“Call the office when you get there. As soon as you get there, you hear?”

“No, Bennie wait!” Judy yelled, grabbing the phone, but Mary wrenched it back.

“Sure, right, bye!” she said quickly, then pressed down the hook with a well-timed index finger, coming nose to nose with her best friend.

“Oh no you didn’t!” Judy said.

“You said you’d take the Reitman dep before. Now you have permission. What’s the problem?” Mary asked, but she knew the answer. She could see it in the fear in Judy’s face.

“The difference is that I believe you now, about Brandolini. Something really is going on here. What happened tonight couldn’t be any clearer. Whoever they are, they want you off the case.” Judy’s mouth went grim, but Mary’s went grimmer.

“Then I don’t have a choice. Somebody wants me off the case, then I want on. I want to know what they could possibly be hiding. I owe it to Amadeo.”

Judy met Mary’s gaze. “I can call Bennie back, you know. I can bust you. Tell her the whole thing. Then she won’t let you go.”

“Would you really do that?” Mary asked.

The two lawyers had a Girl Standoff over the telephone.

And Mary swallowed, waiting for Judy’s answer.

Fourteen

Fort Missoula was a quaint edifice of soft red brick topped with a red tile roof, which was situated on a preserve on the fringe of Missoula, Montana. Mary scanned the remarkable surrounding landscape. The Sapphire Mountains soared to the left, forested with green trees that seemed to glow in the bright sun. The Bitterroot Range lay to her right, its jagged peaks poking holes in the proverbial big sky, which sheltered the scene like the Marist-blue cloak of the Virgin. Cool air wafted across the verdant valley, smelling sweet and pure, and acres of green grass stretched like nature’s own carpet to Mary’s loafers. Bella vista, she thought, realizing the nickname wasn’t government propaganda after all. She was glad she’d braved the airplane ride to get here, not to mention Northwest’s trail mix.

She approached the fort’s front door, passing a flapping American flag that made her feel like a schoolgirl on a field trip. It thrilled her to be here, walking where Amadeo had walked, seeing what he had seen. She felt the same tingle she’d gotten from his wallet, that he was with her somehow. On the way to the entrance, she walked past five old log houses and passed a sign: THE WESTERN MONTANA GHOST TOWN PRESERVATION SOCIETY.

So many ghosts here. One of them, Amadeo.

It sped Mary’s step through the grass. Dew soaked her shoes and the cuffs of her khaki pants, which she’d coupled with a navy blazer and white T-shirt for this out-of-town phase of her investigation. She hadn’t had much luck with the in-town phase yesterday, leaving messages for Frank Cavuto and the reporter, Jim MacIntire, during her layover. Neither man had returned her call.

She entered the museum and found herself in a tiny entrance room with low ceilings, waiting while her eyes adjusted to the darker interior. The museum was small and contained not a single soul. There was a cashier’s desk but no cashier, so Mary put five dollars in a donation basket. Beyond the desk was a gift shop stocked with Missoula T-shirts, Montana calendars, and something called Moose Drool Soap, which she passed up in favor of a room that read HEATH EXHIBITS in stenciled black letters. Again, nobody was inside, but black-and-white photos of the camp buildings lined the walls, showing the conditions as they had been in internment days. Mary went to the first panel and drooled like a moose.

The panel displayed group photos of the internees, and she scanned the grainy and unfocused pictures for Amadeo. He wasn’t there. She went to the next panel, then the next, and ended up spending an hour in the exhibit, watching a documentary and eyeing every still photo futilely. Still she couldn’t shake that tingle and she needed answers. She left the room and went in search of a human being. Happily, a cashier with soft gray hair had returned to her post by the museum door, and she looked up when Mary approached.

“Did you enjoy your tour?” she asked, pleasantly. She wore small silver earrings with a long denim dress, and stood behind a glass counter covered with color postcards, a dishwasher safe Fort Missoula mug, and a stack of BITTERROOT MEMORIES jigsaw puzzles.

“Yes, thanks, but I have a question. I’m doing some research on an internee. He died here, by suicide, and I was curious where he was buried.”

“Oh, my.” The cashier flushed. “Wouldn’t you know it? You asked me the one question I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” the cashier replied, and Mary fell in love with her instantly. They could have apology wars. Guess who would win. “I’m sorry to say, I don’t know that. The only cemetery on the grounds is for officers at the fort. But there’s another man who helps out here as a handyman, and he may be able to tell you for sure. He wasn’t a border guard, but he worked in the motor pool at the camp, as a mechanic.”

“Really?” Mary couldn’t hide her surprise. She didn’t want to say, And he’s still alive? “What do you mean by border guard?”

“The Immigration Service ran this camp during the war, so the guards were technically border guards. As I say, Mr. Milton was a mechanic, but he might know the answer to your question. Let’s go find him.”

“Not often we find someone so interested in the camp as you,” Mr. Milton said, smiling shakily as they stood together in the gift shop. His eyelids were hooded, and his jowls soft with perhaps eighty years of smiles. He was tall and lanky in baggy pants and a red flannel shirt that smelled pleasantly of cherry pipe tobacco, and Mary liked his manner immediately. Truth to tell, she was partial to older people. They knew everything.

“I’m very pleased to meet you,” Mary said. His hand felt cool and papery in hers, but his calloused grip was still strong, and she fought the feeling that she was shaking hands with history. “I’m just doing some research on an Italian internee who was from Philadelphia. There were a few internees from Philly, and the man’s name was Amadeo Brandolini. Does that sound familiar?”

“No, no. Wait, hold on.” Mr. Milton paused, putting a clubby index finger to dry lips. He shook his head after a minute, and Mary respected him for double-checking. “No, it doesn’t ring a bell. I knew some of the internees, but not many. I kept the Jeeps running and the officers’ cars, that was my job. But the internees I met, they were a nice group of fellas. Played the music, in the little orchestra, the ones from the ship.”

The cruise ships. One was Il Conte Biancamano, Mary knew from her reading.

“Got bocce going and soccer, in the field out back. Sang operas, put on shows. They were lively.”

Mary had seen the photos at the exhibit and in books. The internment camp had sounded like summer camp at times, at least for the Italians. Except for Amadeo, especially after he’d learned Theresa had died. “This internee, Amadeo Brandolini, he committed suicide.”

“Suicide!” Mr. Milton startled, then nodded. “I do recall that now. Not him, but I do recall that. A suicide. That was big news here.”

“I would think so.”

“Yes, and my memory is very good.” Mr. Milton nodded, with a faint hint of pride. “There was only the one suicide here. Everybody knew about it. One of the internees, an Eye-talian, he did himself in.”

“What did you know about it? About him? I’d like to see his grave, if I could. I’m guessing he’d be in a Catholic cemetery but for the fact he committed suicide.”

“No, let me think. This isn’t my bailiwick, either. I think the internees who died here are buried at the city cemetery in Missoula.”

No.

Mary blinked. Who said that? “Excuse me? Did you say the city cemetery?”