Manhattan Mayhem

SUTTON DEATH OVERTIME by Judith Kelman

Dinner that night at Café Autore featured veal milanese, three murders, a drug bust, and a heist by the audacious jewel thief “Diamond Slim.”

Reuben Jeffers, a doughy reporter from the daily online tabloid A-List, scratched notes on a spiral-bound pad. His pinched eyes bounced from that to his iPhone. “Cool idea, Joe! Love your books. Dig in soon as they come out.” Jeffers had promised to be a fly on the wall of this venerable monthly gathering of top New York mystery writers, but his presence seemed more like a fly in the soup.

“Ah.” Aside from the dozens of volumes in his four popular detective series, handsome lantern-jawed Joe Ransom was a man of meager words.

Not so the reporter. “Must say, this Diamond Slim character sounds like your best yet. Imagine, a robber so rail thin, he can hide in plain sight. Slip through tight spaces like a light beam. Has to be computer generated, right? Or green-screen technology? Don’t tell me. Anyhow, brilliant. When did you come up with him?”

“Eighty-two.”

L. C. Crocker, ponytailed and bespectacled, looked down his eagle-beak nose. He was no fan of Jeffers, who had placed his latest police procedural at the top of an A-List roundup entitled “The Worst of Crimes.” The YouTube takeoff “L. C. Crocker Shlock Shocker” had gone viral. Still, Colleen O’Day, the brightest star in their glittery firmament, had asked L. C. to bury the hatchet (though not, as he’d gleefully suggested, in the reporter’s skull) and let him do a story on the group. Almost no one said no to Colleen.

“Remember, Jeffers. Anything we say about works in progress is off the record.”

The reporter cocked his finger and fired an imaginary round. “Sure, L. C. Gotcha.”

“And stash that damned phone! No tweets, no posts. Capisce?”

“Gotcha.”

“Love the Diamond Slim series, Joe. Can’t wait for this one.” Stephanie Harris, an affable FBI agent turned true-crime writer, gazed over the battlefield of sauce drips and fractured breadsticks at the regal presence across the table. “Now to you, Colleen. We’ve missed you! What have you been working on?”

The grand lady spoke in a conspiratorial hush. “Remember the Bitsy Grainger case?”

“Vaguely,” said Tony Baker, impish author of nightmare-inducing horror tales.

L. C. tapped his tented fingers. “Was that the psychiatrist whose patient slipped strychnine into her chai tea latte?”

“That was Dr. Betty Barringer. Bitsy Grainger was the young woman who vanished in the early seventies.”

“Sorry. Doesn’t ring a bell,” said Tonya Finerman, a winsome twenty-something whose novel Done to Death had been optioned by Spielberg and sold for a seven-figure advance.

“Of course, it doesn’t.” Jeffers sniffed. “Seventies were way before your time, Tonya. Ancient history, really.”

“Maybe so,” said Colleen. “But history can be fascinating, especially stories that lack a definite ending. Absent a complete narrative, we fill in the blanks. That’s human nature. I believe it’s also the reason many of us are drawn to writing.”

“Beautifully put,” said Stephanie.

“Gotcha. Not going to argue, Ms. O’Day, especially with someone who has permanent parking at the top of the Times list. But why that case? Why now?” The reporter twirled his Uniball, summoning another Maker’s Mark. “Why you?”

“Not easy questions to answer, Mr. Jeffers. Bitsy was a friend of mine, so of course I was terribly upset when it happened and troubled by her disappearance for many years. But in time, the worst sting of memory fades.

“Then, last October, after that freak early snowstorm, I began thinking about the case more and more, turning it over and over in my mind.

“One night, Bitsy Grainger came to me in a dream. She was caught in a ferocious blizzard, hunched in a tattered camel coat. Matted fur around the hood obscured everything but her eyes. Howling wind swallowed her words. But in the warped logic of dreams, I heard her clearly. ‘Help me! Somebody. Please!’ I called out. I struggled to get to her. But the storm kept forcing me back. There was nothing I could do.

“I awoke to the sound of my own screams. My throat was raw, heart stammering. It took a few moments for me to separate that horrid dream from reality. But once the fog of sleep lifted, I realized there was something I could do. I could base a book on Bitsy Grainger and solve the mystery of her disappearance at last.”

