The Lost Girl of Astor Street

by Stephanie Morrill

  Mariano’s eyes shine with regret. “I wanted to bring her home, Piper. I wanted to so badly.”

  “I know you did.”

  His dark gaze hangs on me. Can he see the fatigue? That simply existing is tiring for me right now?

  If he can, he’s too much of a gentleman to speak it. “You look nice. Are you heading someplace special tonight?”

  My heart pounds, and I try to make my voice casual. “No. I’m completely free tonight.”

  Mariano’s gaze sweeps over the length of me, and I know he’s cataloging the evidence—my scarlet drop-waist dress that frees my legs for an evening of the Charleston, red lipstick and kohled eyes, my carefully marcelled hair. “You might be a little overdressed for an evening around the house.”

  My teeth press into my lower lip before I remember my lipstick. “Well, maybe I’ll go out for a bit.”

  Mariano’s smile hangs crooked as he leans against the banister. “You know, on the way over here, I got to thinking about this place that sells pizza in Little Italy, near where I grew up. I thought I might grab a slice and take a walk through the park there. There’s usually music on Friday nights in the summer. What do you think of joining me? Seems like a terrible waste to leave you at home in that dress.”

  My yes catches in my throat, catches on a lump of guilt. How can I feel happy—excited even—with Lydia dead? How can I enjoy a night out with Mariano knowing that I never would have met him had I not lost Lydia?

  Piper, I won’t be any less dead if you go out and enjoy yourself.

  Mariano’s hand settles on the banister, beside mine so that our pinkie fingers brush together. “Or maybe it’s too soon.” The words are like a caress, and I want to lean in. Want to let myself be swept away by this man who knows that I’m trying, but struggling, and it’s not about him.

  The notebook is between us, still hugged to my chest. I lower it. “Let me fetch my hat.”

  The evening air is damp from the afternoon rain, and it smells of summer flowers and savory breads. Jazz music pulses from Vernon Park, as does loud laughter.

  The world has continued to turn, hasn’t it? Just like when Mother died, it will indifferently carry on without Lydia.

  “Buena sera, Mariano!” calls the man behind the counter of Pompei’s.

  “Buena sera, Mr. Davino.” The Italian rolls out of Mariano like a ribbon. “How are you? How’s the family?”

  But the man’s eyes are fixed on me. “You’ve brought a lovely girl with you, I see.”

  “This is Piper.” Mariano’s hand grazes my back.

  I offer an awkward wave. “Hello.”

  “Hello, Piper. My daughter will be very sad to hear that you’re quite beautiful.”

  I blush. What does one say to that?

  But Mr. Davino doesn’t need me to answer. “What can I get for the two of you on this summer evening?”

  Mariano buys us slices of bread and cheese pizza, which Mr. Davino wraps in butcher paper for us to eat in the park. “Have a good time. And, Mariano.” He seems to hesitate a moment. “I believe I saw Alessandro heading over to the park earlier.”

  Am I imagining that this is a warning of some kind? The way Mariano says, “Ah, thank you,” with a stiff smile makes me think I’m not.

  Outside, we cross the street to the park, which is full of families and couples enjoying the mild evening. We settle on a bench near the fountain, where the music is loud enough to fill up the gaps in conversation without us having to yell over it.

  “You grew up close to here?” I ask as I unwrap my gooey slice. I’ve never eaten this before, but if it tastes half as good as it smells, I think I have a new favorite food.

  Mariano nods. “Just a few blocks over. We played soccer here as kids.” He gestures to somewhere in the distance. “I still remember a magnificent goal I scored between those two trees. One of my first memories.”

  The park swims with young Italian boys, and it’s not hard to picture a pint-size Mariano rolling in the grass and playing soccer with his friends.

  “Alessandro is one of my brothers.” Mariano’s words slice into my imaginings. “I’m sure you were curious.”

  “You don’t have to explain to me.”

  His smile is strained. “Thank you, but I should before we run into him. I’m sure Mr. Davino only mentioned my brother because he’s here with his girl.” Mariano reworks the butcher paper around his pizza. “His girlfriend, Zola, she . . .”

