Dear Irene (11 page)

He looked like he might break down right out there on the sidewalk, so I took hold of his hand and pulled him forward. “Come on, keep moving. It’s good for you.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, following me. “I can’t seem to control my emotions these days. It’s humiliating. I’m not used to it at all.”

Well, the Banshee of the Press Room had no trouble understanding what that was like. I let go of his hand but kept walking at a brisk pace. He was forced to keep up with me. “You need to get some sleep, Steven. Your batteries are too run down to cope with everything that’s happened.”

Just then I noticed one of my shoelaces was untied. I stopped and bent to tie it, and became aware of someone watching us. From a car. A familiar car.

“Excuse me a moment, Steven. I need to embarrass someone.” I left him standing dumbfounded on the sidewalk and ran over to the car, just as the red-faced driver tried to start it up. I pounded on the window and he rolled it down.

“Pete Baird. What a surprise.”

“How’re you doing, Irene?”

“Pissed off, as a matter of fact. Since you’re willing to do your partner’s dirty work, I don’t suppose you’d mind being an errand boy. So here’s a message: you can tell your pal Frank that if he’s going to send his partner downtown to follow me around, he can—”

“Whoa! Wait a minute! Frank didn’t send me down here to watch you. It was my own idea. I swear it. He doesn’t know I’m here. And you damned well better hope I don’t tell him I saw you holding hands with young Studley Do-Right over there.”

“In the first place, you know I wasn’t ‘holding hands,’ not in the way you imply I was. In the second place, buzz off. This doesn’t concern you or Frank — and no, don’t give me a lot of bull about it. I’ll call Bredloe and tell him his boys are harassing me.”

“That would be a laugh. The Captain knows what a pain in the ass you can be.”

“Are you on assignment right now?”

He turned red again.

“I thought so. Have you ever done this before?”

“Tailed people? Sure…”

“No, I mean, watched me walk to lunch.”

His brows drew together. “What?”

But I had already reconsidered the question. Pete was working with Frank in other parts of town on the other days I thought I had been followed.

“You’ve gotta believe me, Irene,” he was saying. “It was my idea. Frank would kill me if he knew.”

I didn’t doubt that Pete would come up with something like this on his own. He was as loyal as an old hound to Frank, and notorious for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. A fight between Frank and me would be all the excuse he needed. “I’m very fond of you, Pete, but sometimes you are a true butt itch. I’ll just stand here until you get yourself gone.”

He muttered something and pulled away. I waited until he had driven out of sight before I went back over to Steven, who was clearly puzzled.

“Who was that?”

“A secret admirer. Are you hungry?”

He nodded.

W
E WALKED ABOUT
three doors down and entered the world of Rosie’s Bar and Grill. Up until the moment we walked through the door, all I was hoping for was a chance to find out a little more about Rosie Thayer. I’ll admit that I was bringing Kincaid along to see if anyone there acted like they recognized him, although I was fairly sure he would have balked at having lunch there if he had been lying to me about not knowing Rosie Thayer. He was not the kind of man who went unnoticed.

But as soon as my eyes adjusted to the dark interior, I made the connection between E.J. Blaylock and Rosie Thayer. The place was empty, so it wasn’t the patrons that provided the clue. It was the decor. Rosie’s Bar and Grill was something of a shrine.

“Rosie the Riveter,” I said.

Steven apparently had the same thought. “Will you look at this place?” he whispered, as if he were in a church, not a bar.

The walls were covered with pictures of World War II vintage airplanes, of fighter pilots in leather jackets, of bomber crews standing alongside their planes. Interspersed were dozens of photos of aircraft factories taken in the 1940s, and lots of pictures of women workers in coveralls and scarves. Behind the bar was a poster-sized print of Norman Rockwell’s painting “Rosie the Riveter.” There were other posters of the same era here and there — “Loose lips sink ships” and other slogans abounding.

I remembered what Steven had told me the day before. Maybe Rosie Thayer and E.J. Blaylock’s mother both worked for the same aircraft company. But the photographs were from the war years, and Rosie Thayer was E.J.’s age. Too young to have worked during World War II.

