Chapter 25
Monday
3:37 p.m.
Lugging a grocery bag from the Safeway, Nora turned into the driveway. She still had on her blue bandana from work. She could hear someone talking and water running from somewhere near the back of the house. As she moved farther down the driveway, she spotted Joe and Chris washing Joe’s LaSalle in the parking bay by the garage.
Chris worked the hose while Joe, with a rag, squatted down to clean a rear tire. They both wore T-shirts, and their trousers were splashed with water. The two of them were chatting and hadn’t noticed her yet.
Obviously, they’d finally met, and seemed to be getting along fine. In fact, working alongside each other, they could have been father and son. For some reason, seeing them together made Nora uncomfortable.
Maybe she was simply afraid that Joe, practically living with them now, would find out what she’d discovered about Chris. She remembered what Fran had said about the police catching up with the strangler eventually. Nora’s maternal instincts had her wanting to protect her son—even from himself. The notion of Chris murdering anyone seemed impossible. Preposterous. But she couldn’t deny the circumstantial evidence, or the fact that Chris had repeatedly lied to her.
She wanted to confront him over his latest falsehood. But she knew he’d only deny it and make up another tale about where he’d been yesterday afternoon. Or he’d act all hurt again. She didn’t want a repeat of yesterday. She would wait until she spoke with Phil before she took any action. She hoped he’d call before dinner, so maybe she could eat. Her stomach was still on edge.
“Hey, Mom!” Chris called. He wasn’t smiling.
Neither was Joe, who looked her way and straightened up. He wrung out the wet rag.
They’d both seemed happy just a few moments ago—until they’d noticed her.
Chris dropped the hose, then moved over to the spigot on the side of the house. The pipes squeaked as he shut off the water.
Something happened, Nora thought.
Chris sheepishly approached her and took the grocery bag out of her hands. “A package from the Navy Department arrived for you,” he said solemnly. “Joe signed for it. He gave it to me. I think it’s Uncle Ray’s stuff. I left the box by the table in the front hallway for you.”
Nora was relieved the bad news had nothing to do with Pete. She nodded. “Thank you, honey.”
“Do you want me with you when you open it up, Mom?” he asked. “Or would you rather be alone?”
Her eyes wrestled with his. Please, don’t try to be nice to me right now, she thought. After all his lies—and quite possibly much, much worse—she couldn’t stand it if he was sweet to her.
Chris seemed to sense her hesitation. “It’s kind of heavy,” he said. “I can carry it up to your room if you want to be alone.”
She worked up a smile and nodded. “That would be nice. Thank you, Chris.”
He started toward the back door with the groceries, and Nora followed him. She glanced over at Joe and nodded cordially.
With a somber look, he nodded back.
Nora ducked inside the back door.
She unloaded the groceries. Then Chris hauled the box up to her bedroom for her. After setting it on the bed, he went down the hall to his room and returned with his Swiss Army knife to cut open the top of the box. Then he left her alone.
Nora took a deep breath and opened the box. A folded U.S. flag rested on top of everything else. Below it, she found a sailor hat and several envelopes, each containing a few items—some of them carefully wrapped in cellophane. One was Ray’s dog tag, slightly singed and warped from the fire. She also found Ray’s little pinball baseball game. For a few moments, Nora tried to maneuver a silver ball into one of the diamond bases. But a wave of sadness overwhelmed her, and she put the game down.
She went through more envelopes. She wasn’t sure what she’d do with Ray’s sunglasses, a pair of cufflinks, or the wristwatch that had been her father’s. Chris would probably love to have them, and Nora knew Ray would have approved of that. But she wasn’t sure she wanted to give anything of Ray’s to the kids, not when she thought about how he’d killed himself in a botched attempt to avoid active duty. The destruction he’d caused was enormous—and costly. Obviously, Ray hadn’t intended to commit sabotage. But that was what had happened because of his cowardice.
Then Nora found his wallet with photos of Chris, Jane and her—along with some ticket stubs, his Illinois State driver’s license, and his social security card.
