The Lost Girl of Astor Street(21)

At that, his chin trembles, and he busies himself with the bucket of suds.

“Let’s get you home,” Walter murmurs as he guides me up the alley.

“She’s out there, Walter. We have to find her.”

“Lots of people are looking.” Walter’s words are low and soothing. “They’re doing their best.”

But what if their best isn’t enough?





CHAPTER


FIVE


Piper?” Joyce stands in the doorway of the living room. Her pale blue work dress has damp patches from washing dinner dishes and she holds a rag in her hand. “Jeremiah Crane is on the phone for you.”

Walter stops digging through the box of screws and Nick’s heel stops tapping against the floor.

“Can you tell him I’m not available to speak right now? That I’ll ring him tomorrow?”

“Of course.” Joyce’s footsteps whisper down the hall, back to Father’s office.

“What’s he calling for?”

I open my mouth to answer Walter.

“He’s keen on her.” Nick taps his pipe against the desk. “He called earlier too.”

I almost say he’s not keen on me, but then I recall this afternoon’s invitation to the movies. The memory is foggy, as if perhaps it was only a dream.

I press my fountain pen to the page of my notebook. Lydia watched Cole for the Barrow family during the last month because their nanny left to work at John Barleycorn. She once told me that she didn’t like being there if it was just Mr. Barrow, because—

“How can you study at a time like this?” Nick’s voice is filled with disgust as he folds shut the newspaper. “I haven’t been able to get a blasted thing done all afternoon, I’m so worried.”

“I’m not studying. And sitting there, smoking your pipe, and staring at the paper won’t bring Lydia home.”

I tap my pen a few times. What were Lydia’s exact words about Mr. Barrow?

She was “unsettled in his presence,” she once said to me, and she mused that maybe that was why their nanny had quit. That it was better to be a waitress at a speakeasy, where being flirted with is a known part of the job.

“Piper, what are you working on?” Walter’s voice sounds nervous, as if he already knows the answer to his question.

“One second.” I finish my thought about possible motives for Mr. Barrow—could Lydia have learned something about him that he didn’t like?—and then look up. “I’m writing down anything about Lydia that seems like it could be important. Things Lydia said or reasons others might have had a grudge against her or the family. That sort of thing.”

This is met with silence. Nick’s mouth hangs open slightly and Walter seems to have forgotten he was in the middle of finding a screw to repair the leg of the end table.

“When I’m done, I’ll give it to the detectives, and hopefully it’ll help them.” I poise my pen above the page and consider the next name.

“Piper . . .” Walter sets down the box of screws. “I know it’s hard to wait, but I think you should just let the detectives do their work.”

“I’m letting them do their work.” My pen flows in smooth letters across the line, emitting the comforting smell of ink. “They felt it necessary to question me, and Detective Cassano gave me their card. I’m just answering his questions more thoroughly.”

Matthew has been the LeVine family’s chauffeur for over a year—

“Where do you think she is?” Nick’s voice is a notch above a whisper.

I look at my brother, his blond hair tousled from his hat. Behind his spectacles, his eyes, blue like Father’s, spark with fear. I think of the way he had been looking at Lydia these last few months. It had been similar to how Lydia had looked at Matthew.

“I don’t know,” I say.

What if Nick had discovered how Lydia felt about Matthew? What if yesterday, instead of heading to school like he said, he had lingered outside and listened to our conversation? And what if he had decided to wait around the corner for Lydia to try and talk to her? Only it didn’t go well, and his hurt and jealousy made him—

No. This is my brother. He cares about Lydia. Yes, he’s temperamental and big-headed, but violent? No way.

“Where are you going?” Walter asks as I stand. The screw he’d been holding clatters back into the box.

“I’m going to use the telephone in Father’s office. I’ll be right back.”

Father used to spend most evenings at his desk, reviewing cases as he enjoyed a glass of scotch. But nine months ago, when he met the new-to-town court reporter, Jane Miller, all that changed. Now the cherry wood desk is frequently empty at night, and the framed portrait of Mother sits in the dark unless Joyce comes in to answer the telephone.

I close Father’s office door with a click. The room smells of tobacco and neglect, and the only sound in the office is the clock, ticking away seconds with frightening speed. Lydia’s absence has done peculiar things to my perception of time. In my heart, she’s been missing for an eternity, and minutes are being siphoned away far too rapidly.

I pull Detective Cassano’s card from the pocket of my skirt. I hold the earpiece in my left hand and move a trembling finger to dial the first number. There’s no need to be nervous. I’ll just be leaving a message asking him to please telephone me tomorrow.