“Thanks,” Anne said, touched by their willingness to help. “I can cover food and drink. The kitchen staff is from Custom Catering. They were the only ones not booked this weekend.”
“I’ll help with the food,” Judy chirped, and Mary laughed.
“There’s a surprise.”
Bennie glanced over. “Carrier, make sure you get a list of the kitchen staff. Does that cover everyone?”
Anne tried to picture it. “Folding chairs, and a lectern. Microphones. I rented them all from a caterer the club uses. I’ll check chair guys, too.”
“Okay, that’s it, I think.” Bennie turned left onto Broad Street and steered south. The parade had gone but the street was still full of partiers, drinking beer and hanging out, waiting for dusk and the laser show. “The cops will be there, and I’ll hire security. Rent-a-muscle guys, and we’ll have Herb, too.”
Anne cringed. “In case our breasts need protecting.”
“Be nice, Murphy. He knows his stuff, and he was very upset when your chest passed on.” Bennie laughed. “Ladies, it’s almost dark and you’re all ordered home to bed. DiNunzio, I’m dropping you off first, then Carrier. Murphy, you’re staying with me tonight. You’ll be safe at my house.”
Anne looked up in surprise. She hadn’t planned that far ahead. She couldn’t very well turn Bennie down. She knew from the movies that sleepovers were a big deal with girlfriends. But she thought of Mel, alone in the office, and then, of Matt. She wished she could tell him she was alive. She wondered what kind of a night he’d be having.
“Agreed, Murphy?” It was Bennie, jolting Anne from her thoughts.
“Sure, yes. Thanks. But we have a stop to make first.”
“My thoughts exactly.” Bennie checked the rearview. “You’re not too tired? You’ve had a helluva day.”
“Not worse than hers,” Anne said, looking out the window, as night came on.
Judy looked at Bennie, confused. “What are you guys talking about? Where are you going?”
Anne let Bennie answer. It hurt too much to say.
Fitler Square was one of Philadelphia’s historic pocket-parks, a square block limned by privet hedge and wrought-iron fence, with tasteful wooden benches around a center fountain and newly refurbished brickwork underfoot. Fitler Square didn’t get half the attention of Rittenhouse Square, which was roughly in the same city neighborhood, but Anne found Fitler more charming. It was out of the way of the business district, at Twenty-sixth and Pine, and any time she had gone past it in a cab, it was full of moms pushing strollers and toddlers dropping Cheerios or scribbling sidewalk pictures with chubby pastel chalks.
But the neighborhood, Willa’s neighborhood, had been changed for her, too, and tonight the scene was different and felt strange. Fitler Square was almost empty, and the black Victorian gaslights that anchored the park’s four corners flickered in the darkness, barely illuminating a couple on one of the benches, their arms around each other. The Mustang cruised around the square, looking for a space, and headed to Keeley Street. Anne edged forward on her seat as they rounded the block and pulled into a space at the end of the row.
Bennie parked and shut off the engine. “Got the purse?”
“Yes,” she answered, taking Willa’s purse from the seat between them. It was a striped cloth sack from Guatemala, and she had retrieved the purse from a locker at the gym, where Willa had left it last night. A quick check inside revealed that it contained no wallet. Anne figured that Willa, like her, didn’t bring her wallet to the gym, because the lockers didn’t lock. The little bag held only keys, sunglasses, and a bruised organic apple, and Anne felt funny carrying it as she fell in step with the taller Bennie and walked to Willa’s house.
The night air was punctuated with the popping of distant fireworks, and the short heels of Anne’s mules dragged on the sidewalk. Fatigue and emotion were catching up with her, but she set both aside. She owed this to Willa. It was awful that it had taken her all day to get here. She had to find Willa’s family before the day was over, and tell them the worst news of their lives.
They passed 2685, then 2687. The rowhouses on the skinny back-street reminded Anne of Fairmount and were of the same colonial vintage; a lineup of attached brick homes, two-stories high and with a door flanked by two front windows, distinguished by the paint color of their shutters or the occasional clay flowerpot on the step. Anne’s stomach tensed when they reached 2689. She opened Willa’s purse for the keys, feeling terribly like they were invading the dead woman’s privacy. Going into her purse. Entering her home.
“You want to wait outside?” Bennie asked, but Anne shook her head.
“No, thanks. I’m the one who owes her.”
“Don’t think about it that way.” Bennie’s tone softened, though Anne couldn’t make out her expression in the dark. The only streetlamp was down the block. It would have been what Anne’s own street looked like last night, when Willa opened
Anne fished for Willa’s keys and inserted them in the lock until she found the one that clicked. She opened Willa’s front door and stepped into the darkness.
“You sure you’re okay?” Bennie was standing behind her, one hand on a switch on the wall, and the other closing the door behind them with a solid
“I’m fine.” Anne turned back and looked around. There was no entrance hall, and the light switch illuminated a white parchment sphere with red Chinese characters which hung over the small living room. But this was like no living room Anne had ever seen. Every inch of wall space was covered with a drawing. Skilled, detailed charcoal cityscapes had been tacked up, cheek by jowl, floor to ceiling. Sketches of storefronts in the Italian Market. Skyscrapers in the business district. The concrete lace of an Expressway interchange. The lights on the boathouses along the Schuylkill River.
“Wow,” Bennie said quietly. “Look at these drawings. There must be hundreds.”
“She was so talented.” Anne tasted bitterness in her mouth. Kevin would have to pay for this. For taking Willa.
“Notice anything unusual about them, by the way?”
“Not really.” Anne scanned at the drawings. “All of them are black-and-white, I guess.”
“True, and there are no people in them.”
Anne double-checked and saw that Bennie was right. The series of drawings of Fitler Square focused on the gaslights and the shadows they cast, or the intricate pattern of the wrought-iron fence. There were no babies, no mothers, no kids. A study of Rittenhouse Square depicted its statues—a frog, a goat—but none of the people who used the statues as meeting places. Anne wasn’t immediately sure what it meant.
“I like art with people,” Bennie said. “You’ve seen my Thomas Eakins prints of rowing.”
“Sure.”
“They’re from the exhibition at the Art Museum. Did you see it?”
“Missed it.”
Anne surveyed the rest of the living room. It contained no TV or VCR, only a sixties-retro sling chair in white, sitting in front of a cordless phone, a stereo system and stacks of CDs on a white entertainment center. It was more gallery than living room and contained no clues about Willa’s family, but Anne couldn’t help but linger in it, breathing in the faintest smell of dust and lead. It was all that was left of Willa, that and a misidentified body, cold in a morgue.
“Here we go,” Bennie said, crossing to the telephone and picking up the receiver. “Here’s a way to reach her family and friends instantly. They’ll be on speed-dial.”
“Good idea.” Anne wondered why she wasn’t thinking of this good stuff. She felt suddenly so passive, a half- step behind. “Maybe I should be the one to tell them.”
“No, let me handle this. When my mother was alive, she was in the number-one spot. Actually she still is. I don’t have the heart to take her off.” Bennie pressed the first speed-dial button, listened into the receiver, then frowned. “No number in the first spot.” She pressed the second button. “No number in the second spot.” She pressed another button. “Strike three,” she said, after a minute, then hung up the phone. “Evidently, Willa didn’t set up her speed-dial. So there’s nobody she calls all the time. That seems strange.”
“Not really,” Anne blurted out almost defensively. She hadn’t set up her speed-dial either.
“Maybe not. Come along.” Bennie touched Anne’s arm. “There has to be something, somewhere, that can help us. Bills, correspondence, old birthday cards with a return address. Something that would tell us more about her, or where her family is. How old did you say she was, again?”
