“I wish.” Quintessa let out a long sigh.
“Me too.” Mary found her spot in her notes. “Here we are. September 19. That’s when Mr. Kaplan was arrested. Mr. Fiske was there, calming the men down. He told the agents he sent Mr. Kaplan to the handling room on the day the gun was installed and later before theAtwoodshipped out. That bit of evidence tipped the balance.”
“Convenient.”
“I’ll say.” Mary glanced up to the ceiling. “Mr. Fiske was happy for a while. There was an uproar again. But it didn’t last long, and that made him mad. I remember. He must have realized his plan had failed. He’d successfully framed an interventionist, but public opinion about the war didn’t change. He needed more. That’s when he shifted to his second plan and found another interventionist to frame—Mr. Winslow.”
“Is that when all this stuff with the blueprints started?”
“Yes, in mid-October.” Another line. “The bolts didn’t fit. Mr. Fiske took the blueprints to Agent Sheffield, showed him how the construction followed the blueprints perfectly but wasn’t correct.”
“And they started looking at Mr. Winslow.” Quintessa had such a gift with names, which certainly helped with sales.
“Yes. Then the FBI received a tip, went to his house, found the bomb—” She clamped her lips shut. They’d also found the crate of equipment, but she didn’t feel at liberty to discuss that with anyone else. “And they arrested him.”
“Then they discovered O’Donnell’s blueprints didn’t match Winslow’s plans, and they started looking at him—and at Yvette.” Quintessa’s eyes lit up, as if having a saboteur under their roof would be the grandest adventure ever.
“It isn’t her, I’m sure.”
“Blueprints can’t be altered after they’re developed, so they had to be altered in the drafting room.”
“Mr. Fiske visits the drafting room, visits with O’Donnell. He knows his friend’s schedule, when all the draftsmen take lunch break. And Mr. Fiske is the man who reads the blueprints and puts them into action. He’d know exactly what modifications to make.”
“Why would he want to frame his friend? Aren’t they both isolationists?”
“Yes.” Mary made another mark for the meeting at Filene’s. “A hole in his plan. He didn’t mean to involve Mr. O’Donnell. He didn’t realize the draftsman would look guilty. That’s why he’s calling attention to Yvette and her friends. But that’s a leap of logic, linking Yvette’s pro-French crowd with Winslow’s pro-British crowd. Mr. Fiske is desperate, and with each twist he gets sloppier and his plans get wilder.”
The doorbell rang.
Mary startled. For one second, she thought of Jim, but he was at sea.
“I’ll answer the door,” Yvette called from the living room.
The front door creaked open, and a male voice sounded. A familiar voice.
“That’s Agent Sheffield.” Mary closed her notebook and laid it on the bed.
“How exciting. The FBI in our own apartment.”
Mary tilted a smile to Quintessa. “That isn’t good.”
She stood and tugged on Mary’s arm. “Let’s see what’s happening.”
Out in the entryway, Yvette stood with Agents Sheffield and Hayes.
“Good evening, gentlemen.” Mary’s nerves shivered. “Am I under investigation?”
Agent Sheffield chuckled. “Well, we did receive an anonymous tip that you were up to something fishy, but no, we have a search warrant for Yvette Lafontaine.”
“Why?” Yvette pressed a hand to her chest. “I have done nothing wrong.”
“I need to see your purse, miss.”
“All—all right. That is the purse I take to work.” Yvette pointed to the coatrack, then she opened a drawer in the mail table. “The other three are in here.”
Mary clutched Quintessa’s arm. What were they looking for? And what would they find?
Agent Hayes opened the brown shoulder bag on the coatrack, while Agent Sheffield pulled out the purses from the cabinet and dumped the contents from a black handbag.
