by Manhattan Mayhem: New Crime Stories From Mystery Writers of America
“Months later, I found an engraved invitation under our door. Tucked in the envelope was a note in Bitsy’s flowery handwriting. Neighbors were hosting a party in Harold’s honor, and she wanted us to come. The Broughtons lived in the largest private home on Sutton Place, a four-story brick Georgian that had been built for J. P. Morgan’s daughter Anne.
“James and I debated about whether we should go. We’d be ducks out of water among Harold’s millionaire friends. We had nothing reasonable to wear around people swaddled in haute couture and Harry Winston. But in the end, we decided to accept. After all, Bitsy had embraced me as a friend. She’d been so kind to me and little Sam. How could we turn her down?
“My sister Maureen and her husband, Frank, had made a killing in commercial real estate. She insisted I borrow her favorite dress, a full-skirted floral by Oscar de la Renta. Maureen lent me matching shoes and a Judith Leiber minaudière in the shape of a red rose. I felt like a princess. And James was my prince, dashing in his rented tux.
“The evening was unusually warm for early April, with a light lilac-scented breeze. Waiters in white coats served champagne and canapés in the garden overlooking the East River. Huge tug-drawn barges lumbered by amid darting powerboats. The low wrought-iron railing around the periphery was laced with tiny lights. A string quartet played the loveliest music: Brahms’s Double Concerto, Pachelbel’s Canon, and Haydn’s Emperor. Amazing how the details stick with me. Bitsy’s disappearance cast the evening in amber.
“Harold’s children were there. Trey was a harsher, brasher version of his father. On his arm was a gum-cracking blonde in a gold lamé mini-dress and sparkling stiletto heels. Harold’s daughter Marissa showed up solo in jeans, a sloppy white shirt, and cowboy boots. Both acted icy and contemptuous: a study in filial resentment.
“I was taking in the alien habitat and exotic species when I spotted Bitsy in the shadow of a towering oak, staring toward the river. I hesitated, thinking she might want a moment alone, but something drew me to her.
“When I asked if she was all right, she turned and fixed me with those moonstone eyes. ‘You’re so lucky to be a writer, Colleen,’ she said. ‘You get to decide where your stories will go.’
“I told her that wasn’t entirely true. Sure, I got to imagine and test possibilities. But stories have to make sense. There has to be consistency, believability, and internal logic. A writer can’t simply wander as she pleases, not if she wants to produce something publishable that readers will accept. And sometimes, I get stumped. I have no idea what comes next, can’t even envision how to tie things up. Until I do.”
Jeffers chuckled. “Nothing like a fat check at the end of the rainbow to get those juices flowing, right, Colleen?”
L. C. silenced him with a poison eye dart.
“Soon after that, we were invited in for dinner. Bitsy hugged me, which had never been her way. And she whispered in my ear. ‘Bless you, my friend. Bless you and your darling little Sam.’ Then she went off to find Harold. James and I made our way inside together.
“As we took our seats, we had a frantic call from Rachel, Sam’s babysitter. She’d turned her back for an instant, and the baby had taken a spill. I could hear his pained screams in the background. James and I raced home and rushed him to the ER at Lenox Hill. They checked him thoroughly, closed the cut on his forehead with Krazy Glue, and sent us home. Everything was fine. Or so we thought.
“Late the next day, Harold called, frantic. Had I heard from Bitsy? Did I have any idea where she might be? He hadn’t seen her since the party. After dinner, the men had gone to the library for cognac and cigars. After a while, Bitsy had poked her head in to say goodbye. She was tired. She was going to bed.
“When Harold got home about an hour later, their bedroom door was closed. He didn’t want to disturb Bitsy, so he slept in the guest room. By the time he awoke the next morning she was gone. Their room looked exactly as they’d left it after dressing for the party. Wrappings and tags from her red chiffon Halston gown lay crumpled on the velvet settee. Pots of makeup, brushes, and crystal perfume atomizers with tasseled caps were strewn on the vanity. No one had slept in the bed.
“I tried to reassure him. Maybe she’d gone for a walk and lost track of the time. Bitsy loved to wander. But deep down, I knew something was wrong.
