A Star for Mrs. Blake (34 page)

They were rusted tight.

He applied more pressure.

Grimacing, he twisted harder. Bobbie moaned.

“Where is it?” shouted a man in French.

Startled, Hammond almost dropped the whole assembly. Émile was standing a few paces away, bravely offering a bucket of water.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Hammond demanded, also in French. “These things can blow on impact!”

“Those fucking Germans. This happens every day—”

“Get something to cut these wires. Hurry!”

Émile set the bucket down and ran back toward the road.

“And watch where you step! There’s live shit all over the place.”

Hammond turned back to the corroded top of the grenade. His fingers were slick with sweat. The orange rust came off in his hands. It was hopeless. He needed a demolitions expert. Or at least a wrench. He set everything down and waited for Émile. The sun was low in the grass. It was coming on evening and a veil of jumpy insects had appeared over the field. Or had they been drawn by the proximity of death? he wondered grimly. He jammed some sticks into the ground and hung his jacket over them, creating a bit of shade for Mrs. Olsen. Her breath was sounding shallow and her thin lips sucked like a baby’s.

The driver returned with a pair of rusty garden shears that barely closed.

“Thank you,”
said Hammond in French.
“Now get lost! And get those women on the bus and far away.”

Émile’s weathered face looked grave but he didn’t argue. With a somber tip of his cloth cap, he was gone.

Hammond tried to keep his thoughts away from everything but the puzzle that lay before him. It was a purely mechanical problem. It could be solved. All he had to do was follow the knots, like untangling Christmas lights. He would do this slowly and deliberately, no matter how long it took—there were still hours of daylight left. He had to use both hands to manipulate the rusty shears. He made three careful snips in the barbed wire and pried it loose. All of it came away except one batch still hooked on the pull cord of the grenade. Snaking a hand through, Hammond attempted to free the last piece and slashed a finger on a barb, producing a spurt of blood and stinging pain. His hand jerked involuntarily. The pull cord yanked at the detonator, where the spoon had been. He held his breath.

They were safe.

Then the thing started smoking.

Wildly he cut through the rest of the wire, grabbed the wooden handle, pulled it loose, and hurtled the grenade with all his strength, end over end into the sky, throwing his body across Bobbie’s. Three seconds later, the earth erupted. There was a flash of fire and a booming explosion that was heard two miles away. The shock waves filled his body and clogged his ears. The pilgrims were already on the bus with the motor running when the blast went off. The whole thing shook. Two windows shattered. Glass flew as they screamed and crouched down in the aisle.

When it was quiet they lifted their heads, pulling themselves up stiffly, asking if everyone was all right. There were torn stockings and scraped knees. Émile had turned off the engine and stumbled outside, a hand to his scalp where he was bleeding from being knocked against a pole. One by one the others ventured out clutching their purses. Émile tried to help them down from the bus. Wilhelmina, tall and solid on her feet, took that job as Lily tended to Émile’s wound from her Red Cross bag.

They looked across the road. There was no sound, no movement but the shushing of the grass. Cora felt the world shut down. Her whole body trembled as if it couldn’t support the weight of everything anymore, and finally she gave in to tears.

Someone put an arm around her. It was Minnie.

“No more bangs, that’s a good sign, yes? They’ll be okay. Keep thinking,
God is good, they’ll be okay
.”

Just then Hammond emerged from the meadow carrying Bobbie in his arms, both of them tattered, bloodied, filthy, and alive. No war heroes ever had a more emotional welcome, as the mothers surrounded them with tears of joy and cheers of relief, like a regular homecoming parade.

“Please put me down,” Bobbie said. “I feel ridiculous.”

Lily supported her as she gingerly found her feet. “Easy on the knee.”

“I can walk.”

They helped her to stand.

“Okay?” Hammond asked.

“Marvelous. Thank you. What a guy, right, girls?”

The women applauded with whistles and hoots.

“You should have seen it,” Bobbie said. “He threw that nasty old thing away like Babe Ruth himself.”

“Not at all.” Hammond blushed beneath the ruddy sunburn, dirt, and sweat.

