I bite my lip but can’t hold in my annoyance. “I didn’t bat my eyelashes.”
Walter’s mouth flickers with a smile as he slips past me.
“I didn’t!” I call after him.
Oh well. He can think whatever he wants so long as he accompanies me to the Barrows’ house. Perhaps he would even venture over to the LeVines’ with me . . . I’ve had a terrible kicked-in-the-gut feeling since yesterday, when Mariano cautioned me against going over there. Is it because they hid Lydia’s seizures? Is that some sort of sign of bigger secrets?
I think of how Dr. LeVine behaved after the first seizure of Lydia’s that I witnessed, his deep frown as he studied her. He had asked Mrs. LeVine scads of questions and jotted her answers in a slender black notebook. He was a loving, concerned father.
Wasn’t he?
“I cannot stress to you enough how important it is that you keep this secret.” Mrs. LeVine’s eyes had been sharp, probing. “Dr. LeVine’s livelihood depends upon it.”
And how far would he go to protect his livelihood? Far enough to shield the illness from his own daughter. Far enough to pull her out of school just shy of graduation and secret her away to the Mayo Clinic. But far enough to cover up something more sinister?
And where, exactly, might he keep that notebook?
Father’s gleaming Chrysler coupe pulls up to our house, and out spills Jane, laughing as if she hasn’t a care in the world. Her raven bob shines in the midmorning sun beneath a close-fitting cloche hat. Her tennis whites infuriate me. Perhaps it’s unfair to feel lives should go on hold because Lydia is missing, but it seems outright selfish that they should go play a game of tennis at the club at a time like this.
“Hello.”
My ice-cold greeting causes Jane’s laugh to die in the air. “Oh, hello, dear.”
“Piper.” Father frowns as he comes around the car. “What are you doing out here by yourself?”
“Waiting for Walter.”
“I would prefer you wait inside.” Father gestures to the door, and I obey. Maybe that will keep him from asking too many questions about where Walter and I plan to go.
Jane’s eyes hold sympathy as she walks beside me up the stairs. “How are you doing, Piper? You must be terrified.”
I force my chin high. “I’m choosing to hope.”
As we walk through the door my father opens for us, Jane rests her hand on my arm. The cluster of diamonds on her left ring finger wink in the afternoon sunlight. I’m actually disappointed by how swell her engagement ring is. I would prefer something ostentatious that I could make fun of. “I’m just sure someone knows something, especially in this neighborhood, where everyone watches out for each other.”
“Well, if that’s true, they’re keeping quiet.”
Jane hangs her handbag on the rack. “The LeVines should offer money for information, in my opinion. The right amount of money can get anyone to talk.”
Of course that’s what Jane would think, because that’s the type of person she is. Here it’s not even lunchtime, and she’s bejeweled and made up as if heading to a nightclub.
“It’s also a great motivator for people to lie.” Father leafs through the mail on the entry table.
“Well, at least the police seem to be doing a thorough investigation. That’s what Lydia’s mother told me when I called on her. One never knows these days, with everything the police have on their laps.” Jane notes something displeasing on her thumbnail. She frowns and scrubs at it. “Though Edna says one of the detectives is extremely young.”
I catch sight of Walter in the hallway in clean trousers and a freshly scrubbed face. “Yes, Detective Cassano is young, but he seems very sharp.”
Jane’s carefully penciled eyebrows raise, and she smirks at my father. “They allow Cassanos on the police force?”
Father shrugs. “My understanding is he’s a good sort. Have a nice time, kids.”
My teeth grind together as I push the front door open. A good sort? What does that mean? Mariano has no more choice about being born to an Italian family than I did to third-generation Americans. Why should they not allow him to serve our city?
“Can you believe her?” I huff to Walter as I stomp down the front steps. “She’s so fake and judgmental. What does my father see in her?”
“Piper . . .” Walter speaks my name as an admonishment.
“Is it the pretty packaging? Because all that stuff comes with a price tag, you know. That kind of upkeep costs money.”
Walter holds open the gate for me. “And why am I getting lectured?”
“Because you’re a man, and you’re here.”