  Zola. I hear the name in my head, only spoken in my brother’s razor-edged voice. Has he even told you about Zola?

  “She and I used to be together. But . . .”

  “You don’t have to explain,” I say again. But I’m not trying to comfort Mariano, am I? I’m trying to protect me. Because I haven’t built a wall around my heart with Mariano like I have everyone else. And the vulnerability unnerves me.

  “No, you should know.” Mariano takes a deep breath. “We knew each other as kids, me and Zola, and we were engaged. Should’ve been getting married a couple weeks ago, actually.”

  “And why”—I try to swallow away the wobble that’s in my voice—“didn’t you?”

  “She wasn’t interested in being a detective’s wife.”

  “Oh.”

  He slides his gaze to me. “Oh?”

  But how do you say that you had hoped it would be more about a change of his heart rather than hers? On a first date, no less. My first first date.

  It seems safest to not even try to explain. “That must have been very difficult for you.”

  Mariano hesitates. “It’s gotten much easier recently. Though now that she’s with Alessandro, it’s hard again.”

  My heart twists in a way that makes me long for stone walls. How fast could I build one? Or once you’ve let someone in, is it impossible to wall them back out? “I’m sure it’s difficult to see her moving on.”

  “No, I didn’t mean it like that.” Mariano’s hand clasps mine. “I didn’t mean that at all. It’s only difficult because Alessandro chooses for it to be. He seems to think he bested me somehow, and it’s hard for us to talk without it turning into an argument. I hate feeling pitted against my own family. More than I already am.”

  Mariano’s grasp loosens, and he weaves his fingers between mine. “But—and I want to make sure this is completely clear to you, Piper—I have no lingering interest in her. And no regrets that I’m sitting here with you.” He squeezes my hand. “Is this bothering you?”

  When I look up from the captivating sight of his olive fingers entwined with my fair, I find Mariano’s face is close to mine. “No.” I squeeze back. “Not at all.”

  He grins and leans against the bench. “How’s Sidekick doing? He’s put on a good amount of weight the last few weeks. He actually looks like a decent sidekick now.”

  “I think he’s doing well. Though if I leave the house for too long, he expresses his anger by dragging my shoes from the closet. I finally put them on higher shelves.”

  “Good plan.” He licks olive oil from his thumb. “How are the LeVines? Have you seen them recently?”

  I nod. “Yesterday, actually. Mrs LeVine and Hannah, anyway. They’re . . . I don’t know. They’re very sad.”

  “I wish I could fix it all for you, Piper.” His shoulders droop forward. “More than anything. And since I can’t bring her back for you, I wish I could at least give you the answers you want.”

  “No one with the police is still looking, are they?”

  Mariano shakes his head. “Even before everything with this new case, Matthew’s trail was cold.”

  “Did you follow up with the Finnegans?” Just saying their name sends a tremor through me. “What were they doing at the time Lydia went missing?”

  “Colin was already in jail. Patrick’s alibi is solid—movie theater. Plenty of witnesses. But of course they have a lot of men under their influence . . .” Mariano crumples his empty butcher paper. “I haven’t counted them out. I did keep an eye on Dr. LeVine in
the week after. I think you’re safe with him. I haven’t found anything I normally would—no paper trail. No suspicious phone calls. No unexplained absences from work. The shady business of him not being forthright about Lydia’s condition was really just a matter of his ego, I think.”

  “Did you look into David Barrow any further?”

  “Ah, yes, David Barrow. I did a little digging and learned he’s quite the fan of gambling. Spends a lot of time at the tracks and gin joints. Has a lady friend who keeps him company when he’s there, actually.”

  I shudder as I think of pretty Mrs. Barrow with her newborn son. The way she always waves and says a bright, “Hello!” when I pass by.

  Mariano sighs. “So while he’s guilty of deplorable behavior, that’s not exactly evidence or a motive.”

  “Lydia didn’t like being around him. She found him to be creepy.”

  Mariano’s mouth curls into a slight smile. “Creepiness isn’t a motive.”

  A seed of an idea niggles at me. “What about the nanny who used to work for the Barrow family?”

