Dead Lock (7 page)

23

“Say, is Crawford going to hit the roof,” Andy said as I hung up the phone.

“What are you talking about?” I looked at my watch. “I was here early; it’s a quarter of eight.”

Andy pointed at my legs. “Those,” he said. “Crawford doesn’t allow women to wear slacks in the office.” Looking around the newsroom, I saw five other women; all wearing dresses or skirts. I also noticed they were looking my way. My slacks suit had drawn attention, but not the kind I wanted.

“Oh, yeah? We’ll see about that,” I said. It had taken me a month and a half to talk the
Times
brass into letting women wear slacks in the Detroit office. I didn’t plan to roll over and play dead for Crawford my first day on the job.

My show of defiance backed Andy off, though. “Sorry,” he said, standing up. “I should have kept my mouth shut. Say, it’s not my rule; it’s Crawford’s. Personally, I think your slacks are swell, and Crawford’s out of date. This
is
the Forties, after all. Why, women are doing men’s jobs everywhere.” His face suddenly turned red. “Not that you’re a man ... I mean, it’s just that...”

“I know what you mean,” I smiled. “No harm done.”

Andy found me an unused Royal typewriter along with some paper and pencils, which I placed in the top drawer of my desk. He also brought us coffee from the pot on the table against the wall. Soon we were both sitting, facing each other, sipping from our cups. It didn’t take long for the conversation to turn to the war.

“Do you think General MacArthur’s going to return to the Philippines like he said he would?” Andy asked.

“I wouldn’t bet against him,” I said. “It took an order from President Roosevelt to get him to leave Corregidor. He didn’t want to desert his troops.”

“I just wish I were over there somewhere,” Andy said. “I would be if it weren’t for these.” He pointed to the thick lenses in his wire-rimmed spectacles. His eyesight, or lack of it, had no doubt kept him out of the service. If he lost those glasses in combat he’d likely wind up shooting his own men. “I came darn close to getting in.”

I took another look at those lenses. “You’re kidding.”

“Ron Berry, a guy I grew up with, is stationed at Fort Brady,” Andy said. “Works near the office where they give the physicals. I talked him into writing down the sequence of letters on the eye exam chart. I memorized them.”

“Oh?”

“I took off my glasses and read the chart like I was 20/20,” he said.

“So you fooled them?”

“Not exactly. How was I to know they had switched charts?”

“What happened?”

“The Doc played along for awhile. Told me I didn’t need glasses and wouldn’t give them back.”

“So?”

“What could I do? I finally headed for the door.”

“And?”

“I walked into a broom closet. They retested me on a new chart and I wound up 4-F.”

“Tough luck,” I said, holding back a smile.

“Aw, you think it’s funny, too. Everybody does. I just wish people could see things my way. No pun intended.”

“There are ways other than the Army to serve your country,” I said.

“I suppose that’s true.” Andy looked down at his coffee cup then back to me. “I just wish I could do more here. Every time there’s an assignment that means anything Crawford gives it to one of the older reporters. I get stuck writing about weddings, funerals and errant barrage balloons.”

“Errant barrage balloons?”

“Happens every once in a while. The wind gets hold of them and they break those cables and float away. They found one downstate in Cheboygan just this past May.”

“No kidding?” I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the young guy. He seemed smart enough. Like a lot of bright young people he just needed a chance to show what he could do.

“Why can’t I cover stories like the fellow who just got shipped home from the front?” he said. “Gary Hawes. I went to high school with him. He was wounded at the Kasserine Pass. That story’s a sure bet to make the front page and I should get the assignment. But I’ll probably wind up writing about Mrs. Brinkwater’s gardenias.”

“Gardenias? Who cares about Gardenias?”

Before Andy could answer my question the front door swung open and Jack Crawford came in off the street. “Morning, Brennan,” he called across the room. “C’mon into my office. I’ve got an assignment for you.”

24

I looked at Andy, but he just shrugged. I chose a pencil and a tablet from the stash he had given me and walked across the newsroom into Crawford’s office. As I entered, he was removing his hat and suit coat and hanging them on a pole against the window. Had he noticed my slacks outfit?

“Sit down, please,” he said, motioning to one of the two chairs in front of his desk. I sat, crossing my legs directly in front of him. My slacks stuck out like a red flag, but Crawford said nothing. He sat down at his desk and rolled up both sleeves. I opened the notebook and waited for him to begin.

Would the assignment involve the race riot downstate? Or perhaps the new McArthur Lock? Or would I draw the job of interviewing the soldier just shipped home from the front?

“Gardenias,” Crawford said simply.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Gardenias. You know . . . the flowers?”

“What about them?”
Flowers? What did flowers have to do with my assignment?

“Apparently Mrs. Viola Brinkwater is known all over the Upper Peninsula for her gardenias. They’re extraordinary.”

“I’m sure they are. But...”

Crawford held up his hand. “Your uncle told me that every year about this time the paper does a feature story on Mrs. Brinkwater’s gardenias. How she grows them, her latest gardening awards ... that sort of thing.”

“You want me to write that story.” The way I said it sounded like a statement, not a question.

“Yes I certainly do.”

“Mr. Crawford . . . are you aware of what’s going on downstate? There’s a serious riot happening right now in Detroit.”

“Yes, I know. We have all wire service stories and we’re using them.”

“But what about a local angle? I know people in Detroit, both white and Negro. I can give us some local sidebars.”

Crawford let out a sigh. “Miss Brennan, I know perfectly well what’s happening in Detroit. But this is Sault Ste. Marie; we’re three hundred miles away.”

“But it’s news.”

Crawford held up a hand. “And we’re reporting it, thanks to the Associated Press and United Press wire services.”

Crawford wasn’t going to let me cover the action in my own hometown, but I felt I had to persuade him to let me write about something other than gardenias.

