“Combining the fascinating setting of the Roaring ’20s with a smart, savvy heroine, Morrill has hit the perfect note with this captivating story.”
—RT REVIEWS, 4 Stars
“The Lost Girl of Astor Street is a delicious read! Stephanie Morrill gives readers a historical mystery full of heart and brimming with the vibrant atmosphere of 1920s Chicago. The moment I finished, I was ready to flip it over and begin again.”
—SHANNON DITTEMORE, AUTHOR OF THE ANGEL EYES TRILOGY
“Spunky Piper Sail is more interested in investigating her best friend’s death than in society’s expectations for a young woman in 1924. She’s curious, intelligent, and gutsy, and while she’s not immune to a handsome man, she’s not needy. Reminiscent of Philip Pullman’s Sally Lockhart series in all the best ways! I thoroughly enjoyed The Lost Girl of Astor Street.”
—MAUREEN DOYLE MCQUERRY, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF THE PECULIARS AND THE TIME OUT OF TIME DUET: THE TELLING STONE AND BEYOND THE DOOR
“Witty and compelling, The Lost Girl of Astor Street is as thick with romance as it is with evolving mysteries. Piper Sail is a 1920s heroine to root for, and the dashing Mariano Cassano a detective sure to win more hearts than just her own. A truly fresh and engaging story that not only kept me guessing until the very end, but that left me with a satisfied sigh for more please!”
—JOANNE BISCHOF, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF THE LADY AND THE LIONHEART
“A fast-paced mystery that sparkles with the sights and sounds of 1920s Chicago. The strong characters and setting drew me in, and the twists and turns kept me hooked until the end.”
—RENEE COLLINS, AUTHOR OF UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN
“A well-plotted mystery with plenty of twists, turns, and red herrings.”
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
“Enjoyable . . . mystery with a twist for inquisitive readers.”
—SCHOOL LIBRARY JOURNAL
“Step back to a more glamorous time with the captivating story of Piper Sail, a sassy young woman with a penchant for finding trouble. As a mystery unfolds, you'll be turning the pages and cheering on a heroine you won’t forget.”
—JENNY B. JONES, AWARD-WINNING AUTHOR OF CAN’T LET YOU GO AND THE KATIE PARKER PRODUCTION SERIES
“Thoroughly engaging. Fast-paced, filled with vivid details, and featuring a delightful heroine, it was a joy to read. It’s a keeper, for sure.”
—NEW YORK TIMES AND USA TODAY BESTSELLING AUTHOR SHELLEY SHEPARD GRAY
“In The Lost Girl of Astor Street, Morrill invites us on a wild ride through teen eyes down the crime-ridden, mob-infested streets of Chicago in the 1920s. Laden with mystery and laced with romance, this intriguing who-done-it read is a testament to friendship, courage, and first love that you won’t soon forget!”
—BETSY ST. AMANT, AUTHOR OF ALL’S FAIR IN LOVE & CUPCAKES AND LOVE ARRIVES IN PIECES
“Stephanie Morrill delivers an engrossing mystery that takes readers into the jazz clubs, illicit speakeasies, and gangster neighborhoods of 1920s Chicago in a search for a missing girl. The intrigue, romance, and glamorous Roaring Twenties setting will draw readers in.”
—JILL WILLIAMSON, CHRISTY AWARD–WINNING AUTHOR OF BY DARKNESS HID AND CAPTIVES
“Stephanie Morrill paints a vivid picture of 1920s Chicago with strong, relatable characters and their intriguing relationships. You won’t be able to stop wondering what will happen next as the clever heroine works to solve the mystery of The Lost Girl of Astor Street.”
—MELANIE DICKERSON, AUTHOR OF THE GOLDEN BRAID AND THE BEAUTIFUL PRETENDER
BLINK
The Lost Girl of Astor Street
Copyright © 2017 by Stephanie Morrill
Requests for information should be addressed to:
Blink, 3900 Sparks Dr. SE, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49546
ISBN 978-0-310-75838-9
Epub Edition January 2017 ISBN 9780310758433
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to persons living or dead is coincidental.
