Winter in June (28 page)

Ruth returned with a book in her hand. “I'm afraid I have to ask you to leave, Miss Hamilton. Miss Winter needs her rest.”

Jayne offered me a weak smile “Let's not worry about this right now. You need to get well, and then we'll decide what to do.” She pushed the stack of magazines toward the bed. “I thought you might want to read while you've got the time.”

“Thanks. That's swell of you.”

She planted a kiss on my forehead. “Kay and Violet will probably stop by later. And I know Spanky wants to say good-bye before he ships out.”

“Sure. Tell them all to come by. I could use the company.”

She left, and I flipped idly through the slicks, looking for something to distract myself, but it seemed like I'd read every magazine already. I revisited the article about Gilda. I sneered at the photo of Joan Wright, her (younger) doppelgänger who was probably celebrating the news of Gilda's demise. I tried to read a poll describing how the American public was tiring of films about the war, but none of it held my attention. I gave up on the slicks and tried to fall asleep, but after talking about Whitey's news, I found myself unable to doze. Whitey said that Gris was the one who invented the ruse that Jack went into the water. I knew that name, didn't I? Hadn't we met a Gris at some point?

The face floated just out of my reach, and eventually I gave in and let sleep pull me under. When I awoke, it was late, and the only company I had was the lamp on the nurse's desk. I lay there for a while, absorbing the sounds of the infirmary at night. It wasn't a reassuring experience. The ghost of Gilda DeVane seemed to linger in the air, not Gilda luminous and alive but her pale, bruised corpse.

I sat up and was pleased to find that the pounding in my head was almost gone. My IV had been removed, and in its place was a crude bandage stained a rusty brown by my blood. I hung my feet over the side of the bed and shivered as they came in contact with the bare concrete. Gingerly I rose, pleased to discover that dizziness appeared to be the only overwhelming symptom I was still
experiencing. I had to pee, so I tiptoed past the sleeping soldiers and searched out the ward for sign of a latrine. Eventually I found one and luxuriated in the sensation of relieving myself without the assistance of medical equipment.

When I returned to the ward, there was still no sign of Ruth. I couldn't stand the thought of passing the night there. I found a pen and paper at her desk and scribbled her a note indicating that I was feeling much better and was bound for the WAC barracks.

Outside, the camp was still. I started walking and found myself disoriented by my swimming head and a layer of fog that gave the night a strange rigid feel. In the distance, I could hear voices, buffered by a building. The mess hall. I had to pass the mess hall to make it back to the WAC camp.

No, I had to go to the mess hall and find Gris.

I stopped in my tracks. That was right. Gris was one of Deacon's boys, one of the gamblers who worked in the enlisted men's mess.

I pushed open the doors and found the room dark, the only light coming from the kitchen prep area in the back.

“Hello?” I called out.

A rattling noise sounded, followed by dice hitting the concrete floor.

“Is anyone back there?” I said again.

Deacon appeared in the kitchen. “Well, if it ain't Rosie Winter. What can I do for you?”

I stumbled as I walked toward him. My head seemed unnaturally heavy, and I wondered if my neck might snap from the weight.

“You okay?” asked Deacon.

“I had a nasty fall yesterday, but I'm on the mend.” I made it to the kitchen pass-through, where I could hear the game of dice in full swing. “I'm looking for Gris,” I said.

“Gris ain't here.”

I tried to crane my neck to see beyond the kitchen wall. “You sure he's not back there brewing plonk?”

Deacon let out a hearty laugh that started some place deep in his
abdomen. “Nope, Gris took off after dinner cleanup. I think he's got some girl he's seeing. He's been hightailing it out of here as soon as he can every night.”

“Will he be back in the morning?”

“If he's not, I'll hunt him down and shoot him. I don't have enough help as it is.”

I thanked Deacon and continued on my way to the WAC camp. At last I saw the barracks shrouded in darkness. The only light I could make out came from lit cigarettes bobbing around in the foliage.

“Hey!” I whispered at the shapes concealed by the trees. “I see you, you know. We all see you.”

They didn't respond, which just made me angrier.

“Here's a tip: if you don't want anyone to know you're watching them, try not to smoke on a stakeout. It's a dead giveaway.”

Still they said nothing.

I made like I was going to go into the hut, then rapidly turned and pushed my way into the jungle. There were definitely men there, their tanned skin almost lost in the darkness.

“What are you doing?” one of them asked.

