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Authors: Amy Patricia Meade

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BOOK: Don't Die Under the Apple Tree
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And that required questioning the employees of Pushey Shipyard.
Chapter Five
Subconsciously aware of the sound of whispers emanating from a space somewhere above her head, Rosie awoke with a start. As she blinked the sleep out of her eyes, the concerned faces of her mother and Katie crystallized through the fog.
“Ma? What are you doing here?” Rosie sat up and ran her hands over her face.
Standing just over five feet tall and weighing in at one hundred and thirty pounds, sixty-two-year-old Evelyn Mary Doyle was, despite her petite size, formidable. Like a small dog who assumes a larger-than-life attitude in order to intimidate larger foes, Evelyn had learned early on that speaking loudly, gazing directly, and standing straight, with hands on hips and nose in the air, went a long way toward making both enemies and strong-minded daughters cry “uncle.”
Standing at Rosie's feet, Evelyn combined the hands-on-hips pose with a defiant forward thrust of the chest. “I'm here to take care of my eldest daughter. Where else would I be?”
With a loud yawn, Rosie swung her feet over the side of the couch and onto the tufted floral area rug. She was in no mood to field what would, inevitably, turn into a never-ending stream of questions. “There's nothing to take care of, Ma. I'm fine. Really.”
“Fine? Is that why Margaret Delaney called me yesterday? To tell me that everything was fine? Still, at least Michael talks to his mother.”
“Ma, please ...”
“And I suppose that's why you were asleep all morning, eh? Because you're ‘fine'?”
Rosie leaped from the sofa in horror. “I've been asleep all morning? What time is it?”
“A little before noon. Katie and I tried to wake you, but you were delirious. Talking in your sleep about things that made no sense. At one point you even shouted at us not to touch you.”
“I'm sorry,” Rosie muttered as she frantically folded her blankets. She had hoped to get to Pushey before the morning shift started. But if she hurried, she might at least be able to get to Red Hook in time to put in a half-day's work. That is, if Finch's replacement agreed to take her back.
“That's all you have to say for yourself, is it? ‘I'm sorry' and ‘I'm fine.'”
“For now, yes. Say, why don't you stay here with Katie and Charlie this afternoon? And then, tonight at supper, I'll answer all your questions. I promise.”
“But—”
“I don't have time to talk right now, Ma. I should have been at the shipyard hours ago!” Rosie realized her mistake too late, but on the off chance that her mother hadn't caught the name of her intended destination, she turned on one heel and hastened toward the bedroom.
Rosie should have known better. Her father had frequently joked that Evelyn's hearing was so acute that she would complain at night about the neighbor's dog barking, even though it had been six years since both neighbor and dog had moved to Westchester County.
“Rosaleen Elizabeth!” Evelyn exploded, sending wisps of graying auburn hair tumbling from the bun atop her head.
Evelyn had always called her daughters by their Christian names, but combining them with their middle, or Saint's, names meant business. Rosie froze in her tracks.
“Did I just hear you say that you're going back to that ... that place?”
Rosie turned around slowly and mirrored her mother's hands-on-hips pose. “Yes, you did.”
Katie, flaxen haired and even-tempered like her father, had witnessed several of these power plays as a child and, therefore, knew that it was only a matter of time before she was drawn into the middle of the argument. Hoping to escape the apartment unseen, she grabbed an amused Charlie from his blanket on the floor and inched toward the door.
“Katherine Brigid! And just where do you think you're going?” Evelyn boomed.
“I ... I was just taking Charlie for a walk.”
“You're not taking my grandson anywhere. Not until you talk some sense into your sister.” Evelyn met her younger daughter at the door and took the baby from her arms.
“Oh, but Ma,” Katie whined.
“Don't ‘but Ma' me. You've been every bit as worried as I have.”
“Ma, leave her out of this,” Rosie ordered.
“No,” Katie spoke up. “Ma's right. I was sick after Delaney's call yesterday. And then, this morning, with you thrashing around so, I didn't know what to think. That's why I asked Ma to come by.”
Rosie recalled Katie's promise from the night before. “Nice job sticking together, sis.”
“I'll stick by you when you start making sense. You know Ma and I would be devastated if something were to happen to you. And yet, you want to go back to the shipyard, with all those men. After ... after what happened.”
“I don't like the idea any more than you do, but I have to get my job back.”
“There's no need, Rosaleen,” Evelyn argued. “You and your sister are moving back home with me. It's already been settled.”
“I know, Ma, but I still need the job.”
“Why? With the three of us sharing expenses, you can take it easier. I hear the bakery shop over on Bedford is looking for a counter clerk. The hours are good and it's right around the corner. That'll save you money on the train.”
“I can't, Ma. Not right now.”
“But you can go back to a job you were fired from? Where someone was murdered?”
Rosie shook her head. “You don't understand. I have to.”
“Here we go again. That's exactly what you said when your father and I objected to you marrying William.” Again Evelyn Doyle ignored the existence of nicknames. “‘You don't understand, Ma, I'll just die if I don't marry him!' Your father and I thought you were in trouble, but no. You were just so in love you couldn't see straight. You went off and eloped, and look where it got you. No children, no money, and a husband who's God only knows where.”
Rosie glared at her sister.
“Katherine didn't tell me,” Evelyn announced. “Mrs. Delaney did. But it didn't take a phone call from her to tell me that you're unhappy. Too late now, though. You made your decision to marry and it can't be undone. Still, you'd think you might have learned something, but now here you are again, not listening to reason, running off to get back a job that might kill you.”