“Three days later, the story broke in front page headlines: “Millionaire’s Bride Missing.” The picture plastered underneath was from their wedding: Bitsy’s radiant face, moonstone eyes fixed on the boundless future. A massive investigation followed. Flyers were posted everywhere: Have You Seen This Woman? Harold offered a $100,000 reward for information leading to her safe return.
“Her disappearance sparked endless speculation. Maybe she’d been murdered, her body tossed in the East River and dragged by the vicious currents out to sea.
“Maybe she’d been diagnosed with a lethal illness and gone off to die alone. Maybe she’d run off with another man, or gotten embroiled in a criminal enterprise. Some embraced the theory that an obsessed admirer had kidnapped her. Why wouldn’t her looks, talent, and fortuitous marriage be punishable by violent demise? Tongues wagged about a secret addiction, mental breakdown, or suicide. But weeks turned to years, and still no ransom demand, no body, no suicide note, not a single credible lead.
“As time passed, the case was shunted to the back pages and, eventually, ceased to be news. A few years later, a book, Little Girl Lost, came out about the disappearance. The author claimed that Bitsy had taken up with a charismatic cult leader and was living off the grid in the Adirondacks. Investigators found no evidence that such a cult existed and nothing to bolster the convoluted theory. Obviously, the writer had hoped to capitalize on a lurid story. Nevertheless, press around the publication stirred everything up again. For a while, Sutton Place was unwilling host to yet another media circus. But thankfully, after the book was discredited, the furor died a natural death.
“I understood Harold’s decision to stay away. For a long time, I avoided the neighborhood, too. Then one morning, while Sam was at nursery school, I forced myself to walk to Sutton Place and take a look at their townhouse.
“Someone was keeping up the place. Salvia and snapdragons bloomed in the window boxes. The lawn had been mowed; the bushes trimmed. The leaded glass windows sparkled. When I peered inside, I was shocked to find everything unchanged. Through the archway that led to the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of Bitsy’s precious coffeemaker. A china cup perched beneath the spout, as if she were about to brew a cup of her beloved cappuccino. Still, the emptiness was palpable. No one lived there. Not anymore.
“A few weeks later, James finished his residency. He joined an internal medicine practice in Greenwich, Connecticut, and we resettled there. My first novel vanished without a trace, but the second became a surprise best seller. Knopf offered a three-book contract with a bigger advance than I’d ever dared to imagine. We put a down payment on the Lake Avenue house.
“Our family continued to grow. After Sam and our daughter Lillian, we had the twins, Lucy and Patsy, and then Robert came along, our little caboose. Those were busy, crazy times, but also full and fun. I wouldn’t have traded a day of it.
“Once the whole brood was grown and launched, James and I bought the apartment on Riverside Drive. I loved the idea of a pied-à-terre in Manhattan, and we wanted a river view, but any time the broker suggested I look at a listing on the East Side, I refused. I wanted to stay away from Sutton Place.
“And I did—until last fall. I’d agreed to speak at a fund-raiser for Literacy Partners. My publicist had arranged everything. Until I was in the car on the way, I had no idea the event was to be held in a penthouse down the block from where Bitsy used to live.
“We’d left extra time because of the snow, so we arrived a few minutes early. I asked the driver to take a slow loop around the neighborhood. And I was glad I did. Avoidance did not erase reality. Bitsy’s disappearance was a tragic fact. I’d do better to confront it t
han try to pretend it hadn’t happened. Soon after that, I became preoccupied with the case and realized I needed to write about it.
“I didn’t return to Sutton Place until I was deeply into the story. By then, I’d traveled to London to meet with Harold’s business partner, Richard DeWitt, and to France to see his brother Gregory. Several of Harold’s friends had retired to Florida, so I spent a couple of weeks in Palm Beach and Key Biscayne.
“Harold’s children live in the flats of Beverly Hills. Both of them are over sixty now. Trey is twice divorced, with two adult daughters, engaged to a very young, very beautiful actress. Marissa and her partner, an artist named Eloise, own an art gallery on Rodeo Drive.
“None of them had seen Harold in many years. After Bitsy’s disappearance, he’d settled in Costa Rica. He’d lived a simple life in relative seclusion. A decade ago, he suffered a massive stroke and died instantly. He left everything to a charitable trust dedicated to preserving Caribbean rainforests. Trey and Marissa hired big gun lawyers to challenge the will, but they lost.
