The Lost Girl of Astor Street

by Stephanie Morrill

  Father chuckles. “You get that from me, I’m afraid. Your mother loved it. She used to recite Psalms to me.” He pops a bite of steak into his mouth. “From the Bible.”

  “I’m familiar with Psalms, Father. I pay attention on Sunday mornings.”

  Father winks at me. “Good for you, Piper.” He swirls the red wine in his glass and holds it up as if offering me a toast. “Don’t tell Reverend on me.”

  Despite alcohol being illegal, I don’t imagine Reverend would be too shocked to learn Father continues to enjoy a nightly glass of wine.

  The table falls into silence, with the exception of chewing and Nick’s rustling newspaper. Dinners when Mother was still with us were alive with conversation. Mostly between her and Father, but also us kids. She certainly never would have allowed Nick to read the newspaper during marked family time.

  Nick turns the page. “Looks like a promising season for the Cubs. Jigger Statz will be back.”

  “I would have more faith in the organization if they would sign Walter.” I stab my boiled carrots. “But I suppose there’s always next season.”

  Father pours himself another glass of red and offers the bottle to my brother. “Nick, you help with the Cassanos’ cases. You should enjoy some of the spoils.”

  As Father and Nick lapse into lawyer speak about the evidence that earned a dismissal of the charges against a client, my thoughts drift to Walter and our conversation yesterday. Would he still want to play for the Cubs now that Audrey is in the picture? It rattles me to think how tempted he is to give up his first love—baseball—because of a few good dates.

  Why did both my dear friends have to fall in love at the same time? It leaves me woefully short of sane people with whom I can converse.

  “We were lucky to end up with Judge Hill.” Nick swirls his wine, imitating Father. “He’s smart enough to see which police have been bought by the Finnegans.”

  Father shakes his head. “The statement from Giovanni’s son sealed the deal, I think.” He glances at me. Smiles. “But let’s not speak of such gruesome matters in front of Piper. Especially not tonight.” The way he lays his napkin beside his plate and leans back in his chair calls to mind Joyce saying he’d requested Nick and I be present for dinner. “I have some good news to share with you both.”

  I brace myself for the blow that I’ve anticipated these last six months.

  “I have asked Jane to marry me, and she has agreed. She wanted to be here when I told you, but I decided it would be best to tell you myself.”

  Of course she wanted to be here. She wanted to look down her snub nose at me in her moment of victory. Even though I have expected the news, my mouth fills with a bitter taste, and it’s not just from the boiled Brussels sprouts.

  Father smooths the tablecloth. He’s nervous. “I had hoped Tim and Gretchen could join us for dinner as well, but they had other commitments, so I had to tell your brother on the phone this afternoon.”

  And how did my oldest brother feel when he heard Father is about to marry a woman who’s a year younger than himself? Maybe it’s different for men. Maybe Tim finds it admirable that Father can win a lady so young.

  My stomach clenches like a fist.

  Nick puts on the smile he uses when practicing being in a courtroom. “Congratulations, Pop. When’s the big day?”

  A beat of silence. “June fourteenth.”

  The words are a knife, and I suck in a breath. “Is that really necessary?”

  “I’m sorry, Piper. I know it’s hard.” Father’s gaze holds sympathy, and I wish that meant something to me. “With this short of notice, it was the only available date.”

  The little girl inside me is stomping her feet, screaming herself hoarse. How dare you! she screams. How dare you get married on Mother’s birthday!

  The dining room fills with the screech of my chair pushing back on the wood floor.

  “Wait, Piper. I know how it devastated you to lose your mother.” Father’s voice has an urgency, and I think I’m getting a taste of what juries see when Timothy Sail Senior pleads his client’s case. “It destroyed me to lose Elsie. It’s why I never pursued remarriage, despite knowing she would have wanted you to grow up with a mother—”

  “I have a mother.”

  Father’s eyes are tender as he gazes at me. “Of course you do. I should have said ‘Mother would have wanted you to have a female to talk to.’”

  “I have Joyce.”

