Don't Die Under the Apple Tree (20 page)

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Authors: Amy Patricia Meade

BOOK: Don't Die Under the Apple Tree
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Leaning over the edge of the fire-escape railing, Rosie pushed at the bottom pane, but the spate of warm, humid weather had caused the wood of the sash to expand and its layers of white paint to stick. Trying to be as quiet as possible, she gave the window a few hard bangs with the palm of her hand and then, using all her strength, inched the bottom sash of the window upward along the tracks until there was enough space to climb inside.
Katie cringed as she watched her sister step over the edge of the fire-escape railing, balance herself, and then slide, head-first and legs dangling, into the open window. Gliding her torso over the windowsill and, inside, the cast-iron radiator, she put her hands down on the carpeted apartment floor and pulled herself to her feet.
Rosie found herself in a twelve-foot-by-twelve-foot square room. In the center rested a full-sized spool bed wrapped in a chenille coverlet bearing a floral pattern in shades of green, yellow, pink, and blue. Two nightstands designed in the Colonial fashion from orange-toned maple stood on either side of the bed and, across the room, a matching orange maple triple dresser with attached mirror was lined with a silver ladies' vanity set consisting of a tray, brush, comb, and hand mirror.
She drew a deep breath and fixed her dress.
Well, here is as good a place as any to start.
Setting to work, she rummaged through the drawers of the dresser and nightstands, checked the bedroom closet, and examined the hatboxes beneath the bed. Finding nothing of interest, she turned her attention to the bathroom, including a thorough search of the medicine cabinet and laundry hamper. As expected, they turned up empty as well.
Having marked the bedroom and bathroom off her list, she traveled to the adjacent kitchen. To her left, a black-and-white dinette set with aluminum trim served as the eating area. To the right, a small stove and icebox acted as the heart and soul of the corner-style galley kitchen, which apart from their presence, was lined, top and bottom, with an array of white metal cabinets.
White metal cabinets that would take an intimidatingly long time for a single human being to search.
Rosie took a moment to ponder the situation. Should she start tearing into the cupboards? Or was it a waste of time? Seeing as it was considered to be the woman's, and hence Marie's, domain, the kitchen was probably the last place Finch would hide important paperwork. It would simply be too difficult for him to predict and control whether his wife would stumble upon it.
Following this assumption, she decided to head, instead, into the living room. Overlooking the street, the living room was a light, airy space that served as a warm entry to the rest of the apartment. The front picture window was accented by a set of floral pinch-pleated drapes with wide-slat venetian blinds for additional privacy. On the wall perpendicular to, and left of, the window stood the front door. To the left of that, a gilded framed mirror reflected the brilliant sunlight that streamed between the slats of the blinds, while beneath it, a solid brown sofa covered with crocheted antimacassars offered seating for three. On the wall to the right, two mismatched armchairs flanked a small, round wooden table with a large ceramic lamp. And in the center of the room rested an orange maple coffee table.
Rosie did a quick search of the room, but apart from the spaces underneath the furniture and drapes, the room appeared to lack any viable hiding spaces. Deciding to return to the kitchen, she turned around, only to spot a narrow door on her right, just between the two rooms.
A smile stretched across her face as she opened the door to reveal a coat closet, at the bottom of which rested a large red metal lockbox. It wasn't a toolshed, but perhaps if she were lucky ...
Grabbing the box by its handle, she slid it closer and eagerly flipped open the two latches. The lid popped open, exposing a bevy of tools inside. Taking each piece out she did a mental inventory:
Hammer ... Phillips screwdriver ... flat screwdriver ... adjustable wrench ... tape measure ... hand drill ... level ... a jar of nails ... putty knife ... hacksaw ...
Alas, with the removal of the hacksaw, the box was empty. Rosie picked up the box and shook it to ensure she hadn't missed anything. All was silent.
Damn!
she thought.
I thought for sure
—
Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Katie's whistles:
Toot-too-too-too-tooooo, Toot-too-too-too-toooooo.
So startled was Rosie that she dropped the box with a loud clatter. Fumbling, she picked it up only to discover that the inside bottom—a false one—had tumbled onto the floor, and with it, a paper-clipped stack of approximately three bank statements.
Rosie's jaw dropped open and she was tempted to shriek and dance with joy, but Katie's second set of whistles prompted her to pack up and run:
Toot-too-too-too-tooooo, Toot-too-too-too-toooooo.
