Tradition of Deceit (18 page)

Then he noticed the mugs themselves: tall, cream-colored, and adorned with two blue roosters and
Polish Fest 1982
. He pulled the chicken card out of his pocket one more time. “Mrs. D, does this mean anything to you?”

She took it from him. “It's quite pretty.”

“Somebody found it and gave it to me. Does it look like a Polish design?”

She nodded. “Oh, yes. It reminds me of old Polish paper cutting.”

“
Wycinanki
?”

She beamed. “Yes! That's it exactly.”

Twenty-Six
October 1920

“That's pretty, Lidia,” Sue
said. “What is it?”

“
Wycinanki
.” Lidia stood back to admire the paper cutting she'd just tacked over the door in No Man's Land. “My grandmother made it. It hung over the front door while I was growing up, like a blessing on everyone who came inside.”

“I like it,” one of the other girls chimed in. “But don't you want to put it up at your house?”

“I figured a little extra cheer here at the mill wouldn't be a bad thing,” Lidia said lightly. She didn't add that her husband wouldn't tolerate any hint of “old-world nonsense.”

“I'll take all the blessings I can get,” Sue agreed. “I declare, Lidia, you have transformed our lounge into the prettiest parlor in Minn-
eapolis.”

Lidia gazed with pleasure at the women's room. She missed the overflowing window boxes and bursting gardens lovingly tended by the Bohemian Flats women. But Thomas—he insisted on the American spelling now—wasn't fond of flowers either, so she'd brought gardens indoors here by planting geraniums in cans in front of the windows. When one of the girls mentioned getting new curtains, Lidia had asked for the old ones. After mending a few frayed hems, she'd embroidered more flowers on the panels and hung them over the windows here. Putting up the
wycinanki
Mama had given her as wedding gift added the final touch of charm.

Well, no, she corrected herself. The real charm lay in the name of this place: No Man's Land. All the girls came here to eat lunch, play the piano, giggle and sigh over movie and fashion magazines, knit and crochet. They planned outings and celebrated engagements. It was pleasant here. It was safe.

“Will you be able to join us for the croquet tournament on Sunday afternoon?” Sue asked.

“It's such a busy time,” Lidia said. “My garden—”

“Oh, do come.” Sue tipped her head, giving Lidia a pleading look. “You never join us anymore. Surely you can pull weeds another day.”

“It's not that I wouldn't love to come,” Lidia added honestly.
“I'll have to let you know.”

“Well, I'm ready for a picnic,” Sue said. “All my fiancé wants to talk about is the union and all the trouble with managers.”

Harriet, who worked in the bag factory, came through the door in time to hear that last. “
Labor and capital are partners, not enemies
,” she quoted sarcastically. “Does anyone actually believe that?” She tossed the question out like a dare, but she smiled, too. Harriet was a tall redhead, opinionated and bold and full of fun. Some might not agree with her views, but everyone liked her.

“What does Thomas think, Lidia?” Sue asked.

Lidia hesitated. The labor struggles Mama had worried about were growing. The National War Labor Board had recently ordered all the mill owners in Minneapolis to negotiate with their employees. The mill managers told workers to elect representatives to meet with directors about safety concerns and other workplace issues. Very few Washburn-Crosby employees had bothered to vote. Most didn't believe the Labor Board's ruling would actually lead to cooperative discussions between workers and employers.

“He doesn't say much about it,” Lidia said, which wasn't true. Thomas had been furious about the low turnout. “We have to give management a chance,” he'd fumed, stalking back and forth across their parlor floor. Lidia didn't agree, but she didn't say so, even here with her friends.

“The union men say the representatives won't have any actual power,” Harriet said. “The company men will listen and nod and then do nothing. It's all a pretense.”

Lidia knew that Grandfather Pawel thought it was all pretense as well. She reached for her empty lunch bag. “I best be off.”

She left the lounge before anyone else could add their entreaties. Her shift was over, but her husband had two more hours to work, so she made her way to the massive dust collectors on the eighth floor. She found Thomas eyeing a rotating auger overhead, arms crossed. When he saw her he held out one arm, squeezed her close against him, and kissed her cheek. “There's my beautiful girl.”

She kissed him back. “Trouble with the dust collectors today?”

“Listen. Hear that?” Thomas understood these machines the way her mother understood zinnias and roses.

She listened dutifully. “I think so.”

“Just a small adjustment …”

Lidia had never gotten used to watching her husband make repairs with mechanical parts grinding and belts rattling at high speed. Accidents were all too common. The men joked—without humor—that after flour and lumber, the city's biggest business was the production of artificial limbs.

