The Lost Years (18 page)

O
n Monday afternoon, after her mother’s appearance in court, Mariah returned to her parents’ home and went up to her bedroom, changed into slacks and a cotton sweater, and twisted her hair up, fastening it with a comb. Then for a long minute, she stared into the bathroom mirror, seeing the reflection of her face with the deep blue eyes that were so like her father’s. “Dad,” she whispered, “I promise you, I
swear
to you, that I’m going to prove Mom is innocent.”

Carrying her laptop, she went downstairs and headed to her father’s study. Grateful for a certain sense of calm that was replacing the frantic emotions she had felt during the hearing, she settled in the dining room chair that had replaced the desk chair the police had seized on the night of the murder.

I did nothing last week with my clients, Mariah thought. I’ve got to get some work done before I have to start thinking about how Dad left things financially. I can do a lot of it from here. It was actually a relief to open her computer, check e-mails, and return calls to some of the clients whose investments she supervised. It feels like getting back to some degree of normality, she thought. Even though absolutely nothing in my life is normal, she added to herself wryly.

Betty Pierce, who was still busy putting the upstairs rooms back into order after the police search, brought her a sandwich and a cup
of tea. “Mariah, I can stay tonight if you’d like company,” she suggested tentatively.

Mariah looked up and saw the deep concern etched into the lines of their longtime housekeeper’s face. This has been tough for her too, she thought. “Oh, Betty, thanks a million, but I’ll be fine on my own. Tonight I’m having dinner next door with Lloyd and Lisa. But tomorrow night, I want to invite Dad’s special group over for dinner. The usual four. Professor Callahan, Professor Michaelson, Professor West, and Mr. Pearson.”

“I think that’s a great idea, Mariah,” Betty said heartily, now smiling. “Seeing them will give you a lift, and God knows you need one. What do you want me to cook?”

“Maybe salmon. They all like that.”

By four o’clock Mariah felt that she had gotten up to speed with all of her clients. Dear God, it feels so good to get back into a routine, she thought. It’s an escape. While she had been working, she had deliberately refused to allow herself to speculate on what was happening to her mother at the psychiatric hospital just a few miles away. As she began to make the calls for the dinner, she continued to push those thoughts away.

The first one she reached was Greg; as she heard his voice she thought about why she had so naturally called him first. She had truly appreciated being with him on Saturday night. His obvious admiration for her father and the amusing stories he told about him had made her realize she had been absolutely wrong in regarding Greg as bland and unemotional. She remembered her father had once said that although Greg was basically shy, he could also be really interesting and funny when he was with people he felt comfortable around.

When his secretary put her through to him, he sounded both surprised and pleased that she had called him. “Mariah, I’ve been thinking of you all day. I know what’s been happening. I wanted to
call you last night after I saw the news, but I didn’t want to intrude. Mariah, I asked you Saturday night and now I’m asking you again. What can I do to help you?”

“You can start out by coming here to dinner tomorrow night,” Mariah said as she pictured him in his spacious office, impeccably groomed, his brown hair always looking freshly barbered, his eyes that interesting shade of gray-green. “It would be so nice to have you and Richard and Charles and Albert here. You were all so close to Dad. We’ll make it a sort of reunion in his honor.”

“Of course, I’ll be there,” Greg answered promptly.

There was no mistaking the deep affection in his voice.

“Around six thirty,” Mariah said hastily. “See you then.” She broke the connection, realizing that she did not want to linger on the call. Dad, she thought, you told me more than once that Greg was sweet on me and that he had a lot to offer if I would just give him a chance…

Refusing to dwell on the thought, she dialed Albert West.

“I was camping over the weekend in your territory,” he told her. “The Ramapo Mountains are really beautiful. I must have walked for miles.” His booming voice reminded her that her father had told her that the odd combination of that voice and his small frame had earned Albert the nickname “Bellows.” He readily accepted her invitation, then said, “Mariah, I have to ask. Did your father recently discuss with you the fact that he may have found a valuable ancient parchment?”

“No, I’m sorry, but he never did,” Mariah said, her voice pained. “But over the years he told me about the Vatican letter, and now I understand he may have actually found it among those scrolls he was studying.” Then she added sadly, “Albert, you know how it was. My relationship with Dad had been strained for the last year or so because of Lillian. If things had been the way they used to be, I know I’d have been the first one he told.”

“That’s absolutely true, Mariah. I’ll be glad to be with you tomorrow. Maybe we can talk more about it.”

Charles Michaelson’s crisp “hello” brought a smile to Mariah’s face. Charles always sounds at least mildly annoyed, she thought. She had never quite forgiven him for acting as if he was Lillian’s date at so many of the dinners when he was really providing a cover for her father and Lillian in her parents’ home.

He told her he’d very much enjoy coming to dinner, then echoed Albert’s question about the parchment.

She repeated what she had told Albert. But then she said, “Charles, it would have been natural for Dad to have shown you what he thought was the Vatican letter. No one is more expert in this area than you are. Did you ever see it?”

