Manhattan Mayhem (35 page)

“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.