The Enemy at Home

From down the block, Nora could see people waiting at the bus stop on Broadway. That was a good sign. She hadn’t missed the bus to work.

This morning in bed, she’d turned off her alarm and fallen back asleep—for only twenty-five minutes, but it had been enough to throw her into a panic. She’d barely had time to dress. She’d had to forgo her coffee and cornflakes and the usual quick glance at the newspaper. In fact, she hadn’t even had time to bring in the paper. She’d left it on the front walkway as she’d run out the door to catch her bus.

Nora was relieved the bus was running a bit late.

Catching her breath, she slowed down and continued toward the stop at the end of the block. About six people were standing there, Boeing assembly-line workers like her. She was too far away to see their faces, but after so many trips on this same bus, she was beginning to recognize some of the regulars at her stop. Not that she actually knew any of them yet. It wasn’t a very chatty bunch. But considering it was barely light out, most of them—like her—were still half-asleep.

She glanced over her shoulder—and just then, the bus sped past her.

Damn.

Nora started running.

Up ahead, she saw the bus pull up to the stop, and people started boarding. Frazzled, she broke into a sprint. “Hold the bus, please!” Nora screamed, waving.

But no one seemed to notice her.

The last passenger stepped onto the bus. Then it started to move.

“Please!” Nora cried, running even faster, pushing herself until her lungs burned.

She caught up to the bus and was racing alongside the big vehicle when it came to an abrupt stop. She heard the doors flap open. Reaching them, she staggered on board, thanked the driver and showed him her pass. The bus started moving again. Nora made her way down the aisle and plopped down in a seat. She tried to catch her breath.

Then after a few moments, she started wondering if she’d locked the front door. She’d left in such a hurry. But she was almost certain she’d locked it. Still, it hadn’t been smart to leave the newspaper outside. If one of the kids didn’t bring it in, somebody casing the neighborhood would see it sitting out there all day, and they’d know no one was home.

Then Nora remembered Joe. He’d said he would keep an eye on the place during the day. He’d be there in the apartment above the garage, painting the artwork for some national ad—probably while shirtless. Nora almost giggled at the thought. The image of him last night still lingered in her memory.

In her loneliness, especially over the last few weeks, there were times when Nora just wanted to be near a man. She’d developed little crushes on certain nameless guys she recognized—like the sweet, bookish-looking blond man who occasionally rode the same bus home with her, and the tall, Robert Taylor look-alike who often sat at a neighboring table in the cafeteria during her lunch hour. She loved her husband and missed him terribly. But he was in North Africa, and she had no idea when—or if—she’d ever see him again. Meanwhile, just glimpsing these strangers gave her a secret thrill—something to look forward to as she headed for the bus home or into the cafeteria for lunch. They were safe little infatuations. She’d probably never talk to them or know their names.

But she knew Joe, and he was just fifty feet from her kitchen door. Already, her feelings for him were so much stronger than anything she’d harbored for the others—and that scared her. He wasn’t a fantasy man. He was real.

The bus pulled over to another stop, jarring Nora out of her daydream.

The man across the aisle from her was reading The Seattle Times. As he held the paper open in front of him, Nora noticed one of the headlines on the front page:

CAPITOL HILL WOMAN, 25, STRANGLED IN HOME

Victim’s Roommate Hid in Locked Bathroom

Killer Eludes Seattle Police

Stunned, Nora leaned across the aisle to read the subheadings. She’d been waiting for something like this to happen—and dreading it. She wondered when the woman had been killed. Had it happened last night?

The newspaper rustled as the man across the aisle lowered it and glared at her with annoyance.

“I’m sorry,” Nora said meekly. “But I think there’s a story on the front page about someone I know. Would you mind if I took a quick look?”

With a sigh, he set the newspaper on his lap, pulled out the front section and handed it to her. “I’d like it back, please,” he grumbled.

“Yes, of course,” Nora said. “Thank you.”

