“Yes, she shared our apartment for several months. Then, last January, she moved to the Hotel Alcott for women.”
Last Sunday, when Vicki asked Lucy Rowe where she’d lived in San Francisco, the girl had not mentioned the Scotts and the Hotel Alcott. Instead, she’d talked of living on Telegraph Hill and, one summer, sharing a beach house with three other girls.
“Mrs. Scott,” Vicki asked, “can you give me Lucy’s former address on Telegraph Hill?”
“Why, Lucy never lived on Telegraph Hill, to the best of my knowledge.” No wonder Mr. Dorn had said he couldn’t find Lucy there.
“Did she share a beach house one summer with three other girls?” Vicki asked.
“If she did, Lucy never mentioned it to us. And it isn’t like her to be secretive. I think you must have some wrong information, Miss Barr.”
“I guess I have.” Unless the alleged Lucy’s story of the beach house and living on Telegraph Hill was an out-and-out falsehood. Or unless she was another Lucy Rowe?
“Mrs. Scott, Lucy Rowe isn’t an uncommon name. The Lucy Rowe I’m looking for is the daughter of Eleanor Bryant Rowe and Jack Rowe, both of them deceased.”
“Yes, that’s right. That’s the Lucy we know—the Lucy who stayed with us.”
Then the presumed granddaughter in New York was lying. Vicki sighed. “I’m sorry to have troubled you, Mrs. Scott.”