Eleanor and the Cold War

Chapter 1

Once a weapon is discovered, it will always be used by those who are in desperate straits.

—Eleanor Roosevelt, My Day, September 25, 1945

Aboard the Royal Blue train, Union Station, Washington, D.C., September 1951

When Kay Thompson landed a job as secretary for Eleanor Roosevelt, the former First Lady, she never dreamed her work would include discovering a body.

The Royal Blue, the streamlined train that had glided in at 1:30 p.m. stood at the platform, completely stationary.

But Kay could have sworn it swayed under her feet as Mrs. Roosevelt opened the washroom door at the end of the lounge car, revealing a streamlined space of chrome and Formica…and a young woman’s body lying in a ghastly pool of dark red blood.

Roaring filled Kay’s ears as if she had clapped a seashell to each side of her head. Putting her hand up to her face, she shielded herself from the sight. Spots of color exploded in the corners of her vision. Her legs wobbled, behaving like her Aunt Tommy’s picnic aspic jelly, which Kay had notoriously dropped on the lawn when she was eight years old.

Since she was perched on three-inch stiletto shoes, wobbling wasn’t a good idea. That jelly had hit the ground with a formless splat.

Dizziness swept over her…until she saw that Mrs. Roosevelt, standing at her side, did not look ready to pass out.

The porter who had led them onto the train gave a gasp of horror as he peered into the tiny compartment, even though he had been the one to tell them a body had been found on the train.

Kay thought working with Mrs. Roosevelt would involve behind-the-scenes politics, fabulous social events, and the chance to meet the kind of single, attractive men who moved and shook Washington. Heads of state like movie-star handsome, bachelor Prince Rainier of Monaco.

Instead, two weeks after she began her temporary post, she had helped Mrs. Roosevelt hunt for the missing daughter of a foreign atomic scientist. Now, at Mrs. Roosevelt’s side, she was staring into a cramped washroom at that young woman—who had been stabbed horribly in the chest and stomach, ruining her lovely pearl grey suit.

The poor woman had long platinum blonde hair that looked impossibly natural. That pure white blonde wasn’t the kind that came out of a bottle. Kay knew—she’d tried to match Veronica Lake’s blond color once and after the awful yellow grew out, she never touched her red hair again.

But with the expression of terror transfixed on the victim’s face, Kay couldn’t be sure this was the woman they had been searching for.

“Is it her?” she managed to choke out. “She doesn’t look like—like the photograph Mrs. Meyer sent.”

“I think so, Kay,” Mrs. Roosevelt said, her voice heavy with sorrow. “I believe this is Susan.”

Susan Meyer. Daughter of Elsa Meyer, the famous atomic scientist who had escaped Nazi Germany for Sweden. The daughter who Mrs. Meyer feared had been recruited as a Soviet spy. In the black and white photograph Mrs. Meyer mailed from Sweden, her daughter had a heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, luminous eyes. Susan could have been a stand-in for Ingrid Bergman. This poor young woman’s face, frozen in a mask of terror, barely resembled that picture.

Kay felt she had fallen into an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Like Notorious. Except gorgeous Cary Grant was nowhere to be seen.

Mrs. Roosevelt gingerly stepped over the pool of blood in her sensible low-heeled shoes. She wore a gray tweed jacket over a navy blouse and skirt, with a fox-fur around her neck. Her gray hair was arranged in curls and parted down the middle, secured under a dark blue felt hat.  Despite being sixty-six years old, she knelt beside the poor murdered woman.

“Mrs. Roosevelt! What are you doing?” Kay cried.

As a former First Lady, Mrs. Roosevelt lived in the kind of social stratosphere where Kay assumed she should never have to get her hands dirty. But Mrs. Roosevelt was gently touching the woman’s wrist. There was barely room in the tiny space for Mrs. Roosevelt to move, yet she dealt with the situation without revulsion.

“No pulse, of course. But I had to make sure. She is dead but she has not been for long. Her hand is still warm.”

Kay’s stomach wanted to rebel and give up the piece of toast that had been breakfast. But Mrs. Roosevelt looked sad but also calm and resolute.

“Her hands are slightly damp. She must have been washing them, the poor thing—” Mrs. Roosevelt rose astonishingly swiftly to her feet. “Kay, you are as white as a sheet. You should sit down. You look as if you are about to faint.”

Kay’s aunt Tommy, Mrs. Roosevelt’s regular secretary, had told Kay many things about “ER” to prepare her for the temporary job while Tommy recuperated from illness. ER was Mrs. Roosevelt’s nickname, to go along with her husband’s FDR. She had been also known as “Mrs. R” at the White House.

Aunt Tommy explained that inner calm was Mrs. Roosevelt’s first personal requirement, and she expected her staff to display it also. ER’s remarkable inner calm was one part training and breeding and schooling, Aunt Tommy said. The second part? Living through loss and pain and finding strength.

“I’m fine, ma’am,” Kay lied. She wanted to be the perfect secretary and show Mrs. Roosevelt she could be equally as unflappable.