Hastily, she placed the tools back into the box, fastened it, and shoved it back into the closet before shutting the door. Then, amid yet another set of whistles, she ran on her tiptoes to the open bedroom window. Needing the full use of both hands, she stuffed the bank statements into her brassiere and, without a glance to the alley below, reached out to the fire-escape railing, grabbed hold, and pulled herself out the window and onto the landing.
From there, it was a simple matter of stepping over the railing and onto the platform and then following the series of ladders to ground level.
Simple, that is, until she looked down from the top of the second ladder to see Lieutenant Riordan standing directly below her.
Rosie felt her face grow hot, her palms sweat, and her heart start to race. Part of her distress was due to having been caught breaking and entering the Finches' apartment. The other part was due to the fact that Riordan, from his position on the ground, could look right up her dress.
“Oh!” she exclaimed and struggled, with one hand, to pull the back of her skirt forward between her knees. Rosie's attempt to transform her dress into a romper had been unsuccessful, but it had been quite effective in causing her to lose her grip on the ladder's metal rungs.
“Oh!” she cried again as she forgot about her dress and tried, in vain, to keep both feet and hands on the slippery metal rungs.
With a short shriek, she plummeted to earth and braced herself for the feel of the asphalt as it smashed against her skin.
It therefore came as quite a surprise to be greeted, upon landing, by the feel of cotton and the warm scent of musk. Rosie opened her eyes, which had been tightly closed in fear, to find herself, quite literally, nose to nose with Lieutenant Riordan.
“Next time you feel like dropping in, give me a call first, will you?” He smiled.
“Oh!” Disoriented, she looked around, only to find herself cradled in Riordan's arms. “Oh!”
“I think you said that already.”
Rosie bit her lip. “Could you put me down, please?”
“Absolutely.” He placed her feetfirst onto the pavement.
She looked about for a trace of Katie, but the only other things in the alley were some trash cans, her shoes, and the brown grocery sack that contained the day's work clothes. “Well, I guess I should be glad she didn't take those with her.”
“Sorry about that. Your sister got a glimpse of me, started whistling, and then shouted, ‘I wasn't sleuthing, I promise!' before taking off.”
Rosie clicked her tongue. “I should have known. She did the same thing when Mrs. McCarthy caught us soaping up her parlor windows one Halloween.”
Riordan laughed. “So, um, what were you looking for up there?”
“Up there? I wasn't—” She smiled, fluttered her eyelashes, and tried to act casual, but it was no use; there was no way she could pretend she wasn't snooping. “Oh, never mind. You already know what I was doing up there. I was giving the place another search, just to make sure your guys didn't miss anything.”
“You know I can have you arrested for breaking and entering, don't you?”
“That would sound more like a threat if you weren't already planning on arresting me tomorrow.”
Riordan looked away sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess so.”
“Of course, if you do it now, that would save you and your men the time it takes to travel to Manhattan,” she teased. “Save gas, too. The government is talking about rationing fuel, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah.” He looked at her, eyes questioning. “So, um, did you find anything?”
“Nope. Nothing. Your men did an excellent job at cleaning up the place.”
“Really?”
“Yes, there wasn't a clue left to be found.”
Riordan glanced at the front of Rosie's dress with a grin. The bank statements she had secured in her brassiere had worked their way up her dress during the fall. “Excuse me,” he pardoned as he reached just below her neck and extracted the small stack of documents.
“Oh!” Rosie exclaimed. “Where did those come from?”
“Where, indeed?”
“I swear I never saw them before!”
“Uh-huh. I suppose your seamstress sewed them in there for safekeeping and they just worked their way loose.”
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, you got me. I found them upstairs.”
“Yeah, I figured that, but where?”
“The toolbox in the living room closet.”
“My guys looked there and didn't see anything.”
“That's because they didn't look hard enough. The box had a false bottom.”
“And you knew enough to look for it?” he challenged.
Rosie tilted her head from side to side as she debated whether or not she should allow Riordan to believe she possessed some sort of sleuthing sixth sense. “Yes ... no ... well, I kinda stumbled upon it.”
“Stumbled?”
“All right, I dropped the box and the false bottom fell out.”
“Hmmm. Maybe I should teach that trick to my guys.”
“Perhaps you should. Now”—she reached for the statements—“can I have those back, please?”
