Part 7

Chapter 21

Opening and closing doors on memories was getting to be a wearisome hobby for Robin. Although she and her mother had decided to set aside any search for their missing person, Robin found her resolve wavering every time she found a quiet moment to think. The worst time was the short drive home from her downtown office. She knew she could walk the distance in less time but in cold weather especially, she drove. After all, the car was warm. Usually she enjoyed the ten-minute drive. She’d listen to the news on public radio or switch to the classical music station for a few minutes of Vivaldi to help her switch out of her work mode and relax. But today, she turned the radio off. She couldn’t stop the questions in her head. So she gave in – she knew she shouldn’t – and asked the same old questions again.

At dinner the night before, Jim asked her where else she could look. Where? Where! The list was endless. Where would Eleanor go if she wanted to be in a familiar place – even if she wanted to be invisible. 

Baltimore? She’d probably be in the phone book. She wasn’t. But then again, Robin wasn’t either.

Annapolis? No, someone would see her who remembered her. Everybody remembered Eleanor. Not only was she the kind of person you loved and never forgot, everybody remembered the sad story of her disappearance. Her re-appearance would create quite a stir. The Capital would cover it for a month.

Maybe she would go back to New York. She’d be invisible there. But with a child? Sure people lived in New York with their children all the time – but not a girl who grew up in quiet Annapolis.

But maybe I should think about looking there…Robin mused, and then remembered the rest of her conversation last night. I guess maybe it’s time to hire that private investigator, she thought.

Then, as she turned her car into the spot on William Street, something occurred to her that she should have thought of before. Perhaps Ellen was on the Eastern Shore – or even Delaware. It’s close but not too close and nobody knows anybody over there anymore because of all the new people moving in.

When someone disappears from your life, someone you truly loved, the grief can be crushing. Why is it at moments when you feel the loss so painfully that you see someone who reminds you of the person you lost? You can’t take your eyes off that profile, the way the hair curls, the high cheekbones or long jawline. No, of course, it’s not her. But you wish it was.  

Robin felt that way again. She remembered how she’d see Ellen’s ponytail or hear her laugh in some stranger. Back then, she was mourning the devastating loss of her only sister.

But now, time had passed, but she found herself looking at strangers again, wondering how she would have changed. How she had changed. Now, she thought, when I see someone who reminds me of Ellen, maybe it is Ellen. Maybe I see her all the time.

Robin waited to get out of her car as a blonde mother walking her tall pre-adolescent daughter past her door. They were new neighbors; Robin struggled to remember their names. The child is named Caitlin, I think. The mother is...Oh, I don’t know. Jim will remind me. He knows everybody.

She glanced at her watch on the short walk to her front door. Jim had agreed to stop by for a drink at 7:30. He hoped to make it, he told her, but couldn’t be sure because of a late meeting. Robin went straight for the phone, looking for messages. Oh, no, she thought, seeing the blinking light. He’s not coming.

“Hi Robin, this is Bill,” said the answering machine before Robin could reach the phone. “I just met an artist in Easton who remembers meeting Eleanor in Vienna. She may be crazy — we didn’t go to Vienna — but I know you’re turning over every clue you find.”

Robin felt as if she’d turned to stone. The loud beep and dial tone that finished the message made her start. She remembered Jim and hurried out of her coat and gloves and put them away. Before she had finished scooping up the newspapers spread over her coffee table, the doorbell rang.

“What’s wrong?” Jim asked. She put her hand to her hair as if to straighten it. “You’re so pale. What’s wrong?” 

“Weird phone call. You know. Nothing,” she answered, hoping she sounded cheerful. “I just got home and haven’t even changed. Could you fix a drink?”

“Anything for you, hon,” he said and disappeared into the kitchen. The sounds from the kitchen comforted her. They reminded her how her own house, and this house when her grandmother lived here, sounded once upon a time.

She ran upstairs to slip into a pair of jeans and old docksiders. And then she unwrapped a heather grey sweater from her trip to England. After taking another look at her face — yes she was a little pale, she thought — and sweeping blush across her cheeks, she headed back to the kitchen.

She wanted to focus on the charming scene in front of her. A gorgeous man in her house was making martinis. Dressed in black jeans and a deep red turtleneck, he looked so comfortable here in her house. He’d lit candles n the living room and turned on her favorite Deanna Bogart ballads on the CD player. She’d dreamed about an evening like this and it looked better in real life. But the phone call with Bill had left her breathless.

“Want to talk about it now?” Jim stopped measuring the gin and turned to look at Robin. 

“It was so odd, really. A coincidence,” she said, and looked into the pantry for something to snack on. “I should have stopped at Cross Street. There’s not much here,” 

“Sweetie,” Jim said, wrapping his arms around her. “It’s okay. Tell me what was odd.”

“Remember Bill? There was just a strange message on my answering machine. Somebody remembered Eleanor and was talking to Bill about it. He thought I’d like to know.” 

Robin kept on looking in her pantry so Jim handed her a box of crackers from the top shelf. “I brought cheese,” he whispered.

“So your sister’s old boyfriend gets a call from some stranger who knew Eleanor. Now how is that possible?” Jim asked, stirring a drop of vermouth into the shaker. “Out of the blue, someone talks to Bill about Eleanor? Really.”

“I know, I know. It was so odd,” Robin said, spreading crackers on a plate. “A coincidence really.”

Bill really hadn’t said much, she thought. He had a group of artists in his office planning a spring exhibit of Eastern Shore works at the university. One woman had arrived early and while they were making small talk, she noticed a photo from the Europe trip. Bill told her about the group and she pointed to the girl with the blond ponytail wearing a Salisbury University sweatshirt. 

“She said she had met her, Robin,” Bill had said. “She remembered the sweatshirt and then remembered seeing her in Vienna. She said she had been surprised to see the name of a college from the Eastern Shore and had gone up to the girl and shown her her own t-shirt from Washington College. They had laughed about the small-world-ness of two Eastern Shore college students being in the same train station.

“What I don’t understand is how she remembers it being in Vienna,” he said.