  “Who’s wonderful, and who has made our loss tolerable these last five years. But Jane is a modern woman of society. There are so many opportunities for young women these days, and she’ll be able to guide you through these years as you attend college and look for a husband.”

  Nick snorts as he pushes his bite of steak through gravy. I’m too emotionally ravaged to spare him a nasty look, but Father sends him one before turning back to me.

  “I’m sorry the timing has worked out this way, Piper.”

  As if this is completely out of his control.

  I look away from him, keep my jaw locked. “May I be excused?”

  Father hesitates. “Perhaps . . . Perhaps Jane and I could be married later in the summer. But the next available date is August ninth, and I just can’t bring myself to do that.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Or rather, the damage has already been done. Just knowing that Father is willing to have the wedding on what would have been Mother’s birthday is what hurts.

  “What’s August ninth?” Nick asks around the food in his mouth.

  “The anniversary of Mother’s death,” I say when Father is silent. I look my father in the eye. “May I be excused?”

  He rakes in a breath. “I know my remarrying would’ve been hard for you regardless. I’m just sorry I’ve made it harder.”

  “I have poetry to read.”

  “Fine. You’re excused.”

  As I turn from the table, Joyce enters the dining room. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a telephone call for you, Piper.”

  “You can take it in my office, honey.”

  If Father expects a thank-you, he doesn’t get one. I drag myself to his office. I’m not in the mood to be happy for Lydia, to hear every detail of her conversation with Matthew. I just want to be alone in my room where I can think and cry.

  In the graying light of the room, I flop onto Father’s office chair and pull the candlestick phone onto my lap. “Hello, Lydia.”

  There’s silence. “Piper”—not a female voice—“this is Dr. LeVine. I thought Lydia might be there. Is she not?”

  “No, sir. She was here around five o’clock, but she didn’t stay long.”

  “Oh.” And then again, but with a different note, “Oh. We thought she would dine with your family.”

  So she’s getting her date, and I don’t even get the courtesy of being told that I’m the cover story? That’s just ducky. Regular Lydia wouldn’t do anything so dishonest, but this new Lydia who fancies herself in love? She’s probably dancing the night away at the Green Door Tavern.

  “When did she leave?” Dr. LeVine’s voice is curt.

  “I don’t remember. She didn’t stay terribly long.” I swallow. How can I salvage this? “I believe she was going to stop by the Barrows’. Perhaps she’s dining with them?”

  Of course they’ll just say she isn’t, but really, if Lydia wants me to lie for her, she has to clue me in ahead of time.

  “If you see her, please tell her we want her at home.”

  “Sure, Dr. LeVine.” But he’s hung up.

  I sigh and hang the earpiece back on its hook. The one night I need Lydia to be her steadfast, tender-hearted self, she’s sneaking around.

  “She’ll get over it,” Nick is saying to Father in the dining room. “You and Jane can’t design your whole life around Piper.”

  My back stiffens. Is it too much to ask for a little sensitivity for Mother’s birthday?

  Father’s voice is too low for me to make out, but I don’t care to eavesdr
op. My stocking feet whisper against the hardwood floors as I stalk up two flights of stairs to my bedroom. I shut the door behind me with such force, the glass shade on my lamp rattles.

  I take in my room—so full of my mother—with dry eyes. The white iron bed and pink bedding that she picked out when I was too young to know I didn’t like pink. The desk she surprised me with when I was ten and in love with writing stories. The armoire that was hers . . . until she no longer needed it.

  I sit in the rocking chair that she used with all three of us children and wait for the tears to come. I know Father’s right, that Mother would have encouraged remarriage. Would have likely told me that she wasn’t using her birthday anymore, so Father and Jane might as well have it. My guess is she would have liked Jane and her fussy, girly ways, because Mother liked everyone.

  But would she like this girl that I am? Bitterness over losing her has certainly festered in my heart these last five years. And in embracing the resentment, perhaps I’ve overlooked becoming a lady whom Elsie Sail would have been proud to call her daughter.

