Night Film

64

Relaying the tale to Nora, I was nowhere near as theatrical in the telling as Beckman.

“ ‘Fly on, beautiful child’?” she repeated. “That’s the saddest goodbye in the world. Do you think it’s all true?”

“I do.”

“Call Olivia. Immediately.”

I dialed the number.

“Of course, Mr. McGrath,” said the secretary on the other end. “Are you available tomorrow? Ms. du Pont is off to Saint Moritz the following day. She was hoping you’d forgive her for the late notice and squeeze her into your busy schedule, as she won’t be back for four months.”

I agreed to meet Olivia at her apartment at noon the following day. The address was about as close to an American Buckingham Palace as you could get: 740 Park Avenue. It’d been the childhood home of Jackie Kennedy and countless other legendary heirs and heiresses, and was pure old rich New York: staunch, graying at the temples, secretive, and snooty as hell.

As I hung up, I realized that my cellphone was buzzing.

I didn’t recognize the number, Golden Way Market, Inc.

“Who is it?” asked Nora.

“I suspect it’s the first person calling about Ashley’s missing-person flier.”