Rachel. Born after Lydia, but who only lived to see a week.
“She’ll like that.” I stir my own tea because it’s something to do. “Rachel’s death was such a painful memory to her.”
Mrs. LeVine gives me a watery smile. “And she’s with your lovely mother, my dear. Just think. They might be standing together and looking down at us right now.”
I try to smile back, but it feels brittle. I wish I could make myself believe what Mrs. LeVine does. That I could be satisfied with thoughts of Lydia floating on clouds and playing the lyre.
I settle my hand-painted cup onto the saucer. These are the dishes I’ve seen locked in Mrs. LeVine’s china cabinet, which I’ve been shooed away from when being too rowdy. And now I’ve become the guest who deserves their use.
“How’s Dr. LeVine doing?”
Mrs. LeVine’s weak smile flickers and fades. Her fingers take to fussing with the outdated tulle jabot at her throat. “He’s saddled himself with so much guilt, I’m afraid. As if he’s somehow responsible for what happened to Lydia.”
The back of my neck prickles as that old suspicion creeps into my thoughts—that perhaps Dr. LeVine actually is responsible.
Lydia’s laugh fills my ears. Oh, Piper, you can’t think my own father would have done something like this.
“He’s the one who hired that wretched man, after all. But of course Matthew worked for us nearly eighteen months, and we never saw even a moment of suspicious behavior. Why, Lydia thought of him as an older brother. She probably”—Mrs. LeVine’s chin trembles—“had no idea when he lured her . . . Excuse me.”
She presses the handkerchief to each eye.
People can be so willfully blind. With hardly a glance, anyone could have seen that Lydia didn’t feel brotherly affection for Matthew. While the LeVines have always been thought of as a good sort of family, truth telling has never been their strength. Not when the truth dares to color outside the lines of propriety.
I sip my tea and wait for her to lower the handkerchief. “I just wish they would catch him so he could be questioned and we could know the truth.”
Because the truth coming out could only help Matthew. Couldn’t it?
The aftermath has played out just as Mariano predicted that day he came to tell me the wretched news. Matthew had snuck out of town with such stealth, they couldn’t even figure out how he left, much less track him to another location. And with the trail cold and Lydia just one of many dead bodies in the city, the department moved on.
“I said almost the exact same thing to Dr. LeVine just a few days ago. He tells me that even if they caught Matthew and sentenced him for it, it wouldn’t change anything. That it’s best for us to try to move past what happened.” She mops her eyes once more. “He’s right, of course. But what about the next family that man dupes? You know how it is with these sorts.”
Or is there perhaps another reason Dr. LeVine doesn’t want Matthew found and questioned? A motive for why he doesn’t want Matthew’s innocence to come to light? I can’t imagine that these flimsy, patched-together stories about Matthew being a loose cannon could really satisfy a man like Dr. LeVine, who prides himself on scientific facts and details.
“I have a favor to ask, Mrs. LeVine.” I settle my cup back into its saucer. Hopefully, Mrs. LeVine won’t notice the way my hand trembles.
“Of course, my dear. What is it?”
The way Mrs. LeVine looks at me, with tenderness instead of reproach, still unsettles me. “I wonder if you’d please let me go up to Lydia’s room.”
Mrs. LeVine’s eyes widen.
“Only for a minute or two. I just . . .” I fold my hands in my lap. “With the casket being closed, I don’t feel like I ever really got to say good-bye. And I just wondered . . . I wouldn’t touch anything, I promise.”
Mrs. LeVine nods slowly. “If you promise to leave it all exactly where it is, then yes.” She smooths imaginary wrinkles from the long, crisp skirt of her dress. “I understand why you’re asking, Piper.”
My heart hiccups in my chest. Does she?
“After the funeral, I spent more hours in that room than anywhere else. Even now, I often go up there for an hour or so. Sometimes, I even talk to her.” Mrs. LeVine chuckles. “That’s rubbish, isn’t it? I’ve never been the sort to believe in spirits. Still, I can’t deny that I feel better after I’ve been up there. So, of course, Piper. Take your time.”
