Winter in June (18 page)

It felt good to be tipsy. Anything would've felt better than being worried and sad.

We hit the sack early that night. At some point I awoke with a
start, though I wasn't immediately aware of why. I sat upright in the cot, trying to pinpoint what it was that had roused me. There, beneath the sounds of the animals and the rustling of plants as the wind passed through, was another sound—footsteps.

It could be anyone. The island was no longer on lockdown, and it was possible there were men stumbling drunk past our tent on their way back to their own. But drunk sailors weren't known for their discretion. They sang and laughed and announced their presence, like a parade passing down Fifth Avenue. Maybe it was the WACs. Their barracks were nearby, and they were very likely to tiptoe quietly past us on their way to their destination. Especially if they were trying to get somewhere after their curfew without being seen.

I tried to soothe myself back to sleep, but the sound continued outside the tent. They weren't productive footsteps. This wasn't someone on his way to or from somewhere. They were lingering outside our thin canvas walls.

I decided it wasn't going to do me any good to lie there analyzing what might or might not be going on. I needed to look outside and see for myself.

I wrestled free of the mosquito netting and plopped my helmet on my head. I crept to the tent opening and carefully peered outside. There was a full moon, which provided some light, though not nearly enough to see more than a few feet in front of my face. The shuffling and rustling sounded again, and I pinpointed the source at a cluster of palm trees about twenty yards from our tent. I stared into the darkness, trying to make out the shape of what was hidden there. I heard the distinct sound of flesh hitting flesh followed by an “Ow!” A second voice advised the first to “
Shhhhhh
.” The first voice obeyed.

“What is it?” asked Violet. “Is it the Japanese?”

I hadn't realized she was awake. I closed the tent flap and returned to my cot.

“Well?”

“Relax. I think it's our boys standing guard.”

“Are you sure it's not the Japs?”

“Pretty sure. They said ‘Ow' when a mosquito got them. That strikes me as a relic of the Western world.” Violet seemed satisfied by my answer, but I can't say that I was. After all, if they could share our pain and our anger, there was no reason why the Japanese couldn't also borrow our exclamations of annoyance.

We were summoned to Blake's office just after reveille the next morning.

He was seated behind his desk, waiting for us. I wondered what he did with the rest of his time, when he wasn't attempting to deliver bad news and destroy morale. Perhaps that's why they called him Late Nate—everything he was involved in was shrouded in a cloak of darkness.

Or maybe it was because everyone who encountered him wished he was dead.

He waited until we were seated before speaking. “Miss DeVane is gone.”

“Which island did you take her to?” asked Violet.

“I'm afraid you misunderstand, Miss Lancaster. Miss DeVane passed away last night.”

The three of us shared a gasp. Did he really just say that? Surely we'd misheard him.

“She's dead?” I said.

He clasped his hands and placed the tips of his index fingers beneath his chin. “Regrettably, yes.”

“Why didn't someone come get us?” I asked.

“It wouldn't have helped things. She was at peace when she died, I can assure you.”

“She was alone. She should've been surrounded by friends.”

“It seemed foolish to wake everyone. It was quite late when she expired.”

He continued talking, but I no longer heard him. I was too busy trying to wrap my head around what he claimed had come to pass. How could Gilda be dead? She was too beautiful, too talented, too famous to have been picked off so callously in the middle of a show. People like her didn't die.

But then Jack had died. If I could lose him, anyone was fair game.

This stupid, stupid war. Neither Jayne nor Gilda had ever killed anyone, nor had they ever intended to. They weren't part of this game of hurting and hatred. All they wanted was to bring a little relief to the people stationed here. Why couldn't the Japanese see that? Were they so blinded by hate that they thought every American was a potential target? Did they know they could hurt so many more people if they picked off the ones who were young, female, and famous?

“Obviously, Miss DeVane's death presents a variety of problems. Her body will be shipped home tomorrow. We are uncertain what to do with the four of you. We have notified the USO of the situation, and although they are certainly sympathetic to your plight and to the emotions you are undoubtedly going through, they agree that the best thing for all of us would be if you stayed here for the time being.”

