In a way, we love each other and certainly we count on each other. Sometimes Glenn even speculates that, with my side of the brain into literature and his into science, we’d have a chance at producing awesome offspring. But I know that we’re not anywhere near the emotional level of Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester, or Cathy and Heathcliff.

It may be that I’ve set my standards too high, but ever since I was young, I’ve been into the classic love stories of the Brontë sisters.

From the beginning, something about Peter Carrington had intrigued me, and I think I began to understand what it was. Seeing him sitting there alone in that crazy castlelike mansion was a haunting image. I wished I had had the chance to see what book he was reading. If it was one I had read myself, maybe I could have lingered for a few minutes to discuss it.

“Oh, I see you have the new biography of Isaac Bashevis Singer,” I might have said. “Do you agree with the author’s interpretation of his personality? I thought he was a little unfair because…”

You can see the way my mind was going.

Then, the night before the reception, I went to Maggie’s house to pick her up for one of our regular pasta dinners. When I arrived, she was powdering her nose in the hall mirror, humming cheerfully. When I asked her what was up, she blithely told me that Nicholas Greco, the investigator who was delving into Susan Althorp’s disappearance, had called and was coming to see her. She was expecting him any minute.

I was dumbfounded. “Maggie, why in the name of God would that guy want to talk to you?” But even before she had answered, I knew that Greco was coming here because my father had worked for the Carringtons at the time of the Althorp disappearance.

Automatically I began to straighten up the living room. I adjusted the window shades so that they were at the same level, picked up the newspapers that were scattered around, hung up her sweater in the hall closet, and carried the teacup and plate of cookies that were on the coffee table into the kitchen.

Greco arrived as I was putting some loose strands of silver hair into the bun at the back of Maggie’s head.

I’m a Dashiell Hammett fan, and Sam Spade, especially in The Maltese Falcon, is the prototype for my mental image of a private investigator. Applying that yardstick, Nicholas Greco was a disappointment. In his appearance and manner he reminded me of the insurance adjuster who came to see me when a pipe broke in the apartment above mine.

That illusion was quickly shattered, however, when, after Maggie had introduced me as her granddaughter, he said, “You must be the one who accompanied your father to the Carrington estate the same day that Susan Althorp disappeared.”

When I stared at him, he smiled. “I’ve been going through the files on the case. Twenty-two years ago your father told the prosecutor’s office that he had gone to the estate unexpectedly that day because of a problem with the lighting, and that he took you with him. One of the caterer’s workers also mentioned seeing you sitting on a bench in the garden.”

Had anyone seen me sneak into the house? I hoped I didn’t look as guilty as I felt when I invited Greco to sit down.

It irritated me to see that Maggie was obviously enjoying herself. I knew that this man-who no longer reminded me of an insurance adjuster-had been hired to prove Peter Carrington had been responsible for Susan Althorp’s disappearance, and that upset me.

But his next question startled me. It was not about the Carringtons or the Althorps; it was about my father. He asked Maggie, “Had your son-in-law shown signs of depression?”

“If you call hitting the bottle a sign of depression, I would say so,” Maggie said, then glanced at me as though afraid I’d be upset by her answer. She hurried to qualify it. “I mean, he never got over Annie’s death. She was my daughter, but when a couple of years had passed after her death, I begged Jonathan to start dating. Let me tell you, there were plenty of women around here who would have jumped at the chance to go out with him. But he never would. He’d say, ‘Kathryn’s the only girl I need.’ ” Then she added, somewhat unnecessarily, “When she was ten, Kathryn decided she wanted to be called Kay.”

“Then you feel that the excessive drinking was a sign of his depression, and that it led to his taking his own life?”

“He’d lost out on a number of landscaping jobs. I think that being fired by the Carringtons may have pushed him over the edge. His insurance policy was about to expire. After he was declared legally dead, it paid for Kay’s education.”

“But he did not leave a suicide note, and his body was never recovered. I’ve seen his picture. He was a strikingly handsome man.”

I could see where that line of questioning was going. “Are you suggesting that my father did not commit suicide, Mr. Greco?” I asked.

“Miss Lansing, I’m not suggesting anything. Anytime a body is not recovered, there is always an open question about the manner of death. There are numerous documented cases of people who were believed to be dead, and who showed up or were tracked down twenty or thirty years later. These people simply walked away from a life that had become in some way unbearable. It happens often.”

“Then I assume you believe that Susan Althorp may have done the same thing?” I shot back at him. “Her body was never found. Maybe her life was suddenly unbearable.”

“Susan was a beautiful, healthy young woman, a gifted student pursuing a fine arts degree at Princeton, and the recipient of a trust fund that meant she would lead a life of wealth and privilege. She was very popular and attracted men easily. I’m afraid I don’t see the comparison.”

“Peter Carrington did something to that girl. I bet he was jealous of her.” Now Maggie sounded like the Lord Chief Justice of the United Kingdom pronouncing a verdict. “I gave him the benefit of the doubt until his wife drowned, but it just goes to show that if you kill someone, you’re capable of doing it again. As for my son-in-law, I think he was depressed enough to believe he was doing Kay a favor by insuring her education.”

That night the pasta stuck in my throat, and it wasn’t any comfort when Maggie rehashed Greco’s visit. “He’s supposed to be smart, but he was way off the mark in even thinking that your dad would just walk out on you.”

No, he wouldn’t just walk out on me, I thought, but that’s not where Greco is going. He’s wondering if Daddy had to stage his own disappearance because of what happened to Susan Althorp.

It had begun to snow. Nicholas Greco was barely aware of the light wet flakes that drifted onto his face as he looked up at the windows of the second-floor art gallery on West Fifty-seventh Street, the one that bore the name of Richard Walker.

Greco had done his homework on Walker. Forty-six years old, twice divorced, the son of Elaine Walker Carrington, an indifferent reputation in the art world, and undoubtedly supported by the luck of having his mother marry into the Carrington family fortune. Walker had been at the formal dinner the night Susan Althorp vanished. According to the reports in the prosecutor’s files, he had left for his apartment in Manhattan when the party ended.

Greco opened the door to the building, was checked by a security guard, and walked up the single flight of stairs to the gallery. He was immediately clicked inside by a smiling receptionist.

“Mr. Walker is expecting you,” she said. “It will be just a few minutes since he’s on a conference call at the moment. Why don’t you look at our new exhibit? We’re displaying a wonderful young artist the critics are raving about.”

If ever I heard a canned speech, I’m listening to one now, Greco thought. Walker is probably doing the crossword puzzle in his office. The gallery, dreary to him with its stark white walls and dark gray carpeting, was devoid of visitors. He walked from painting to painting, pretending to study them, all scenes of urban blight. He was at the next to the last of the twenty or so paintings when a voice at his shoulder asked, “Doesn’t this one particularly remind you of an Edward Hopper?”