“Bill, it’s been years. Maybe she remembers the wrong train station. Or maybe she remembers another girl,” Robin offered.

“Yeah, she didn’t remember the girl’s name and said they may never have even introduced themselves.”

“What is her name?”

“Debbie something...I’ve got to have it written down in my meeting notes. Mmmm. Yes, here it is. Debbie Bunting Caine. She works in Easton at the Academy of the Arts.”

“I’ll give her a call,” Robin said. “See if she might remember something else. Maybe we can figure out if Eleanor went to Vienna after she left Salzburg.”

Robin took a martini from Jim and kissed him. “Let’s talk about it another time. So how was your day, dear?” 

“Great,” he said, and led her to the worn couch. A sip of a strong drink and the attentions of her charming neighbor took her mind off the strange conversation she’d had with Eleanor’s old boyfriend.

There would be time to ponder that later, she thought. With only the slightest hesitation, she slid her arm around Jim’s shoulders and leaned toward him. Jim turned to kiss her.

Chapter 22

“Would you like to go to that Medieval Times show sometime?” Jane pointed to the faux castle that anchored one end of the mall. 

Robin glanced up before sliding into the prime parking spot right by the entrance. “I hear it’s fun,” she shrugged, “but it seems a little silly to me.” 

“You’re probably right. I’d much rather spend a couple of hours trying on shoes.”

“Sister, you came to the right place. They’ve got plenty of shoes in here.”

The pair headed inside. Jane was looking for sandals for a spring trip to meet her boyfriend Parker’s family in New Orleans. 

“If we don’t find something in here...” Jane said, scanning the long rows of shoes.

Robin had already veered off to look at a pair of shiny red stilettos. “Hey, wait for me,” Jane said. 

Without another word, the two women gathered pairs of shoes from the shelves. When they had all they could carry, they found a bench and sat down. Robin admired the brown leather and bead sandals Jane had found. Jane turned her nose up at Robin’s red stilettos. “Not your style,” she said, shaking her head.

“Well, they could become my style,” Robin protested.

She returned the shoes to the box and slid on a pair of navy sling-backs. 

“Much better,” Jane nodded in approval. “So what’s on your mind?”

“Me? Oh nothing. Just shoes,” Robin replied.

“Shoes? Hardly. You wear the same black pumps every day. Or those flats, yes, the ones you have on now. Spill it. I can tell you’re nearly bursting with another clue.”

“I don’t want to bore you with yet another useless tidbit of information.”

“The sidekick needs to know everything, remember? What’s happened now?”

“Remember that woman who stopped to talk to us in Easton a few weeks back?” 

Jane nodded. “When you got the birth certificate for the child in the accident, yes.”

“Bill called me to say he had met her, too,” Robin said.

“Lady really gets around doesn’t she?” Jane answered. 

“She said she had met Ellen.” Robin told her friend about the meeting she had related to Bill. “When he told me about it, I didn’t remember her or our strange meeting in Easton. I even told Jim about it and the name didn’t ring a bell.”

“What was her name? I don’t remember it either,” Jane said, looking at the black espadrilles on her feet.

“Those look good,” Robin said. “Debbie Caine. Why would you remember it? She was that crazy lady who watched us through lunch. Then she asked if we had kids at her kids’ high school. Us.”

“Oh yes, her. How could I forget?”

“I remembered it in the middle of the night. Woke up and remembered her. I must have had a dream about the day. I don’t know.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“About that woman?”

“No, the shoes. I like these. They’ll work for my trip to New Orleans.”

“Oh, yeah. Good choice. I’m getting the pumps,” she sighed.

“Go ahead, get the red ones if you can walk in them.”

“I can learn. Jim might like them.”

“Right you can just lean on him as you wobble down Charles Street. And that woman? Are you going to call her?”

“I don’t know. I guess I should. I just thought she was creepy.”

“Stalker. She had stalker written all over her.”

“Poor woman. Probably thought she was helping and we’ve dragged her reputation through the mud.”

“Serves her right.”

“You know, Rob, maybe it is time to call a private investigator. Have you done that yet?”

“Not yet. How do you find one of those guys.”

“Beats me but maybe you could get someone else to deal with this Debbie person.”

“Sounds like a plan. An expensive plan but a plan.”

“Call your mother. She hired one in London easily enough.”

“Good idea. Let’s eat.”

“Robin, I’m serious. You’ll do it?”

“Promise. Cross my heart. Don’t know where or how to find someone trustworthy but I’ll give it my best shot. Now can we go have lunch?”

Chapter 23

Robin wasn’t so sure it was a good idea to hire a private investigator once she met George Foster and saw his office. And she certainly wondered why she hadn’t taken up Jane’s offer to accompany her.

Foster’s office was on the second floor of a boat repair shop down a decrepit section of Furnace Branch Road. She’d almost missed the dingy two story once-white cinder block building. A parking lot filled with old — maybe abandoned — fishing boats had caught her eye so she stopped. Yes, there it was: a flight of worn wooden stairs up to a second floor office. She parked and locked her car, held tight to her handbag and ventured nervously up those stairs. A cracked black plastic sign announced she had made it, “George M. Foster, Private Investigator, LLC.”

Unsure whether to knock or go in, she turned the door knob. What the heck, she thought and took a deep breath. 

“Mr. Foster?” she called, as she stepped inside the office. It was only one room, cramped with the unmistakable smell of oil. The walls were unfinished, the floor a gray speckled tile. An ancient grey metal desk seemed to stand sentry at the doorway. It was covered in old calendars from the boat shop below. A long row of file cabinets, all different shades of tan, stretched to the window at the end of the room. A single light bulb with a string hanging from it lit the dusty, disordered mess.

“Back here,” a voice called out and a door she hadn’t seen before opened. “Sorry about the mess,” he said as he advanced, guessing her thoughts. “The landlord stores stuff up here. My office is in back.”

Foster led Robin to a brightly-lit dark-paneled office in back. A massive carved desk dominated the room and two pink-upholstered chairs stood ready to welcome guests. Foster motioned to Robin to have a seat in one of them while he took the other. She glanced around the room. Sheer curtains hung from both windows and a grandfather clock stood between then. Not a paper was in sight. A deep burgundy patterned carpet lay below her feet.