She waited until Thomas was wiping his wrench with a greasy rag before speaking. “Some of the girls have planned a croquet tournament for Sunday afternoon,” she said, striving for an off-hand tone. “I thought we might go.”

“Sunday is the only day I get you all to myself.”

“I like that too, but just this once …”

“
No.” He shook his head. “We'll go window-shopping downtown instead. You can pick out a new hat.”

Lidia didn't want a new hat. She wanted to play croquet. “But Thomas, I—”

“You will not defy me, Lidia!” He hurled the wrench to the floor with a harsh clang.

Lidia felt her heart thump against her ribs. She stared at her husband, too shocked by his sudden rage to speak.

His fists slowly uncurled. He picked up the wrench and put it back in the toolbox.

“I … I've got cucumbers to pickle,” Lidia said. “Do you mind if I head home a bit early today?” With a side trip to Bohemian Flats on the way, she thought. She wanted to visit Mama and Grandfather Pawel. It had been too long.

“Don't go yet. I like your company.”

Lidia opened her mouth to protest, but swallowed the words. She didn't want to provoke another outburst. “Very well. I'll stay.”

Thomas gave her a satisfied smile. “I imagine every wife wishes she was so lucky as to have an adoring husband.”

Lidia leaned against the wall, shifting her weight to ease one knee, then the other. She'd been on her feet packing flour sacks all day. Sometimes while keeping Thomas company she could find a crate or bench to perch on, but here there was nowhere to sit. Still, she couldn't complain. Some of her friends lamented that within a few months of marriage, their husbands didn't seem to care if they spent time together or not. Sad thought.

“Yes, Thomas,” Lidia said. “Every wife should be so lucky.”

Twenty-Seven

Mrs. D studied the
chicken card. “A couple of the ladies at church still sell paper cuttings at the holiday bazaar. They say peasant women in the old country made designs to brighten up their little hovels. All they had was sheep shears in those days.”

“I understand that chickens aren't common, though,” Roelke said.

“Well, no, I don't recall ever seeing chickens before.” She looked pensive. “But the flowers—those look real familiar.”

“How about the word
Małgorzata
?”

“
Małgorzata
is a girl's name. The Polish form of Margaret.”

“Well, hunh.” Dobry had been
way
off. Of course, Dobry was also what, third-generation Polish? Evidently his vocabulary wasn't so good. Roelke was glad that he'd double-checked, but the new translation didn't help. He had no idea why this card might have two women's names on it. He had no idea if the card had anything to do with
anything
.

They drank their tea and ate their cookies and were talking of changes in the neighborhood when Donny came home. He looked startled to see Roelke, but then he smiled. “Hey! It's Officer Mc­Kenna!” Donny tossed his coat onto a hook by the door.

The kid never did hold a grudge, even back when Roelke had been the one hauling his sorry ass into the station. “Good to see you, Donny. I uFnderstand you've got yourself a job.”

“I do, yes sir.”

“See if you can hang onto it, all right? Don't give your mother any more grief.”

“I won't,” he said, so cheerfully that it almost sounded believable. “You coming back to work here?”

“Officer McKenna is just visiting,” his mother explained. “He came back to the old neighborhood to pay his respects to Officer Almirez.”

Donny sobered. “Oh, yeah, that was
bad
. Right there by Kozy Park. Was he undercover, do you think?”

“No, he was in uniform and walking his regular beat,” Roelke said. Honestly, this kid was just not too bright.

Donny shrugged. “Well, last week I saw him out of uniform up north of Mitchell Street. I tried saying hello, but he dissed me.”

Roelke's knee began to bounce. “He dissed you? That doesn't sound like Rick.”

“I know! I mean, he had to take me in a few times, but that doesn't mean a guy can't be friendly, right? But when I said ‘Hey,' he acts all like he doesn't know who I am. So I said, ‘Hey! Officer Almirez!' And he says, ‘Wrong guy, buddy,' and just keeps walking.”

“You're sure it was Officer Almirez?” Mrs. D asked.

“Ma, the guy arrested me three or four times, so I do know what he looked like.” Donny gave Roelke a
Sheesh, can you believe that lady?
look. “I was kind of pissed, but then I figured he must be working undercover, right? Like on TV. If I'd known, I never woulda said his name out loud like that.”

“So, where exactly was it that you saw him?” Roelke asked.

“Near St. Stanislaus.” Donny looked proud. “I've got a new lady, and she lives on the corner there.”