She anxiously scanned the article. The murder victim, Gloria Dunbar, lived in a garage apartment, which immediately struck Nora as a weird coincidence. From the Roanoke neighborhood address, she guessed it was only a mile or so from her house. Gloria and her roommate worked as welders in the shipyards on Harbor Island. The poor woman was the third Seattle war worker strangled in the last month. Yet there was no mention of that in the article, no mention of Loretta Bryant or Connie. Nora skipped ahead, searching for their names, but didn’t see them.

She went back to the first couple of paragraphs. Gloria Dunbar’s “partially clothed body” was discovered by her roommate, who had narrowly escaped the killer by hiding in a locked bathroom. The roommate didn’t see the killer or hear his voice. Gloria was strangled with a nylon stocking at approximately one thirty on Sunday afternoon.

Nora’s stomach turned as she read the time—just about when Chris was supposed to have driven Mrs. Landauer to Rhodes department store.

Nora replayed in her mind the conversation they’d had in the basement yesterday. At first, Chris had said he’d been cutting Mrs. Landauer’s lawn; but then, no, he’d been running errands for her at her home; and finally, he’d claimed to have chauffeured the old woman to the department store downtown.

Had he even been with Mrs. Landauer at all yesterday afternoon?

Nora kept asking herself that for the next three hours— while she riveted B-17 tail sections with Chatterbox Edna again. It was unnerving. She was so worried about Chris, and this woman wouldn’t stop talking at her—mostly regarding things Nora didn’t give a hoot about. With all the noise, Nora was never certain if Edna was telling her about the alignment of the rivets or something as inane as her nephew and his girlfriend coming in third for the Skagit County Dipsy Doodle Dance Contest.

At one point, during a routine on-the-spot inspection, Larry discovered the configuration of rivet heads was off. He screamed at the two of them, calling them “worthless bubble-brains.” They had to rip out all the rivets in one row and start over again. Nora didn’t blame Larry for being furious.

During her coffee break, as much as she needed a cup, Nora bypassed the coffee line in the cafeteria and ducked into one of the phone booths. She’d left her address book at home. But the booth had a phone book, and she found the listing for Landauer on Summit Place East.

Would the old lady even know where Chris had been yesterday afternoon? Nora had a feeling he’d borrowed Mrs. Landauer’s car to get to wherever he’d gone. He was the only one who ever drove it. He had a set of keys with the understanding that he could take Mrs. Landauer’s Duesenberg whenever he needed it. While he’d been out, it had rained steadily for almost two hours—and yet Chris had come home relatively dry. He couldn’t have walked to his destination without getting soaked. Did Mrs. Landauer even know he’d taken her car?

Nora jotted down Mrs. Landauer’s number, dropped a nickel in the slot and then dialed. While the phone rang, she impatiently counted the ringtones. After four rings, Nora wondered if eight fifty in the morning was too early to call someone—especially an elderly woman.

Through the window in the phone booth door, she spotted Roger’s friend, Richard, moving toward the coffee line. She hung up the receiver but remained in the booth.

Nora wondered if Richard had read about the woman strangled yesterday. Had he talked to Phil, his cop friend, about it? With this new murder, the police could no longer blame Connie’s death on Roger. But did they have any new leads or suspects?

Nora knew she couldn’t ask Richard now, not in front of Wendell and the others.

Lifting the phone receiver, Nora tucked it between her shoulder and jaw and jotted down the number that was on the little round plate. Then she hung up the receiver again, stepped out of the booth, and noted that it was the fourth booth from the right. She hurried over to the coffee line and found Richard, waiting behind two people.

The last time she’d spoken to Richard, she’d been determined to confirm her gut feeling about Roger’s innocence. Now, her reason was much more personal and dire: she needed to prove to herself that her son had nothing to do with these murders.

Richard rolled his eyes at her as she approached him. “Oh, good God, I had a feeling you’d be all over me today—like stink on a monkey. I’m sure you want to talk, and I can guess what you want to talk about, but I’ve already told you—”

“I know, you don’t want me asking you a lot of questions here at work,” Nora interrupted him. “But I thought of a way around that . . .”