“You mean make something up,” Jeffers said.

“Of course I could, if need be. I write fiction, after all. But I’ve been studying the case for months, and I’ve figured out what became of her.”

“For real? Or you trying to build a buzz?” Jeffers leveled his pen and chuckled. “Clever girl. So what’s the story you came up with? Who was this Bitsy Grainger person? And what kind of name is Bitsy anyway? Sounds like a one of those silly mix dogs: a poobrador or, maybe, a cockerdoodledoo.”

Colleen ignored him as she would a nasty smell. Her story unspooled against the chicken scratch of Jeffers’s pen. “Bitsy was a lovely person, beautiful inside and out. When she went missing, the press infested the Grainger’s Sutton Place neighborhood. They skulked in the bushes. Rooted through the garbage. One reporter posed as a gas company repairman to get into the house. Another tried to bribe their housekeeper. Bitsy’s husband finally went into hiding to escape them. They had no boundaries, no decency. They acted as if everything was fair game.”

“All due respect,” Jeffers said, “everything is fair game. Sure I don’t have to remind you about the public’s right to know.”

“And I’m sure I don’t have to remind you of your right to remain silent,” L. C. said. “So remain the hell silent, will you? Now, go on, Colleen, my dear. You were saying.”

“I couldn’t get my mind around it. How could a bright, talented young woman with everything to live for simply vanish? It defies expectation, logic, even the laws of physics.

“I met Bitsy two years before it happened. My husband, James, was a resident at New York Hospital, working impossible hours. We were living on a shoestring in a tiny apartment on Fifty-Fifth and First. I’d always dreamt of becoming a writer, but at that point, I doubted it would ever come true. Whatever I sent out came back with one of those form rejection letters. Every publisher used different words, but the message was always the same: Dear Contributor, Thanks for letting us have a look at your precious baby. Unfortunately, we find him homely and unacceptable, so we’re sending him back wrinkled and covered in coffee stains.

“Our real baby, Sam, was only a few months old, and the poor thing had miserable colic. He slept fitfully and screamed blue murder when I tried to set him down. He was happiest outdoors; so I’d take him out first thing in the morning in one of those baby carriers you strap on. We’d walk for hours, miles and miles.

“Most days, I’d head east. The city was in terrible turmoil back then, with a dismal economy and soaring crime. There were endless reports of muggings, drive-by shootings, break-ins, rapes. By comparison, Sutton Place felt like an oasis of safety and calm. Stately high-rises. Elegant townhouses. Glorious private homes and manicured gardens lined the narrow streets between Sutton and the East River. Charming pocket parks perched at the foot of the Fifty-Ninth Street bridge. People sat there on slatted benches, reading, watching boats pass, taking the sun.

“Early one mild autumn morning, I set out as usual with Sam. We’d gotten a few blocks from our building when suddenly a chill wind whipped up. The sky filled with ominous clouds and split with lightning. Rain began to fall, a few fat drops that soon spawned a drenching downpour. Startled, I ducked down the steps and sought shelter under the arched overhang at the entrance to a townhouse, but there was no escape from the driving storm. I was too afraid to knock. It was so early. I imagined the owners groggy with sleep, hearing a noise and mistaking me for an intruder. Grabbing a loaded handgun, moving stiffly, silently toward the door.

“Sam awoke with a start and started shrieking. I tried to soothe him, but he was inconsolable. And who could blame him? Poor little thing was saddled with a hopelessly inadequate mother. Why hadn’t I listened to the weather report? Why wasn’t I prepared? What was wrong with me?

“Just then, the door opened. Bitsy Grainger appeared in a white silk robe. She was barefoot, with no makeup and tousled copper-streaked hair, but stunning nonetheless. Pale and full lipped, and the most remarkable eyes: moonstone gray tinged with the tiniest shimmer of blue.

“Her home was beautiful, too. Jewel-toned oriental carpets, fresh white flower arrangements in towering crystal vases, antique furnishings, stunning works of classical art. Mere blocks from our dingy little cluttered apartment, and we’d landed in another world.

“Despite the ungodly hour, she was incredibly gracious. ‘Oh my. Y’all are soaked. Come on in. Hurry up now. You’ll catch your death.’