“Most of the photographs come from Mercury Aircraft,” Steven said, moving closer to a cluster of them. “That’s the company E.J.’s mom worked for. E.J. was really proud of her mother’s war work. That’s one of the topics she wanted to write about — women war workers.”

I looked at a note written below a photograph of a woman making part of an aircraft wing:
Bertha Thayer (Mom) working on aileron.

“Her mother…” I said. “Rosie Thayer is as proud of her mother as E.J. was of hers.”

Steven looked over at me, comprehension dawning. “Do these photographs have something to do with E.J.? With why she was killed?”

“I don’t know.”

“But you were asking about this bar when I called this morning. Now you tell me their mothers worked together. What’s going on? Are we here to talk to this Rosie Thayer?”

Before I could answer, we heard a man yell, “Be right with you,” from a back room. He made it sound as if it was a damned shame that we were going to make him wait on somebody.

“Calm down, Steven,” I said in a low voice. “I’ll tell you more later. But for now, just roll with it, okay?”

He didn’t act like it was the easiest thing in the world for him to do, but he nodded and followed me to a booth near the bar and sat down. A skinny old sad sack came shuffling over to us like he was on the fourth day of a forced march.

“What’ll it be?” he made himself ask.

I had checked out the “on tap” signs and knew I wouldn’t find it disagreeable. “A couple of your draught beers and menus, please.”

“Sure,” he said, as if it broke his heart. He shuffled off.

“So?” Steven said, as soon as the other man was out of earshot.

“I’m just following up on a lead.”

“You won’t tell me? I’ll give you a start, then.
Mercury Aircraft.
Mercury, Roman version of the Greek god Hermes. Messenger of the gods—”

“The god of commerce, manual skill, cleverness, and travel,” I finished for him. “I looked him up in my mythology books after you mentioned Mercury Aircraft yesterday. He’s also the god of thievery.”

“Maybe Thanatos worked there, too.”

“Maybe,
Steven. That’s what I’m trying to say. Let’s see where it leads. I don’t want to play some guessing game, and I don’t want to talk about my theories in here. I want to ask the guy who works here a few questions. If you don’t think you can sit there calmly while I do that, tell me now and we’ll leave.”

He was quiet then. “Sorry. I’m just anxious to see her killer caught. You’ll let me know what you learn?”

“Sure.”

Old Happy Pants came back with the beers and tossed a couple of menus on the table.

“Before you walk off,” I said, “I wondered if you could talk to me for a few minutes about Rosie.”

He eyed us suspiciously. “You with the cops?”

“No, newspaper. This is Mr. Kincaid. My name’s Kelly. I’m with the
Express.”

“Kelly — Irene Kelly?” For the first time, he smiled. “You the one who wrote about the witches?”

“The same.”

“I thought a couple of guys beat the crap out of you.” He seemed so happy about it.

“They did. But I’m okay now. Thanks for the concern.” I could see that Steven was taken aback by this last exchange, but he didn’t say anything. I did catch him looking at my right hand again.

“Yeah, well, you gonna put me in the paper?” Happy asked.

“Depends. For starters, what’s your name?”

“Just remember to spell it right,” he laughed.

Lots of people think we’ve never heard that old line. I pulled out a notebook. “Okay, so spell it for me.”

“J-O-H-N-N-Y — you got that?”

“I’m still with you.”

“S-M-I-T-H.” He started guffawing. He was full of appreciation for his own humor, which made him a party of one. I smiled anyway, since I needed his cooperation.

“Wait a minute,” he said, suddenly sobering. “You the one who wrote about that gal who got her brains bashed in down at the zoo?”

Steven turned chalk white, but caught my warning glance and stayed silent.

“Yeah, I’m the one who wrote about it. And I hate to say it, but I’m afraid this same guy might have something against Rosie.”

“Rosie? Naw. Naw, I don’t believe it. She never had an enemy in her life.” But he didn’t look so sure of it. He pulled a chair over and straddled its back. I noticed he was holding on to that chair pretty tightly.

“How long have you known Rosie, Mr. Smith?”

“Aw, call me Johnny. I’ve known her almost all my life. Since high school, leastways.”

“How long has she been missing?”

“Since early last Thursday.”

