The Last Government Girl. Ellen Herbert

there, holding the glasses in place. “With asphyxiation victims, it is difficult to pinpoint, but because of today’s heat, rigor is already present. I would guess maybe three, four hours ago.”

      Jess slapped his thigh. “Daylight? He left her body here in daylight?”

      Ray said. “Cemetery’s locked at sunset. He drove up here and dropped her off.”

      Drivers had to have special permits to buy gasoline. The Office of Price Administration had instituted a tiered system of rationing depending on the driver’s occupation. In Washington, getting a permit wasn’t difficult. Most of the men, who worked in the offices with the murdered girls, had both a permit to buy gasoline and a vehicle. Yet they also had alibis, which Jess and Alonso had verified.

      “He must be subduing the woman some way… Could he have given her a barbiturate, maybe in her drink?” Jess asked Dr. Lee. “Her tongue was stained purple as if she’d drunk grape soda or wine.”

      “Yes. I also see purple tongue.” Dr. Lee was nodding. “These days, barbiturates are almost as common as aspirin. Doctors prescribe them for anyone having trouble sleeping. And because of the war, that is many people. I will test the contents of her stomach for a barbiturate.”

      Jess felt a tingling in his chest, a sensation he got when he was onto something. A barbiturate might lead to a prescription with a name on it.

      As they walked back to the girl’s body, one of the Park Police watching them nudged the policeman beside him. With the moonlight behind Jess, they could see he was missing an arm. Jess imagined one saying to the other, “The Bureau must be hard up these days.”

      Yet his stump had become a badge of honor, albeit an unmerited one. No one asked how he’d lost it. Folks assumed it had happened in the war, which made him feel guilty. More than anything, he wanted to fight for his country as the men whose graves surrounded him had done.

      “Wait a minute, fellas,” Jess called to the ambulance crew taking her body away.

      He lifted the blanket and studied Kaye’s face, wishing he had a woman with him to tell him what she thought. The lipstick though freshly applied went above her lip line. With the tracing paper from his kit, he blotted her lips.

      “More photographs?” Alonso asked him.

      “Please, and get her blouse or whatever it’s called.” Jess stepped away.

      Beneath her jacket, she wore a low-necked top made of thin cotton that showed off her ample breasts. Thelma Sykes had worn a similar one.

      Alonso snapped some photographs.

      “It’s called a peasant blouse,” Ray K. said behind Jess, “like Jane Russell wears in them movie posters. Some call it cheap, others think it’s sexy. You must not have a woman in your life, or you’d know about such things.”

      Nothing like getting women’s fashion tips from Ray K. Still Jess took out his notebook, crouched, and wrote peasant blouse and the actress’s name.

      The men on the hillside watched the ambulance bear Kaye Krieger’s body away, its red taillights disappearing down the hill, united in a moment none would forget.

      After the ambulance went through the gates at the bottom of the hill, Thad Graham’s car pulled out behind it and followed across the Memorial Bridge.

      Ambulance chasers: Jess had thought the term referred to lawyers. He didn’t know a newspaper would pay a reporter to sit outside police headquarters, hoping for something to happen. Ray K. was right about him. He had a lot to learn about Washington.

      After everyone left, Jess asked Alonso. “See any footprints?”

      “Not in this thick grass. Wish I had.”

      They had been given a photograph of a shoe print found near the woman’s body on the C&O Canal. The shoe had tiny holes in the soles like hobnail boots, except the pattern of holes was irregular. They were making the rounds of construction crews talking to roofers, who sometimes put tacks through their soles to keep secure as they climbed.

      Rain began to fall in drops large as coins.

      They ran to the car. Once inside, Alonso turned to Jess and said. “Again, she was missing her right shoe.”

      “His souvenir.”

      7

      Eddie took a deep breath and stepped into Aunt Viola’s parlor.

      The small warm room crowded in at her, its frilly curtains, crocheted doilies everywhere, a mantle of tiny ceramic poodles, beady eyes aglow. The smell of all things old, lavender, talcum powder and dust, hung in the air.

      Eddie hated small spaces. Sweat rolled down the furrow of her spine. She felt Rachel, Bert, and Pearl standing behind her, too many for this room.

      In the corner, Aunt Viola filled an armchair. Her feet in flat slippers rested on an ottoman, a potentate’s pose. A glossy wooden Mission Bell radio sat on the table beside her, its dials fingertip close.

      “Aunt Viola.” Eddie crossed the room and kissed the old goat’s powdery cheek. She never liked the woman and knew the feeling was mutual.

      “Well, Edwina, you’re finally here. Go over yonder to the lamp and let me get a better look at you.”

      Eddie sighed and stepped into the arc of light. Rachel watched with sympathy, while Pearl stayed in the doorway looking as if she might run away.

      Aunt Viola put on glasses that hung from a chain around her neck. With eyes reduced to slits, she studied Eddie. “Turn ‘round, Edwina. Still a tall skinny gal, aren’t ya? You could a knocked me over with a feather when your daddy wrote that you got picked runner-up for Miss Saltville, but you’re a sight prettier than you used to be.”

      “Thank you kindly, Aunt Viola.” Who needed detractors when you had relatives like her aunt?

      “And that one with the long curly hair must be Miss Rachel Margolis. Come closer, honey. I won’t bite.” Aunt Viola sat straighter. Her aunt loved money and those who had it like Rachel. In her letter, Aunt Viola wrote how proud she would be to have the Margolis Department Store heiress living under her roof.

      “Good evening, Mrs. Trundle.” Rachel’s voice was bright. Eddie had warned her about Aunt Viola.

      “Course, I can see why you won Miss Saltville over Edwina. You’re really beautiful, Rachel, a beautiful little Jewess.”

      Cringing, Eddie covered her mouth, but she could tell Rachel was taking it in stride.

      “Thank you, Ma’am.” Rachel curtsied. Eddie rolled her eyes.

      Aunt Viola looked beyond Rachel. “But who the dickens is that other girl?”

      “Aunt Viola, this is Pearl.” Eddie extended her arm to Pearl, who came forward, smoothing her faded skirt. “She’s billeted with you, too. Pearl is from just outside Saltville.”

      “They didn’t mention a third girl.” Her chins folded like an accordion.

      Pearl set her feed sack in front of Aunt Viola, who eyed it with derision. “I think I’ve got my letter right in here, Miz Trundle.” Pearl untied the end of the sack and peered in.

      “I don’t need to be reading a letter this late in the evening. But I do need to know who’s living in my house. What’s your last name, girl?”

      Pearl stared at Aunt Viola. Eddie held her breath, afraid of her aunt’s reaction. The mantle clock’s ticks divided the silence.

      “Speak up, girl.”

      Pearl bowed her head. “Ballou,” she said, her voice breaking over the syllables.

      Something inside Eddie broke as well. She understood what Pearl was feeling: shame. Pearl had a baby out of wedlock, and, worse, Pearl came from a notorious family, which meant she had to assume their sins as well. That’s the way Saltville worked.