I clamp my teeth over my lower lip, working hard to keep it all inside—the screaming, the tears, the angry words. Not until we’ve rounded the corner of Astor Street do I feel I can finally speak without exploding.
“I know it isn’t fair to ask my father to be a bachelor forever, but that’s really what I wanted. I wanted him to keep missing my mother and keep pouring himself into his work. And with Jane, it feels—” I have to bite my trembling lower lip until the threat of tears has passed. Walter’s gaze is on me, I can feel it, but he remains quiet. “Jane makes me feel like I’ve lost Mother all over again. Even though I know she would have encouraged Father to remarry.”
“Maybe now isn’t the best time to visit the Barrows.” Walter’s voice is gentle. “Maybe instead we should see a movie. Get your mind off things.”
Get my mind off things? “That’s what you do when you did poorly on a test or a friend won’t talk to you. I’m not going to go see a movie when Lydia needs me.”
“You seeing a movie isn’t going to change the situation with Lydia.” His hand cups around my arm. “I know you feel guilty that you were the last to see her, but you don’t have to solve this.”
I yank my arm away from him and glare. “So if it was me, you would be content to just lounge around the house? Go to the cinema? Play ball with Jimmy and them? Because if it were you, I sure wouldn’t. I would be knocking on every door, Walter Thatcher, until the detectives knocked on my door and said you wouldn’t be coming home.”
What if that happens?
What if Lydia isn’t coming home?
It’s impossible to take a breath despite how I gasp for it, and the world tilts beneath me.
“Pippy, it’s going to be okay.” Walter crushes me against him. His heart pounds beneath my ear as I struggle for breath. “It’s going to be okay.”
But my brain won’t stop thundering, what if it isn’t?
Mrs. Barrow’s hand runs over her impossibly pregnant stomach in an absent way. “I can’t tell you how shocked I was when the police knocked on our door. Dr. LeVine had called the night before, of course, to ask after Lydia. But when I hung up with him, I had assumed it was all some sort of miscommunication.”
“I did too.” My words come out quiet even though I don’t intend for them to.
Mrs. Barrow dabs at her eyes with a hanky, and I’m endeared by how red and puffy they are. “Such a sweet girl. She was so wonderful to help me out when our nanny up and quit for that waitressing job. Our new nanny started this week, but Lydia and Cole had a special connection.” She lowers her volume. “We haven’t told him yet about what’s happened. He’s been in the strangest mood this week, and I don’t want to upset him further. He must sense it’s almost time for the baby to be born. They say children can tell these things.”
Walter shifts beside me, but if Mrs. Barrow senses his embarrassment, she doesn’t show it. Mrs. Barrow doesn’t look much older than me, which is a bit unnerving. Her high cheekbones and catlike eyes make me think of women I see in advertisements, and even with her round stomach, she’s somehow elegant.
“Lydia always speaks so warmly of Cole.” The dog—a yippy rat of a thing with sharp teeth—scratches at the door where he’s been shut away, and I raise my volume to drown it out. “I know she’ll be delighted to see him again. Where is he?”
When Mr
s. Barrow regards me, her face is full of sympathy. “Oh, Miss Sail. I admire your hope. And perhaps I’ll borrow some of it, because I fear—” She cuts off her words with a bright smile directed beyond me. “Hello, Cole. Where’s Dottie?”
Cole stands in the doorway, a sullen expression on his face, and a toy car clutched in one hand. “Kitchen.” His gaze shifts to me. “You’re Lydia’s friend.”
He speaks in that little-kid way. Dottie is in the “titchen” and I’m Lydia’s “fwiend.”
“Hi, Cole. Yes, I am.” He keeps looking at me in that soul-seeing way children have about them. I try not to squirm. “How are you?”
He looks down at his sailor shirt and flicks at a button.
“Darling, don’t be rude. Miss Sail asked how you are.”
Cole keeps flicking. His blond curls are orderly, not at all like every other time I’ve seen him, where they’re windblown and streaked with dirt.
Mrs. Barrow sighs. “This is what I’m talking about.” Her voice has a confiding quality to it, despite Cole standing right there. “Ordinarily, he would talk your ear off. He just isn’t himself these days.” She turns her furrowed brow back to Cole. “Are you feeling all right, sweetie?”
