When Tides Turn Read online

  His time in Boston was over. His time with Tess. He’d return next week to pack up his things and say good-bye.

  “Anything I should know about?” the admiral asked.

  “As I said, I’ve had some late nights. I was just tired.”

  Admiral Howard paused on the gangway and knifed his hand toward the north. Ironically, toward Annapolis. “The compass needle never deviates.”

  “Neither do I, sir.” That’s why he’d prefer to go to the Pacific. Not only did he want to join Rob and Jim in the action, but he’d be a continent and an ocean away from Tess Beaumont.

  Being on the Chesapeake served as a good reminder. This week he’d visit Ed at the Naval Academy, and the old sights would reinforce the memory, the message. Joanie always begged him to stop studying and take her out. She begged him not to go to sea. She couldn’t bear to be without him. She’d turned him from his goal.

  Except Tess encouraged his goals. She was excited about his opportunity on the Bogue. She told him he needed to be at sea. She understood him.

  “Mr. Avery?”

  Dan snapped to face his mentor—who looked concerned. “Sorry, sir. Another good night of sleep, and I’ll be myself.”

  “Good.”

  At the top of the gangway, a man in his forties waited for them, wearing the four stripes of a captain.

  Salutes were exchanged. Capt. Giles Short commanded the Bogue. He had a Midwestern accent, heavy dark brows, thick features, and a contagious grin.

  The captain led them onto the hangar deck, filled with a dozen aircraft, their wings folded up over their fuselages for compact storage. Tools clanged as machinists performed maintenance.

  Captain Short surveyed the deck. “We’ll finish fitting out by the first of the month, then we’ll get underway on the bay for more training in flight operations.”

  “We’re looking forward to participating,” Admiral Howard said. “Mr. Avery has prepared presentations on the latest in antisubmarine warfare research.”

  “Excellent.” The captain flashed Dan that big grin.

  Seemed like a good time to speak. “We learned a lot from the Sangamon-class carriers in Operation Torch, sir. And we’re optimistic about what the Bogue-class carriers can accomplish.”

  “They sank a U-boat, didn’t they?”

  “A French sub, sir. And they damaged another French sub, which was beached. It’ll be in one of my presentations.”

  “Very well. Let me show you the flight deck.” Captain Short led the way. “Still hard to believe we had to fight our oldest allies.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m glad it only lasted three days.” The French were America’s friends.

  At least most of them were. What was going on with Yvette Lafontaine? Were his sister and new sister-in-law in danger living with her?

  Dan climbed the long ladder, Admiral Howard huffing before him.

  Thank goodness Tess had gone to the FBI. He was so proud of her. Her face had shone as she’d related her meeting.

  Dan hadn’t needed to accompany Tess, but he’d savored the look on her face when he offered. She respected him. She trusted him. She made him feel vital.

  He climbed up onto the flight deck, and a chilly breeze whipped around him.

  That was the danger. Tess didn’t distract him through manipulation as Joanie had, but she distracted him nonetheless.

  She invaded his thoughts. He made excuses to be where she was. Since November, he hadn’t missed a Sunday afternoon outing. It had less to do with his commitment to rest and more to do with Tess. Her unique light.

  Captain Short pointed out the two elevators that lifted planes from the hangar deck to the flight deck. He pointed out the catapult toward the bow to help launch aircraft when the wind wasn’t high enough. He pointed out the nine arresting wires to snag landing aircraft as well as the three net barriers to stop them if they missed the wires.

  Dan had missed the wires too, daydreaming about Tess. Thank goodness three barriers protected him—the regulations prohibiting Navy men from marrying WAVES, Dan’s commitment to not becoming committed, and Tess’s lack of interest in him.

  On outings, she seemed to try to shake him, but he kept following like a lovesick schoolboy. She called him a grumble-bee, which was fair. She saw him as obsessed with his duties, which was true. And if she fell for him, his serious nature would douse her light. He couldn’t allow that.

  Dan gazed around the immense flight deck. Although the possibilities of the auxiliary carriers intrigued him, he needed to get away from the Atlantic, from the East Coast.

