Don't Die Under the Apple Tree (10 page)

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Authors: Amy Patricia Meade

BOOK: Don't Die Under the Apple Tree
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A petite young woman with light brown hair and a cleanly scrubbed face sat down beside Rosie and immediately undid her shoes. “If that's not shipbuilding we're doing, I'd like to know exactly what it is. My feet are killing me!”
“Oh, it's shipbuilding, all right,” declared a beefy woman with auburn hair as she unwrapped a sandwich and took a bite. “It's just not
their
idea of shipbuilding.”
“I tell ya,” the blonde opined, “between the age of the buildings and the old-fashioned attitudes around this place, it's like we work at a museum. And don't even get me started about the rules. Why, I was a typist at Doubleday, Doran & Company before I came here. No one there squawked if we lit a cigarette at our desks or took a moment to chat with a coworker.”
“If you had it so good there,” challenged the heavyset woman with the sandwich, “then what are you doing here? Why don't you go back?”
“I can't go back. My boss's wife found out I was sleeping with her husband.”
Nelson shook her head and rolled her eyes.
“Don't get all high and mighty with me,” the blonde ordered as she sat down beside Nelson and unpacked her lunch. “I got two pretty decent raises that way. Still, it wasn't as much as I'm making now. Let's face it—that's why we're all here, isn't it? There's no other job in town that pays as much as this one does. You work long and hard for it, but it's not like you wouldn't be working hard anywhere you go these days.”
“And at least here we're working for a good cause,” the petite woman added as she rubbed her feet. “My husband's over there right now. By working here I feel as though I'm helping him somehow.”
The beefy woman placed a comforting hand on the petite woman's back. “You are helping him, honey. You're helping him to come back safe.”
Rosie frowned and extracted her sandwich from the inside pocket of her jacket. The young woman's affection for her husband was so fresh, so new, whereas Rosie's was fading by the day. “How long have you been married ... ? I'm sorry, I don't even know your name. I don't know anyone's name actually.”
“Helen Thompson. Oh! I mean Scarlatti! Helen Scarlatti.” She giggled. “I've been married four weeks and three days. Frankie and I eloped before he shipped out.”
“And barely got to consummate the marriage,” the blonde joked.
“Yes, we did,” Scarlatti blushed. “Well, once.”
“That, my dear, is why you need to start tucking some money away now. So when Frankie comes back, you can surprise him with a French silk negligee (black market, of course) and a room at the Biltmore. I even have some Lucy Agnes Hancock books you can read to prepare you.”
“Oh, good Lord.” The woman with the auburn hair sighed in disgust. She reached a hand across Scarlatti. “Mildred Mason. And Miss Fifth Avenue over there is Jeannie Wolfe.”
Rosie shook Mildred's hand, greeted Jeannie, and then looked at Nelson, who was eating soup from a metal thermos.
“Huh? Oh, the first name's Betty, but you can still call me Nelson.”
“Betty—I mean, Nelson—thinks that if we refer to each other by our last names, the same way the men do, we might get more respect,” Helen explained before biting into an apple.
“Personally, I think you had the right idea, Rosie,” Mildred opined. “Any man gets in our way, we give 'em hell.”
Jeannie lit a cigarette and inhaled. “So, um, did you do it? Did you kill Finch?”
All eyes slid toward Rosie.
“No. No, I didn't.” She went on to explain what had happened in Finch's office as well as her sudden, violent departure.
“That sounds like Finch, all right,” Nelson confirmed.
“Since you've been brave enough to tell us your story, I'll tell you mine. It was last week, during an air raid. I was down in the hull, welding. Scarlatti was at the other end. Well, Finch comes down to ‘inspect what we're doing'—”
“I remember that,” Helen spoke up. “I thought it was strange that he was down there. I didn't think shift supervisors did inspections.”
“They don't. I don't know why he was down there in the first place, but when the air raid sirens went off, he got a few ideas. Real fast.” Nelson's lip quivered as she fought to maintain her composure. “See, even down in the hull we shut the lights down during an alarm. Finch was at my end of the ship when the power went off. He stood right behind me in the dark, put his arms around my waist, and told me that he could do whatever he wanted to me right there and then and that there was nothing anyone would do about it.”
Scarlatti leaped from her spot and, in her stocking feet, rushed to Nelson's side. “Oh, Betty, honey. I had no idea. You must have been so scared.”
“At first. Then I was disgusted. I can still feel his breath on my neck.”
