He didn’t make conversation. The setting sun cast the interior of the cab in a burnt-golden hue, and it reflected off the rearview mirror, blinding Fern from time to time. Her back beaded with sweat, the air in the cabin humid and close. The high-necked dress she wore wasn’t appropriate for the late afternoon weather, but it couldn’t be helped if she wanted to conceal the brand on her throat.
Fern ran through what she might say to Cal. She only prayed Rodney wasn’t there. It wasn’t much of a plan, and perhaps finding a publictelephone and placing a call to Harris Looms would have been safer. But Cal could have easily hung up on her instead of giving answers. A small, sinful part of her also craved seeing him again. She hated it; it embarrassed her a little too. And yet, there it was, impossible to ignore.
The cab pulled up along a large, brick building, one of many that lined the street. Fern paid the cab fare and asked the driver to wait. There was no telling how long she’d be. Stepping out onto the curb, her nostrils were assaulted by the odors of grease and smoke. The low hum of working machinery vibrated through the pavement, and the wide-open windows of Harris Looms let out the mechanical roars from inside.
The newspaper article had mentioned a parking elevator behind the building. She knew she was only avoiding the front door but still walked to the corner of the block. A few hundred yards behind the factory stood a towering parking elevator. The structure held many autos, though a few of the cradles were vacant. The cradles would revolve, like a Ferris wheel, and drivers needed only to pull into one and exit the cradle before their car would be whisked up into the air. A vacant cradle waited, the doors open for the next car. Fern gazed up at the structure, imagining a young woman’s body in one of the autos up high. It seemed like such a lonely place to be.
A cashier sat in a small stand beside the elevator. He peered at Fern, likely thinking she’d come to call down her own auto.
“Excuse me,” she said, approaching the stand. The man stood and came to the open door, the glass enclosurethe size of a telephone booth. He frowned as his eyes lingered on her scars.
“Got a ticket?” he asked.
“A what?”
“A claim ticket. For your wheels.” He gestured to the tower of cars.
“Oh, no, I don’t. I only have a question. About a woman who was found in her car here in May. She…died.”
As she spoke, the cashier’s expression changed. He averted his eyes and backed into his stand. “Don’t know anything about that, miss.”
“It was in the papers.”
He crossed his arms. “You a reporter?”
His tone hinted that he’d send her packing if she was.
“I believe the young woman was an acquaintance of my brother’s.”
The cashier’s chin jumped an inch. He assessed Fern a little more closely, then took a fast glance up at the exterior of Harris Looms.
“Best to let things lie, miss. I can call you a cab if you like. It isn’t any trouble.”
She shook her head. “I have one waiting. Were you here the day she was found?”
He waved his hand at her. “Said I don’t know anything about it, and that hasn’t changed.”
The cashier did know something; he was just frightened. Of the Rosetti brothers, most likely.
A bell sounded, and almost immediately, a pair of doors sprang open at the back of Harris Looms. Men and women spilled out of the mill, their voices a burst ofthunder as they dispersed, groups turning left and right, up and down the street. A handful of men and women walked quickly for the parking elevator, and Fern hurriedly stepped aside, angling her head so the brim of her cloche blocked them from her view.
If she was going to try to find Cal, it had to be now. The back doors kept opening as more factory workers emerged, and after a group of women exited, Fern caught the edge of one of the doors and slipped inside. There were coatrooms to the left and right, a time clock mounted on the wall, and straight ahead, an open floor of what looked like hundreds of weaving looms. Most of them were already shut down, though a handful continued to roar. The machinery’s automatic components hummed as hundreds, maybe thousands, of threads were being woven into patterned cloth. Workers hovered over the machines that were still running, reaching to adjust levers and press buttons. They didn’t pay Fern any attention as she searched for the mill office.
An exit off the factory floor led into a quieter corridor, and to the right, she spied the building’s front entrance. To the left, there was a glass door to an office. A woman was putting on a hat in preparation to leave when Fern stepped inside. The woman looked up, and a punch of recognition struck them both. She dropped her hands from her hat.
“I know you,” she said, smiling, her glossy, red lipstick accentuating her bright-white teeth. “The girl Cal brought to the Den.”
“And you’re…Bessy, right?” Fern said. The last time she’d seen her, Bessy had been in sheer negligee. Now, she wore a smart skirt suit and comfortable-looking heels. She finished pinning her hat and went to the secretary desk. She rolled out a drawer and retrieved her small purse, ready to depart just like all the other workers.
“Are you here to see Cal? I mean, Mr. Rosetti.” She sent Fern a quick wink, and her eyes drifted toward a wood-paneled door.
“If he’s in.”
She lifted the receiver on her desk’s candlestick telephone and dialed. “You have a visitor,” she said into the mouthpiece. Fern’s palms flashed with cold sweat as Bessy leaned away from the mouthpiece and asked, “Do you have an appointment?”
Fern shook her head, unable to speak.
“No,” she relayed into the telephone. Bessy turned away and whispered something. Fern heardgirlandDen.