“My wife decorated the place. I mean my ex-wife,” he said.

“It’s nice,” she said.

“Clients get real worried when they see the outside and then they walk in the door and I’m always afraid they’ll run right back out again. I can’t get Bob, that’s the landlord, to clean up in front. It hasn’t ruined my business yet, but it hasn’t done it any good.”

“How can I help you? You said on the phone you’re looking for someone?”

Robin told Foster the story of how her sister disappeared and all the clues she had gotten in recent weeks that Ellen is still alive. As she talked she looked the detective over, trying to judge whether she liked him. He was a short, wiry man with wavy brown hair combed off his forehead and back to the collar of his weathered dark blue polo shirt. Deeply tanned, his face was crinkled and spotted as if he had always spent long hours in the sun. His eyes were deep-set and light blue almost grey and he watched her intently as she talked. He had glasses hanging around his neck, which she never saw him use.

He folded his hands and leaned forward. “Seems like I should be able to find her then. I’ll need a few things. Mostly numbers: social security number, driver’s license number, passport. What’s her date of birth? How about a picture?”

“Here’s her graduation picture. I haven’t got any of those numbers. Well. I know her date of birth. She was born July 20, 1970.”

“That could make it more difficult...Where was she born?”

“Baltimore City, at Mercy Hospital.”

“Anybody else that may have this information?”

“I asked my mother — she’s the only other person who would have it — and she said she hasn’t been able to find her social security number. She didn’t keep the other numbers. All she has is her birth certificate and some old report cards. And a letter congratulating her on a scholarship.”

“No, don’t need those. Well, I can look around. See what I can turn up.”

“I’ll give you a call in, say, a week. If I think it’s do-able, we’ll talk about my fees then. Let me walk you out.”

Robin called her mother to report on the meeting as soon as she got home. “I guess he’s okay,” she said, explaining the horrible building where Foster’s office was located.

“He seemed like he could help us?”

“I guess. He wanted Ellen’s social security number and driver’s license. But he didn’t seem to care when we didn’t have them. I guess he knows how to track that stuff down,” Robin said though she wasn’t convinced. 

“I’ll keep going through the old boxes in the attic. Maybe they’ll turn up. But I suspect I threw them away. They didn’t seem important then,” Diane said. 

“He said he’d call next week,” Robin added.

But he didn’t call. So Robin called him.

“Sorry, haven’t been able to get to your case. There’s this divorce case, you see... I’ll have more time next week. I’ll get back to you. Promise,” he said.

Part 6

Chapter 18

Where was it? Butterworth Court, on the map, was about a mile from the railway station, near the center of Bristol. In the damp cold, Robin had noticed as they walked along the streets the old town had absolutely none of the charm she had expected from an English village. Diane’s hopeful spirit had obviously dissipated with every step along the dull grey streets.  But they weren’t here for sightseeing, Robin thought and looked again at the map to figure out if they were on the right route  to Butterworth Court.

It didn’t take long before Robin and her mother grew uneasy. Diane hadn’t said a word for nearly a half hour. Robin didn’t know how to sound upbeat. The roads were quiet on this ugly afternoon and there didn’t seem to be a taxi in sight. After a long hour of walking, they arrived at the right street. 

“Butterworth Court!” Diane exclaimed at seeing the street sign. She hurried across the street and looked into the short cul de sac.

Robin was convinced the address had to be wrong. All of these buildings were plain brown boxes, ugly things designed for function rather than form. These couldn’t be homes. The sign at number 2, beside garish purple doors, said these were City Council offices. Businesses ran down either side of the cul de sac – and there was no 1203 anywhere.

“The address isn’t here,” Robin said. “It can’t be right. I wouldn’t even know what door to knock on. Want to stop in the City Council offices? Maybe someone there could help?”

Robin shoved the map into her shoulder bag and wrapped her scarf tighter against the cold. Her sore feet knew she had been walking a long time. She turned at her mother  when she didn’t answer. Instead, she seemed to be staring at some distant spot down the street. “Mom, are you all right?” Robin said, tucking her hand around her mother’s arm.

“We’ve come all this way for nothing, Robin,” she said, turning to look at her daughter. “I’ve brought you here for nothing. Whatever made me think we’d find her?”

Diane’s well-tailored façade seemed to crumble as the tears came. Robin was surprised to see her mother shudder and begin to fall as the full weight of her sadness came upon her. Robin wrapped her arm around her mother, patting her mother as she used to comfort a younger Robin. 

“We tried, Mom. We tried everything we could think of.” Robin sighed, feeling the hurt again. “I wish she’d been here, too.”

The two women stood there staring at Butterworth Court, darkening in the twilight. Robin didn’t think she could take another step on this search. And she knew she couldn’t drag her mother along. Standing there was all they could do right now. Robin felt defeated. 

She hadn’t even wanted to come, she thought with a touch of anger welling up in her. Eleanor didn’t want to be found – if Eleanor was even alive. Robin had seen the pictures. She’d talked to be people who knew her. Why did they know her sister? Why hadn’t she come home? Why hadn’t she contacted her own mother?

Anger brought strength and Robin straightened herself up, squared her shoulders and patted her mother.

“Enough is enough, Mother,” she said. “We have to stop this. You know we do.” She dropped her voice to a whisper as if that would lessen the pain of what she was saying. “For us, Eleanor is gone.” 

A light drizzle began to fall on the two women standing frozen there on the street. “Come on, Mom. It’s raining. Let’s get you out of the rain. How about some tea?”

“How about a beer?” her mother said, forcing a smile.

Chapter 19

As the plane touched down at BWI Airport, Robin and her mother agreed to make more regular visits. Robin promised she’d visit Havre de Grace the next weekend. She hugged her mother at the curb. Andrew was there to take her mother back to Havre de Grace. She was catching the light rail into the city.