“If I had only known, I would have—”
“I know.”
“Did he ... did he?”
Nelson didn't answer. “After the disgust wore off, I became angry. I remember holding that welding torch and thinking of how I might use it against him. Thank goodness the lights came back on when they did, because I might have ... I might have ...” Nelson looked up at Rosie, her eyes cold and emotionless. “You see now why I said Finch got what was coming to him?”
Rosie returned Nelson's gaze and nodded. She did understand. The anger, the disgust, the thought that she might have ... that
he
might have ...
Before she could say a word, the shipyard whistle blew, signifying that it was time to return to work. The quintet of women picked up their belongings and trudged back to their respective posts.
Rosie climbed the scaffold at Pier Number One to the strains of Kilbride's singing:
O My Dark Rosaleen,
Do not sigh, do not weep!
The priests are on the ocean green,
They march along the deep.
Upon her arrival on the platform, Dewitt predicted in his soft-spoken manner, “He'll be a lot slower now than he was this morning.”
Kilbride, meanwhile, prepared for his afternoon descent into the ship and continued his serenade:
There's wine from the royal Pope,
Upon the ocean green;
And Spanish ale shall give you hope,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
“A lot slower?” Rosie asked of Dewitt.
Dewitt nodded slightly and blinked.
“Say, Rosaleen!” Kilbride, like a young boy, called.
“Your mum ever sing that song to you?”
Rosie answered honestly. “No, because she couldn't carry a tune in a bucket. Oh, and I'm not dark. In case you hadn't noticed.”
“No, you aren't, but your heart is.” Kilbride grabbed his rope swing and carried it up the scaffold to the top of the ship. “Dark with worry.”
In the light of Nelson's confession, the comment was eerily well timed. Kilbride's next remark, however, sent Rosie's mind reeling: “Don't worry. I know you didn't kill Finch, darlin'. If you had murdered that imperialist bastard, I'd ask you to marry me on the spot. Ha, ha!”
With that, Kilbride leaped over the ship's edge and Dewitt began to lower the swing. All the while, the Irishman's voice echoed through the shipyard:
My love shall glad your heart, shall give
you hope,
Shall give you health, and help, and hope,
My Dark Rosaleen!
Chapter Ten
Friday morning saw Katie assaying to squeeze into Rosie's charcoal gray dress. Although far from heavy, the young blonde's figure had become a bit more curvaceous since Charlie's arrival. “I feel like a pork sausage,” she complained.
“You're not,” Rosie reassured as she struggled to pull up the back zipper. “You just had a baby six months ago. You're never going to look exactly the same as you did before.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“And you wouldn't want to. You're beautiful now.” Rosie had managed to get the zipper to approximately an inch from the top. “That's as far as she'll go. Are you sure you don't have anything else to wear?”
“Positive. The black wool dress I wore to Jimmy's service shrunk after Ma tried to wash it. And everything else I own is in a color that's not appropriate for a funeral.”
“Maybe it's a sign that you shouldn't go,” Rosie suggested.
“We went over this last night,” Katie stated as she donned a white cardigan. “There. Can you tell it's not zipped all the way?”
“No. You look fine. I'm just worried about you. It's so soon after Jimmy.”
“Jimmy never had a funeral. He had a memorial service, so this will be different. Besides, given Finch's reputation, I'm not sure how much mourning will be going on.”
“Yeah, but I'd still feel better if I were with you.”
“How? You can't call in sick; you only just got your job back. And let's not forget, you have your own sleuthing to do. You need to find out why Kilbride called Finch ... what he did.” Katie would not repeat the word. “And whether there are other women at the yard who had the same experience as Nelson. Oh, and you need to find out what happened to Jackson, too!”
“I know. But first, I'd better get to work. Good luck,” Rosie bade before running out of the bedroom.
“You, too.”
“Oh.” Rosie peeked her head around the doorframe. “And thank you. For everything.”
Katie smiled her reply and, as soon as Rosie had left, set about the task of dressing Charlie and packing up the necessities for the day before catching the eight o'clock train to Brooklyn.
Upon arriving at the Brooklyn IRT station, she pushed Charlie's carriage the three blocks to the corner of Montague Street and Clinton. There, the bells of The Church of the Holy Trinity, a brownstone Gothic Revival masterpiece, summoned Finch's mourners to mass.
As Katie approached the low front steps, she spotted a familiar man in a gray fedora standing outside, just to the right of the church's heavy double doors. He reached into his jacket pocket and extracted a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches.
