Winter in June (24 page)

“Don't worry,” I said. “You didn't.”

He stumbled out of the room and headed toward the exit. Should I follow him? It would have been the right thing to do, but after having his knife at my neck, I didn't feel moved to do him any favors.

“This doesn't make any sense,” said Sheep. “If the brass knew they had the wrong man, why wouldn't they own up to it?”

“Because they probably didn't believe him,” said Candy.

“We have to keep this quiet,” said Kay. The boys were slowly coming to accept that what we'd said was true. “I think it would be a good idea if no one knew we were here tonight.”

If Blake knew he had the wrong man, he certainly didn't want to risk the chance that anyone else knew it too. And if he found out we'd been here and let the prisoner live, he might decide to discipline the men as a way of making it clear that there were consequences for not believing him.

“Kay's right,” I said. “Everyone in here better keep their heads closed.”

“And how exactly are we going to do that? We've got two guards in the know and a prisoner that's bruised and bleeding,” said Sheep.

Candy spoke to the prisoner again. He nodded, signaling his agreement with whatever she said. “I told him if he keeps quiet about what happened here tonight, we'll do whatever we can to help him.”

“We can buy off the guards,” said Red. “Trust me: those fellows will say whatever we want for a couple of bottles and some cigarettes. No one's going to wonder about his bruises anyway. There's always some sort of squabble going on between the Nips.”

And if what the boy said was true and he was a deserter, Blake had to know the other POWs would be just as much of a threat as the American soldiers.

“What about Spanky?” asked Jayne.

“We'll keep him quiet,” said Sheep. “He's so lit he probably won't remember most of this, come morning. He needed liquid courage to come here to begin with.”

“So that just leaves the rest of us,” I said. “Keep whatever happened tonight on the QT. Not a word to anyone. Got it?”

We all agreed, though I for one wasn't likely to keep that promise. If someone else had killed Gilda, I wasn't going to rest until I found out who it was.

As we crept back to the barracks that night, the four of us mulled over what was going on.

“None of this is making sense,” I said. “Why would they deliberately imprison the wrong man?”

“What if the real killer was someone high up?” asked Candy. Her flashlight lighted a path in front us.

“You mean an officer?”

The globe of light bobbed in time to her words. “Maybe. Let's say Late Nate knows who the killer is, but he isn't about to punish him. Instead, he locks up the first Jap he can find and blames him.”

“I'm not buying that,” I said. “For all his flaws, I can't see Blake wanting to protect the real shooter.”

“I can,” said Kay. We all turned to her. “They'd much rather be able to pin this on the enemy. That way, they can dismiss Gilda as another civilian casualty.”

Candy snapped her fingers. “That's a good point. Imagine the
press back home if word got out that someone other than the enemy was behind the shooting.”

And, more important, what sort of military scrutiny might Blake and his men be subject to if it became known that a crime happened on their watch? Problems they'd been able to cover up, like missing supplies, might come to light.

“So if it isn't just another casualty of war,” asked Jayne, “what is it?”

Finally, a question I could answer. “Murder,” I said.

 

I didn't see our surreptitious guards when we returned, though it was likely they were in the shadows watching for us. No longer did I view them as benign protectors sent to ensure our safety. If the wrong person had been blamed for Gilda's death and Blake knew it, it was just as likely that our spies were men sent by Blake to make sure we didn't have access to the true story of what occurred the night she was shot.

And if that were the case, Blake would know by morning what we'd been up to.

We made it into the hut without incident and retired to our cots. I longed to be back in our old tent or, even better, New York, mulling over what had happened while washing away the whole awful evening with a good strong martini.

Instead I reflected on the events of the past few days. Suddenly Blake's strange inquisition made sense. He didn't want to know if we'd witnessed the crime. He wanted to verify that we hadn't seen anything that would disprove what he claimed had happened.

It was all so distressing. The fact of Gilda's death was bad enough, but to know that the military had no trouble letting the wrong person take the fall for it was downright terrifying. No wonder Jack thought it would be better to flee than fight to see that the right person was punished for what his CO had done. He had to know how hopeless that tack would've been when he took off into the night and dived into the ocean. Death was probably a relief when it came. It had to be better than living in a constant state of fear that
the men you lived with, the ones who you depended on to lead you into battle, would try to kill you.

I pushed Jack out of my head. Thinking about him wasn't going to help anything right now. I was toothless as far as he was concerned. At least when Gilda died, I had been there and had firsthand knowledge of who might've wanted to do her harm.