Any Internet addresses (websites, blogs, etc.) and telephone numbers in this book are offered as a resource. They are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement by the publisher, nor does the publisher vouch for the content of these sites and numbers for the life of this book.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior permission of the publisher.
Blink is a registered trademark of the Zondervan Corporation.
Cover design: Kirk DouPonce, Dog Eared Design
Interior design: Denise Froehlich
Printed in the United States of America
* * *
17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 /LSC/ 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Connor, my courageous boy. These last few years, you’ve taught me so much about strength, discipline, and joy. I’m so happy you’re ours.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Discussion Questions
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
CHAPTER
ONE
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
MAY 12, 1924
If he doesn’t know it already, Jeremiah Crane is about to learn that I’m not the type of girl to be pushed around. Standing behind him, I watch as he stretches his long arms across the back of the wooden bench, feigning ignorance of my presence. I glare down at the top of Jeremiah’s new hat, which he probably bought because it looks just like the trilby Rudolph Valentino wore in last month’s issue of Photoplay.
Lydia touches my elbow and pitches her voice low. “Don’t make trouble with him, Piper. Just let it go.”
Probably wise advice. Lydia’s most always is.
Our fellow Presley’s School for Girls classmates stream around us on the sidewalk, monotonous in black-and-white uniforms as they head to the L station or the automobiles idling in the pickup line.
I turn away from the bench, but the outright rudeness of Jeremiah’s action—plopping himself right in the middle when he knew Lydia and I were about to sit there—and the possibility that he thinks I’ll just lay down and take it makes me pivot around again. This is 1924, after all. A girl has the right to be heard.
I plant my hands on my hips. “Excuse me, Mr. Crane, but my friend and I were about to sit there.”
Behind me, Lydia groans.
Jeremiah turns and assumes a face of surprise. “Why, Miss Sail. I had no idea the two of you had intentions on this bench.” He makes a show of scooting over. “Plenty of room for both you and Miss LeVine.”
Jeremiah’s trilby sits askew, and his right eye squints in the mid-afternoon sun. His gaze holds a dare. Other girls at school describe him as “dashing.” I daresay Jeremiah believes his own press.
I take the seat, careful to le
ave space between me and Jeremiah, as well as room for Lydia to sit. But when I glance to my left, I see Lydia has abandoned my cause in favor of socializing with Mae Husboldt and her insipid friends. Beyond them, the sun glares off Lake Michigan, making my eyes water.
“It seems Miss LeVine’s heart was not so set on this bench after all.”
I turn and push a smile onto my face. “Do you intend to console yourself with that notion, Mr. Crane?” I arrange the folds of my straight black uniform skirt, shielding my legs from the Chicago wind, chilly even in May. “They must not keep you busy enough at the newspaper if you have time to think up schemes like taking seats from nice girls like Lydia LeVine.”
Jeremiah’s smile stays steady. “I’m just here for my sister.”
At his core, Jeremiah is a newspaper man—imperturbable. I have no problems imagining him digging for interviews and pounding away at his typewriter. Or someday taking over his father’s role as owner.
Not that I spend a lot of time thinking about Jeremiah Crane.
“Of course you are.” I look with hope to the cluster of Fords and Buicks, but the LeVine family’s Duesenberg is nowhere to be seen. And Lydia is still making conversation with Mae, who’s hardly preferable to Jeremiah.
The wind again gusts off the lake and threatens to carry away my brimless cloche. I trap it on my head with my hand.
“I see you haven’t changed.”
Jeremiah’s gaze is fastened to the hand I’ve pressed to my head. The hand that bears this week’s punishments from Ms. Underhill. Embarrassment sours my stomach. I don’t know his sister well, but my guess is that proper Emma Crane doesn’t come home from her day at Presley’s with bruised knuckles.
