Bingo! Mary stopped there and clicked. Fisherman’s Knot, read the heading of the new page, next to a definition:
The Fisherman’s knot is used to tie two ropes of equal thickness together. It is a useful and common knot used by fishermen to join fishing line, and is very effective with diameter strings and twines.
Instantly, at the top of the page, two animated pieces of rope, one bright red and one bright blue, started tying themselves into a very solid knot. She watched the rope tie and untie itself a few times, slowly enough so that even a Philadelphia lawyer could follow. She scanned the page and underneath were directions: Tie a thumb knot in the running end of the first rope – and Mary had to click on a link to learn about the thumb knot part – then tie a thumb knot in the second rope, around the first rope. Note the thumb knots are tied such that they lie snugly against each other when standing ends are pulled.
Mary double-checked the directions, picked up the mamarella socks from the desk, and followed the directions for the fisherman’s knot to tie them together. Then she pulled the reinforced toe of each sock. Presto! She had joined her mamarella socks! She yanked hard. Nothing would make them come apart. She was screwed if she needed to wear them, but she had taught herself one thing. No rope joined by a fisherman’s knot would ever come apart.
What had Mr. Milton said on the phone? Problem was, he made the rope by tyin’ two ropes together… The rope broke where he tied it.
Mary felt a bolt of excitement that was almost electric. The knot in the rope hadn’t held. Amadeo, a fisherman by profession, would have known how to tie a fisherman’s knot. So only one conclusion followed logically, and to confirm it, she didn’t need a ghost. Amadeo hadn’t tied that knot. Somebody else had, and there was only one other man with him in the beet field that day.
Mary reached for the phone.
Eighteen
“It’s almost closing time,” said the cashier at the Fort Missoula museum. It was the same woman in the denim shift, who had helped earlier today and was undoubtedly regretting it now. Mary was on a new mission, to find a mystery man.
“I know, and I’m sorry.” Sorry, sorry, so very sorry. They were upstairs at the museum, and on the way over, Mary had called Frank Cavuto and Jim MacIntire again and left more messages. Skinny Uncle Joey wasn’t in either, and it gave her a pang of homesickness she was too old for. She considered calling home and asking her mother why she was so frigging thin, but stopped because she’d have to reveal she was on Pluto.
“I do have some paperwork to finish up, but then I’ll have to get home.” The cashier hustled down the hall on the museum’s second floor, past the administrative offices, and halted at a door bearing a red sign that read: STOP! YOU ARE ENTERING A CURATORIAL ZONE! “Can you be done in an hour, Mary?”
“If I can’t, I’ll come back tomorrow, if that’s okay with you.”
“Certainly. The director said to help you in any way we can.” The cashier nodded. “What you’re looking for might be in here. If it isn’t, the U has a lot of archival information in the Mansfield Library, as you know.”
“Yes, thanks.” Mary had read as much, and was a library fan from way back. She would never have learned to love books if not for the Free Library of Philadelphia. She’d grown up in a household where there was only one book other than the Bible. TV Guide.
“Our archive is more specialized, as you’ll see. It pertains strictly to goings-on and internees at Fort Missoula, during the internment.” The cashier opened the door with a jingling set of keys and flicked on the light in the small, windowless room, which was wall-to-wall history.
“Wow,” Mary said, meaning it.
“Wonderful, isn’t it?” The cashier went to the end of one of the gray accordions, pulled a sheaf of papers from the last one, and handed them to Mary. “This may help you. It’s an index made by a volunteer named Dale.”
“Thanks.” Mary flipped through to a page in the middle, which read: P. 2001.048.223 – Photograph, Internees, Italian – Woods camp; P. 2001.048.224 – Photograph, Internees, Italians – Woods camp. Next to each catalog number was a description of the internees engaged in all sorts of activities: “doing forest work,” “bathing at camp,” “firing the furnace,” “working in laundry,” “raising chickens,” “feeding cats,” and “meeting with priest.” The index would save Mary tons of time. “Thanks so much, and God bless the Dales of the world.”
“I agree.” The cashier headed for the door with a little wave. “Good luck,” she said, and Mary got busy.
An hour later, the door reopened, and the cashier stood in the threshold, bearing a light jacket and her handbag, but it was an excited Mary who greeted her.
“Look what I found!” she said, putting the last of the accordions away. In her hand were two photos.
“Let’s see. I have a minute.”
“Great.” Mary set the two photos down on the top of the nearest box, and the cashier bent over them with her. They were two cracked group photos taken at different times; one was in the beet field on a sunny day, with eight Italian internees posed like a graduating class, four in front and four in back. Amadeo stood on the far right of the front row, recognizable from the alien registration photo. Mary pointed at him, delighted. “That’s the man I’ve been looking for!”
“Mr. Brandolini.” The cashier grinned. “Good for you! I guess these photos weren’t displayed downstairs because of the cracking.”
“I guess so.” Mary set out the next photo proudly, as if it were a trump card. It was another group photo, but of only five internees including Amadeo standing in a loose ring, leaning on hoes in the beet field. “Look at the first photo and the second. Notice anything similar about them, even though they were taken at different places and times?”
“Yes.” The cashier pointed. “Your man, Brandolini, always stands in the front row, far right. He was short.”
“True. That’s half of it.” Mary moved her fingernail past Amadeo’s head and one up, to the top row, where a tall man wearing a cap stood. “Also, in both photos, the man in the cap stands behind him.”
“He’s tall.”
Ouch. “Okay, but he also has his hands on Amadeo’s shoulders in both photos.”
“Interesting.” The cashier looked over, intrigued behind her glasses. “And?”
“It suggests they were friends, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“I’m wondering if this is the friend who was with Amadeo in the beet field, the day he died. Do you know how I can find out who this man is? Are there any camp records here? Any list of internees?”
“No records other than these.” The cashier gestured at the boxes, but Mary had looked through everything and still had finished before menopause.
“Would Mr. Milton know?”
“Probably not. He worked in the motor pool.”
Mary remembered. She’d double-check later. “Anyone else alive? Any of the other internees?”
“No. Some of the internees settled here, but they’re gone now.” The cashier shook her head, deep in thought. “There is the one internee, Bert, everyone knows him, but he’s out of the country now.”