“She scurried around, collecting towels, fresh clothes, even a tiny blue stretch-suit that was exactly Sam’s size. They were for the son she hoped to have someday, she said with a coy, dimpled smile.

“The rain had let up by then, but Bitsy insisted I stay and have coffee. On the black granite island in the kitchen perched a spectacular red enamel-and-chrome machine. At the press of a button, a grinder crushed beans, dripped heated water, and out came rich espresso capped with foam. With great delight, she told me that her husband, Harold, had ordered the contraption as a surprise because he knew how much she adored cappuccino. I don’t think I’d even heard of cappuccino at that point, but it was delicious, sprinkled with cinnamon and powdered chocolate. ‘Heaven, right?’ she said. That was one of her favorite expressions.

“The morning had turned from disastrous to delightful. How fortunate I felt. Meeting this miraculous stranger. Finding refuge from the storm in her glorious home. Best of all, the moment Sam laid eyes on her, he stopped crying as if someone had flipped a secret switch. He giggled and cooed and flirted, all honey and smiles. Truly, it was love at first sight. Bitsy cooed and flirted right back, ‘Look at you, Mr. Big Stuff. Bundle of sugar, that’s what you are.’

“For months after that, Sam and I saw Bitsy nearly every day. She would fall in beside us as we strolled through the neighborhood, always with cappuccinos in to-go cups, for her and for me. ‘Well, would you look who’s here! Hey, handsome. How’s my little heartthrob today?’

“She was so easy to talk to, funny and open and utterly without airs. From the way she looked and lived, you would have thought she was to the manor born. Turned out she was a preacher’s daughter from a flyspeck town in Mississippi. Her moonstone eyes went cloudy as she described summers there. Swampy heat laced with starving mosquitoes. ‘Myrtle is barely a wide spot in the road. One gas station, one stoplight. Poor little excuse for a church with barely enough lost souls to fill it. Easy to find, though-drive straight to nowhere and make a left. Wasn’t the best place for a girl like me who liked fun and lots of it. Of course, Mama and Daddy saw things differently. They thought I should focus on study, church, and chores. I’d sneak out of all three and go off with my friends: tattooed boys with big-hog Harleys and dreamy girls like me who thought they had everything figured out at sixteen.’

“She told me she’d fallen in love with Ray Adlen, a strapping nineteen-year-old dropout. He’d proclaimed his love and promised to be with her always. Said they were pretty much engaged, which made everything between them all right.

“Bitsy could see the future clearly. She would marry Ray. They’d live in one of the big cities like New York, Paris, or Waukesha, and she’d become a singer. Either she’d star in Hollywood musicals, like Breakfast at Tiffany’s, or sing with a band. Maybe both. And of course, she’d make records like Annette Funicello. She’d always had the best voice in her school, always been picked as female lead in the play. Ray adored anything with wheels, and he had a knack for fixing motors. He’d have a garage and a car dealership. They’d make tons of money. Do whatever they pleased.

“When she turned up pregnant, her daddy didn’t fall on his knees and pray, like he always said you should when there was trouble. He loaded his Remington Woodmaster and went after Ray. Threatened to blow his head off if he ever set foot near Bitsy again.

“She was desperate to see Ray. Every chance she got, she dialed his number, but no one picked up. Their friends were no help. No, they hadn’t seen Ray. No idea what he was up to. Soon as they heard from him, they’d tell him to call. ‘I figured they were scared of Daddy,’ Bitsy told me. ‘Most everyone was. Sundays when he preached, even the little babies went bone still with stretched-out eyes.’

“Still, she was sure Ray would come for her. After all, he’d promised. Forever never changed. They’d run off, have their baby, and… cue music, cue Hollywood ending.

“Bitsy’s parents kept her a virtual prisoner in the house. Her father forced her to polish the faded linoleum over and over, as if that might wipe out the stain on her soul. He preached at her constantly, raving about hellfire and brimstone, willing spirits and weak flesh.

