Page 66 of The Women of Oak Ridge
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO:LAUREL
I STARED AT THE BOLD HEADLINEon the screen of the microfilm machine.
Fire Destroys Trailer in Happy Valley
The old issue of theOak Ridge Journalwas from December 1944. I would have passed over the article had it not been for the familiar name that practically jumped off the page as I skimmed the printed words.
“A fire destroyed the trailer home of Clive Morrison last night,” I read quietly. The Oak Ridge Fire Department attempted to put out the blaze, but the house could not be saved. The article went on to say that Mr. Morrison had been away at the time of the emergency and was uninjured. Neighbors reported no suspicious activity, but the military police would investigate, nonetheless.
I drummed a beat on the desk with my fingernails.
I wouldn’t have an interest in a story about the fire if the househadn’t belonged to Clive Morrison, the same man who’d filed a complaint against Aunt Mae. Curious, I backed up the film reel to view the first page of the issue and reread the date.
Unease swam in the pit of my stomach.
The fire took place the day after Mr. Morrison claimed Aunt Mae broke into his home. A home that burned to the ground less than twenty-four hours later.
It couldn’t be simple coincidence.
A terrible question took root in my mind as I stared at the black-and-white print.
Did Aunt Mae have something to do with the fire? The very idea seemed ludicrous, but the timing could not be ignored. It seemed impossible the two incidents were unrelated. Yet without knowing Aunt Mae’s side of the story, I couldn’t be certain.
As I’d done before, I printed the page and tucked it into my purse. I’d share my findings with Jonas the next time I saw him. I spent the next two hours searching articles from January through August 1945. News of the bombings in Japan, the end of the war, and Oak Ridge’s shocking role in the enrichment of uranium filled each issue, but there were no other references to the fire, Mr. Morrison, Sissy, or Aunt Mae that I could find.
I’d just turned off the machine when I saw Jonas come through the library entrance, looking handsome in dark slacks and a white shirt. The librarian greeted him with a friendly smile. After they chatted, she looked in my direction. Jonas nodded when he saw me.
“Hi there,” he said when he approached. “I saw your car in the parking lot. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all.” I held back a grin. I was quite pleased he’d sought me out. “I was just finishing up.”
“Did you find anything interesting?” He pulled up a chair from a nearby table and sat down.
I removed the printed page from my purse and handed it to him. “Check out the article about the fire.”
After he finished reading, he took a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and gave it to me. “I found something too.”
“What?” I asked.
He simply pointed to the paper.
A half dozen handwritten, dated entries from December 1944 filled the lined page.
5p.m. Mrs. Fenlor wants her husband removed as he had been drinking again. John Fenlor, age 42, locked up overnight to help him recuperate.I looked at Jonas. “What is this?”
“It’s a copy of a police log. We have something similar down at the station, although ours are typed these days. Calls, arrests, disturbances. Everything is recorded in the log. This one,” he indicated the document I held, “is from the 1944 Oak Ridge Police Department. Keep reading.”
I did.
The next entry was about a barking dog. Then I came to the third incident.
6p.m. Fire department called to burning trailer on Wheat Ave., MP on duty took over investigation. Resident Clive Morrison unharmed.
I met Jonas’s gaze. “I guess you came to the same conclusion I did when I read the article about the fire.”
He gave a slow nod. “The timing can’t be a fluke.”
“I agree,” I whispered, trying to keep my voice down. “But it also doesn’t mean Aunt Mae is guilty of anything. Especially not arson. I searched the old newspapers through August 1945 but didn’t find any other articles about her, Morrison, or the fire.”
