As Time Goes By (11 page)

She knew that the periodic craving had resumed when the feature about the reunited son and mother was aired, and it had been deepened by her discussion of the subject with Alvirah and Willy at Patsy's Restaurant. I wonder if Alvirah was serious about doing some of her own research, she thought as she passed Sixth Avenue. Then she smiled involuntarily. If Alvirah Meehan said she was going to do something, she's doing it, she decided. Well, who knows? Maybe she will find some way to trace the midwife.

Immediately cheered by the thought, she turned her mind to the trial. The prosecution was doing a very good job of piling up evidence that certainly seemed to point to Betsy Grant as the murderer of her husband. The defense had a hard sell on their hands with Alan Grant because the prosecution could prove that he spent the night in New York.

But where was the pestle? Delaney asked herself. Granted, Betsy would have had ample time to get rid of it. But where? According to everything that had come out in the newspapers, after he received the call from the funeral director, the medical examiner had contacted the police and reported the suspicious fracture. The police had immediately obtained a warrant and returned to the house, which they searched thoroughly, along with the grounds. But, of course, there had been at least thirty hours between the time that Dr. Grant's body had first arrived at the funeral home, the discovery of his injured skull, the autopsy by the medical examiner, the police application for a search warrant and then the actual search of the home.

What about the housekeeper? There was something about her on the stand. Was it just that she was terribly nervous and trying to rephrase her answers? The way the judge kept reminding her to only answer the questions had obviously rattled her.

As she waited for the light to change, Delaney felt a hand slip under her arm and a familiar voice ask, “Can I buy you dinner, ma'am?”

Startled, she looked up. It was Jonathan Cruise, whom she had met at a friend's wedding in Boston two months ago. He was an investigative reporter for the
Washington Post
, and they had realized they had much in common. They had gone out to dinner when he was in Manhattan visiting his sister a month ago. He had called to say how much he enjoyed being with her and that had been that. This was the first time she had seen or heard from him since then. But she had thought of him often and realized how disappointed she was that he didn't care enough to call again.

She had changed into sneakers for the walk home and realized how tall he seemed, then remembered that on the two other occasions she had been with him she had been wearing heels, and then he'd been only an inch or two taller. His jet-black hair showed a few slivers of silver, and she remembered that he had told her he probably would have white hair by the time he was forty. “Happened to my father,” he had said matter-of-factly. “But maybe it will make me look distinguished.”

All this ran through Delaney's mind as she glanced up at him.

“Jon. Are you in the habit of popping up out of the blue?” she asked.

His smile was warm and easy, brightening a face that in repose could seem stern.

“No, not really. I got in from Washington at five o'clock. I checked the station and knew that you'd be on air tonight. My grand plan was to be waiting outside the studio door when you came out, but the traffic killed that idea. It would have been just my luck if you had plans for tonight. Do you?”

“I guess I do now,” Delaney said with a smile.

A
lvirah and Willy put 22 Oak Street, Philadelphia, in the navigation system and drove to Pennsylvania.

“Honey, you've got to remember that from the looks of the aerial view, that house is gone,” Willy warned again as the dashboard map showed that they were two miles from their destination.

“That doesn't matter,” Alvirah said, easily dismissing the potential obstacle. “There's always a way to get information if you just start sniffing around. And don't forget, even if the original buildings are gone, some of the residents from twenty-six years ago might still be in the area.”

It was on the tip of Willy's tongue to repeat the fact that the address was no longer a home but a business of some sort, but he decided against it. It was just that he knew Alvirah was throwing herself heart and soul into finding Delaney's birth mother and knew how disappointed she would be if she failed to do it.

Oak Street turned out to be in a shabby area where older, small one-family homes were gradually being torn down and replaced by warehouse-type businesses.

22 Oak Street was now a three-story building with a sign that read
SAM'S DISCOUNT TILE FACTORY
. The front window showed displays of tiles of every color and shape. They could see that inside the store there were at least two clerks and four customers.

“Leave it to me,” Alvirah murmured as she pulled open the door.

An older man with thinning hair wearing a pin with the name “Sam” on it came rapidly toward them.

“Welcome to Sam's Discount Tile Factory,” he said, his voice warm, his smile seemingly genuine. “What can I do to help you?”

“I'm not going to waste your time pretending to be a buyer,” Alvirah said, “even though when I looked at those beautiful tiles in the window they made me realize that our kitchen looks outdated.”

Oh come on, Alvirah, Willy thought, we don't need to redo the kitchen. At least I hope not.

Sam smiled again. “I hear that from a lot of our customers. They come in because they saw our ad. They think they're just curious but then they decide they really want to redo their kitchen or bathroom. Maybe you're one of those people.”

“Maybe I am,” Alvirah agreed heartily. “But if you've got just a minute or two . . .”

Again Sam's agreeable smile. “Of course.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Sixteen years.”

“Is this the building you bought?”

“No. We bought the two houses next to each other that were for sale, then took them down and put up this building.”

“By any chance do you remember the names of the people you bought the properties from?”

“I remember the name of one of them, Cora Banks. That was some mess.”

“Why?” Alvirah almost could not contain her excitement.

“She had told us that she was an RN. But right after she sold the property to us and before we had taken it down, a policeman showed up with a warrant for her arrest. It seems that she was a midwife who had been delivering and then selling babies.”

