Scandal in the Secret City Read online

  Before I could throw my legs out of bed, I heard the front door bang open. ‘Libby, Libby, Libby!’

  Ruthie? What would she want at this time of morning? ‘Is something wrong?’ I asked as I slid my reluctant feet onto the floor and forced my unwilling legs to carry me into the living room.

  ‘Irene never came home last night.’

  ‘Are you sure? Maybe she came in and left early.’

  ‘She would’ve left a note – well, maybe she wouldn’t, but she sure would have made a mess. I’m cleaning up after her all the time. She never makes her bed and it was as neat as it was when I made it before we went home for Christmas. I’m scared, Libby. I know Irene can be a little wild. And sometimes she stays out too late. But she always comes back to the room …’

  ‘Could she just have spent the night in someone else’s room?’

  ‘I checked with all her friends. None of them saw her last night. And she wouldn’t be working, she wasn’t due in again until Monday.’

  ‘Do you know where she went last night when she left here?’

  ‘She said she was meeting her boyfriend.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Towncenter.’

  ‘But all the shops were closed yesterday, all day long. Why would she meet him there?’

  ‘She said they always met there. I don’t know. I’m worried she might’ve fallen down and broke somethin’ or stepped in a big mud hole somewhere, sprained her ankle, broke her arm, and can’t pull herself out. And it’s so cold this morning the way the wind is blowin’.’

  ‘Let’s go find her.’

  I quickly got myself ready and then off we went. I was startled by the dramatic difference in the noise level outside. Yesterday, a blanket of quiet peace had spread over the community. Today, life had returned to normal as if Christmas had never happened. Even though it was Saturday, I could hear bulldozers roaring at the construction sites and see legions of workers streaming to the bus stops.

  At Towncenter, none of the stores had opened for business yet but lights shone in the back of the A&P as workers got ready for a new shopping day. Ruth and I looked around the front of the shops, peering in the windows and then circled around behind them, lifting up trash can lids and searching behind piles of cardboard boxes. No sign of Irene anywhere.

  ‘Let’s go up to the high school,’ I suggested.

  ‘You think Irene went up there?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe her and her boyfriend wanted to take in the view.’

  ‘Maybe they went up for the view. Or maybe they went up there to make-out – I hear it’s a pretty popular place at night. Probably oughta check the picnic grounds behind the Chapel on the Hill – that’s another spot.’

  Well, that was a surprise. The high school and the picnic grounds as trysting spots? News to me. ‘How do you know that, Ruthie?’

  ‘Never you mind,’ Ruth said with a laugh.

  We walked around the semi-circular driveway in front of the school and looked out over the Towncenter, the administration building and the dormitories. I wasn’t sure why I stared down at the scene below for so long and I doubted that Ruth had any idea of what answers she expected to find down there, either. After a few minutes of watching the bustle of a town awakening for the day, we turned back toward the school and trudged around the perimeter of the building, then over to the athletic field.

  When I spotted the shoed feet twisted at an unnatural angle under the wooden seats of the bleachers, I turned to Ruth. She did not seem aware of them yet. When I saw no signs of life – no rising and falling of breath, no twitch in any of the limbs, something that felt solid lodged in my throat, making it difficult to breathe. I wanted to run toward the stands but didn’t want to excite Ruth, so I didn’t alter my pace as we drew closer to the ominous sight.

  When Ruth gasped and broke into a run, I rushed after her. ‘Wait, Ruthie, wait.’

  But Ruth would not stop. I could tell her gaze was riveted on those shoes and heard her whisper her sister’s name. A flash of memory sparked and I recognized the coat and hat as the ones Irene was wearing the night before. Ruth crawled under the end of the bleachers on her hands and knees and threw herself on top of her sister’s body. ‘Irene, Irene, Irene,’ she wailed.