The cafeteria worker handed Richard a cup of coffee and he gave her a dime. While he did that, Nora dug some change out of her purse.

“I’m not having coffee with you,” he said, turning away from the counter. “Wendell would blow a gasket if he saw me talking to you. And he’s right over there . . .” Richard nodded in the direction of their usual four-top table. He started to walk that way.

“Yes, I know, I understand,” Nora said. “I just have a few questions—and a request.” She glanced over toward Roger’s friends’ table. Wendell seemed to be holding court with the two others who always ignored her. They hadn’t yet noticed her and Richard.

She gave Richard a nickel—and the piece of paper with the booth’s phone number on it. “That’s the number you can use to call me. I’ll be waiting for you in that booth—if someone else doesn’t grab it before me.”

“Oh, good God,” he muttered again. “This is the craziest thing. You want me to do this now? This very minute? My coffee’s going to get cold.”

“Please, it’s important,” Nora whispered. “I can’t tell you how important it is to me . . .”

He let out a dramatic sigh and then shoved the change and the phone number in his pants pocket. “All right, all right. Give me five minutes, and I’ll get you on the Ameche. Now, take a powder before they see me talking to you.”

“Thank you,” Nora said.

Heading back to the phone booths, she spotted another woman zeroing in on the fourth booth from the right. In a burst of speed, Nora ran ahead of her, nearly knocking her down. “Excuse me! Sorry!” she cried, ducking into the booth and shutting the door. Nora picked up the receiver, but held the cradle down so that the line remained open. She caught her breath while pretending to chat away on the phone—to no one.

She didn’t know how long she waited for Richard to call, but she glanced at her wristwatch and realized she didn’t have much break time left.

At eight fifty-five, the phone finally rang, and she quickly took her fingers off the receiver cradle. “Hello?”

“Hello, Nancy Drew,” Richard said. “I hope you appreciate that I had to guzzle my coffee and lie to the fellas about having to call my mother. So . . . what do you want to know? Make it snappy. My break’s almost over.”

“Mine too,” Nora said. “Thanks for calling. I’m wondering what you might know about this new murder—if it’s like the others. The newspapers didn’t say. The Times didn’t even mention the other murders. Have you talked to your friend Phil?”

“We talked briefly last night,” Richard said. “And yeah, from what he told me, it was the same setup—with all the flourishes: the apron, the lipstick smile and the girl’s pants hanging by the front door. Only this girl wasn’t strangled and stabbed like Connie. She was just strangled—with a nylon stocking.”

“Do the police have any leads?” Nora asked anxiously.

“The cops aren’t changing their stance about Roger. They don’t want to admit they made a mistake and shot an innocent man. A bunch of them were at the Double Header and the Casino last night, harassing the customers with questions. Their theory about this new murder is that some homosexual copycat pulled it off. Either that or the killer was one of Roger’s lovers, and they had a Leopold and Loeb thing going on.”

“What does that mean?” Nora asked.

“You know, the two college students in Chicago who were boyfriends? They kidnapped and murdered a kid for kicks . . .”

“Yes, I remember the case. I was living in Chicago at the time. But what does that have to do with Roger?”

“They’re saying Roger could have had a partner, a lover who’s carrying on some killing spree they’d both planned out.”

“That’s crazy . . .”

“I’ll say,” Richard agreed. “The cops are really making our lives miserable. I heard just now from one of the fellas that some detective might even be questioning us here at work. We’re all trying to keep a low profile, so you really need to leave us alone.”

“I will,” she said. “But if I gave you my phone number, do you think Phil could call me at home tonight? I have some questions only he could answer.”

The break bell sounded. Through the phone booth’s window, Nora watched everyone starting toward the cafeteria exit.

“That’s the bell,” Richard said. “I need to shake a leg. Okay, give me your number, but I can’t guarantee Phil will call you tonight . . .”