“I get to ask the questions: What are you doing?” My eyes adjusted. There were only two men, both of whom I was pretty sure worked with Deacon. “I hope Blake is paying you for this.”

“Hush. Someone's going to hear you,” said one of the men.

“I don't care. The jig is up, fellows. You either stop snooping on us, or I'll…” I couldn't think of a useful threat. “Well, I'll do something.”

One of them took me by the arm. He had a strong grip, and for the first time I realized that it was much more likely that he could hurt me than I could hurt him. “I suggest you close your head, turn around, and go into that hut.”

“Gris, let her go,” said the other man.

I helped him along by wrenching my arm free. “You're Gris?” I asked.

“What of it?”

“I've been looking for you. I'm Rosie Winter.”

“I know who you are. Now scoot.”

“You shared a ship with Jack Castlegate…. er…Hamlet. You were there the night he disappeared. You told everyone he went into the water.”

“Who you been talking to?”

“Whitey. Don't worry, I'm not out to get you in trouble. I just need to know if it's true.” He stared me down, and I could see how easy it was for people to believe his lies. This was a man made of rock who would not be swayed by threats. No, he was made of gristle. That was how he'd gotten his name. “I knew Jack back home. I just want to know if he's all right. It's important to me. Please.”

He was sweating, his cigarette long reduced to glowing red ash that threatened to drop onto the jungle floor. “If you're asking if he made it out alive that night, the answer is yes.”

“Does he know I'm here?” I asked.

“What?” said Gris.

“Does Jack know I'm here?”

“I ain't seen Jack since the night he escaped. Thanks to him, I'm off the boat and on kitchen duty now. The way I see it, I don't owe him any more favors.”

“Oh.” So it really had been two months since anyone had seen Jack. Anything could've happened in that time, including the wrong people finding him and taking care of him once and for all. “What about Charlie Harrington? Did you know him?”

“Who?”

“He was in Jack's unit. Your CO shot him, only he made it look like a suicide.”

“What was his rank?”

“Corporal.”

“Ain't no corporals in the navy.”

“So I've been told.”

“And there wasn't no Charlie Harrington in our crew. Who told you that?”

He did. Or so I thought. “Why are you following us?” I asked. “Are you working for Blake?”

“Are you crazy? I wouldn't shine that man's shoes if he held a gun to my head.”

“Then, why are you here?”

He wasn't going to answer, but his friend had no such qualms. Lefty. His name was Lefty. “Bread and lots of it.”

“To do what?” I asked.

“Make sure you and the little blonde make it out of here alive.”

I tried to make sense of what they were saying. “Hold on now: Someone's paying you to protect us?” Could Billy be behind this? Sure he cared for Jayne, but he didn't seem like the kind of guy who had the connections—or the cabbage—to give her nightly security. And he didn't owe any allegiance to me. Maybe it was Peaches. If he had the power to visit us whenever he wanted, he could certainly have the reach to hire guards. “Who is it?” I asked.

“That ain't none of your business,” said Gris.

“Come on now—won't anything make you spill?”

They looked at each other before replying. “We ain't unreasonable.” Lefty cracked his knuckles. “Our favorite color is green.”

“You'll tell me if I pay you for the privilege?”

Gris nodded and finally ashed his cigarette. “One hundred dollars.”

They might as well have told me they wanted the Statue of Liberty; I was just as likely to get it.

 

I didn't go straight to the tent. I headed out to the beach to the spot where I'd buried Jack's photograph and tried to find the miniature grave. I didn't have any luck. The rain and the waves had smoothed away any sign that the ground had been disturbed. Some day that part of the beach would erode, and the photo would be whisked into the water to suffer the same fate as all the other refuse of war.

I lay on my back and stared at the night sky, hoping it might provide an answer. Where was Jack? He hadn't necessarily stayed on Tulagi. If the Japanese were able to sneak on the island, it made sense that he could've snuck off. And given how hard his men fought to protect him, it wasn't impossible to think that they could've arranged for his escape. He may have left the South Pacific entirely, opting to convalesce some place where he wasn't likely to be found.

“Hi, Rosie.”

I snapped to attention and found Candy Abbott and her bag standing behind me.

“Hiya,” I said. “I didn't hear you coming. Date end early?”

She fought a yawn. “More like late. It's almost two a.m. I thought I heard you were in the infirmary.”

“I broke out. The quiet was getting to me.”

“How're you feeling?”

