“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.”