When he left half an hour later, Greco was carrying the shopping bag containing files with all the information Gladys Althorp could give him about the circumstances surrounding her daughter’s disappearance: the follow-up stories in the newspapers, the journal she had kept as the investigation continued, and the recent copy of Celeb magazine with a picture of Peter Carrington on the cover.

In his preliminary research, Greco had taken down the address of the Carrington estate. On impulse, he decided to swing past it. Even though he knew it was not far from where the Althorps lived, he was surprised at how very close the two homes were. It couldn’t have taken Peter Carrington more than five minutes to drop her off that night, if that’s what he did, and not more than five minutes to get back home. As he drove back to Manhattan, he realized that this case had hooked him already. He was anxious to get started. A classic “corpus delicti,” he thought, then remembered the pain in Gladys Althorp’s eyes and felt ashamed.

I’m going to solve it for her, he thought grimly as he experienced the familiar rush of energy that came when he knew he was about to begin working on a case that would prove to be fascinating.

5

Gladys Althorp waited in the study for her husband to come in. She heard him opening and closing the front door shortly after the eleven o’clock news began. She switched off the television and hurried down the hallway. He was already halfway up the stairs.

“Charles, I have something to tell you.”

His already ruddy face became flushed and his voice kept rising as, after hearing that she had hired Nicholas Greco, he demanded, “Without consulting me? Without considering that our sons will also be forced to relive that terrible time? Without understanding that any new investigation attracts media attention from the rags? Wasn’t that disgusting story last week enough for you?”

“I have consulted our sons, and they agree with my decision,” Gladys said calmly. “I absolutely must learn the truth about what happened to Susan. Does that worry you, Charles?”

6

The first week of November was balmy, but after that the weather turned sharply cold and drizzly, the kind of clammy days that make you want either to stay in bed or go back to bed with the newspapers and a cup of coffee-neither of which I had time to do. Just about every day, I work out early in a gym on Broadway, then shower, dress, and head for the library in New Jersey. Meetings about the fund-raiser were held after working hours.

Needless to say, the tickets to the event sold fast, which was gratifying, but the rehashed story of Susan Althorp’s disappearance had triggered renewed interest in the case. Then, when Nicholas Greco, the private investigator, disclosed on Imus in the Morning that he had been hired by the Althorp family to look into their daughter’s disappearance, it became hot news. On the heels of Greco’s statement, Barbara Krause, the formidable Bergen County prosecutor, told the press that she would welcome any new evidence that would bring closure to the case. When asked about Peter Carrington, she said cryptically, “Peter Carrington has always been a person of interest in the disappearance of Susan Althorp.”

On the heels of that statement, the gossip columns began to print reports that the board of directors of Carrington Enterprises was urging Peter to resign as chairman and CEO, even though he was by far the largest stockholder. According to the reports, the other directors felt that since it was now a publicly traded company, it was not appropriate for anyone designated as a “person of interest” in two potential homicides to continue to head a worldwide multibillion-dollar organization.

Pictures of Peter began appearing regularly in the business sections of major newspapers, as well as in the more sensational magazines.

As a result, all through November, I kept my fingers crossed, expecting to get a call from Vincent Slater any day to tell me that the cocktail reception was off and that they would send a check to compensate for our lost revenue.

But the call never came. The day after Thanksgiving I went to the mansion with the caterer we had hired to go over details for the affair. Slater met us and turned us over to the couple who were housekeepers for the mansion, Jane and Gary Barr. They appeared to be in their early sixties, and it was obvious that they had been with the Carringtons for a long time. I wondered if they had been working at the mansion the night of the infamous dinner, but I didn’t have the nerve to ask. I learned later that they had come to work for Peter’s father after his first wife, Peter’s mother, had died, but then left after Elaine Walker Carrington came on the scene. They were coaxed back, however, after Peter’s wife, Grace, drowned. They seemed to know everything about the place.

They told us that the living room was actually divided into two rooms, and that when the pocket doors were opened, the space was sufficient to accommodate two hundred people. The buffet should be laid out in the formal dining room. Small tables and chairs would be set up throughout the ground floor so that people would not have to balance plates. Before we left, Vincent Slater joined us again to say that Mr. Carrington was underwriting all the expenses of the reception. Before I even had time to thank him, Slater added, “We have a photographer who will take pictures. We do ask that your guests refrain from using their own cameras.”

“As you probably guessed, we’ll give a brief report about the literacy campaign,” I told him. “It would mean a lot if Mr. Carrington would say a few words of greeting.”

“He’s planning to do that,” Slater said. Then he added, “Before I forget, it goes without saying that the staircases leading upstairs will be roped off.”

I had been hoping to slip upstairs for an adult view of the chapel. Sometimes, over the years, I’d wondered if I should have revealed to Maggie the angry conversation I heard there, but she would have been angry at me for going into the house, and besides, what could I tell her? I had heard a man and a woman quarreling about money. If I thought that quarrel had anything to do with Susan Althorp’s disappearance, I certainly would have reported it, even years later. But if there was one thing Susan Althorp would never have had to do, it was to plead for money from anyone. So the only thing my revelation would establish was that I’d been a curious six-year-old.

Before the caterer and I left that day, I did glance down the corridor, hoping to see the door to the library open and Peter Carrington come out. For all I knew, he was halfway around the world. But because many executives take the Friday after Thanksgiving off, I fantasized that if he was in the house, I’d run into him.

It didn’t happen. I contented myself with the knowledge that December 6th was less than two weeks away, and I’d get to see him then. Then I tried to push away the realization that if for any reason Peter didn’t attend the reception, I would be desperately disappointed. I’ve been dating Glenn Taylor, Ph.D., associate dean of science at Columbia University, with increasing regularity. We had met while having coffee in a Starbucks, helping that establishment to live up to its reputation as a great place for singles to make friends.

Glenn is thirty-two, transplanted from Santa Barbara, and is about as laid back as any Californian ever born. He even looks as though he’s from there-after six years of living on the Upper West Side in Manhattan, his hair still retains a sun-streaked look. He’s just tall enough to let me be not quite eye level when I’m wearing heels, and he shares my passion for the theatre. I think in the past couple of years we’ve gone to most of the Broadway and off-Broadway shows, using discounted tickets of course. No business-page editor ever wrote a story about the year-end bonus a librarian received, and Glenn is still paying off his school loans.