Don't Die Under the Apple Tree (13 page)

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Authors: Amy Patricia Meade

BOOK: Don't Die Under the Apple Tree
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“First, I'll thank you very much to put down that lunch bucket.”
Without realizing it, she had lifted her left arm and appeared ready to wield the galvanized steel bucket at a moment's notice. Reluctantly, she squatted and placed the bucket onto the boards with a thump.
“Much obliged,” Kilbride said in a mocking tone.
“And now that I can be sure you're not going to cream me, I ought to tell you that you'd best be watching yourself around here. Some folk don't take kindly to having you nose around in their secrets. Trust me, I know of what I speak.”
The reply caught her off guard. “A warning? You've grabbed me by the wrist and scared the bejesus out of me just to issue me a warning? Call me ungrateful, but you have a funny way of showing your concern.”
“My relationships with the fairer sex have taught me a great many things. None of them more important than the fact that reason and politeness don't work with stubborn redheaded women.” Kilbride kissed the hand that was within his grip and relinquished it with a smile before launching into song:
All day long, in unrest,
To and fro, do I move.
The very soul within my breast
Is wasted for you, love!
Her mind awash with both confusion and more than a bit of fear, she watched as Kilbride lowered himself over the ship's hull:
The heart in my bosom faints
To think of you, my Queen,
My life of life, my saint of saints,
My Dark Rosaleen!
My own Rosaleen!
Chapter Twelve
Rosie spent the rest of the afternoon eagerly anticipating the four o'clock whistle that signified the end of her shift and the start of the next. She wondered what would come from her visit to Shelby Jackson. Would the young Negro woman open her door to a white woman who was a veritable stranger? Or, having heard of Rosie's fight with Finch, would Jackson feel safe disclosing the reason behind her isolation?
And what if that reason was murder? What if Jackson had lured Finch to the docks and then killed him? Rosie would need to contact the police, but Dewitt had made it clear that Jackson had no phone service in her apartment.
Rosie frowned and wondered if she should call Lieutenant Riordan before leaving the shipyard and ask him to meet her and Dewitt at Jackson's home. But she quickly rejected the idea. The object of the meeting was to get Jackson to open up about Finch and her sudden disappearance. Bringing a tall, intimidating police lieutenant would be counterproductive to that aim.
Besides, she still hadn't decided whether she should trust Riordan. For all she knew, he'd take over the interview with Jackson and use those answers to point the finger of guilt back at Rosie.
No, she resolved as the four o'clock whistle blew, Riordan should definitely not be informed of this visit. If it turned out that Jackson was, indeed, Finch's killer, she'd just have to figure out, then and there, how to proceed.
Wishing to avoid another possible confrontation with Kilbride, Rosie gave a nod to Dewitt and descended the scaffold before the Irishman's platform could be raised to the top of the hull. After a quick stop in the holding area ladies' room to splash water on her face and strengthen her resolve, she moved to the front gate to meet Dewitt.
Alas, it wasn't Dewitt she encountered, but Kilbride. His work shirt having been removed in order to keep cool under the combined heat of sun and steel, he stood in his white sleeveless undershirt, his slightly sunburned shoulders and biceps resting against the shipyard fence.
The sight was not altogether displeasing, yet Rosie felt compelled to look away.
“Oh, I do apologize. I've offended your delicate ladylike sensibilities,” he stated and, with a smirk, donned his blue denim work shirt. “So where is my Rosaleen off to on this soft spring evenin'?”
“I'm not your Rosaleen. I'm not
your
anything. And you should be more concerned about putting your tools away at the end of the day instead of where I'm going.”
“Don't ya be worryin' that pretty head of yers. I left my rivet gun in the toolshed, just as I should.” He glanced upward as if in an effort to recall his actions. “At least I think I did, anyways. So, where are you off to?”
“I'm going for a walk and then home for supper.”
“Might ya be interested in some company on your walk? I promise not to sing, unless, of course, ya'd fancy me to.”
Rosie's felt her face grow warm.
The insolence!
“I most certainly would not!”
“Is it the walkin' or the singin' that offends ya?”
“Both! I'm a married woman, Kilbride.”