Spring had begun to make its appearance while she was away. The grass was greener, she noticed as the train sped toward town. And crocuses were everywhere, turning drab patches purple and gold. The sky here was still gray as London’s but to Robin it felt so much better than she expected. As she watched the familiar sights go by, Robin pondered the meaning of their strange two weeks in England. They hadn’t found Eleanor or her daughter or even her husband. But despite the pain they felt standing there on a dreary Bristol street, they couldn’t shake the feeling they were going to find Ellen. All they had to decide was whether they wanted to keep looking. 

Oh well, Robin thought as she arrived in front of her rowhouse. She somehow didn’t feel so alone anymore. The sight of that pink Formstone house cheered her. After the elegant townhouses of Notting Hill, she even felt like laughing out loud. There was no pretension in her grandmother’s house. As it had always been, it was a sturdy little shelter. 

Robin dragged her heavy suitcase full of new clothes into the foyer and looked up at her sister’s photographs. Maybe I didn’t find you, sister dear, but our mother made me find a killer wardrobe. And maybe we found each other, too.

She was still wearing her coat when the doorbell rang.

“Jim!” Robin was surprised to see her handsome neighbor at her door.

“Hon, I’ve missed you,” he said, using the local slang term of endearment.

“Hon, how nice to see you too,” Robin said. “Come in.” She closed the door behind her visitor, her tall, attractive visitor and took a good look as he admired the photographs. She smiled and made herself breathe. What a surprise. She’d dreamed of inviting him into her house many times. Now he was here. Now what!

“The truth is, Robin, I’ve missed your cookies.” Jim said, turning to her and nodding with great seriousness. 

“Cookies?” Robin couldn’t think what he was talking about.

“You mean you don’t remember the cookies you made for me? Macaroons; chocolate covered macaroons. I’ve thought about them for days—no, weeks.” The little laugh lines around those wonderful brown eyes were showing. And Robin remembered that terrible night when she made cookies to help soothe her own raw feelings.

“Yes, the macaroons, I remember,” Robin said.

Jim looked around and saw the suitcase. “Going on a trip?” he asked.

“Just came back from a trip.”

“That’s why I haven’t seen you. I actually came looking for you last Sunday. A bunch of us were headed to Bandaloops for brunch. I’ve got to get your phone number so I can call and invite you properly. You’re not in the book.”

“No, as a matter of fact I’m not. But my grandfather is. The phone is still in Joseph Browne’s name. I don’t want my name in a phone book; it just doesn’t seem safe to me.”

“Very prudent of you. You never know when strange men will go through the phone book, looking for women to bother.”

“Very funny; that’s not what I meant.”

“Yes, I know. Are you up to dinner tonight?”

Robin knew she shouldn’t but she wasn’t missing an opportunity to go out with Jim. “I’m a bit tired,” she admitted. “But I’ve got to eat.”

“Give me your phone number and I’ll be by at 7.”

Chapter 20

By the time their dinners arrived, Robin had outlined her strange odyssey. A glass of wine had cheered her a bit. Or was it Jim? He had listened intently, nodding now and then. And when she finally paused, he sighed. 

“That’s some story, Robin,” he said. 

“I couldn’t have made up a wilder tale – and yet it has really happened. I really don’t know what to think but can’t get it out of my mind that Ellen must still be alive,” Robin said, her fork poised over the salmon.

“I don’t know where I’d look if I’d lost a sister,” Jim said and reached over to touch her hand. “But I’m here if you need any help.”

“You know it’s kind of funny,” Robin said. “When I met those two women last month I’d been feeling pretty lonely. Now my mother calls me every day – I hadn’t spoken regularly to her in years. The two women who say they knew Eleanor have left several messages on my answering machine, saying they want to offer their support. And now here I am out with a reasonably attractive man – even if he is a stockbroker.”

As Jim began to bluster about the stockbroker remark, Robin laughed and then grew more serious. “No really, I appreciate your concern. How’s your filet?” Robin realized she needed to lighten up.

Federal Hill is blessed with a handful of tiny, stylish restaurants. The menus may be quirky and the staff isn’t always as polished as you might expect. But the mood is always calm and quiet and the food and wine are good. Jim had led Robin to a restaurant she’d never heard of and she was impressed immediately. Six tables filled up all the space in the side dining room and the window looked out on a garden. It was too early for most plants but even in the early spring, the tree limbs, rocks and spare fountain created a charming view. And it gave the two of them something to talk about when the silence grew awkward.

“I grew up in a state park,” Jim announced as they discussed the garden.

“In the state park?” Robin asked

“Oh yes. My father was the park’s manager and in those days they gave your family a house. Commuting was easy – though it didn’t seem like Dad ever got away from his work. That’s why I live in the city.”

“Why?”

“I’d had enough trees, birds and dirt to last a lifetime.”

“Nobody ever gets tired of trees and birds,” Robin protested. 

“Maybe not really trees and birds but our house was a little isolated. I couldn’t wait to go to school every September just to see my friends,” Jim explained.

“Well, yes I can understand that,” she said, thinking he’s the kind of guy who wants to be in the middle of everything, especially a crowd. She liked that kind of guy.

"I grew up in Annapolis,” Robin told him as she sipped the last of her wine. “It was a very small town in those days and everybody knew everybody, especially on the street where we lived. All I had to do was go outside and I’d find a friend or go inside and find my sister. “

“You really were close, weren’t you?” he asked as he poured her another glass.

“I took her for granted. She was older than me so I thought of her as ‘big.’ I asked her for advice and I listened to what she said. We were good friends. I keep hearing stories of sisters who can’t be bothered with each other. I was lucky.”

“Hmmm. You must have been. So where do you think Eleanor is now?”

“I have no idea. I have no idea if she’s alive. I think she is. I’m pretty sure she is. But she certainly doesn’t want to be found, does she?” As usual, Robin didn’t know whether to be angry or hurt. Either way, she couldn’t shake the confusion she always felt now.

“Where else could you look?”

“I’ve tried the Eastern Shore. I even went to England. And for what? A suitcase of nice English clothes,” she tried on her smile. And Jim flashed her one of his.

“What about a private eye? You know, a Sam Space kind of guy who could dig up the dirt?”

