“Except Lady Ricker wasn’t imprisoned during the war, and she was quite secretive about her loyalties.”
“There must be more to this story.” Someone walked by their table, toward the loo. Chandler didn’t speak again until the door behind them was closed. “I’ve worked for Evan for six years, and I’ve never seen him act like this. Once we’ve wrapped or canceled a story, he’s anxious to move on to the next one, but he can’t seem to let your idea go.”
“I can’t let go of it either,” Quenby admitted.
“Even though Evan was the one who killed the story, he might still give you a call. It wouldn’t surprise me if he asked you to resume your research.”
“Thanks for letting me know.”
Chandler took her last sip of the latte. “Are you planning to work with Lucas Hough to find the missing girl?”
“I am.”
“Perhaps you could write about her when you return.”
She shook her head. “Lucas made me sign a confidentiality agreement.”
Chandler twisted her mug. “So it must be a fabulous story.”
“One that will remain secret from the public.”
Chandler leaned closer. “Is the man as smashing in person as he looks online?”
“I think I’ll plead the Fifth.”
“The what?”
Quenby waved her hand. “Never mind.”
“Does he have a girlfriend?”
“I have no idea.” Though she’d wondered if he and Meribeth were more than friends. The woman was stunning, and she was obviously a pro in her field.
“Don’t be your prickly self around him.”
She squeezed the handle of her cup. “I’m not prickly.”
“Not with me,” Chandler said. “But you can be quite prickly around any man who dares to like you.”
“He doesn’t like me, not in that way.”
“But he could, if you’d let him.” Chandler stood and kissed her cheek. “Either way, try and have some fun on this holiday.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“And don’t scare Lucas Hough away.”
Chandler left the café, but Quenby didn’t move. Lucas was the prickly one, not her. Or at least he had been until he decided to call a truce.
Blast Chandler for making her lose her focus. She and Lucas had moved into an amiable relationship for the sake of their work. Nothing more or less.
Rain fell outside the window. Even though summer was only weeks away, it was still chilly. The warmth of southern France sounded nice at the moment, but she was more interested in pursuing Brigitte’s story than seeing sunshine.
Newhaven was on the coast. It wouldn’t be warm, but she could work for a few days near the water. And perhaps she’d find out what happened to Brigitte after she left Mulberry Lane.
Chapter 25
Newhaven, February 1941
Brigitte didn’t like the man sitting in the motorcar beside her. He smelled like manure and charred meat, and he kept talking to her in German, asking questions about her home, her parents. Inquiring about any family she had looking for her in England.
She didn’t answer any of his questions. Instead she kept wiping the fog from her window to watch the darkness lap against their vehicle. If only one of the waves would steal her away.
Hours had passed since Frau Terrell dragged her across the pasture from their house, the muddy snow sucking at both their shoes. Halfway to the car, Frau Terrell tried to wrestle the cot roll from Brigitte’s hands, saying it slowed them down, but Brigitte sat on the bundle of canvas and wood, pressing it down in the snow. And she refused to move without it.
Frau Terrell had looked between Brigitte and the bag in her hand as if she were trying to decide which to carry. In hindsight, Brigitte wished that she’d stayed with her cot in the pasture, but when Frau Terrell turned away, Brigitte had followed, shambling behind her toward the vehicle.
The foul-smelling man leaned toward her. “Wie bist du nach England?”
She wrapped her arms over her chest, inching as close as possible to the door, the metal rattling from ruts on the country road. It was her secret, how she arrived in England. A secret she would never tell, especially to this man.
When she refused to answer again, the man scooted forward on the seat, speaking to Frau Terrell in English. “Are you certain she speaks German?”
The woman didn’t glance back. “I’m not certain of anything.”
He looked at Brigitte again, and though she could barely see his face in the moonlight, she shivered. “I’ll convince her to talk.”
This time Frau Terrell turned around. “You won’t convince her to do any such thing.”
“I’ll do whatever is necessary.”
She crossed her arms. “I’m in charge of the girl.”
“Of course.” The man leaned back, shifting his suitcase on the seat between them. He’d refused to allow the driver to put it into the boot of the motorcar, and anytime Brigitte touched it, by accident, he’d slap her arm.