“Why?” I asked. Our leader was dead. She was the star of our show. How could they possibly expect us to continue performing?

“You have an obligation, Miss Winter. The USO has spent a great deal of money promoting your show and organizing a tour here—the
first of its kind in the South Pacific. These men deserve entertainment, and I'm sure you'll agree with me that we must put their needs first. Obviously we'll give you a brief period of mourning.” Gee, that was swell of him. “Though I think it would be in everyone's best interest if we didn't dwell too long on these tragic happenings. Our men are surrounded by death, and constantly being reminded of it is not useful for anyone.” I wondered if he'd feel the same way if it were his friend who was lying dead in the infirmary. “Since the three of you were present during the shooting, I would like the opportunity to question each of you about what occurred.”

“What for?” asked Violet. “You already caught the culprit.”

“Indeed, but we want to make sure we are clear on exactly what took place.”

“Fine,” said Kay. “We'll do whatever we can to help.”

“I figured you would. One other
small
thing. While we were happy to have Miss DeVane provide your group with leadership during your time here at the camp, now that there is a threat to the performers, we need to more closely control your movements.”

“But, like Violet just said, the culprit's been caught,” I said.

“One of them has, Miss Winter. If one Jap has infiltrated Tulagi, there's a very good chance others may do so as well. To ensure your collective safety, we've decided to put your unit under the control of the Wacs during the remainder of your time here. As such, you will immediately answer to your new commanding officer, Captain Amelia Lambert.”

 

Kay was the first one Blake questioned. While she was grilled, Violet and I went to grab some joe at the enlisted men's mess and gab about the unfortunate turn things had taken. Deacon saw us arrive and with a hand to his lips, slipped us a few pieces of toast and some jam to enjoy with our watered-down java. Not that either of us felt like eating.

“I can't believe they didn't tell us she died,” said Violet. It was the first time any of us had said that sentence out loud since leaving Blake's tent. Gilda was dead. She was gone. Forever. “I hate the
Japs. Our men would never shoot at civilians like that. We respect the rules.”

“Maybe it was an accident,” I said.

“Don't be so naïve. If it were an accident, he wouldn't have fired twice. That sniper knew the impact he'd have if he shot them. We represent everything they're against. He probably would've picked off the lot of us if he'd had the chance.”

It was terrifying to think that three of us were spared because of a costume change, a small bladder, and a broken heart.

Violet's eyes grew red and rheumy. I have to admit I was surprised she was so upset. While I doubt she would've wished for Gilda's death, out of all of us she was the one I expected to be the least shaken by it. “And to shoot a dog too? You mark my words, Rosie: the person behind this was evil.”

“I can't believe they're not sending us home,” I said.

“Blake's right about that.” Violet dispatched her tears with a flick of her fingers. “We don't want to disappoint the men. And we don't want the Japs thinking they've defeated us. If we go home now, they'll think we're nothing but a bunch of cowards.”

Honestly, it wouldn't have bothered me if they did.

We picked at our toast, sipped our coffee, and felt the terrible absence left by someone who should've been with us at the table.

Eventually, Kay returned and announced that Violet was to report to Late Nate. Kay slumped into the chair beside me and buried her head in her hands. “It's all so sad,” she said. “This is the last thing I ever thought would happen.” She dissolved into tears. Poor Kay. First she loses Irene, then Gilda. She must've been wondering, as I was, how much more loss she'd be able to endure.

“It will be all right,” I said. The words were beat up, even to my ears. I tried on another cliché for size. “She's in a better place now.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Did I? I think so. After all, Gilda was with Jack, and if I had my way I'd change places with her in a minute. “Absolutely.”

Kay decimated one napkin, then another, so I went in search
of fresh paper for her to mop her tears. I found what I was looking for stacked beside the steel trays the enlisted men ate off of. As I grabbed a fistful of napkins, a male voice in the kitchen announced, “I'm back in the game.”

