Becky waited a second, holding the uncertain smile as best she could. Myron nodded at her, and she moved away.
Deborah Whittaker leaned a little closer. “I love getting ornery with her,” she whispered. “It’s the only fringe benefit of old age.” She put her hands on her lap and managed a shaky smile. “Now I know you just told me, but I forgot your name.”
“Myron.”
She looked puzzled. “No, that’s not it. Andre maybe? You look like Andre. He used to do my hair.”
Becky kept a watchful eye on the corner. At the ready.
Myron decided to dive right in. “Mrs. Whittaker, I wanted to ask you about Elizabeth Bradford.”
“Lizzy?” The eyes flared up and settled into a glisten. “Is she here?”
“No, ma’am.”
“I thought she died.”
“She did.”
“Poor thing. She threw such wonderful parties. At Bradford Farm. They’d string lights across the porch. They’d have hundreds of people. Lizzy always had the best band, the best caterer. I had such fun at her parties. I used to dress up and …” A flicker hit Deborah Whittaker’s eyes, a realization perhaps that the parties and invitations would never come again, and she stopped speaking.
“In your column,” Myron said, “you used to write about Elizabeth Bradford.”
“Oh, of course.” She waved a hand. “Lizzy made good copy. She was a social force. But—” She stopped again and looked off.
“But what?”
“Well, I haven’t written about Lizzy in months. Strange really. Last week Constance Lawrence had a charity ball for the St. Sebastian’s Children’s Care, and Lizzy wasn’t there again. And that used to be Lizzy’s favorite event. She ran it the past four years, you know.”
Myron nodded, trying to keep up with the changing eras. “But Lizzy doesn’t go to parties anymore, does she?”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Why not?”
Deborah Whittaker sort of half startled. She eyed him suspiciously. “What’s your name again?”
“Myron.”
“I know that. You just told me. I mean, your last name.”
“Bolitar.”
Another spark. “Ellen’s boy?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Ellen Bolitar,” she said with a spreading smile. “How’s she doing?”
“She’s doing well.”
“Such a shrewd woman. Tell me, Myron. Is she still ripping apart opposing witnesses?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So shrewd.”
“She loved your column,” Myron said.
Her face beamed. “Ellen Bolitar, the attorney, reads my column?”
“Every week. It was the first thing she read.”
Deborah Whittaker settled back, shaking her head. “How do you like that? Ellen Bolitar reads my column.” She smiled at Myron. Myron was getting confused by the verb tenses. Bouncing in time. He’d just have to try to stay with her. “We’re having such a nice visit, aren’t we, Myron?”
“Yes, ma’am, we are.”
Her smile quivered and faded. “Nobody in here remembers my column,” she said. “They’re all very nice and sweet. They treat me well. But I’m just another old lady to them. You reach an age, and suddenly you become invisible. They only see this rotting shell. They don’t realize that this mind inside used to be sharp, that this body used to go to the fanciest parties and dance with the handsomest men. They don’t see that. I can’t remember what I had for breakfast, but I remember those parties. Do you think that’s strange?”
Myron shook his head. “No, ma’am, I don’t.”
“I remember Lizzy’s final soiree like it was last night. She wore a black, strapless Halston with white pearls. She was tan and lovely. I wore a bright pink summer dress. A Lilly Pulitzer, as a matter of fact, and let me tell you, I was still turning heads.”
“What happened to Lizzy, Mrs. Whittaker? Why did she stop going to parties?”
Deborah Whittaker stiffened suddenly. “I’m a social columnist,” she said, “not a gossip.”
“I understand that. I’m not asking to be nosy. It may be important.”
“Lizzy is my friend.”
“Did you see her after that party?”
Her eyes had the faraway look again. “I thought she drank too much. I even wondered if maybe she had a problem.”
“A drinking problem?”
“I don’t like to gossip. It’s not my way. I write a social column. I don’t believe in hurting people.”
“I appreciate that, Mrs. Whittaker.”
“But I was wrong anyway.”
“Wrong?”
“Lizzy doesn’t have a drinking problem. Oh, sure, she might have a social drink, but she’s too proper a hostess to go beyond her limit.”
Again with the verb tenses. “Did you see her after that party?”
“No,” she said softly. “Never.”
“Did you talk to her on the phone maybe?”
“I called her twice. After she missed the Woodmeres’ party and then Constance’s affair, well, I knew something had to be very wrong. But I never spoke to her. She was either out or couldn’t come to the phone.” She looked up at Myron. “Do you know where she is? Do you think she’ll be all right?”
Myron was not sure how to respond. Or in what tense. “Are you worried about her?”
“Of course I am. It’s as though Lizzy just vanished. I’ve asked all her close friends from the club, but none of them has seen her either.” She frowned. “Not friends really. Friends don’t gossip like that.”
“Gossip about what?”
“About Lizzy.”
“What about her?”
Her voice was a conspiratorial whisper. “I thought she was acting strange because she drank too much. But that wasn’t it.”
Myron leaned in and matched her tone. “What was it then?”
Deborah Whittaker gazed at Myron. The eyes were milky and cloudy, and Myron wondered what reality they were seeing. “A breakdown,” she said at last. “The ladies at the club were whispering that Lizzy had a breakdown. That Arthur had sent her away. To an institution with padded walls.”
Myron felt his body go cold.
“Gossip,” Deborah Whittaker spit. “Ugly rumors.”