As Norah carried the guest book back to her room, she explained to Dorothy Parker that if they could find Audrey and convince her to let Ted off the hook for his infidelity, they might both have a chance of getting what they want.

“My dear, don’t you think she would have come forward by now if she had any interest in clearing his name?”

“Maybe if she learns he’s dying.”

“She probably won’t give a damn.”

“So we’ll find another way to convince her.”

Dorothy Parker pursed her lips, and Norah wondered if she was formulating an argument against searching for Audrey Shriver. Not that it mattered. Norah’s mind was made up.

“You’re a relentless sort, aren’t you?” Mrs. Parker said.

Norah smiled. Her new friend had her pegged. She slipped her key card into the door and opened it.

“I suppose we could start with the Manhattan phone book,” Mrs. Parker said as she followed Norah into the room. “After all, if she has any sense at all, she still lives in New York.”

“We don’t need a phone book,” Norah said. “It’s the twenty-first century.”

“Oh, yes. The Internet. I’ve been hearing about that for years.” She took a seat.

“You know what it is?”

“From what I understand, it’s like a massive party line, only with computers instead of telephones—the whole world available to anyone with one of those little machines.” She removed her hat and placed it on the dresser.

“That’s an elegant way of looking at it,” Norah said.

“And what’s the inelegant way of looking at it?”

“That it’s mostly about porn.”

“Pornography doesn’t bother me,” Mrs. Parker said. “There are other things far more obscene—war, politics, the desecration of the English language.”

“Irregardless,” Norah said, and waited a beat for a laugh. Nothing. “You know that was a joke, right?”

“My dear, explanation is the enemy of wit.”

Norah furrowed her brow conspicuously. “What do you mean, exactly?”

Dorothy Parker parted her lips to respond and then closed them. She gave the younger woman a gracious nod.

Satisfied, Norah opened her laptop computer and pressed the space bar, bringing the screen to life. She typed Audrey Shriver into Google search.

“How long will this take?” Mrs. Parker asked.

Norah hit enter. “There’s an Audrey Shriver in Oklahoma, but she’s a twenty-two-year-old marathon runner. There’s also an Audrey L. Shriver who died in Glendora, California, in 2002.” She clicked on the obituary. “Not her, either. She was ninety-eight.”

“Astounding.”

“I’d be more impressed if we actually found her.”

“Anything else?”

Norah found an Audrey Shriver on Classmates.com, but since it was her maiden name, she knew it was a false lead. “All dead ends,” she said.

“Don’t give up,” Mrs. Parker said. “I’ve learned that dead ends aren’t always what they seem.”

“Did I say anything about giving up?” Norah searched images to see if she could uncover any other clues. She found the picture she had shown Didi and studied it a moment. It yielded nothing, but the story it told seemed so personal that Norah couldn’t help being drawn in.

“What next?” Dorothy Parker asked.

“Still searching.” Norah clicked on a scanned photo that seemed to have been taken at some kind of celebration. It showed two couples seated at a dinner table, wearing clothes that dated the snapshot by several decades. She read the caption aloud: “‘Ted Shriver and his wife, Audrey, attend a Columbia University fund-raiser with Litton Press publisher Peter Salzberg and his wife, Aviva Kravette, 1979.’”

Norah studied the picture, taken a year after she was born. She imagined her mother in Audrey Shriver’s place, looking young and healthy in that sleeveless dress, her head tilted toward Ted. It was a scenario she could never stop herself from playing out. What if her mother hadn’t died? What if she had never been sick?

Dorothy Parker looked over Norah’s shoulder. “Heavens, but she’s attractive. Like a young Elizabeth Taylor.”

Norah couldn’t argue—Audrey was striking.

“No wonder Teddy fell in love with her,” Mrs. Parker continued.

“You think he’s that shallow?”

“He’s a man, isn’t he?”

“But he’s Ted Shriver,” she said.

“Ms. Wolfe,” Dorothy Parker said, “I, too, would like to believe the old wives’ tales about the way some men will instantly forsake a beautiful woman to flock around a brilliant one. It is but fair to say that, after getting out in the world, I have never seen this happen.”

“I have to believe she’s more than a pretty face. He’s protected her all these years.”

“One would hope. Can you find her maiden name?”

“Trying,” Norah said, navigating to Ted Shriver’s Wikipedia page, which she had already read several times. She hadn’t recalled seeing anything about his ex-wives, but it was worth checking again. As before, the page focused on his books and the scandal surrounding Settlers Ridge. The only biographical information said that he was born in Yonkers in 1937 and that his last known address was in Wilton, Connecticut.

