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Queen of Hearts

By K Dawn Byrd

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Chapter One


Daphne Dean traced the red hearts on the bottom of the calling card as a sense of foreboding rolled over her. She shrugged it off, hoping that there would be minimal danger in working stateside as a spy for the Office of Strategic Services. Her grandmother had been a spy during World War I and a good one at that. Daphne hoped to live up to her grandmother's reputation. Just thinking about carrying on the tradition excited her and made her feel closer to the woman she'd loved so much and who had died two years ago.
The letter that came with the calling cards stated that from there on out, she'd be known as the Queen of Hearts. She sighed and tossed a pencil on her desk. She hated her code name and considered it ill fitting for a woman who'd been in love only once in the past twenty-five years.
An image of Kenneth's handsome face invaded her mind. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself not to cry. She thought of him every day, but never with such intense sadness. God, when will it be my turn? All my friends back home are married.
Daphne reprimanded herself with a quick thought. Now was not the time for self-pity. Not when thousands of women were sick with worry while their precious husbands, boyfriends, or sons resided in some terror-filled foxhole overseas.
She closed the box and tossed the cards into the worn brown satchel with her camera and supplies. She'd give anything to have the men home even if it meant handing over the keys to her office, the small room that enveloped her in a warm cocoon at the start of each day. Daphne reminded herself often that she'd likely have to give up her career as a newspaper reporter and trade in the dream that had been as important to her as the air she breathed. As much as she loved it, she'd gladly swap it for a husband, a couple of kids and a house with a white picket fence.
The phone jingled and she reached for it, studying the contrast of pale pink nail polish against the black receiver. "Hello. Daphne Dean."
"This is Code Red of Twelve-Seven."
She sat up straight, desperately trying to recall her conversation with Tom. He'd said that Twelve-Seven was the code for December 7, the day the Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor and it was the name of her group of O.S.S. operatives. "Go ahead."
"Listen carefully." His voice was deep and ominous, hinting of danger and intrigue. He cleared his throat. "Write this message down and then destroy the note. You'll type it on your calling card and deliver it to the club at eight o'clock tonight. The message is 'Emergency meeting Eight o'clock tomorrow morning. The usual place'. Now, read it back to me."
She finished scribbling and read it back to him, her voice trembling with anticipation.
"That's right, doll. A courier will be there in a few minutes with your attire for the evening. You'll be approached at the club by a woman in a red. Her code name is Scarlet. She's S.O.E. They're British Secret Intelligence. Give her the note and make sure no one sees you."
"When you say the club, do you mean the private club for officers?"
"That's the one, babe."
"How will I get in? As a member of the press?"
"No. You'll be undercover. Your ID will be in the box with your clothing. Your name for all Twelve-Seven assignments will be Rose Hart. Show your ID at the door. Got it?"
"Sure." She choked on the word.
"Don't let us down," said the stranger. The line clicked and went dead.
Cold fingers of fear traced their way up her spine and she shrugged, attempting to dislodge them. His last four words hovered in the thick air. Had he just threatened her?
Daphne pictured him as a short, fat, balding man with dark hair. Even his voice had a presence, the slight accent telling of possible mob connections. Suddenly, her office was stifling. She rose and threw open the window behind her desk, pausing a moment, allowing the breeze to cool her cheeks before returning to her seat and sliding a card into the typewriter
What had she gotten herself into? Tom hadn't said anything about mob connections and threatening phone calls. Daphne typed the message and removed the card, sealing it in an envelope. Her head jerked up at a knock on the door. She shoved the envelope under a stack of papers on her desk just before Betty Jean stormed in.
"Hey, Daph." She slid a box across the desk. "This just came for you."
Betty Jean's beauty had resulted in her being the first person a visitor encountered when entering the building. Every hair was in place, every stray eyebrow plucked clean, and every eyelash stiff as steel wire. The same cosmetic pencil that darkened eyebrows gave the impression of stocking lines on bare legs.
