“I’m doing what I have to in order to get the information I need.” Words I never had to say to Mariano when we were on Clark Street.
His expressive eyes hold sadness. “She’s not coming back. And you need to figure out how far is too far before you accidentally cross a line you never intended to.”
I turn away, eyes blurred and heart hardened.
Inside John Barleycorn, the smoky air is rich with jazz music. On the dance floor, the sequins and beads of the girls’ dresses sparkle when they catch on the stage lights. Despite several fans, the air has a stuffy quality to it, though perhaps it’s only the boarded-up windows that leave me feeling slightly claustrophobic. Waitresses, showing a shocking amount of leg in their black dresses, saunter around the room with mugs of beer, shimmering cocktails, and plates of fried food.
I skim the crowd in hopes of spotting David Barrow quickly. “Let’s pick a table,” Walter says as he practically pushes me toward an empty high top. “I don’t want to just stand here.”
“Wait.” I squint through the smoke. Near the stage is a girl that looks like the Barrows’ ex-nanny. It’s a little hard to tell, because the waitresses have an intentionally monotonous look to them—bobbed hair and mile-long legs—but she seems familiar. “Isn’t that their old nanny?”
Walter follows my gaze. “Maybe.”
“I think it is.” I grab Walter’s hand and pull him through the crowd.
“Pippy, there are no open tables up there!” He has to yell to be heard over the heart-piercing wail of the saxophone.
“I don’t need a table. I need to talk to their nanny!” If only I could think of her name . . .
I press against the wall, and keep my gaze trained on her as best I can through the crush of people on the dance floor. Annie? That doesn’t sound quite right. Anita?
Same as the night I danced with Mariano at Vernon Park, some couples are far more demonstrative than seems appropriate for public viewing. I glance at Walter, and find him watching the dancers with a wistful expression. He is far, far away from here.
“What are you thinking about?” I yell over the music.
He startles and offers a sheepish smile. “Audrey.”
A feeling of betrayal jabs at my heart. Our thoughts used to be so aligned. “Thick as thieves,” Joyce would describe us. “Attached at the hip.” Now he has his world—Audrey and baseball and the lemony sunshine of California—and I have mine. Which is mourning Lydia, missing Lydia, and figuring out who killed Lydia.
In my peripheral, I catch the nanny breezing by us, and her name pops out of my mouth. “Annette!”
She whirls at the sound. Annette is older than me by a good five years, but she has the face of a girl—rosebud lips and wide eyes set in a heart-shaped face.
“I don’t know if you remember me, but my name is Piper Sail, and I was friends with Lydia LeVine, who—”
“I know who Lydia is.”
“I thought maybe you could help me. I’m trying to figure out what happened to her, and I think maybe David Barrow might know something, and that with you having recently been employed with the Barrows—”
Her face turns from blank to stony. “My boss doesn’t care for me jabbering during work hours.”
“It’ll only take a minute.” Behind her, a young, wiry boy wipes a table clean, loading the empty plates and glasses into a tub. “We’ll sit right there. And we’ll order drinks. And we’ll tip well, I promise. Bring us . . .” I grapple for the name of the only cocktail I know. “Two gin fizzes, please.”
She gives me a lingering look. “I can’t help you. I don’t know anything.”
“I just want you to answer a few questions. Please.” I play the only other card I can think to use. “You should see how devastated Cole is by the whole ordeal.”
Annette’s face flickers before going hard again. “I don’t know anything.” She turns her back to me and walks in a practiced way—all hips and clicking heels.
Walter holds out a chair at the empty table for me. “Is she coming back?”
“Yes.” Even though I don’t know that she is. “I ordered you a gin fizz. I hope that’s okay.”
“Nothing about this night has been okay with me, so why should it matter?”
It isn’t until I sit that I feel an unwelcome ache in my bladder. “I wonder where they keep the powder room in this place.” I crane my neck toward the entrance. “Think it’s on the other side of the bar?”
Walter shakes his head. “You’re not going to the restroom alone. Not here.”
I put on a sweet smile. “Walter, dear, I can’t take you with me. It’s frowned upon.”
But his scowl doesn’t loosen.