Songbird Under a German Moon (23 page)

Betty brushed her hair from her cheek and tried not to let the war inside her become evident on her face. More than anything she wanted to tell the man about Kat's pregnancy, but that was impossible.
If she told, Mickey would be mad at her for sure. She'd most likely get fired—sent home.

“Well—” she finally said. “Even though everyone thinks Kat didn't have anything to live for, I have a feeling she did.” She blew out a slow breath. “And then, the other night, Kat told us that someone had been following her on the trail. She tried to shrug it off and said it was only kids, but I think it really spooked her.”

“The mysterious footsteps on the trail. That photographer—what was his name?” The man flipped back in his notebook. “Yes, here it is. Frank Witt told me the same thing. While that's interesting, it's not enough for me to change my mind.”

“You spoke to Frank?”

“Yes, this morning. He was the one who took photos for us—of the body.”

Betty was glad she was sitting, because with his words, tears filled her eyes, and her chest felt as if someone had set a piano on it. She found it hard to breathe.

“Bet—Miss? Are you okay?” Howard asked, kneeling in front of her.

She nodded that she was, and sucked in a breath, forcing it down. In her mind's eye, she tried to picture Kat in the water. But she quickly pushed that thought away.
Don't go there. Don't think of that. Remember how she was yesterday, before the telegram. Remember how she was during rehearsal, singing and dancing. Don't think—don't think of the pond.

“Howard, can you do me a favor?” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “Can you see if someone would be interested in
giving me a ride to town? I'd like to talk to Frank. I just need his support right now.”

Howard looked to the officer, and the man nodded his approval.

“Sure, Betty. Just tell me when you're ready, and I'll see what I can do.”

“Thank you.” She watched the man scribbling down more notes. She wondered what he wrote—wondered if she'd said something she shouldn't have. Something that would upset Mickey.

Dear Lord, I don't know what to do here. I know this feeling I have in my gut, but I don't know what to do with it.

It was a fleeting prayer. There and then gone. She wished she could get an answer from God—wished He could just stand before her and tell her what to do, what to say. But since that wasn't possible, she hoped to get help from the next best place.

I need to talk to Frank.

Frank couldn't begin to estimate the number of photos he'd taken during the war. Of troops, of bomber squads, of mid-air fire fights, of bombings and even of bombers—filled with guys he knew—crashing to the ground. He'd also taken photos of Nazi spies, of citizens caught in the bombing, and of former prisoners of the camps, but nothing was as painful as developing the photographs of Kat. Maybe it was because the war was supposed to be over. Or maybe because she looked like an angel.

She lay on her back, her arm entwined in a branch. Her eyes were closed, and her face was deathly pale. Her hair fanned out around her face, one strand crossing her forehead. Even as he was taking the photo, Frank had the urge to reach down and brush it back from her face.

She wore the white dress she'd worn for the last performance, and in mid-range shots, she looked like a large white flower floating on the top of the pond—her dress splayed out as it would if she were twirling during a dance number.

Anger bubbled up inside him. Someone had done this. Just like the letters had promised. But who? Why?

He hung the photos to dry and then paused. From the way the investigator sounded, this was a suicide—open and closed. Yet as
Frank looked at the developing photos, his thoughts ping-ponged back and forth in his mind.

Why was Kat a target?

Was the person who wrote the letters the one who killed her?

What was he trying to say? Trying to prove?

Were Betty and the other girls in danger? Should he advise Mickey to send everyone home?

He also thought about Kat's body showing up like it had. It didn't make sense.

Maybe Kat's body was under the water. Maybe that's why I didn't see her. Or maybe she did it after I left.
Maybe it was suicide after all, and there was no connection with the letters.

I need time—more time to look over these photos. More time to think this through.

Frank looked to the film. As always, he would turn the film over when he turned over the prints. In the normal military, his job was to take the prints and the army's job was to put them to use, to copy them or distribute them. But for his work in the OSS, he could make prints for himself as needed—just as long as he destroyed them when he was done.

With an extra set of photos, I'll have more time to try to figure this out.

And if not…

Frank pushed that last thought out of his mind. That wasn't an option. If he didn't figure it out, someone else could be next. The thing was, he couldn't let anyone else know about the extra prints. Making them and having them was enough for him to be discharged
in his “normal” line of military work, and he'd hate to have to dance around the questions of why he was the exception to the rule.

Frank kept his gloves on and returned to the film. Of course, then there were those times he made copies for himself that had nothing to do with his undercover work. From the last set of photos, he'd made a few copies for himself—of Betty. One of her on stage and two behind the scenes.

Frank had finished hanging the second set of prints when a knock sounded on the door of the darkroom. His shoulders tightened, he took in a breath and approached the door.

“Yeah?” he asked, leaning close to it.

“Hey, it's me.” Art's voice filtered through the door.

“Do you need to use the darkroom? I'm almost done,” Frank asked.

“No, uh, that's not it. There's actually someone here to see you.”

“Okay, let me clean up. I'll be out in a jiffy.”

Frank's heart pounded in his chest, and he wondered if it was the MP Officer, Frey, coming for the prints. Frank had told Frey that he'd bring the prints to headquarters, but what if he'd changed his mind?

Frank cleaned up the solutions, but there was nothing he could do about the prints. If he took them down he'd ruin them for sure. He'd have to leave them there and hope for the best with Art.

