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Authors: Amy Patricia Meade

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BOOK: Don't Die Under the Apple Tree
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“They're defective. The whole batch of them. I had other heaters test them out.”
“When did you do that?”
“While you were inside talking to Del Vecchio. Before the cleanup crew took the bag away.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew you wouldn't say they couldn't be heated if they could.”
He bit his lip, deep in thought.
“What is it?” she prompted. “What would make them do that?”
“Now's not a good time to talk,” he said softly as he glanced at Del Vecchio and Delaney, standing outside the holding area door, laughing and talking.
“Okay, then when?”
“I'm not telling you anything,” he scoffed.
“Come on, Hansen, please. If something's going on—”
“Something's going on, all right. You're nuts. Now get outta here.” He pushed her, hard. Rosie felt herself falling backward, but before she could hit the ground, a pair of strong arms caught her and propped her up.
“Now, Rudy, that's no way to be treatin' a lady, is it?” Kilbride challenged as he helped Rosie to her feet.
“This has nothing to do with you, Kilbride.”
“Ah, but it does. Rosaleen here is a part of me riveting gang.That means she took time out of our workday to test your rivets. Those tests prove that it were the rivets at fault, and not your heating skills. I think that's worthy of a reward, don't ya think?”
“You want to know what I think? I think you're crazy, too.”
“True, dat. I don't know many folks who'd argue with ya. But Rosaleen isn't crazy. Indeed, the lady had a simple request and asked it nicely, so why don't ya have a listen while she repeats it?”
Rosie took her cue. “It's important that I talk to you about the rivets, Hansen. Not here. Not now, but after work.”
Hansen pulled a face. “Where?”
She searched her memory for a place that would afford them a chance to speak in private, would set Hansen's nerves at ease, and yet would ensure her safety should Hansen decide to throw his weight around again. “There's a bar in Greenpoint called Logan's. It's on the corner of Greenpoint and McGuinness.”
Rosie didn't frequent bars; however, Logan's, a bar near the neighborhood where she had grown up, was a favorite of Billy's. Not only did she know the proprietor, Frank Logan, from the many occasions upon which he had brought Billy home after a night of drinking, but she had gone to school with his two daughters, Moira and Colleen.
“Oh, that's a nice pub, that is,” Kilbride opined. “Good folk. Nice atmosphere. You'll enjoy havin' a pint there, Hansen.”
With a prolonged sigh, the tall Swede finally caved in. “What time?”
Rosie considered the time required to check Finch's apartment, send Katie off, shower, and change clothes. “How about six o'clock?”
“Okay, I'll be there.”
“Good,” Rosie said with a quick nod and headed back to the scaffold, Kilbride following close at her heels. “Thank you, Clinton, but I could have gotten him on my own.”
“I know. I saw ya were workin' wonders when I arrived,” he quipped. “Fallin' all over yerself to get 'im to talk to ya.”
“Funny. Very funny.”
“I think so.” He chuckled. “In all seriousness, though, ya'd best watch yerself.”
“Logan's is owned by friends of mine, so I should be okay.”
“I didn't just mean Hansen. If someone put the fix in to make sure that batch of rivets were bad, then they're not goin' to be happy about you findin' out and makin' sure they can't do it again.”
“But why would someone substitute faulty rivets? And how? It just doesn't make any sense, Kilbride.”
“If I 'ad the answer to those questions, darlin', I'd be makin' more money than I do. Alas, all I know 'bout rivets is how to pound 'em into oblivion with my pneumatic gun.”
“And all I know is how to catch them and then put them in place without getting burned.” She frowned.
“And even that ya don't do fast enough,” he teased.
“Be quiet, Kilbride,” she objected. “If I were any faster, you'd fall off your rope swing.”
“Now that sounds like a challenge I'm willin' to accept.”
With that, the whistle blew, prompting Kilbride to grab Rosie's hand and lead her back to Pier Number One. He sang:
Just give me your hand,
Tabhair dom do lámh.
Just give me your hand
And I'll walk with you,
Through the streets of our land,
Through the mountains so grand.
If you give me your hand.
Rosie broke free of Kilbride's grip, but she followed behind him, laughing all the way.
 
 
Two hours later, the Pushey Shipyard whistle blew to signify the end of the work week and the beginning of the day-and-a-half weekend.
A tired, sweat-drenched Rosie bid adieu to her coworkers and exited through the front gate, where Katie waited. Sporting a red-and-white-striped, whirl-skirt dirndl dress with a button front, white slingback sandals, and a red straw hat that rested at a jaunty angle upon her golden head, she looked as if she had stepped right out of the pages of the Sears spring catalog.
In her right hand she clutched her handbag. In her left, a brown paper grocery sack.
“Hey, Katie-girl,” Rosie greeted “What's in the bag?”
“This is for you. I know how hot it's been today and I thought you might want to slip into something cooler.” She passed the sack to her sister, who immediately peered inside.
“Oh, Katie-girl! It's no wonder you're my favorite sister.”
“I'm your
only
sister,” Katie corrected.
Before Rosie could tease her sister any further, a voice came from just inside the shipyard fence. “Sister? How can so much beauty be in one family, I ask. 'Tis an embarrassment of riches, to be sure.”
“Clinton Kilbride,” Rosie admonished. “You be on your best behavior.”
“I will, Rosaleen Keefe.” He turned his attention to Katie and with an outstretched hand said, “Now that ya know our names, what's yers?”
“Um, Katie.” She made it sound more like a question than a statement.