Rosie blinked back her tears. “This is a different situation, Ma,” she said quietly. “Someday I hope to explain it to you, but right now, there's somewhere I need to be. Will I see you at supper?”
Evelyn folded her arms across her chest and turned her nose up. “I don't know. I haven't decided.”
“Well, then, have a good afternoon.” With that, Rosie marched off to the bedroom and slammed the door.
 
 
Rosie changed into a pale green shirtdress and a cardigan sweater and, with a pair of cotton workcloth coveralls stuffed into her oversized handbag, caught the 12:25 train to Brooklyn. After checking in at Pushey's front gate, she stepped from the unseasonably warm April air and through the heavy metal doors of the main building. The dreary, windowless holding area, typically resonating with laughter and chatter as employees awaited the start of their shift, was now vacant and eerily quiet.
Less than twenty-four hours had elapsed since she'd last stood in this room, and yet it felt like it had been months. In that brief period of time, her marriage, her job, and her freedom had all been compromised. At the moment, Rosie could do nothing to save nor improve her marriage, but she could work on preserving the other two.
She sighed heavily and exited through the heavy steel door to the shipyard, which was abuzz with coverall-clad employees working furiously to make up for the previous day's cancelled night shift. It was not long, however, before attention switched away from production and to the redheaded visitor standing outside the holding area doors.
The shipyard gradually fell silent as all eyes fell on Rosie.
Amid the sea of disapproving stares, Rosie felt her pulse begin to race.
What am I doing here?
she wondered to herself.
Everyone thinks I killed Finch! They're never going to give me my job back. I might as well
—
She was about to retreat back into the employee holding area when she noticed a petite woman in her mid-twenties walking toward her. Her blue coveralls were stained with splotches of black grease in every conceivable size and shape and her cheeks bore traces of dirt and grime, yet her brunette hair, tied in a pink kerchief, and her ruby tinted lips demonstrated that this young woman had no intention of trading in her femininity for a steady paycheck.
“Keefe?” she asked as she offered a gloved right hand.
Rosie, in wonderment, took the hand and nodded.
“Nelson,” the younger woman introduced herself. “I just wanted to thank you for sticking up for us.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Hansen and a few of the other guys have been giving us girls a tough time ever since we got here. Lots of us thought about doing what you did, but we were too scared to go through with it. Thanks for being brave. Thanks for showing them that we don't have to take their guff.”
“That really wasn't something I planned,” Rosie explained. “I just got mad, that's all.”
“Doesn't matter why. You still stuck up for yourself. And, for the record, I don't think you did it.”
Rosie's face was a question.
“Killed Finch, I mean,” Nelson clarified.“But even if you did, we'll stand behind you. Finch had it coming to him.”
“What the hell's goin' on out here?” a man's voice suddenly bellowed. “I didn't call for a break.”
Rosie spun around and watched as the figure of Tony Del Vecchio emerged from the shadows of the red brick building behind her.
“What's everyone staring at? Did FDR decide to pay us a—?” At the sight of Rosie, Del Vecchio fell silent.
“So you're the new foreman,” Rosie deduced. “I should have guessed.”
Del Vecchio cleared his throat before launching back into command mode. “All right, people, back to work. There's nothing to see here. You, too, Nelson. I've had enough of your yappin' for one day.”
As Nelson trudged back to the dock and the loud whir of hydraulic guns resumed, Del Vecchio waved Rosie back into the main building and shut the door. “If you're here for your last check, Keefe, I ain't got it. All the hours for the week are still in Finch's office. The cops have had it locked up since they got here last night.”
“I'm not here for that. I'm here for a job.”
“A job?” Del Vecchio laughed dismissively. “You got one helluva nerve!”
“Finch shouldn't have fired me in the first place, Del Vecchio. You know that. I was on your gang. I kept up with both you and Delaney and never once complained. It was Hansen who started the trouble.”
“Hey, I'm not gonna argue with you. Should Hansen have done what he did? No. Were you a hard worker? Sure. But that don't matter now. What does matter is that every guy out there thinks you murdered Finch.”
“I sort of gathered that when I walked in.”
“Yeah. You wanna face that every day?”
The prospect gave Rosie pause, but she knew she couldn't waver. “It might be tough at first, but in time, they'll get used to me being here. And by then, the police will have proven I didn't do it.”
“Oh yeah? Well, why don't you come back when they have? It'll be easier on both of us.”
“Because I need the money now.”
Del Vecchio ran a hand over his round, pockmarked face in exasperation. “Look, you're just not gettin' it. I can't have some killer working here.”
“But I'm not a killer.”
“I don't know that for sure.” Del Vecchio pointed to the doors that led to the yard. “The fellas out there don't know that.”
“Call me crazy, but doesn't this country believe that a man or, in this case, woman is ‘innocent until proven guilty'? Why are we even fighting this war if people like you are so quick to throw away those beliefs?” Rosie felt embarrassed to have used patriotism and propaganda to further her own cause, but she quickly recovered. She had her own war to fight.
“Oh no. Don't you go pinnin' that on me! Not after the trouble you caused me this morning.”
“Trouble? What trouble are you in? If anything, it looks to me like you got a promotion. And probably a raise to go along with it.”
“Oh yeah, I got a promotion, all right. A promotion, a raise, and a lot of headaches. That thing you did to Hansen got the women all fired up. ‘New foreman, new rules,' they said. I spent half the time before lunch trying to get them to work. And Jackson? She didn't even show up today. No note. No phone call. No nothin'.”
BOOK: Don't Die Under the Apple Tree
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