Take your time. Such beautiful words, ones I hadn’t been sure I could count on. “Thank you, Mrs. LeVine.”
I stand outside Lydia’s closed door for a while. I don’t know how long, really. I wish I remembered the last time I was in here, that I had some great memory to carry with me. Though it may be good that I don’t. One less thing to become tainted.
I place my hand on the gold doorknob and turn. The door opens noiselessly.
“Hello.”
I gasp and take a step backward.
Hannah, stretched out on Lydia’s frilly white bed, props herself up on her elbows. “What are you doing in here?”
“Your mother said it would be okay. I didn’t realize you’d be here, sorry.” I reach for the doorknob to shut the door as I exit.
“You can stay. I don’t mind.” Hannah lays back down. “Sarah doesn’t like to come up here. She thinks it’s creepy. But I like it. I feel as if she’s here. That if I listen hard, she’ll talk to me.”
The room is too warm and airless. Contrary to Hannah’s impression, it seems as though the life has been suctioned out. And yet the Lydia-ness of the space nearly undoes me. Like my room, Lydia’s is mostly pink. Unlike my room, it actually suits her. The frothy white curtains, the rosebud wallpaper, the pink gingham pillows.
“Will you please tell me what she was sick with?” Hannah’s voice seems to glisten with tears. “Mother and Father still won’t talk about it. They say it doesn’t matter now.”
I think of the china tea service downstairs, of the way Mrs. LeVine has been so kind to me. But Hannah’s swimming eyes win. “She had seizures. Lots of them.”
I pace the length of the room, taking it in. Lydia’s knitting basket sits by a rocking chair, all the supplies tucked neatly inside. The armoire drawers are shut tight, as are the dresser drawers. The books are orderly on her bookshelves, alphabetized, spines aligned.
“Did you ever see one? Mother and Tabitha always shooed us out. Said she needed space to recover.”
“I saw two.” I turn from the window to Hannah’s watchful blue eyes. “They were terrifying. You should feel thankful.”
Hannah’s jawline hardens, and she looks back at the ceiling. “I only feel angry. She shouldn’t have been alone. If I had known, I would have walked with her.”
“I wish all the time that I would have.”
“Father’s the one to blame.”
Hannah’s dark words make ice crawl up my back. I look at her. At thirteen, her body is still a girl’s, and there’s a hint of childlike roundness to her face. But her words are sharp like an adult’s. “Why do you say that, Hannah?”
“He cared more about his stupid medical practice than he did Lydia’s health.”
I clamp my teeth over my lower lip, holding in the questions that want to spill out. I need to let Hannah talk.
“I even heard him say that to Mother one night.” Hannah shifts her gaze from the ceiling to me. “That he should’ve sent her to the Mayo Clinic earlier. That he felt guilty and responsible.”
“And what did your mother say?”
“That he wasn’t. But I can’t get over thinking that he was.”
Where was he the night she went missing? I knew what he had told Mariano, of course, but I wanted to hear it verified by his angry daughter. A daughter who had no problems accusing him of caring more about his reputation than his family.
“He called me that night, when she hadn’t come home yet.” I try to make my voice sound casual, conversational. “He was upset.”
“He was.” Hannah wipes a
t her eyes with the back of her hands. “I was actually there when he called you. He and Mother had been talking in private, and then they called Sarah and me in. They told us what we already knew—that Lydia was sick—and she would be going to Minnesota for a while to try and get healthy. We talked for some time, and then he realized she should have been home by then.”
My focus blurs as I take in Lydia’s view of the back alley. So Dr. LeVine couldn’t have done it. He was with his wife and daughters, one of whom is so angry, she wouldn’t hesitate to point a finger. Relief soaks through me.
I sweep my gaze across Lydia’s desk. Her mementos are all in their normal places—the photograph of her grandmother, a vase full of seashells she collected when her family traveled to Florida, a stuffed bear I gave her back when we were children and she had the flu.