Norah tried another tactic. She typed Ted Shriver and married Audrey into a search. One click and there it was—a bio that provided actual details of his life.

“Listen to this,” she said. “‘In 1979 he married his second wife, Audrey Brill, a reporter for Newsweek magazine.’”

“Grand,” said Mrs. Parker. “Two clues for the price of one.”

Norah typed Audrey Brill into the search field, and spent several minutes following false leads until something caught her eye. “There’s an Audrey Brill who works as a writer for a public relations firm on Forty-second Street. I think that could be her, don’t you? Should we call?”

“I think,” said Dorothy Parker as she reached for her hat, “that we should pay a visit.”

—

There were practical considerations. First, Norah worried about Dorothy Parker’s appearance. Would her dress attract too much attention? She studied her for a moment, and decided that on the streets of Manhattan she could pass for a stylish woman with an eye for vintage clothing.

The more important consideration was the guest book. Norah had to figure out a way to carry it in an open position, as it was the only way to leave the hotel with Dorothy Parker at her side. She looked around the room until she found a piece of cardboard in the desk drawer. She laid it across the open pages of the book, then tied it in place with shoelaces she had pulled from her sneakers. Norah put the open book in a tote bag and carried it as they walked through the Algonquin’s glass doors onto West 44th Street.

“Give me a moment,” Dorothy Parker said as she placed a hand on Norah’s shoulder.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’ve not seen the sun in all these many years.”

“Are you okay?”

“It’s just a little . . . jolting to be about among all this humanity.”

Norah looked around. “What do you think?” she asked.

A stooped homeless man pushed a shopping cart past them, and the smell of fermenting urine hung in the air.

“That we’ve learned absolutely nothing,” said Dorothy Parker.

Norah looked at her companion, who seemed genuinely grim. “It’s all right,” she said gently.

“It most certainly is not.”

“Do you want to stay behind?”

Dorothy Parker straightened her posture and arranged her hat, a valiant soldier ready to face the wide world of a new century. “Which way?”

“East,” Norah said, pointing toward Fifth Avenue.

The weather was mild for May, and Norah wondered if Dorothy Parker enjoyed feeling the late afternoon sun on her back. She glanced over, and could tell her companion’s anxiety had eased. She seemed almost happy.

A young couple, sleeveless and heavily tattooed, were so deep in conversation as they walked by that they didn’t notice the small woman in a hat staring at them.

“Circus performers?” she asked Norah, who laughed.

“It’s the style now,” she explained.

“And what happens next year, when it goes out of style?”

They walked on, and a large transvestite in a bright red wig came up from behind.

“Have you ever seen anything like that before?” Norah whispered.

Dorothy Parker sized up the cross-dresser, who wore a clingy low-cut wrap dress in a bold print, with no falsies and a bit of chest hair showing above the deep V-neck. His purse and shoes were pink patent leather. Clearly, this was a man more interested in getting attention than in passing as female.

“Love your ensemble, dear,” Mrs. Parker said. “It’s inspired.”

“Yours, too, honey,” he said. “Retro chic.”

As they continued on, Dorothy Parker looked up at the skyscrapers and down at the passersby. She read the signs in the windows and marveled at all the brisk walkers talking into their cell phones.

They reached Fifth Avenue, where Best Buy, Staples, and Duane Reade met at the corner, and she stopped. “I recognize nothing,” she said. “And yet . . .”

“It’s still the same?”

“No. It’s different. But I’m still helplessly beguiled. Isn’t that the damnedest thing? This cruel and wonderful city has always owned my heart. It’s like a daring lover who conquers each sunrise with a brand-new passion. And despite everything—the years, the crime, the dirt, the extra pounds”—she paused as a group of tourists eating souvlakis passed by—“it still feels exciting, like something is about to happen. That is New York’s magic. I believe it will always be the most hopeful place on earth.”

She stood quietly for a moment, taking it in, until a man on his phone jostled them as he rushed by.

“Could you fucking move?” he said.

Dorothy Parker put her hands to her heart. “You see?” she said to Norah. “It never disappoints.”

They walked on until reaching the East Side address of Tyler & Lowell, the public relations firm that employed Audrey Brill. Norah explained to Dorothy Parker that they would be stopped at the security desk.

“People used to come and go as they pleased,” Mrs. Parker said.

Norah nodded, thinking about how much the city had changed in even her lifetime. “That was before nine-eleven,” she said. “Since then, the whole city has been much more cautious. I don’t know if you’re even aware—”

“They had the television on in the hotel that day. Some poor souls covered in ash stumbled into the lobby that afternoon.”

“A dark day,” Norah said.

