She laughed and sat down. “I’m afraid not.”
“What can I do for you?” He settled into his chair behind the desk.
Mary ran her thumbs along the notebook. “As Mr. Pennington’s secretary, I collect and deliver reports to various departments. I hear a lot.”
Thin sandy eyebrows drew together. “What have you heard?”
“I—I hear lots of things. Nothing threatening, but I—well, I take notes on what people say, and I’ve typed them up. Would you be interested in seeing?”
He let out a long sigh and held out one hand, his fingers opening and shutting.
Mary laid the notebook in front of him, pleased with how neat and organized it looked. “Each page—or pages—is for a separate person. On top is the person’s name and position, plus his possible motive, means, and opportunity to commit sabotage. In the T-shaped chart below—on the left is what he said and on the right is what others said about him.”
Agent Sheffield flipped through the notebook, and Mary returned to her seat, watching his face for any glimmer of interest, but he remained impassive.
At last, he pushed the notebook away and leaned back in his chair. “What you have here is a long—and exceptionally organized—account of all the shipyard gossip.”
Mary’s gut twisted. “I suppose so, but it does show each man’s frame of mind, his personality, his motives, and how he’s perceived. I think it would be useful in your investigation.”
“The investigation is over.” He gestured to the box on his desk. “After this afternoon’s commissioning ceremony, I’m closing up shop.”
“But the champagne—”
“A single incident. The local police are in charge. As for this perceived sabotage ...” He shrugged. “Tensions are high throughout the nation, and they’re concentrated here because of the work you’re doing. The problems people have seen are the normal mistakes you’d see at any shipyard. But since everyone’s convinced there’s a saboteur in your midst, they interpret every error as sabotage most foul. Mass hysteria.”
Mary pulled her lips between her teeth. His statement did hold truth.
The agent stood and placed more papers in the box. “In fact, the Bureau is convinced our presence here is only inflaming the situation. If we leave, show them we think nothing’s wrong, everything will settle down to normal. Besides, we have more pressing matters, real spies to hunt down.”
“But what if something is actually happening here?”
He put his hands on his hips and tilted his head. “Let me guess—the Case of the Shipyard Saboteur.”
Mary’s breath caught. That’s what she’d taken to calling it. She’d almost written it in her notebook.
The agent shook his head. “How many Nancy Drew books did you read?”
Book covers flashed through her mind—The Secret of the Old Clock,The Mystery atLilac Inn,The Sign of the Twisted Candles. At least a dozen books—all the mysteries that had been published before she graduated from high school and set aside her girlhood heroine along with her schoolbooks.
Mary smoothed the skirt of her blue dress—the color Nancy Drew favored in her wardrobe as well. “A few.”
Agent Sheffield chuckled and pulled file folders from a desk drawer. “We see this all the time at the Bureau—eager young ladies who fancy themselves amateur sleuths able to catch clues we bumbling blind professionals miss.”
Mary gasped. “I assure you, sir, that wasn’t my intention. Not at all. I just thought I could aid the inves—”
“And I assureyou, miss. There’s nothing in your pretty little notebook we don’t already know.”
Her throat burning, she picked up her notebook, said good-bye, and retreated. She’d hoisted her sails and had capsized. She hadn’t hoisted them in pride, but he thought her prideful, thought her pushy and condescending.
Mary strode down the hallway, her vision blurring. Had she been prideful after all? She examined her words and actions, and she rejected the notion. No, she only wanted to help. The last thing she wanted was attention or recognition.
Back on the second floor, she leaned against the wall outside Mr. Pennington’s office and opened her notebook, her eyes still damp. The first page was for Morton Anders, a riveter on Frank Fiske’s crew and an outspoken interventionist.
Mary screened her notes—she’d seen Morton Anders at the isolationist rally on Boston Common. She’d worn that itchy blonde wig and that bold red dress. And she’d been with Jim.
Her lips warped, and tears filled her eyes. Jim didn’t scoff at her. Jim didn’t think her investigation was silly or prideful. In fact, he believed in her.
Mary bowed her head and clutched her notebook. If only she could talk to him right now.