"Thanks." Daphne held her breath, hoping that the one word reply had been firm enough to dismiss her.
Betty Jean's perfume, as sickening as it was, wasn't the worst thing about her. She was the bane of Daphne's existence, the office tale-bearer and gossip.
"Aren't you going to open it?"
Daphne cut her with a cold stare. "It's just some clothes."
"Who sent them?"
Daphne stood and pulled the camera bag strap up her arm to her shoulder. She looked at her watch, tiring of Betty's constant interrogations. "I have to go. I'll see you later."
"What do I tell Tom?"
Daphne paused. This was all Tom's fault. If the boss hadn't insisted she join the Twelve-Seven, she'd be headed home to cuddle up with a good book. She'd been afraid to refuse him. She'd worked too hard to get where she was in her career to have it yanked out from under her. "Tell him that I'm leaving for the day to take care of the assignment he gave me."
"Which one is that?"
"He knows which one." Daphne struggled to maintain a calm voice as she removed the note from under the stack of papers, crumbling it as she shoved it in her pocket.
Daphne closed the door behind them with a thud and Betty Jean followed her down the hall mumbling something about too many office secrets under her breath.
"Well, who do we have here?" Betty Jean asked, loud enough for Daphne to turn and look behind her. "What can I do for you?"
His shoulders were broad and his height gave the impression that Betty Jean was a child deep in conversation with an adult who towered over her. Daphne closed her mouth, hoping he hadn't noticed that she'd been staring. A tingle of delight moved through her. He was easily the most handsome man she'd ever seen. For a moment, she envied Betty Jean, her easy way with men and her beauty.
She fought the urge to dawdle. A tremor moved through her stomach reminding her that she'd not had anything to eat. Late as usual, she'd rushed from home that morning and then become so immersed in her work that she'd missed lunch.
The mysterious box in her arms enticed her, causing Daphne to hurry on. She wouldn't be content until she discovered its contents. Surely, it contained a gown of excellence and elegance, one befitting of the club.
Daphne stepped outside and pulled her coat a little closer to ward off the chill as she joined the pedestrians on a busy sidewalk. Even the gray sky hovering above the city couldn't dampen her mood. She had a mission.
Shoving one hand in her pocket, she wrapped her fingers around the envelope. Jittery. She thrived off of the excitement that came with being an operative, which would break the monotony of everyday life and give her a means to serve her country. While the soldiers served in dangerous territory, she'd serve out of harm's way. She shuddered as the tape recorder in her mind replayed Code Red's conversation back to her. She pushed the thought away that serving in the O.S.S. could be anything other than safe.
Daphne vowed at that moment that she'd do everything in her power to be a good operative, everything in her power to bring the boys home. Moving through the revolving glass door of a familiar café, she took a seat in a corner booth with a view of the restaurant. The menu reminded her that, due to rationing, Tuesday was a meatless day around the city. Looked like she was in for another bowl of vegetable soup.
She tapped her fingers on the gray tabletop as nervous energy surged through her. If present, Anya would tell her to stop fidgeting. Daphne willed her fingers to cease as she caught a glimpse of her face in the napkin holder. She shoved a lock of unruly red hair behind one ear and turned away. She'd never considered herself to be beautiful and avoided mirrors as much as possible after spending a year in the copy room with Betty Jean. Betty Jean, who worked with a mirror above her cubby hole so that she could worship her reflection.
After placing an order with a buxom pink uniformed waitress, she picked up a newspaper someone had discarded in the booth. It overflowed with the typical topics that bored her. More restaurants were having a hard time planning menus with the rationing and there was talk of Fridays becoming a meatless day. A big sale at Macy's. She chuckled, as if they could keep her in important things like stockings.
