He lifted suspicious blue eyes to her. “Fine.”
She smiled and fingered the edge of her clipboard. “How’s your family? Do you have a wife? Children?”
Those eyes hardened to blue marbles. “Why do you ask?”
Mary gestured around the shipyard. “I like to know the people I work with.”
“Good for you.” Mr. Bauer snapped down his welding mask. “Please stand back. You don’t want to get hurt.”
Mary blinked and backed up. Oh my, he was prickly. But then if everyone distrusted her because of her accent, she might be prickly too.
Over to starboard, Frank Fiske wrote on a clipboard. Stocky and middle-aged, with graying blond hair, the leadingman ran this crew well.
“Good morning, Mr. Fiske.”
“Right on schedule.” Fiske scribbled his signature and handed her the form.
Mary tucked it away. “How’s your son? Any new letters?”
The leadingman’s broad brow wrinkled. “Hates Army life. He’ll be out in November unless Roosevelt has his way and gets us into a shooting war by then.”
Mary murmured her sympathy. It wasn’t her job to argue one side or the other.
He crossed his beefy arms and cracked a grin. “You had a chat with the police, I heard.”
She laughed and flapped her hand. “It was nothing. The bottle had been unattended for some time. Anyone could have tampered with it. Since I noticed something was wrong and alerted Mr. Pennington, they didn’t suspect me.”
“Who’s the suspect? Do you know?”
“Only what I read in the papers.”
“They’re idiots. A jealous lover?”
Mary scanned the ship—dozens of workmen, stuttering rivet guns, and whining machinery. If anyone was dangerous, Frank Fiske would know. “Do you think it was someone here?”
He ran his finger across his upper lip. “All I know is this war’s behind it. The men say there’s a saboteur. Talk about seeing people where they don’t belong, tools out of place. Something’s going on.”
Goose bumps rose under the sleeves of Mary’s suit jacket. Out in the harbor, theAtwoodfloated under the gray clouds, awaiting her commission. Jim would be aboard with his congenial smile and easy laugh. People had a right to protest but not to harm good men.
“Keep your eyes open, Miss Stirling,” Mr. Fiske said, his voice somber.
“I will.”
“Hey, Fiske.” George O’Donnell lumbered over, a few years older than Fiske and many pounds heavier. “Here’s the blueprint.”
“Thanks.” Fiske took the rolled-up document.
“Oh, Mr. O’Donnell,” Mary said. “Mr. Winslow’s looking for you.”
He pulled a tin of chewing tobacco from his pocket and stuck a wad in his mouth. “I’m sure he is.”
Fiske unrolled the blueprint on a crate. “Don’t envy you working with that fop.”
“He loves England so much, why doesn’t he go fight for them, leave us alone?”
“I doubt he could lift a gun, much less fire it.” Fiske looked at Mary over his shoulder. “Sorry ’bout that. Forgot there’s a woman present.”
“That’s all right.” It happened to her a lot, but she didn’t mind. People said things around her they might ordinarily hold back. Mr. Pennington called her his little spy.