  “What about her?”

  “Has anyone talked to her about Mr. Barrow? Lydia once told me she works at John Barleycorn.”

  He only blinks at me.

  “It’s a speakeasy, Mariano.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Yes, I know. I was waiting to see where you were taking this.”

  “Lydia was always suspicious about why she quit so suddenly. I just wondered if maybe this girl knew something.” My knowledge of speakeasies is limited, all secondhand from Presley’s girls who fancy it fun to sneak into what used to be male-only saloons, drink illegal booze, and dance the night away. “How does one get into a speakeasy? Do I still need a password? How does one learn the password?”

  Mariano sighs. “I think you’re going to give me an ulcer, Piper.” He glances behind us, where the jazz trio plays “It Had to Be You.” Mariano drapes his arm over the back of the bench, where it whispers against the fabric of my dress. “I’ve gotta confess something. I brought you here because I was hoping to dance with you. But if you don’t feel like that tonight, that’s okay. We could do it another time.”

  Another time. Like another date.

  I glance at the couples who are already out there. The girls in their bright dresses, with skirts that twirl out like upside-down flowers, make my feet itch. “I’m a terrible dancer.”

  “I don’t believe that.”

  “I am. I always try to lead.”

  Mariano huffs a laugh. “Now that, I believe.”

  I try to glare, but it’s impossible with his fingertip tracing the slope of my shoulder.

  “So we’re doing this, then?” Mariano’s face is solemn. “You and me?”

  I nod. “We’re doing this.”

  Mariano seems to hesitate only a moment before leaning close and brushing his lips against mine. And when the kiss is over, I can’t help thinking how much I would have enjoyed telling Lydia.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  When I awake, the guilt is swift and sharp.

  How could I?

  My eyes press tight against the pale morning light. There had been no angel Lydia advising me that I couldn’t outrun death. No sinister, faceless men snatching her from the streets before I could stop them. No gag that I attempted to pull from her mouth only to never reach the end.

  There had been no dreams at all.

  Sidekick nudges my cheek with his wet nose, urging me out of bed before he leaps to the floor.

  But I make myself lie there and think about her. Make myself draw the coroner’s report from my nightstand drawer, from its place beside Matthew’s letter, tucked in Mother’s Bible.

  When I select my dress for the day, I choose one with pockets and tuck Lydia’s photograph inside. I may have no choice about Lydia’s life stopping while mine goes on, but I refuse to let her drift too far from my thoughts.

  I tromp downstairs for breakfast and find Joyce scribbling out a grocery list as she finishes her coffee and toast. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning, Joyce.” I reach up into the cabinet and pull down a mug.

  “Your father is in his office. Said he wanted to see you. What can I fix you for breakfast?”

  “I’ll just have coffee for now, thank you.”

  Joyce moves her attention from her list to me. “You’re not dieting, are you? You’re a rail already.”

  “No. Just not hungry yet.”

  Because my stomach is too twisted in knots over last night—Mariano’s smile, his lips, his hands—to consider anything more substantial than coffee. I fill Sidekick’s food bowl and then carry my coffee to Father’s office.

  “Oh, good,” Father greets me. “I have to leave to meet Jane soon, and I hoped you’d be up before I left. Have a seat.”

  I grab the chair that Nick often uses when they’re reviewing a case together and drag it over to the desk.

  Father scribbles his signature on some official-looking document as he asks, “What do you have planned for the day?”

  “I thought I would pay a visit to Mrs. Barrow. I haven’t seen their baby yet.”

  Father’s pen stops moving. He looks up at me, eyebrows arched in amusement. “I’m sorry. I asked Joyce to send in my daughter, Piper Sail. You must be an imposter.”

  “Very funny.” I sip at my coffee and curse my big mouth. Did I really have to be so vocal all these years about my distaste for children? “I’m just being neighborly.”

  “I think you’ll have a chance to be neighborly very soon. Joyce was just telling me that Mrs. Barrow has an appointment of some kind and is bringing Cole here this morning. I’m sure she’ll welcome your help with him.”