Then she caught sight of her reflection in the washroom mirror. Her blush stood out like pink circles on her pale cheeks, her Revlon Love that Red lipstick looked like a garish smear and one of her false eyelashes was sticking to her eyebrow—she must have brushed it off when she covered her eyes. She hastily pressed the lash down into place.

She always managed to make eye contact with her reflection. It wasn’t just vanity, it was important. She used to eat salads for her waistline until she once discovered she had been smiling flirtatiously at an unmarried vice president with a glob of lettuce between her teeth.

Mrs. Roosevelt stepped out of the washroom. She nodded at Kay, then looked to the porter. The distinguished-looking man, who had cropped, grizzled gray hair, had sagged against the wall, and was passing a pressed handkerchief over his forehead. “Mr. Jeffers,” Mrs. Roosevelt said, “we will have to call the police.”

He straightened hurriedly and Kay moved back to let him speak to Mrs. Roosevelt. When she moved back, she didn’t have to look at poor Susan’s body anymore. That helped to keep her head from swimming.

Mr. Jeffers’s uniform was immaculate, but sweat had leaked once more onto his forehead from below his white cap. “I shouldn’t have brought you here, Mrs. Roosevelt. I didn’t realize it would be such a horrible sight. But you were asking about a blond woman and Jackson, the young porter, was shouting about how he had found a woman’s body on the train, and I thought you should see if it was the woman you knew.”

“It is poor Susan Meyer. And I would not have been spared the sight. I would have made myself available to the police anyway, Mr. Jeffers. But the police must be contacted. At once.”

Kay realized she had sunk her teeth into her lip—a nervous habit she hadn’t done for years. “Mrs. Roosevelt, you can’t be involved with the police.”

Her boss, who she barely knew and who barely knew her yet, frowned. “I don’t understand, Kay. What are you talking about?”

Kay swallowed hard. When Mrs. Roosevelt smiled, she was warm and friendly and kind. But her brows were drawn in a way that showed she was not pleased.

“Mr. Sandiston won’t approve,” Kay said. “He told me what working for a former First Lady should entail.”

When she began her job two weeks ago, Mr. Sandiston of the State Department had invited her out for drinks to talk about her new job. Over too many martinis, Sandiston told her to keep him apprised of Mrs. Roosevelt’s “activities”, especially her search for missing Susan Meyer because Susan was suspected of being involved with Communists.

Mrs. Roosevelt’s tones were frosty as she pointed out, “Kay, you work for me. Not Mr. Sandiston.”

Kay knew disapproval when she heard it. Dratted Sandiston—she’d recognized at once he was trying to get her to act like a spy. She’d told him no.

He had bought her another drink, then leaned over and told her she was an attractive woman. With his wide shoulders, muscular build, blue eyes, and sandy blond hair, he was a good-looking man. Kay’s gaze had flicked down to the ring finger of his left hand—no band of gold, but she knew men. She sensed he was one of those husbands who didn’t wear his ring.

Then he told her why Mrs. Roosevelt’s name could not be associated with a Communist sympathizer at this particular moment and why the entire country needed her to be on board with assisting him.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Roosevelt, but he warned me that you could lose your seat as a United Nations delegate if the senate does not vote to ratify you. He told me you shouldn’t be involved in this at all.” She didn’t add the rest of what Mr. Sandiston said. I can’t stop her. But with your help, Kay, I can mitigate the damage.

“Sandy will have to lump it,” Mrs. Roosevelt said calmly. “I am involved in this. And I certainly intend to answer questions for the police.”

Kay bit back a groan. She had annoyed Mrs. Roosevelt and Sandiston would be angry with her too. This was why she wanted to make a good marriage, give up working, and move to a big house in the country with a successful husband, where her only job was shopping. What did she know about police investigations? What she knew was how to make great excuses for a boss who came back to the office tipsy after lunch.

“I’m worried about Jackson, Mrs. Roosevelt,” Mr. Jeffers said in his baritone voice. “I know he is innocent. He found the body and he ran out shouting about a dead woman on the train, but I am certain he didn’t do it. But Jackson is a young black man and if the police assume he did it, they don’t have to continue investigating.”

“We will not let that happen, Mr. Jeffers,” Mrs. Roosevelt declared. “I will not allow an innocent man to be condemned and a murderer to go free. There were times…well, I wish I could have done more, but sometimes being the wife of the president proved more restricting than empowering. Now there is no one who can tell me I can’t have an opinion or that I cannot fight for an innocent man.”

Kay flinched a little. She had definitely put her stiletto in it thanks to Mr. Sandiston. But this was a situation where she could display some brains.

“The porter is innocent,” Kay declared. “I can give the police proof of that. I think.”

Both Mrs. Roosevelt and Mr. Jeffers swiveled around to stare at her.

“There was a man in that washroom who was wearing Caswell-Massey Number Six. The scent is very strong, it hasn’t faded away, so I think the murderer was wearing that cologne.”

“Cologne? None of my porters wear cologne to work,” Mr. Jeffers said.