There was one more envelope, and below it, the rest of the box consisted of neatly folded clothes and two pair of shoes. Nora recognized a few of the shirts Ray had worn on his recent visit.
The last envelope was full of photos, some of which Nora hadn’t seen for ages or had never seen: pictures of her parents; photos of her, Pete and the children; and of her and Ray when they were growing up. In one slightly blurry shot, they were standing in their grandparents’ backyard. It was summer. Nora was a fresh-faced sixteen-year-old, just emerging from her adolescent gawkiness, her hair down past her shoulders. She remembered the blue shorts and matching striped short-sleeve blouse. Ray was seven; standing beside her, he came up just above her waistline. He was hugging her, with his little arms around her thigh and his head resting on her hip.
Nora began to cry. She kept thinking of how he’d died. Maybe if she’d raised him differently or hadn’t left him when she had, Ray wouldn’t have come to such a shameful end. She was still dreading the call or telegram from someone in the Navy Department, informing her that they’d concluded their investigation and that her brother was to blame for the explosion at the base’s munitions site.
Wiping her eyes, Nora put the photos back in the envelope and set it aside on her bed. She stuffed everything else back in the envelopes and then back in the box. She slid the box into the corner of the bedroom. She would sort through it later and decide what to do with everything. She didn’t want to think about it now.
She was too worried about the other boy she’d raised—and the impending call or visit from the police regarding what he’d done.
* * *
For dinner, Nora stretched out another meal by chopping up some leftover ham, tossing it in with leftover macaroni and cheese and a beaten egg, and then baking the concoction in a casserole dish. The kids loved it, but Nora didn’t eat much—not with her stomach still in knots. And going through Ray’s things this afternoon had made her feel even more emotionally fragile. Before dinner, she’d let the kids see Ray’s little collection of family photos. Jane had been itching to see what else was in the box the navy had sent—almost as if it were a Christmas package or something.
“I’m still going through that stuff, honey,” Nora had explained. “I’ll let you and Chris see what’s in there soon enough. I don’t think there’s anything that will interest you.”
Through dinner, Nora didn’t say much, and neither did Chris. He seemed to sense her mood. He didn’t mention yesterday’s strangulation. He must have figured she still believed his lie about chauffeuring around Mrs. Landauer all afternoon, and the less said about the latest murder, the better.
Jane, however, wouldn’t stop talking about it. The young woman was killed just eleven blocks away—walking distance. And the killer was still out there on the loose. Jane was genuinely scared. Her bedroom was practically at the top of the stairs. If someone snuck into the house, he’d probably kill her first. She’d already seen how easy it had been to break the window in the front door. Once he broke a window, then all the killer had to do was reach through the opening and unlock the door and he’d be inside.
“I’m sleeping with a whistle under my pillow tonight,” Jane announced, “that metal one that’s so loud . . .”
“I’m sure the police have increased their patrols of the neighborhood,” Nora tried to assure her. “We’ve got the block’s air raid warden, Mr. Weiss, doing his rounds. Plus, there’s Joe right next door, and your brother’s here, too. We’ll be fine, honey. If you get really scared, you can always crawl into bed with me tonight.”
Jane was also keyed up about an overnight field trip her class was taking to Orcas Island on Wednesday: a whale-watching excursion. Once reassured that she’d probably survive the evening, Jane wondered aloud what she should pack for the impending two-day trip. She started to name every piece of clothing she intended to bring. “And, of course, I’ll need a sweater, but my dark blue cardigan is so boring,” she’d prattled on. “Can you wash my light blue, Mom? It would be so much prettier, and—”
“God, would you shut your trap for just two minutes?” Chris had interrupted. “Hedy Lamarr on a cross-country USO tour wouldn’t give her wardrobe as much thought as you’re giving your clothes for this stupid, two-day whale-watching thing. And, y’know, Mom’s not your personal slave . . .”