  I never thought the opportunity to look after a child would delight me, but this is perfect. Now I can observe Cole for extended time without the threat of David Barrow. “Oh, good. Do you know when?”

  Father blinks at me. “You’re scaring me. The daughter I know would have fled the house the moment she heard a person under the age of ten intended to enter it.”

  I grasp for a plausible lie. “Lydia used to look after Cole. I suppose I feel connected to her when I’m around him.”

  “That reminds me. I have something for you.” He pats at his pockets. “I’ve had Joyce helping rearrange the bedroom to prepare for Jane, and we found something of your mother’s that had fallen behind a dresser.”

  I sit up straight.

  “Ah, here it is.” From an inside pocket, Father pulls out a long silver chain with a pendant of some kind. “Actually, it wasn’t exactly your mother’s. It’s yours. Mother bought it several weeks before she passed, intending it to be a present for your thirteenth birthday. She was so frustrated with herself for misplacing it. Joyce found it still in the velvet bag it came in. We’re guessing it slipped back behind the dresser.”

  The oval pendant is actually a locket, silver and simple. My thirteen-year-old self would have been delighted to receive such a grown-up present.

  One last gift from my mother. I must be the most fortunate girl in the world. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Open her up.”

  I slide my thumbnail along the seam and pop the tiny clasp. Lydia’s beautiful face looks back at me. “Lydia.” The word is a whisper.

  “I planned to put your mother’s portrait in there, but Jane suggested Lydia’s. This way, you have a piece of both of them with you all the time.”

  I rub the pad of my thumb over my friend’s face. “It’s perfect, thank you.”

  Sidekick erupts with a string of barks, and his nails scrape against the wood floor as he scrambles out of Father’s office.

  “Cole must be here.” Father smooths his vest as he stands. “Last chance to escape.”

  I tuck the locket into the pocket of my dress and stand as well. “Don’t tempt me. I’m trying to grow, Father.”

  Cole’s cries for his mother pierce the air.

  Father grins at me when I flinch. �
�Have fun.” He latches his briefcase and reaches for his fedora. “I’ll see you at supper.”

  I grab my coffee and slip away to the kitchen. If I’m to endure a morning with a child, I cannot do it on an empty stomach.

  “She’ll only be gone for a bit.” Joyce’s tone is soothing as the kitchen door swings open. She has Cole by the hand.

  Cole rubs a tear-filled eye. His cheeks are red, and his lower lip is pooched out. “But I want my mama.”

  “We’re going to have so much fun that the time will fly by. Would you like a glass of milk?”

  I take a deep breath. “Hi, Cole.” My voice is high with fake cheer. Cole turns to look, one eye still covered by his fist. “Remember me? I’m Piper. Lydia’s friend.”

  And that’s when Cole does the last thing I would have expected.

  He runs for me.

  I stare slack-jawed as he comes nearer. There’s no way he’s actually coming for me, right? How could he consider me a better alternative than Joyce, who oozes maternal safety?

  His skinny arms wrap around my waist. And while I would’ve sworn to China and back that I had no instincts at all with kids, I find myself lifting Cole up into my arms. Like I’d seen Lydia do a couple times when he’d scraped a knee or banged his elbow.

  With his head on my shoulder, Cole takes a shuddering inhale and exhale, and the kitchen falls silent.

  Cole studies the checkerboard before jumping over my red game piece.

  “You’re good at this game, Cole.”

  He shrugs his narrow shoulders. “Dottie and me play lots. But today she has a fever.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I had a fever on my birthday. Hey, your dress is blue and my shorts are blue. We match.”

  “We do.” I don’t recognize this high, cheerful voice of mine. I make a careless move on the board. “So how old are you now, Cole? Eleven? Twelve?”

  His smile is faint. “Five.”

  He used to laugh so easily, Lydia whispers to me. He used to bring frogs inside the house and break windows with stray baseballs. He’s like a different child.

  Is having a new baby brother enough to turn a formerly rambunctious child meek and teary? Or could this be a byproduct of Lydia vanishing from his life? Have his parents talked to him about what happened? That would be enough to frighten any child.