And who was that?

If Candy was right and Blake was covering up for someone high up, who could that be? Late Nate didn't strike me as being loyal to anyone but himself. Could he be the real murderer? He seemed to be enamored of Gilda, but then so was everyone else. Despite his many, many faults, he didn't strike me as the kind of guy who would kill a woman just for spurning him. Besides, if Candy was to be believed, he was involved with Amelia Lambert. No, if Blake was behind her death, it had to be for a larger purpose than that.

My mind drifted back to Irene Zinn. Candy said she'd been bothered by the Japanese being blamed for the missing supplies. It couldn't be a coincidence that two women associated with Tulagi were killed within a month of each other. Could Gilda have learned whatever it was Irene knew about the midnight requisitions? And if she had, why was that information important enough for them both to die over?

 

I awoke to the sound of Captain Lambert screaming in my ear. “On your feet. Now!”

I started, expecting to find the barracks on fire or the camp under siege, but what I discovered was the room in near darkness and the women around me stirring with a mixture of confusion and irritation that whatever I had done was prompting this early waking hour.

“What's the rumble?” I asked.

She looked at the floor. In the dim morning light, mud-caked footprints led from the door to Jayne's, Candy's, and my cots, like some sort of bizarre map designed to teach us the latest dance craze. Only Kay's path remained unmarked. Apparently, she'd been clever enough to remove her shoes before entering the hut.

“Oh, looky there,” I said. “I guess we tracked in some mud yesterday.”

“This floor was spic and span before you retired last night.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Something landed with a clang on the floor beside my cot. It was a bucket. “You'll find the mop and soap in the latrine. If I find one speck of dirt on this floor, you and your friends will not be eating breakfast. Am I understood?”

“Yes,” I mumbled.

“And because some of you find it impossible to remain in the barracks after curfew, the entire platoon, with the exception of Private Abbott, Miss Hamilton, and Miss Winter, will begin morning exercises now. If you don't enjoy doing physical activity before sunrise, I recommend that you keep an eye on your bunkmates and report any unauthorized absences to me before I discover them for myself.”

The women groaned in reply. There wasn't a chance that we'd be able to roam the island after hours anymore. Nothing was more effective than encouraging self-policing by punishing everyone else for what we'd done.

“I'm most disappointed in you, Private Abbott. I expect this sort of behavior from the USO, but I find it very troubling that you're keeping company with these women.”

I could read fear in Candy's face. It wasn't what the other girls would think of her that bothered her; she couldn't stomach the idea that from this point on she wasn't going to be able to sneak off to be with her mystery lover.

After all she'd done for us the night before, I owed her big.

“She wasn't with us,” I said.

Captain Lambert raised an eyebrow. “What was that, Miss Winter?”

“Private Abbott or Costello, or whatever her name is, wasn't with us last night. Jayne and I were on our own.”

Jayne's blond head bobbed its confirmation.

“Then where were you, Private Abbott?”

“Here, Captain. I left to use the latrine in the middle of the night, but otherwise I was here.”

Lambert's gaze slithered toward Kay, whose cot was on the other side of Candy's. “Did you see Private Abbott in her bed last night?”

“Yes, Captain Lambert. She was definitely there when I went to sleep.”

“Very well. In the future, Private Abbott, leave your shoes outside the tent if you must use the latrine. Understood?”

Candy dropped her eyes. “Yes.”

“And now, ladies, you have five minutes to dress before we begin our morning exercise.”

Everyone moved into action, except Violet, who remained propped up on her pillows.

“Miss Lancaster, is your hearing all right?”

“Just fine,” said Violet.

“Then perhaps you can explain to me why you're not getting dressed.”

“I'm not a Wac, so why should I have to exercise like one?”

“Because it's
your
friends who misbehaved. And if there's anyone who can keep them on a short leash, I have no doubt it's you.”

“Gosh, I appreciate your confidence, but that doesn't mean I'm getting out of bed.”

Captain Lambert's eyebrows rose an inch. “Perhaps I haven't made myself clear: not only have I been enlisted to protect you, it's also within my power to punish you. So I suggest you get dressed unless you'd like to live out the remainder of your stay here without pay.”

At last she was speaking Violet's language. As the other girls began to file out of the room, Violet shot me a glare that was so hot I had to step out of the way to keep it from burning me.

“Rehearsal's at one o'clock,” she muttered. “Be there.”

