“Oui. From the shipyard.”
What was a middle-aged man doing in the women’s clothing department? He was widowed, and he had one son. And why did he just happen to run into Yvette?
Mary checked her reflection in the mirror and powdered her face. Thank goodness her eyes weren’t too red. She grabbed the hanger from the hook. The dress wasn’t very pretty anyway. “I’m done, Yvette. I’ll see you outside.”
“Don’t go far. I want your opinion on this suit.”
“All right.” Mary stepped out of the room and handed the dress to the attendant. “Thank you, but it isn’t for me.”
“I’d say not.” The attendant arched her brows.
The dress did look about three sizes too big.
Mr. Fiske stood not far from the dressing room area, holding Yvette’s bags and purse.
Mary approached him. “What a pleasant surprise. Yvette told me you were holding her bags. How kind of you.”
His broad face cracked into a bashful smile. “Well, I remember how my wife liked me to hold her things. Miss Lafontaine looked burdened. I’m glad I could help.”
“How kind of you. I can hold them now.”
“Thanks.” He transferred the bags and Yvette’s new black handbag. He wore heavy brown leather work gloves. Black ink stained the right forefinger, and a small tear ran alongside the thumb. Why was he wearing work gloves out on the town? Inside the heated store?
She kept her smile in place but tilted her head at the dress rack beside him. “Shopping?”
“Yeah, well, it’s my mother’s birthday this week. She’ll be seventy.”
“How lovely. Is she here in town?”
“Uh, yes.” His smile turned to a scowl. “Listen, Miss Stirling, I need to warn you. Watch out for that friend of yours.”
“Yvette?” She refused to let her own suspicions color her voice.
He leaned closer, his blue eyes serious. “Watch out for her and her friends. They’re dangerous. I bet they’re part of Winslow’s ring, building bombs in his basement. They found a crate of equipment, you know. Same stuff used to build the bomb found on theAtwood. Watch out.”
Cold tingles ran through her. “Thank you for the warning.”
He ran one gloved finger under his nose and flipped his gaze over Mary’s shoulder. “You’re much too involved in this investigation. You need to stop. If you think those FBI agents will keep you safe while you poke around, think again. You’re a nice girl, and I’d hate to see something bad happen to you.”
Mary choked out a thank-you. Was that a fatherly warning—or a veiled threat?
“There you are, Mary.” Yvette glided over. “I did not like the fit of that suit. Another day. Oh, you have my bags. Thank you. And thank you, Mr. Fiske. Shall we go, Mary?”
“Yes. Let’s.” She headed down the aisle. After ten paces, she glanced over her shoulder.
Mr. Fiske walked in the other direction toward the store entrance, without stopping to browse, without any bags.
What about his mother’s birthday?
A chill crept into her chest. Didn’t Mr. Fiske always say his son was the only family he had in this world? His wife was dead. And his parents?
Dead.
An ashy taste filled Mary’s mouth. Mr. Fiske lied to her. He’d followed her and Yvette.
Now Mary had to figure out why.
35