“I'm well apprised as to your marital status, my darlin' Mrs. Keefe. And though I find ya more than worthy of my romantic attentions, my invitation was for your benefit.”
“
My
benefit? A bit full of yourself, don't you think?”
“Hmph. Suit yourself, darlin'. After our conversation this afternoon and your diggin' about, I thought ya might feel safer with an ornery Mick at your side. But if you're going to be cheeky about it ...”
Rosie's jaw dropped.
“What's the matter, Mrs. Keefe? Disappointed that I'm not the scoundrel everyone makes me out to be?” he said with a gleam in his eye.
“No, not disappointed. As for you not being a scoundrel ... well, I ... I wouldn't go quite as far as that,” she stated quietly.
Kilbride responded with a raucous laugh. “Right ya are and smart as well for recognizin' it. And since we're speakin' plainly, before ya go asking questions about me and Finch, I'll tell ya the truth, right here, face to face: I despised the man. Loathed him.”
“That's a fairly strong sentiment.”
“Finch was the sorta fella that brought out strong sentiments.”
“Why?”
“He was a cruel bastard, that's why. They'd hang people in the old country for the things he did. I'm thinkin' ya knew enough about the man to agree.”
Rosie recalled the day in Finch's office.
Was Kilbride aware of the fact that Finch had tried to ...
“The look on your face tells me I'm right,” he said.
“How do you ... ?”
“Because Finch did the same thing to someone I knew. Someone dear to me. Only she hadn't your strength, Rosaleen. She hadn't the strength to fight him off.”
“Was she your ... wife?”
“Nay, but she might have been—in time.” The strong, bold features of Kilbride's face softened into a hint of a smile, not the taunting smile he often displayed on the scaffold but a smile of genuine tenderness and affection. “She was beautiful. Long, blond hair; sweet disposition ... She came here to bring me lunch. A surprise, it was.”
“Lunch?”
“It shocks ya to know I ate in those days, eh?”
Rosie shrugged. “I hadn't noticed you didn't eat now.”
“Liar,” he stated blandly.
She grinned. “What was her name?”
“Molly. Margaret was her Christian name, but I called her Molly.”
“You loved her.”
“I did.”
“What happened?”
“She came here. Cold autumn day. She made lamb stew, best in the city. So in love was she that she poured some into a tin and walked here to bring it to me. That's the kind of woman she was. Of course, when Finch saw her, he decided to have a pull.”
Rosie's face was a question.
“He flirted with her.”
“Oh.”
Kilbride's eyes flashed with an intensity Rosie had never before witnessed in a man. “But that weren't enough for a sod like Finch. No. He walked her out of the yard and asked to escort her home. She turned him down as well as she could—she weren't the forceful type. Still, he followed. The more she said no, the more persistent and angry he got. A few blocks from here he shoved her into an alley, placed a hand over her mouth, and ...”
“I'm sorry, Clinton.” The use of his first name caused the man to look up in surprise. Rosie reared back. “Oh! I didn't mean to ...”
“Ya didn't. It was ... I ... I just haven't heard anyone call me by anything other than my last name in a very long time, 'tis all.”
After a few moments of awkward silence, Rosie picked up the conversation. “Did Molly call the police and tell them what he had done?”
“No. She were too ashamed.”
“What—what happened to Molly? I notice you talk about her in the past tense.”
“She went out of her head. Completely out of her head. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't think. Couldn't do anything. She so wanted peace, she took a sleeping draught, and then another, and yet another ... After a few minutes, she fell asleep and never woke up again.”
Rosie felt the flesh on her arms rise into bumps and tears well in her eyes. She felt terrible for Kilbride and Molly. And yet, as selfish as it might seem, she couldn't shake the fact that what happened to Molly might have happened to her. She struggled to find the right words. “That's ... I ...”
Kilbride looked her squarely in the eyes. “Ya needn't say it, darlin'. I know.”
“I'm so sorry. So very, very sorry.”
“Ya have no reason. Molly wouldn't have been at the yard if it weren't for me.”
“Don't even think that! What happened wasn't your fault.”