I tuck my hand into my coat pocket. “I trust the newspaper business is as strong as ever.”
Jeremiah opens his mouth to respond, and then stops himself.
Lydia has rejoined us. “Pardon my interruption, but Matthew is here.”
“Miss LeVine.” Jeremiah sweeps his trilby off his head and holds it over his heart. “Please forgive me for taking your seat. Miss Sail objected most vehemently on your behalf.”
Lydia beams a smile at him as if he has offered an actual apology instead of one that mocks. “It’s forgotten. Have a good day, Mr. Crane.”
“Thank you for being so gracious.” Jeremiah winks at me as he settles his hat back on his head. “Stay out of trouble, Miss Sail.”
Laughter spills from Lydia. “If you knew Piper”—she links her arm through mine, pulling me toward the idling car—“you would know that’s quite impossible.”
Jeremiah chuckles behind us.
“Excuse me.” I keep my voice low and my chin high. “I was trying to stand up for you. He took your seat.”
“It was hardly my seat. Those are public benches. And he only did it to goad you.” Her eyes spark with mischief as she grins at me. “Did you and Mr. Crane have an enjoyable conversation?”
“Did you leave me alone with him on purpose?”
Lydia giggles and shrugs. “Maybe.”
Heat climbs up my neck and burns my cheeks. Did Jeremiah think I was trying to finagle alone time with him?
Lydia turns a sweet smile on Matthew, who sweeps open the back door for us. “Good afternoon, ladies. Sorry to be late.”
“No trouble at all.” Lydia slides through to the other side to create room for me.
I refuse to offer such comforts. If he’d been on time, I wouldn’t have had to spar with Jeremiah in the first place. I step one foot in the car, then pause. “Do you know if Walter is home yet?”
He tips his flat cap. “I haven’t heard, Miss Sail.”
Matthew closes the door behind me once my limbs are tucked safely inside. “He had better return today,” I say to Lydia. “Home is almost insufferable without him around.”
Lydia fusses with a tendril of long, flame-red hair. Her mother, unfortunately, won’t hear of her bobbing it. And Lydia won’t hear of doing something of which her parents disapprove. “Piper, you really should consider giving up that friendship. You’re getting too old to be friends with boys.”
“We’re not going to have this conversation yet again, are we? I’ve told you—it’s not like that with Walter and me.”
“It hasn’t been, but it’ll change if you stay on this course. You don’t really want to be a baseball player’s wife, do you? Surely even you couldn’t be happy in that situation.”
I glance up front as Matthew folds his tall frame behind the wheel. I wait until the engine thunders to life before answering. “First of all, Walter is like a brother. Secondly, even if he weren’t, you of all people, Lydia LeVine, are hardly in a position to lecture me on propriety when—”
Lydia’s ice-blue eyes spear me. “Not a word about that.” Her gaze skitters to the back of Matthew’s head and her cheeks flush red.
I glance at Matthew’s profile. I can’t exactly fault Lydia’s fondness for him. While he doesn’t have the rakish, worldly charm of Jeremiah Crane—which I care nothing for, of course—there’s a quiet confidence about him that all men would do well to have.
Still. Lydia is a darling of the Astor Street district. Not just wealthy and well-bred, but sweet too. She could have anyone. Why Matthew?
Maybe Mrs. LeVine is right. Maybe I am a bad influence on her daughter.
Lydia scratches behind her ear. Then on her arm. “Do I have something on me? I’m so itchy today.”
“I don’t see anything.”
“It’s weird to have dry skin this time of year, right?”
My heart seems to pause in my chest. Is this some side effect of her illness?
“And at least he has goals. Dreams.” Lydia’s voice is so quiet that even I can hardly hear her. She scratches at the nape of her neck again. “Walter’s whole life is baseball. What happens if he never becomes a professional? If he gets injured? I’m just looking out for you, Piper. You deserve more than a paycheck-to-paycheck life.”