Lily gave him a punch on the arm. “Aces up. Brilliant job.”

Minnie fanned her bosom with her pocketbook. “See? I told you.”

Katie laughed and poked him in the chest. “You’re going to get a medal,
right here
!”

“Mrs. Olsen was the brave one,” Hammond said.

“Mrs. Olsen needs to rest,” Lily said firmly.

Wiping her eyes, Cora came forward and took her friend’s arm. “Come on, Bobbie. Let’s go on the bus and sit down.”

“Horsefeathers!” Bobbie declared. “What a story this will make at my bridge club! Now—where’s the rest of that Champagne?”

At once both her legs gave out and she collapsed into a net of loving arms that eased her to the ground. Lily pulled smelling salts from the Red Cross bag and put them under Bobbie’s nose but there was no response. She wasn’t breathing. Lily tried chest compressions but nothing changed. The women grabbed for one another—hands, arms, skirts—whatever was closest—holding tight in a protective circle. Lily grabbed a stethoscope from the bag and probed for a heartbeat, but Bobbie’s face had settled into stony silence. Lily looked up and her moist eyes were filled with terror.

Wilhelmina nodded. “I’ve seen this before. She’s left us.”

“No!” said Hammond wildly. “It can’t be!”

Cora rocked Bobbie’s shoulders. She rocked harder, but she knew.

They stared down at the motionless body.

Lily had an iron grip on Hammond’s forearm. “Thomas—?”

He couldn’t answer. He was sobbing.

Émile climbed in and started up the bus but nobody would leave Bobbie. Hammond composed himself and helped Lily cover her with a picnic blanket. The rest sat down against the trees in the dusk.

“We’ll go to the cemetery tomorrow,” Katie said numbly, and the rest simply nodded.

Émile drove back to the market where he’d gotten the gas. A phone call was placed to the police station in Cheppy, and an hour later a patrolman arrived in a dust-covered sedan, followed by an ambulance. Lily helped the dazed women back onto the bus. Mechanically they sorted out sweaters and hats and articles from purses that had been strewn about after the explosion. Staring into the dark they rode back to the hotel, while Hammond stayed and made his report.

General Perkins arrived in Verdun by motorcar from Paris before noon. He wore the same olive-drab riding jacket and high leather boots, but this time his sharp features were set with displeasure rather than welcome, and the insignias of power sewn into the uniform seemed far from merely decorative. Straight-backed, he trotted up the hotel steps followed by his aides-de-camp. Lieutenant Hammond and Lily were waiting at the door, exactly where he’d welcomed the pilgrims days before with warm words and a handshake. Hammond saluted but the general kept going.

“All activities are suspended,” he said. “Nobody is to leave the hotel.”

He strode past Lily without a nod. Inside, the German family hovered nervously, the son standing guard beside his father in the wheelchair. With a few terse words, the aides had arranged for a room to serve as the command post for the inquiry into the unexpected death of Mrs. Genevieve “Bobbie” Olsen. The French police would no doubt be involved, but for now the matter was in American hands. Hearing the word
enquête
made the wife behind the counter visibly cringe. Coffee was arranged.

“Lieutenant Hammond? Please come in,” Perkins said, opening a door to a room off the lobby. “Nurse? I’ll see you later.”

“Yes, sir,” Lily said, but Perkins ignored the reply, motioning the lieutenant to come inside.

They were using the parlor, a dank corner with fern-green wallpaper carpeted with purple flowers like an overgrown swamp. It was outfitted with broken-down wicker tables and chairs and a scarred upright piano. One wall was taken up by a heavy, ornate gold-framed
mirror; the kind featured in horror movies, Hammond noted, where the hero peers into the glass and sees himself reflected as a ghoul.

“Sit down, Hammond,” the general said, lighting a pipe. “This is unfortunate.”

“Very sad, sir.”

“Do you know who Mrs. Olsen was?”

“Yes, sir. She was a very nice woman.”

“I’m talking about her background.”

“She came from a wealthy family in Cambridge. She was interested in art, and—”

“It’s a bit more than that, Hammond. Her grandfather built the New England railroad. She comes from one of the richest families in the country. You know what that means?”

