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 seen 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.