Lieutenant Riordan! If either Simonetti or Marie Finch thought she was working with the police, they wouldn't give her the time of day.
Moving as quickly as she could, she bumped the carriage up the steps, causing Charlie to whimper. At the sound, Riordan turned around, but Katie disappeared into the church before he could get a good look at her face.
Whew!
She thought as she paused a moment to let her eyes adjust to the dim lighting of the church's interior. Once her pupils had dilated and the green spots disappeared, Katie was treated to the imposing site of stone walls, fan-vaulted ceilings, pointed arcades, and row upon row of stained glass and clerestory windows.
If Finch was heading into the afterlife to face his final judgment, this was the perfect place to start the journey.
Preferring to sit at the back of the church where she could observe both the service and its attendants, as well as make a hasty exit should Charlie cry or fuss, Katie selected a rear pew seat on the left side of the altar and behind one of the building's many imposing columns. With one hand on the handle of the carriage and the other gripping a handkerchief to conceal her face from Riordan, she kept a watchful eye on the main entrance.
It was not long before the widow, Marie Finch, arrived on the arm of a man in a black morning coat and waistcoat, white shirt, and dark gray tie. He escorted her to the front of the church, stopping every so often so she could thank a particular guest for attending.
Halfway up the aisle, to the right of the altar, sat Simonetti. Katie nearly didn't recognize him without his white butcher's coat and apron. Upon arriving at his pew, Marie Finch shook his hand in greeting. Simonetti stood, bowed, and transferred a small, square, white object from his right hand to hers. So quickly and smoothly did the exchange take place that, unless one were watching intently, as Katie was, it would have been missed.
Marie palmed the item and, with a polite nod to Simonetti, continued her journey to the front of the church. Once she had been seated in the first pew, the gentleman in the black waistcoat bowed and then hastened to the back of the church.
The funeral director
, Katie guessed. Given Marie's sole presence in the front of the church, neither she nor her late husband had relatives attending the service. However, since the church was half full and guests continued to trickle in through the front doors, it was apparent that Marie did have friends ... and perhaps, judging from Katie's conversation with Simonetti, as well as the recent exchange, there was one friend who was closer to her than all the others.
What had Simonetti given to Marie? A note? Couldn't he have waited for a more discreet time to ...?
Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice emanating from her left. “Miss Keefe?”
Katie nearly jumped out of the pew.
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you.”
She looked up to see Lieutenant Riordan standing beside her. He had removed the gray fedora to reveal a thick crop of chestnut brown hair. “How did ... ?”
“Oh,” he said. “I came in through the chapel. I'm friends with the Father; this used to be my beat back in the day. I'm sorry about calling you Miss Keefe, too. I realize that's not your name, but I didn't know how else to address you.”
“That ... that's all right. I'm, um, Katie ... I mean, Mrs. Williams. And your name again?” She knew full well who he was, but thought it best to feign nonchalance.
“Riordan. Lieutenant Jack Riordan. Mind if I sit down, Mrs. Williams?” He squeezed past her and sat next to her.
Katie glanced around nervously. No one seemed to be watching. “Um, no. No, not at all, Lieutenant ...”
“Riordan.” He peered into the carriage and smiled. “What's his name?”
“Charlie. He's, um, he's six months old.”
“I had a great uncle on my mother's side named Charlie. He lived to be almost a hundred. Good strong name.”
“I always thought so.” She expected him to question her presence at the Finch funeral, but instead he leaned back in the pew and waxed philosophical.
“You know, you can tell a lot about the way a man lived by the send-off he receives.”
Katie thought about Jimmy. His body hadn't been recovered from the
Houston
, but if it had, she was positive that the church would have been overflowing with mourners. As it was, the memorial service had drawn the attention of all of Greenpoint.
“See how Finch's widow is sitting by herself,” Riordan pointed out. “That would make you think that the two of them had no children. However, I happen to know that they have a son. He's grown now, twenty-two years of age; lives in Connecticut.”
“Well, where is he?” Katie asked.
“Good question. Could he not afford to make the trip? Or did he dislike his father so much that he couldn't be bothered?”
“Oh! Well, if he felt that way about his father, he might have—” She stopped mid-sentence. This was the man trying to put her sister in jail. She shouldn't be discussing the case with him.
A faint smile crossed Riordan's lips. “I already checked. He was at work all day.”
