The War Against Miss Winter (24 page)

“It was an alienation exercise. We were done being set against one another by seven thirty.”

Jayne removed her coat and plucked a pair of rhinestone earrings from her lobes. “That’s crazy. Your whole night wasted for nothing. Unzip me?” She had on a spectacular bronze gown that plunged to her waist. She showed me her back and I coaxed the zipper past her girdle. “You should’ve come out with us. Tony took me to dinner at the Copacabana.”

“You went out with Tony?”

“I figured it was safe. With the files back where they belong, I didn’t think Edgar would be threatening anyone any time soon.”

“You can say that again—Edgar’s dead.”

Jayne held her position for an eternity before slowly turning back to me. “When?”

“They found the body this morning. And it looks like the files are missing again.”

She sank to her bed and clasped her hands in prayer. “Oh, God.” Her face crumbled and her eyes grew watery. I couldn’t begin to understand where the emotion was coming from. Two men had already died; why this grief for a third who’d worked her over then threatened to kill her? “He said he wanted to celebrate, but he wouldn’t tell me why. I figured business was good.”

“Who are you talking about? Tony?” Jayne nodded. “What are you saying?”

“Al told Tony who slapped me around.” Her eyes held mine and communicated everything she feared had come to pass.

“He wouldn’t,” I said. “That’s not the way Tony operates. He’d rough him up, sure. Teach him a lesson. But he wouldn’t…not where…” I stopped myself before I finished the thought. “This has nothing to do with Tony. It’s the play, Jayne. It has to be. We weren’t the only ones who didn’t want Edgar to find it.” Was it better to suspect Edgar had been murdered by the same unknown killer who’d zotzed Jim and Raymond or to hope that Tony had intervened and we had nothing to fear but him?

“You’re right,” said Jayne. “Of course you’re right.” She stood and wiggled out of the dress. “So if the killer’s still loose, who is it?”

“I have a couple of thoughts.” I told her about my strange escort home. As I gave her the lay, I attempted to make sense of Nussbaum’s renewed interest. What did he and Fielding have in common? They were both men, approximately the same age, but other than that, there were no similarities. The only connection between them could be the play: something Fielding wrote that Nussbaum, as the director of the OWI, wouldn’t want to see released. And the only thing Nussbaum was putting the screws on these days was the war.

The war.

“Rosie?”

The words came out in a rush. “Nussbaum was a Great War vet and so was Fielding.” I rose from the bed and went to the window. “What if the connection between them wasn’t the work they’re doing now, but the work they did then?” There would be an official military record that could verify if they’d served in the same unit or had any other opportunity to cross paths. But it’s not like I could just pick up a phone and have access to that.

Jayne read my thoughts. “How do you prove it?”

“I can’t.”

She tapped her nails against her teeth, then heralded the arrival of
an idea with a snap. “What about Harriet? I bet she’d know how to find out what we need.”

Jayne threw on her kimono and we rushed out of our room and into the hall. Harriet Rosenfeld, our resident war expert who’d helped us understand what the OWI was to begin with, opened her door much more quickly than she had on our last visit. This time the homely girl in spectacles and depilatory cream didn’t greet us. This was her good-looking cousin.

“Rosie? Jayne? What a nice surprise. What can I do for you girls?” She ushered us into a room that had undergone a transformation since our last visit. Gone were any signs of her theatrical avocation. The war had taken over.

We would’ve commented on it if we could’ve taken our eyes off Harriet. She was wearing a red velvet dress that displayed every curve like a topographical map.

“On your way out?” I asked.

She nodded and fussed with a small beaded bag. “I’m having a late drink with the head of the USO.”

“What does your fella think about that?” asked Jayne.

Harriet checked the door and urged us over to the outside wall of the room. “It was his idea.” She lowered her voice. “I’m gathering information. Harold and I are working on an article on the USO and what it’s doing with its money.”

“For
Stars & Stripes
?” I asked.

“For whoever will take it. I’m his field reporter.”

I had to admire Harriet. She may have been single-minded, but she knew how to get results.

“What about you two?” asked Harriet.

“We’re not up to anything that exciting,” I said. “Just thought we’d pop by.”

Jayne walked the room and pretended to read the clippings on the wall. “We did have a question, though. How would someone find out about a Great War vet?”

Harriet nodded and paused long enough for me to believe she’d for
gotten the question. “If you’re talking about getting access to someone’s military record, you can’t.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t anticipated that what we wanted to do was impossible. “So nix on that?”

