one last mission.”

“One last mission?”

“He was supposed to tail a high-ranking Nazi and keep him from slipping across the border. But it all went wrong. Someone double-crossed him, and my father was killed.”

I shook my head. “That’s not right.”

He shifted. “Maybe you’d better tell me what you know.” I summarized what Dad had told me. When I finished, he sat very still. I was beginning to think he didn’t believe me. “I don’t get it,” he said, blinking rapidly. His voice was barely above a whisper. “If that’s true, why did my mother lie to me?”

I didn’t have an answer.

Chapter Twenty-five

I Construction Site Exterior Day
Fade up from black to a sunbeam dancing on a steel girder. (May need special FX to make sunbeam dance) Pull back to reveal a crane hoisting the steel girder into the air. Widen out as we see the girder float through the air to the skeletal scaffolding of a modern construction site. As the girder settles on the landing and men in hard hats rush to unhook it, bring up NARRATION
.

NARRATOR

Dependable. Durable. Tough. Steel built this country, creating a tradition of strength. And though its form and structure have evolved, the tradition still endures.

Cut to stock footage of steel mill; smoke stacks, iron forge, etc. circa 1930s
.

Tradition.

NARRATOR (cont.)

Dissolve or morph to modern scene of steel girder
.

NARRATOR (cont.)

And progress. The makings of a legacy. The makings of a leader.

Bring MUSIC UNDER (quiet but authoritative). Dissolve to scene of Marian Iverson shaking hands with crowd at campaign event. FADE OUT MUSIC, BRING UP Marian SOT
.

It needed polishing, but I liked it. The legacy part would appeal to older, male Republicans. But we would also make it clear Marian had exceeded the past and was poised to lead in the future. That would appeal to younger voters and, we could hope, the new constituencies she wanted to reach.

The squeak of a truck in need of a brake job broke my concentration, and I watched as the familiar brown truck stopped in front of the house. UPS doesn’t come to my door much except around the holidays, and usually later in the day. The energetic driver—they’re all impossibly young, virile, and fit—jumped out of his seat, rummaged in the back of the truck, and deposited a package at the front door. Then he rang the bell, skipped back to his vehicle, and pulled away, all in less than a minute. I was exhausted.

The return label said
Fox Movietone News Library
. I tore open the cardboard packaging. Inside was a video cassette labeled March, 1942. Slug: Rosie the Riveter. I headed toward the VCR, anticipating the thrill of witnessing history as it actually happened, with none of the shadings or interpretations of time. But as I flipped on the power, the green luminescent numbers of the clock flashed one-thirty. Damn. I was late for Marian’s interview. I threw the cassette into my bag.

The set was a two-walled office, minus the desk. On one wall a fake window covered by curtains cleverly concealed fill lights. Tall, leafy plants were carefully arranged in front, their shadows subtle and flattering. Against the other wall was an oxblood leather sofa, the kind you’d find in a corporate executive’s office. But the focal point of the set was an abstract painting done in pastels hanging above the couch. It formed the perfect background, particularly in a close-up. Marian would stand out: the polished, elegant challenger, with just a touch of femininity. I’d asked her to wear a navy jacket. The pastel palette, combined with the oxblood sofa and her suit, would balance the shot. Tradition but progress.

When I arrived, Marian was in the dressing room, a plastic sheet draped over her, having makeup applied. Roger was pacing the studio, his cell glued to his ear. The three-man crew was tweaking lights and equipment, all of them on headphones that linked them to Mac in the control room.

I sat down on a chair opposite the couch. Although I wouldn’t be on camera, one of the crew pinned a mike on me. “Mike check,” he said.

I cleared my throat. “Hi Mommy, Hi Daddy. I’d like a pony, an ice cream machine, a clown, and—an amusement park in my basement.”

“That’ll do,” he said.

“Funny, that’s what they said, too.”

He started to smirk, but then looked behind me.

I twisted around. Marian was headed toward the set, elegant and sophisticated in a navy Chanel suit. Her makeup sparkled and her hair, in a chin-length bob, was perfectly coiffed. A flurry of activity ensued as the crew seated her, pinned a lapel mike onto her jacket, checked her voice level, and tinkered with the lights one more time.

Finally we rolled tape. I’d E-mailed the list of questions to Roger over the weekend, and Marian was clearly prepared. Her responses were articulate, but she managed to pause for just a fraction of a beat before she answered, so she didn’t sound rehearsed. Occasionally, after delivering a key message she transitioned to a brief anecdote. She was witty, too, beginning a discussion of the gender issue with, “When God created human beings, she—” then pausing with the timing of George Burns.

When the interview was over, a crew member removed her microphone. “How did I do?” she asked.

“You were perfect,” I said. “Witty, articulate, the right balance of professionalism and warmth. It’s going to be a tough editing job.”

She rose from the couch with a satisfied smile.

Roger appeared at her elbow, and they started across the set. “So what happens from here?” he asked.