  I kneeled on the seat right above them. I saw a scarf tied tight around Irene’s neck and turned my head away from the bulging eyes dotted with pinpricks of hemorrhage. Acid rolled up from my stomach, dissolving the lump in my throat. I swallowed again and again to keep the tears from flowing. This was a crime scene and it had to be preserved. I forced a calm I didn’t feel into my words. ‘Ruthie, Ruthie. Come out. We have to get help.’

  ‘No, no, no. She’s just sick. Everything will be okay.’

  I wanted to crawl into that seductive cocoon of denial with her but knew I didn’t dare. I slipped under the bleachers to Ruth’s side, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. ‘C’mon, we can’t do anything here. Let’s go get security and let them take care of her.’

  Ruth pushed me away. ‘No. No, you go. I’ll stay here.’

  I lifted my head and looked around the field, fearing that someone lurked on its edges, frightened that it would not be safe to leave Ruth here alone. ‘Ruthie, we need to get help. You can’t stay here. Whoever did this to Irene might still be nearby.’

  ‘Watchin’ us?’ Ruth’s brow furrowed as she stared at me.

  ‘Maybe. Let’s go. Being here is making me very nervous.’

  Ruth looked down and stretched her hands toward the scarf. I grasped them firmly in mine. Ruth struggled to pull away. ‘Look at me, Ruthie. Look at me.’

  Ruth turned her head away from her sister and faced me.

  ‘Don’t touch that. It’s evidence.’

  ‘How can I leave that around her throat?’ Ruth moaned.

  ‘You have to. The investigators will need to see that. It might help them find who did this. Let’s go.’

  Ruth sighed and made no further move to loosen the scarf but she didn’t budge an inch either. ‘I have to stay here, Libby. This is my sister. I can’t leave her here all alone – in the cold. I can’t. Go, get help. I’ll stay with Irene.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. She’s my little sister. I’m supposed to take care of her. I promised Ma. Just hurry, Libby. Hurry!’

  I ran down the hill on the boardwalk, past the Towncenter, to the police station in the administrative building. I was panting by the time I reached the officer at the front desk. ‘Please help me! My friend’s sister is dead. We found her body under the bleachers. In the athletic field. At the high school.’

  ‘Okay. Slow down. Catch your breath. Now, you found a body?’

  ‘Yes. It’s Irene Nance. Someone killed her.’

  ‘You saw a body?’

  ‘Yes. We need help. Please send help,’ I turned away from the counter and took a step towards the door.

  ‘Miss. Hold it right there. I’ve got to get more information from you.’

  ‘I can’t leave my friend out there alone,’ I objected.

  ‘I thought you said she was with her sister.’

  Idiot! I came back to the desk and slapped my hands on the wood. ‘You’re not listening to me. My friend is with her sister’s body.’

  The officer pulled out a sheet of paper. ‘Okay. Your name please.’

  ‘I’ve got to go back out there.’

  ‘Miss. I have to fill out this report if you want help.’

  Exasperating! ‘Libby, uh, Elizabeth Clark.’

  ‘Your address?’

  ‘384 East Drive.’

  ‘Where do you work?’

  ‘Y-12. Beta lab.’

  ‘Secretary?’

  ‘No. I’m a chemist.’

  The officer raised an eyebrow. ‘Wait right here.’

  ‘I’ve got to get back to my friend.’

  ‘I’ll be right back, Miss,’ he said, nodding over my head at someone or something.

  I turned around and saw an
officer stand in front of the door, his legs spread wide, his hands behind his back. He stared up at the ceiling but I suspected he would not miss a move I made. I paced the width of the room until the first officer returned.

  ‘Follow me, Miss,’ he ordered and led me back to an office where the door was marked Captain Wilson. ‘Elizabeth Clark, sir.’

  ‘Have a seat, Miss Clark,’ Wilson said.

  ‘Thank you but I really need to get back to my friend.’

  ‘We have people on the way, Miss Clark. You’ll just be a distraction. We need you to wait here. Can I get you a cup of coffee or glass of water?’