He pulled them away from her and put them in his inside jacket pocket. “No. They're police evidence now.”
“Did you have a warrant to take them from me?”
“Didn't need one. They were sticking up from ...” He waved a finger at her bosom and blushed slightly. “You know ... they were in plain sight.”
“But I'm the one who found them! And you're getting the statements sent to you from the bank anyway. You don't need both.”
“Tell you what. I won't give them to you, but we can look them over. Together.”
“You did the same thing to Katie. I know you did. She told me.”
“Yeah, so? What's your answer?”
Rosie shuffled her feet reluctantly. “Well ... okay. I guess so.”
Riordan pulled the statements from inside his jacket. He removed the paper clip and placed it in his mouth.
“I can't see them,” Rosie complained as she attempted to peer over his shoulder.
At her request, he held the stack aloft.
The cover statement, dated from late January of that year, bore the transactions for a savings-account holding at Flushing Bank that had been opened on February 5, 1942. The familiar four-column display possessed a space for transaction date, transaction type, withdrawal amount, and deposit amount.
The withdrawal column was empty.
“Finch opened this account with $10,000!” Rosie exclaimed. “How could he possibly have saved that much from his job at Pushey Shipyard?”
“He didn't. Look at these deposits: $2,000 a week? That's not his paycheck. Not from Pushey anyways.”
Rosie grabbed the papers and scanned them one by one. Each month—from January to the present—followed the same pattern. Four deposits, and a few recent withdrawals averaging anywhere from fifty to one hundred dollars.
“Finch was obviously on someone's payroll, but whose?” Riordan asked.
She shook her head. “I have no idea. No idea what those withdrawals would be for either.”
“Hmph. I'll take this back to headquarters and make some phone calls.” He smiled. “Care for a ride back home, Mrs. Keefe? Or should I call you Sherlock?”
“Mrs. Keefe will do. And yes, a ride would be lovely, thank you.”
With an exaggerated bow, Riordan indicated for Rosie to pass him. But upon recalling the bank statements still in her possession, he cleared his throat and beckoned her return. “Ehem.”
She stopped and attempted to play innocent. “What?”
“You know what,” he stated as he pulled the statements from her hand and, once again, secured them in his inside jacket pocket.
Chapter Fifteen
Rosie, after a silent car ride with Riordan, returned to her Manhattan apartment to find Katie, hat and shoes removed, sprawled upon the sofa, reading the latest issue of
The Saturday Evening Post
, which bore a Norman Rockwell image of Willie Gillis reading a newspaper while on KP duty.
“What the heck are you doing here?” Rosie asked. “You were supposed to go straight to Ma's. Given the speed with which you left me, you should have been there an hour ago.”
Katie threw the magazine to the floor and leaped from the sofa. “Oh, thank goodness you're home!”
“Yeah, you seemed really worked up,” she teased.
“I was. I am. And most of all, I'm so sorry, Rosie!” She threw her arms around her sister's neck. “I shouldn't have left you in that apartment alone.”
“Sure. You're sorry now,” she teased. “Honestly, Katie-girl! I haven't seen anyone disappear like that since I caught Dante the Magician's act at the Roxy two years ago.”
“I'm sorry. Really I am. It's just that I had promised Lieutenant Riordan I'd stay at home and not snoop anymore, and when I saw him ... well ... well, I ran.”
“And how!”
“At least I signaled to you before running off,” Katie rationalized. “Not just twice, but three times.”
“You did,” Rosie said.
“And I remembered the secret whistle, too.”
“Yes, but you were a tad off key.”
“I was not!” Katie insisted.
Rosie laughed. Sometimes it was far too easy to get her sister's goat.
“And I plan to make it up to you. I called Ma when I got home and asked her to watch Charlie overnight. Why don't we go to the movies and then grab a soda? My treat.”
“Katie ...” she warned.
“Oh, come on. It's a new Andy Hardy. You know how I love those! We haven't gone out, just the two of us, since before I had Charlie. It'll be fun.”
Rosie would have loved to have spent what might be her last evening of freedom enjoying a night alone with her sister. However, not only did she need to meet Hansen, but she wanted Katie clear of the apartment when Riordan came to arrest her the next morning. “No, Katie. You said you'd move out tonight if I let you come with me to the Finches' apartment. A deal's a deal, remember?”
“Yeah, but I still don't see what the big rush is.”
