Don't Die Under the Apple Tree (22 page)

Read Don't Die Under the Apple Tree Online

Authors: Amy Patricia Meade

BOOK: Don't Die Under the Apple Tree
3.66Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“I'm sure it wasn't. I'm sure you spoke to Hansen regarding Finch or some piece of information you'd uncovered. The question is what?”
“I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“Look, Mrs. Keefe, I am about this far from arresting you.” He held his thumb and forefinger aloft to approximate the distance of one inch. “Not for murder, but to protect you from the people who hurt Hansen. Now then, are you going to tell me what happened or do you want to spend tonight, tomorrow, and possibly the rest of your life in jail? Because if you don't tell me what you know, I can't help you.”
Rosie wandered into the living room and came to rest on the sofa. Riordan, meanwhile, stood over her, arms folded across his chest as a sign that he meant business.
“Hansen got a batch of bad rivets this morning. Not just one or two rivets, as is typical, but an entire bag. So I met with him to try and see what he made of the situation.”
“And?”
“And he suspected that Pushey was cutting corners in order to save money.”
“And you? What do you think?”
Rosie frowned and then retrieved the newspaper from the kitchen counter. “Here,” she said as she passed the periodical to Riordan.
She watched as his blue eyes scanned the article and then stared off at a point somewhere in the distance.
“So?” she prompted.
His eyes swiftly focused on hers. “I had a feeling something wasn't right about Pushey Shipyard.”
“You did not,” she challenged. “You're only saying that because—”
“I had a
feeling
,” he clarified. “You, however, have presented me with a viable theory. Something I've been sorely lacking.”
“Okay, so we have a theory,” she stated impatiently.
“What next?”
“Well, if someone at Pushey is switching materials, they're doing it during the off hours so that they don't get caught.”
“Makes sense.” Rosie nodded.
“When does the second shift end?”
“Midnight, usually. The sweepers might leave a little later, though.”
Riordan glanced out the window at the gathering dusk. “Meaning that whoever is guilty of the switch, and quite possibly Finch's murder, will probably be hard at work in just a few short hours.”
“Maybe sooner than that. There is no second shift on Saturdays. The first shift does a half day from eight until noon and then the yard is empty until Monday morning.”
“So the murderer could be there right now, even as we speak.”
“What? You mean tonight?”
“Yes, tonight. Criminals don't take holidays.”
“I know, but ...”
Riordan chuckled. “What, you thought he'd be taking a bath or out with his best girl watching the latest Cagney flick?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Saturday night is just as good as any,” he announced as he replaced his fedora on his head and strode toward the door.
“Where are you going?”
“To Pushey Shipyard to see if I can't catch this guy in the act.”
“Can I come—?”
Riordan cut her off before she could finish the question. “No, you can't. You're locking this door behind me and you're not opening it for anyone. Got it?”
Rosie obediently nodded.
“Good. Now fix yourself a bite to eat, listen to the radio, and go to bed. I'll see you in the morning and let you know how things went.” With that, Riordan disappeared down the steps.
Rosie, following his instructions, locked the door tightly behind him. The day's events had left her both terrified and exhausted, but part of her sincerely wished she could have tagged along, if only to be able to look Finch's killer in the eye and tell him about the hell she had been through.
Knowing, however, that accompanying Riordan was not an option, she decided instead to don her favorite short-sleeved cotton pajamas and listen to Bob Nolan's
Radio Rodeo
. But before she could reach her bedroom door, the telephone rang.
She picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“Oh hey, Rosie. It's Delaney.”
“Oh hi, Delaney. What can I do for you?”
“Nothing. I just found out Rudy Hansen was attacked tonight and I figured I'd check in to see if you were okay. You know, what with Katie being at your Mom's and all.”
“That's very nice of you, but I'm fine.”
“You sure?”
“Positive.”
“Okay. Well, if you need anything give me a shout.”
“I will, Delaney. Thanks.” She replaced the receiver in its cradle and set off toward the bedroom, but something about the conversation gave her pause.
First, as of just a few hours ago, Katie was staying with Rosie for a night on the town and moving back to Greenpoint the next morning—a plan conveyed to Evelyn Doyle. So how could Delaney have known that Rosie was alone? Second, Rosie had only just learned of Hansen's attack from Lieutenant Riordan. How did Delaney hear about it so quickly?
How would Delaney hear about
anything? From
his mother, of course,
she concluded. Feeling foolish for her suspicions, yet needing to quell her fears, she decided to call her mother. Picking up the receiver, she dialed the operator. “Greenpoint-5792, please.”
The operator directed the call and after a few rings, Evelyn Doyle, with perfect telephone pitch, answered. “Hello, Doyle residence.”
Rosie cringed at her mother's formality. “Hi, Ma, it's Rosie, er, Rosaleen.”
Mrs. Doyle's manner became quite frosty. “Oh, hello, Rosaleen. And what are you up to tonight that you couldn't join your sister for a movie and a soda? It's dish night, you know. The two of you could have gotten me that gravy boat I've had my eye on.”
She rolled her eyes. “I'm tired, Ma. I've been working all week, you know.”
“Yes, I
do
know. Back at that terrible place with all those lecherous, filthy men! Well, if something happens to you, don't come crying to me.”
“Believe me, I won't,” she swore. It was, indeed, the truth: Rosie's mother was not the sort of woman you went to for sympathy. “Say, Ma, have you spoken with Mrs. Delaney recently?”
“No, why? Is she sick? It's her gall bladder again, isn't it? You know I told her she shouldn't be eating that liverwurst from Krauss's Delicatessen. It's far too rich for her!”
“No, Ma, she's not sick. Well, she might be, I don't know.” She shook her head. “I just wanted to know if you had talked to her since Katie told you she was moving in.”