Daphne turned the page, realizing how fortunate she was that she didn't have to cover insignificant columns like the society page. She had to admit that there was a need for such trivial news to take the public's mind off matters of war; however, her passion was to bring high profile news to the public. News such as crime, murder and traitorous activity.
Something in the air had changed. It was as minute as the gentle flutter of a mosquito's wings before it moved in for the kill. The hair on the back of her neck prickled. Someone was watching her. Daphne could feel it, could sense their presence. She glanced over the top of her newspaper and locked eyes with the handsome stranger she'd left in conversation with Betty Jean.
She returned his smile and then rearranged her newspaper with a flip and a rustle before continued to read. Daphne sighed, wishing she'd freshened up and applied a fresh coat of lipstick. She found it a pleasant surprise that the stranger brought out the feminine side of her, something she ignored more often than not due to being busy with work and volunteering for various war efforts.
Casting furtive glances when his attention was elsewhere, she wondered who he was. Her eyes hadn't lied earlier. If possible, he seemed even more attractive than she'd remembered. The expensive cut of his navy blue suit revealed that he had money. Why was he stateside? Was he too much of a coward to fight for his country? Something told her otherwise. Maybe he was involved in a war time business.
Daphne focused her attention on a political article wondering if her father had attended the latest meeting in D.C. regarding contracting from the military. His business was booming and her mother had never been happier, throwing lavish parties and spending to her heart's content.
"Hey, Daph."
Only one person called her Daph. Betty Jean had arrived.
She lowered the newspaper, caught her gaze for a moment and said, "Hey. Are you following me?"
Betty Jean shot the stranger a provocative look and said, "No. I'm following him."
"I see." Once again, Daphne was pierced by her beauty, longing for something she'd never have.
But, she did have the dress. And, she did have an exciting evening ahead of her. She glanced at the box on the seat beside her. Her fingers twitched in anticipation of tearing off the twine and inspecting the contents.
Betty Jean leaned forward. "That your coat over there?" She nodded toward the closet by the front door.
With a panic ensuing awareness, Daphne realized she'd left the message in her coat pocket. She fought the urge to race across the room. "Why?"
"Just wondered. That looked like your coat."
"You know what? It's a little chilly in here." Daphne arose and sashayed across the black and white checked tile to the small closet and nonchalantly reached into her coat pocket. Empty. Must be in the other one. She held her breath and fumbled around inside. Nothing. With trembling hands, she pulled the pockets inside out and then examined the floor. It was nowhere to be found. Her first impulse was to call Tom and tell him she'd lost it.
"Can I help you find something?"
Daphne spun on her heel to find the stranger behind her. For a moment she pushed the note to the back of her mind, lost in eyes as dark as the onyx earrings Anya had given her for her sixteenth birthday. The din from the kitchen and the conversations around her faded into the distance as if muted by an invisible shield. All that mattered at that moment was that she stood face to face with destiny.
He repeated, "Can I help you find something?"
His voice was kind, yet rang with the confidence of a man who was sure of himself.
"No, thanks," she said.
The waitress signaled her from across the room as she placed a steaming bowl of soup and a grilled cheese sandwich on the table.
"Thanks anyway," she said. "Looks like my food is here."
Daphne couldn't see him behind her, but she knew he was there. She felt him, felt his eyes on her back, his body following behind. She slid into her seat, said a quick prayer, and placed a napkin on her lap.
"This yours?" asked Betty Jean, sliding an envelope across the table.
"Where'd you get this?" Daphne was unable to tone down the malice in her voice as she grasped her envelope so tightly it crumpled.
"Do you mind if I join you?" the stranger asked, cutting off Betty Jean's response.
Daphne hesitated, afraid that he'd ask questions she wasn't willing to answer. "I'm in a hurry today." She raised the spoon and parted her lips, blowing onto the orange tinged liquid. "Maybe another time?" She cringed inwardly, having meant to make a statement instead of asking him on a date.
"I'd like nothing more."
A pleasant heat rose from her neck to her face as he held her gaze.