Not part of Rick's beat. “What time did you see him?”

Donny shrugged. “It was after dark. That must have been why he felt safe walking down the sidewalk, hunh? He probably figured that nobody would recognize him away from his usual turf.” He looked from Roelke to his mom and back again, clearly pleased. “Undercover, eh? Pretty cool.”

But Rick didn't work undercover, Roelke thought. Or did he keep me in the dark about that, too?

Ariel, curled like a cat on the sofa, stretched and yawned when the clock struck ten. “I better get ready for bed. I want to get in to work early tomorrow.”

Chloe surveyed the jumble of files, notebooks, and other reference materials with satisfaction. “We accomplished a lot this evening.”

“I do feel more optimistic about making the deadline.” Ariel's face wasn't quite so pinched with worry and stress.

“I'm loving the major interpretive themes we've identified,” Chloe said. She picked up her notebook and went down the list: the importance of St. Anthony Falls over time, the growth of the flour industry, changing technology, marketing, agriculture and connections with Midwestern farms, the worker experience, recent history. “I'm sure they'll evolve, but for now, people will have a lot to think about.”

“
Thank
you, Chloe.”

“It always helps to bounce ideas around. One of the biggest challenges is having so much to work with. The mill's story is as big as an industrial innovation that literally changed the way human beings ate, and as small as the challenges facing a new-come immigrant worker loading barrels into train cars.”

“Lots of change over time,” Ariel agreed. “Right up to the day the mill closed in '65.”

“And people have used the mill ever since,” Chloe added, mindful of Sister Mary Jude's request.

“Right.” Ariel carried their dirty tea mugs into the kitchen. “Tomorrow, I'll try to fill the research holes at the archives, and you can start typing up the preliminaries here. You're sure you don't mind staying another day or two?”

“My boss encouraged me to collaborate with the Minnesota Historical Society,” Chloe said. And nothing about my conversation with Roelke last night suggests I should be driving east, she added silently. Evidently he only called to discuss Polish folk art.

Which probably told her something she needed to know.

Chloe bit her lip. She knew Roelke truly cared about her, but would he ever want a long-term commitment? Is that something she wanted herself? Jody had advised her to take a break and really think about whether she could handle the reality of being with a cop. Roelke's withdrawal had handed her that opportunity on a crystal plate.

So, Chloe thought, can I handle the reality of being with a cop? For the first time, she wasn't sure. The danger inherent in Roelke's job had become a whole lot more real. She'd spent an evening watching Rick Almirez laugh, play jazz, kiss his girlfriend. Hours later someone shot him and left him to die in the street. The risks Roelke took every single day were suddenly very visceral.

Chloe didn't want to live in fear. But … she also wasn't ready to conclude that she and Roelke should break up.

Well, enough brooding about that for now. Ariel had plenty of problems without a depressed roommate.

Chloe began tidying the stack of old cookbooks, then paused. “Hey, I just got a great idea. Why don't you serve baked goods at the reception? Old Pillsbury Bake-Off favorites, stuff like that.”

Ariel looked at her blankly. “I don't bake.”

Chloe beamed. “No, but I do!”

“If you're sure …”

“Of course I'm sure. This is the fun part! Look at it this way. You're not responsible for making a few rusty old machines operable again, like Owen. You're not responsible for stabilizing that massive crumbling complex, like Jay. You're not responsible for raising millions of dollars, or holding together a consortium of agencies, or working with the architects.”

“Thank God.”

“This museum is going to be awesome. I can hardly believe that the Minnesota Historical Society has the vision to even attempt this project—but it does, and you get to be part of the educational planning! No matter where you go from here, this is going to be one mighty plum on your resume.”

Ariel raised both palms in surrender. “You're absolutely right. I've had a bad attitude about this assignment from the beginning. I'll do better from here on, I promise.” She flicked off the kitchen light. “You have everything you need?”

“I'm good. I'm just going to work a little longer.”

Ariel disappeared up the stairs. Chloe picked up the
Gold Medal Flour Cook Book,
1910 edition. “Like this is work,” she scoffed under her breath. She thumbed through the yellowed pages, flagging intriguing recipes. Squash Muffins, Delicate Cake, Doughnuts, Ginger Cookies … She'd have to save a few of those for Roelke. He loved ginger cookies …

Roelke
. Chloe sighed as worry bubbled back to the surface. Where was he, right this minute? Was he getting some sleep, or was he still in the city? Were grief and exhaustion making him insensitive to danger?

Before turning back to the cookbook, she sent a thought over the icy miles to Milwaukee.
Be safe, Roelke. Please be safe.