A wry smile crept across her face, turning her pretty features into something even more striking. “
You
can’t access someone’s military record, but there are people who can.”

“Like who?” asked Jayne.

Harriet tilted her head toward her fiancé’s photo. “Harold’s allowed to call up military records as a way of verifying career details for the men he profiles. He’s done it for me on a number of occasions.” She picked up a pen and pad from her desk and stood at the ready. “So who do we ask him to research for you?”

I looked at Jayne to see if I should proceed. She shrugged, so I barreled forward.

“Raymond Fielding to start with.”

Harriet scribbled the name. “Anyone else?”

“Henry Nussbaum.”

Harriet’s pen hovered above the pad. “The New York director of the OWI?”

My first instinct was to play dumb. “I don’t know. Is there someone by that name who works there?”

She bought my act. “Sure is.” I waited for her to ask us why we wanted to know about him, but she didn’t. Harriet seemed to understand that doing us a favor was one thing, asking us what we were up to was quite another. “Pulling his record might be tough…unless Harold can convince the higher-ups that he’s writing a piece about the war at home and the efforts the military uses to counter propaganda.” She lifted her chin. “In fact, I bet such an exposé would be fascinating.” She wrote Nussbaum’s name beneath Fielding’s. “Anyone else?”

“That’s all,” said Jayne.

Harriet flipped the notepad shut. “I’m not sure how long it’s going to take to get what you need, but I’ll do what I can. It’s great to see both of you becoming so interested in politics.”

T
HE MURDER OF
U.S. N
AVAL
Captain Edgar Fielding was verified in the
A.M.
papers. His two-column inches also made it clear—by what it didn’t say—that Edgar left this world still claiming he was the son of Raymond Fielding, and his mother was in no hurry to dispel that myth. There was a service two days later, but the location was hush-hush. As curious as I might’ve been to see the state Eloise had found herself in, I didn’t think it was right to crash the festivities. Instead, I relied on Ruby to give me the scoop on what was taking place at the apartment.

“All she does is pace, day and night. I’d say the woman is legitimately grief stricken.” Ruby and I were walking together to rehearsal two days after the murder. I still didn’t trust her, but I found it strangely reassuring that she continued working for Eloise when evidence about the play’s whereabouts could no longer be in her hands. If Ruby didn’t know about the files, then it was unlikely either she or Lawrence Bentley were behind Edgar’s—or anyone else’s—death.

Our conversation ended as we entered People’s Theatre. Peter had instituted a no-talking rule that was enforced from the moment we entered the building until we left at the end of the day. To further frustrate matters, we were required to arrive one hour before starting rehearsal to give ourselves time to prepare. The only communication we were allowed was whatever was scripted. As much as I hated this artificial attempt to puff the script with meaning it didn’t possess, I had to admit it was working. The rage everyone built up during the wasted hour of sitting in silence gave their poor, underwritten characters a fire they couldn’t have possessed if the script had been printed with accelerant. The desire to talk also forced everyone to find new ways to say the only words they were allotted for the day, as though they were determined to
make an impact no matter how feeble their ammunition.

Of course, Peter couldn’t let the environment of antagonism he’d so carefully created disappear along with permission to speak. At the end of each rehearsal he picked apart our performances by describing them as wooden, childish, unprofessional, embarrassing, staged, and frightfully inadequate. As we sat in silent protest, he turned the criticisms more personal by lamenting that we were aging, unattrac-tive, overweight, and possessing personal hygiene that would make the incarcerated blush. Some nights we weren’t dismissed after these cruel words but forced to climb onstage and run through the play again while we were still feeling tired, hurt, and furious. That’s when things really got interesting. No longer were the few words we had enough to say what we wanted to put onstage. The cast stomped their feet until the boards shook, threw shoddily constructed furniture until it audibly split, and set their rage upon their fellow performers until each actress bore a hand-shaped bruise on her upper arm. In a way the anger he stoked was incredibly liberating. I imagined it was what war felt like.

It also transformed the play. I’d gathered from backstage gossip that I wasn’t alone in thinking the script stunk. While an octet of angry actresses hardly redeemed the material, it did guarantee the performances were astounding enough to overlook the writing’s shortcomings. It may have been a bad play, but it was going to be an amazing show.

When I was being cool-headed, a part of me was grateful to be the understudy. I didn’t know if I could bear to be part of a production that forced us to dig into so many dark places night after night. In order to feel the rage that Peter demanded the few times I’d stepped in for Ruby, I’d had to replay Jack’s departure again and again. When that no longer brought me to tears, I invented scenarios. Jack captured. Jack in a work camp. Jack wounded. Jack dead. The beauty of being an actress is that you can imagine anything, convince yourself of any reality. The horror of being an actress is that you feel it all so deeply, five nights a week and twice on Sundays. That’s too often for anyone to grieve.