“Her mother said nothing. ‘Momma would get this empty look. All she did was sit on the porch swing in her faded blue dress, humming that song she loved: ‘Moon River, wider than a mile…’

“Bitsy had to get away. She stole fifty dollars from the secret stash her mother kept behind the frozen okra, and she packed a suitcase. Soon as she could, she grabbed her things and ran. She was sure Ray would be at the creek, where all her friends hung out on hot days like this. And there he was, behind a clump of bushes, doing what engaged people did with her best friend Wanda.

“What followed was a blur. Somehow, Bitsy wound up on a Greyhound bus to New York. The next night, she arrived at the bustling Port Authority Terminal with a broken heart, a terrible bellyache, and nowhere to go.

“Bad men were on her, as she put it, like ticks on a hound. Thankfully, she knew enough to get away from them, from there. She slipped into the first church she came to and curled up between rows of pews. Hours later, she awoke in wrenching pain. Blood everywhere. The air rang with the scream of approaching sirens. Strangers hefted her onto a gurney and rushed her to the emergency room at St. Luke’s. Bitsy thought she was dying, being punished as her father had predicted for her sins. She’d never heard of a miscarriage.

“Once it was over, a hospital social worker came around full of questions. How old was she? Where were her parents? Where was home? Did she have insurance? What kind of insurance did she have? Bitsy’s instinct was to make up a story. She claimed she was nineteen, though everyone said she looked younger. Her husband had gone away with his Army reserve unit (like Ray sometimes did). He’d be home in a couple of days. Meantime, a friend named P. J. Clarke was going to look after her at 915 Third Avenue. Bitsy had seen that name and address in an ad on the endless bus ride to New York. Sure, they had the army insurance, but her husband had the card. She promised to call with the numbers the hospital needed as soon as she could.

“Amazingly, the social-work lady believed her. She kept inventing whatever stories she needed to keep from getting caught and sent home. No way could she ever go back to Myrtle. Daddy would kill her. Ray didn’t love her anymore. Maybe he never had.

“She knocked around, earned a few bucks, and found people here and there who were willing to put her up. She discovered all kinds of things in garbage cans and on the street: discarded food, gloves, even a thick green wool sweater with a puffy snowman on the front. It was ridiculous but warm. She imagined her friends laughing their heads off when they saw her in it, but she quickly marched the thought out of her head. They didn’t exist anymore. Neither did home.

“A week after Christmas, she wandered into a noisy bar one night to escape the cold. People were drinking and laughing, coupling up. In the shadows at the rear, a scrawny, bearded guy in a work shirt was playing a beat-up spinet. After Stardust, he segued into her mama’s favorite song. Moon River, wider than a mile…

“Bitsy drifted toward the piano. So much was running through her head: loneliness, longing, the stifling weight of her shattered dreams. She didn’t realize she was singing aloud until the manager came over, a wiry man whose name badge read CHAS. She feared he’d kick her out, maybe call the police. Instead, he said he liked her voice. Was she looking for a gig? His regular singer hadn’t shown up, and he could use her. How she grinned at that memory. ‘Heaven, right?’

“After that, things changed quickly. Bitsy had the look, and she was a quick study. She shed the drawl, learned how to move and play to the audience. Once, I coaxed her to demonstrate. Sam erupted in a baby belly laugh when she assumed the sultry look and smoky voice.

“She developed a following. After a while, she was able to ditch the roommates and rent a place of her own. One thing led to another, and by the time she reached her early twenties, she was singing at the Plaza and at private parties for the rich and fancy. She had entrée to amazing events, a closetful of gorgeous gowns, and suitors galore. Bitsy could hardly believe what had happened to her life, much less make sense of it. She felt like Cinderella, certain the fantasy would shatter at the stroke of midnight. She was dazed by her good fortune but convinced it couldn’t last.”

“And then, poof,” said Jeffers, launching an imaginary bird.

L. C. mimicked the gesture. “Poof.” But tragically, the reporter failed to disappear.

Jeffers scowled. “Jeez, L. C. The lady is trying to tell her story. Go on, Colleen. What happened next?”

“Bitsy met Harold Grainger at a private film screening. There was an instant attraction, but she was reluctant to get involved. He was decades older, widowed, with a grown son and a daughter. Since Ray, she’d had trouble trusting anyone. She worried about the age difference and the baggage both of them had. But above all, she worried about the giant gulf between their worlds. Bitsy had told Harold where and what she’d come from, but he didn’t seem to take it seriously. Someday he was bound to realize that she was, as advertised, a head-shy hayseed, and move on.