“No. Haven't heard a peep. I did tell Mrs. Pearce at the post office that your sister and Charlie were moving in. She might have told Mrs. Delaney. Oh! But wait ... no, when I saw Mrs. Pearce today, I told her the whole thing was off.”
“So no one knew Katie was moving in today.”
“No. How could they? It's not like I received a lot of notice. Really, Rosaleen, you can be so impetuous at times! I don't know where you get it from, but you really should try to think of others before you make such plans—”
“Bye, Ma.” Rosie cut her off, not just so she didn't have to hear her mother's tirade, but because Delaney's story wasn't adding up.
The only way Delaney could have known that Hansen had been attacked was if he were in on the scheme to assault him. And the only way he could have known that Rosie was alone was if he had been watching her apartment.
Where was he when he had called? Was he at home? Or was he nearby? There was only one way to find out. She'd call him at home and see if he answered. But if he were to answer, what would she say was her reason for calling? As a married woman, what possible reason would she have for calling a bachelor at his home?
I've got it!
she thought as she recalled the hip flask Delaney had given her the day of Finch's assault. Rushing to the bedroom, she retrieved the object, which, thanks to Katie, had been wrapped in Delaney's newly laundered handkerchief and placed on Rosie's dresser to await delivery.
I'll call Delaney to remind him that I still have his flask and handkerchief,
she plotted.
And tell him that if he'd like to collect it, he can stop by tomorrow since I'll be packing my things to move out.
With her plan in place, she lifted the receiver and placed it to her right ear, but before she could dial the operator, something caught her eye. It was the glow of the stainless steel hip flask, sparkling in the soft light cast by the distant streetlamp.
Replacing the receiver, Rosie reached to the end table and turned on one of two matching living room lamps. Beneath the light of the incandescent bulb, she examined the flask thoroughly. Able to hold approximately eight ounces of liquid, it measured about eight inches by four inches, featured a screw-on cap, and on the front, the initials “MDD” were engraved in bold, block lettering.
But what was most notable about this particular flask was its pristine condition. Every inch of its smooth surface seemed to gleam in the light and, aside from a few greasy fingerprints, possessed no scratches, scuff marks, or other flaws.
Rosie turned the object over in her hands meditatively. Surely a man like Delaney, one who worked in the shipyards, would have inflicted a few nicks on the surface by now. Even if he hadn't dropped it, the rubbing of the flask against the pocket of his canvas work pants as he plied the bucking bar would have caused some wear and tear.
No, she decided, this flask was new. Brand new.
But how, and more important where, would Delaney have procured such a thing? All nonessential metal items had been pulled from store shelves immediately after the United States declared war on Japan, over four months ago. True, Delaney might have been one of the last lucky civilians to acquire such a luxury prior to the metal ban, but she was doubtful that the flask would have retained its flawlessly shiny finish for that length of time.
Likewise, the pressure was on civilians nationwide to turn in any and all metal items during the recent citywide scrap drives. So great was the sense of urgency that a church in Greenpoint had turned in its bell and a local park had even surrendered a set of Civil War–era cannons to the cause. Indeed, Rosie had noticed that Lieutenant Riordan—a man who might have found a way around the law—lit his cigarettes, rather clumsily, with matches: a hint that until now, he had most likely used a lighter. Quite possibly one made of stainless steel.
There was only one place where Delaney might have acquired any product made of steel: the black market. But if he was buying black-market items, might he be selling them as well? Could he and Finch have been accomplices?
Rosie closed her eyes and tried to imagine how the profiteering scheme might have come together. Although she had a good idea of Finch's role in the plot, she could not guess the why and wherefore behind his murder. There were still too many missing details to get a clear picture. However, one thing was for certain: involved in the plan or not, Michael Delaney had something to hide.
With a sense of urgency, Rosie picked up the telephone receiver and dialed the operator. “Greenpoint-1105, please.”
Within a few seconds, the phone rang at the Delaney residence. After several rings, an elderly woman answered. “Hello?”
“Oh, hello, Mrs. Delaney. It's Rosie Keefe, er, Doyle,” she corrected, realizing that the elderly woman might not recall her married name. “I was looking for Michael. Is he around?”
“Oh, Rosie! How nice to hear from ya,” she said in a soft brogue. “Michael had some errands to run after work and hasn't come home yet. Shall I give him a message?”
She felt lightheaded again. If Delaney wasn't home, where was he? “Umm, no ... no, thank you. I'll call him back some other time.”
“All right, then. Good-bye, dear.”
“Good night, Mrs. Delaney.”
She put down the receiver and moved to the window. Was Delaney down there, somewhere on the street? Had he been watching her apartment all afternoon? Had he seen her meet with Hansen? More important, had he seen Riordan stop by and then leave for the shipyard?
Without missing a beat, Rosie dashed to the phone and called Riordan's precinct.
“Seventy-sixth Precinct, Sergeant Cooper speaking,” a gruff male voice answered.
“Yes, Sergeant. This is Mrs. Rose Keefe. I need to get a message to Lieutenant Riordan.”
“Lieutenant Riordan is away from his desk right now. May I take a message?”
“Yes ... I know he's away from his desk. He's at the Pushey Shipyard and I do need to get a message to him. Is there any way you can send it to him by radio?”

Other books

What You See by Hank Phillippi Ryan
Into the Storm by Dennis N.t. Perkins
Bigfoot Dreams by Francine Prose
Edged Blade by J.C. Daniels
Ultimatum by Antony Trew
The Wind From the East by Almudena Grandes
The Jane Austen Handbook by Margaret C. Sullivan
Billionaire's Pet 3 by Christa Wick