Chapter 36 Ingrid
Ingrid
Insistent, aggressive pounding on her hotel room door startles Ingrid awake. She listens, staring into the darkness—so dark
it must not yet be dawn. Some intoxicated fellow staggering back to his accommodations, most likely; he’ll move along to the
proper room soon enough.
The knocking persists. “Rise and shine, Holland.”
God, not him.
Sighing, she tugs on her dressing gown and switches on her bedside table lamp before stumbling to the closed door.
“May I help you?” she asks dryly.
“Downstairs. Ten minutes. Stieber is picking us up.”
Heedless of her dressing gown, bare face, and the silk headscarf keeping her pin curls contained, Ingrid flings the door open.
“What? Ten minutes?”
Archie is fully dressed, luggage in hand, and checks his wristwatch. “Nine now. Less talking, more packing.”
“What the hell is going on?”
“Last night, Stieber told me we’re closing our investigations for now and asked me to relay the message to you along with the plans for our departure, which I had no intention of doing, because after you threatened me with that Communist rally I attended in New York, why shouldn’t I let Stieber believe you failed to follow orders? You’re welcome for my change of heart.”
A change of heart ten minutes before her handler expects her to be ready to travel home? Ingrid pinches the bridge of her
nose. “Archie Stribling, you absolute bastard.” Further raging will have to wait.
After closing the door, she shoves her files and equipment into one valise and her clothes into another. Then she takes down
her hair, pulls on a dress, shoes, earrings, and a necklace, slaps a fascinator atop her head, applies lipstick, powder, and
blush, tosses the last of her belongings into her valise, and is out the door, shoving past Archie and leading the way to
meet Agent Stieber.
A whistle sounds behind her as he follows. “Impressive.”
“Shut up before I slam this bag into your shins.”
She’s wide awake now. Irritation has a way of doing that. Withholding direct orders over his own wounded ego. Of all the petty,
childish methods of retaliation.
Downstairs, Agent Stieber is already waiting. No one speaks as they climb into the black car chauffeuring them to the airport,
so Ingrid can’t tell if he’s satisfied or not. Still, he hasn’t professed further concerns regarding Ada’s loyalties or the
Star Society’s purpose, so perhaps she did her job properly this time.
After a long day of travel, when the taxicab reaches her apartment, Ingrid feels sudden tears spring to her eyes. Home. Nearly
three months away, and she is home.
Once inside, she opens the curtains to permit the dwindling afternoon light to wash over the space, quickly unpacks her luggage, then calls Gordon’s. Moments later, Ada picks up.
“Where the hell are you? I’ve been calling the bloody Biltmore all day, and they keep telling me you’ve checked out.”
“My boss needed me back in the office unexpectedly. It was urgent, so I left early this morning and didn’t have time to call.”
“Do you really mean to tell me you went home? You might have said goodbye.” As Ingrid starts to apologize, Ada huffs and cuts
her off. “Never mind, I need to talk to you. I’ve been subpoenaed.”
Ingrid’s blood runs cold. “By HUAC?” What a ridiculous question. Who else? Yet confusion prevents her from thinking clearly,
so she doesn’t bother to correct herself.
“I don’t understand—I clarified my views. Is this because of Gordon’s hearing?” She hesitates. “There are other reasons I
think HUAC might consider him subversive . . . reasons I can’t specify, not because I don’t trust you, but because it’s not
my . . . Well, do you understand?”
Indeed she does.
“I understand,” Ingrid replies softly. “You have nothing to worry about, Leidje. Answer honestly and clarify whatever it is
they want to know. That’s what Gordon did, and he turned out all right, didn’t he?”
“Did he? With the way the papers have been talking, those involved in the hearings are being ostracized regardless of the
findings, so what does that mean for him, for me, for our careers? Mrs. Musgrave already found out somehow and called to postpone
the final exclusive until further notice, and if I try to pursue a war crimes case, will the FBI even listen to me if I’ve
been caught up in this mess?” Before Ingrid can find a reply, she hears the faint sound of a door opening in the background,
then Ada lowers her voice. “Listen, Gordon is coming inside, and he’s already driving himself mad with worry, so I’ll call
you another time.”
After hanging up, Ingrid stays in her seat, her heart pounding.
Her own sister has been subpoenaed. The purpose of these hearings is to identify concerning individuals, to guide them to better ways, to clarify confusion.
Why speak with Ada when nothing in Ingrid’s investigation pointed to a need?
Unless that is exactly why this happened: because Ada is not a Communist, but those around her are, so HUAC wants information from her.
Or perhaps this has nothing to do with Ingrid’s findings. Someone might have called Ada into question—for authentic concerns
or simply to cause trouble, leading to doubts and a need for clarification since the information will conflict with Ingrid’s
report. Someone like Beverly Tolbert. The actress knows Ada, knows Gordon, is jealous of their relationship. This might be
her doing.
And, by extension, Ingrid’s doing.
This won’t reflect poorly on me unless I allow it.
At the time, Ingrid thought nothing of the conversation they had at Lucey’s or of Beverly’s assertion. All she did was assuage
the other woman’s fears and advise her on what to do if HUAC contacted her. And then Ingrid saw her at the Biltmore. What
if Beverly took Ingrid’s counsel to mean she should take matters into her own hands? What if she went to HUAC and seized the
opportunity to damage Gordon and the actress she views as competition?
What if she named names?
Damn it all.
Ingrid has no more time to speculate before the door opens. Despite the weight pressing on her chest, pleasant warmth fills
her when Lars enters and nearly drops his briefcase at the unexpected sight of his wife.
“Hello, darling,” she says, and she’s hardly on her feet before he wraps her in his arms.
Even as she clings to him, she can’t help the pang of resentment curling within her core.
