As Time Goes By (17 page)

“It was just after the house where Delaney was born was taken down for the tile factory. Victoria was so terribly disappointed. I know that she told me that she rang the neighbors' bells on either side of the new building to ask about that midwife. Victoria did speak to one of them. She told her that Delaney was born on March 16th, what would now be twenty-six years ago. The neighbor remembered something about the day Delaney was born, but it wasn't enough to go on. Victoria never told me exactly what it was.”

“She spoke to a neighbor?” Alvirah exclaimed.

“Yes, she rang a couple of bells on the street but only one of the neighbors was home. I don't know the name. That isn't much to tell you.”

Alvirah fervently thanked Edith Howell. “If that neighbor is still there, it might give us a lead,” she said hopefully.

•  •  •

Two days after speaking to Edith Howell, Alvirah and Willy put the Oak Street address back in the navigation system. “Well here we are again,” Alvirah said cheerfully when they saw the
WELCOME TO PHILADELPHIA
sign.

“Yes, we are,” Willy agreed, “and let's hope this time we get a little more information.”

“I blame myself for not ringing the doorbell of the neighbor on the other side of the factory,” Alvirah said.

It did not occur to Willy to say that he was inclined to agree. Although the Yankees were his first love, he had been swept up in the excitement as the Mets were battling down to the wire with the Philadelphia Phillies for the division title. He knew he could have asked Alvirah to wait a few days to make this trip, but he sensed that she was red-hot anxious to follow this particular lead.

It was an overcast day and drizzling on and off. When they turned onto Oak Street it looked as dreary as both of them had remembered.

They parked outside the tile factory and once more Alvirah suggested, “Willy, you'd better stay in the car again. This neighbor, if she's still there, might be nervous if the two of us arrive on her doorstep.”

This time Willy had no objection to staying in the car. He immediately turned on the radio.

Alvirah got out of the car and walked past the tile factory to the house next door to it. It was the kind of house she often cleaned, a Cape with a dormer. It could have used a coat of paint, but the lawn was trim and the plants under the front window were obviously well tended.

Well, let's hope whoever lives here doesn't slam the door in my face, Alvirah thought, as she rang the doorbell. But a moment later the door was opened by a seventyish man wearing a Philadelphia Phillies jersey.

Alvirah spoke first. “I'm Alvirah Meehan and I'm helping a young woman who was born next door who is trying to trace her birth mother. And I'm also a columnist.”

Through the partially opened door she saw a woman approaching. She had obviously heard what Alvirah had said. “Joe, it's okay. This woman was interviewing Jane Mulligan last week. Jane told me about her.”

It was obvious that Joe resented being told what to do. “Okay, come in,” he said reluctantly.

As Alvirah entered the house she could hear the baseball game on in the living room. It was very loud and she guessed that Joe was hard of hearing. “You've got the game on,” she said. “I don't want to interrupt.”

“I'm Diana Gibson,” his wife said, her attitude day-and-night different from her husband's. “Come into the kitchen and we can talk.”

Gratefully, Alvirah followed the woman into a small but neat kitchen.

“Sit down, sit down,” she was urged. “Don't mind my husband. He's the biggest baseball fan on the face of the earth.”

“My husband is too,” Alvirah said, “and with the Mets battling for the playoffs, he's happy as a clam.”

For the moment she felt guilty about Willy sitting in the car listening to the game instead of being in his comfortable chair in the apartment watching it with a can of beer in his hand. Then she dismissed the idea. She began, “I know your neighbor, Mrs. Mulligan, isn't happy about the warehouse being built next door. How do you feel about it?”

“I'm okay with it. Our taxes went down and that's a big help, and Sam, who owns the factory, is a very nice man. When it snows he has his plow guy do our driveway too.”

“Did Mrs. Mulligan tell you that I asked her about Cora Banks, the woman who owned the house that was torn down for the factory?”

“Yes, she did. Cora's leaving was no loss to the neighborhood. I guess Jane told you that she was a midwife and that cars were regularly parked in front of the house. Pregnant girls would arrive in one car; hours later people in another car would leave with a baby in their arms. I thought Cora was running a private adoption service, but then when the police came with a warrant for her arrest, I realized that she was selling babies. Isn't that awful?”

“Yes, it is,” Alvirah agreed. “A regular adoption service would look into the adoptive parents and screen them carefully. I guess Cora was selling them to the highest bidder. Do you remember meeting Victoria Carney, a lady who years ago came looking for information about a baby being adopted here?”

“Yes, I do. The reason I remember is because that woman told me the baby was born on March 16th, ten years before. March 16th is our wedding anniversary. And sixteen years ago, when the lady came, was our thirtieth anniversary. That's why it's very clear to me. I told her that the day the baby was born I had been walking the dog when I saw a couple arrive with a pregnant girl who was crying. They had her by both arms and were hustling her into Cora's house. She was a very pretty girl and obviously in labor. Their car was an old black Ford with Jersey plates.”

Alvirah held her breath, then asked hopefully, “By any miracle do you remember the license plate number of the car?”

“Oh, no. I'm so sorry.”

Alvirah found it hard to hide her disappointment. No wonder Victoria told Edith Howell that whatever information she got wasn't helpful, she thought, as she got up to go.

After thanking Mrs. Gibson profusely, she left and started to walk to the car. Just as she passed the tile factory, the owner, Sam, opened the door.