  He faced Admiral Howard. “The Pacific. Please send me to the Pacific, sir.”

  The action was higher there. And the danger was lower.

  22

  Boston

  Monday, January 25, 1943

  The door shut harder than Tess intended.

  Nora looked up from the desk they shared in quarters. “Are you all right?”

  “Sorry.” Tess set her cover in her locker. “I wish I wasn’t required to go to ASWU.”

  “I thought Dan was out of town.”

  Tess cringed as she hung up her overcoat and scarf. Sometimes she regretted confessing her crush to Nora, but then she needed to confide in somebody. She didn’t dare tell Mary or Lillian. “He is. It’s that horrid Mr. Randolph.”

  “What did he do this time?”

  Tess plopped on the bed. “First he questioned why I had to come to the office every day. He said there were plenty of men to make sure the girls didn’t laze around and gossip.”

  Nora wrinkled her nose. “Isn’t that all we women do?”

  “He thinks so. He says all I do is chitchat with the yeomen. He thinks my job has no purpose.” Familiar doubts tugged at her heart. If the WAVES performed their duties well without her supervision, what was her purpose anyway?

  “Does Dan agree?” Nora rested her chin on her hand, her brown eyes warm.

  “I don’t think so. He hasn’t said anything.” The office felt so empty without his solid presence. If he had his way, he’d only return long enough to clean out his desk. That was what she was praying for. Perhaps her prayers were selfish, to protect her own heart. Yet she knew her prayers were generous, in Dan’s best interest and the nation’s too.

  “Well?”

  Tess blinked. “Well what?”

  “You are so madly in love with him.” Nora’s smile conveyed both amusement and compassion.

  Tess groaned. “I’m hopeless. I’m glad he’ll be transferred somewhere else so I can get over him.”

  “Mm-hmm. And the question you didn’t hear—if Dan disapproved of your work or felt it was useless, wouldn’t he say so?”

  “Yes.” He’d never said anything negative about her work, had he?

  “Then don’t let Randolph bother you.”

  “That man. You know what he called me? A figurehead with a figure.”

  Nora gasped. “He didn’t.”

  “He did. In front of the yeomen and Mr. Bentley. To his credit, Mr. Bentley protested quite indignantly.”

  Nora turned and rearranged papers on the desk. “That was . . . nice of him.”

  Tess smiled. At least she wasn’t the only one suffering from infatuation. “He’s a perfect gentleman.”

  “Yes. Well, I’m glad that was the end of it.”

  “It wasn’t. Oh no. He had the nerve to say I only came to the office to see Mr. Avery. He asked if anything was happening between us.”

  “Oh dear.”

  Tess’s cheeks warmed. “I told him we’re only family friends. Then he said if that should change, he’d talk to my commanding officer and have me reprimanded and transferred.”

  “How dare he!”

  Nora’s anger, on top of Bill Bentley’s, made Tess feel vindicated. “Thank goodness Dan will be transferred soon. That’ll silence Mr. Randolph on one front at least.”

  “But you’ll miss him.”

  “Yes, I will.” But how could that be any more painful
than her current predicament?

  That evening, Tess opened the door to Robillard’s Bakery and inhaled the aroma of fresh-baked bread and purpose. Mr. Randolph doubted her, but the FBI thought her useful.

  Celeste Robillard bustled behind the counter. “Oh! Quintessa is here. Has everyone arrived?”

  Professor Arnaud looked up from some papers on a table. “Yvette and Henri aren’t here.”

  Madame Robillard pulled a tray from inside the display case. “Yvette called. She said Henri was kept late at work. They’ll be here around seven thirty.”

  “I don’t see Jean-Auguste.”

  Solange Marchand wiped the counter. “He’s in New York on business. He travels, you know.”

  “Then we should start.”

  “That curtain.” Madame Robillard dashed to the window and tugged the curtains shut. “It’s drafty in here.”

  “Feels warm to me.” Tess tugged off her gloves.

  “You are so sweet. Come, come.” She carried a tray to a table in the back of the bakery. “Brioche. Everyone must have one. Come, come.”

