Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
A smile tugged at Wyatt’s mouth as he drove to United Phosphate to meet Jenny because she wanted his help plowing through old records in search of their mystery woman. He liked doing favors for Jenny, whether it was pulling a few strings to get a pothole filled or helping her discover the identity of that woman in the tree. With luck, today he’d be able to see the names of all the people working for the World Famine Commission in the 1950s and start narrowing down their search.
United Phosphate’s headquarters reflected the unfortunate architectural styles of the Depression era. The building was four stories of brown brick with no ornamentation and only slits for windows. A few picnic tables of poured concrete were arranged on the grassy lawn beside the parking lot, and Jenny sat at one of them.
She stood as he drew near, gazing at him in surprise. “You got a haircut,” she said.
Heat gathered beneath his collar. He’d spent a ridiculous amount at a salon recommended by his campaign consultant, but a televised debate was coming up, and he didn’t want to look like a hick from the sticks.
“I went to Orlando for it,” he confessed. After decades of paying less than ten dollars for a trim at a barbershop, he was stuck in a chair for thirty minutes as a stylist trimmed, razored, blow-dried, and put some glossy gunk in his hair. He even bought a bottle of the gunk because it did look pretty good.
They fell into step as they walked toward the building. His hand bumped hers and he jerked it away. Once, they had been joined at the hip wherever they went. Today an invisible barrier still hovered between them, but awareness of her nearness charged the air with electricity.
He opened the heavy front door for her, a blast of air conditioning hitting them as they stepped inside. They’d arrived fifteen minutes ahead of their appointment with the archivist, and the secretary refused to let them in early.
“Sorry,” she said apologetically. “We can’t let visitors loiter unattended. Mr. Gillingham should be back from lunch soon. Have you seen the new exhibit about United Phosphate’s history? It opened last month, and we’ve already had a lot of school groups come learn about all the good things phosphate has done for the world. Why don’t you take a look while you wait?”
Any company engaged in strip mining needed something to burnish their reputation, and United Phosphate spared no expense on their impressive exhibit. It filled an entire wing of the first floor and still smelled of fresh paint and new carpet. It featured professionally lit displays, and touchscreens mounted on the walls invited viewers to select short videos on United Phosphate’s contributions to the health and welfare of people all over the world.
He pretended great fascination in the corporate timeline of United Phosphate, but all the while he was intensely conscious of Jenny standing only inches away. Every nerve ending longed to bridge the few inches dividing them and draw her into his arms.
Instead, he dutifully kept his hands to himself as Jenny stepped forward to a touchscreen and launched a video.
A grandfatherly voice narrated the company’s role in American agriculture. “We’re committed to feeding the world . From the plains of America’s breadbasket, to the ranches of the west, United Phosphate & Fertilizer has provided the nutrition our soil needs to make this land prosper . ”
The screen showed bird’s-eye views of rippling waves of grain and the orderly rows of an apple orchard. Then the video showed canvas sacks of grain spilling into baskets while smiling children from India looked on, their happy faces grateful as aid workers unloaded relief supplies. The grandfatherly narrator continued.
“Throughout the twentieth century, when the world was in need, United Phosphate came to the rescue, shipping fertilizer to the parched fields around the globe. In partnership with the World Famine Commission, millions of dollars have been spent providing fertilizer to struggling nations around the world . ”
Wyatt stepped behind Jenny and set his hands around her middle, holding his breath and praying she wouldn’t shake him off.
She didn’t. Instead, she covered his hands with her own as she slowly moved toward the next series of display panels. A black-and-white photograph showed Eleanor Roosevelt cutting a ribbon at a ceremony. Then there was a photo of Karl Wakefield shaking hands with President Truman while a bunch of executives stood in the background.
“ Look! ” Jenny said, pointing at the photograph of Karl Wakefield with President Truman.
“What?” he asked.
Jenny pointed at the group of people behind Karl. “There she is! The woman from the tree.”
Wyatt took a second look. Karl Wakefield and President Truman shook hands next to the flag of the United Nations while a group of men stood to the side, watching in approval. There was only one woman in the group. Attractive, well dressed, probably in her mid-forties.
And yes, she looked exactly like the artist’s sketch of the woman found in the cypress tree.
“Do you think it’s her?” Jenny asked, and Wyatt managed a stunned nod. The resemblance was startling. It took a moment to find his tongue as excitement mounted.
“Whoever put this exhibit together might know who she is,” he said. Their odds of identifying the woman from the tree had just skyrocketed.
“Come on, let’s go find out what the archivist knows about that photograph.”
He grabbed Jenny’s hand and they hurried back toward the archive. Had holding hands with a woman ever felt more electrifying? The thrill of the hunt united them as they set off in search of that unknown woman’s name.
The archivist was a retired army officer who once guarded employment records at the Pentagon. Now he protected the secrecy of United Phosphate with as much diligence. The wiry old man scowled as he stood in the doorway of the archives.
“Are you seriously wanting me to pull ten years of employment records?” he growled the moment they entered.
“We changed our mind,” Wyatt said. “We only need information about a picture in the exhibit down the hall. The one with President Truman.”
Instantly, a grin split the old man’s face. “Oh, the Truman photo! I found that one myself. I fought hard to get it in the exhibit. Truman was a great president. He never got the credit he deserved. Come on in.”
Who knew the key to this crusty old man’s heart was through President Truman? Inside the archives was a bleak room lined with metal cabinets, microfilm drawers, and map cases. They sat at an oak worktable while Mr. Gillingham opened a rattling metal drawer, pawing through files and mumbling about how Truman got unfairly blamed for firing General MacArthur when it was clearly the right thing to do. Wyatt didn’t care about President Truman’s legacy, he just wanted to know the names of the people in the photo.
It didn’t take long for Gillingham to pull the file on the Truman photo and set it on the worktable. Wyatt held his breath as he opened the file to reveal a large glossy copy of the Truman photograph on top of the stack.
The next page noted the location, event, and names of the witnesses. His heart thumped as he scanned the paragraph of names and landed on the only woman.
Svetlana Markova, the Soviet representative to the World Famine Commission.
“Hello, Svetlana,” he said, his voice heavy with marvel and excitement. Jenny squealed and threw her arms around his neck. He laughed and returned her embrace, pulling back to kiss her . . . then she extricated herself from him before he got carried away.
“Sorry,” she stammered. “I just got so excited.”
“Don’t apologize.” He was excited, too. They still weren’t free to, well . . . start things up again, but for the split second it had felt like old times. He adjusted the collar of his uniform and cleared his throat.
“I should get back to work,” he said. Never had he felt less inclined to head back to the office. Who wanted to dive into statistics for cabbage and cucumber regulations when a long-unsolved Russian mystery was coming to the fore and Jenny looked at him like he was a hero?
Jenny picked up the page with the names. “And I’ve got a name I need to hunt down.”
Maybe it was his imagination, but Jenny seemed as sorry to be parting as he.