 

While Violet and Kay exercised with the others, Jayne and I went to work scrubbing the floor and trying to figure out what the strange
revelations of the night before meant. I shared with her my thoughts about Blake and how it might connect to Irene Zinn.

“But why would someone kill over missing supplies?” asked Jayne.

I leaned the mop against a trunk and sat beside it. “Let's say that whoever is liberating the supplies isn't just stealing. What if they were selling them to the Japanese? Remember how one of the officers was saying the Japs don't have the same protection for supply ships that we do? If they're desperate for things—even in small quantities—I'm willing to bet they'd pay a pretty penny for some sticky fingers. I can't imagine the rest of the military would look too highly on someone aiding and abetting the enemy. If Irene found out what was really going on and let the people involved know she knew, they might've decided it was easier to keep her quiet than to run the risk of her squealing.”

Jayne dipped the mop into the bucket and placed the sopping wet mess on the floor. “But she was killed in California. And she'd already left the military. That doesn't make any sense.”

She was right about that. “Maybe she resigned because she was scared this would happen. She goes home, thinks everything's safe; only our thief isn't satisfied that she'll keep her yap shut, so he decides to track her down to make sure she stays silent.”

Jayne made a lopsided figure eight with the mop. “I'm still not buying it. California's a million miles away.” She was wrong about that. If the sign at the entrance to camp was accurate it was only ten thousand miles from here. “How could someone in the South Pacific kill someone that far away?”

“With a long reach,” I said.

 

As soon as the floor was done, we decided to track down Dotty. I hadn't seen him face to face since we'd gotten the news that Gilda had died. If anyone could answer questions about what Irene thought was going on with the missing supplies, it was her ex-boyfriend.

We found him in his tent, listening to Edward R. Murrow while he attempted to peck out a story on a typewriter. Beside him was a
bottle of hooch and an ashtray half filled with spent gaspers. His hair was a series of crests and valleys, no doubt the result of his frequently running his hands through it.

He looked like hell.

“Can we come in?” I asked.

He started at the sound of my voice. Although we were several feet away, I could smell him. Dotty hadn't bathed for several days. “Be my guest.”

We entered and shared the edge of his cot. “What are you working on?” asked Jayne.

“Gilda's obituary.
Stars & Stripes
wanted something to run beside my photos, but I'm having a bear of a time getting it down on the page. I usually write these Joe Blow bios on the men—you know, where you can change the name but the details remain the same. I can write those in my sleep. But this? This is hard. She was one of a kind.” He pulled the page from the mill and crushed it into a ball before depositing it into an overflowing trash basket. With the typewriter empty, he seemed to notice us for the first time. “How are you two holding up?”

“We've been better,” I said.

“So Kay told me. I heard a friend of yours died right before Gilda was killed.”

“My ex-boyfriend,” I said. When was it going to get easier to tell people about him?

“Jack Castlegate?”

That was right. I'd asked Dotty about him our first night on the island. “That's the one.”

“That makes things easier.”

“How so?”

“I asked around about him and just got word about his death myself. I was dreading being the one to tell you.” He took a hit of a cigarette. “I never did locate a Charlie Harrington. Not in the navy, anyway. You sure you got that name right?”

Did it matter anymore? Jack was dead. “Pretty sure.”

“I'll keep asking if you want me to.”

“I don't think that's necessary, but thanks for the offer.” He'd picked at my wound, and I found myself anxious to do the same to him. “We heard about Irene.”

I had a feeling that if I were to look into a mirror, the expression he now wore was the same one I'd donned the moment before. “Guess we're in the same boat, huh? Both of us losing our exes? I tell you, it's been a weird month. If I didn't know any better, I'd swear there was a dark cloud over this entire island.”

“How long ago did you break up with her?” I asked.

He leaned back in his chair, and the wooden legs groaned beneath his weight. “We were done for before she went back to the States. It's still hard though.”

“Don't I know it. Jack and I didn't exactly end on the best of terms.”

His face twitched into a smile. “I'm not going to win any awards for my parting words either. Wouldn't it be nice if we knew how things were going to turn out in advance? Imagine all the things we'd be smart enough not to say.” The front legs of his chair dropped to the floor. “So, what can I do for you?”

I picked at a finger, working loose a broken nail that had been hanging by a thread. “This might sound crazy, but I can't help but think that Gilda and Irene's deaths are connected.”

“Gilda was killed by a sniper.”

“Not the one they locked up,” said Jayne. She brought him up to speed on the field trip he'd missed the night before. He didn't seem surprised by the news, but he was clearly disturbed by it.