“How'd you get scratch, Lefty?” asked someone.

“Who cares how he got it?” said a third voice. “As long as he's willing to lose it.”

They laughed, and their conversation was lost in the clanging of pots and pans.

What if the sniper hadn't been working with his own men but with someone here on the island who could easily get access to supplies? It would certainly be a way to make money. And if you were already disenfranchised by your own military and forced to do jobs you weren't appropriate for, maybe it wouldn't bother you to help out the enemy. Given their predilection for gambling and their criminal pasts, it wasn't a huge leap to imagine that some of the men might be willing to take a chance to make some cush.

“Here.” I brought the napkins back to Kay. She looked like she was close to being cried out, which was fortunate since Violet arrived and sent me to get the third. As I walked to Late Nate's office, my mind pored over my latest theory. Was it really conceivable that someone would make a deal like that with the enemy? We'd all heard about spies trading information for money. Exchanging supplies was at least less likely to change the outcome of the war, especially in such small quantities. And if the sniper was working with someone on the island, it would explain how the shooter knew about the last-minute performance.

“Miss Winter. Have a seat.”

I sat before the desk, where now there was only one chair optimally positioned so that Rear Admiral Blake could ask his questions.

“I understand this is your first tour with the USO camp shows. May I ask what made you decide to be a part of them?”

Had Violet and Kay said anything about Jack? I didn't want to run the risk of looking like I was lying, and yet the last thing I wanted to do was talk about my dead ex with this guy.

“Jayne and I were feeling like we should be doing something more meaningful with our time. We had a housemate who joined the European tour, and I guess hearing about her experiences made us want to do the same.”

He nodded and scratched something on a piece of paper. A wire recorder was in motion on his desk. “You were quite upset at dinner the night of the shooting.”

I cleared my throat. “Yes. I had just found out a friend of mine had been killed, and I'm afraid it made me a bit more emotional than usual.”

“Was this friend here in the islands?”

This wasn't any of Blake's business. What happened to Gilda had nothing to do with Jack. And if he was aiming for a repeat of our scene at dinner, he'd be wise to remember that there was no one there to stop me this time. “I'm not sure where he was stationed. I knew he was in the Pacific theater, but I never knew where. I met one of his shipmates, who gave me the news.”

He nodded. Apparently my answer was acceptable. “You opted not to perform that evening. Where were you during the performance?”

“In the dressing area. I watched the show from the wings.”

“And what did you observe?”

“What do you mean?”

His pen underlined his question in the air. “What did you see immediately before Miss DeVane and Miss Hamilton were shot?”

“Nothing really. I thought I saw a flash of light up in the cliffs, but I can't be sure. It wasn't until the gun fired the second time that I think I realized what it was.”

“And what about after they were shot?” he asked. “Did you observe anything or anyone unusual?”

“No. I was forced into the dressing area almost immediately. I barely had time to register what happened.”

He made another note. “Thank you for your help, Miss Winter. I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear that Miss Hamilton will be released from the infirmary tomorrow.”

“That's great.”

“Indeed. And please accept my apologies for my behavior the other night. I had no idea you had suffered such an awful tragedy.”

I felt sideswiped. Late Nate was apologizing? To me? “Um…don't worry about it.” I waited for him to say something more, but his attention returned to the pad he was writing on. For the first time I noticed how worn his own face seemed. His schnozzle was red, the skin beneath his eyes the color of charcoal.

“That's all, Miss Winter. You're dismissed.”

I started to leave, but something stopped me. “Can I see her?”

“Miss Hamilton? Of course.”

“No. Gilda. Can I see Gilda?”

His brow became a series of waves. Had I a boat, I could've sailed them. “You want to see the body?”

I nodded.

“Why?”

I didn't owe him an explanation, but I gave him one anyway. “My friend who died—I'm not going to be home for his funeral. If I could see Gilda and say good-bye, maybe—” Maybe what? I could bury them both?

He returned to his notes. “Yes, I think that can be arranged.”