This led to an argument—and some tears on Jane’s part. But the kids quickly made up. After dinner, Jane pulled her usual disappearing act to avoid KP duty. (“Our daughter has chronic dishpan diarrhea,” Pete had once observed.) But Chris stuck around and offered to wash the dishes for Nora.
“Thanks, honey, but I’ve got it covered,” she answered, not quite looking at him as she tied an apron around her waist. “But I’ll tell you what you could do. Could you listen for the phone for me—and see that Jane doesn’t tie up the line? I’m expecting a call about work.”
He was being way too kind and considerate toward her tonight—almost as if he was sorry for something.
Stop it, she told herself. You still don’t know for sure.
While Nora started on the dishes, the kids settled in the family room to listen to the radio and do their homework.
Nora heard the phone ring—and Chris answering it. Turning off the water, she quickly dried her hands and hurried to the front hallway.
Chris held the receiver out for her, his hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s a Mr. Phillips,” he said. “Do you want me to turn down the radio?”
“That’s okay, honey,” she whispered, grabbing the phone and receiver. “I’ll take it into the broom closet.”
Bringing the phone across the hall, Nora set it down on the floor of the large broom closet. Then she pulled the string for the overhead light and carefully closed the door over the phone cord. Ages ago, Jane had dragged their metal step stool out of the kitchen and put it in the closet for one of her marathon telephone chats, and the step stool had remained there ever since. Nora sat down on the stool amid the cleaning things, coats, umbrellas and galoshes. “Hello, this is Nora,” she said into the phone.
“This is Phil,” Roger’s friend on the police force announced. “Richard gave me your number. He said you wanted me to call you.”
“Yes, thank you so much.” She hesitated. “Mr. Phillips? Is your name really Phillip Phillips?”
“No, I just figured you’d catch on it was me,” he explained. “I’d like to remain semi-anonymous, if that’s possible. Speaking of which, Richard told me about your phone booth shenanigans in the cafeteria today, shades of Mata Hari. So . . . you have some questions for me about this latest murder? Richard’s hoping once I answer them for you, you’ll leave us alone. I’m kind of hoping the same thing.”
“I’m sorry to be a pest,” Nora whispered. “But I have a theory about the murders. It might help with your investigation. Richard told me what the police are doing. Do they really believe the killer in yesterday’s strangling is a friend of Roger’s?”
“A friend or lover, yeah.”
“And there are no other suspects or leads?” she pressed.
“None. They think it’s quite possible that two guys were in on Connie’s murder, both woman-hating homosexuals. One got away unnoticed, and the other got killed.”
“But you told me last week that the police talked to Roger’s landlady,” Nora said. “And if she’s right about the time he was talking on the phone in her lobby, then he couldn’t have killed Connie. The police know that. How could they keep perpetrating this lie that Roger’s guilty?”
“Well, if Roger had a partner doing the killings with him, then that explains it. This new theory works with the story they’ve already put out there. It’s typical. Once you lie, you have to keep building on it with more lies. And then you start to believe it’s true. Anyway, that’s what my fellow officers seem to be doing.”
Phil paused, and Nora could hear the radio in the family room.
“They have a psychiatrist on the case,” he continued. “The doctor says these killers—or I guess it’s just one killer now—the psychiatrist says the strangler’s going after women war workers because he doesn’t like to see them taking on men’s jobs or being in positions of power. That’s why he’s taking the victims’ work slacks and putting them on display. Then he dresses the victims in aprons and puts lipstick on their mouths. The last two corpses were dragged into the kitchen—where, apparently, women belong.”
Nora immediately thought of Larry—and so many men like him at the plant. They made life hell for the women working there.
Nora also remembered something Ray had said about Chris possibly resenting her for taking on the riveter job. And the first murder had been the night before her first day of work. Was that just a coincidence?
“This is all inside stuff,” Phil said. “Off the record, you understand.”
“Of course,” Nora said, anxiously tugging at the receiver cord. “Do the police know if the nylon stockings used in the killings belonged to the victims?”