Hammond searched for the answer and found his voice had shriveled to a chirp. “It will be in the papers?”

Perkins tossed the dead match into an ashtray. “Correct.”

Hammond cleared his throat. “I take responsibility, sir.”

“How is that?”

“Mrs. Olsen had been drinking, sir.”

“Drinking?”

“Champagne. It was provided by the hotel … for a picnic.”

“What are you saying? That she died from an overdose of Champagne?”

“I don’t know, but she also—”

Perkins interrupted with a cold laugh. “In that case, Hammond, why fight the Germans? Why not invite them over for hors d’oeuvres?”

He got up and paced, smoke trailing behind him, so that the small room became filled with the sickly sweet smell of Revelation pipe tobacco.

“Don’t be so quick to hang yourself, Hammond. You’re a hero, don’t you know? You risked your life to defuse a fucking German stick bomb and save a Gold Star Mother. The fact that she succumbed afterward, well, that was an unforeseen outcome, but goddamnit, you did your part. You’re a poster boy for the American soldier. If anybody
asks, it was a tragic incident that in no way reflects on the U.S. Army or the pilgrimages.”

Hammond considered this. The patrol officer from Cheppy had been a tall, skinny youth his age, with a curved back, graceless face, and light brown mustache, who looked more like a delivery boy than a cop.
“Chance dure, ami,”
he’d said nervously. He seemed to want assurance from the man in the U.S. Army uniform with the gold bar that things were under control, which is what Hammond had hoped in vain to get from his French counterpart. The two ambulance drivers who took care of the body were older, matter-of-fact, and shook Hammond’s hand before driving off. None of them questioned the circumstances.

“The police were cooperative, sir,” Hammond replied.

“Good. Our mission here in France is to show the U.S. Army in the best light. And certainly not to ruffle the waters with our allies.” Perkins knocked the pipe against his palm, emptying the bowl into the ashtray. “The only remaining question will be cause of death.”

Hammond’s heartbeat spiked. It was the question that had kept him up last night, examining the scenario piece by piece to be certain there was nothing he had done that showed dereliction of duty. Still, he readied himself for a grilling. He would hold his ground.

“How did she get into that field?”

“Mrs. Olsen went there of her own volition, sir. I expressly warned them to stay on our side of the road because there was known to be unexploded ordnance in the area. She disobeyed my orders.”

“I doubt a woman like Mrs. Olsen took orders from anyone.”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

“What was she doing there?”

“She wanted to sketch a flower.”

This drew a wry look from General Perkins. Mrs. Olsen’s imperious behavior did not surprise him in the least.

“I believe I was quite clear. I have witnesses—”

“Take it easy, Hammond,” Perkins interrupted. “No need to start turning over rocks. We go through the motions of an investigation, and then it’s just a matter of paperwork. The faster we get Mrs. Olsen’s body back to the family, the sooner this is over. Once the
French medical examiner signs off, it’s out of our hands. All we need are the medical records.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll get them right away.”

Lily had been sitting in the lobby in a cracked leather armchair, rereading her notations on Mrs. Olsen while nervously waiting to be called. She was fairly sure the poor woman died of cardiac failure but there was nothing to back that up—no indication of previously existing heart disease. If there had been, her family doctor would not have allowed her to make the trip or, depending on the diagnosis, would have prescribed nitroglycerine or at least a sedative. But there wasn’t anything like that on the medical form. It came down to the fact that Mrs. Olsen had been sixty-five, the oldest person on the pilgrimage. She died of natural causes due to nervousness and exertion; certainly the general could see that.

It was the other matter, their brief assignation by the river, that was much more troubling. She had confidence in her nursing care; it was Perkins she was worried about. That kiss made her vulnerable. She sat there berating herself for not reacting even faster than she had. She’d hesitated half a second—shocked, pulled in, flattered—until her brain woke up and she pushed him away. The iciness she’d felt when he arrived frightened her. Was it because she’d turned him down? Was he going to take it out on her now? It was little comfort to recall that he’d boasted about garroting a man in the Philippines without a blink.