"Don't be ridiculous," said Betty Jean, sliding over. "I have all the time in the world. Have a seat."
He folded his long legs under the table. "Do you eat here often?" The question was meant for Daphne.
Her heart beat a little faster. She found it exciting that he addressed her as if Betty Jean didn't exist. "It depends on how busy I am at work. Some days, there's no time for lunch."
"You can say that again," said Betty Jean. "We never know what to expect from one day to the next at the paper. Of course, Daphne's a little sheltered from the hubbub since she's a hotshot reporter now."
"I didn't know that," said the stranger, keeping his eyes on Daphne, a glimmer of a smile on his full lips.
Betty Jean placed a hand his arm, drawing his attention. "So, how do you know Tom?"
"Who?"
"Tom. You came in asking for Tom."
"Actually, he's a business associate."
She crossed her legs, kicking Daphne in the shin. "What kind of business are you in?"
The stranger motioned the waitress over and asked that she package his lunch to go. His words tumbled as if he were suddenly in a hurry. He glanced at his watched and then stood. "Nice meeting you, ladies. Maybe we'll meet again."
"Maybe," said Daphne.
Betty Jean passed him a note and said, "Let's make sure that happens. Give me a call."
Daphne studied his face, looking for the slightest movement, a smirk, a tremor, a quiver, anything that would reveal how he felt about Betty Jean. Frustrated that she couldn't read him, she looked away.
"Have a good evening," he said.
And then he was gone.
Betty Jean ordered a salad and once the waitress retreated, said, "You can't wait on men to make the first move. Sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands. I'm not going to let that one get away."
Jealousy dug its grotesquely disfigured claws into Daphne. She remained silent, focused on her soup, not trusting herself to speak for fear that she'd tell Betty Jean just what she thought of her.
Betty Jean studied her face in a compact mirror and then tossed it in her purse. "Was that your note?"
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"It's just to remind me to do something. Where'd you find it?"
"In the floor under your coat. I thought it might have fallen out of your pocket."
For the first time ever, Daphne allowed herself to warm toward her co-worker. Maybe she wasn't so bad. "Thanks. I appreciate it." She changed the subject before she was questioned further. "So, who was that guy?"
"I'd never seen him before today. I'd remember a man like that."
You're not kidding.
"How's your nana?" Betty Jean asked.
"Anya is fine. I wish you wouldn't call her that. It's hardly appropriate. I'm a grown woman." She glanced at the emerald and diamond Tiffany and Company wristwatch her father had given her for Christmas. "I'd better run."
"What's your hurry?"
"I have plans tonight." The minute the words were past her tongue, Daphne regretted it.
"Where are you going?"
"Just out. I've not done anything fun in a long time."
Luckily, the waitress paused at their table long enough to inquire about drink refills.
Daphne seized the moment. "Can I have my check, please?"
She paid the waitress and after a ten minute subway ride faced the brownstone she'd bought with part of the money her grandfather had left her. She trotted up the steps, anxious to retire to her bedroom and inspect the contents of the box. She slipped around the corner, hoping that Anya was at a friend's house playing bridge.
"You're home early," called Anya as Daphne passed the sitting room.
Three elderly women graced the card table along with Anya. Daphne eyed their stockings with envy. There wasn't a pair left for purchase legally anywhere in the city. Too patriotic to buy black market goods, they'd probably had a stock pile before the war. A stash they'd refused to turn in to be recycled.
As cornered as a wild bird in a cage, Daphne flashed Anya's friends her brightest smile. "Yes, not much to do at the office. Enjoy your game. And, Anya, I won't be here for dinner. I'm going out."
She hurried on before the elderly woman had the chance to question her. Anya had a way of chastising her with a look and the look she'd shot her way had almost brought her to her knees. If Daphne was going to be a spy, she'd have to keep a secret from the best. If she could fool Anya, she could fool the world.