“Harold pursued her. They became friends and, eventually, more. By the time I met Bitsy, they’d been married for three years. They’d had a fairytale wedding at the Carlyle and honeymooned on a private motor yacht off the Dalmatian Coast. As a wedding gift, Harold had bought the townhouse on Sutton Place and hired a top designer to furnish it. Bitsy described all this with the bewildered delight of a child who’d gotten the actual pony on Christmas morning.

“I so enjoyed our time together. But as things happen, we went our separate ways. Sam outgrew his colic and began napping like an angel twice a day. I wrote while he slept, and miracle of miracles, I started getting encouraging notes from editors instead of the form rejection slips. Those were followed by my first acceptance, a short story in Ellery Queen.

“James’s mentor at the hospital accepted the job as Department Chief at UCLA. He let us sublet his sunny two-bedroom in Turtle Bay for a pittance. I still kept an eye out for Bitsy when I took Sam out in his stroller, but we rarely connected. When I did run into her, we’d say a quick hello. We’d talk about getting together, but it never happened.

“Months later, I found an engraved invitation under our door. Tucked in the envelope was a note in Bitsy’s flowery handwriting. Neighbors were hosting a party in Harold’s honor, and she wanted us to come. The Broughtons lived in the largest private home on Sutton Place, a four-story brick Georgian that had been built for J. P. Morgan’s daughter Anne.

“James and I debated about whether we should go. We’d be ducks out of water among Harold’s millionaire friends. We had nothing reasonable to wear around people swaddled in haute couture and Harry Winston. But in the end, we decided to accept. After all, Bitsy had embraced me as a friend. She’d been so kind to me and little Sam. How could we turn her down?

“My sister Maureen and her husband, Frank, had made a killing in commercial real estate. She insisted I borrow her favorite dress, a full-skirted floral by Oscar de la Renta. Maureen lent me matching shoes and a Judith Leiber minaudière in the shape of a red rose. I felt like a princess. And James was my prince, dashing in his rented tux.

“The evening was unusually warm for early April, with a light lilac-scented breeze. Waiters in white coats served champagne and canapés in the garden overlooking the East River. Huge tug-drawn barges lumbered by amid darting powerboats. The low wrought-iron railing around the periphery was laced with tiny lights. A string quartet played the loveliest music: Brahms’s Double Concerto, Pachelbel’s Canon, and Haydn’s Emperor. Amazing how the details stick with me. Bitsy’s disappearance cast the evening in amber.

“Harold’s children were there. Trey was a harsher, brasher version of his father. On his arm was a gum-cracking blonde in a gold lamé mini-dress and sparkling stiletto heels. Harold’s daughter Marissa showed up solo in jeans, a sloppy white shirt, and cowboy boots. Both acted icy and contemptuous: a study in filial resentment.

“I was taking in the alien habitat and exotic species when I spotted Bitsy in the shadow of a towering oak, staring toward the river. I hesitated, thinking she might want a moment alone, but something drew me to her.

“When I asked if she was all right, she turned and fixed me with those moonstone eyes. ‘You’re so lucky to be a writer, Colleen,’ she said. ‘You get to decide where your stories will go.’

“I told her that wasn’t entirely true. Sure, I got to imagine and test possibilities. But stories have to make sense. There has to be consistency, believability, and internal logic. A writer can’t simply wander as she pleases, not if she wants to produce something publishable that readers will accept. And sometimes, I get stumped. I have no idea what comes next, can’t even envision how to tie things up. Until I do.”

Jeffers chuckled. “Nothing like a fat check at the end of the rainbow to get those juices flowing, right, Colleen?”

L. C. silenced him with a poison eye dart.

“Soon after that, we were invited in for dinner. Bitsy hugged me, which had never been her way. And she whispered in my ear. ‘Bless you, my friend. Bless you and your darling little Sam.’ Then she went off to find Harold. James and I made our way inside together.