“Do you know if she was ever arrested?”

“I don't think she was. She got out of town too fast.”

And that's that, Willy thought.

After thanking Sam for talking to them, Alvirah told him she'd like to take a look at his selection of tiles.

They followed Sam up the stairs to the second floor, where groups of tiles were exhibited, including pictures of how they looked in a kitchen or bath.

It turned out that Sam was a talker. “Not everyone liked that this neighborhood was changing,” he said. “Some of them even picketed when they heard that it had been re-zoned for commercial buildings. The woman in the house next door was really upset. She said she'd been here thirty years and didn't want to have a tile factory next door. She was so upset I offered to buy her house too, but she said she would never move out until they carried her out.”

Willy noticed that Alvirah almost dropped the cream-colored tile she was holding.

“Is she still there, Sam?” was Alvirah's next question.

“Oh, you bet she is. Her name is Jane Mulligan. She's a widow now and lives alone. She must be up in her eighties, but whenever I run into her, she tells me again that the neighborhood she grew up in has been ruined.”

Alvirah couldn't wait to see if the neighbor was home. She made herself linger for another few minutes, examining different patterns of tile. She then thanked Sam, promising to think over the several design samples he insisted on giving her.

When they left the store she said fervently, “Willy, if this Jane Mulligan gives us a lead to Cora Banks, I'll come back here, pick out tiles, and you can redo both the kitchen and the bathrooms.”

When they came to the house next door, Alvirah stopped. “Willy, in this day and age, if Jane Mulligan is home, she might be leery about letting people in. You'd better wait in the car.”

Willy knew that Alvirah was right, but he hated to see her go alone into the house, even though there was probably only an eighty-something lady inside it. But knowing that by arguing he would only lose, he reluctantly walked to the curb and got back into their newly acquired, previously owned Mercedes.

After Alvirah rang the bell, she waited a few moments before someone looked through the peephole in the door.

“Who are you and what do you want?” a querulous voice asked.

“I'm Alvirah Meehan. I'm a reporter for the
Daily Standard
, and I am hoping to do a series of articles about changing neighborhoods and the reactions of longtime residents,” Alvirah said, holding up her press card for Jane Mulligan to see.

She heard the click as the door was unlocked. Then Jane Mulligan partially opened the door and looked her up and down. Satisfied, she opened the door wide.

“Come in,” she exclaimed. “I've got plenty to say on that subject.”

She led Alvirah into a small living room, immaculately clean, with an overstuffed couch, matching club chairs, an upright piano and a round table filled with photographs.

Jane Mulligan invited her to sit down, but first Alvirah took a look at the photographs. Grandchildren, she thought immediately.

“What a handsome group,” she said sincerely. “Are they your grandchildren?”

“All ten of them.” Now there was pride in Mulligan's voice. “You couldn't find a smarter and nicer group if you searched the world.”

“I can see why you feel that way,” Alvirah agreed as she settled down.

“What do you want me to tell you about ruining neighborhoods by sticking commercial buildings in them?”

Before Alvirah could answer, Mulligan went into a tirade about how you couldn't find a prettier street than the way this one had been years ago. “Everybody knew everybody. You left your doors unlocked.”

Alvirah managed to get in a question. “I understand two houses were torn down to make room for that tile factory. Did you know the people who lived in them?”

“I did indeed. The house two doors over were friends. They sold because they wanted to be near their daughter. She lives in Connecticut now.”

“And the other house?”

“The original owner moved to an assisted living place. The woman she sold it to was a disgrace.”

“What about her?”

“She was a midwife.”

“How long ago was that?”

“About thirty years ago.”

Alvirah did instant math. Then Cora Banks was still in the house when Delaney was born.

“I knew something fishy was going on,” Mulligan said. “I watched people going and coming, every one of them was the same. One or two people would accompany a pregnant girl into that house and anytime from an hour to eight or ten hours later, they'd come out with the girl, supporting her as she walked to the car.

“It took me a few times to figure out what was going on. The people who left with the baby weren't the same ones who came in with the pregnant girl. At first I thought Cora Banks was running an adoption agency. That went on for fourteen years, but then when that policemen came with a warrant for her arrest I learned that she was selling the babies. I almost died.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“No, I don't. I don't want to know.”

“Did she have any friends who visited her?”

“She pretty much kept to herself.”

Trying to keep the disappointment out of her voice, Alvirah confirmed, “Then there is no one you can think of who might have been a friend?”

“Who'd want to be a friend to someone who sold babies?” Mulligan asked. “Cora Banks' social life, if she had any, didn't take place in that house.”

With that Alvirah said good-bye, left and got into the car. “Let's go home,” she said to Willy.

By the disappointed note in her voice he could tell that she hadn't gotten very far talking to Jane Mulligan. He listened as she gave him a summary of the conversation.

“Then you didn't learn anything that will help Delaney find her birth mother?”

“No, I didn't, but I do know why Jennifer Wright is uncomfortable talking about the adoption with Delaney. She doesn't want her to know they bought and paid for her.”

“Maybe that was the only way they could get a baby,” Willy suggested. “They were nearly fifty years old when they got her. Maybe it showed how much they wanted her.”

“I suppose so,” Alvirah admitted. “But in my opinion it's one thing for a young woman to give up her baby, but it's another thing if she sells it to the highest bidder.”