On the bright side, after a week of not speaking to me, Peter once again approached me after rehearsal.

“Do you have a minute, Rosie?” I fought the urge to check behind me to see if there was some other Rosie he was referring to. Had Ruby taken my name as well as my part?

“I guess.” I reentered the lobby and slumped over to the bench.

Peter smiled reassuringly, recognizing my low mood but not identifying that he was the source. “What did you think of today’s rehearsal?” he asked.

“Cruel,” I said. “I think every woman in that theater wants to see you dead.” His post-rehearsal comments had been particularly harsh, so much so that I was certain he’d spent the day preparing so he could hit each actress’s most vulnerable spot.

“Good, good. I was afraid I was running out of anything useful.” He smiled in the intimate way he had that made me think I was the only person in the room (an easy task since I was). I should’ve been charmed or at least content he was talking to me again, but the whole situation made me glum.

I wrapped my arms about my torso as if I was readying myself for a crash.

“Rehearsal’s over, Rosie. Let go of the anger.”

“I couldn’t bear to. It goes with everything I own.” I released my body and attempted to force the tension from my shoulders. “What’s the last week of rehearsals going to be like? Air raids? Land mines? Chinese water torture?”

He laughed and gathered the stack of books he’d set down beside him. “No, tomorrow there will be other people to contend with. I don’t dare let electricians and stagehands be privy to my methods or, before you know it, every theater in town will be using them.” His smile faded. “Care to join me for that drink?”

“I don’t think I’d be very good company tonight.”

He tapped my leg with his index finger. “It’s a process, that’s all. It’s nothing personal.”

Was he talking about rehearsal or us? I couldn’t tell. All I knew was I was tired and couldn’t bear having my emotions toyed with. “I know it’s a process, Peter, and you know that you don’t drag an actor through
hell without her ass getting singed. If we’re good at what we do, it goes home with us.”

“Then we won’t talk about the play. We’ll talk about something else.”

I met his eyes and found he was being sincere. If I had to determine which Peter was the real Peter, the one before me was making an argument for his supremacy.

I smiled. “I’m an actress and you’re a director. What could we possibly talk about aside from theater?”

“I imagine we could come up with something.” We stared at each other, each waiting for the other to confirm that this was all right, that no unwritten rules were being violated. Our faces moved forward, mine right, his left, then in and out as though our heads asked,
Is this permitted
?

We didn’t have time to find out. Before our lips could part, meet, touch, and recede, a knock rattled the theater door, sending us leaping to opposite sides of the bench.

“Yes?” Peter called out.

“We’re looking for Rosie Winter,” said a voice muffled by the door.

I rose and peered through the glass. Two female silhouettes stood by the streetlight. Peter unlocked the door and opened it until the lobby light illuminated Jayne and Harriet. They stood side by side with their hands in their pockets and their hats tilted over their left eyes.

“What are you two doing here?” I asked.

“We thought we’d go do that thing,” said Jayne. “And maybe you’d want to join us.”

“The USO thing,” said Harriet. “That we talked about the other day.”

Light penetrated clouds and I nodded that I finally caught on. “Right. I forgot that was tonight.” Peter cleared his throat. “This is my roommate, Jayne Hamilton, and our friend Harriet Rosenfeld. This is Peter Sherwood.”

Harriet shook his hand. Jayne did the same, at half the speed to give her time to size up the man in question. “Charmed,” she cooed.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Peter,” I told him, then I grabbed Jayne and
Harriet and pulled them into the night.

We hurried away from the theater as though escaping Peter were our primary objective. A man in a worn bowler and houndstooth coat blocked our path and thrust a stack of handbills at us. Jayne and Harriet hurried around him while I absentmindedly took what he was offering. “Of Race and People” the paper read. “Why do you believe the lie of equality?” I crumpled up the handbill and shoved it into my pocket before Harriet caught wind of it. To make sure the man knew how much I appreciated his gift, I stuck out my tongue and gave him a Bronx cheer.

When we were far enough from the building that there was no way Peter could overhear us without employing Gestapo techniques, I slowed down and took in the lay of the land. “Why all the secrecy? Couldn’t this have waited until I got home?”

“Peter’s cute,” said Jayne. “A little worn around the edges, but you could do worse.”