“Hey, am I glad to see you,” he said. “After you left I thought of something. I have a copy of the closing papers from the sale of the house from Cora Banks to me and I remembered that her lawyer's name was on it. I wrote it down in case you ever came back to buy something. I have it right inside.”

He went behind the counter, took a folded sheet of paper from the drawer and held it out to her.

Alvirah tried not to grab it out of his hand. The name on the paper was Leslie Fallowfield.

“Leslie Fallowfield,” she exclaimed. “There can't be too many of them around.”

“That's what I thought when I met him,” Sam agreed.

“Sam, do you know if he was from around here?”

“I'm pretty sure he was. He wasn't much to look at. He was short, skinny and balding.”

“About how old was he?” Please, God, don't let him be so old that he might be dead by now, Alvirah prayed.

“Oh, I'd say he was about fifty. I think he may have been Cora's boyfriend because he said something to her about meeting for drinks at the usual place.”

Alvirah wanted to kiss Sam but held back. Instead she pumped his hand. “Sam, I don't know how to thank you. I just don't know how to thank you.”

When she got back in the car, Willy asked, “Any luck?”

“Willy, if what I just heard leads to anything, we are going to tile all the floors and walls and ceilings in the apartment.”

“Y
our Honor, the state calls Peter Benson,” said Prosecutor Holmes.

The back door of the courtroom opened and everyone turned around to watch him enter. A strikingly handsome man, flecks of gray in his dark brown hair, about six feet tall, he walked to the well of the courtroom, raised his right hand and swore to tell the truth. He settled into the witness stand and the prosecutor approached him.

The jury watched intently as the questioning of this highly anticipated witness began.

Elliot Holmes had handled many witnesses like Peter Benson in the past. Sometimes it was necessary to call a witness who was very close to the defendant and basically hostile to the prosecutor in the case. But he had no choice because it was the only way to bring out certain information.

Holmes also knew that he had to be careful because sometimes these witnesses would look for any opportunity to give an answer that would sandbag his case. And Peter Benson, Ph.D., was a very smart and educated man.

The prosecutor's initial questions established that Benson was the Chair of the Humanities Department at Franklin University in Philadelphia. His wife had been fatally injured in a car crash nearly five years ago. They had been married for almost thirteen years and had not had children. His wife had been an adjunct professor at the same university.

“Sir, how long have you known the defendant, Betsy Grant?”

“We both grew up in Hawthorne, New Jersey, and we both attended Hawthorne High School. We graduated twenty-six years ago.”

“During your high school years, how much contact did you have with her?”

“I did see her quite often. Actually, we dated in our junior and senior years.”

“After you both graduated, did you continue to see her?”

“Only a few times. She had skipped a grade in elementary school. And I remember that her parents felt that she was too young, just having turned seventeen, to go away to college. They decided that it would be best if she went to Milwaukee to live with her aunt for a year and work in her dress shop before starting college. So, around mid-summer she left for Milwaukee.”

“In the next couple of years, did you see her at all?”

“No. I went to Boston College and my father's company relocated to North Carolina so that's where I went on school breaks. So we just kind of lost contact.”

“When is the next time that you saw or had any contact with her?”

“We met quite by accident at an exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in Manhattan. That was about three and a half years ago. As I walked by her, we looked at each other, did a double take and immediately recognized each other.”

“After that, did you rekindle your friendship?”

“If by rekindle you mean did we become friends again, yes, we did.”

“Did she tell you that she was married?”

“Yes, she told me that her husband was quite ill with Alzheimer's, and of course, I told her that my wife had been killed in the car accident.”

“Now you live in Philadelphia, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And she has lived in Alpine, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“And about how long does it take to drive from Philadelphia to Alpine?”

“I wouldn't know. I've never driven from Philadelphia to Alpine.”

Holmes paused and then continued, “How often have you seen her in these last three and a half years?”

“About once or twice a month up until Dr. Grant died.”

“And where would you meet her?”

“We would usually have dinner at a restaurant in Manhattan.”

“Did you ever have dinner in New Jersey?”

“No, we did not.”

“Why not?”

“No special reason. We just enjoyed going to the city. There were a few restaurants we liked there.”

“Did you drive directly to Manhattan?”

“Yes, I did.”

Holmes' voice became sarcastic. “So you never once had dinner in New Jersey, anywhere near her home?”

“As I said, we had dinners in New York.”

“And in going to New York, is it fair to say that it was far less likely that you would run into people that either of you knew?”

Peter Benson hesitated, then said quietly, “Yes, that is fair to say.” Then he added, “However, it was not a secret that we were having dinner. Mrs. Grant always gave my cell phone number to the caregiver as a backup in case there was a sudden change in Dr. Grant's condition.”

“In those three years did the caregiver ever phone you?”

“No, she did not.”

“Now, Mr. Benson, you just indicated that you stopped seeing Betsy Grant after her husband died. When was the last time you actually saw the defendant?”

“Until I walked into the courtroom today, it was the evening of March 20th of last year.”

“And Dr. Grant was found dead the morning of March 22nd?”

“That is my understanding.”

“Mr. Benson, were you having an affair with Betsy Grant?”

“No, I was not.”

“Were you in love with Betsy Grant?”

“I respected her for her devotion to her husband.”

“That was not the question I asked. Mr. Benson, were you in love with Betsy Grant?”

Peter Benson looked past the prosecutor and directly at Betsy as he answered the question. “Yes, I was and am in love with Betsy Grant, but I must adamantly add that she was devoted to her husband.”