  Tess was full from dinner, but who could resist brioche?

  The baker beckoned. “We must start, and we must have brioche. Oh dear. I forgot the napkins.”

  Tess joined the crowd around the table while Madame Robillard hustled behind the counter again.

  A crash behind her. Glass shattered.

  Tess ducked and clapped her hands to the back of her head. Everyone screamed. What was happening?

  Light flashed. A bang!

  The force shoved Tess forward. She dropped to the ground and scooted under a table, her breath racing, her ears ringing.

  “A bomb!” a man screamed. “Someone threw a bomb through the window!”

  “Out! Out the back!” Professor Arnaud yelled.

  Everyone staggered to their feet and followed him.

  Tess lingered, squinting through the smoky haze. “Is anyone hurt?”

  No fire. No cries of pain. Every instinct tugged her to the back door, but she resisted. One table was collapsed close to the shattered window, and she inched closer, covering her mouth and nose.

  “Oh no.” A parcel lay underneath, smoking. A broken brick lay in a tangle of blackened strings. Thank goodness the explosion hadn’t been bigger. Thank goodness the bomb landed in the front of the bakery when all the people were in the back.

  But a bomb? In the bakery? Who would do such a thing? She had to call the police.

  Tess ran behind the counter, toward the phone in the kitchen.

  Madame Robillard huddled with Solange behind the counter next to the window.

  Tess hurried to them. “Madame! Solange! Are you all right?”

  “Oui. I—I was fixing the curtain again, and I saw someone. A woman on a bicycle.”

  Tess peeked outside. A woman pedaled down the darkened street. “Did you recognize her?”

  “I—” Madame Robillard clutched her head. “Non, it is impossible.”

  “What’s impossible?” Tess asked.

  “I thought it was Yvette.”

  “Yvette?”

  “Oh my goodness,” Solange said. “You’re right. Her red beret. Her coat. I’d know them anywhere. Oh no.”

  Tess’s stomach soured. Despite her suspicions, to think of her former roommate throwing a bomb into a bakery filled with her friends . . . it couldn’t be.

  A far-off whine of sirens told her someone in the neighborhood had called the police. “Madame, Solange, go out back with the others. I’ll call the FBI.”

  “The FBI! Oh no.” Madame Robillard tugged Tess’s arm. “They were here last week asking questions. They must have heard we have a spy in our group. Now look what happened.”

  Tess’s cheeks tingled. She was the reason for the FBI’s visit. The spy must have been alerted. And now . . . ?

  What had she done?

  “Come,” Madame Robillard said. “We must go outside, wait for the police.”

  Tess shook herself. “No, I have to call the FBI. It’s my duty as a citizen, as an officer.”

  Madame Robillard protested, but Solange guided her outside.

  Tess opened her purse with shaky fingers and found Agent Sheffield’s number in her wallet. Thank goodness he was working late.

  In case anyone was listening, she explained the situation in a cool tone, as if she’d never met the agent and had only called the main FBI number. Agent Sheffield promised to come, and Tess joined the others in the back alley.

  Despite the freezing weather, the temperature in the crowd was heated.

  “It was Yvette,” Solange said. “She’s trying to kill me so she can have Henri to herself.”

  Someone laughed. “She already has Henri. And you have Jean-Auguste, remember?”

  Solange tossed her head and crossed her arms. Clearly she still had feelings for Henri.

  Pierre Guillory wheezed and thumped his chest. The smoke from the explosion must have aggravated his war injuries. “It was Jean-Auguste, I know it.”

  “He’s in New York,” Solange cried.

  “So he says. The police will check his alibi.”

  “Non,” Madame Robillard said. “It was a woman.”

  Tess frowned. “We saw a woman on a bicycle, but we don’t know if she threw the bomb.”

  “Jean-Auguste is skinny,” Pierre said. “He could wear a skirt and look like a woman.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Solange said. “You only say that because you don’t like him.”

  “He is weak, and he does not stand strong for France.”