“What about Gary Hawes, the guy who was just shipped home from the Kasserine Pass?” I asked. “That’s going to be a great article.”

“I agree,” Crawford said. “I’m giving it to Chuckles. . . er, Andy Checkle. He went to high school with the kid. Knows him well. Besides he’s worked hard and deserves a break.”

I swallowed hard. “I think he’ll do a swell job,” I said. And meant it.

“Here’s Mrs. Brinkwater’s telephone number,” Crawford tore a sheet of paper from the notebook in front of him and handed it across the desk. “She’s expecting your call.”

I took the paper and got up, heading for the door, when Crawford’s voice rang out again.

“By the way, Brennan. About those slacks. . .”

I whirled to face him, ready for a fight. “What about them?”

“They look great on you.”

I nearly fell over.

25

I reached Mrs. Brinkwater by phone and, discovering that her daughter was in town visiting, I arranged to meet her for an interview the next day.

I spent the morning in the
News
office watching reports from Detroit coming in over the wire, learning my way around the office and getting to know the people who worked here.

Andy Checkle proved to be a great help, showing me where supplies were stored and introducing me to the staff, including two of the four News reporters. I spoke with Carol Olson and Mary Nelson; the other two were out on assignment.

I wrote a couple of articles on local affairs. Pretty dry stuff.

I stopped at the Red Owl on the way home and picked up some groceries: a pound of pork chops, potatoes, chicken, broccoli and milk. I broiled two of the pork chops, baked a potato and steamed the broccoli on the stove. Mick was my sole dinner companion. Shirley had said she wouldn’t be home until after eleven, and would eat her supper at the restaurant.

I listened to the radio as I washed dishes. The news from Detroit wasn’t encouraging. More than 6,000 federal troops were spread over the entire city, virtually shutting it down. Governor Kelly had issued orders closing down all restaurants, taverns and movie houses. Still, pockets of violence flared.

Two rumors fueled the flames of hate. One flourished in Paradise Valley, home of much of Detroit’s Negro population. A man identifying himself as a policeman told patrons of one nightclub that whites had thrown a colored woman and her baby off the Belle Isle bridge the night before.

Another rumor that a Negro man had raped a white woman on the bridge stirred whites into a frenzy.

As I finished the dishes I noticed that Mick had walked over to the back door and was looking at me. I knew what he wanted, so I opened the door and followed him into the backyard. It took him about fifteen seconds to locate a stick of appropriate size and drop it at my feet. I flung it as far as I could and our game was on. Playing stick with Mick seemed exactly what I needed to get my mind off the madness in my beloved hometown.

After fifteen minutes or so, Mick was worn out. I could tell by the way he dropped the stick twenty feet or so away, instead of bringing it to me. He’d let the stick drop and lay there panting, giving himself a chance to rest.

That was fine with me. I went into the house and turned the radio back on. I needed a break from the insanity going on downstate so I tuned in Jack Benny instead of the news. His humor was just what the doctor ordered, and I found myself actually laughing out loud.

I went to bed at 9:30, leaving a light on in the living room for Shirley.

26

I awoke in the darkness, a feeling of uneasiness washing over me. I switched on the lamp by my bed and saw that the alarm clock on the table beside it pegged the time at quarter after one. I sat upright, and noticed light streaming in from under the door.

Pulling the covers off, I got up and walked quickly out into the hall, Mick trailing behind. The single light I had left burning in the living room was still blazing.

“Shirley?”

I called again. Nothing.

Shirley might have stayed at the restaurant for a drink at the bar, but somehow I didn’t think so. She had said rather emphatically that she’d be home right after work.

Something was terribly wrong. I could feel it in my stomach.

I dressed quickly and, leaving Mick to guard the house, I began walking the few blocks to Blades’ place.

As I neared the restaurant, I noticed that a crowd of thirty people or so had gathered around the front door. I started running. I pushed my way through the people, but was stopped by a sheriff’s deputy at the door. I flashed my
Soo Morning News
card and my worst fears were confirmed when I asked him what had happened.

“Shirley Benoit was stabbed,” he said. His red eyes told me the attack had probably been fatal. In a town the size of Sault Ste. Marie everyone knows everyone.

“She’s in the alley out back.”

27

You might think that working the police beat for a big city paper like the
Times
would cause you to be blasé about a murder scene.

You might think that, but you’d be dead wrong. Every murder scene has its own gristly personality: a bashed head, a knife embedded in the corpse, the exit wound of a bullet that makes you swear off eating for two days.

The difference in this case was the body: the corpse of my best friend lay sprawled beneath a canvas cover on the cement of the alley behind Blades LaRue’s. Yellow headlights from two police cars pushed their way through the darkness, illuminating the walls of the buildings on both sides of the alley. A sheriff’s deputy knelt beside Shirley’s body, holding up the edge of the canvas cover while a large, white-haired man who appeared to be in his late fifties held a flashlight. He seemed to be concentrating on her upper torso; from where I stood I couldn’t detect exactly what he saw.

The shock of seeing my friend that way hit me like a cement block dropped from a ten-story building, and I must have looked it. One of the deputies came over and took hold of my arm.

“You can’t stay here, Miss.” He motioned toward Shirley with his head. “There’s been a murder, and the area is off limits to the public.”

I tried to speak, but the words stuck in my throat. I fumbled around in my purse and pulled out the
Morning News
card. My hand shook as I held it up to him.

The deputy took the card and, shining his flashlight on it, examined it quickly and handed it back. “Okay, Miss Brennan, but you’ll have to stand over there.” He pointed toward a small crowd of people at the back doorway of Blade’s Saloon. “We’re waiting for Doc Larsen to complete his examination. I imagine he’ll make an official statement once he’s done over here.”