* * *

By lunchtime, it occurred to Nora that she hadn’t eaten anything since dinner last night. She hadn’t even had a sip of coffee today. But she bypassed the cafeteria lines and went directly into a phone booth. She put in her nickel and dialed Mrs. Landauer’s number again.

It rang three times before a woman with a thick accent picked up. “Hullo? Lindahower redescent.”

It took Nora a moment to realize she’d meant to say, “Landauer residence.” Mrs. Landauer had a live-in housekeeper, a middle-aged Swedish woman who had taken the place of the Japanese-American nurse-housekeeper, Sono Nakai.

“Hello, this is Nora Kinney,” she said carefully. “I’m Chris’s mother. May I please speak to Mrs. Landauer?”

“Oh, Chris’s mor, yeah!” She seemed delighted at the mention of his name. “Yeah, you wait . . .”

Biting her lip, Nora listened. It sounded like the housekeeper said, “Chris’s mor” again—loudly. After a few more moments, Nora heard the receiver being picked up, and then a slightly frail voice on the other end: “Hello, Mrs. Kinney?” The old woman had a German accent, but her English was precise and comprehensible.

Nora had had the last two hours to decide exactly what to say to Mrs. Landauer. She didn’t want to come out and ask if Chris had driven her to Rhodes department store yesterday. The old woman had such a high opinion of Chris, and if he’d lied about where he’d been, Nora didn’t want her to know.

“Hello, Mrs. Landauer,” she said. “I’m sorry to bother you. I just wanted to double-check that it was all right with you that Chris took your car yesterday afternoon.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“Mrs. Landauer?”

“Of course, absolutely,” the old woman finally answered.

“Did Chris tell you why he needed to use your car yesterday?” she asked.

Another pause. Nora waited, hoping to hear her say, “Well, yes, in fact, he took me shopping downtown. I bought birdseed for my parakeet.”

But Landauer finally answered, “No, but Chris knows he’s welcome to take the Duesenberg whenever he needs to use it. I’ve told him so. He’s a good driver . . .”

He lied, Nora thought, devastated.

Either that, or the old woman was senile. But no, Mrs. Landauer still seemed pretty sharp. Nora didn’t have to wonder what Chris was covering up. He had a different lie for his whereabouts when each of those women had been strangled.

“I trust him,” the elderly woman went on. “Chris is a very responsible young man.”

“Yes, he’s responsible,” Nora repeated, the words sticking in her throat. She just wanted to cry. Her eyes teared up.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Kinney?”

She cleared her throat. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you. I’ll let you go now. Thank you for letting Chris use your car, and thanks for your time.”

“You’re very welcome, Mrs. Kinney. Have a nice day.”

“You too, Mrs. Landauer,” she said in a shaky voice. “Goodbye.”

After she hung up, Nora lingered inside the booth for another few moments so she could wipe her eyes and blow her nose.

She had no idea what she was going to do about Chris.

She’d just have to wait for Phil to call her tonight. She needed some inside information about the cases that only a cop could provide. Was it too much to hope that, sometime before dinner, Phil would call her and say they’d nabbed someone for all three murders—and gotten a signed confession? Then she could have a good laugh at herself for even thinking that Chris could have ever hurt anyone.

But there was no denying he’d lied to her about yesterday.

As Nora stepped out of the booth, her head started throbbing. She probably needed some coffee and solid food in her stomach.

She waited in line and bought a cup of coffee and a turkey and Swiss sandwich. Her mind was a blur as she took her lunch tray to her usual spot.

“There you are!” Fran declared, setting down her fork and leaning back in her chair. “I’d just about given up on you. Honey, you look a little peaked. Are you okay?”

Nora sat down across from her. “I’m just tired.” She sipped her coffee.

Fran shook some ravioli out of her thermos into the cup. It was another one of her inspired thermos lunches. She stabbed a piece of the pasta with her fork but paused to look at Nora. “Would you like some, hon?”