Frustrated. Overwhelmed. Confused. “Oh…you know.”

“Want to talk about it?”

I did but not with Candy. Not that she wasn't a nice gal, but I needed Jayne to help me pick through this tangled mess. “Not really.”

She dumped her bag on the ground and joined me in the sand. “I'm glad you're here, anyway. There's something I've been wanting to do, and since you have experience in the matter, I thought you might help.”

“Sure. What's the plan?”

She reached into her bag and pulled out what appeared to be a piece of paper. No, it was a photograph. “I want to say good-bye to Irene, like you did to your friend. Despite everything, she liked it here, and I think she deserves to have a little memorial of the time she spent walking these beaches. Would you help me bury her picture?”

“Sure.” I took the photo from her and tried to make out the figure in the dim moonlight. Candy passed her flashlight to me, and I illuminated the image in its warm glow.

In the picture, Irene was walking on a beach with her head
thrown back in a laugh. She wore a makeshift swimsuit fashioned from her WAC uniform, and her bandeau top threatened to slip down and show off her ample chest. She reminded me of the women on war posters—equal parts wholesome and sexy, independent and alluring. Even in black and white you could see the sun reflecting off her blond hair. The men must've been nuts over her. “She was beautiful.”

“Wasn't she?”

She wasn't just beautiful; she was familiar. No wonder I had been so drawn to her when I first saw her floating in the water. Irene was a dead ringer for Gilda DeVane.

 

When we arrived at the barracks, we weren't alone: Captain Lambert was just returning from her own late-night sojourn.

“Nuts,” said Candy. “If she catches me out, I'm doomed.”

I pushed her toward the jungle. “Lie low. I'll distract her.”

Candy ducked behind the foliage and receded into the darkness. I wondered if she was sharing space with Gris and Lefty and, if so, how they'd take the intrusion. Captain Lambert arrived at the barracks door just as I did. As her eyes landed on me, the loopy grin on her face dropped into a sneer.

“What's the meaning of this?” she asked.

“I couldn't take the infirmary anymore, so I decided to scram. What's your excuse?”

She crossed her arms. Her breath smelled of whiskey. “I don't believe that's any of your business, Miss Winter.”

I winked at her and shifted just enough so that in order for her to keep talking to me, her back would have to face the barracks door. “I see. You two kissed and made up.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“You and Late Nate. So what did it take? An apology? A gift?”

She raised her chin. “I have no idea what you're talking about. The rear admiral and I have a strictly professional relationship.”

Candy seized the moment and, with her shoes in hand, tiptoed out of the jungle and into the hut.

“If only the same could be said of you and his whiskey. So it didn't bother you that he was seeing Gilda?”

Her mouth briefly opened before snapping shut. She attempted to recover from the shock, but as she squared her shoulders, the light in her eyes dimmed. “What the rear admiral does in his personal life is his business.”

“Is that so?”

Her voice faltered. “Yes, it is. Now I suggest you get inside the barracks at once, or I'll write you up for curfew violation.”

I walked around her and started toward the door. She remained frozen where I'd left her.

“Aren't you coming?” I asked.

She didn't respond. With clenched fists, she marched away from the camp and toward the rear admiral's quarters.

 

We laid low the next day. After I caught Jayne up to speed on my activities from the night before, she fetched my things from the infirmary. When I got tired of lying around the barracks, I moved out to a hammock on the beach shaded by towering palms. As I passed between sleep and waking, my mind turned back to how much Irene Zinn had looked like Gilda.

What if Irene had never been the intended victim but was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time? Maybe it was Gilda the shooter had intended to kill, and when they realized they'd made a mistake, they followed her all the way to Tulagi to finish the job.

It made as much sense as any of my other loony theories, except for one thing: Why was Irene at the dock the day she was murdered? She wasn't supposed to be going anywhere. In fact, she should've been in LA getting ready to start her career.

“How're you feeling?” Kay joined me, toting along an ice-cold bottle of Coca-Cola. She popped off the top, and I greedily drank down the sweet, chilled liquid.

“Thanks for that. I'm better. Just a little shaky. I should be ready to go back on the road tomorrow.” I finished off the Coke and de
posited the bottle in the sand. “What's going on between you and Violet? Jayne said you're still at each other's throats.”

“I'm getting a little tired of her big mouth.”

“You know you're going to have to give me more detail than that.”

Kay sighed heavily. “I found out she's the one who squealed to Late Nate about our visit to the POW camp.”