“Oh,” Katie replied in disappointment.
At the sound of middle C being played upon the massive Skinner organ, the funeral mass commenced. The mourners rose while, to the strains of Verdi's
Requiem
, the pine coffin that carried the body of Robert Finch was wheeled down the center aisle of the church.
Riordan leaned closer to Katie. “Notice how most of the people here are women?” he whispered. “Probably friends of Mrs. Finch, wouldn't you say?”
Katie recalled Simonetti's description of Finch and his many affairs. “Most of them, probably, but some might be—” Once again, she caught herself on the verge of telling Riordan more than she had intended.
Luckily, her sudden silence coincided with the appearance of the priest, who immediately launched into the greeting, followed by a prayer, and then the
Kyrie Eleison.
As the congregation replied to the cleric's chants with the response of “Lord, have mercy,” the main doors of the church opened, piercing the dark Gothic interior with a long shaft of bright light.
Beneath the worshippers' curious stares, the figure in the doorway hastily closed the heavy wooden doors and slid from the center aisle into Katie's pew. Approximately thirty-five years of age, with fair skin and long black hair that had been tucked into a fine mesh snood, she was more exotic than good looking and her gray suit, although well-fitted, showed signs of pilling at the elbows.
With a final, “Lord, have mercy,” the priest signaled the mourners to be seated before he delivered the eulogy. Katie had never before attended a funeral where the deceased's final tribute was spoken by someone who wasn't a close friend or family member, but given Finch's reputation, finding an individual to issue a few kind words would probably have proven difficult. After all, the man was murdered for a reason.
“Today we celebrate the life of Robert Andrew Finch,” the Father announced before expounding upon the details of the man's birth, childhood, and start, as a teen, in the shipbuilding industry. When he went on to describe Finch's role as a “caring, devoted husband and loving father,” one could hear the clearing of throats and the awkward shuffling of feet against the gray stone floors.
More dramatic, however, was the reaction of the mysterious woman seated on the other side of Katie. At the mention of Finch's wife and son, she rose to her feet and opened her mouth as if to speak. But before she could utter a sound, Charlie, in his carriage, let out a loud gurgle, followed by a happy coo.
The dark-haired woman was instantly transfixed by the infant. She watched as Katie lifted the baby from the carriage and cradled him in her arms, the expression on her face shifting from anger to surprise, and then, finally, grief. As quickly as she had risen from her seat, the woman took off down the church aisle and out the arched church doors.
A dumbfounded Katie flashed a quizzical glance at Riordan.
Surely someone should follow the woman.
Yet there the lieutenant sat, his only reaction a vague shrug.
Leaving Riordan to watch the carriage—the only task for which he seemed prepared—Katie slid out of the pew and, balancing Charlie in her left arm, pushed through the Gothic church doors with her right. Outside, she spotted the mysterious woman with her back leaned against the church and her face in her hands.
At the sound of Katie's footsteps on the pavement, she looked up and walked hastily down Montague Street, her scuffed black pumps clicking against the cement sidewalk that ran alongside the church.
With Charlie in tow, Katie took off in pursuit and called after her. In keeping with her gentle, somewhat retiring nature, Katie's voice was soft and quiet. “Hey,” she said in a near-shout, to no effect. She had to talk to her. She had to find out who she was and why she was at the funeral. Rosie's life depended upon it.
With a renewed sense of urgency, Katie drew a deep breath and released the air over her vocal cords with all the force she could muster. “Hey!”
The sound surprised Charlie, prompting him to cry, but it had also stopped the mysterious woman in her tracks. She turned on one heel and faced Katie.
“I just wanted to give you a handkerchief and see if you were all right.” Katie extracted a lace-trimmed hankie from the pocket of her cardigan sweater and dangled it from her extended arm.
The woman drew closer and accepted the square piece of fabric. “Thank you. I ... I'm sorry you had to shout like you did. I'm sorry you had to make him cry.”
Katie smoothed her son's fine, silky hair over his forehead and rocked him back and forth. Within a matter of seconds, the child quieted down. “He was just frightened. See? He's already better. You, on the other hand ...”
“I'm okay.”
“Really? You didn't strike me as okay.”
“I just ...” Her voice trailed off as her eyes slid toward Charlie. “I don't know why I'm talking to you. I don't know you.”
“Who better to talk to than a stranger?” Katie reasoned. “At least you know I won't be biased. Besides, I know how emotional funerals can be. You see, my husband passed away recently.”

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