Almost a week ago. “That’s when you noticed she was gone?”

“That was when she
was
gone. We had a quick drink after closing on Wednesday night — Thursday morning — and she left at about two-thirty. She didn’t show up that afternoon — Thursday afternoon. I had to take care of the lunch crowd all by myself. Not like her to miss coming in. She’s never been sick a day in her life. I called, wasn’t nobody home. I called the cops. They wait for a while before they’ll say someone is missing. That kinda made me mad.”

“She’s never gone missing before?”

“Never. She never missed a day here. This is her pride and joy. She says it shows the American way still pays off.”

“American way?” Steven asked.

“Yeah, you know, democracy. She wasn’t born rich. She never even finished high school — flunked out. Too busy chasing boys, to be honest. But she’s just like her ma — worked hard and made something of herself. She was always real proud of everything those women did for the war effort. She was real proud of her ma. She never has liked to be called Thelma. She’s been calling herself Rosie for years.”

“Is her mother living?”

“Naw, old Bertha kicked off about five years ago.”

“Do you have a picture of Rosie?”

“I did have, but the damned cops took it. Maybe they can give you one.”

“She have many friends around here?”

“Me. Unless you want to call that bunch of lushes that tries to get credit off her ‘friends.’ We got our regulars, and Rosie’s a real cheerful, friendly type. But this place is her life. She doesn’t have time to pay social calls on people.”

“Are you involved with her?”

He laughed. “You mean, are we shacking up? No. That’s why we stayed friends.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?”

“There have been guys here and there, but nobody for some time. She told me she’s worn out on men. Said we weren’t nothing but children, always needing something from somebody. I told her she was wrong, but I gotta say, she seems happier now that she stopped chasing after men.”

“Anybody been through here lately with a special interest in her?”

“Naw. Nobody even asks where she’s gone. Makes me mad. Except for you and a cop that was in here earlier, nobody’s even showed an interest.”

I pulled out a business card and wrote my home number on the back. “Here. If you hear from her or from anyone who might know more about her, let me know, okay?”

He studied it at arm’s length. I suspected he wore bifocals, but was too vain to put them on.

“You want something to eat?” he asked, tucking the card in a shirt pocket.

We ordered a couple of sandwiches. As soon as Johnny walked off to make them, Steven whispered, “It
has
to be Mercury Aircraft. Other than that, Rosie and E.J. couldn’t be more different. Maybe their mothers knew something about Mercury, or maybe—”

“Slow down. We have a lot of ground to cover. But I agree, it seems to be one of the few things they had in common. But it could be a coincidence; thousands of women worked for Mercury during those years. We don’t even know for a certainty that Rosie is Thalia, but if she is, Thanatos may be choosing these women because of their ages, and because they’re single.”

“Do you think she’s dead? Rosie, I mean?”

“I don’t know.” That, of course, was stretching the truth. If Rosie was Thalia, I figured the chances that Thanatos had delayed his plans were slim to none; I just didn’t know if they had reached their conclusion.

“What did Mr. Smith mean about someone hurting you?”

I shook my head. “You don’t need to hear it right now, and I don’t need to tell it.” At his look of chagrin, I added, “Don’t worry that you’ve offended me. I’ll tell you someday.”

“I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It isn’t prying, really. Now, you had some research to show me?”

He pulled out the list of E.J.’s research papers and articles and interests. Most were about the U.S. in the postwar era, particularly about two topics: women war workers and the Truman presidency.

“She was really interested in the role of women in the workforce in the postwar era,” Steven said. “But she couldn’t get published back when she first wrote about it, in the late fifties and early sixties. So she started to delve into the Truman administration.”

Johnny brought the sandwiches, which were surprisingly good, given his lack of enthusiasm over being of service. He didn’t linger at the table, just set the plates down and ambled back to the kitchen. As we ate, I thought about E.J. Blaylock and Rosie Thayer. I looked across the table. The professor certainly hadn’t given up on men.

“Do you have family in this area, Steven?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“Friends?”

He shrugged. “Not really. The two or three people I could call friends have gone home for the holidays.” It didn’t seem to bother him much.

“What about you?” I asked. “Will you be going home for the holidays?”