Anchor In The Storm Part 39

Waves of panic set Arch's fingers to trembling. He never thought he could be implicated. And Lillian? How could anyone implicate her?

Buckner's gaze bounced between the two men, revealing nothing. "I appear to have a conundrum."

Arch's eyes slipped shut. If anything happened to Lillian, he could never forgive himself.

38.

Boston Six o'clock. If only the clock's hands would move faster. Lillian couldn't gather the evidence until after Mr. Dixon left, and she wouldn't call the police until after the store closed. Why disrupt business more than necessary?

"Man the counter, would you?" Mr. Dixon lugged a box out from the stockroom. "With Albert home sick, someone's got to stock those shelves. I'll have to stay late. Boy, am I going to have a word with that Reggie-not even answering his phone."

Lillian murmured her understanding and tapped out the instructions for Mr. Robertson's digitalis on the typewriter. How suspicious for Albert to call in sick the day after his meeting with Chuck and Hank. But what a relief. How could she face him knowing he was involved?

Her finger slipped on the D key and struck the S key as well, and the type bars tangled. Lillian huffed and pried them free, trying not to get ink on her fingers.

Scar's full name was Charles Leary, the phone book had revealed last night. Now she had evidence Detective Malloy could use. The police could contact Arch for his side of the story.

Her heart seized. Again. He wouldn't be by her side tonight when she called the police. He wouldn't hold her and encourage her.

Nor did she want him to. As much as she missed him, as much as she regretted her cruel words, when it came down to it, the man didn't trust her.

What was wrong with him? Maybe in his strata of society it was impolite to appreciate beautiful gifts, but Lillian had been taught it was impolite not to. Did he expect her to say thank you, heave a bored little sigh, and stuff the bracelet in her jewelry box with dozens of other extravagant baubles? Honestly.

After all, the bracelet was the loveliest gift she'd ever received. The most meaningful.

A wave of grief crashed over her, but after it receded, Lillian plucked the prescription label from the typewriter and fixed it to the bottle.

Arch might not even be in town. Jim had said they'd sail soon. Since Mary worked at the Navy Yard, she'd know when the Ettinger departed.

One last inspection of the prescription bottle, and Lillian called Mr. Robertson.

The older gentleman peered through reading gla.s.ses at the label. "Same as before?"

"Yes, sir. One tablet every day." Lillian rang up his purchase and gave him his change.

"Thank you." He tipped his fedora to her. "Be careful out there, young lady, with a murderer on the loose."

"A murderer?"

"Haven't you heard? Of course it's not in the paper yet, but everyone's talking about it."

"No. I haven't heard." Lillian gripped the edge of the counter.

"They found a sailor stabbed to death behind the Rusty Barnacle this morning."

Dizziness rolled through her head. "The Rusty Barnacle?"

"Not the kind of place a nice young lady like you would know about."

But she did, and her face went numb. "Who-who was it?"

Mr. Robertson shrugged. "It'll be in the paper tomorrow. Some boy in the Navy, probably got in a fight over a girl."

Or over a drug ring. Was it Earl Kramer? Or-no, please, not Warren Palonsky. Was that the purpose of the meeting at Scar's house last night? To plot a murder? Oh goodness, Albert was involved. Was that why he'd called in sick?

She felt more than a little sick herself.

Mr. Robertson's mouth puckered with concern. "I shouldn't have worried you, miss. As long as you stay out of the bad parts of town, you'll be safe."

Lillian worked up a smile, but how could she be safe with Scar and Hank and Albert on the loose?

After Mr. Robertson left, Mr. Dixon returned to the prescription area. Although Lillian wanted her boss to leave so she could gather evidence, a horde of patients arrived, and she was glad she had help. After all, the news of the murder made concentration difficult.

Mr. Dixon poured tablets onto the counting tray. "Sure is busy in the evenings now with all the women gone to work during the day."

"It is." Lillian gathered an armful of bottles to return to the shelves. "We could almost use a third pharmacist."

"If sales continue to climb like this, I might consider it."

On any other day, the news would have made her giddy. But now it only buffed the pain and worry, taking off a few sharp edges.

In the back corner of the store, Lillian climbed a step stool and replaced a bottle on the top shelf.

"Uncle Cyrus! Uncle Cyrus!"

Lillian climbed down from the stool and peered around the end of the shelf. She'd never met Mr. Dixon's nephew, didn't even know his name.

A young man leaned over the counter, his face red and wild-eyed and mottled by a scar.

Charles Leary! Scar!

She ducked behind the shelf, pulse thrumming in her ears. What was Scar doing here?

"What are you-I told you never to come here." Mr. Dixon's voice came out hard but quiet.

"It's an emergency. Just got off work, got here as fast as I could." Scar sounded frantic. "Hank botched it up last night."