I know I told Mrs. LeVine I wouldn’t touch anything, but I can’t resist picking up the bear and letting the memories sweep over me. My mother had taken me to the toy store to purchase it for Lydia.
“Poor child,” Mother had said on our way. “Father off at war all year long, and now this wretched flu.”
I had been so disappointed that Mrs. LeVine wouldn’t let me give the bear to Lydia myself that I had cried. “It’s because she hates me.”
“No, Pippy.” Mother had cupped my face in her hands. “She doesn’t want you getting sick too. That’s all.”
I put the bear back on Lydia’s desk, eyes pooling from the memory of Mother’s touch.
“Matthew wouldn’t have done it.” Hannah’s words startle me—I had forgotten she was in the room. “He was in love with her.”
She looks at me then, as if waiting. I nod. “He was.”
Despite how her tone had invited no argument, her sigh seems relieved.
I slide open the drawer of Lydia’s desk. Everything seems to be in its place.
“What are you looking for?”
I think about all the ways I could answer Hannah. I decide to go with the truth. “Clues.”
“Clues of what? Who killed her?”
I wince at the word choice. “Yes.”
Or, if I’m being honest, I’m looking to find no clues. Because if her kidnappers were really after me, there should be no evidence that points to Lydia.
“Do you want to know who I think it might be?” Hannah’s voice is timid.
I turn to her, take in her porcelain doll face and round, blue eyes.
“If you don’t, it’s okay.” Hannah toys with the end of her braid. “Nobody else seems to care who I think it might be. Except for that detective. The cute one.”
I perch on the edge of the bed. “I would like to know, Hannah.”
“I don’t have any real evidence.” She sucks in a breath and draws her knees up to her chest. “It’s just a feeling.”
“That’s okay. Who?”
She swallows. “David Barrow,” she says to her knees. “Lydia didn’t like him. And Lydia liked everybody. I think that means something.”
“It definitely means he’s a real creep.” But why would he have killed her? What could he have gained from it?
“And she was supposed to be at his house,” Hannah continues in a volume barely above a whisper. “Couldn’t that be considered evidence?”
“I don’t know.” I think of Cole’s sullen behavior several weeks ago. I haven’t been to visit since the baby was born. Perhaps it’s time I do my neighborly duty and bring them a casserole.
My gaze drifts to Lydia’s nightstand, where a copy of Persuasion sits, forever unfinished.
“I hope, in heaven, she gets to find out how it ends,” Hannah says.
“I hope it’s too wonderful there for her to even care.” But there’s something unnerving about the thought—that everything that once mattered to Lydia may no longer—and I rush away from it. “You come get me if you ever need me, Hannah. Okay?”
She scrutinizes me, and for a moment I expect her to ask why I think she would need me. Or maybe to accuse me of not keeping Lydia safe when I knew she was sick. Instead she says. “Are you going after David?”
“I’m going to look into him, yes.”
Her expression relaxes. “Thank you.”
I close the door behind me as I retreat, leaving Hannah in the airless, suffocating room of her dead sister.
Downstairs, Mrs. LeVine’s smile is polite and pasted. “How was it, dear? Do you feel better?”
After weeks of sitting in my room, grieving and stewing and jumping at every creak in the house, Hannah has given me a direction to go.
“Yes,” I say. “I really do.”
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
When I get home from walking Sidekick, Joyce springs on me that my brother won’t be home for dinner tonight, because he’s out on a date. A strange sense of betrayal billows up inside me. “What do you mean, he’s on a date?”
She blinks at me over the steaming pot of potatoes she’s mashing. “A date, Piper. Dinner, dancing.”
“But . . .” But what about the way Nick used to look at Lydia? What about the way his face would fall if she didn’t come home from school with me? “With whom?”
“He didn’t share many details.” Her forearm flexes as she resumes mashing. “She’s a journalist. I guess they met because she’s doing a story on Lydia and Matthew.”