Why did Ada have to be subpoenaed at all, and why did the news have to come on her first day back home?
After so long away, all she wants is a comfortable night with her husband.
Instead, it’s been spoiled, because now she can’t focus on anything except the impending hearing.
Lars presses his mouth eagerly to hers. “Welcome home, schatje,” he murmurs against her lips. When he releases her, his chuckle is tinged with uneasiness. “Aren’t you excited to be back?”
She sighs. “Of course I am. The trip was long, that’s all.”
“Is that all?”
Uncertainty touches his words, but she lacks the capacity to address it. Instead she will do her best to settle into normalcy,
to banish the worry plaguing her. She’s about to change the subject when the corners of his mouth dip slightly. He takes her
left hand.
“Where is your wedding ring? Did you lose it?”
Bile rises to Ingrid’s throat, threatening to spill over. In her haste to call Ada after unpacking, she forgot to put the
most essential item back on.
“No, no, of course not.” She breaks free, wipes sweaty palms on her dress, and hears him following her to their bedroom. “On
my vanity, just there . . .” She grabs it, nearly drops it as she fumbles with it, keeping her back to him.
She knows it's not the lack of jewelry concerning him; it’s not as if she’s never removed her ring for any number of harmless
reasons. But she is not this person, this woman who forgets about her wedding ring and fails to push her worries aside enough
to focus on the man she loves. Now she can almost feel the distance stretching between them, because of course he senses her
discomfort, which will make him wonder why something so insignificant has made her pull away. And the only way to ease his
mind is to tell him what’s distracting her.
Yet the truth requires an explanation regarding everything she’s been doing these last months. Everything she can’t reveal.
“Ingrid, look at me.” His voice is painfully quiet, achingly calm, speaking to a confusion that is far more difficult to bear than suspicion or even accusations. Her heart thuds in her chest as she turns. “What is troubling you?”
When she opens her mouth, words catch, but she must try to explain as much as possible. “The ring. I’ve had it off all this
time. For work. But it was never my idea, never what I wanted—”
“What kind of investigation requires you to pretend you aren’t married?” The words sharpen along with the tension cutting
across his jawline.
“No, it wasn’t like it sounds.” Even if she did reveal her reasons, it might not make a difference. Not with the way he’s
looking at her.
“Tell me where you’ve been.”
“On assignment.”
Suddenly she can say no more, because she realizes exactly where this line of questioning is going. What he’s thinking. Except
she can’t let him think that, because it’s wrong, completely and entirely wrong. He knows it’s not true, knows her. Doesn’t he?
She should explain everything now, confidentiality be damned. Instead, when she swallows hard, she can only manage one question.
“Lars, do you trust me?”
“Should I not? Are you having an affair?”
Maybe she expected the question, but nothing prepares her for how fiercely it pummels her. Part of her wants to rage at him
for suspecting her of something so terrible. Another part cannot move beyond a deep, aching sorrow unlike any she’s ever experienced.
Every tremble in his voice cuts far more deeply than the conclusion he’s drawn, than everything she’s kept from him.
“For God’s sake, Ingrid, just tell me the truth! All this time when you said you were working, have you been with someone
else?”
“Darling, of course not.” She grabs his forearms, clings to him despite how he stiffens, and when the tears start, she can’t stop them. “I love you with my entire heart, and I have never been unfaithful—not now, not ever.” She tightens her hold. “Please. You must believe me.”
He is Lars, her Lars, honest and gentle and unshakable. Her husband. A man she was once in danger of losing to war but never
thought she would be in danger of losing to her own actions. A man who would never hurt her, certainly not as she has hurt
him.
Slowly, he steps away, then he proceeds to the door. Leaving. She will lose him the same way she lost her father, her grandfather,
her sister for a time, and the mother she never had from the start.
“Hollywood! I’ve been in Hollywood—twice, for both trips. Crenshaw thought a woman who appeared unmarried would be more approachable
for the celebrities, less interesting to the gossips. That’s all it was—an effort to help me do my job and keep my name out
of the papers. Nothing happened, nothing, I swear to God. It’s not someone else, it’s . . . it’s my sister.” Even if she can’t explain everything, she must tell him
who has taken up so much of her time these last months.
When she finally takes a breath, the blood rushes in her ears. She has never betrayed the strict regulations of her career,
not even for him. Not even when hiding so much of her life from him has kept her awake most nights, longing to hear his voice,
to feel his touch, to share everything.
He knows nothing about her assignment, only that she has been away for work. Nothing about the war crimes case. Nothing about
Mother. Nothing about her sister, only that Aleida survived the war and became an actress, so Ingrid visited her and they
have kept in touch. Some matters she cannot share even if she had been permitted to call him. Others she will share in time,
when she can find the strength.
From her briefcase she produces an article—a recent edition of The Dish, one of Minnie Musgrave’s latest writings about the hearings.
She places it on the bed, hoping it will lead Lars to the conclusions she cannot state herself.
Investigations into Communism have resulted in hearings, her sister is an actress, and Ingrid has been in Hollywood.
Surely he will understand this is what she’s been doing: investigating the entertainment industry and trying to protect Ada.
He stares at the article for a long time. The silence is unbearable. At last, understanding ripples across his features, which
does not lessen the tension in her chest, because he still does not acknowledge her.
“Lars, please say something. Please look at me.”
When he does, his voice is so quiet she hardly hears over her shuddering breaths. “I trust you, Ingrid, but it’s not about
that. It’s the way you’ve been acting ever since you started this assignment. Like you have something to be ashamed of.”
Maybe he’s right. She’s ashamed of failing her sister, of forgetting herself and her marriage so much that her husband suspected
her of infidelity. Ashamed of knowing her work is important, honest, so she has no reason to be plagued by this reoccurring
feeling of doubt. A feeling that tells her something is quite wrong.