“Sam Space! Sam Spade, you mean,” Robin laughed.

“The sci-fi guy is Sam Space. Anyway, what about hiring one of those guys?”

“Mom hired one in England and he turned up the dirt all right. But it wasn’t Eleanor, not our Eleanor. He followed another woman with the same name. It was terrible.”

It was a good idea, Robin concluded as they discussed all the things he might be able to find: records they didn’t even know how to look for, addresses that he could look up. Maybe it was time to find a professional to help them out. 

“I think you’re on to something, with your Sam Space guy,” Robin said. “I’ll see who’s available around here. I’ve never heard of anybody using a private detective in Baltimore -- but people must need them.”

“Enough of that for tonight. What shall we have for dessert?”

Part 5

Chapter 15

All Diane could think of was a soap opera as the private detective laid out photos of a man and woman. The Eleanor Browne presented to her could not be her daughter. There had to be some mistake. 

Graham had in fact found a woman named Eleanor Browne. He had photographs of her taken with a mysterious man in a pub in a questionable part of London. The man turned out to be an earl, married to another woman. 

Graham brought photographs, copies of newspaper clippings and a sad story filled with scandal. Sitting in the hotel lobby, Diane and Robin ignored the bustle around them as they studied those photographs. They were dark and a little grainy but Diane was sure this couldn’t be Eleanor. Her hair was black and quite short, her daughter would never part with her long blonde hair. This woman wore little brown-framed glasses that made her look studious. The smile wasn’t quite right, either. It was hard to see her features clearly

But it was the story that had Diane worried. Graham lit a cigarette before telling her all the details. 

He’d found a news story in an old London Times from 1992. A wedding announcement detailed the arrangements for the marriage of Eleanor Browne, who was described as “a commoner,” and Lord Edward Granby, a cousin of the queen, “an elderly cousin of the queen,” Graham noted with an eyebrow raised. It was a lavish affair, held at a country castle outside of Oxford. The newly-married couple were living — and partying — in London. 

Then Graham had found a divorce decree. The scandal was splashed across the tabloids, which had speculated about adultery and possible criminal activity. The marriage had lasted only a year. The former Mrs. Granby was said to have moved to Paris. 

Society columns had mentioned her several times but Graham said he hadn’t been able to find the woman herself until yesterday’s newspapers had mentioned her possible connection to Earl Richard Collins. A friend of a friend had seen the two together that same day.

The coincidence was astounding. Graham had hurried to the hotel where they were said to be staying and followed them to the pub. He was rather proud of those pictures, he said.

“But I don’t think this is Eleanor,” said Diane shaking her head.

“I’m certain it is,” Graham protested, crushing the cigarette in an ashtray. 

“I’m sure it is a woman named Eleanor but there must be another Eleanor Browne living in London.”

“Very well, madam,” he said, rising and pulling on his overcoat. 

“You’ll keep looking for her?”

“I’ll see if I can find anything else.”

Diane wasn’t enjoying her stay in London. Robin could tell she was deeply troubled by the day’s activities. Her mother nearly scowled as she picked up the photos the private investigator had left on the small round table and started to throw them in a wastebasket. “No, Mother,” said Robin, reaching for the pictures. “I want to look at them again.”

Chapter 16

Robin was late. Shadows were growing longer as the street lamps began to glow. She reproached herself for not catching a cab but she hadn’t realized how big Hyde Park was. It was more beautiful than St. James’s Park and she’d loved walking through that park. But around the edges of Hyde Park, she caught glimpses of  big houses, castles, really. At least, she thought they looked splendid. The lake had attracted geese and ducks and groups of men and little boys throwing rocks and tending to small sailboats. She had sat on a bench to watch them for a while. She had gotten to the entrance when that woman got up on the soapbox at Speaker’s Corner to rail about injustice in Africa, Robin couldn’t help herself. She felt compelled to listen. It wasn’t until she began walking back to the hotel that she realized she was at the wrong entrance. She was on the wrong street and was much farther away than she had realized. Now she would be late and Diane wasn’t one to be kept waiting.

“So sorry, Mother,’ Robin apologized when she saw Diane waiting on a settee in the lobby. Diane hadn’t seen her but had been studying a small notebook. 

“We’ll have to hurry. We have only a little while before we’re supposed to meet that private investigator.” Robin didn’t think her mother was angry. Instead, she noticed, her mother seemed to have a new sense of purpose. 

“And then the tea room. I’ve been looking forward to going to a proper tea,” Diane added. “That taxi driver said it was worth the visit.”

“If Princess Di liked it,” Robin began, knowing her mother’s adoration of the late royal. 

Robin was growing to like the area around their hotel. She was particularly fond of the little parks that seemed to be on every street. She peeked through the gate to one and noticed a window just up the street.

Lights were blazing inside so that Robin could see all the people gathering inside. Many were dressed in black and carried glasses of wine as they peered at the walls. Oh, of course, she thought, a gallery opening. A gallery opening! Robin stopped and looked. Why hadn’t she been looking for her sister in the galleries around London? She had found information about a gallery the very week she had learned her sister could still be alive. She had even found an address. Oh, what was its name? Where was it?

“Robin? What are you looking at?” Diane had realized she was walking alone and came back looking for her daughter.

“How could I have been so stupid?”

“Stupid? How, Robin?”

“We should be looking for Eleanor in the galleries,” she said and told her mother about finding a note about an exhibit of Eleanor’s photographs.

“There has been so much to look for,” Diane said, trying to soothe her daughter. “We can only look in one place at a time. Tomorrow we’ll look for your gallery. Now let’s go to tea. I’m starving.” 

Chapter 17

The tiny travel clock ticked loudly in the middle of the night. The neighborhood was a quiet one and that made the ticking even more insistent. Robin thought she heard every second pass as she waited for morning. 

She struggled to remember the name of the gallery. She turned over and over in her mind those news reports she’d found on the Internet. She remembered how excited she was to find this shred of evidence of her sister. 

Diane cried out in her sleep in the next bed. Robin turned toward her and saw a faint glistening of tears down her cheek.

