The Enemy at Home

“Jane!” Nora called, stepping out to the hallway for a moment. “Honey, when you finish getting dressed, could you please come here?”

Nora ducked back into her bedroom and, once again, started searching through her dresser drawers. Her makeup and hair were done, and she had her black dress laid out on the bed. She didn’t have time to paint her legs, so she’d decided to wear nylons to Connie’s wake.

She had exactly three pair, two of which she’d never worn. They were still in the box. She felt like a hoarder. It was no longer possible to buy nylons anywhere, except on the black market. Months ago, she’d given Jane all of her old silk stockings and nylons with runs. Jane had been collecting for one of her war material drives at school. In addition to parachutes, the old silk stockings and nylons were used for mosquito netting, flak jackets and glider tow ropes.

Nora was saving the three pair of nylons for an emergency—and this was an emergency.

“I’m all dressed and ready, Mom,” Jane announced, appearing in the doorway of the master bedroom. She wore a dark blue dress with a white Peter Pan collar and a chapel veil.

“You look nice, honey,” Nora said hurriedly. “But you don’t need the veil. We’re not going to a church. The wake is at a funeral home.” She pointed to her dresser—with the drawers partially open. The middle drawer stuck out more than the others—and all the clothes inside it had been rifled through. “Did you by any chance take my nylon stockings or move them? I had three pair in this drawer, and now, they’re gone.”

Jane shook her head as she removed the bobby pins holding her chapel veil and took it off. “I didn’t touch them.”

“Are you sure?” Nora pressed. “You didn’t take them for one of your scrap drives?”

She shook her head again. “I swear, Mom. I wouldn’t have taken them without asking first.”

“Well, I know they were here in the middle drawer two weeks ago,” she muttered—almost to herself. “They were under my nightgowns. I don’t understand how they could simply vanish. I must be losing my mind.” She sighed. “Fine, I’ll just go bare-legged . . .”

“I’m not lying!” Jane snapped, looking wounded. “I swear on a stack of Bibles, I didn’t take them!”

Nora turned to her and gave her a quick hug. “I’m sorry, honey. I believe you. I-I’m just going a little crazy here.” She grabbed her dress off the bed and carefully stepped into it. “Listen, you look really nice. Why don’t you go downstairs and wait for me? I’ll be ready in a couple of minutes . . .”

Her daughter let out a dramatic sigh and headed down the hallway.

Jane had eagerly volunteered to go to the wake with her. This was typical of her. Jane was involved in everything—and maybe, in this case, a bit ghoulish, too. She’d already told her friends at school she was attending the wake of the Queen Anne woman who had been strangled and stabbed. And she kept wondering out loud if the wake would be open casket.

On the other hand, Chris had apologized for not wanting to go. Unlike his kid sister, the last thing Chris wanted was for anyone in his class to know that the much-talked-about murder victim and her homosexual killer had recently been to dinner at his house. He just wanted to keep a low profile.

Once she was dressed and ready to go, Nora found Chris at the kitchen table, doing his homework. “Where’s your sister?” she asked.

“Waiting in the car for you,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I think she’s actually looking forward to this.”

“Chris, I know this is a ridiculous question,” she said, putting on her gloves. “But did you take some nylon stockings out of the middle drawer of my dresser?”

“Yeah, and I also borrowed a pair of your earrings,” he replied.

She stared at him and blinked.

“Jeez, no, Mom,” he said, looking at her as if she were crazy. He tapped his pencil on the cover of his history book. “What would I be doing with your nylon stockings? And why in the world would I be going through your dresser drawers?” he asked testily.

“All right already,” she said. “Don’t bite my head off. I told you it was a ridiculous question. Listen, we should be back in time for dinner. But if you get hungry, there are some cold cuts in the fridge.”

“I’m fine,” he said. “Listen, I’m sorry I’m not going to this thing with you.”