“You’re quite the detective, aren’t you?” Phil remarked, sounding genuinely impressed. “They went through Connie’s dresser—and Gloria Dunbar’s, too. It looked like the killer didn’t break up a pair. Gloria didn’t have any nylons, and Connie had one pair. The shade and brand didn’t match what was around her throat. They figured out this morning that the stockings used to strangle Connie and Gloria were the same brand and type. The color is beige, and the brand is called Purple Something . . .”
“Royal Purple?” Nora heard herself ask.
“Yeah, that’s it. How did you know?”
Nora’s stomach felt as tight as a fist. The stockings she regularly wore were beige Royal Purple brand from Sears, Roebuck and Company. She swallowed hard. “It’s a pretty common brand,” she said, her voice quivering a bit. “Do you know if there’s any way they might trace those stockings to the person who bought them?”
“If the case goes to the FBI, yeah,” he answered. “Especially if the purchaser charged the stockings to a Sears account or paid with a check. But if they paid in cash, I doubt it.”
Nora was almost certain she’d paid in cash.
“Homicide figured out that the lipstick used on both victims didn’t belong to them either,” Phil continued. “The shade didn’t match anything they had in their purses or on their dresser tops.”
Nora hadn’t thought about the lipstick. And Phil’s bringing it up was like a sudden punch to the gut. Was it too much to hope that the killer hadn’t used her brand and shade? She wore Scarlet Kiss from Dorothy Gray. She had a tube in her purse and another in her dresser drawer. The one in her dresser was unused. She’d purchased it—with cash—a couple of weeks ago. She hadn’t been keeping track of it. She’d have to check whether the lipstick tube was still in the drawer.
“Have they figured out the particular color or brand of the lipstick?” she asked warily.
“Yeah, they narrowed it down to two different shades, Blushing Something and Scarlet Something.”
Nora said nothing.
“So . . . you said you have a theory,” Phil continued. “Does this information help you any? Do you suddenly have a big breakthrough you’d like to share—anything that might help Roger’s case?”
“No, I . . . I was mistaken,” Nora murmured. “I thought I had something that would be useful to you, but I was wrong.”
“Well, please, keep all this under your hat, Nora,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, we’ve never had this conversation. And please, don’t bug Richard or any of the other guys at the plant about this. They have enough to contend with right now—thanks to my comrades on the force.”
“Yes, I understand,” Nora replied. “Thank you for calling . . .”
* * *
After she hung up, Nora turned off the closet light and then returned the phone to the stand in the hallway. She climbed the stairs and headed into her bedroom, where she opened the top drawer of her dresser. She already figured the lipstick wouldn’t be there, but that didn’t stop her from rifling through the drawer for it.
Her search was in vain.
Nora reminded herself that, according to Phil, they probably couldn’t track down whoever had purchased the stockings and lipstick used in the last two killings, not if the items had been paid for in cash.
At this point, there was no way they could suspect Chris at all.
She still didn’t want to think it was true—even though everything she’d just learned from Roger’s cop friend seemed to confirm her worst fears.
Nora stepped into the bathroom and splashed water on her face. In the mirror over the sink, the woman staring back at her looked haggard and lost. After drying her face with a towel, Nora returned to her bedroom and straightened up her dresser drawer.
Starting down the hallway, Nora paused outside Chris’s bedroom and stared at the closed door. She wondered if her lipstick and the remaining nylons were hidden somewhere in his room. But she’d already searched through his closet and desk. Maybe he was just too clever for her—and for the police.
You still really don’t believe it’s possible, Nora thought.
What mother would?
Almost in a trance, Nora headed down the stairs to finish washing the dinner dishes. She passed by the family room. She heard Chris and Jane laughing at Fibber McGee and Molly on the radio.
Her heart ached. It seemed like nothing would ever be normal again.
In the kitchen, she went to the sink and turned on the water. But she just stood there, staring down at the dirty dishes. She felt another teary breakdown coming. Nora turned off the water, untied her apron, draped it over a kitchen chair and quietly ducked out the back door. She didn’t want the kids to hear her crying.