  “Why, I can’t believe my eyes. Is that possibly Miss Sail walking alone?”

  I turn and find Jeremiah Crane standing along the walkway of Presley’s the next afternoon. His trilby tips at an angle, his mouth is set in a smirk, and his hands are in the pockets of his trousers. The combination of which makes up a rather rakish picture.

  I hesitate, and then step out of the flow of girls to join Jeremiah. “And how are you today, Mr. Crane?”

  “Very well, thank you.” Jeremiah makes a show of glancing about. “Where is your Miss LeVine this afternoon? I hardly recognized you without her.”

  Of course. Lydia’s red hair and lovely face have always attracted male attention. I tip my face up to the warm sunlight in hopes that Jeremiah won’t read into any disappointment that might be evident. “At home, I believe.”

  Probably suffering from punishment so severe, she couldn’t have even imagined it.

  “Have they come for you, Miss Sail?” Jeremiah asks teasingly.

  I look to Jeremiah and find him grinning, his gaze attached to something behind me. But when I try to follow his eye line, I see nothing but vehicles and parents. My confusion must be clear because Jeremiah nods toward the street. “See those two men who just got out of the touring sedan by the streetlamp?”

  “Yes.” One looks near Father’s age, and is thick, with a belly that implies he doesn’t let Prohibition tamper the amount of beer he drinks. The other is trim with olive skin and, from this distance at least, seems quite young. Maybe only three or four years older than me.

  “That car they just got out of is a detective bureau vehicle.” Jeremiah leans against the railing and crosses his arms over his chest. There’s a spark of mischief in his slate-blue eyes. “Have pastries gone missing from the teacher’s lounge again, Miss Sail?”

  My cheeks heat. “I can neither confirm nor deny that.”

  Jeremiah releases a loud laugh. “What other response would I expect from a lawyer’s daughter?”

  “Surely you Cranes have plenty to discuss at the dinner table.” I clap a hand to my hat as a gust of wind sweeps across campus. “It seems you wouldn’t have to sink to mere secondary school gossip.”

  “Is it mere gossip that you slid down the stairwell banister in only your bathing costume?”

  My face burns even hotter. “That . . . that’s being taken out of context.”

  “Or that you stole a frog from the science teacher’s classroom?”

  “Liberated is the word I would choose, but that’s never been proven.”

  “Or that you have the highest marks in the school?”

  Why’s he razzing me so hard? It’s not like I went out of my way to talk to him. He called out to me.

  “I believe it’s time for me to be going, Mr. Crane.” I take a step backward. “Good day.”

  “Wait, Miss Sail. Do you . . .” Jeremiah clutches his hat in his hands, rotating it in an absent manner. “Do you go to the movies often?”

  My breath catches in my chest. Is he . . . ?

  “Emma and I saw The Thief of Baghdad last night.” Jeremiah mashes his hat back onto his head. “I thought maybe you might like to see it. That maybe, if you were free this Friday evening, we could go together.”

  There’s no longer mischief lighting Jeremiah’s eyes. My brain is incapable of forming an intellectual response. A date? He’s asking me on a date?

  “Excuse me? Are you Miss Piper Sail?”

  I turn toward the unfamiliar baritone and find myself face to face with the two detectives Jeremiah pointed out to me minutes ago. “Yes, I am.”

  The older man is several steps up on the stairway, as if he were leading the way to the school doors. But the younger one stands on the same step as me. Both tip their hats, and the younger one speaks. “I’m Detective Cassano, and this is Detective O’Malley. Could we have a minute of your time to ask a few questions?”

  What could they possibly . . . ? “Of course. About what?”

  As if their heads are connected, both detectives look to Jeremiah.

  “I don’t mind if he hears.” I straighten my shoulders, remind myself of the truth. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “Of course not, Miss,” says Detective Cassano. “We’re here in service of the LeVine family.”

  My surroundings dim with two exceptions—the grave expression on the detective’s face, and the way my heart seems intent to fly right out of my chest. “The LeVine family?”

  “Dr. Charles LeVine?”