My teeth grind together. How long is this stupid reporter staying in town? And how can Nick go out with that pestering woman? Yes, she’s beautiful, but is he really so shallow? Tears well in my eyes as I sink to a seat at the counter.
Joyce rests the potato masher against the edge of the pot. “I know.” Her words are steady, comforting. “The two of you have always handled your grief in very different ways. This doesn’t mean that Nick is over what happened. But, Piper, life has to be gotten on with.”
Sidekick strains at the end of his leash, and I untie him.
Joyce picks up the potato masher. “Jane is coming for dinner—”
I groan.
“—so maybe it would be a good idea for you to call a friend and go out yourself. Or call Tim and see if you can spend some time with Gretchen and Howie.”
I’d rather eat my own toenails than listen to my sister-in-law ramble about floral arrangements and how to knit the perfect booties. If I can’t be with Lydia, then the only person I really care to see is—
I brush away the idea, but embarrassment still heats my cheeks. I’m not going to call Mariano, on a Friday no less, and ask about his evening plans.
Piper Caroline Sail, I can hear Lydia scolding. Good heavens, who are you? Zelda Fitzgerald? Only a woman of loose morals would even think of something so brash as outright asking a man for a date.
I mutter excuses to Joyce and leave the kitchen.
It’s been several days since Mariano and I last talked. The department is a flurry of activity due to yet another missing adolescent. This one also ended in tragedy, and has caught the eye of the nation now that it’s come out the boy was murdered for sport.
I shudder.
After the grueling days Mariano has had, the idea of going out probably doesn’t even appeal to him. It doesn’t interest me, certainly. I’m happy to stay home and listen to the radio at a volume high enough that I can’t hear Jane and Father discuss a never-ending parade of meaningless wedding details.
And how would I even go about asking Mariano? I don’t know how to do that sort of thing. If Mariano wanted to have dinner with me, I’m sure he would ask. He doesn’t need me calling him up and pestering him about what he’s doing tonight, or how work is going, or if he ever plans to give back my notebook . . .
My notebook. Mariano still has my notebook.
I don’t particularly need my notebook. But it’s mine, and I’d like to have it.
I close myself into Father’s office, draw the telephone close, and dial from memory.
“It’s me, Piper,” I say when he answers. “Do you still have my notebook? The one I gave you when Lydia first wen
t missing?”
“Hello, Piper.” There’s a smile in his voice. “I do.”
“Will you still be there fifteen minutes from now? I’d like to pick it up, if it’s no trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all.”
I catch sight of the lackluster dress I’m wearing, feel my uncurled hair. “What about forty-five minutes? Will you be there in forty-five?”
“I’ll tell you what, Piper. I’m just about to wrap up for the day. How about I swing by your place on my way home?” His words are warm in my ear, and for the first time in a while, something besides anger, sadness, and fear quivers to life within me.
I’m just putting the finishing touches on my hair when Joyce calls up the stairs to me. “Piper? Detective Cassano is here to see you!”
He’s here already? I stare at myself in the mirror for a moment, cataloging my paste-colored face, the circles under my eyes. My efforts to make myself look fresh and attractive have been wasted. And now I’ve manipulated him into traveling all this way just to return a notebook I don’t even need.
Piper, this isn’t like you at all, Lydia admonishes. Put down the kohl pencil and go say hello to that nice young man.
I take a deep breath. It’s just Mariano. He’s seen me at my worst—he can certainly endure this.
But I don’t want him to endure me. I want him to like me.
I peek down the staircase. He stands in the entryway, one hand in his pocket, jingling loose change, and the other gripping my notebook, which I had once given him with such naïve hope.
“Hello,” I say when I’m halfway down the stairs.
His head snaps up. “Wow. You’re very quiet.”
“It’s a gift.”
Mariano grins at me as I reach the last step. “Here.” He stretches out my notebook. “Sorry I hung on to it so long.”
“It’s okay.” I hug it to my chest. It smells like disappointment and the cigarette smoke that clouds Mariano’s office. “Thanks for trying.”
The Lost Girl of Astor Street Page 16