“No,” Michaelson answered sharply, almost before she finished asking the question. “He told me about it only a week before he died and promised to show it to me, but unfortunately he never got that far. Mariah, do you have it, or do you know where it is?”

“Charles, the answer to both of those questions is no.” And why don’t I believe you? she asked herself as she broke the connection. I would have bet that Dad would have gone to you first. She frowned, trying to remember why some years ago her father had mentioned something about being very disappointed in Charles. What could that have been about? she wondered.

Her final call was to Richard Callahan. “Mariah. Of course I’ve been thinking about you. I can’t imagine what you and your mother must be going through. Have you been able to visit her?”

“No, Richard, not yet. She’s going through the evaluation. I’m praying that she’s back home on Friday.”

“I hope so, Mariah, I hope so.”

“Richard, are you okay? You sound so down or troubled or something.”

“You’re very perceptive. My dad asked me the same question last
night. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I’ve made a decision that I’ve put off for too long. I’ll see you tomorrow night.” Then he added quietly, “I’m very much looking forward to seeing you.”

Richard has decided to go back and complete his training to be a Jesuit, Mariah thought, and wondered why she felt so much dismay. He brings so much to the table, and we won’t see nearly as much of him once he rejoins the order.

At seven o’clock, she changed into a long blue skirt and white silk blouse, touched up her makeup, brushed her hair loose, walked across the lawn to the Scotts’ home, and rang the bell. Lisa answered the door. As usual she looked glamorous in a designer multicolored shirt and slacks, with a silver belt that hugged her hips and silver slippers with five-inch heels.

Lloyd was on the phone. He waved to Mariah and she followed Lisa into the living room, where cheese and crackers were set out on the coffee table. Lisa poured glasses of wine for the two of them. “I think it’s some kind of police call,” she confided to Mariah. “They asked about our burglary. My God, wouldn’t it be great if I got some of my jewelry back? I miss my emeralds so much. I’m still kicking myself that I didn’t bring them with me on the trip.”

When Lloyd joined them a few minutes later, he said, “Well, that was really interesting. The New York City police have been calling people who may have parked at the garage on West 52nd Street next to the Franklin Hotel. Our names are on the list from that charity ball we went to at the hotel a couple of months ago. An attendant at the garage was suspicious of one of the other employees and saw him attach what turned out to be a GPS tracker to a customer’s car. The customer lived in Riverdale. The police checked his car, found the tracker, and arranged for him and his wife to drive to the Hamptons and stay there for a few days. They say this crook’s modus operandi was to check the comings and goings of the car and, if it was somewhere else or not used at all for a period of time he would case the
house to see if was unoccupied. The local police kept the Riverdale house under surveillance. It only took three nights before this guy tried to break into it. They want me to see if there’s a tracker on our car. They said if there is, then don’t touch it, just in case they can lift some fingerprints off it.”

Lloyd disappeared in the direction of the garage. When he returned, he said, “We’ve got a tracker on the Mercedes, too, which means that the guy who put it on has to be the one who got in here!”

“My emeralds!” Lisa cried breathlessly. “Maybe I’ll get them back.”

Lloyd did not have the heart to tell his wife that by now, the emeralds had undoubtedly been pried out of their settings by a fence and long since been sold to a willing buyer.

O
n Monday evening, Kathleen was lying in bed in a single room in the psychiatric section of Bergen Park Medical Center. Several times she had tried to get up and now light restraints on her arms and legs were preventing her from making another attempt.

Besides her usual medicine, she had been given a light sedative to calm her, and so she was content to lie quietly as conflicting thoughts and memories mixed together in her mind.

She smiled. Jonathan was there. They were in Venice on their honeymoon walking hand in hand in Saint Mark’s Square …

Jonathan was upstairs. Why didn’t he come down and talk to her?

So much noise… so much blood… Jonathan was bleeding.

Kathleen closed her eyes and stirred restlessly. She did not hear the door of the room open and close and was unaware of the nurse who was bending over her.

Kathleen was at the top of the stairs and the front door opened. Who was that? A shadow passed in the foyer. She couldn’t see a face—

Where was her scarf?

“So much noise… So much blood,” she whispered.

“Kathleen, you’re dreaming,” a soothing voice suggested.

“The gun,” Kathleen mumbled. “Rory put it in the flower bed. I saw her. Did it have dirt on it?”

“Kathleen, I can’t hear you. What did you say, dear?” the nurse asked.

“We’re going to have lunch at Cipriani’s,” Kathleen said.

Then she smiled as she drifted off to sleep. She was back in Venice with Jonathan.

The nurse tiptoed from the room. She had been instructed to write down anything her patient said. Carefully, word for word, she wrote on the chart, “So much noise. So much blood. And then she was going to Cipriani’s for lunch.”

R
ory spotted the car waiting at the corner as she reached the top step of the subway exit Monday evening. She had hurried up the stairs and was now short of breath. The sense that everything was closing in on her was overwhelming. She had to get the money and escape. Years ago she had disappeared and she could do it again. As soon as she got out of prison after serving seven years for stealing from that old lady, she skipped her parole.