"Shut up," Mr. Dixon said.

"And Stan quit. He ran away and enlisted. Don't you see? It's all over without-"

"I said shut up." Mr. Dixon's voice shook with quiet intensity. "Get out of here. Call."

The silence clawed at Lillian's ears. What were they doing?

Footsteps headed down the aisle. Scar must have left.

Lillian leaned against the shelf and shut her eyes, her mind spinning. Lord, help me, help me, help me.

How should she respond? Mr. Dixon had to know she'd heard. How would she respond if she knew absolutely nothing about the drug ring?

She'd inquire with friendly curiosity. Yes, she would. Ignoring the situation would be an admission that she knew too much.

Lillian grasped the anchor necklace at her throat. Lord, be my strength.

With an airy smile, she returned to the counter. "Was that your nephew? I was up on the step stool. Shame I didn't get to meet him."

Mr. Dixon grunted and dumped pills from the counting tray into a bottle. "Yes. That was my nephew."

"I couldn't hear the conversation, but he sounded upset. I hope everything's all right." Her voice actually carried the right note of innocent concern.

"Just some problems at work."

Lillian picked up the next prescription on the counter, as if she were capable of reading it. "He works at the Navy Yard, doesn't he?" Where he could arrange deliveries to sailors.

"A good job. He's glad to have it."

"I'm sure he is. After the Navy . . ." After he'd been burned in a boiler explosion. That explained the scar. "Such a shame."

"Yes."

Something told her to stop. Just enough curiosity, not too much.

She forced her eyes to read. Lithium carbonate. She could do this. Her legs obeyed and carried her to the correct shelf, and her hands found the correct bottle. She checked twice.

"I'm going to straighten out the stockroom," Mr. Dixon said. "Albert left a mess."

"All right." Lillian rested her forehead against the shelf.

Scar was the perfect man to lead the ring. He used to run in a bad crowd, so he knew thugs to recruit. He worked in the Navy Yard, so he had access to ships and sailors.

And Mr. Dixon . . .

Lillian stifled a groan and hugged herself. Mr. Dixon was involved. Deeply involved.

He knew correct prescription terminology, so he could give the forger the precise wording. He had samples of handwriting from real physicians. He could tell the thugs which doctors to target to steal prescription pads.

And he could fill hundreds of prescriptions for thousands of tablets of phen.o.barbital-legally.

That's why he insisted Lillian never call the doctors. That's why he didn't want her to make deliveries. All along, he was involved.

That's why no other pharmacies were targeted. He wanted all the prescriptions, all the money.

Cyrus Dixon loved only two things-money and his nephew.

Nothing else mattered.

No one else mattered.

Certainly not a crippled girl pharmacist who knew too much.

"Oh, Lord," she whispered. "Keep me safe."

39.

South of Long Island Confined to quarters, Arch wrote hard and fast, every detail he could remember. A tremor distorted his handwriting, but he didn't care. The same fury and grief that intensified the tremor fueled his urgency to finish the report.

When the Ettinger arrived in New York later that evening, he and Parnell Lloyd and Earl Kramer would be taken into custody for interrogation. A complete written report could help the police capture Palonsky's murderers.

Stabbed.

Arch convulsed as if the knife had pierced his own chest. The image ripped through his mind of his friend attacked, in pain, bleeding, abandoned.

The thugs in the drug ring must have discovered he was a snitch. If they had, how much else did they know? Did they know Lillian's role?

He couldn't protect her right now, but maybe his report could remove her from police scrutiny. It didn't matter if Arch was locked up-he deserved it. But not Lillian.

Arch planted his elbows on the desk and rested his forehead in his hands. Wooziness washed over him, as if he were adrift in a storm, tossed by wind and wave and current.

"Lord, please anchor me." He needed that stability. "For Palonsky's sake, bring his killers to justice. For Lillian's sake, show the police why she's innocent, why she needs their protection."

He stared at his notes between his elbows. He and Lillian had started their investigation in late February. She'd noticed unusual prescriptions as soon as she'd started her job in early January.

He shuffled through his notes. If only he had more details from Lillian's end of the investigation.

"January! Of course!" He jabbed his finger at the date. He didn't know when the problems had started on the Ettinger, although the ring seemed established when Arch joined the crew. But Lillian had traced the prescriptions at Dixon's back to January 1941. When she was at Ohio State.

He shoved away from his desk. This proved she couldn't have masterminded the plot. Since Doc's case hinged on Lillian and Arch's relationship and her medical knowledge and access to drugs, it might remove Arch from scrutiny as well.

"That doesn't matter." He pounded on the door. "Pardon me. I need to speak to Captain Buckner immediately. I have new information on the case."

"I'm sorry, sir," the guard said. "I can't leave my post."