  “Please.” Professor Arnaud made patting motions with his hands. “We mustn’t accuse each other. We must wait quietly for the police.”

  “How do we know it wasn’t you, Pierre?” a man called out. “You’re the firebrand in this group.”

  He waved a dismissive hand. “I was in the bakery, you fool. Not outside.”

  “Your daughter then.”

  “My daughter!” He spat on the ground. “You do not know what you say. She would not. She could not. Besides, she cares nothing for France. She only cares for the big bands and the movie stars.”

  The siren increased in pitch, then stopped. Thank goodness the police had arrived before a fight erupted.

  “The police are here.” Tess tried to open the door, but it was locked.

  “Shoo, shoo.” Madame Robillard waved her off the doormat, pulled a key from underneath, and unlocked the door. Then she led everyone through the kitchen and into the seating area.

  The front door burst open, and Yvette and Henri rushed in. “What happened?”

  “You tell us,” Solange said. “Where were you? Where’s your red beret?”

  “My red . . . ? I was . . .” Yvette wore a black hat. She gazed around, pale and wide-eyed. “When I was at work, someone called my apartment claiming to be Henri.”

  “It wasn’t me. I didn’t call.”

  “I know.” Yvette pressed a fluttering hand to her chest. “The man told my roommate he’d been kept late at work and asked me to meet him at his apartment at seven fifteen. That’s why we’re late.”

  “A convenient alibi,” a man muttered.

  It was. Tess chewed on her lips. No one could verify an alibi like that. But someone could also fake a call to the apartment and make Yvette late, make her look guilty.

  A trio of policemen entered the bakery. For the next hour, they investigated the scene, scooping up the remnants of the bomb, inspecting every corner, and interviewing each person in turn.

  Then Agents Paul Sheffield and Walter Hayes arrived. Both men looked right through Tess as if they’d never seen her. They conferred with the policemen, then began their own interviews.

  Tess’s stomach turned every which way. Her meddling had caused this. Everyone here could have been killed, and it was her fault. She’d wanted to be a sleuth like Mary and Lillian, and look at the trouble she’d caused.

  In time, Agent Sheffield pulled Tess aside to a private tab
le and asked her name and address.

  She answered, joining the charade that they’d never met.

  The agent wrote in his notebook. “It appears your suspicions were justified.”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  He nodded, his face impassive. “Before we start, I want you to know Miss Lafontaine is clean.”

  “She is? But the gun, the lies—”

  “I can’t tell you what I know or how I know it, but you and your friends have nothing to fear from Miss Lafontaine.”

  “But . . .” Tess worked hard to keep her gaze from wandering to Yvette. “But she was late tonight, and her excuse is flimsy, and Madame Robillard and Solange saw—”

  “I have all that information. Tell me what you saw and heard, not what anyone else said.”

  “All right.” Tess pulled herself together and gave her most objective report. When she was done, she leaned across the table toward Agent Sheffield. “I stirred up the hornet’s nest, didn’t I?”

  He ground his cigarette in the ashtray and raised half a smile. “A hornet’s nest needs to be stirred to be emptied.”

  That might be true, but how many would be stung in the process?

  23

  Norfolk Navy Yard

  Thursday, January 28, 1943

  In the ready room of the USS Bogue, Dan pointed to his first slide, a photograph of the USS Suwannee off the Moroccan coast, and he addressed the pilots of Squadron VC-9.

  “During Operation Torch, the US auxiliary carriers proved their worth and showed the great potential of this class of vessel. Without land-based aircraft, the Western Task Force relied solely on the carrier USS Ranger and on the ACVs for air support.”

  In the back of the room, Admiral Howard sat with Captain Giles Short. The captain watched with clear interest, and the admiral sent an encouraging smile.

  Dan tapped the pointer in his open palm. “The TBFs, SBDs, and F4Fs filled multiple roles. They established immediate air superiority over the French through air combat and by bombing airfields and destroying aircraft on the ground. They performed ground support by shooting up trucks, tanks, and gun positions. They bombed French surface vessels. But this afternoon I’ll focus on their role in antisubmarine warfare.”