  I grew more restless with every passing moment. It seemed as if it was taking him far too long for the simple task. I stood back up and resumed my pacing, wondering if I ought to try to leave. Would the officer really physically stop me? It was hard to believe but, still, I hesitated, afraid of the man’s reaction. Right now, Ruth needed a friend, not some nameless police officers. I cooled my simmering impatience by turning my thoughts to recollections of Ruth and the unlikely sequence of events that conspired to make us fast friends.

  APRIL 1943

  ‘Old fashioned ways which no longer apply to changed conditions are the snare in which the feet of women have always become readily entangled.’

  Suffragist Jane Addams

  ONE

  I tried to concentrate on where I was going and the reason for the trip, but everything around me conspired to catapult me into the dramatic moment that placed me on this particular train at this unique moment in time. The clack of the wheels, the hum of the rails, the ebb and flow of the sound of rushing air as the train passed trees, buildings and fields rang in my ears, growing louder and louder with every passing mile, until it transformed into the buzzing of planes, the roar of flames and the shattering cacophony of exploding munitions. When murmurs of voices passed down the corridor and drifted into my compartment, I heard the faraway echoes of shouted orders and agonized screams. Breathing in the air, I inhaled the scent of the worn leather upholstery, the musky odors of previous passengers, even a trace of the sweet aroma of fruit eaten by an earlier traveler. The jumbled fragrance was overcome by the noxious scent of a fire that incinerated fuel, rubber and human flesh.

  The walls of the compartment pressed against me, creating the same feeling of isolation from the real world I found inside a movie theater. As I gazed out of the window, it mutated into a projection screen. The view, clips from newsreels and my fevered imaginings of Sam’s death merged. Echoing in the distance, like the voice of God, I could hear the opening words of Franklin D. Roosevelt’s announcement to Congress and the citizens of the United States: ‘Yesterday, December 7, 1941, a date which will live in infamy, the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan.’

  My fevered filmstrip rolled. Airplanes rose on the horizon, darkening the skies like a swarm of termites, casting long shadows on the ground and water below as they zeroed in on the harbor, summoning up dread. I’d fallen into this waking nightmare so many times and yet I still hoped that the ending would change, that the planes would turn around and head back to the land of the rising sun. Instead, as always, they grew nearer, taking on a sinister cartoon cast with fang-festooned grins painted on their nose cones and evil, distorted faces that leered from the cockpits. As one aircraft lost altitude, I saw Sam standing on a pier, his head thrown back, a look of puzzlement on his face as he squinted up into the heavens.

  I sucked in a deep breath and tried to dislodge the vision from my mind. I knew where it was going. I knew what would happen next. Still, I held my breath, holding on to the fervent wish that somehow, this time, the outcome would be different. But it pushed on following a relentless and irrevocable path. The lowering plane zeroed in on Sam. Its belly opened and disgorged a bomb. I watched as it plummeted down, it’s high-pitched whine foreshadowing the obliteration to come. When the smoke cleared, every trace of the spot where Sam had stood was gone along with the life of my childhood playmate and beloved cousin.

  I shook my head to chase away the morbid thoughts that had no factual basis. I am a scientist. I know better than to succumb to raw emotion to reach conclusions. I did not know exactly what killed Sam – no one did. I knew he died on that day of infamy but nothing more. I forced away the haunting image of smoke and flames rising in the sky and sought grounding in the here and now by focusing on the mundane and material.

  I straightened my posture and raised up to make sure the skirt of my tan gabardine suit was not bunched beneath my legs. I sat back down and made a ritual of planting my open-toed brown pumps firmly on the floor. I pressed on the front of the skirt, smoothing the twin pleats. Then I shrugged my shoulders to adjust the fall of the jacket. But my hat? I touched the slouched beret. It was undeniably stylish but might be a bit too informal to wear with a suit? Aunt Dorothy insisted it was a perfect combination. Was she right? I folded my hands in my lap to keep them still. This trip was so important. I couldn’t allow some little, superficial thing get in the way of my goal.