“As we took our seats, we had a frantic call from Rachel, Sam’s babysitter. She’d turned her back for an instant, and the baby had taken a spill. I could hear his pained screams in the background. James and I raced home and rushed him to the ER at Lenox Hill. They checked him thoroughly, closed the cut on his forehead with Krazy Glue, and sent us home. Everything was fine. Or so we thought.

“Late the next day, Harold called, frantic. Had I heard from Bitsy? Did I have any idea where she might be? He hadn’t seen her since the party. After dinner, the men had gone to the library for cognac and cigars. After a while, Bitsy had poked her head in to say goodbye. She was tired. She was going to bed.

“When Harold got home about an hour later, their bedroom door was closed. He didn’t want to disturb Bitsy, so he slept in the guest room. By the time he awoke the next morning she was gone. Their room looked exactly as they’d left it after dressing for the party. Wrappings and tags from her red chiffon Halston gown lay crumpled on the velvet settee. Pots of makeup, brushes, and crystal perfume atomizers with tasseled caps were strewn on the vanity. No one had slept in the bed.

“I tried to reassure him. Maybe she’d gone for a walk and lost track of the time. Bitsy loved to wander. But deep down, I knew something was wrong.

“Three days later, the story broke in front page headlines: “Millionaire’s Bride Missing.” The picture plastered underneath was from their wedding: Bitsy’s radiant face, moonstone eyes fixed on the boundless future. A massive investigation followed. Flyers were posted everywhere: Have You Seen This Woman? Harold offered a $100,000 reward for information leading to her safe return.

“Her disappearance sparked endless speculation. Maybe she’d been murdered, her body tossed in the East River and dragged by the vicious currents out to sea.

“Maybe she’d been diagnosed with a lethal illness and gone off to die alone. Maybe she’d run off with another man, or gotten embroiled in a criminal enterprise. Some embraced the theory that an obsessed admirer had kidnapped her. Why wouldn’t her looks, talent, and fortuitous marriage be punishable by violent demise? Tongues wagged about a secret addiction, mental breakdown, or suicide. But weeks turned to years, and still no ransom demand, no body, no suicide note, not a single credible lead.

“As time passed, the case was shunted to the back pages and, eventually, ceased to be news. A few years later, a book, Little Girl Lost, came out about the disappearance. The author claimed that Bitsy had taken up with a charismatic cult leader and was living off the grid in the Adirondacks. Investigators found no evidence that such a cult existed and nothing to bolster the convoluted theory. Obviously, the writer had hoped to capitalize on a lurid story. Nevertheless, press around the publication stirred everything up again. For a while, Sutton Place was unwilling host to yet another media circus. But thankfully, after the book was discredited, the furor died a natural death.

“I understood Harold’s decision to stay away. For a long time, I avoided the neighborhood, too. Then one morning, while Sam was at nursery school, I forced myself to walk to Sutton Place and take a look at their townhouse.

“Someone was keeping up the place. Salvia and snapdragons bloomed in the window boxes. The lawn had been mowed; the bushes trimmed. The leaded glass windows sparkled. When I peered inside, I was shocked to find everything unchanged. Through the archway that led to the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of Bitsy’s precious coffeemaker. A china cup perched beneath the spout, as if she were about to brew a cup of her beloved cappuccino. Still, the emptiness was palpable. No one lived there. Not anymore.

“A few weeks later, James finished his residency. He joined an internal medicine practice in Greenwich, Connecticut, and we resettled there. My first novel vanished without a trace, but the second became a surprise best seller. Knopf offered a three-book contract with a bigger advance than I’d ever dared to imagine. We put a down payment on the Lake Avenue house.

“Our family continued to grow. After Sam and our daughter Lillian, we had the twins, Lucy and Patsy, and then Robert came along, our little caboose. Those were busy, crazy times, but also full and fun. I wouldn’t have traded a day of it.

“Once the whole brood was grown and launched, James and I bought the apartment on Riverside Drive. I loved the idea of a pied-à-terre in Manhattan, and we wanted a river view, but any time the broker suggested I look at a listing on the East Side, I refused. I wanted to stay away from Sutton Place.

“And I did-until last fall. I’d agreed to speak at a fund-raiser for Literacy Partners. My publicist had arranged everything. Until I was in the car on the way, I had no idea the event was to be held in a penthouse down the block from where Bitsy used to live.