“The rush is that I have a lot to do if I'm going to be out of here by the end of the month. And it was a hot day, I'm tired. Besides, once we're in Greenpoint, we can go out and have Ma babysit whenever we want.”
“I suppose.” Katie frowned, but then her face brightened. “Say, maybe we can dig up some old records and dance in the living room again. Remember when we used to do that? It's been a while.”
“That's because it's hard to dance in a ten-foot-square room full of furniture.” Rosie gestured to the cramped living room.
“Yeah, but Ma's house is bigger. And you'll have your old room back. It might be fun. You know, like the old days.”
“I have no doubt it will. But right now, I need a shower and
you
need to get a move on.”
“Okay,” Katie groaned as she picked up her hat, shoes, and handbag from the scuffed hardwood floor. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
“Maybe. I'll give you a call.” Rosie embraced her sister firmly.
The hug was so tight that Katie squeaked. “I guess I'm forgiven?”
“Yes.” Rosie laughed. “Of course you're forgiven, lamb. You'd have to do a lot more than run away from the police to make me not love you.”
“Awww. I feel the same way, Rosie.”
“I'm glad. It would stink to find out my only sister was kinda fickle in her feelings.”
“That's one thing you can never accuse me of.”
“I know, Katie-girl. Hey, when you get to Greenpoint, say hi to Ma and give Charlie a kiss for me, will you?”
“You bet!” With a giggle, Katie left, the scent of baby powder and Chantilly perfume lingering behind her in the warm, heavy air of the apartment.
Rosie checked the clock: four p.m.
Realizing she had just two hours to get to Logan's in Greenpoint, she took a much-needed shower (her day at the shipyard and the foray into Finch's apartment had left every inch of her skin feeling damp and sticky) and then changed into a tailored short-sleeved blue dress and a pair of white peep-toe pumps before setting off for the train to Brooklyn and, from there, the bus to Greenpoint.
Logan's was a quiet drinking spot where many a laborer could find a cold beer and a hot meal at the end of a long workday. Built in the 1890s, its dark wooden booths, red leather upholstery, and rich wood paneling harkened back to the pre-cocktail-era tradition of men in fine suits gathering together at local clubs to converse over brandy and cigars. Fifty years later, the class of clientele and the dress code had changed, but the majority of Logan's customers were still male.
Rosie felt heads turn the moment she walked through the light-obstructing, painted-metal door of the bar. For a moment, she felt completely out of her element, but fortunately, Frank Logan spotted her and, with a warm welcome, escorted her inside. “Mrs. Keefe. To what do we owe the honor?”
“I'm here to meet someone. Tall, Scandinavian-looking, name is Rudy Hansen.”
Frank looked surprised and awkward. “Ah, yes. He's right this way.” Logan walked her to a dark corner table where a sullen Hansen sat contemplating his half-full pilsner glass. “Can I get you anything, Mrs. Keefe?”
“Yes, a lemon Coke with ice, please.”
“Right away,” Logan replied with a gesture of his hand.
“Thanks for meeting me, Hansen.”
“Didn't have much of a choice what with your watchdog, Kilbride, barking and nipping at my heels,” he grumbled.
“He's enthusiastic, to be sure, but you still could have said ‘no.'”
“And have you two hounding me until I agreed to give in? Better we meet now so I can get you off my back.” Hansen took a sip of his beer. “Let's get this over with. What do you want from me?”
“I want to know about those rivets today. What happened?”
“They were bad,” he shrugged. “But Del Vecchio refused to listen to me.”
“Bad. Bad how? I don't understand.”
“Bad as in defective. As in they wouldn't heat. You've been on the job how long? Two weeks?”
“Just about.”
“Then you know the process. The heater uses his forge to get the rivets to the temperature where they become soft and can be flattened with a rivet gun, right?”
“Right. Got it.”
Frank Logan returned with Rosie's Coke and, after checking on her tablemate's beverage status, bid a hasty retreat behind the bar. As Hansen told his tale, Rosie sipped her soda in silence.
“So that it doesn't heat too quickly, steel is tempered with carbon, nickel, or chromium. The rivets used for ships are tempered with carbon. More precisely, high-grade steel and mild, or low, carbon. In other words, they hold up to heating without melting, and if you cool them off in water, they stay strong and don't change much.”
“So they can handle being in extreme temperatures and conditions,” she paraphrased.
