The Girl with the Phony Name by Charles Mathes Read Free Book Online Page B

sidewalk along the top of the cliffs and through a little park. The street became shabbier, the big old houses giving way to boxlike apartment buildings and prosaic brick two-family homes with porches.
    After a few more blocks Lucy came to a restaurant. She could use a cup of coffee. And a chocolate doughnut. The lone waitress was Spanish and didn’t “habla inglés.” Coffee was no problem, but the woman didn’t seem to understand what a doughnut was. Lucy tried to think up a convincing pantomime, but couldn’t.
    Luckily she didn’t have to illustrate that she wanted to go to the bathroom—there was a door marked DAMAS in fancy script. Lucy read it “Dames” at first—it took her a minute to figure out the sign was in Spanish, not in Frank Sinatra.
    Lucy studied her appearance in the small mirror over the sink. Not too bad for a dame. She was wearing her navy interview suit and had figured out how to secure the blouse’s neck scarf with the big silver brooch, hoping it would bring her luck. It had to be good for something. She took out a comb and tried to convince a few recalcitrant black hairs to cooperate with the rest of her head, then gave up.
    â€œDo you have a local phone book?” Lucy asked, returning to the counter. Somehow it seemed more important than ever to look for Trelaines. The waitress smiled in polite incomprehension. Lucy threw her hands up in the air, miming forgetfulness, then opened a book and walked her fingers through the listings. Finally she picked up an imaginary phone and dialed. The woman laughed and clapped her hands, then handed Lucy a greasy Hudson County phone book from a shelf under the cash register.
    Lucy sipped her coffee and browsed through the phone
book. There were no Trelaines in Hudson County, but there was one listing under MacAlpin. She went over into the old-fashioned phone booth next to the door marked HOMBRES and closed the door. A little light went on above her head. Lucy deposited her quarter and dialed.
    â€œHello?” answered a female voice on the second ring.
    â€œHello. Robert MacAlpin, please.”
    â€œHe’s at work.”
    â€œAre you Mrs. MacAlpin?”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œPerhaps you can help me,” said Lucy, launching into her standard routine. “My name is Lucy MacAlpin Trelaine. My parents were killed in a car crash when I was baby. I’m trying to find my family. Has your husband ever talked about a woman relative with a newborn who disappeared thirty years ago?”
    â€œNo, I don’t think so. You’d have to ask him. He doesn’t talk much about his family.”
    â€œWhen will he be home?”
    â€œNot till after six. He’s at the office now. In the city. You can get him there if you like.”
    Lucy looked at her watch. There was still plenty of time until ten.
    â€œSure, why not?”
    The woman gave her a Manhattan phone number. Lucy thanked the woman, hung up, and dialed, giving the operator her phone credit-card number.
    â€œHome Trust,” answered a female voice.
    â€œRobert MacAlpin, please.”
    The line went dead for a moment, then a curt voice answered.
    â€œMacAlpin.”
    â€œI’m sorry to disturb you at work, Mr. MacAlpin,” began Lucy, and went into her spiel about the crash thirty years ago. For the first time she had something new to add.
    â€œApparently I was also wearing a large silver brooch, which
has just come back into my possession. It’s sort of semicircular with a thick pin. It has my name … it has Lucy MacAlpin Trelaine written on it and something else— ‘Dum … lag … chtat mac Alpin Bethoc.’ I have no idea if I pronounced that right. Does any of this ring a bell?”
    There was no response. For a moment Lucy thought they might have been disconnected.
    â€œMr. MacAlpin?”
    â€œI’m here,” said MacAlpin, a slight burr noticeable in his brusque voice.