The chilly night air was bracing. She stood on the back stoop, rubbed her arms and gazed up at the stars.
“Hi, Nora. How are you doing?”
She heard gravel crunching underfoot and saw Joe emerge from the shadows by the garage. He wore a jacket over a casual, open-collar shirt. “I’m sorry,” he said, coming closer. “Did I scare you?”
She had a hand over her heart. “No, I just didn’t see you there.”
He turned his head slightly. “Pardon, what did you say?”
“Nothing,” she said—a bit louder. “I didn’t see you there. That’s all. How are you?”
He leaned against the wrought iron banister for the steps up to the kitchen door. “I came out for some air,” he said.
“Me too,” she replied.
“To be honest, I’m feeling kind of blue,” he admitted. “You probably came out here to be alone. Maybe I should scram . . .”
“No, please, don’t go,” Nora said. She went back to massaging her arms to keep warm. “You’re right, I came out here to be alone. But I . . . I really don’t want you to leave.”
Unzipping his jacket, Joe took it off and then came up the few steps and placed the jacket around her shoulders. It was lightweight but warm from his body. She could smell his subtle, spicy aftershave on it. “Thank you,” Nora said, pulling the jacket tighter around her.
Joe moved down a step so that their eyes were level. He leaned against the side of the house. “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” he said.
“Really?” she murmured shyly. “You have?”
“Yeah, ever since I signed for that package this morning,” he said. “I know what it’s like. I went through the same thing after my brother died. It’s pretty devastating. You hear your brother’s been killed, and it’s awful. It doesn’t make any sense, doesn’t seem real. But then they send you his stuff, and suddenly it’s all very real and undeniable.”
“I’m still waiting for them to ship me Ray’s remains,” she said, glancing down at her feet. “Sounds gruesome, but apparently, he’s awfully burned up.” She thought of his singed dog tag and tried to put the image out of her mind. She looked at Joe again. “Did they ship your brother’s body back home?”
He shook his head. “No, the Pacific got him. What was he like, your brother?”
A melancholy smile passed over her face. “Charming, irresponsible, sweet . . .” She shrugged. “You probably heard enough about Ray from Jane. What about your brother? What was he like?”
“Oh, you don’t want to hear about it,” he muttered.
“But I do,” Nora said. She meant it, too. She wanted to stop thinking about Ray and Chris for a few minutes. “I don’t even know his name.”
“Andy,” Joe said.
“I can’t remember if you said he was older or younger.”
“Younger.”
Nora nodded. “That’s right, you mentioned that you took care of him. You and I have that in common. How many years younger was he?”
“Just four years,” Joe answered. “But the thing with Andy was—he was a little slow, mentally—not so much that we needed to send him to a special school or anything. But in hindsight, I think it might have made life easier for him if we had. Still, he could read and write, and he was a great athlete. It’s just that he had a hard time keeping up with his classmates. They teased him at school all the time, but he was too sweet to lash out at anyone. I got in so many fights with guys in school over the way they treated him. Some of the girls were just as mean . . .”
As Joe talked about his brother, Nora couldn’t help thinking of Lenny in Of Mice and Men. And she couldn’t help feeling even more drawn to Joe for being a protective big brother. She noticed his eyes tear up a little, but he was smiling.
“Andy was a good kid,” Joe went on, “a hard worker, very responsible. The only times he ever got into trouble were when someone took advantage of his good-natured, trusting innocence. He was also really good-looking, so he attracted people, and some of them weren’t especially nice. I ran interference for him the best I could.” He sighed. “I was my brother’s keeper, and it sometimes felt like a full-time job. I guess you know what that’s like.”
Nora nodded.
“Anyway, after Pearl Harbor, Andy joined the navy without telling me. I did my best to get him out of it. But he’d passed all his tests, and they wouldn’t release him. And he was so happy the navy had taken him. Andy always loved the water. He told me more than once he wanted to be buried at sea. He had this weird romantic notion about it. Anyway, I couldn’t join up and serve alongside him, because of my ear. So, Andy was on his own for the first time in our lives. While he was stateside, I tried to keep tabs on him and make sure he didn’t fall prey to any Allotment Annies or other unscrupulous types.”