“Right. They expand and contract instead of breaking down, which is ideal for something that's going to be in water. The problem with the rivets I got today is they melted away instead of heating.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that they were most likely low-grade steel that's high in carbon. The carbon takes longer to reach the desired temperature, but before it can, the steel in the rivet melts away.”
“Leaving you with no rivet,” she presumed.
“Not only that. When you take a hot rivet that's made of steel and has a lot of carbon in it and drop it in water, it becomes hard and brittle.”
“And if you use those for shipbuilding what happens?”
“For starters, you can't heat them to the same temperature you would use to heat a better rivet. They'll melt, like the ones we saw today. And if you do manage to use them by heating them more slowly, then they're likely to become brittle and snap with temperature changes and pressure.”
“And if they snap?”
“You get a hole in the side of your hull,” he stated bluntly.
Rosie leaned back in her chair. “Then that bag had to be a mistake. Why else would anyone take the chance of that happening?”
“Money. That's the only thing I can figure. The shipyard's probably trying to cut corners to turn a profit.”
“At the risk of our boys' lives? I can't believe that—”
“You don't? You don't think this sort of thing goes on all the time? Companies are always trying to save a buck and they don't care how they do it. It's only when someone gets hurt that they decide it wasn't such a good idea. And by then, their pockets have already been lined.”
“Do you think Del Vecchio knew about the rivets?”
“No idea. All I know is that I didn't receive those rivets by accident. They were left on that pier this morning for yours truly. I'm the best heater in the yard. Everyone knows it.”
Rosie begrudgingly agreed.
“I can only imagine,” Hansen continued, “that whoever left that bag there wanted me to test them out in order to see if they'd fly.”
“And if, like today, they didn't?”
“Then they'd know they'd have to up the quality and lower the carbon on the next batch. Not go so cheap.”
“If that's the case, it's hard to believe Del Vecchio didn't know about it. He's the new shift foreman.”
“Whether Del Vecchio was in on the deal or received instructions from someone else, it's tough to say.” Hansen drank the rest of his beer and held up a finger to order another round. True to character, he didn't ask his tablemate if she wanted a second soda.
Rosie made a point of sucking noisily on the straw in her glass of lemon Coke, finishing the last sweet drops of liquid. If Hansen got the hint, he failed to act upon it.
“But I saw Del Vecchio rush you into the holding area,” she pointed out.“If he wasn't in on it, why did he try to silence you?”
“He thought I was making trouble. At least that's what he told me.”
She pondered the plausibility of this explanation. Between Rosie's attack on Finch, Finch's murder, and both scenes with Hansen, it had been an eventful week. Another outburst by Hansen, whether based on truth or not, could easily have agitated Del Vecchio's already frayed nerves.
“The bag of rivets, where did they go?”
“Sweepers took them, I guess. They were gone by the time I got back from the holding area.”
“And that's the last time you saw them?”
“The last time I saw them, heard about them, or spoke about them—until now.”
“Well, I guess that's it for now.” Rosie pushed back her chair and rose to her feet. “Thank you, Hansen.”
“Yeah. Just don't tell anyone at the yard that we met tonight, okay? I don't want them to think I've gone soft.”
“I'll be sure to keep it under wraps.” She smiled and made her way to the bar to pay for her soda.
“What's the damage, Frank? Do I need to tap into my Swiss bank account?” she teased.
“An even dime for tonight, Mrs. Keefe, but, um ...”
“But what?”
“Well, I feel funny asking, but there's also the matter of your husband's bar tab.”
At the mention of Billy, Rosie felt a hole develop in the pit of her stomach. “Billy's off at war, but tell me how much he owes and I'll see what I can do.”
“Oh, I didn't know he got called. When did he ship out? Last week?”
Her brow furrowed. Frank Logan had celebrated his seventieth birthday that past January. Was he starting to lose track of time and people? “Last week? Heaven's no, Mr. Logan. He left three months ago.”
The color rose in Logan's pockmarked face, staining it a bright crimson. “Umm ... I beg pardon, ma'am, but he was here just two weeks ago. Patty, my cook, can vouch for it.”
The ruddy face of Patty, the short-order cook and makeshift bouncer, appeared in the window of the tiny kitchen, and gave a nod.
It took several moments for Rosie's brain to process the barkeep's words, but once it did, her knees buckled slightly and she suddenly felt lightheaded.

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