He doesn’t answer her, but instead looks at me. “Is Lydia coming over?”
All I can do is stare back. Tears fill my eyes. “I . . .”
“Remember, dear? Lydia is busy with big-kid school. That’s why she hasn’t been over recently.”
Cole looks at me, as if waiting for me to confirm or deny this story. I can’t seem to make words come out of my mouth.
“Cole, honey, I think I hear Papa outside. Would you run and check for Mama?”
My sharp inhale draws Walter’s gaze. I push a smile onto my face. Walter is here, and I’m in the presence of David Barrow’s wife, son, and unborn child. Surely I’m safe.
Cole doesn’t run. He ambles to the window. And in my head, I recall Lydia’s breezy voice one day in the car. I’m exhausted. I swear Cole doesn’t walk anywhere. He’s always running.
“Well, Cole. Is he here?” Mrs. Barrow asks.
The door opens and in strides Mr. Barrow, looking very Big City Businessman in his three-piece suit and fedora. He drops his hat on Cole’s head. “Hello, Mr. Barrow.” His voice is deep and jovial. “Is the Missus around?”
Cole only stands there. He doesn’t even look up at his father.
And again, I hear Lydia. I always feel unsettled around Mr. Barrow, but he must be a good father, because Cole runs and jumps on him whenever he comes home.
Mrs. Barrow laughs with too much gusto. “Hello, dear. You remember Miss Piper Sail? And this is her friend, Walter.”
Mr. Barrow’s gaze swings to us on the couch. He’s not a particularly handsome man, but he dresses and carries himself in a commanding way. “Of course. You’re lovelier every time I see you, it seems.”
“We were just leaving.”
“They had come by to say hello. We were discussing the . . . the current news in the neighborhood.”
Mr. Barrow’s face flickers with understanding. “Yes, well, I’m glad to see you’re not out walking alone, Miss Sail. I’ll show you to the door.”
This seems rather absurd considering I can see the door from here, and unease tingles in my chest.
“Thank you for calling,” Mrs. Barrow says.
“It was our pleasure. Thank you for putting your dog away.”
“Of course. If you’re not used to them, they can be quite a lot to deal with. Good-bye, now.”
“Good-bye.”
Mr. Barrow follows us outside. The door clicks closed behind him. “I don’t want you coming around and upsetting Mrs. Barrow with your talk of Lydia.” His voice is quiet but also, somehow, threatening. “The pregnancy has been hard enough on her, and she doesn’t need the stress of thinking about some girl who got herself taken.”
My hands curl into fists. “Some girl who got herself taken?”
Mr. Barrow smiles in a thin-lipped way. “I trust this is the last time we’ll have to have this conversation.”
He turns on his heel and shuts the door, leaving me with the flavor of unspoken, venomous words on my tongue.
Walter tugs at my arm. “Let’s go, Piper. He’s not worth the energy.”
But I disagree. I think looking into Mr. David Barrow and where he was Tuesday around 5:20 might be worth a lot of my energy.
First, however, I intend to track down Dr. LeVine’s notebook.
When Mariano told me he didn’t think I should go to the LeVines’ anymore, he probably just meant when the family is there. Right?
That’s what I’m banking on, anyway, as I watch Tabitha leave the house, her shopping sack on her shoulder as she sets out to do her normal Saturday errands. Matthew drove Dr. and Mrs. LeVine to an appointment of some kind with Mariano and Detective O’Malley, and Hannah and Sarah have been shipped away to relatives in the suburbs so they won’t be underfoot.
I pull the LeVines’ house key from its hiding spot, slink around to the back door, and let myself in. My heart feels ready to catapult right out of my chest, and “What ifs?” circle my thoughts like birds of prey. But I have to ignore them. Getting my hands on that notebook, learning if there’s anything else Dr. LeVine hid about Lydia, must take priority over my fears.
Bread dough rises on the kitchen counter. My mind’s eye sees the scene from the last time I stood in this kitchen—Lydia unconscious and bleeding from her fall. Her soiled Presley’s uniform. Everything had seemed so bad that afternoon, and now . . .