“My last stop was Bitsy’s hometown. Myrtle, Mississippi, is tiny. Population five hundred. Everyone knows everybody and everything, and everyone was eager to talk. Bitsy’s father had died years earlier, but I met members of the Baptist congregation where he used to preach. Reverend Yudis had always liked his whiskey, which he took—naturally—for medicinal purposes. He’d started hitting the bottle harder after Bitsy ran away. One night after many too many at Gus’s Tavern, he rammed his pickup head-on into a Kia carrying a family with two little boys. No one survived.
“I spoke with a man named Brent Gregorio. He ran the soybean farm that had been in his family for six generations. He’d gone to high school with Bitsy’s mother, Jenny Lou. Crying shame what had become of her, he said: mean drunk of a husband, miserable life. Years after Bitsy ran off, Jenny went missing. Her body turned up weeks later, floating in the creek. The coroner ruled the drowning accidental, but Mr. Gregorio was convinced she’d committed suicide.
“A retired teacher named Bobbi-Jo Cline had been Bitsy’s English teacher at West Union High. She remembered Bitsy as pretty and well-liked, but strangely serious at times. Two of Bitsy’s best childhood friends, Nora Bea Strang and Clara Addison, described her the same way. They’d be having fun, doing each other’s hair, talking nonsense, and then for no reason she’d go glum. Both of them now have gray hair and grandkids. Only Bitsy stayed frozen in time.”
Jeffers was jotting faster now, stopping at intervals to reach down and tap something on the iPhone he had hidden poorly in his lap.
“At that point, I’d exhausted all my leads in Myrtle. On the morning I was scheduled to fly out, a woman named CeeCee Adlen called my cellphone. She’d heard I was in town, asking around about Bitsy. She’d moved to Jacksonville years earlier, but she’d made the three-hour drive to see me. I agreed to meet her at the diner and changed to a later flight.
“CeeCee had plenty to say, all bad. Her son Ray had fallen for Bitsy back in high school, and they’d been sweethearts. CeeCee had always known the girl was a two-bit phony. She’d tried to talk some sense into Ray, but he’d been blinded by the pretty package. He’d been such a good boy. But after that ‘little slut’—her words—took off on him, he fell apart. Got into drugs. Started stealing to support his habit. He’d been in and out of prison since. One week after he was last paroled in ’04, he was shot to death in a bar fight. Left a wife and four kids. Bitsy was to blame. No matter that she’d been out of Ray’s life since high school. People see what they want to see.”
Jeffers chuckled. “Tell me about it.”
“The story was coming together. I knew the book would work, but I wasn’t satisfied. I needed to revisit Bitsy’s home. Places can yield crucial secrets if you know how to look.
“My assistant Erin is a crack researcher. She helped me dig through property records downtown. The Graingers’ townhouse has changed hands six times. Three years ago, it sold to the current owners: Caroline and Ryan Matthews. Over the following week, I left several messages on their voicemail, asking if they’d agree to a short visit. All I needed was to walk through the rooms on the main floor. But they didn’t respond.
“I understood, of course. Why would they want their home associated with such a tragic event?”
“Gotcha. Bad for property values; good if they want to be on a city tour for lovers of creepy things,” Jeffers said.
“I can imagine what else would be on that itinerary,” L. C. said with a pointed glare.
“So, what happened?” Tonya said.
Stephanie chimed in, “Did you reach them? Did you get to see the townhouse?”
“I left one more message, inviting them to call my publisher. Graham would confirm I was a legitimate writer, not some kook. Still, I heard nothing. So I resigned myself to finishing the book without the visit. Instead, I’d walk through the neighborhood, see what I could from the outside. And that’s what I did last Thursday.”
“I had a lunch date with an old friend at Felidia. After we parted company, I headed toward Sutton Place. As I walked that short distance, the sky darkened and it started to drizzle.
“Standing across the street, I stared at the townhouse. A stuffed bear sprawled facedown in one of the flower boxes. A double stroller lolled against the stair rail. By then, it was raining harder, but I barely noticed. I was drawn closer, crossing the road.