“Were you and Veronica married by then?” Nora asked.
Joe nodded. “Yeah, I hate to admit it, but I know it was easier on her with Andy away. Anyway, he shipped out last year, and we were writing pretty regularly until Guadalcanal.” He worked up a smile. “Anyway, that was Andy. It was sweet of you to ask about him, Nora.”
“I’m glad you told me, really,” she assured him.
“Well, it was a few weeks ago when I found out about him. I can only imagine what you’re going through now. I’m not sure how I’d handle the one-two punch you had recently. First your friend, and then your brother. Or was it the other way around?”
Nora stopped to put together the timeline. “Let’s see,” she thought out loud. “They were both here for dinner on Sunday the eleventh. On Wednesday afternoon, Ray took a bus back to San Diego. And I was pretty blue about that. Then the next night, Connie was murdered. But I didn’t find out about it until Saturday. Ray was killed on Thursday. I got word about it that night.” She sighed. “That was eleven days ago . . .”
“I’m so sorry,” he said quietly. He started to reach out to touch her arm, but then he seemed to change his mind and pulled his hand back.
Nothing about the abandoned gesture was lost on Nora. She wanted so much to bury herself in his arms.
Instead, she cleared her throat and brought up his wife again. “You know, my offer still stands. Any time you’d like to phone Veronica, you’re welcome to come in and use our phone. You must be wondering how she is.”
“She’s fine,” he said. “I grabbed a fistful of change, went up to the drugstore and called her this afternoon. She’ll be with her mom for at least another week.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Nora lied.
Maybe she was reading too much into it, but Joe seemed to speak of his wife with nowhere near the same degree of love and devotion he’d had talking about his brother.
“I didn’t tell her that we had a murder in the neighborhood yesterday,” he said. “I didn’t want her to worry or change her mind about the apartment. I wouldn’t bring it up now, only I’m sure it’s quite disturbing for you—especially after you lost your work friend in a similar way. But if it makes you feel any better, I’m a night owl. I stay up until two or three in the morning sometimes. And my hearing isn’t all that bad. So it’s almost like you have a nightwatchman living next door.”
“It’s comforting to know that,” Nora said. “I was just reminding Jane tonight about that.”
“Listen, speaking of Jane,” Joe said. “Please, feel free to say no. But I’m wondering if I could borrow a photograph that I saw in your family album. Jane showed it to me. It was a picture of her and your brother—at a picnic, I think. She said it was about three years ago during one of his visits. She looked so cute in the photo, and I thought I’d use her face for a peanut butter ad I’m painting. It’s a national campaign. I’d take it to a photographer and have a copy made for me. Anyway, don’t answer right away. Sleep on it.”
Nora laughed. “Well, that would certainly please Jane. In fact, it would make her impossible to live with. She’s a big fan of yours. We have a Life magazine with your Baby Ruth ad in it, and Jane brought it to school this morning to show her friends and brag that we have a celebrity living above our garage.”
Joe chuckled. “Well, thank you. That makes me feel like a big shot.”
“Do you want the photograph now?” Nora asked.
“It can wait. I should leave you alone. I’ve imposed on you enough.”
Nora shook her head. “You haven’t imposed on me at all, Joe. Just the opposite. When I first stepped out here, I was feeling lonely and very sorry for myself. But you helped turn that around for me.”
Joe gazed into her eyes and then opened his mouth as if he were about to say something. But he hesitated.
In that moment, Nora got scared. She took off Joe’s jacket and handed it to him. “I should get back inside,” she said. “I need to finish up a letter to my husband. I try and write a little something every night.”
“Thanks for the talk, Nora,” he said.
She opened the kitchen door. “Good night, Joe,” she replied.
Then, with reluctance, she turned away from him and stepped inside.