Roelke left the Dombrowicz house and walked back toward Kozy Park, trying to understand this new snippet of information. Donny D wasn't clever enough to make up the story. Rick was the kind of cop who'd stop to chat with a guy like Donny—even something quick like, “Hey, Donny, keeping your nose clean?” Why would Rick say, “Wrong guy”?

Roelke reached the park without finding any answers. Rick was killed on the south edge of the park, near the statue of Polish-American hero General
Kosciuszko
. Floodlights illuminated more bouquets and a formal funeral wreath at the base, but the flowers—frozen and brittle—provided no comfort.

A taxi's headlights glared past. Roelke walked to the far side of the monument so the fourteen-foot marble base shielded him from Lincoln Avenue's heaviest traffic. He put one hand high against the stone. Cold seeped through his leather glove. “Rick,” he mumbled, “I can't figure out what was going on with you. Help me out here, buddy. I need
help
.”

He waited. Nothing. He hadn't really expected anything, had he? That would have been dumb.

Still, Roelke tried again. “I miss you really bad. The thing is … the thing
is
, I am also really pissed. What were you mixed up in? Did you find a cop on the take? Did Erin's husband find out she was back in Milwaukee? Were you really working undercover? How could you not
tell
me?”

Roelke's throat ached. His eyes were stinging. Dammit, he thought. He'd told Justin earlier that it was okay to cry if you were really sad, but he was more than sad now, and—

A rifle shot cracked the night. Something struck against Roelke's right side like a freight train. He stumbled and whirled at the same instant, ending up on one knee with his back to the monument, peering across the park. Nothing, no one.

Something hot and furious gave way inside him. Roelke launched across the snow-covered grass—slipping, stumbling, running on. After leaving the pool of light surrounding the statue, the wooded ground ahead seemed black as pitch. Where the hell was the shooter?

Just as he reached the base of a tree-studded rise, Roelke heard Chief Naborski's voice in his memory:
Do not let the way you feel make you stupid
.

Roelke dove toward the closest tree, heart pounding, breath coming in noisy heaves. The shooter had cover. The shooter's eyes were accustomed to the darkness. Running across the open lawn
toward
the shooter definitely qualified as stupid.

In the middle of Wisconsin's most densely populated community, Roelke suddenly felt very alone. Prickles raced over his skin.
Every hair on the back of his neck quivered. Every muscle felt
tight. He waited for the second shot.

Instead he heard a car door slam on Becher, an engine roar, and the screech of tires spinning on ice before finding traction. That had to be the shooter.
Had
to be. His own reckless plunge toward the sniper must have spooked the guy into running instead of taking a second shot.

A siren wailed, coming closer. Roelke stood and began backing toward the statue, gaze still scouring the dark wooded rise in case he'd been wrong about the car.
You will not shoot me in the back,
he told the SOB silently.

He reached the statue as the MPD car jerked to a stop. Flashing lights flared over the snow. Roelke raised his hands just so nobody got confused. “I'm an off-duty police officer,” he called.

The responder was a new guy. They retreated behind the car, and Roelke displayed his badge. “We had several citizen calls about a shot fired in Kozy Park,” the kid said, his voice pitched with excitement. Two more cop cars screeched to a halt. More sirens wailed in the distance. “And after what happened last Friday night—”

“Yeah.” Roelke was still panting, but trying not to show it. Somebody tried to kill me, he thought.
Somebody tried to kill me.

“So, what happened? You heard the shot? Where were you?”

“I was over by the statue, paying my respects, and …” Roelke became aware that his right side throbbed. He raised his arm and fingered the tear in his coat. He felt nothing wet, warm, or sticky, so—no blood.

The kid stared. “Jesus Christ! Did you get shot?” He whirled around. “Sarge! Over here!”

Sergeant Malloy approached with a curse. “McKenna? What are you doing here?”

“He got shot!” the kid cried.

“My coat got grazed,” Roelke said. It seemed very important that he not mention the protective vest he was wearing. “I'm not hurt.”

“What are you doing here?” Malloy repeated.

Roelke gestured at the memorial at the base of the statue. “I was paying my respects—”

“It's almost eleven p.m. You chose this hour to pay your respects?”

“Yeah. I did.”

More cops were descending. One shooed away a few civilians. Somebody barked orders. Another officer angled the spotlight mounted on his car so the beam slashed the park. You won't be able to track him, Roelke thought. In the flashers' surreal pulse, he saw a thousand sets of tracks crisscrossing the snow.