I raise my eyebrows at her. “I’m running out of ways to say this—I have no intentions of marrying Walter. But what kind of life do you think you’d have with—”
She gives me the same harsh look I’ve seen Mrs. LeVine wear when she wants Lydia’s little sisters to shut their mouths.
The car is so loud that there’s no way Matthew can hear, but I humor her sensitivities and utilize our code name. “Pickles. What kind of life do you think you’d have with Pickles?”
Lydia giggles, and the flush of embarrassment fades to a becoming shade of pink. She leans forward and taps Matthew’s shoulder with a gloved hand. “Matthew? I’ll need you to drop me at the Barrows’ home today.”
My body goes stiff. Is Lydia truly planning to watch Cole today?
Lydia leans back in her seat. Scratches the back of her leg. “This dry weather must be what has me so itchy.”
I look out the window, my mind churning as I take in the tall buildings of Lake Shore Drive. Maybe I’m overreacting and Lydia is merely paying a social visit to Mrs. Barrow. “Why are you going to the Barrows’?”
“They still haven’t found a new nanny, so I’m watching Cole when I can.”
If only I could come right out and tell Lydia why she’s in no shape to care for a small child. You can’t tell anyone—Mrs. LeVine’s cautionary words ring in my ear—not even Lydia.
Still. I have to say something. “Do your parents know?”
Lydia’s blue eyes widen. “Of course.”
“And they don’t mind?”
“Why ever would they? Mrs. Barrow is desperate for help. It’s horrible, the situation they’re in. What sort of person—especially a nanny by trade—leaves a family when the mother is weeks out from the birth of a second child? To go work in some speakeasy, of all places?”
“It is horrible. But . . .” I weigh my words before letting them out. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to it today?”
Lydia directs her gaze forward. Her jaw clenches and her pert nose is in the air. “
Of course.”
I open my mouth, but the words I want to say—you really shouldn’t—stick in my throat. I’m not accustomed to handing out cautionary advice.
“Mrs. Barrow is lucky to have you,” I say instead.
“It’s no trouble. Cole is such a dear.”
My snort of laughter is apparently audible over the roar of the engine. Lydia grins at me. “He is, I swear. You just happen to hate all children.”
“Just because I’ve yet to meet a child I enjoy doesn’t mean I hate all children.”
“You don’t even like your own nephew.”
“Who would? Howie cries all the time.”
“He’s a baby. And he’s darling.”
“And you’re the nicest person in the world.”
Lydia shakes her head at me and then gazes out at Lake Michigan, blue-gray and choppy. “I wonder if the water has warmed at all.”
“I doubt it.”
Previous summers, we spent oodles of time on its shores. Sand gritty between our toes as we ate hot dogs slathered with tangy mustard and spicy onions. Seagulls cawing and boys playing a showy game of ball nearby. Lydia’s never put more than her ankles in the lake, I’m sure. And I suppose that’s a good thing. Even if her parents haven’t banned her from caring for children, they must have banned swimming. Right?
Matthew steers off bustling Lake Shore Drive and onto the relative quiet of Astor Street. My oldest brother lives in the suburbs now, and when he visits he complains about the noise of our neighborhood, how a man can’t even smoke his pipe in the privacy of his yard.
True, our yard is the size of a hatbox and barely has room for the few shrubs within the wrought iron fence. On one side, our stone walls graze the brick home of the Lincoln family, and on the other we have hardly a foot of space between us and the Applegates. No, not much space for a man who wants to smoke his pipe in solitude. But it’s where Mother once lived and loved us, and anytime I imagine myself leaving this fall for college, my eyes sting with tears.
“Thank you, Matthew,” I say as I push open the door.
“Of course, Miss Sail.” After over a year of bringing me home from school, I’ve finally convinced him to stay seated and let me get my own door. But he always looks rather uncomfortable about it.
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