  “Yes, I know. I’m best friends with their daughter.”

  “That’s why we’re here. We hoped you could provide insight to her whereabouts.”

  Oh, Lydia. What have you done?

  “H-her whereabouts?” I swallow to steady my voice. “How do you mean?”

  My stomach turns to ice as both detectives sweep their hats off their heads.

  “I apologize to have to tell you, Miss Sail. We thought you would know by now.” Detective Cassano’s words are measured, as if being selected carefully. “Lydia LeVine has been reported missing.”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Jeremiah’s hands grasp my shoulders, hold me steady, and that’s when I realize I swayed.

  “I’m sorry we’re the bearers of troubling news, Miss Sail.” Detective Cassano glances to his older counterpart before training his eyes back on me. “I’m sure it’s alarming to learn about your friend in this manner. We’re hoping you can help us locate her.”

  “Of course.” My words are so high and breathy, I barely recognize them as my own. “I’ll do whatever I can.”

  Detective O’Malley fits his homburg back on his round head. “Cassano, I’ll head in to have a word with the headmistress.” He nods to me. “My apologies, Miss Sail.” While his words are brusque, his gaze is sincere.

  “Thank you, detective.”

  They sound like lines from a school play rather than my real life. Reported missing. Thank you, detective.

  At the most, Lydia was supposed to be going on a date. Just a date.

  From his inside pocket, the detective pulls a small notepad and a stub of a pencil. “I know it’s hard, Miss Sail, but I need to ask you a few questions about Lydia. When was the last time you saw her?”

  Around us, Presley’s girls clatter down the stone steps, passing us curious looks as they bend their bobbed heads together and whisper. I almost sway on my feet again, but I stop myself in time.

  “Yesterday, around five o’clock. She was only over for about fifteen minutes, and then she left.”

  “What was Lydia like during that time? Anything unusual about her behavior?”

  Everything.

  In fact, it was hard to remember anything that hadn’t been unusual. From Lydia’s anger, to her talk about her health, to her determination to finally tell Matthew how she felt. If he asked me to marry him today, I’d have no hesitation saying yes. The words reve
rberate in my ears.

  Surely not. Even as brave and reckless as she seemed yesterday afternoon, surely she wouldn’t have gone so far as to actually run away with Matthew.

  Or would she?

  Jeremiah’s hand presses into my waist. “Piper, I think you should sit down.”

  I had swayed again.

  “Miss Sail, while I understand you being alarmed over your friend, I assure you that this sort of thing is not unusual.” Detective Cassano gazes at me from under the brim of his hat. Despite the firm line of his jaw and his sharp eyes, there’s a softness about his manner. “The majority of the time, we find the young lady with a friend or boyfriend. So while we’re taking this seriously, of course, you should know that the results usually are not as distressing as they initially seem.”

  “Thank you, that’s comforting.” I take a swallow of dry air. “You asked about Lydia’s behavior. She came over because she’d been fighting with her parents. When she arrived at my house, she was upset.”

  “What had they been fighting about?”

  “Dr. and Mrs. LeVine wanted Lydia to go to Minnesota for a few months, and she didn’t want to go. She . . .” I press my eyes closed, the betrayal bitter on the tip of my tongue. Lydia will understand, right? He’s a detective. I can’t lie. “She believed herself in love with someone, and she didn’t want to be gone so long.”

  Detective Cassano’s eyebrows rise. “Who was it?”

  “The family’s chauffeur. Matthew. I’m sorry, I don’t know his last name.”

  “What’s going on here?” Walter’s voice booms into the conversation, and I turn to find him mounting Presley’s limestone steps two at a time to reach us. I’ve never thought of Walter being frightening, but with his broad shoulders and the scowl on his face, I’m not surprised the girls in his path skitter out of the way.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Picking you up.” Walter’s tone says this ought to be obvious to me. He puts a protective arm around me, bumping Jeremiah.

  Jeremiah yanks his hand away and nearly knocks into his sister as she joins us.

  “This is Detective Cassano,” I say to Walter. “Apparently Lydia—”