Edith clapped her hands. “What a coincidence. So are Bertha and I.”
Laughter eased the hurt somewhat. Was he making a fool of himself again? Reading too much into the act of slipping a button through a buttonhole?
Arch lowered into a bow. “Would you three ladies do us the honor of joining us for lunch?”
Mary turned to Jim and raised an eyebrow and a smile. Yes, Arch was turning on the charm full force. The sermon must have raised his spirits.
“We’d love that. Wouldn’t we, Bertha?”
“On one condition.” Arch bent closer, his face drawn in mock seriousness. “I must know. Are you only after my money?”
“Oh no, sweetie.” Edith pinched his cheek. “I’m after your handsome face.”
Arch grinned at Jim. “If I’d known all the lovely ladies were in choir, I would have joined ages ago.”
“I think he’s feeling better now,” Mary murmured to Jim.
He looked into her twinkling eyes. “Arch has never had trouble finding a date. Only in finding the right woman.”
“How about you, dearie?” Bertha asked from his other side. “Which gives you troubles?”
The women’s gazes skewered him from opposite ends, making him feel like corn on the cob, sweating over the grill. “Huh?”
“You’re still single, young man,” Bertha said. “Which gives you troubles? Finding a date or finding the right woman?”
Jim tried to swallow, couldn’t. The right woman stood beside him, but he couldn’t say so—not here, not now, not like this.
Mary leaned in front of Jim and cupped her hand over her mouth. “As you can see, Jim has trouble finding the right words.”
He smiled and nodded. For once, playing the fool suited him fine.
22
Friday, September 19, 1941
Agent Sheffield snuffed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray and flipped a page in Mary’s notebook. “Doesn’t look good for Ira Kaplan and his pals.”
“No, sir. It doesn’t.” The leaden feeling in Mary’s chest wouldn’t go away. Mr. Kaplan had always been kind to her.
“He has experience with wiring, you know. Studied engineering at MIT for two years, then dropped out to work here two years ago. He’s smart enough, all right.”
“Mm-hmm.” At his desk facing the wall, Agent Hayes nodded and made notes.
Mary sighed. “I still can’t imagine him—”
Sheffield slapped the notebook shut. “That’s why you leave the investigation to us. In this work, there’s no room for feminine sensibilities or women’s intuition. Cold hard facts and the insight into the criminal mind that comes from training and experience.”
Mary leaned forward and eyed her notebook. “Anything useful in there?”
“I have to admit, yes. And I appreciate how you transcribe the conversations without any editorial input.”
“Yes, sir. Only cold hard facts.”
Sheffield rewarded her with half a smile. “I should give you my weekly lecture about keeping your little nose out of this, but you won’t listen, will you?”
Mary’s mouth twisted in what she hoped was a mysterious way. “Oh, I’ll listen.”
He groaned and rolled his eyes. “Women.”