Daphne removed the envelope from her coat pocket. She smoothed the crinkled edges and turned it over. It had been ripped open. Someone had stolen the note. She had to be the most incompetent spy in the history of the United States. Maybe her grandmother's blood had been diluted before it reached her generation.
The telephone rang. "I'll get it," Daphne called as she rushed up the stairs. "Hello."
"Who is this?"
"Who are you calling?"
"Miss Dean. The reporter." The voice was muffled as if disguised.
She bit her bottom lip. "This is she."
"Who gave you the message?"
"What message?" she asked.
"The one I took from your coat pocket."
A quiver of anxiety arose in her chest. "And just when did you take it from my pocket?"
"In the restaurant. Who gave it to you?" His voice was hash, more demanding.
"That's not important. Are you the man who sat next to me?" It was a shot in the dark. He certainly didn't sound anything like the stranger.
"Miss Dean, you seem like a nice girl." The harshness faded from his voice. "Since you probably don't know what you're getting into, let me give you a little advice. Stop carrying messages. It's dangerous."
"How'd you find me?"
"I followed you home. Be glad I'm a good guy. If I'd have been on the other side, you could have ended up dead or worse. Some things are worse than death, Ms. Dean."
She leaned against the wall, deflating like a balloon that collapsed in the summer heat. "Who are you working for?"
"That's not important. If you know what's good for you, you'll get out before you get in too deep. I'll be watching you."
The line went dead. Daphne placed the receiver in the cradle, staring into space. Her heart hammered an uneven rhythm in her chest. Maybe she should get out. Her mind cleared as her pulse returned to an even rhythm. She'd carry this one message and then call it quits. Tom would understand. He'd have to.
She called Tom's home and was told that he was out for the evening. Daphne then called the office and was told that he wouldn't return until the morning.
Entering her bedroom, she closed the door and collapsed on the blue and gray canopied bed. Daphne had no choice but to retype the note and deliver it as planned. She'd tell the British woman that the first one had been stolen. Maybe she could get the message to Code Red that an unknown person knew of the emergency meeting.
Daphne pulled the box toward her. She'd wear her grandmother's pearls. Even though she'd given away almost every pair of shoes she'd owned to women who needed them, she'd saved one special pair. She just knew the dress was black and the shoes would be perfect.
As joyous as a child at Christmas, she moved to a spot in front of the floor mirror and ripped open the box. Her heart plummeted as she took in her image in the full length mirror. The dress was of the latest cut and style and would have been perfect had it not been the one color that clashed horribly with her red hair. Lime green.

*****

No longer excited about the evening that lay before her, Daphne had taken her time getting ready, had even taken a short nap. She slipped out the side door. The maid's uniform was a little big on her small frame, but it would do until she changed into the lime green atrocity. She pulled the cloche hat lower over her face and stepped onto the sidewalk, quickening her pace to blend in with the two women in front of her.
After timing the subway's arrival perfectly, within minutes Daphne was sneaking up the steps of the newspaper office. She pulled off the black pumps and stole down the hallway. She scowled; the things she had to do for the war effort. As if rationing wasn't bad enough.
The office seemed even smaller in the darkness, massive pieces of furniture stretching to the walls. She checked the blackout curtain before switching on the desk lamp. Daphne changed into the green dress in a far corner of the room laced with deep shadows. The maid wouldn't be back until Friday. She'd sneak her uniform back into place after work tomorrow.
Daphne moved the typewriter to a spot on the desk illuminated by golden light from the lamp. She removed a Queen of Hearts card from her purse and then as quietly as possible typed the same message as earlier. It was too light. She typed over the message half a dozen times before satisfied with the darkness of the print.
Moving the typewriter back to its spot on the desk, she grabbed her purse. Daphne held her breath as a pencil holder toppled, its contents plunging toward the floor. She rushed around the desk, scooping up as many pencils as she could find in the dimly lit room.