“I’ll have a finished script to you in a day or two,” I said. “With a paper edit of what’s already in the can. We can work from that. Oh, by the way, that stock footage I mentioned last week came in. You remember, the Rosie the Riveter footage?” Marian stopped, Roger nearly bumping her. “Is that the film that you thought might have been taken at the mill?”

“I don’t know for sure. I haven’t screened it yet.”

“Be sure to let me know.”

“As a matter of fact, I brought it along.”

“Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “Would you like to see it?”

Roger tapped a finger on his watch crystal. “Marian, you have a meeting with the Lake County Republicans in ten minutes.”

“We can be late,” she said.

Mac pulled two chairs into a corner and wheeled over a VCR and monitor on a metal stand. Marian sat down. “The date says March 1942,” I said, showing her the cassette label. I fed the tape into the VCR and hit Play.

A slew of disclaimers and warnings assured unauthorized users of a spot on the Ten Most Wanted List if the footage was used without permission. Then the swell of a patriotic march broke over the sound track, and the screen faded from black to a grainy black-and-white montage. Soldiers marched in formation, flags fluttered in the breeze. A voice that sounded a lot like Walter Winchell declared that the week just past would prove to be the major turning point in the battle for freedom and democracy against the forces of evil.

According to the narrator, thousands of draftees now in training camps around the country would, in short order, prove to be the undoing of the Axis. We watched as soldiers aimed rifles at targets, squirmed under barbed wire, and scaled chain-link fences. The announcer exhorted us to remember that despite our grief at being separated from our loved ones, their leaders were proud of them. We should be too.

Marian and I exchanged glances.

The music segued to a lighter tune, and the announcer proclaimed that on the home front too, the war effort was quickly taking hold. Women in record numbers were filling the shoes of men, working in factories and mills.

The camera cut to a new scene, and we were looking at a sign that read
Iverson Steel Works
. Marian leaned forward, her elbows on the arms of her chair. A throng of men and women with cheerful smiles and greetings pushed through a turnstile. Some tipped their hardhats to the camera. Most carried lunch boxes and thermos bottles. In the background, ribbons of white steam curled out of tall, skinny smokestacks.

The newsreel cut to interiors of the plant. Machines belched, wheels revolved, belts moved. The camera dollied smoothly from one station to the next, showing the raw power of manufacturing, finally stopping in front of a woman in bib overalls. Although it was a long shot, I could see a face with chiseled features and a mass of blond hair arranged on top. The camera cut to a medium shot. My mouth dropped open.

“My God,” I said. “I think that’s Lisle Gottlieb.”

Marian glanced at me. Then she looked back at the screen. The woman on the screen had the same eyes, the same mouth, the same face I’d seen in Dad’s snapshot. But here, in motion, she filled the frame with youth and beauty. Even in overalls, an aura of glamour surrounded her. When she looked into the camera, her shy sensuality lit up the screen.

The camera pushed into a close-up of her work. She was operating some kind of riveting device, making sure rivets were punched into sheets of steel. It was hard to tell what was actually being riveted: a truck door, a tank, possibly the side of an airplane. Once in a while, she’d turn her head, as if responding to someone off camera. I squinted at the screen. The camera pulled back, revealing a man in suit and tie behind her, smiling broadly.

The camera panned over, and the narrator introduced Paul Iverson. The stills I’d seen didn’t do him justice. Taller and slimmer than in the photos, he was elegantly dressed and carried himself with the authority of someone used to issuing orders. His nose was more prominent here, his eyes darker. Despite a head of thick white hair, he looked to be in his forties. A younger version of David.

As if cued by the Movietone director, Iverson stepped forward and stood next to Lisle. Both of them smiled into the camera while the narrator delivered some pronouncement about the war effort. Iverson draped his arm around Lisle.

I froze.

It was the way he put his arm around her. It wasn’t a comradely gesture, the boss clapping a worker on the back. It was a protective, intimate act, as if he was trying to shield her from the outside world. Lisle’s body language confirmed it. Her arm disappeared behind his waist, her chin dropped, and she shifted closer to him, as if deferring to his wishes. The wishes of her man. The wishes of her lover.

I looked over at Marian, who was studying the screen. She stole a glance at me. But when she caught me looking at her, she flicked her eyes back to the screen. The newsreel moved on to the latest tally of war bonds. I hit Stop. For just the briefest moment, neither of us spoke.

Then she nodded, more to herself, it seemed, than to me.

“Fascinating, Ellie. That was fascinating.” Something in her manner was off. I couldn’t put my finger on it. “What do you think?” she asked.

It’s always cold in TV studios to compensate for the lights and equipment, and I rubbed my hands up and down my arms to warm myself. I knew exactly what I thought, but I answered carefully. “I’m sure we can get a few seconds out of it.”

“I suppose.” She tapped a finger against her chin. “But, you know, I wonder if Roger may be right after all. Perhaps we ought to focus on the present rather than the past. I don’t want people to think I’m riding on my father’s legacy. Can I think about it?”

“Of course.” Was she trying to tell me something?

She gathered her purse and stood up, opening the clasp to rummage inside. With her eyes on her bag, she said casually, “You say you knew that woman?”