Taking another deep breath, he exited the darkroom and made his way down to the living area of the house, which had mostly been unused by him or Art. Rounding the corner of the hall, he saw Howard sitting there, and next to him, Betty.

Frank released the breath he didn't know he'd held, and then his heart seemed to split in two when he saw how sad she looked—how frightened. Her hair was held back by a scarf and she wore her USO trousers and jacket. She looked more like a factory worker than a USO singer—so young, innocent, and completely overwhelmed.
I have to protect her. I have to figure this out.

“Hey there.” Frank entered and sat on the sofa next to her. “How are you doing?”

Betty shrugged. “Fine—I suppose. I—I don't know what to think. I just feel bad. Poor Kat.”

“I know.” Frank patted her hand, resting it there. Then he looked to Howard. “Thanks for giving Betty a ride. I assume you're checking out things at the estate?”

Howard shrugged. “Not too much. Especially not anything that rules out suicide.” He rose. “Maybe your photos will make us see something in a new light, but I doubt it.”

Frank felt Betty's hand ball into a fist under his hand, and he could tell she didn't agree with Howard. He didn't either.

“Can I ask you?” Frank rose. “Is there a reason why the MPs are content with simply calling it a suicide? Are they afraid anything else will stir trouble in the local population?” Frank ran a hand down his chin. “Or maybe there's just so much happening in Nuremberg, with the war trials and all, that hunting down a possible murder suspect is the last thing the investigator wants to think about?”

Howard's eyes narrowed. “Are you saying our offices are negligent in handling this case?”

Frank shrugged. “I'm not saying any such thing. I'm just surprised your superior didn't take my statement more seriously, that's all.”

“Just because you didn't see Kat in the pond last night, doesn't mean she wasn't there—or at least that's what Frey said.” Howard cocked his chin upward.

Frank could see Betty studying his face from the corner of his eye, but he refused to look at her.
Foolishness!
Didn't these guys know how to investigate? More than that, didn't Howard know how to keep his mouth shut?

“Also, it's because of what we've learned,” Howard spouted before Frank had a chance to respond. “No matter what happens there will be one hundred different people who will see the same thing one hundred different ways. We're here to enforce the laws handed down to us, and as far as I'm concerned, we've handled this case fairly.”

“Sure.” Frank nodded, trying to hold in his frustration. He led the man to the door, realizing he'd probably pushed his questions as far as he could without making an enemy. “Forgive me for my bluntness. This is so close to home, you know? I mean, I think all of us feel that Kat's death was preventable. I guess I'm used to being removed from the human drama. After being up in the air during most of the war, maybe I don't know how to handle this stuff on the ground.” He softened his face with a smile. “I trust your judgment.”

Howard nodded his acknowledgment and then tipped his helmet to Betty. “Hope things are better soon, miss.”

“Yes, me too. It's a shock. I'm sure we'll adjust, after we have time to grieve.” She offered a sad smile. “We're already discussing a memorial concert.”

“That will be good,” Howard said, striding out the door. “I think a little music to lift our spirits would do us good.”

After the door shut, Frank turned back to Betty.

“I'm so sorry, Betty. I didn't listen to you last night. Maybe if we'd acted sooner…”

Betty looked to her hands folded on her lap. “I don't think it would have mattered. I'm assuming that by the time we realized she wasn't at the Wahnfried she was already—gone.” She then stood and walked to the front window, looking out at the houses and the park across the street. “I'm thankful you're at least challenging the officials to not just accept that it was suicide without looking into it.”

Frank nodded and approached her. “You know what I think. You heard me tell Howard my thoughts. What about you, Betty?” Frank wanted to know her heart. He also wanted to know if she'd heard anything from anyone else. Quiet lips, he was learning, was not standard procedure around here.

“Well.” She sighed. “I'm the only one at the estate who thinks Kat didn't kill herself.”

“Is it because of Edward? Do they all think Kat did this because of his death?”

Betty's eyes widened in surprise. “You know?”

“Yes, Mickey told the MPs this morning—and I was there.”

“Yes, taking photos. I heard. It must have been awful.”

“It was…” He let his voice trail off, thinking of the photos hanging in the darkroom.

Art's footsteps echoed upstairs, in their shared bedroom, and Frank knew it would be better if he and Betty continued their talk elsewhere. He'd most likely have a better chance of Betty opening up if she wasn't worried about someone else overhearing.

“You know, Betty, I think we both want to talk about what happened, but I—I was wondering if you'd like to walk and talk? It's a bit chilly, but I'd feel more free, talking as we walk.”

“Yes, of course.” She stood and buttoned the top button of her jacket. “Fresh air will do me good.”

They walked to the edge of town, past the current shopping district—the area that used to be military barracks but was now flattened by bombing—to the road leading out of town.

When they got to a small street with simple houses, Frank took Betty's hand.

“I'm sorry I couldn't tell you about Edward's death,” she said. “Kat, well, she asked us not to tell.”

“I understand, Betty. It's hard keeping secrets, isn't it?”

Even as Frank said the words, he thought of so many things he couldn't tell her about, including the extra set of photos hanging in the darkroom. Frank had locked the door, and he was pretty sure Art wouldn't try to go in there, but just knowing that two sets hung there made him worry. He was usually more careful than this.

“I have a question, though.” Betty's brow furrowed. “Howard mentioned you didn't see a body in the pond. When was that? What was he talking about?”