What her friend needed was a distraction, so Mary squeezed her hand and made her voice cheery. “Yvette and I are going downtown to shop. Would you like to join us? I could use your help picking out a new blouse.”
“At Filene’s? On my day off? No, thank you. Besides, I have laundry and mending to do. Go have fun.”
“All right. But how can I possibly have fun without you?” Mary said in her most dramatic voice.
A flicker of a smile returned to her friend’s face. “Somehow you’ll manage.”
Mary turned the display case of gold earrings. She never wore gold jewelry, only silver. Mother said silver complemented her complexion, and Mary preferred its subtlety.
But why shouldn’t she wear gold? Wasn’t she good enough to wear gold? Maybe she needed flash to attract a man.
Something hardened inside her, and she held a pair of gold earrings beside her cheek. Why not? She was already wearing a flashy red coat and hat. Why not gold jewelry?
But her image wavered in the little mirror. Would a pair of gold earrings have made Jim fall in love with her? Of course not. He simply preferred the gold inside Quintessa to the silver inside Mary, and what was wrong with that?
She swiped away her tears and studied her reflection. Gold really didn’t do anything for her skin. She exchanged the earrings. Yes, silver did look better with her coloring and brought out the light in her eyes.
Silver was best for her.
That hard something melted away. Silver had its own worth, its own beauty, a quieter beauty, a beauty that reflected rather than called attention to itself. There was nothing wrong with that, and nothing wrong with her. Someday, a man would come along who preferred silver.
Perhaps at her new job. A smile rose, wobbly but warming. She’d mailed her resume and letter of recommendation to half a dozen shipyards on the Great Lakes. Surely one would hire her. She’d be closer to home and farther from Jim. Why should she watch Jim and Quintessa fall in love? She’d only get depressed. With a new start in a new city, she could heal and start over. Another change in tack.
Anxious voices rose from the store aisle, all speaking in French. Yvette stood with several of her friends—Henri, Solange, and two others Mary didn’t know.
Henri met Mary’s eye, frowned, then spoke to Yvette.
Yvette turned and gave Mary a breezy smile, then addressed Henri.“C’est ne pas un problème. Elle ne parlepas français.”
Mary didn’t speak French, but she recognized a few phrases. Yvette was assuring her friends Mary couldn’t understand their conversation. Why? What did they need to conceal from her?
She turned to the nearest dress rack and sifted through the selections. Why did Yvette spend so much time in the drafting room, asking questions of Mr. O’Donnell? Was it simply her interest in drawing, or something more sinister?
Why was Yvette always so adamant that Mary stop her investigation and not discuss it—yet she joined in the conversations? Was Yvette involved? Mary couldn’t imagine Yvette building or planting a bomb, but what about her friends? Were they working together?
She ventured a glance at the group in their zealous conversation. Their families in France lived in danger under Nazi domination in the north or Vichy French domination in the south. Yvette’s friends wanted the United States to enter the war so their homeland could be freed. But were they desperate enough to commit sabotage, maybe even kill?
Mary grabbed a random dress from the rack and fled to the dressing room. Once inside, she collapsed into the chair and rested her head in her hands.
She’d lived with Yvette for a year and a half. She prided herself on her observational skills, but had she overlooked vital clues, blinded by friendship? Why, she barely had any notes for Yvette, and she’d never typed them up or turned them in to the FBI. But didn’t Yvette have motive? And her friends might have the means.
What kind of detective was she? An impartial observer would have kept Yvette high on the suspect list.
And her notebooks. How many times had Mary found Yvette flipping through? She had access to the carbon copies typed out in plain English. Wouldn’t those be an easy resource to know whom to frame? Had Mary unwittingly aided the sabotage?
She pushed down the nausea, pulled a small notebook from her purse, and started a list. Everything she hadn’t recorded—Yvette’s comments on the sabotage and the suspects, her access to the notebooks, the conversations she’d overheard when Mary and Quintessa discussed the case, when Mary and Jim discussed the case. Yvette had even loaned Mary that smart red suit and hat for the undercover operation.
Mary yanked a handkerchief from her purse and wiped her face. Tonight, after Yvette went to sleep, Mary would type up her notes on Yvette, as complete as she could make them. Then she’d hide all her notebooks somewhere—her trunk, and she’d keep the key with her at all times. On Monday, she’d give her report to Agent Sheffield.
Her eyes burned at the thought of turning in her friend—but what if her friend had been using her to commit crimes?
“Mary?” Yvette called.
She took a deep breath and prayed her voice would sound normal. She couldn’t let Yvette know she suspected her. People who planted bombs on ships wouldn’t be concerned about the life of one secretary. “In here.”
“Good. I’ve been looking for you. I wanted you to hold my bags while I tried on this suit. But Mr. Fiske offered to hold my bags. Wasn’t that kind?”
“Mr. Fiske?” As Mary’s eyes stretched open, they dried.
