connection between E.J. Blaylock and Rosie Thayer. The place was empty, so it wasn’t the patrons that provided the clue. It was the decor. Rosie’s Bar and Grill was something of a shrine.
“Rosie the Riveter,” I said.
Steven apparently had the same thought. “Will you look at this place?” he whispered, as if he were in a church, not a bar.
The walls were covered with pictures of World War II vintage airplanes, of fighter pilots in leather jackets, of bomber crews standing alongside their planes. Interspersed were dozens of photos of aircraft factories taken in the 1940s, and lots of pictures of women workers in coveralls and scarves. Behind the bar was a poster-sized print of Norman Rockwell’s painting “Rosie the Riveter.” There were other posters of the same era here and there — “Loose lips sink ships” and other slogans abounding.
I remembered what Steven had told me the day before. Maybe Rosie Thayer and E.J. Blaylock’s mother both worked for the same aircraft company. But the photographs were from the war years, and Rosie Thayer was E.J.’s age. Too young to have worked during World War II.
“Most of the photographs come from Mercury Aircraft,” Steven said, moving closer to a cluster of them. “That’s the company E.J.’s mom worked for. E.J. was really proud of her mother’s war work. That’s one of the topics she wanted to write about — women war workers.”
I looked at a note written below a photograph of a woman making part of an aircraft wing:
Bertha Thayer (Mom) working on aileron.
“Her mother…” I said. “Rosie Thayer is as proud of her mother as E.J. was of hers.”
Steven looked over at me, comprehension dawning. “Do these photographs have something to do with E.J.? With why she was killed?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you were asking about this bar when I called this morning. Now you tell me their mothers worked together. What’s going on? Are we here to talk to this Rosie Thayer?”
Before I could answer, we heard a man yell, “Be right with you,” from a back room. He made it sound as if it was a damned shame that we were going to make him wait on somebody.
“Calm down, Steven,” I said in a low voice. “I’ll tell you more later. But for now, just roll with it, okay?”
He didn’t act like it was the easiest thing in the world for him to do, but he nodded and followed me to a booth near the bar and sat down. A skinny old sad sack came shuffling over to us like he was on the fourth day of a forced march.
“What’ll it be?” he made himself ask.
I had checked out the “on tap” signs and knew I wouldn’t find it disagreeable. “A couple of your draught beers and menus, please.”
“Sure,” he said, as if it broke his heart. He shuffled off.
“So?” Steven said, as soon as the other man was out of earshot.
“I’m just following up on a lead.”
“You won’t tell me? I’ll give you a start, then.
Mercury Aircraft.
Mercury, Roman version of the Greek god Hermes. Messenger of the gods—”
“The god of commerce, manual skill, cleverness, and travel,” I finished for him. “I looked him up in my mythology books after you mentioned Mercury Aircraft yesterday. He’s also the god of thievery.”
“Maybe Thanatos worked there, too.”
“Maybe,
Steven. That’s what I’m trying to say. Let’s see where it leads. I don’t want to play some guessing game, and I don’t want to talk about my theories in here. I want to ask the guy who works here a few questions. If you don’t think you can sit there calmly while I do that, tell me now and we’ll leave.”
He was quiet then. “Sorry. I’m just anxious to see her killer caught. You’ll let me know what you learn?”
“Sure.”
Old Happy Pants came back with the beers and tossed a couple of menus on the table.
“Before you walk off,” I said, “I wondered if you could talk to me for a few minutes about Rosie.”
He eyed us suspiciously. “You with the
“Rosie the Riveter,” I said.
Steven apparently had the same thought. “Will you look at this place?” he whispered, as if he were in a church, not a bar.
The walls were covered with pictures of World War II vintage airplanes, of fighter pilots in leather jackets, of bomber crews standing alongside their planes. Interspersed were dozens of photos of aircraft factories taken in the 1940s, and lots of pictures of women workers in coveralls and scarves. Behind the bar was a poster-sized print of Norman Rockwell’s painting “Rosie the Riveter.” There were other posters of the same era here and there — “Loose lips sink ships” and other slogans abounding.
I remembered what Steven had told me the day before. Maybe Rosie Thayer and E.J. Blaylock’s mother both worked for the same aircraft company. But the photographs were from the war years, and Rosie Thayer was E.J.’s age. Too young to have worked during World War II.
“Most of the photographs come from Mercury Aircraft,” Steven said, moving closer to a cluster of them. “That’s the company E.J.’s mom worked for. E.J. was really proud of her mother’s war work. That’s one of the topics she wanted to write about — women war workers.”
I looked at a note written below a photograph of a woman making part of an aircraft wing:
Bertha Thayer (Mom) working on aileron.
“Her mother…” I said. “Rosie Thayer is as proud of her mother as E.J. was of hers.”
Steven looked over at me, comprehension dawning. “Do these photographs have something to do with E.J.? With why she was killed?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you were asking about this bar when I called this morning. Now you tell me their mothers worked together. What’s going on? Are we here to talk to this Rosie Thayer?”
Before I could answer, we heard a man yell, “Be right with you,” from a back room. He made it sound as if it was a damned shame that we were going to make him wait on somebody.
“Calm down, Steven,” I said in a low voice. “I’ll tell you more later. But for now, just roll with it, okay?”
He didn’t act like it was the easiest thing in the world for him to do, but he nodded and followed me to a booth near the bar and sat down. A skinny old sad sack came shuffling over to us like he was on the fourth day of a forced march.
“What’ll it be?” he made himself ask.
I had checked out the “on tap” signs and knew I wouldn’t find it disagreeable. “A couple of your draught beers and menus, please.”
“Sure,” he said, as if it broke his heart. He shuffled off.
“So?” Steven said, as soon as the other man was out of earshot.
“I’m just following up on a lead.”
“You won’t tell me? I’ll give you a start, then.
Mercury Aircraft.
Mercury, Roman version of the Greek god Hermes. Messenger of the gods—”
“The god of commerce, manual skill, cleverness, and travel,” I finished for him. “I looked him up in my mythology books after you mentioned Mercury Aircraft yesterday. He’s also the god of thievery.”
“Maybe Thanatos worked there, too.”
“Maybe,
Steven. That’s what I’m trying to say. Let’s see where it leads. I don’t want to play some guessing game, and I don’t want to talk about my theories in here. I want to ask the guy who works here a few questions. If you don’t think you can sit there calmly while I do that, tell me now and we’ll leave.”
He was quiet then. “Sorry. I’m just anxious to see her killer caught. You’ll let me know what you learn?”
“Sure.”
Old Happy Pants came back with the beers and tossed a couple of menus on the table.
“Before you walk off,” I said, “I wondered if you could talk to me for a few minutes about Rosie.”
He eyed us suspiciously. “You with the
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