Read The Girl with the Phony Name for Free Online

perky day in years.
    â€œI’d like a single.”
    â€œFront,” said the clerk, but no porter appeared.
    â€œHow much is the room?” asked Lucy cautiously.
    â€œOne hundred thirty-five dollars a day, not including taxes. Check-out time is eleven A.M.”
    â€œDo you offer a weekly discount rate?” sputtered Lucy, looking around at the lobby. She had seen better furniture in airport waiting-rooms.
    â€œYou some kinda nut?” said the man and tossed her a key.
    Ten minutes later, Lucy was sitting in disbelief on a rickety bed. The room was nothing like the TownLodge rooms she was used to. It was a dark little box with hideous Danish Modern furniture, like something that would spurt out if you squeezed 1958. At least the bellman had delivered all four of her bags. When she had given him a four-dollar tip, he’d scowled. She found a cockroach in the bathtub.
    â€œOkay,” she announced bravely. “This isn’t so bad. I’ve stayed in worse places. And I’m in New York. That’s what matters. This is where my mother left from thirty years ago, and this is where I’m going to find out who she was.”
    Feeling a little better, Lucy unpacked two of her suitcases—it took six and a half minutes—then paged through the tattered Manhattan phone book she found in the night table. There were no Trelaines. Lucy was relieved in spite of herself.
    â€œBut it doesn’t prove there wasn’t a jewelry store or a silversmith named Trelaine thirty years ago,” she said to the cracked ice bucket, which would have cost a Welcome Inn two quality points. She had to be Lucy Trelaine, she just had to be!
    There were no MacAlpins in the phone book, either. Lucy started to flip to “McAlpin,” but stopped after a few pages.
The inscription on the brooch left no question about the spelling of her middle name. If it was hers at all.
    Lucy looked at her watch. It was a little past eight. She was so famished that even the menu at the hotel coffee shop—seventeen-dollar flounder and twelve-dollar meatloaf—looked good. There was something she had to do before she could eat, however.
    Lucy picked up the phone. The hotel would probably charge her fifty cents per call, but she didn’t care. The chances that Cicarillo’s sister would still be in Brooklyn were slim, Lucy knew, but she had to try. She dialed Brooklyn information.
    â€œDo you have anything for a Theresa or Stephen Iatoni, I-A-T-O-N-I?” she asked, opening the drapes and revealing a grimy view of a brick wall.
    â€œThere are five listings under I-A-T-O-N-I,” replied the operator, “but nothing listed under the name Theresa or Stephen.”
    Lucy took all the numbers and started calling. To her surprise she hit pay dirt on the third call, the listing for Iatoni, Alphonse. A deep female voice answered.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œI’m trying to get in touch with Theresa Iatoni,” said Lucy. “I’m wondering if you might be related to her.”
    â€œYeah, sure. She’s my sister-in-law. Lives on the island.”
    â€œThe island?”
    â€œLong Island. Amityville.”
    Lucy couldn’t believe it had been so easy. “Might I trouble you for the number?”
    â€œWho you say you were?”
    â€œMy name’s Lucy Trelaine. I … I think I might be related to her.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œTo her brother, actually. I suppose I can get the number out of the phone book … .”
    â€œI didn’t know she had a brother.”
    â€œHe’s dead.”

    â€œWell, I guess you’re okay. Wait a sec. I can never remember the number.” The woman returned to the phone after a minute and read Lucy the number.
    â€œThanks very much,” said Lucy, wondering what she was going to say to Theresa Iatoni. Would the woman even talk to her? After all, this was somebody who had wanted nothing to do with her thirty years ago