Jan Burke - Dear Irene

Silence, then a quiet, “Thanks.”

“Frank and I will come by for you at about a quarter to six tomorrow, okay?”

“I’m not sure I’m up for this.”

“It doesn’t matter. I insist. No more sitting around by yourself. Can you hang in there until Christmas Eve?”

“Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The receiver wasn’t back in the cradle more than five seconds when the phone rang again.

“Kelly.”

“Irene Kelly? Oh, drat! Now I owe Austin five dollars. I told him you wouldn’t be in on a Sunday. Shouldn’t gamble on the Lord’s day, I suppose.”

“Mr. Devoe?” I ventured.

“Yes, Hobson Devoe. Mr. Woods tracked me down and urged me to call you.”

“Thanks for getting in touch. I’d like to ask you some questions about Mercury Aircraft – you work there?”

“Oh, well, in a manner of speaking. I’m officially retired, but they pay me a little something to act as the museum curator. I started working for Mercury back in 1938. I was in charge of what is now called Human Resources – personnel. But Mercury has a public relations department that I’m sure would-”

“-I’d rather talk to you first, Mr. Devoe.”

“Just exactly what is this about, Miss Kelly?”

“You knew Dr. Blaylock?”

“Oh my, yes, poor Edna,” he said, and was quiet for a moment. “I spoke with her a few times about her research, but I didn’t know her very well. I knew her mother – a longtime employee of Mercury. You are the reporter who received the letter from the killer, are you not?”

“Yes. Three letters, now.”

“Three! This has happened more than once? Oh, my!”

“I take it you don’t read the Express …”

“But I do! I read it religiously. Oh! I’ve failed to tell you, haven’t I? I’m not calling from Las Piernas. I’m visiting my daughter in Florida. Austin has been leaving messages on her answering machine, but we were in Orlando, taking my granddaughter to Disney World. Just got in today.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Devoe, I didn’t realize this was a toll call for you. Let me call you back.”

“No, no. Austin is the one who’ll need help with his telephone bill. He left… I’ll just say numerous and lengthy messages exhorting me to call you. Tell me about these other letters.”

Briefly, I described the letters and the murders which followed them.

“Oh. I understand the urgency. Oh, my goodness, yes.”

“You said you knew Edna Blaylock’s mother. Did you know Bertha Thayer, or…” I flipped through the notes I had taken at Rita Havens’ house. “…or Gertrude Havens?”

“Gertrude, yes, of course. And Bertha as well. Amazing, really, that I should. I’ve met tens of thousands of workers over my years at Mercury. But Gertrude and Bertha were some of the very first women to work in manufacturing. War workers, as you’ve noticed. I was responsible for programs for them at both of our Southern California plants.”

“What sort of programs?”

“Oh, I tried to help those first women workers feel welcomed and at ease. And to help workers cope with the transition, both for the women and the men. It was considered quite the new frontier in those days. Viewed as something of an experiment at first.”

“Experiment?”

“Goodness, yes. Something temporary. Most of the women lost their jobs not long after the war. There was even some gearing down after V-E Day. It was simply expected that the women would all be laid off – well, the corporation expected it, but I can tell you that not all of the women expected it. Not that they begrudged veterans a job; no, they had simply become dependent on the income. And I, in turn, hated to lose some of those women workers. I managed to persuade… oh my. Oh my.”

“Mr. Devoe? Is something wrong?”

“Wrong? No, no. Oh, my goodness. Why, Miss Kelly! I just realized that the workers you named had something very unusual in common.”

MY PEN FROZE above the notes I had been writing. “What did they have in common?” “Those three workers weren’t laid off at the end of the war.”

“Was that really so rare?”

“Oh yes. Oh yes indeed.”

“Do you remember why were they allowed to keep their jobs?”

“Of course I do. There was only one hardship plea that J.D. would listen to.”

“J.D?”

“J.D. Anderson, founder and president of Mercury Aircraft. Deceased now, of course. But back then, I begged J.D. to let the war widows stay. That wasn’t good enough for him. War widows with good work records, I asked. Still not enough. But then I practically got down on bended knee and begged him to allow war widows with young children to support to stay on. He finally agreed to that, provided they had good work records.”

“Wait a minute. You’re saying that all three of these women were widows?”

“Not only widows, war widows. And war widows who had not remarried by the end of the war. I lost my own father in World War I, when I was eleven. So I knew something of what these children would know, growing up without a father. My goodness, yes, I think that’s why I fought for them. I had watched my own mother struggle to find work that would pay a decent wage. She eventually went into business for herself, and managed quite well, but at first it was simply horrible.”

“How many of these women were kept on, would you say?”

“Oh, at a guess, well, perhaps no more than a hundred.”

One hundred. Manageable research, even if it turned out to be a dead end. “Would Mercury still have records on these women? The ones who were allowed to stay?”

There was a long silence. “Yes,” he said at last.

No “oh my” or “goodness.” Shaky ground.

“Mr. Devoe, before you answer my next question, please think about what happened to the children of three women you helped – and what might happen to the children of other women war workers if we don’t learn more about why Thanatos is targeting them.” I drew a deep breath. “If I never published or revealed how I learned…”

“I understand,” he interrupted in a firm voice. Another long silence. “The personnel offices will be empty on Wednesday,” he said at last. “The employees who work there won’t be back until the day after New Year’s. Perhaps Wednesday would be a good day for you to come to see my museum. I’ll call you again after I’ve arranged a flight back to Las Piernas.”

“I can’t tell you how much-”

“No need to. Merry Christmas, Miss Kelly.”

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Devoe. And thank you.”

I CLEARED THE COMPUTER screen of the jumbled letters. Hobson Devoe had given me a thread of hope. I found I was able to start writing the story of Rita and Alexander Havens.

As I finished and signed off for the day, I looked at the blank screen, seeing my reflection in its darkened glass. Images of Rita Havens staring at her dead husband came unbidden. I stood up and left quickly.

CHRISTMAS EVE DINNER was even better than I had imagined it would be, which is saying a lot. We ate, laughed and chatted happily over cioppino and linguini con vongole and a variety of other meatless pasta dishes.

Apparently, most women suffer a standard reaction of near catatonia when they first look at Steven, because even Mrs. Pastorini – Lydia’s mom – spent some time… well, appreciating him. But once that wore off and Rachel and Mrs. Pastorini found their speech restored, Steven fit right in with the gathering.

At midnight, the non-Catholics humored the rest of us and we all went down to St. Patrick’s for Mass. Even though I’m basically a lapsed Catholic, I seldom miss this tradition.

Afterwards, we thanked the chefs, and with a last “Merry Christmas!” headed for home.