“Ah, but that must be short for somethin', no?”
“Katherine,” she offered happily. “Katherine Brigid.”
“Ah, a name like a—”
“Poem?” Rosie hit Kilbride on the back of the head, causing him to choke on the rest of his words. “That's enough out of you. Now, I'm going to get changed. When I come back, I hope to find my sister alive, well, and bearing no visible fingerprints.”
“Yes, ma'am!” He saluted cheekily.
Rosie trotted back through the gates and into the holding area ladies' room, where she slipped out of her work clothes and, after wiping herself down with a few moistened paper towels, slipped into a sleeveless blue and brown plaid sundress and a pair of strappy brown wedges.
After undoing the kerchief and brushing her auburn locks, she stuffed her work clothes back into the bag and strolled to the Pushey Shipyard gates, where Kilbride was entertaining Katie with a few—thankfully clean—limericks.
When Rosie appeared, the Irishman's eyes grew wide. “Why, Rosaleen, darlin'. Look at ya! If that ain't enough to send a man happy to his grave, I don't know what else would.”
“Save your flattery for Monday morning, Clinton.”
He flashed a boyish grin. “I will. I will indeed, but may I at least kiss the hand of your baby sister before I go?”
“No.”
Kilbride winked at Katie. “Jealous type. I get lots of those.”
“Oh, and this is yours.” Rosie returned the kerchief she had used to shield her head from the sun.
He took the piece of cloth and held it close to his nose. “Ah, the scent of your hair lives up to your name, fair Rose.”
“Get out of here, Kilbride,” she instructed with a playful punch in the arm.
“All right, I'm goin'. I'm goin'. Try not to miss me too much, darlin'.”
As Katie giggled, Kilbride whistled his way down Beard Street.
“I like him,” she stated. “He's funny.”
“Yeah, he's a hoot, all right. So, how did everything go with the move?”
“Good. Ma helped me pack and then got Saul, the grocer, to bring his truck over. As of eleven thirty this morning, everything I have, Charlie included, was at Ma's place. Everything except you, that is. And go ahead and call me silly, but until you're back there with me, it's not quite home.”
Rosie embraced her sister and valiantly tried to fight back her tears. “Oh, Katie, my lamb, I'll be there soon. Don't you worry.”
“But I do worry,” she cried.
“You shouldn't. We're going to head over to Finch's apartment, find the financial records, and put this whole thing to rest.”
“Really?” a sniffling Katie asked.
Given that the police had already searched the Finches' apartment, Rosie was doubtful she'd uncover anything new, but she refused to admit that to her sister. “You bet. Now dry your eyes and let's get going.”
Katie took a lace handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed at her eyes.
“So which way is it?” Rosie asked and pointed a thumb in either direction.
“I don't know. I just know the address, but I have no idea where it is.”
“Oh, Katie.” Rosie laughed.
“I'm sorry. I didn't look it up on a map.”
“No, no. That's okay. I didn't think of that either. We'll just ask a cab driver or a train conductor or something. It will be fine.”
It was, indeed, fine. After consulting with the local beat cop—a touch of irony that Rosie found amusing—they continued on to the Finches' Van Brunt Street apartment.
The red brick, semi-attached apartment building featured six windows in the front—two for each of the three floors. Granite steps, flanked by scrolled wrought-iron railings led to an off-center front door—toward the left on the left unit, and toward the right on the right unit. Long alleys running between the buildings provided space for trash cans.
“How are you going to get inside?” Katie asked.
Rosie eyed the front entrance, but soon realized that she'd most likely be greeted with a locked apartment door. “I don't know,” she confessed. “You said their place is on the second floor, didn't you?”
“That's right. But how—?”
Before Katie could ask, Rosie had moved from the front of the building to the side alleyway closest to the Finches' unit, examining every possible access point of the three-story building as she did so. “Look.” She pointed upward excitedly. “There's an open window in the Finches apartment, right near that fire escape.”
Katie gazed up at the window indicated. The bottom sash had been left open approximately two inches, allowing just enough ventilation in to keep the red geranium on the sill from wilting in the summerlike heat, while protecting the puffy white eyelet tie-back curtains from getting doused by a passing rainstorm.
From there, she looked down at Rosie's wedge-soled shoes in disappointment. “I guess bringing that change of clothes wasn't such a good idea after all.”
“Hey, I didn't think of it either. How could we possibly have known? It's not as if we went to cat burglar school. There's not much we can do about it now, though. It's not like I'm going to strip down and change back into my coveralls.” She walked over to the base of the fire escape, slipped out of her shoes, and set them and the paper sack containing her work clothes down on the asphalt. “Give me a boost, will you?”
Katie obliged by tucking her handbag in one armpit, crouching down, and weaving the fingers of both hands together.
Rosie lifted her right leg and stepped into her sister's hands. After a few failed attempts and several grunts and groans, she managed to get a foot onto the bottom rung of the fire-escape ladder. From there, she positioned her other foot on the rung and, using her arms, pulled herself upright.
“Once I'm in,” she informed Katie, “I'll go out the front door. Unless you see someone going in. Then give me a whistle like when we were kids, remember?”
“The first few bars of ‘Whistling in the Dark,'” Katie confirmed with a nod of the head. “Got it!”
Having grown accustomed to climbing scaffolding at the shipyard, the rest of Rosie's ascent was easy; within a minute, she was on the fire-escape landing adjacent to the open window. Opening said window and climbing in, however, required a bit more effort.
BOOK: Don't Die Under the Apple Tree
4.24Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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