“Mom,” she whispered. She crawled out of bed and stooped beside her mother. “Mom, wake up,” she said, shaking her mother’s arm. Her mother moaned in her sleep and then woke up.

“What’s the matter, Robin?” she asked when she saw her daughter standing over her. 

“You were having a nightmare,” she said. “Your cheek. You’ve been crying in your sleep.”

“Have I,” she said, wiping the tear away. “I must have been having one of those dreams again.”

“What dreams?”

“Oh dreams like the ones I had after we lost your sister. I kept having the same nightmare, really. I kept calling out to her but she’d never answer.  It’s nothing,” Diane forced a smile in the dark.

“You’re having these dreams again?” Robin asked, alarmed.

“Sometimes. They’ve never gone away completely. But I’ve had a few in the last couple of weeks. Usually just once or twice a week. Go back to sleep, dear. I’m fine,” her mother said, dismissing Robin. She rolled over and pulled the blanket up to her chin.

Robin lay down and tried to sleep. She heard the clock again and found herself thinking about what her mother had said. She hadn’t realized Eleanor's disappearance had caused nightmares; her mother never mentioned them before. 

She found herself finally drifting off to sleep when a thought about the gallery came to her. I think it had just two names, she thought. In Charing Cross. Where was that? How many galleries could there be in Charing Cross? 

Finally, Robin realized she was fully awake again and wasn’t going to sleep right away. She slipped out of bed and felt through the desk drawers for a telephone directory. She picked up the heavy book and her laptop and took them into the bathroom so she could turn on a light without waking her mother. She’d found the name once; she could find it again. 

The owner’s name was Robert, she recalled. No, maybe it was Herbert. No Herberts in the phone book. Robin found a handful of galleries in Charing Cross. She thought they were Charing Cross – she hadn’t figured out the addresses yet. W-this and N-that: they didn’t make any sense to her.

Original Photography, Allen and Gordon, McAllister Gallery. None of them sounded familiar. Robin was certain it wasn’t the first.  She flipped through the files she stored on her laptop, looking for the old notes she had kept when she had first searched the web for Ellen. That’s when she’d seen the note about the gallery opening. Maybe she had dismissed it back then, but tomorrow, she planned to take her mother on a tour of London galleries. The question was, which gallery was it? 

She felt herself getting drowsier and decided it was no use now. Robin couldn’t find the note; had she even kept it? She closed her laptop. She’d look again in the morning. She lay the book and computer down on the dresser and turned out the light. 

Robin listened to the clock tick as she fell back to sleep. The name Herbert stuck in her mind. She was sure she’d need to go to Charing Cross. How long could it take to go through all of the galleries there? she wondered. And she drifted off to sleep. 

“Wow,” Robin murmured when she saw the list of galleries that came up in her web search early the next morning. She counted seven on the first page that looked credible, six on the second page, eight on the third...and there were at seven pages to go through. She added “Eleanor Browne” to the search and came up with a few Brownes but none looked like Ellen. Variations didn’t help either. 

“Maybe,” Diane suggested as she watched Robin search, “we need to write them all down and just start looking.”

“We’re only here a few more days, Mom,” Robin said. “I know it had a short name, two words maybe.”

“Okay, then. Look for two-name galleries. How about this one: ‘Photographer’s Eye’? Or ‘Pixelated Dreams’?”

“That I’d remember. No, it was a boring name, nothing cute or clever. It was more like these: ‘Original Photography, Allen and Gordon, McAllister Gallery.’”

“Are they on the same street? Let’s start with those. Maybe there’s a reason they caught your attention first,” Diane offered, sitting on the bed to put on her shoes. “Write them down.”

“Yes, ma’am. That’s a good start. I have already written down these,” Robin added, showing her the little notebook. “Fifteen of them. Can we see them all before tea?”

“We’d better get going,” Diane said. “Finish your croissant.”

Charing Cross looked just as Diane and Robin hoped it would. Shops small and dark tumbled together in a variety of styles along narrow streets. Window displays in each beckoned them to come inside. Traffic was heavy and pedestrians filled the sidewalks on this fine early spring day. Diane found herself stopping in front of a shop window filled with classic titles by English authors — all books she knew she should read someday. “Oh, look,” Robin wandered to the shop next door. “This is one of the galleries on our list: ‘Original Photography’.”

After a brief, very brief, visit to the first gallery, Robin and Diane knew it was going to be a long day. One by one, Robin and Diane wandered through the galleries, stopping to ask the shop clerks and owners about a photo exhibit by Ellen. Some brushed them off; some seemed irked that these women would waste their time. A few were kind. None were helpful or even offered to look through their records or even their memories. 

“That was so long ago,” they heard more than once. “I wonder,” said Diane after the third time a shop clerk said it, “ if that’s supposed to be helpful.”

At noontime, they stopped in a small cafe to rest their feet and see if a bit of food would raise their spirits. “What a long morning,” Robin sighed as she sat at a tiny cloth-covered table.

“How many more are on your list now?” Diane said as she looked over the menu card.

“I can’t bear to look,” she said. “Must be a half dozen still to go.”

“Don’t think about it now. Have some lunch and we’ll think about something else for a while,” her mother said. 

Robin looked around the shop and felt happier just by the chintz-covered surroundings. Ladies wore hats and gloves in here. Not all, of course, but there was a table near theirs with a group of women in trim suits, pearls and pastel-colored hats. She looked down at her own rumbled pants and simple shirt. Her mother, naturally, fit in with these well-dressed ladies. She’d chosen gray flannel trousers, suede shoes with a buckle on the toe, a sunny yellow sweater set. Robin knew she’d pressed the clothes before she put them on.

Robin looked at her mother and took a sip of the soda that had just arrived. “I’m feeling lucky,” she said to her mother’s obvious surprise.

“After this dreadful morning?”

“Why not? We can’t have come all this way to find nothing.”

“And?”

Robin paused as delicate sandwiches were placed before them. 

“And, I was wondering if we could make some time tomorrow to look for some new clothes.”

“Well, I guess if you’re feeling lucky, then we’ll probably have some time. I’ve been wanting to get to Harrods before we go.”