“As I reached the curb, a ginger-haired sprite rushed out to rescue Teddy and the stroller. Spotting me, she did a cartoon double take. ‘Oh, my goodness! Can it be? Are you Colleen O’Day?’
“ ‘I am. Please forgive the intrusion.’ I admitted it was wrong of me to show up after she didn’t return my calls. It was her home, her absolute right to refuse to open it to a stranger.
“She frowned. ‘You called? I never got the message. But you’re welcome, of course. Come in. Please.’
“She settled the stuffed bear on a child-sized maple rocker and plopped the stroller in the back hall. ‘I’m Caroline Matthews, Ms. O’Day. What a thrill it is to meet you. You’re my all-time favorite writer! Are you checking out our place for a new novel? How exciting would that be?’
“What I told her was true, but vague. I was basing a story on a cold case from the seventies. I was planning to set part of it in a townhouse like this one, but the identifying details and exact location would be disguised. She said she’d be delighted to help.
“Of all things, she was apologetic. ‘So sorry about the mix-up,’ she said. ‘Our regular nanny is out with pneumonia, so our old nanny has been helping out a bit. She must have picked up your voicemails. She stashes things in the strangest places: under the sink, behind the changing table. Nanny Beth has always been a little scattered about stuff like that, head in the clouds. But she’s great with the kids. Think Mary Poppins, only American and old. Plus, she’s part of the family. Believe it or not, she was my husband’s nanny.’
“She’s upstairs bathing little Sammy right now. Messiest eater ever! Think Jackson Pollock, only with yogurt and mashed peas. Which reminds me, I’d better run up with Boo Boo bear, or he’ll never go down for his nap. Please, Ms. O’Day. Make yourself at home. Look around all you like.’
“Everything had changed. Their furniture was modern: French blue Saarinen egg chairs and that red sofa modeled after Mae West’s lips. The place brimmed with happy clutter: toys everywhere, safety grates hugging the stairs. They had three small boys, the oldest two in preschool. I could hear the baby, chortling and splashing. Nanny Beth hummed in the background, a familiar tune I couldn’t quite place. How pleased Bitsy would be to have her home full of so much life and exuberance. I could imagine what she’d say, Heaven, right?
“But that was all. The townhouse served up no sudden flash of insight. I called upstairs to thank Caroline Matthews, and left.
“As I was about to hail a cab, I had another idea. I headed down the block, past what used to be the Broughtons’ house, where I’d last see
n Bitsy. A year after her disappearance, the family donated the property to the United Nations. It’s been home to the Secretary General ever since.
“The windows were blackened in the scrawny NYPD security booth out front. I turned the corner to escape those unseen eyes. And there I stopped. Through a stand of Japanese privet, I caught a glimpse of the garden.
“The sight propelled me back to the night of the party. I hear the ghost strains of Pachelbel’s Canon over the growling rumble of a passing barge; the crystalline clink of laughter and champagne flutes. A hint of lilac rides the silken breeze. Elegant guests mingle beneath a gibbous moon. I see Bitsy standing off in the shadows, staring at the tides. She turns and fixes me with her mesmerizing eyes. You’re so lucky to be a writer, Colleen. She leans in and hugs me. And with that, everything falls into place. I’d had the answer all along.”
Jeffers scowled. “Huh? I don’t get it.”
“Thankfully, a cab came by. I phoned my brother-in-law on the way. My sister Maureen lost her battle with leukemia a year ago, and poor Frank has been horribly depressed. He barely eats, rarely goes out.
“I could hardly contain myself, but I didn’t want to say anything, even to Frank, until I made sure my theory was true. I told him I needed to check on something of Maureen’s for my book, and he waved me toward their room.
“Frank hasn’t been able to part with Maureen’s things. Everything is as she left it. I found what I was after right away. And there it was in black and white.”
Jeffers scratched behind his ear. “I still don’t get it.”
“When Bitsy hugged me that night, she slipped a note into the pocket of Maureen’s beautiful dress. And there it remained, yellowed with age. I’ll never forget the words: I can’t bear the lies anymore. I don’t belong and never will. This has to end now, tonight. I’ve studied the tides. The river will take me where I need to go. Please tell Harold I’m sorry. Tell him I had no choice.