A blush started at my belly and catapulted to the top of my head. I poked her shoulder. “Answer the question.”

“We were in the neighborhood,” she said.

I ushered them over to John Kelly’s, the bar Peter and I had gone to weeks before. We staked a claim on a corner table dominated by an overflowing ashtray.

We were the only girls in there. A band of older gents sat hunched around a pitcher of beer telling a story that necessitated lowering their voices upon our entrance. Two solitary men sat at the bar, one lost in a newspaper and the other preoccupied by the scarred wood his drink sat upon. Diagonal to us were three midshipmen who took our arrival as a sign the evening was looking up.

We ordered a round of beer, which was delivered in a soiled pitcher bearing the fingerprints of many who had come before us. From the phonograph Sammy Kaye and his orchestra begged us to “Remember
Pearl Harbor.” As though we could forget.

“What’s the wire?” I pulled my handkerchief out and wiped the outside of my glass.

Harriet checked the room and scooted closer to me. “It seems your men have more in common than past military service.”

I leaned toward her and wrapped my hands about my beer. “Go on.”

Before she could, one of the midshipmen approached us. His naval hat was nestled beneath his arm and his shoes were so polished they reflected us back on ourselves. He was the only clean thing in the joint.

“Good evening, ladies. My friends and I were thinking about going to a dance hall up the street and we were wondering if you’d care to join us.”

The friends waved to us from their post. Jayne fluttered her ring. “Married.”

Harriet bowed her head. “Missing.”

I clutched the hankie. “Mourning.”

His face turned paler than his uniform. “Forgive me, ladies. Have a pleasant evening.”

With that formality out of the way, we each took a long sip of beer. The bartender turned off the phonograph and switched on a radio for the Rangers game. The announcer rattled on about how the Chicago Black Hawks were losing their left wing to the army the next day and it was only fair that the Hawks should win to give him the send-off he deserved.

“Fielding and Nussbaum were in the same platoon together,” whispered Harriet.

“Were they friends?” I asked

She shook her head. “Doubtful. Nussbaum was the platoon leader and Fielding was one of the grunts. It appears there was some question as to who was responsible the night Fielding lost his leg.”

“Meaning?”

“The loss didn’t happen in combat. They were in camp and Nussbaum decided to play a prank in retaliation for something Fielding had done to him. Nussbaum put what he claimed he thought was a firecracker
in the outhouse. The firecracker was in fact a mortar shell—leading to the loss of Fielding’s leg and an inquest. Any misdoing went unproven and Nussbaum’s record was expunged.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I’m getting to that. Before he lost his leg, Fielding’s platoon spent a long, cold winter in France with little action and even less food. The only way they survived the monotonous conditions was to entertain one another. To keep morale up, Fielding and another soldier, who had worked as an actor before the war, would put together skits on camp life, often incorporating information from the other platoon members’ lives. As the winter progressed and spirits diminished, they turned their wit on their commander, putting together an evening of burlesque at Nussbaum’s expense.”

All of this sounded strangely familiar. Hadn’t the articles on the walls in Nussbaum’s office recounted a similar tale of the troops entertaining one another during the war’s harshest months? “And this was why Nussbaum put the mortar in the john? Because of a few jokes?”

Harriet downed her beer until her glass was half empty. “In the official report about the accident, the men who were present described the skits as nothing out of the ordinary. Nussbaum seemed to take the lampooning well and Fielding and his actor friend weren’t believed to have done anything out of malice. In the inquest transcript, there’s a dispute about whether or not something set Nussbaum off, and then it stops.”

The men at the bar groaned as the Black Hawks scored a goal. “Stops?”

“Fielding defended Nussbaum and declared that his actions were an accident, nothing more. All charges were dismissed and Nussbaum’s career was allowed to blossom without any taint from the incident.” I mulled this over between sips of my drink. Perhaps Fielding decided that by mocking Nussbaum he was partially responsible for what happened to him, so he decided to help get the guy off. Or maybe Nussbaum influenced Fielding’s change of tune. Regardless, Nussbaum must’ve believed
that twenty years later Fielding regretted the decision and decided to get his revenge by writing a play that depicted his version of what had happened and punished Nussbaum sufficiently for causing him to lose his leg.

If this were true, it made sense that Nussbaum would want to find the play to prevent his career from being tarnished. Of course, it was equally plausible that the play told the true tale of Edgar Fielding’s parentage, a truth that would have caused Edgar and his mother to lose out on Fielding’s substantial fortune. How was it that two very different people came to see this play as being about them?