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But Rita had played along with Astor’s enthusiasm, telling me only that a girl’s first dance was very special, almost like first Communion, and of course she had to have a new dress, and of course it had to be Just Right. And so they had spent an entire weekend flitting across Miami from mall to mall until they found the perfect dress. It was a silver sheath that sparkled and gleamed and radiated blue highlights as it moved, and Astor had been more pleased with that dress than I had ever seen her. And it must have been effective, because she came home from the dance radiating a smug contempt for boys.
But the dress didn’t seem to be here at the moment. I poked through the heap of clothes without finding a flicker of silver. I stepped over to the closet and peered in, moving things around until I was sure it was not there, either.
Wherever Astor had gone, she had taken her Very Special Dress.
I moved back beside her desk and thought about this. She would not have taken that dress if she planned to hitchhike through South America, climb Mount Rainier, or work her way to Australia on a tramp steamer. She would not risk getting it dirty. So where had she gone?
I looked around. On the far side of the rag heap, there were dozens of photos taped to the wall, jammed crazily together and even overla
pping one another. I stepped over and looked at the most recent layer, hoping to see something, anything that might suggest where she was. Most of the pictures on the wall were of Astor, many of them she had clearly taken herself, by holding the camera out in front of her own face, or shooting into a mirror. There were three pictures taped on top of all the others, in the center of the wall. But they showed nothing except Astor clowning with Robert, obviously taken on the day she and her siblings had surprised me at Wardrobe. In one of them Astor had pale makeup covering her face and fake blood dripping from her mouth; she was attacking Robert as he cringed away in mock fear.
The next one showed Astor in grotesquely overdone glamour makeup, pouting at her reflection in the large, light-framed mirror of a professional makeup room; Portrait of the Actress as a Young Vamp.
In the last picture Astor, still in the awful makeup, stood in front of Robert with huge eyes and a face full of dramatic yearning straight from Gone with the Wind, while Robert looked away with an expression of noble longing on his face.
A fourth picture, set off to the side, was a standard publicity shot of Robert. In black marker, somebody, presumably Robert, had written, “To the Beautiful Astor with my very best,” and then an illegible flourish that was probably his signature.
There was nothing else, just these silly pictures, and nothing to them but a young girl’s infatuation with the idea of being an actress, and having a chance to really do it with Real Makeup and a Real Star. There was nothing else there on the wall that I hadn’t seen before: no tourist brochures for Rio, no scribbled flight numbers, nothing. I poked around for another minute anyway, looking in the closet, under the bed, and even under the mattress, but I found no hint of where she might have gone, or why.
I sat on the edge of the lower bunk and pondered. I was now sure that Astor had run away—probably just walked away, most likely—and had not been grabbed by some drooling dolt with arrested development. Of course, that would not last. A young girl on the street alone does not stay alone for long; that is a simple law of nature. She would have company very quickly—they would find her. She would almost certainly not like her new friends, or the things they made her do, but she would not be alone. Someone with an eye out for somebody just like her would find her, and lead her away, and then Astor would disappear forever into a world of painful surprises.
In the meantime, however, there was a brief window of opportunity for me to get to her before somebody else did. And it should be easy, because I knew her very well, knew her in ways that even her mother did not, and also because I am very, very clever and I almost always figure out these little puzzles.
So where would she go? And just as important, why would she go now? She had grumbled about hating her family and wanting to run away, but all kids did that, and I’d never taken her seriously. Astor was too bright to throw herself out the door and into random chance, or to think she could instantly find a place where her True Greatness and Beauty were recognized and rewarded. And she had taken along her Special Dress. So if she went, it would be to someplace specific, and someplace she was sure would be better.
But what could be better than having three square meals, plus snacks, and new shoes now and then? And all this with a family who actually liked her for some reason, paid all her bills, put up with her unpleasant and furious snits—and more, a semifather who knew and understood what she was really like in the dark and damaged interior of her twisted self?
On top of everything else, she was about to move into a new house, with her very own room and a swimming pool. She had been very excited about her new house, carefully painting her room and planning where her desk and bed would go, and what she would wear to her first pool party—could she really find something better than that to run away to, something that was right here, right now, immediate and within reach?
There was a snuffling noise from the doorway, and Rita’s plaintive voice called, “… Dexter …?” and I blinked myself back to awareness. As sometimes happens when I am concentrating on some complex problem, I found that I had been staring fixedly straight ahead, without actually seeing anything. But as Rita’s interruption brought me back to the here and now, I saw that I was staring straight at Astor’s wall of photos.
“Dexter?” she whined again. “Have you … found anything?”
I opened my mouth to answer her, but the words that came out surprised me; they were not at all the words I had thought I was going to say. “Yes,” I said. “I know where she went.” And even stranger, I did know.
“Oh!” Rita said. “Oh, thank God!”
I barely managed to stand up and then she was on me, sobbing and yodeling into my shirtfront and leaving me coated with damp unpleasant things. I pried her back from my chest and she looked up at me with a wet, red, puffy face. “Where is she?” she said, unsuccessfully trying to sniffle some goo off her lip and back into her nose. “Where did she go? We have to— Dexter, for God’s sake, we have to right now— Oh, why are you standing around here like this— Dexter, come on!”
“I’ll get her,” I said. “I want you to stay here.”
“Stay here?! But that’s— No, Dexter, I can’t just— What are you talking about, stay here? That’s completely— Why would I stay here?”
The real answer to why was that I did not want her with me, not where I was going. But because there was no way to say that without causing a full-scale nuclear war, I gave her the first thing that popped into my head: “She might come home,” I said. “Somebody should be here, just in case.” I put a hand on her shoulder and frowned with great seriousness. “And that somebody ought to be her mother.”
I don’t really know why this should be, but I have found that words like “ought” and “should” have a very special magical power, something that reaches down into a soft and gooey spot in the human heart that I do not have, thank goodness. Because aiming these words at someone who does have it—someone like Rita, for example—almost always makes them take a deep breath, straighten their shoulders, and do things they really don’t want to do.
Rita did not disappoint; as if she was following a printed instruction sheet, she opened her mouth to object—and then closed it, took a deep breath, and straightened her shoulders. “All right,” she said. “That’s probably— I mean, of course I want to go, but—if she came back? I couldn’t— I’ll stay here.”
“Good,” I said, and I clapped her on the shoulder as if she had just agreed to parachute behind enemy lines and blow up a bridge. “I’ll call you as soon as I find her,” I said.
“Yes, that’s— And if she comes here, I’ll— But Dexter, where is she?”
I gave her a brave smile. “Someplace better,” I said, and before Rita could sputter too many new objections, I was into the hall, out the front door, and driving away.
The traffic had gotten a little thicker in the last forty minutes, but most of it was going in the other direction, away from work in the city, toward home in the suburbs, and there were no serious delays all the way up Dixie Highway and back onto I-95.
I showed my credentials to a very alert-looking cop, and he waved me toward the far end of the parking lot. I parked the car there and looked around as I got out. I could see a lot more cops, all looking just as alert, wandering around the set as well as posted at the perimeter. They seemed to be taking the security thing very seriously—whether because Captain Matthews had ordered it, or because they liked the thought of keeping ordinary people away from the really cool movie action, I couldn’t say. But I didn’t see how Astor could have snuck onto the set without being seen, so I walked back to the cop who had scanned my credentials.