“It is. I knew she was weak, I could have ... I should have ... I'm mighty glad ya had the strength to fight him off, Rosaleen. I just hope you're dat lucky when you run into Finch's murderer.”
Rosie's eyes grew wide. “You mean ... you mean you don't think I did it?”
“I know ya didn't do it. Just as I know I didn't do it. If either of us had, we'd 'ave done far worse than crack his bloody head open.”
Dewitt emerged from the gate and stood behind Rosie, his arms folded across his chest.
“Hmm,” Kilbride said. “Looks to me like ya already got a bodyguard, eh, Rosaleen? No harm done, Wilson me lad. The lady and I were only havin' a chat.”
Katie turned around to see the tall Negro man. “Huh? Oh no, he's not—”
“Nope. Can't say I blame ya. True, I'd fight to the death to protect ya from the nefarious characters of Brooklyn, but the real question is who'd be around to protect ya from the likes of me?”
With that, he kissed Rosie's hand, bade Dewitt good evening, and made his way down Beard Street singing loudly:
Ma'am dear, did ye never hear of pretty Molly Brannigan?
In troth, then, she's left me and I'll never be a man again.
Not a spot on my hide will a summer's sun e'er tan again
Since Molly's gone and left me here alone for to die.
Rosie sighed heavily, prompting Dewitt to ask, “You okay, ma'am?”
“Yeah, just tired.”
“Kilbride can do that to ya.”
“He certainly can.” She chuckled.
“If you're too tired, we can go tomorrow. Saturday's a half day.”
“No,” Rosie declined. She was eager to speak with Jackson and possibly clear her name. “Let's go now. I'm not that tired and I have things to do tomorrow afternoon.”
She trod off through the Pushey Shipyard gates only to look back and see Dewitt still standing against the fence. “Aren't you coming?”
“You go first. I'll follow and give you directions as we go.”
Rosie backed up. “Why are you following me? Why not just walk alongside me?”
“Oh, I couldn't do that. I couldn't let you be seen walkin' nexta me. Nexta a Negro man? People would talk.”
“Wilson Dewitt, I have spent the last week being pelted with rivets, assaulted by my boss, interrogated by the police, and being serenaded by a drunken Irishman. Being called a ‘darkie lover' or ‘Negro sympathizer' or some other mean-spirited name used by narrow-minded people is the least of my concerns.”
Dewitt shook his head.
“When we're up on the scaffold we work side-by-side, don't we?” she argued. “Neither of us is better than the other.”
“That's different.”
Rosie waved her hands impatiently. “All right. Fine. I'm tired of arguing with you. We won't walk together, but instead of you following, wouldn't it be easier if you led the way?”
“Maybe, but I'd feel better you goin' first just the same. I can keep an eye on you that way.”
“You think I'm going to run away?”
Dewitt laughed. “You might when you see that you're the only white person in the neighborhood.”
From the shipyard, Dewitt directed Rosie to the nearest B61 bus stop. After a short ride on a northbound vehicle (where Dewitt rode in the row behind Rosie) they connected with the B52 line, which they rode to the corner of Gates and Throop Avenues.
Since the completion of the subway line between Harlem and Bedford in 1936, the neighborhood of Bedford-Stuyvesant (named for Bedford's expansion into Stuyvesant Heights) had seen an influx of Negroes who had left Harlem in search of greater, and less expensive, housing options.
Rosie and Dewitt walked a few blocks to the Putnam Avenue brownstone apartment occupied by Shelby Jackson and her ten-year-old son. As they approached, however, they were both surprised to see a tall man in a gray fedora standing outside.
Rosie stopped dead in her tracks.
First Kilbride. Now this.
Lieutenant Riordan stepped out from the shadows cast by the long row of circa 1890s apartment buildings and tipped his hat. “Hello.”
“Hello,” Rosie replied, although it sounded more like a question.
Dewitt leaned forward. “Who's that?” he whispered.
“Lieutenant Riordan. He's on the Finch case.”
“The police? I didn't know the cops were gonna be here.”
“Neither did I.”
“I ain't bringing the cops to Shelby's door. I don't want her to think that I—” Dewitt didn't stick around to finish the sentence. As Riordan approached, he turned on one heel and ran back down the street.

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