The two women felt refreshed after lunch. They had studied the map while they ate and found they still had six galleries in a ten block area. “Let’s split up,” Diane said. “We can each go to three of them and meet at the hotel. She tore the list in half and handed part to her daughter. “See you at 6.”

Robin hoped her mother was having better luck than she was having as she exited from the first shop of the afternoon. The owner, who must not have had lunch yet, practically tossed her out of his cramped, dusty gallery for wasting his time. 

Her next stop was in the adjacent shop, a very different place from any of the others she had seen so far. It had the same quaint stone facade of the others. But inside was a wide-open space, quite modern with deep gray walls and black painted steel dividers, smoke-colored windows and smooth concrete floor. The main gallery was dedicated to sculpture. The current exhibit focused on the carvings of Inuits from Canada. Robin found herself drawn to a tiny greenish stone figure in a case by the front door. It was of a man standing on one foot. He seemed to be swinging a drum or tambourine. Cold and smooth, the stone man touched her. 

“That’s a real beauty,” said a pale, thin man with a fringe of sandy hair and beard as he welcomed Robin into the gallery.  “The artist was one of the best in Canada. His work is in great demand. Do you like sculpture? Or would you prefer painting? Painting and photography are in the upstairs galleries,” he said, leading her to the steel stairs at the back of the gallery.

“Yes, well, actually, I’m interested in photography. I’m looking for Herbert Gordon,” Robin said. 

“That would be my partner. I’m Bernard Allen. Do you have an appointment with Herbert? He’s usually not here until after lunch.”

“No, I’m really looking for a photographer. Perhaps you know her,” Robin said and launched into her story.

“Eleanor Browne Carrington,” Allen said, tapping his lip with his index finger. He looked at Robin. “I can’t say I know the name. Let me check my files. Do you know if she had an agent?”

He led Robin down into a lower level of the gallery, a white washed basement cluttered with filing cabinets and pieces of sculpture and wide canvases still shrouded in bubble wrap. 

“I’m such a pack rat. Nobody keeps paper files anymore. Electronic files, jpegs and pdfs are all most people keep now. Who needs all the dusty paper? Herbert keeps telling me to get rid of this stuff,” he said, lifting up piles of catalogs and press releases stacked on top of the filing cabinets. 

“You never know when you’ll find out one of your artists needs a copy of his catalog — or you find out someone who showed their work here has become famous,” he continued and slipped reading glasses off the top of his bald head to perch them on his long, narrow nose.  

“Has that happened?” Robin asked.

“Not yet, but it will. Mark my word,” he said, pulling out a long file drawer. “I keep copies of all the exhibitions’ postcards and catalogs – if the exhibit is worth a catalog – and I file them by either the artist or agent. I’ve got whole drawers devoted to some agents,” he said, pulling out a drawer. “What did you say the agent’s name was?”

“I didn’t. It is Harris North,” Robin said.

“Don’t remember him either. Is he from here?” 

“Does that matter?”

“No, not really,” Allen said. “Why don’t you have a seat?” he asked motioning to two low black leather chairs. “This could take a while.”

Robin fidgeted while the man hunted through rows of filing cabinets. She couldn’t imagine how he had them filed after watching him open drawer after drawer when suddenly Allen pulled a slip of paper from the bottom drawer.

“Aha. What’s this? Here’s a postcard announcing the opening of a photo exhibit of scenes from the Alps.” Allen handed her a thick glossy card with tiny images of mountains and village scenes. 

There it was: “Eleanor Carrington.” The exhibit opened April 7, 1996, with a reception at 7:30 p.m.

“Do you have any other information about her? An address? A phone number maybe?” Robin asked.

“Should be here somewhere.” 

Robin thought she was going to scream as the man rifled through the drawer again. Her mother focused on the card.. “It’s been 10 years,” he said, as a sort of apology. Allen looked at Robin’s face filled with disappointment. “Let me call Herbert and see if he can come down.”

The man disappeared into a tiny office for only a few minutes before he came back shaking his head.

“No answer from Herbert,” he said with an apologetic shrug. When he saw the disappointment cross the face of the young woman, he offered, “I could have him call you later if you’ll leave your contact information. 

Robin handed him her business card, scribbling the name of the hotel on the back. “Just in case he can talk to us while we’re in London.”

As she stepped back onto the city street, the sunny skies had turned gray and the first rain drops were beginning to fall. Robin rooted around in her bag for her pocket-sized umbrella.

As the umbrella went up, the rain came down. Hard and heavy. She dashed across the street to a women’s clothing store. Glancing at her watch, she saw she had only an hour to get back to the hotel. And she had one more gallery to see. 

Not in this rain, she thought as rivers rushed from the downspouts. As she waited for the rain to stop, she browsed through the racks of scarves. Picking out a flowery pink one, her cell phone rang. It was Jane.

“So how are Will and Harry?”

“Wouldn’t you know? They weren’t free for tea yesterday,” answered Robin who was never surprised by Jane’s calls. “Shouldn’t you be in class?”

“I had a break and thought I’d see what you were finding out.”

“Nothing so far,” Robin sighed. 

“Not even a good souvenir?”

“I’m picking out something for you right now. It’s pink and flowery and very British. That’s all I’m saying.”

“And what about yourself? Find something pretty? Or maybe someone handsome?”

“The man in the last gallery was charming,” Robin started and she notice a new call coming in. “Oh Jane, I’ve got a call from London. I better go.”

“You say that to me much too often. See you this weekend.”

“Yes,” Robin answered the new caller.

“Miss Browne, Herbert Gordon here,” said the man, speaking with a rich, bass accent. “Bernard tells me you’re looking for your sister. And I might have known her? Well, I do remember and I’m aghast that Bernard didn’t remember her. She worked here, not for long, you see, but it was one of those rare times when there was anyone other than Bernard and me in the gallery.”

“Yes, Bernard, except of course your mother,” he said, though clearly not to Robin.

“I’m just across the street. I could stop right over,” Robin said, throwing down the scarf and hurrying toward the door.