“No sir!”

“And I'm pretty sure she's the one who told Lambert I used to be a Wac.”

I would've shook my head in disgust if I wasn't feeling so loopy. “She only shot herself in the foot, you know. Thanks to her, Spanky is off to New Georgia tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow she'll have my sympathy. Today she gets my wrath.”

I shaded my eyes with my hand. “I've been wondering about something, and you might be able to help me figure it out.”

Kay sat in the sand Indian-style. “What's that?”

“Why was Irene at the port the day she was murdered?”

She started at the question, clearly unprepared to hear it. “Maybe she was seeing someone off.”

“But who?” The only romantic connection she had was Dotty, and by then they were long broken up. Besides, he was already here in the islands.

Kay picked at a scab on one of her knees, reopening the tiny wound. “Me.”

“Irene came to see you?”

She nodded, still fixated on drawing her own blood. “It wasn't just me. She called me the night before and told me she was going to be in San Francisco, that there was someone there she was supposed to see. She knew our ship was taking off that day, and so she asked if we could meet up and have a bon voyage lunch.”

“Why didn't you say anything?”

“I don't know. At first I thought she stood me up, and then when I heard what happened…I was in shock. And the longer I waited
to say anything, the worse I thought it would look if I did come forward.”

If I ever became wealthy, I was going to buy Kay a backbone. “So who did she come to see?”

“She didn't tell me. She said she would when it was all over, but for now it needed to be a secret. She was excited—whoever it was, their meeting was supposed to be a good thing. I got the feeling it was someone from the studio, or maybe it had something to do with promoting the movie she was in.”

“Could she have been seeing someone?”

“Romantically? No. She wasn't ready for that.”

“Because of Dotty?”

She hesitated before nodding.

“What happened between them?” I asked.

She looked behind her as though she was worried he was standing right over her shoulder. “They grew up together, and everyone assumed they'd get married. He adored her, but I think he always had a white picket fantasy in his head. He wanted a wife and children, not a movie star. And for a while she convinced herself that that was what she wanted too. But she had this incredible talent. You should've seen her when she stepped onstage. She just lit up from inside. I suppose I'm the one who encouraged her. I knew she had what it took to succeed, and I hated to see her waste it. When I found out MGM had been courting her—”

“So MGM was the studio she signed with?”

“Yes. And when I found out she'd turned them down to join the Wacs, I really let her have it. She wasn't happy here—she was having some sort of problem with one of the higher ups.” Late Nate. Knowing he was selling supplies to the enemy must've enraged her. “She was like me. She hated conflict. The more I talked to her about it, the more she started rethinking Hollywood. It drove a wedge between Dotty and her. They grew apart and when she left the WACs and went Stateside…”

I knew how this story turned out. “Dotty turned to you.”

Again she nodded. “I know it sounds like I engineered the whole
thing, but I really wanted what was best for her, and I didn't think it involved staying on this island. I always knew Dotty didn't care about me in the same way. She was so beautiful and I was…well, I was…” Her voice faded as I filled in the blanks. She wasn't the stunning blonde whose picture I'd helped bury that morning. But that didn't mean she wasn't worthy of affection. “I was so in love with him that I thought it wouldn't matter if he didn't love me as much. I was willing to overlook the fact that he'd rather it be Irene than me.”

“And then what happened?”

“He got hurt and shipped home to convalesce. And I—”

“Found out you were pregnant.”

The surprise showed in her eyes. “How did you know?”

“Jayne overheard you during your physical. Is that why you left Tulagi?”

She nodded, shaking loose tears that had started to fall. “One of the nurses lied for my discharge papers.”

“Ruth?”

Again she nodded.

“You know she really wants to see you. It's obvious she cares about you.”

“I'm afraid to see her. She's going to want to know what happened, and I don't think I could bear to tell her.”

“She thought you were keeping the baby?”

She wiped at her tears with the hem of her shirt. “That was the only way she would agree to help send me home. And at the time I really thought I would keep the baby. Dotty didn't know I was pregnant, and I had this stupid fantasy in my head that I'd have the baby and then I'd run into him and like one of those sickly sweet movies, I'd announce, ‘This is your son,' and he'd realize that I was the one he was meant to be with. But when I got to LA, Irene told me she'd received a letter from Dotty telling her he still loved her. I was heartbroken. I told Irene I was pregnant, but I said the father was some married officer I'd fallen for. She was the one who suggested the abortion.”