The Lost Girl of Astor Street(32)

Tonight, I believe, I will feel up to a conversation.




“We’re a very quiet group this evening.” Jane casts a smile around the dinner table at Father and me. “Surely there must be something the three of us can all talk about.”

Father smiles thinly at her. “Sorry, dear. I’m afraid my mind is on a case, and Piper isn’t much for chit-chat these days.”

I spear a wedge of boiled potato. “Having a missing best friend will do that to a girl.”

“There’s no need to be snide.” Father pats my hand. “We understand this is a difficult time for you.”

Jane slices elegant bites of her pork chop. “Perhaps it would cheer you to know that I went with that peach color you liked so well for the bridesmaids’ dresses.”

I don’t recall the peach color or liking it so well. The little girl in me wants to tell Jane this, but a voice that sounds like Lydia’s curbs my instincts. Piper, it won’t hurt you to smile and say, “How nice.”

“How nice.” My teeth are gritted, and perhaps Father notices, because he jumps in with a question for Jane about the reception hall. While they chat, I mentally slip away to thoughts about Lydia, the Finnegan gang, and a war-hero doctor who’s brilliant enough to save lives on the front lines, but doesn’t seem to understand how to help detectives find his daughter.

After dinner, as I carry plates to the kitchen for Joyce, there’s a knock on the front door.

“I’ll get it,” I tell her as she turns off the faucet.

“You sure?”

“It’s no problem.” As I rush from the kitchen, my hopes soar that it might be Mariano. That whatever he and Detective O’Malley hurried off to this afternoon was related to Lydia. And now perhaps he’s come to tell me in person that she’s been returned home safely . . .

But I open the door to the grave faces of Jeremiah and Emma Crane. Jeremiah sweeps his hat off his head and clutches it in front of him. “We would have telephoned first, but our line was occupied. May we come in?”

“Of course.” I hold the door open wider. “May I take your hats?”

I hang his trilby and her brimmed cloche on the coatrack, and then lead them into the living room. Father and Jane are still in the dining room, discussing the wedding guest list over cups of coffee. “Have a seat.”

Jeremiah and Emma settle onto the couch beside each other. While they share a family resemblance, with the sandy hair and blue eyes, Jeremiah has a certain sheen to him that makes Emma appear washed-out. Like when Joyce takes the slipcovers off the arms of the couch, the rest of the fabric then looks faded.

Emma folds her hands primly on her lap. “We wanted to see how you’re holding up.”

The way they smile at me, heads tilted and no teeth showing, takes me back to how people smiled at Mother’s funeral.

“I don’t know, honestly.” I perch on an armchair and smooth my skirt over my bare knees. My silk stockings snagged on my way home from Mariano’s office and now are buried somewhere in my bag with his handkerchief. With Jeremiah and Emma looking so proper, I wish I had bothered to put on a fresh pair when I came home.

“I can’t even imagine, Miss Sail.” Jeremiah’s voice holds more sympathy than I would expect, but I suppose empathy is a smart skill for a man who’s destined to take over one of the biggest daily newspapers in Chicago.

“I was actually planning to ring you tonight.” Surprise registers on both their faces, but I press on as if I didn’t notice. “I saw your article about Willa Mae Hermann of Detroit. And I wondered . . . I wondered how you came to know of her.”

Emma’s cheeks pinken, but Jeremiah’s gaze is unflinching. “She called us. That’s almost always how it works for cases like this. We get a call.”

“Were you the one who spoke to her?”

“I took a train to Detroit to interview her.”

“And you think her story is true?”

“I wouldn’t have reported it if I thought otherwise. There’s no reason for a girl to make up a story like that.”

Emma’s voice—sweet and almost musical—breaks into the conversation. “I feel she’s bold for coming forward. Many girls in Willa Mae’s situation might have kept quiet for the embarrassment of it all.”

Including Lydia, should this turn out to be her situation. I can almost hear her saying she just wants to put the whole thing behind her, that she doesn’t want Matthew to find out. “I agree, Emma. She’s very brave. And I was glad to see it reported.”

“You’re worried Lydia might be in the same situation, aren’t you?” Her words are direct, but her tone soft.

“I am. I know they say white slavery is more buzz than sting . . .”

Jeremiah snorts. “The reason the politicians say that, Miss Sail, is because they don’t want to have to be responsible for it. But I’ll tell you the truth—for every Willa Mae Hermann who escapes, there’s dozens of girls who don’t.”

Emma flashes me a sympathetic glance before looking to her brother. “That’s not very uplifting, Jeremiah.”

He nods to me. “My apologies, Miss Sail.”

“Considering the frankness of this conversation, I think you had better call me Piper.”