“We’d left extra time because of the snow, so we arrived a few minutes early. I asked the driver to take a slow loop around the neighborhood. And I was glad I did. Avoidance did not erase reality. Bitsy’s disappearance was a tragic fact. I’d do better to confront it than try to pretend it hadn’t happened. Soon after that, I became preoccupied with the case and realized I needed to write about it.

“I didn’t return to Sutton Place until I was deeply into the story. By then, I’d traveled to London to meet with Harold’s business partner, Richard DeWitt, and to France to see his brother Gregory. Several of Harold’s friends had retired to Florida, so I spent a couple of weeks in Palm Beach and Key Biscayne.

“Harold’s children live in the flats of Beverly Hills. Both of them are over sixty now. Trey is twice divorced, with two adult daughters, engaged to a very young, very beautiful actress. Marissa and her partner, an artist named Eloise, own an art gallery on Rodeo Drive.

“None of them had seen Harold in many years. After Bitsy’s disappearance, he’d settled in Costa Rica. He’d lived a simple life in relative seclusion. A decade ago, he suffered a massive stroke and died instantly. He left everything to a charitable trust dedicated to preserving Caribbean rainforests. Trey and Marissa hired big gun lawyers to challenge the will, but they lost.

“My last stop was Bitsy’s hometown. Myrtle, Mississippi, is tiny. Population five hundred. Everyone knows everybody and everything, and everyone was eager to talk. Bitsy’s father had died years earlier, but I met members of the Baptist congregation where he used to preach. Reverend Yudis had always liked his whiskey, which he took-naturally-for medicinal purposes. He’d started hitting the bottle harder after Bitsy ran away. One night after many too many at Gus’s Tavern, he rammed his pickup head-on into a Kia carrying a family with two little boys. No one survived.

“I spoke with a man named Brent Gregorio. He ran the soybean farm that had been in his family for six generations. He’d gone to high school with Bitsy’s mother, Jenny Lou. Crying shame what had become of her, he said: mean drunk of a husband, miserable life. Years after Bitsy ran off, Jenny went missing. Her body turned up weeks later, floating in the creek. The coroner ruled the drowning accidental, but Mr. Gregorio was convinced she’d committed suicide.

“A retired teacher named Bobbi-Jo Cline had been Bitsy’s English teacher at West Union High. She remembered Bitsy as pretty and well-liked, but strangely serious at times. Two of Bitsy’s best childhood friends, Nora Bea Strang and Clara Addison, described her the same way. They’d be having fun, doing each other’s hair, talking nonsense, and then for no reason she’d go glum. Both of them now have gray hair and grandkids. Only Bitsy stayed frozen in time.”

Jeffers was jotting faster now, stopping at intervals to reach down and tap something on the iPhone he had hidden poorly in his lap.

“At that point, I’d exhausted all my leads in Myrtle. On the morning I was scheduled to fly out, a woman named CeeCee Adlen called my cellphone. She’d heard I was in town, asking around about Bitsy. She’d moved to Jacksonville years earlier, but she’d made the three-hour drive to see me. I agreed to meet her at the diner and changed to a later flight.

“CeeCee had plenty to say, all bad. Her son Ray had fallen for Bitsy back in high school, and they’d been sweethearts. CeeCee had always known the girl was a two-bit phony. She’d tried to talk some sense into Ray, but he’d been blinded by the pretty package. He’d been such a good boy. But after that ‘little slut’-her words-took off on him, he fell apart. Got into drugs. Started stealing to support his habit. He’d been in and out of prison since. One week after he was last paroled in ’04, he was shot to death in a bar fight. Left a wife and four kids. Bitsy was to blame. No matter that she’d been out of Ray’s life since high school. People see what they want to see.”

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.

“The windows were blackened in the scrawny NYPD security booth out front. I turned the corner to escape those unseen eyes. And there I stopped. Through a stand of Japanese privet, I caught a glimpse of the garden.

“The sight propelled me back to the night of the party. I hear the ghost strains of Pachelbel’s Canon over the growling rumble of a passing barge; the crystalline clink of laughter and champagne flutes. A hint of lilac rides the silken breeze. Elegant guests mingle beneath a gibbous moon. I see Bitsy standing off in the shadows, staring at the tides. She turns and fixes me with her mesmerizing eyes. You’re so lucky to be a writer, Colleen. She leans in and hugs me. And with that, everything falls into place. I’d had the answer all along.”