“Caswell-Massey is an expensive brand favored by men in Washington,” Kay said. “George Washington wore it. John F. Kennedy, that attractive congressman, wears it.”

Mrs. Roosevelt looked at her in appreciative surprise. “Are you certain?”

Kay felt a surge of relief. “I know men’s colognes very well,” she said. Especially in close quarters.

“That is very perceptive, Kay. It will be helpful in directing the police toward the real culprit and prevent them from immediately suspecting the porter.”

Kay sucked in a sharp breath.

“What is it?” Mrs. Roosevelt asked.

“It could mean the killer is a Washington politician. An important man.”

The sort of man who was the villain in a Hitchcock thriller. Also the kind of man she had been hoping to meet while working closely with Mrs. Roosevelt.

Kay shivered. She forced herself to look around the tiny cubicle, away from Susan, and around Mrs. Roosevelt, at the tiny sink and the built-in toilet. She had found one useful clue. Maybe she could find more…

“She doesn’t have a handbag with her,” Kay said.

Mrs. Roosevelt nodded. “No, she doesn’t.” She added briskly, “Someone must stay to watch over the body. Then we can inform the police that nothing was tampered with. I will stay. I think you should remain here, as a representative of the B&O Railway Company, Mr. Jeffers, if that is acceptable to you. Kay, do you feel up to going into the station and calling the police? I am sure Mr. Jeffers can arrange for a porter to escort you. For your safety.”

“My safety?” Kay echoed blankly.

“I expect the person who committed this awful act disappeared into the crowd and left the station, but it is possible that the murderer remained and is pretending to be an innocent traveler awaiting another train.”

“He might be still here?”

“I will go into the station if you prefer to stay on the train, Kay.”

Kay looked out of the lounge car window. Masses of people crowded the platform, pushing to get a closer look at the train. Men in business suits and fedoras, briefcases in hand. Tired-looking women in dresses and cardigans, loaded with bags. Squirming children.

Jackson’s panicked shouting had caught the attention of many people in the station. Maybe most of them.

“No, Mrs. Roosevelt. I can do it.” Kay needed to prove she was loyal, helpful, and good at her job. She couldn’t get fired. Not again.

She pushed open the door. The crowd immediately pushed forward. She saw a line of porters were trying to hold the mass of people back.

“There’s been a murder on the train!” someone shouted.

“It was Mrs. Roosevelt!” another voice cried.

“Mrs. Roosevelt was murdered?”

A flashbulb went off in Kay’s face.

Kay sagged. A reporter was already here. Mrs. Roosevelt’s search for Susan Meyer wasn’t going to be a secret anymore.

If Mrs. Roosevelt lost her position as a U.N. delegate, Kay was sure Sandiston would see that she was fired. Possibly arrested. If he could. He had been exceedingly grumpy when she’d told him she wouldn’t dream of spying on Eleanor Roosevelt.

Of course, the former First Lady had been seen and recognized. Dozens of newspapers had printed the photograph of Mrs. Roosevelt holding the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Thousands of people listened to her radio program and read her daily My Day column. Mrs. Roosevelt had traveled all over the country as First Lady, meeting people face-to-face. It would be difficult to find an American who didn’t recognize Eleanor Roosevelt.

Alfred Jeffers leaned out and shouted for one of the porters to come over. “James, you take care of this lady. Take her to the stationmaster’s office so she can call the police.”

The tallest young man Kay had ever seen nodded and held out a gloved hand to help her down the steps. Kay followed him down carefully on her spike heels.

Aunt Tommy had insisted she dress modestly while working for Mrs. Roosevelt. She had to give up her figure-flattering dresses and wear full skirts, cardigans, and sensible shoes. She agreed to the cardigan but refused to give up her heels. Now she appreciated having the extra height.

The crowd jostled each other, getting a better view of her—the first person to emerge from the train car where there had been a murder. Tall men pushed past small women. Children threaded between adult legs to see the excitement. After the war, it wasn’t unusual for people to become unruly. A sale on women’s stockings could provoke a riot. Soon there were so many people, it appeared some might fall off the other side of the platform, under another train.

Kay had spent most of her adult life in New York City. She could elbow her way across the platform, but when James stepped in front of her, she let him take over. He used his height to carve her a path through the crowd. Another shiver raced down Kay’s back. Like Mrs. Roosevelt had said, somewhere in the mass of onlookers, a killer might be watching. Pretending to be a rubbernecker. Pretending to be innocent.

She was in the middle of the crowd, halfway to the stairs that led up to the concourse, when she caught a whiff of a citrus, bergamot, and musk. For a moment, she flashed back to the image of Susan’s blood-soaked body lying in the washroom.

It was that cologne. Caswell-Massey Number Six.

She knew it because the scent was almost wrapping around her.

Kay looked around desperately. Her eyes locked with those of a man in front of her.

Ice blue eyes. Fair hair under his hat. Sculpted cheekbones. The coldest, most ruthless looking face she had ever seen. His cheek was even scarred.

And he walked toward her.