  The last sixteen months had been so frustrating. I had been more than a semester away from my baccalaureate in Chemistry and Physics when the attack happened at Pearl Harbor and hadn’t even started working on my master’s degree in Analytical Chemistry. Still, after all my endless efforts, no opportunity had been offered to allow me to use my education and expertise to do my part for freedom and for my country.

  Instead, I’d watched male colleagues, both undergraduates and graduate students, putting their education on hold to leave the school for important jobs. I was happy for them but angered at the companies that chose one of them over me when I was just as qualified – in some cases, more qualified – for the required work.

  I often did not get an interview simply because I was a woman. Many acted as if I were committing a violation of the laws of God and nature when I expressed a desire to work in Chemistry or Physics. More than once, in social situations and interviews, someone asked, ‘Did you choose that field to improve your chances of finding a husband?’ One prospective employer even said, ‘With a position this vital, we cannot afford to hire someone who will, in a year or less, quit the job to get married or have a baby.’

  The only thing further from my mind than getting married was raising children. Sure, I liked men and dated a lot in high school and college but I had a rule and, for the most part, I kept it: no more than two dates with any man. Anything more could lead to something serious – the kind of relationship that posed a threat to my professional aspirations. All the young men I’d dated regarded my career goals as a lark that kept my mind occupied until I settled down in acceptance of my lot as a woman.

  Aunt Dorothy only intensified my ire by regarding my failure to secure a meaningful position as good news. She wouldn’t stop insisting that no woman had a chance without an advanced degree and I needed to accomplish that before I even thought about employment. I argued that I could continue my education after the war. She called that notion intellectual dishonesty. I loved that woman, but sometimes her belief that, war or no war, my schooling should be my chief priority was maddening.

  I had to admit, with more than a little admiration, that she reached that conclusion the hard way, through her struggle down a path that blazed a trail for women like me to follow. Against all odds in that earlier time, she left rural Virginia for a successful undergraduate stint at Smith College and then earned an ScD from Cambridge. Right now she was the department head of the School of Social Work at Bryn Mawr, where I’d earned my baccalaureate degree.

  Our heated discussions about my future, though, rarely lasted long. We were too obsessed with following the news as it ping-ponged between the Pacific and Europe and Africa. Good news, bad news, it was an endless stream where hope was our only antidote to pain. Because of the conflict, we had to reorganize our lives to accommodate government-sanctioned deprivations. The February after Pearl Harbor, shoe rationin
g began.

  Three months later, prices were frozen on many everyday commodities like sugar and coffee. We received our ration books and tokens – without them, we could not buy gasoline, silk, nylons and a lot of other things, no matter how much money we had. By year’s end, gasoline rationing was the law of the land but by that time, the situation was looking very encouraging for the Allies.

  The best news from the two war fronts often left me feeling empty and excluded. The tide turned in the Pacific with the first victory against Japan that began their long retreat; allied troops scored victories in battles in northern Africa; and the Russians had halted the advance of the Germans. But the Germans launched the A4-rocket, the first man-made object reaching space. Our government was determined to top that accomplishment. Here I was, unutilized in that effort, even though I had the kind of skill sets and education they needed. Some days I worried the war would end without anyone giving me an opportunity to make a contribution. As soon as that thought crossed my mind, I was ashamed of my selfishness – but that didn’t stop the worry from returning.

  It was the reason I was on this Detroit-bound train in April 1943, on my way to the American Chemical Society meeting. A lot of corporate recruiters were booked for the event and interviews were guaranteed. Word was that the demand for chemists was at an all time high, the number of applicants was short of the growing need and many positions went unfilled for months. Surely they could no longer overlook me simply because I wasn’t a man.

  I’d actually lined up fourteen interviews before boarding the train – more than I’d managed to secure in the whole previous year. I’d done it without making any attempt to conceal my gender as many other women had advised. ‘Use your initials or a nickname in place of your given name,’ they urged. But I’d seen that ruse fail for others. Those girls might have secured more interviews but they sabotaged their chances in the end.