I must focus. I brush tears from my eyes and make my way to Lydia’s father’s dark office.
The room is soaked in prestige. A bookshelf takes up the back wall, crammed with medical texts. Framed artwork of battle scenes and certificates of Dr. LeVine’s awards and degrees take up the rest of the wall space. A rolltop desk sits atop a blue-and-red rug, which seems just feminine enough for Mrs. LeVine to have done the choosing.
What am I looking for, exactly? The notebook of course, but something else too. Something that might prove Dr. LeVine cares more about his daughter than he does his reputation.
Whatever clues I’m looking for, I’m not going to find them standing in the doorway, am I? I take a deep breath and step into the office.
A knock sounds on the front door. I slam my hands over my mouth to squelch my scream.
I take a deep breath. My heart drums so loudly, it’s hard to think. No one from the family would knock, right? I’ll very quietly go to the front door and see who it is.
I peek out the parlor window and sigh with relief. Only the gardener. He whistles something jaunty as he starts trimming the shrubs.
Not a threat. But, still, I shouldn’t dally about.
Dr. LeVine keeps his desk very neat. I carefully leaf through a small stack of folders and papers—a medical magazine, several files for patients I don’t recognize. Nothing that seems significant. But, of course, I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for.
I pull open the top drawer. Pens and pads of paper. The second drawer is full of used medical instruments—vials missing stoppers, stethoscopes without various parts. Nothing of interest. I tug at the third drawer, but it doesn’t budge.
Because it’s locked. Hmm.
Where would I keep a key to a locked desk drawer? With sinking disappointment, I realize that I would keep it on my person, along with my house and automobile keys.
But I also might hide a spare in my office. Just in case.
Where, though? I pick up the framed photographs on his desk, flip them around. Nothing. Of course, putting it with something that Tabitha would routinely pick up and dust wouldn’t be a good choice. I turn in a full circle. The bookshelf alone creates hundreds of hiding places.
I heave a sigh and pull out volume after volume of medical textbook. Nothing.
I stick a hair pin into the lock and jimmy it around, like they do in movies. Nothing.
I feel around under t
he desk for anything that might be taped there. Nothing.
I look on the backs of his framed art. Nothing.
I pull up the rug under Dr. LeVine’s desk. Noth—
Something.
My fingertips brush against cool metal, and I peel the rug back farther. The key is brass and shaped differently than keys to doors or cars. Indeed, it makes a beautiful clicking sound when I stick it inside the desk lock and turn.
The drawer slides open.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
Mariano looks up from my hastily scribbled notes. “I would ask how you came by this information, but I’m not sure I want to know.”
The spark in his eyes, however, tells a different story.
I lean back in the chair that sits by Mariano’s desk and cross my ankles. “I happened to find myself in the right place at the right time, is all.”
“How interesting.” His voice is flat, his expression unreadable. He rests his elbows on his desk. “I was pretty sure I had voiced some concerns about you visiting with the family.”
“Well, I didn’t visit them in the traditional sense of the word.”
Mariano continues to look at me. His mouth is a line and his gaze sharp. Even though heat creeps up my neck and face, likely staining my cheeks red, I refuse to look away.
The detective department is a blur of life around us. Cigarette smoke casts a haze over the room of ringing telephones and scraping chairs. The air tastes of burned coffee and pencil shavings. I don’t know how Mariano manages to think in an office that feels like a train station.
Mariano looks away first, down at the notepad on which I’d spent as much time as I dared writing notes. “So, tell me what I’m looking at.”
I scoot up against the desk, where I can see my scribbling. “There was a bundle of correspondence with a doctor friend at the Mayo Clinic, the one he planned to take Lydia to. I documented anything that seemed important in those letters on the next page. There was also the diary of Lydia’s episodes. That’s what I went in there for.”
I swallow back the emotion that clogs my throat. “You can read the list for yourself, but he talks about all the different doses of medication he tried and how she reacted.” I run my finger down the list. “Feeling like she had bugs all over her, hearing sounds nobody else did, paranoia about being followed or people talking about her, excessive sleepiness. I witnessed a lot of that.
The Lost Girl of Astor Street Page 9