“It’s okay, honey,” she reassured him. “I didn’t expect you to. She was my friend. You only met her once. We’ll be back around six thirty, seven at the latest.” She was about to head out the back door, but she hesitated. “You aren’t planning to go out, are you?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No.”

“Good,” she said. Then she stepped outside and closed the door behind her.

* * *

On their way to the funeral home, Jane asked once again if the casket would be open or closed. She seemed nervous, conflicted and almost obsessed about it.

“I’m pretty sure it’ll be a closed casket, honey,” Nora answered with her eyes on the road. She remembered Pete, when he’d started out as a resident, saying they’d brought in a strangulation victim, and her face had been horribly bruised and discolored. He’d said it was typical in strangulations. So Nora figured the casket would be closed. Then again, maybe some morticians would consider that a challenge. “If the casket is open,” Nora said, “and you don’t want to look, you can stay on the other side of the room. No one’s going to make you go up there.”

The casket was open.

Nora could see the casket from across the semicrowded room when she and Jane arrived. Flower arrangements decorated every table. Nora thought she recognized a few women from the plant among the mourners. Then she spotted Fran; Marty was with her. Dressed in a navy-blue suit, he looked like he was dying to leave. He kept his hands clasped in front of him and nervously tapped one foot. He nodded and mumbled a shy “hello” to her and Jane.

Fran made a fuss over Jane and her dress. Then she pulled Nora aside and whispered in her ear. “They did a lousy job on our girl. She looks terrible.” Fran nodded toward the small group standing to the left of the casket. “That’s her family over there—from Olympia and Walla Walla. You can’t miss the older sister. She looks just like Connie—minus the sparkle.”

Nora turned to Jane and put an arm around her. “Moment of truth, honey,” she said under her breath. “You can come with me and meet Connie’s family, then kneel in front of the casket and say a quick prayer—or you can stay put here. No pressure.”

“You’re welcome to hang back with us, hon,” Fran offered.

But Jane surprised Nora and decided to accompany her. She was polite to Connie’s family and quietly reverent as she knelt in front of Connie in her casket.

But for Nora, it was a shock. The bruises on Connie’s face from strangulation were shoddily covered with makeup, and her skin was a ghostly gray. A frilly, high-collared, periwinkle-blue blouse may have hidden the garrote marks around her neck, but it made her look like a grandmother. And the hair was all wrong. Gazing at her, Nora thought Connie would have looked better and more like herself in her pink and black polka dot bandana—with a cigarette or a drink in her hand instead of that rosary. It broke Nora’s heart to see her young friend in that casket.

As she and Jane walked away, she put an arm around her daughter’s shoulder again. “I’m proud of you, honey,” she whispered. But she could barely get the words out.

When they met up with Fran and Marty again, Nora noticed that Fran was teary-eyed, too. “I was just looking at all the flowers,” Fran said. “I remember how Connie always complained about having to donate money for a floral arrangement every time someone at the plant lost a loved one in the war. I’d have been so mad if there weren’t a lot of flowers here.”

Nora hugged her, and they held each other tightly.

“Listen,” Fran said, finally pulling back. “We’ve been here for forty-five minutes, and that’s about forty minutes more than Marty can handle. So we’re going to scram.”

“It’s drizzling out,” Marty said. “I’ll get the car and pull up to the front door, Mom. Take your time.” He nodded at Nora and Jane. “Nice seeing you again.” Then he hurried toward the exit.

“See what I mean?” Fran asked. “He’s just so afraid he’s going to get the shakes in front of all these people.”

“Do you think it would be awful if we left, too?” Nora asked. “We’ve already given our respects to the family. And we don’t know anyone else here besides you—and Connie.”

“I’m sure no one would mind—or notice,” Fran assured her. “And if she could sit up and talk, Connie would tell you she doesn’t mind either.”

The three of them started toward the funeral home’s richly appointed lobby. It looked like the living room of an old estate—complete with a fireplace. After collecting a holy card, Jane whispered to Nora that she needed to use the restroom and headed off in that direction.