Mrs. Parker looked grim. “Worst part is what happened afterward.”

“What do you mean?”

“Terrorist propaganda,” she said. “It’s been embraced worldwide—anti-Americanism throughout the Middle East, anti-Zionism everywhere.” She held up a flyer that had been handed to her on the street. THE HOLOCAUST IS A LIE, it said. She crumpled the page into a ball. “They got exactly what they were after.”

“But you’re still hopeful,” Norah observed.

“Isn’t that a kick in the head? Now then, let’s go find Teddy’s ex.”

They entered the building and approached the security desk. Norah told the guard they were there to see Audrey Brill.

“Do you have an appointment?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” Norah said, producing her business card. It was, she knew, her ace in the hole. No PR person would ever turn down a chance to talk to an associate producer from a major TV show. “But I think she’ll want to meet with us.”

A few minutes later, a young secretary came down and led the two women to the sleek reception area of Tyler & Lowell.

“Ms. Brill will be right with you,” she said.

Norah and Dorothy settled into the firmly cushioned waiting room chairs, watching the hallway through the glass doors. A few minutes later a woman appeared at the far end of the corridor, walking briskly toward them. She wore a black sweater stretched over massive breast implants and had ultrablond, ultrastraightened, ultrafine hair. Even from a distance, Norah could tell her face had been stretched, pulled, and injected. She was completely transformed.

“I have to warn you,” Norah whispered, “that some women go way overboard with plastic surgery.”

The woman pushed open the glass door. “I’m Audrey Brill,” she said, extending her hand.

“I’m Norah Wolfe and this is my friend, Mrs.—”

“Campbell,” Dorothy Parker said, using her second husband’s name. “Dorothy Campbell. Nice to meet you.”

“What can I do for you?” Audrey asked, arranging her mouth into something resembling a smile. The rest of her waxy face remained corpselike.

“It’s actually a personal matter,” Norah said.

“We’re here about your ex-husband,” Mrs. Parker said.

“My ex-husband?”

“I wonder if you know how much he still cares about you.”

Audrey’s smile dissolved into a thin line. “If he cared about me so much he’d cough up the seventy thousand he owes me.”

“Is there not some part of your heart that harbors a bit of tenderness toward him?” Mrs. Parker asked.

“Toward that pig? Do you know how many times he cheated on me?”

“I understand,” Mrs. Parker said, “but I have some news that might soften your feelings.”

She folded her arms. “Go on.”

“I’m afraid he’s very sick.”

“How sick?”

“He has a brain tumor.”

Audrey blinked. She appeared to be in shock, though it was hard to read her expression. “Did he send you?”

“He has no idea we’re here,” Norah said.

“I’m so very sorry,” Dorothy Parker said, laying a hand on the woman’s arm. “Ted is dying.”

At last, an actual expression registered on the woman’s face. She lowered herself into a chair, put her face in her hands, and wept.

“It must be difficult to hear that about someone you once loved,” Mrs. Parker said.

“It’s not that,” Audrey said. She looked up, and rivers of black mascara streamed down her cheeks. “My ex-husband’s name is Phil.”

—

What now?” Dorothy Parker said when she and Norah were back on the street. “It seems all roads to the real Audrey Shriver are dead ends.”

“I have another idea,” Norah said, recalling the photograph of Audrey and Ted seated with another couple. “I think there’s someone who might know how we can find Audrey.”

“And who’s that?”

“Peter Salzberg, Ted’s publisher.”

“Inspired,” said Mrs. Parker. “Which way do we go?”

A short while later, the two women were at another security desk—this one at the newly formed Apollo Publishing Group, which had acquired Litton Press just a few years earlier. Norah used the same tactic as before—showing her business card to gain entry.

“I’ll need cards for both of you,” said the security guard.

“I’m afraid I lost my purse,” Mrs. Parker said.

The guard frowned.

“Wait a minute,” Norah said. “I think I have one of your cards . . . Didi.”

She rummaged through her wallet and found a copy of her boss’s business card. It was worn and gray, and had some notes scribbled on the back, but it would do. The guard called upstairs, reading off the names on the cards, identifying them as Didi Dickson, segment producer of Simon Janey Live, and Norah Wolfe, associate producer.

“Congratulations,” Norah whispered to Dorothy Parker. “You’ve just been promoted.”

“Hold on,” the guard said into the phone, and then addressed Norah. “His assistant wants to know what this is in reference to.”

“Ted Shriver,” Norah said, and held her breath.

The guard spoke quietly into the phone for a few minutes and hung up. “Elevator bank to the left,” he said, handing passes to the two women. “Sixteenth floor.”