Nora worked up a smile and shook her head. “No, thanks, Fran.”

Ordinarily, Fran’s homemade lunch would have smelled delicious to Nora. But not now. Her headache was making her nauseous. At this point, she didn’t think she could even eat her sandwich.

“I figured you wouldn’t want anything to do with me today,” Fran said, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “I’m sure you know about that poor girl who was strangled. I read about it in the newspaper this morning and said to myself, ‘Well, Nora told you this was going to happen.’ I was so sure of myself, so quick to believe that Roger killed Connie. Now I feel horrible—about this girl, about Roger, about not listening to you. I’m sorry, Nora. I deserve a kick in the pants and a great big I Told You So.”

Nora took another sip of coffee. “It’s okay.” She rubbed her forehead. “I knew this was going to happen. I just keep thinking I could have done something to prevent it.”

“Like what?” Fran asked. “Didn’t the police already know everything you knew? Who would have listened to you, hon? I didn’t even listen to you, and I’m your friend—at least, I hope I still am.”

“Of course, you are,” Nora murmured. She took a bite of her sandwich.

“Well, at least the police can’t keep blaming Roger for Connie,” Fran said.

“I have it from a reliable source that they’re sticking to their theory that Roger is guilty.”

“Your source being one of Roger’s engineer friends?”

She nodded. “But I can’t talk about it.”

“Well, even though this new victim worked at the shipyard, everyone’s talking about these murders. That’s all I heard about during my break.”

“The newspaper story this morning didn’t connect them,” Nora said.

“Yeah, but it’s as plain as one, two, three,” Fran said. “That’s three Seattle women war workers, all strangled within the last month. He’s like Jack the Ripper. It’s obvious this guy has a grudge against Rosie the Riveters.”

Nora managed another bite of her sandwich. “I still don’t understand why the newspapers are almost intentionally ignoring a connection.”

Fran shrugged. “Maybe it’s like you were telling me at Connie’s wake. They don’t want to contradict what the police are saying. Or maybe it’s bad publicity for war production, so they’re not going to write about it.”

“I don’t understand,” Nora said.

“It’s like the accidents in these plants—with all these new, inexperienced workers. They don’t talk about the everyday casualties in the newspapers. But I hear, since the war started, about ten thousand people have died in accidents in war plants, nationwide. I’m serious. But the newspapers don’t write about that stuff because it would discourage girls from signing up for war jobs.”

Nora squinted at her. “Where did you hear this?”

“I have my own sources around here, too, you know.” She sipped her coffee. “Anyway, maybe they’re not mentioning the other murders because it might put the kibosh on recruiting more women war workers. But like I say, people are figuring it out—and some of the girls are really terrified. George, one of the busboys, he was just telling me a few minutes ago that there’s a slight shortage of forks and knives today. Believe it or not, the girls are stealing them and hiding them in their purses for protection during the trip home this afternoon.” Fran sighed. “It won’t even be dark out. But this last girl was killed in the middle of the day, so no one wants to take any chances. This guy seems to go after the young, pretty ones, doesn’t he? So I guess I’m safe. But you need to be careful, Nora. Maybe you should steal a knife or fork . . .”

Staring blankly at her lunch tray, Nora had stopped eating. It seemed unfathomable that her son could be the one behind the murders.

“Nora?”

She looked up.

“I was saying you should take a knife or a fork for the walk home later—just for insurance. You can always return it tomorrow.”

“I think I’ll be okay,” she said. “It’s only a few blocks home from my bus stop.”

Fran ate a ravioli. “Well,” she said, her mouth half-full. “Be sure to lock your doors tonight. Hopefully, this will all be over soon. You know, it’s only a matter of time before this killer trips up and the police catch him. They always do . . .”

Nora took another bite of her sandwich, but she had to force herself to swallow it. A disturbing thought hit her as she listened to her friend. And she hated herself for it.

Suddenly she was glad Chris had burned Connie’s scarf yesterday.