Nora stood by Fran, who watched through the windows in the double-door entrance for Marty to drive up in the car.

“Listen, I’m glad we have a couple of minutes alone here,” Nora said quietly. “I didn’t want to tell you in the cafeteria because there are always so many people around, but I’m going to an informal memorial for Roger on Thursday night. Some of his friends are getting together at a bar in Pioneer Square.”

“Pioneer Square?” Fran repeated. “Honey, that’s Skid Road . . .”

Nora grimaced. “I know. I’m a little nervous about making the trip by myself at nine in the evening. I was wondering if you might want to go with me. I figure there’s strength in numbers.”

She imagined that Richard and his buddies wouldn’t be too thrilled if she showed up to the bar with a friend, especially after she’d promised she wouldn’t talk about Roger with anyone from work. But she could always explain that Fran and she had already discussed Roger at length. And Fran had been there at the dinner party when Roger had mentioned his policeman friend, Phil. Besides, Fran had been closer to Connie than anyone else at work. Didn’t she deserve to hear what Roger’s friends had to say about Connie’s murder?

But Nora could tell from Fran’s expression that she didn’t want any part of it.

“Oh, hon.” She slowly shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I think you’re crazy. I’d rather be shot out of a cannon. And it’s not just the trip at night to that part of town. I can’t believe you still think he’s innocent.”

Fran glanced toward the people in the viewing room, and then her voice dropped to a whisper. “Haven’t you been paying attention to the newspapers? The police are certain he killed Connie. And you want to go to some memorial service for him?”

Nora nodded. “I figure Roger’s friends might confirm for me what I feel in my gut. But I can’t approach them about it at work. They’re all afraid of losing their jobs. So I’m going to talk with them on their home turf, where they’re more likely to open up about Roger. And yes, I still think he didn’t do it. He cared about Connie.”

“Okay, granted, on the surface, he came across as a very nice man,” Fran said, frowning. “But we have no idea what kind of sick things the police discovered in his apartment. You think they assume he’s guilty just because he was a homosexual. But what if they found out something else about him, something they haven’t printed in the newspaper—or can’t print. We just don’t know.”

“That’s the point,” Nora said. “We don’t know. That’s why I want to talk to his friends, people who know things we’d just be guessing at . . .”

Marty pulled the car up in front of the funeral home’s entrance.

“Let’s talk about this at lunch tomorrow, hon,” Fran said, touching Nora’s arm. “But I’m not likely to change my mind.”

“Okay, that’s fine. But meanwhile, ask yourself, ‘What about the other plant worker who was strangled two weeks ago?’ How come there’s been no mention of her murder in the newspapers?”

Fran stopped short of turning away and stared at her. “You mean Loretta Bryant?” She shrugged. “Well, I thought of her, too. But certainly, if there was a connection between the murders, the police would have mentioned it . . .”

“Or maybe the police simply couldn’t connect Roger to that other murder,” Nora said. “Maybe that’s why they’re not saying a thing about it. I’m sorry, I know I’m being a pain about this, but I can’t help feeling that they shot an innocent man. Don’t you see? Connie’s killer is probably still out there. I think he might have murdered Loretta Bryant, too. I mean, two assembly-line workers both strangled within two weeks of each other. What are the odds? It’s probably the same killer. And he’ll do it again.”

With a sigh, Fran patted her shoulder. “I’m pretty sure the police know what they’re doing. We’ll talk tomorrow, hon. You’re working yourself into a tizzy over this. Try not to think about it for a while.”

Fran headed outside. Through the rain-beaded windows, Nora watched her duck into the car.

She took a deep breath and released it slowly. When she turned back to the lobby, she saw Jane coming from a hallway off the lobby. Nora worked up a smile for her daughter.

Just then, a couple came out of the viewing room. Nora didn’t get a good look at them, but she heard the man talking to the woman as they passed by her.

“I’m just glad they shot that goddamn degenerate,” he muttered.