“No, I’m sorry that won’t be convenient right now. A shipment just arrived and I have to take care of it,” Gordon said. “I was thinking perhaps tomorrow?”

“Yes, sure, “ Robin answered, looking through the store window at the gallery. A truck was parked in front and the driver was carrying small brown parcels inside. She could see Mr. Allen holding the door open. 

“At ten? Very good, see you then,” Gordon said. He hung up before Robin could answer. She  noticed him coming to the door as well.

“May I help you?” a shop girl asked her, holding up the pink scarf.

***

Robin felt like a spring day when she dressed the following morning. She put on her new pale green skirt, liking it as much as the first time she wore it. She tied her new floral scarf around her white blouse and examined the look in the mirror.

“All dressed up!” Diane said as she came out of the bathroom. “Your new clothes are quite becoming. I wish we had had time today for more shopping.”

“This outing is much more important,” Robin said. “It’s why we’re here, after all.”

“I hope it goes better than yesterday,” Diane said, as she turned on the TV, looking for the weather forecast. “And I hope it doesn’t rain like it did yesterday.”

Diane had arrived back at the hotel just before Robin, soaking wet, without umbrella and with a discouraged look on her face. But she had forgotten the terrible afternoon once she heard about Robin’s appointment the next morning. The feelings of disappointment gave way to anticipation. Robin knew she wasn’t ready to feel hopeful, so seeing any glimmer of her own excitement in Diane was a good sign.

When the two women arrived at the gallery, both owners were there to greet them.

Bernard Allen came up first. “Good to see you again. I’m afraid I never got another chance to look for that card yesterday afternoon — I’ll try while you talk to Herbert. He reminded me who Eleanor was.” He disappeared down into the office.

“Yes I do remember the girl,” Gordon nodded.  “I wasn’t really interested in her work at the time but she begged and pleaded, asked for a job, asked for a recommendation. She was so insistent. Finally, I decided to give her a temp job. We had a big exhibit about to open and an enormous amount of mailing to do. I hired her to lick envelopes and run errands. It couldn’t have been for more than a few weeks. I had no intention of showing her work but a small show canceled and rather than have bare walls, I asked her to bring in what she had. ”

“She turned out to be a real go-getter,” he added. The work she showed me from the Alps was good but later she showed me photos from the Australian Outback that had real promise. She said she had recently come back from Australia where had been camping and shooting pictures. I was hoping to get some of those for an exhibition before the Olympics, Sydney, you may remember. As I said, she didn’t stay very long. Said she wanted to go back to America. Needless to say, I never got a chance to show her Australian work,” said Gordon. He was a barrel-chested man with shirtsleeves rolled up to show his very hairy arms. He wore thick glasses and a hearing aid. “And you’re her sister?” he asked. 

He didn’t wait for a response before returning to his recollections. “You lost her, eh? She certainly disappeared from here.  She came in the day of the exhibit opening and said she had to get going. I never heard from her again. When did you lose touch with her? Oh, yes, you told me. She had mentioned a husband once. He was a photographer, too, worked for one of the news agencies, I believe. I don’t know what happened to him, though.” Gordon had clearly forgotten Robin and Diane were there as he remembered Ellen. 

With every tidbit of information, Robin grew hungrier for more. A hundred questions crowded her mind.

“Do you have any idea how I can get in touch with her?” 

“I really don’t. Spoke to her agent a couple of times after that but not to her. We couldn’t connect. I really wanted her Australia photos. It just didn’t work out. Have you called her agent?” Gordon asked.

“Found the catalog,” Allen called out, waving a thin paperback volume. “It’s not much but maybe it will help.”

“Oh very good!” exclaimed Gordon. Robin couldn’t help herself, rushing to pull the book out of the man’s hands. She had to see. It wasn’t much: a few pages filled with color photocopies and stapled together.

On the cover was a picture of the castle in Salzburg, the same photograph hanging in her foyer. The mystery man leaned against the lamppost. “This man here? Is this her husband?” Robin asked.

Diane leaned over to study the photo. 

“What? Hmm. I don’t know,” Gordon said. He pulled his glasses off, dug a magnifying glass out of his shirt pocket and examined the cover. “I guess it could be.”

“Could we borrow this?”

 “Taxi!” Robin called out, clutching the catalog firmly.

As she stepped into the taxi, a shred of paper fluttered to the ground. Diane caught it before a breeze picked it up again.

“What’s this?” she asked as she got in beside Robin. “All it says is, ‘Eleanor and 1203 Butterworth Court.’ Not even a city”

“Is it Ellen’s address here!?” Robin felt her heart thumping as she tried to catch her breath.

“Driver,” Diane asked. “Do you know where Butterworth Court is?”

“Not in London, I’m afraid. I know my streets here and that’s not a place I’ve heard of.”

Hugh had pulled out an atlas of London maps and pored over the index. “Not a Butterworth Court anywhere.”

“Let me get another map. We’ll find it,” he said and flashed her a kind smile. 

“I’m keeping you from your job,” Robin protested, suddenly aware of the time as they sat in a cab without the meter running.

“Think nothing of it,” he said. “Glad to help young ladies in distress. Besides, I like a good mystery.”

Stashed under the front seat, the taxi driver had a pile of street maps. One by one, he studied the index. Robin grew a little more impatient and a little less hopeful each time he threw another book aside.

“Couldn’t you just type it into your GPS there?” Robin said, pointing to the little receiver by the meter. 

“Never trust those things,” he said as he opened another book. Robin looked at him skeptically and he relented. “Well, all right. I’ll give it a go.”

“Buttercup, you said? No, Butterworth.” He typed and retyped, thick thumbs fumbling on the little keypad. “What do you know? There’s only one in all of England. In Bristol.”

“Bristol? Is that near here?”

“I’m afraid not, miss. It’s west of London, down the M4. About 200 kilometers away, it looks.” he said, showing her the spot on the GPS map. “You can catch the train to Bristol from Paddington Station. It takes about an hour to get there. Can I drop you there?”

“What do you think, Mom? Should we go now?”

“I’ve always wanted to see Bristol in the wintertime,” Diane replied. 

“Paddington Station it is.”