But Iris had to go somewhere. The zing of the Villa Borghese had gone flat for her, and God knew she couldn’t go walking around the gardens. With her luck, she’d run bang into Sasha Digby and his female companion. Maybe she’d find a café somewhere and order an espresso and take out her sketchbook. She marched out the entrance of the villa—nodded to the porter, who recognized her—down the steps, clickety clack, and no sooner did her foot hit the gravel than what do you know, a raindrop hit her smack on the nose.

By the time she reached the traffic whizzing down the Via Pinciana, the rain had decided it meant business. Iris stopped to open her umbrella and imagined the photography crew at the Spanish Steps rushing to pack up their equipment, while beautiful Ruth leapt for cover beneath a nearby awning.

Iris didn’t even notice the motorcycle tearing around the bend in the road until she stepped off the sidewalk to cross to the other side.

Ruth

JUNE 1952

New York City

To be clear, my dinner engagement with Aunt Vivian and Uncle Charlie already existed in my appointment book before Sumner Fox paid me a visit this afternoon, so it’s not as if I’ve sought them out particularly to talk things over. It’s a regular appointment, dinner at their apartment on Fifth Avenue on the second Thursday of the month, assuming everybody’s in town—not because we’re particularly close but because none of us can figure out a way to break the habit without causing offense. Families, you know.

I’m only five minutes late when I hurry into the lobby and wave hello to the doorman—he’s got a thing for me, always lets me run straight up—but Aunt Vivian isn’t amused. She kisses me on both cheeks and says something snide about the sliding morals of the young.

“That’s rich, coming from you,” I reply.

Uncle Charlie stands at the liquor cabinet, mixing my martini. He’s always glad to see me, even if he doesn’t approve of career girls. He hands me the drink and asks if anything’s the matter, because I’m looking a little pale.

“Oh, nothing your martinis can’t fix, Uncle Charlie.” I collapse on a chair and light a cigarette. “Just an FBI agent turning up, asking about Iris.”

“Iris? The FBI? What the hell do they want with her, after all these years?”

“Ask your wife. The agent says they already spoke to Aunt Vivian.”

“Vivian? What’s this?”

Aunt Vivian flicks the ash from her cigarette. “It’s nothing, Charlie. I told them exactly what I imagine Ruth told them—nothing at all. There’s been no word from Iris in four years. I can’t imagine why they’re looking into the whole mess again.”

“Maybe they’ve found some trace of her,” I said.