Jeffers scowled. “Huh? I don’t get it.”

“Thankfully, a cab came by. I phoned my brother-in-law on the way. My sister Maureen lost her battle with leukemia a year ago, and poor Frank has been horribly depressed. He barely eats, rarely goes out.

“I could hardly contain myself, but I didn’t want to say anything, even to Frank, until I made sure my theory was true. I told him I needed to check on something of Maureen’s for my book, and he waved me toward their room.

“Frank hasn’t been able to part with Maureen’s things. Everything is as she left it. I found what I was after right away. And there it was in black and white.”

Jeffers scratched behind his ear. “I still don’t get it.”

“When Bitsy hugged me that night, she slipped a note into the pocket of Maureen’s beautiful dress. And there it remained, yellowed with age. I’ll never forget the words: I can’t bear the lies anymore. I don’t belong and never will. This has to end now, tonight. I’ve studied the tides. The river will take me where I need to go. Please tell Harold I’m sorry. Tell him I had no choice.

L. C. pulled a breath. “She killed herself? Wow. I didn’t see that coming.”

Jeffers’s eyes bugged. “Bitsy Grainger offed herself? You’re sure?”

“At least we finally know what happened.” Colleen raised her wineglass. “To Bitsy Grainger. She took the only way she could see to end her suffering. Rest in peace.”

The whole group joined the solemn chorus. “To Bitsy Grainger.”

Jeffers stood abruptly. “Excuse me a sec. Nature calls.”

“Off the record, Jeffers. You hear me?” But the reporter hurried toward the men’s room, tapping away. L. C. sputtered in disgust. “That wormy creep. He’s going to tweet the end of your story. He’s going to post it all over creation and claim it’s his. I’m going to go flush him and his damned phone.”

Colleen set a hand on his. “It’s okay, L. C. Truly. Let it go.”

“But he’s a lazy, nasty, unethical jerk. He doesn’t care what he steals or who he hurts.”

“And he’ll get just deserts: a life sentence with himself.”

The next morning, Colleen bundled against the morning chill and hailed a cab to Sutton Place. She took a final stroll through Bitsy’s old neighborhood and then headed toward the charming patisserie she’d discovered on First Avenue. Their cappuccino was world-class.

She perched on a bistro chair at a tiny table in the rear and placed her order: Bitsy’s favorite drink and a croissant. Then she plucked the iPad mini from her tote.

Reuben Jeffers’s scoop had garnered the lead in today’s edition of A-List. “Missing Beauty Mystery Solved!” The piece recounted all the details Colleen had hoped to see: Bitsy’s childhood in Myrtle, Mississippi; her betrayal by Ray Adlen and his downward spiral; Harold’s move to Costa Rica and his children’s lawsuit over the terms of his will. Best of all, they included a manufactured replica of the suicide note Colleen claimed to have found. Jeffers had swallowed her story whole and spat it back unverified. Unscrupulous though he was, he should have known better. Colleen wrote fiction, after all.

But there was no going back. Jeffers’s story would be reposted in predictable perpetuity, and it would gather the heft that passes today for truth.

Colleen’s order was ready. She checked to be sure the time was right, paid, and stepped outside.

Near the corner, an old woman hunched against the chill in a hooded camel coat. She appeared to be homeless. “Can you help me, please? Can you help-”

Colleen approached. “Here, my friend. For you.” She passed the croissant and cappuccino.

The woman cradled the cup and took a sip. Her wrinkled eyes narrowed with pleasure, but Colleen still caught a hint of moonstone gray.

“Bless you, my friend,” she said and sipped again. “Heaven, right?”

JUDITH KELMAN is the award-winning, best-selling author of seventeen novels, three nonfiction books, dozens of short stories, and hundreds of articles and essays for major publications. In 2008 she founded Visible Ink, a unique writing program at Memorial Sloan-Kettering that enables all interested cancer patients to reap the benefits of written expression with the one-on-one help of a volunteer writing mentor. She lives in New York City.