She stood and smoothed the wrinkles out of her dress and turned toward the door. Shadows played across the frosted glass as the sound of keys jingling in a lock assaulted her ears. Daphne dove behind the old desk and crawled underneath. Within moments, light flooded her office.
Pulling her knees to her chest, she held her breath. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as the night watchman shuffled into her office. His stocky legs came into view as he moved her chair. If he took a seat at her desk, she was done for.
The back of her leg cramped and she gritted her teeth in pain. Unsure how much more she could withstand, Daphne breathed a silent prayer and squeezed her eyes shut.
"Bing," a voice called from the hallway. "Where are you?"
"In Ms. Dean's office. I thought I heard a noise. Looks like she left her light on."
Daphne exhaled audibly as Bing closed the door behind him. After their voices had faded into the distance, she stood and rubbed her calf. The sharp pain subsided, but was replaced with a cramp that kept her in her office a few minutes more than she'd planned.
She brushed the dust off the back of her dress, vowing to keep a cleaner office. Daphne pulled the black shawl closer that she'd used to offset the effects of the lime green against her pale skin, noticing a tear in the bottom close to the fringe. She must have snagged it underneath the desk. Some spy she was turning out to be.
Relieved to slip out of the office undetected, she took the subway in the direction of the club. She exited a stop early. A walk would give her time to think.
She glanced over her shoulder and cringed inwardly at the grotesque shadows that followed behind, mocking her in the silvery moonlight. Maybe she wasn't cut out for this sort of thing. Daphne pushed the thought from her mind and reminded herself that her grandmother's blood flowed through her veins.
Startled at a noise behind her, Daphne turned. The street was empty. She'd be glad when the war was over and the street lights burned again. She'd be glad to deliver the note. She'd be glad to retire safely for the night.
Daphne walked, her heels clicking eerily in the darkness. She stole a glance behind her, absolutely certain someone followed her. A shadow peeked out from behind a tree. Heart hammering, she clutched her purse in a death grip and hurried toward the club. She could make it. Within minutes, she'd be surrounded by people. She'd be safe.
The half minute it took to reach the club seemed like an eternity. Nerves pinging, Daphne stood before the imposing red brick structure. It had been a college building at one time. Funny how the war had recycled everything. The sound of Big Band music spilled out onto the front lawn. A couple of men were smoking on the front porch, the only signs of life the orange glow of their cigarettes piercing the darkness. Heavy blackout curtains concealed the lively party behind the windows.
Daphne should have taken her father up on the offer to accompany him to the club the last time he'd been in town, but a night of hanging out with a bunch of stuffy politicians hadn't appealed much to her at the time. The club was black tie and the most popular place in town for dignitaries and politicians to talk business. Humiliated, she trudged forward in the hated green dress.
Daphne wiped sweaty palms down the side of her dress and rushed up the steps. Sliding behind a large white column, she peered out into the darkness, hoping to discover who had been following her or to prove once and for all that she was a paranoid mess.
Daphne wouldn't have believed it if she hadn't seen him with her own eyes. Kenneth had been following her. The draft dodger had no business there. The fact that he still held her heart in the palm of his hand was inconsequential. He had no right.
Daphne snuck another peek from behind the column to see Kenneth glance around as if looking for someone. One thing was for sure, if he'd been following her, he had no clue of where she was and that she was aware of his presence. He lit a cigarette lighter and held it close to his watch before moving on down the street.
She opened her purse and checked to make sure the message was in place for what seemed like the hundredth time before taking her place in line.

*****

Anya knelt by the bed, the only light in the room radiating from a full moon. A single tear cascaded down her cheek, but she didn't wipe it away. Head bowed and chin resting on hands, she called out to her God. "Lord, I don't know why I'm so worried about Daphne. I hope I'm wrong, but I believe she's in real danger wherever she is and I need you to be with her. Protect her, Lord, like you did me all those years ago."

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