The girl is past the factory and half a block ahead of Malina. The high-pitched squeal, rhythmic and slowly fading, must come from the carriage’s metal wheels. Reaching the sidewalk and falling into the girl’s wake, Malina stops, can’t help herself, because the scent lingers-the same sweet, musky smell Malina had pulled from her hamper on every payday of every week for exactly one year. Up ahead, just past the factory, the girl turns right and is gone. Malina hugs her handbag so the hammer doesn’t knock about and follows.
Malina has never ventured this far south, has never had cause. When she reaches the spot where the girl disappeared, she stops. The familiar shops are behind her now; ahead, an unfamiliar street that eventually empties into the Detroit River. Keeping her feet on the sidewalk, she tips forward and looks down the dark alley that runs along the factory’s southern edge. She squints, leans farther. Still no sign of the girl. Here again, she should turn around. If not for that empty driveway, an embarrassment like none other except perhaps a baby carriage, she would run back to her car, head down, hoping not to be recognized and, despite the terrible glare, drive as quickly as she could back to the house. So many years of carefully grooming herself to behave just-so. Supper at six, breakfast at seven, shirts hung only on wooden hangers, collars lightly starched, newspaper untouched until Mr. Herze has his turn at it. The list goes on. When she was younger, she wrote down these things and checked off each reminder with a freshly sharpened pencil. After so many years, she should no longer need reminders.
One deep breath propels her. She steps from the sidewalk into the alley. A cool draft sweeps past. The sound of the squeaky wheels has faded. There is the quiet slapping of the river water and then a woman’s voice breaks through the night air and then another answers her. They are muted, as if coming from behind a closed door. There must be another building at the end of the alley, perhaps where the girl lives. So many of them do that now-live in abandoned buildings as if they haven’t anywhere else to go.
There is the squeal again. Warped metal wheels, wobbling, struggling in the alley’s soft, dry dirt. A carriage. Obviously a baby inside. A caramel-colored baby. Mr. Herze is soft and white, pasty white, with hair that was once blond but now is a thinning ridge that runs ear to ear leaving the top of his head bare. The girl, however, as far as Malina could tell, is dark brown. The baby would be a soft, warm color, somewhere between their two shades. Malina takes a backward step, lets her arms hang at her sides.
Mr. Herze’s baby?
She thinks again of the smudged easel. Like the muffled voices, the easel is a reminder that people are here, somewhere nearby. She slides one foot in front of the other, forcing herself into the alley. Dust will be gathering on her shoes. When she gets back home, she must remember to clean them with a damp cloth. Unsnapping the kiss-clasp on her brown leather bag, she pulls out the hammer and wraps both hands around the red handle.
A few more steps and Malina has walked beyond the reach of the streetlights. The only remaining light comes from a window in the factory’s second story. It’s little more than a yellow pane that does nothing to brighten her path. It’s Mr. Herze’s office. It must be. Holding the hammer as if it were the handle of a frying pan, she follows the girl’s path. The air continues to cool. It dries the damp spot on the back of her neck where her thick hair meets her lace collar. The steady pulse of the river follows her, growing no louder, no softer. She must see inside that carriage, has a right to see inside that carriage.
“And who the hell you think you be?”
Squeezing the hammer in both hands, Malina lifts it overhead and swings it toward the voice. The heavy forked head sails through the empty air, missing its target and yanking her off balance. She stumbles, drops her only weapon.
The woman who stands in front of Malina is plump. She has round, black cheeks and her eyes must be brown, although there isn’t enough light to know for sure. She stands Malina’s height but is much wider. It is not the girl. Malina leans toward the dark figure, squints to make certain. If she wanted, she could stretch out one hand and touch the woman’s face. To avoid the temptation, Malina crosses her arms. This one is not like a child at all, but like a woman. A round, rotund woman. Her stubby legs are planted wide and her back is straight. She leads with her chin as she bends forward, puckers her lips, and stares at Malina.
“Damn,” the woman shouts. Her breath is sweet, like a half-eaten peppermint.
From the end of the alley, another voice calls out. “What you all doing down there?”
Malina inches away. Her white cotton blouse clings to her back and her hair has most certainly wilted. The round woman stares. Her black cheeks and thick upper lip glisten.
“I know who you are,” the woman says, smiling, perhaps even laughing at Malina. “Bet you’re wondering what’s inside that carriage.”
Malina shakes her head, takes a few more backward steps, spins around, and hurries down the alley.
“Hey,” the woman shouts. “Where you going? You forgot your damn hammer.”
Day 1
CHAPTER TWO
Julia Wagner sits at the back of the room. Somehow, this is always where she finds herself. It could be because her wiry red hair is impossible to tame. No matter how much she teases, pins, or sprays, she can never fashion the sculpted styles the other ladies wear. Her best hope is to corral it into a ponytail, as she has done for today’s luncheon. Perhaps she curses too much. On diet day, she definitely smokes too much. Or it could be because she is rounder than the other ladies. Her clothes have a way of fitting too tightly in all the wrong places. Or all the right places, according to her husband. Good Kentucky stock, her mother always says, often when reattaching one of Julia’s buttons. But the truth is, none of these force her to the rear of the room. She finds her way there because things like this-the monthly gathering of the Ladies of the St. Alban’s Charitable Ventures Committee-are altogether more tolerable if she keeps her distance.
And if Julia is generally at the back of the room, Malina Herze is generally-or more accurately, always-at the front. This is where she stands today. As chair of the committee’s annual bake sale and clothing drive, Malina should be handing out sign-up sheets and issuing instructions as to how, when, and where to deliver donations for the thrift store. Instead, she is doling out stern warnings to the dozen ladies scattered about the living room of their hostess, Grace Richardson. Grace is Julia’s best friend, only true friend really. This is another reason Julia sits at the back of the room. She is the friend who will stir the beans while Grace attends to her guests or answer the door should a latecomer arrive. But soon after Malina informed everyone that the woman found near the factory was most definitely dead, Grace excused herself to the kitchen, where she’ll stir her own beans, answer her own door, and won’t be in need of Julia’s help.
Snubbing out her second cigarette, Julia tugs at the blouse that dips a bit low for a luncheon and exhales a louder-than-intended sigh. A few of the ladies frown at her. They want to hear what Malina has to say. Her husband is in charge down at the factory and so she knows more than most. The woman was found yesterday morning in the alley that borders the factory and is within casting distance of the shops on Willingham Avenue. She was most definitely colored and most definitely deceased. Someone bashed her in the side of the head, so it wasn’t an accident. No chance of that.