The Lost Years (24 page)

“Kathleen, you’re frightened. Something is frightening you.”

“I can’t see his face,” Kathleen wailed. “Maybe if he can’t see mine, he won’t shoot me, too.”

A
t a quarter of nine on Wednesday morning, Lloyd Scott dropped in on Mariah. He had phoned at eight thirty hoping that she was up. “Lloyd, I’m on my second cup of coffee,” she had told him. “Come on over, I was going to call you anyhow. There are some things you should know.”

When he arrived he found her in the breakfast room, with neatly laid-out files spread across the table. “I told Betty to take the day off,” she explained. “She stayed late last evening because I had people in for dinner. She’s been practically living here since Dad died, but now it’s time to get back to whatever you’d call normal.”

“I’m sure it is,” Lloyd agreed. “Mariah, you’ll remember I told you I was going to look up Rory Steiger. Well, the report is in and it turns out her real name is Victoria Parker and she has a prison record. She spent seven years in jail in Boston, for stealing money and jewelry from an elderly woman who hired her as a caregiver.”

“Those two detectives were here last night. They told me about the prison record and that Rory is missing,” Mariah said. “They wanted to know if I had heard from her, which I hadn’t.”

Lloyd Scott had learned to keep his face impassive in court even when a witness he was counting on said something unexpected on cross-examination. Even so, his pale blue eyes widened and he unconsciously smoothed back the few strands of hair that nature had
permitted him to keep. “She’s missing? Wait a minute. I’ll be right back.”

With the familiarity of an old friend, he went into the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee, returned to the breakfast room, and sat down. Mariah briefly explained that Rory had not shown up for a dinner date with a friend and was not answering her cell phone, but that when her super checked on her apartment nothing looked disturbed.

“Lloyd,” she said, “the question seems to be, did Rory disappear on her own or did something happen to her?” Then she added, “It’s funny. I never felt warm about Rory the way I do about Delia, the weekend caregiver, but Rory did seem to take good care of Mom. And Mom listened to her. Delia had to beg Mom to shower or to take her medicine. With Rory there were no arguments.”

“Rory stole from her employer in Boston,” Lloyd said. “Is there any possibility she’s been stealing in this house and is now afraid of getting caught?”

“I think Dad would have noticed if money was missing from his wallet. Betty has a credit card for food shopping. Mom’s jewelry is in the safe-deposit box. Dad caught Mom trying to throw it out and took it away from her.” Mariah’s voice became strained. “What occurred to me is that Rory must have heard talk about the parchment when Dad was on the phone in his study. Last night at dinner, Richard, Greg, Albert, and Charles all admitted that Dad had called and told them about it. Mom loved to sit in the study with Dad, and Rory was always hovering around her. Suppose after Dad died, Rory helped herself to the parchment and found a buyer for it? That would be a good reason to disappear.”

“Do you think that’s what happened?” Lloyd asked incredulously.

“We know that she’s a thief.” For a moment Mariah turned her head so that she was looking out the back window. “The impatiens grew so beautifully,” she said. “And in a few weeks they’ll be gone.
I can still see Dad planting them in June. I came out and wanted to help him, but he turned me down. I had just delivered another zinger about Lillian. He turned away from me, shrugged, and went outside. God, Lloyd, if we could only take back the hurtful things we say.” She sighed.

“Mariah, listen to me. I was close to your father. You were the voice of his conscience. He knew he shouldn’t have been involved with Lillian and that it was hurting Kathleen and you. Don’t forget, I’ve lived here for more than twenty years and witnessed how in love he and Kathleen were. I think he knew that if the positions were reversed, there wouldn’t have been anyone else in her life.”

“I still wish I had been more understanding. And the fact is that if those damn pictures hadn’t surfaced, Mom and I would have been blissfully unaware that there was something between Dad and Lillian and a lot happier for it. I always thought that it was Lillian and Charles who were involved. Lillian is and was a good actress, which is what I was planning to bring up with you.” Mariah looked straight into Lloyd’s eyes. “I have done nothing but think about this and, despite what you just told me, I would bet everything I have that Dad gave the parchment to Lillian to hold for him. Whether he did or did not break up with her after he visited Father Aiden that Wednesday two weeks ago, Lillian admitted to Alvirah that she and Dad were not in touch for the next five days, and then he was killed.”

Lloyd nodded. “Alvirah was emphatic about that and if there’s one thing I’m sure of, Alvirah doesn’t misunderstand what she’s being told.”

“Lloyd, suppose they had a quarrel? Lillian might have refused to give the parchment back to him. Suppose she didn’t keep it in her apartment. Maybe she put it in a safe-deposit box for safekeeping?”

“Then you think that Lillian may have the parchment?”

“I’d stake my life on it. Lloyd, think about it. If Dad told her it was over, she’d be hurt and angry. I saw those pictures. They were in
love. Now Dad had taken five years of her life and was walking away from her. She might have felt that he owed her plenty.”

Lloyd waited, then decided to voice the possibility that had occurred to him. “Mariah, suppose Lillian came here on that Monday night, ostensibly to give back the parchment. There was no caregiver here. Is it possible that your father let her in, that a quarrel began and that she was the one who pulled that trigger?”

“Except for the fact that my mother is completely innocent, I think anything is possible,” Mariah said. “And this morning I’m driving into New York and I’m going to have it out with Lillian. My father found a sacred and priceless artifact that belongs to the Church and to the generations of people who will be able to view it in the Vatican Library. One way or the other I’m going to make sure they get it back.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “If I can get that letter from Christ to Joseph of Arimathea back and send it to where it belongs, I know that Dad will be aware of it and it will help make up for all of the nasty remarks I’ve been giving him this past year and a half.”

O
n Wednesday morning at eight thirty Alvirah and Willy were sitting in their car parked across the street from the entrance to Lillian’s apartment opposite Lincoln Center. “There’s only one exit from the building,” Alvirah said, more to herself than to Willy, who was reading the
Daily News.
“I just hope the cops don’t chase us away. I’ll wait until nine, then I’ll march in and give my name to the doorman. When Lillian gets on the intercom, I’ll tell her that I have information that may save her from a stint in the pokey.”

That statement was enough to get Willy’s attention. He had been reading the sports pages and was consumed by the articles covering the closeness of the race for the division championship between the Yankees and the Boston Red Sox. “You didn’t tell me you had that kind of dirt on her,” he said.

“I don’t,” Alvirah admitted matter-of-factly. “But I’m going to make her think that I do.” She sighed. “I love the summer, but truth to tell I’m glad it’s a little cooler the last few days. You can just take so much of the ninety-five-degree weather. This outfit is light, but even with the air-conditioning it feels like a blanket.”

She was wearing a cotton pantsuit that, after the delicious and never-ending food on the cruise, was feeling a bit tight. She was also painfully aware that telltale white roots were springing up like weeds in her artfully colored red hair and that Dale of London, her colorist,
was on vacation in Tortola. “I can’t believe I let it go this long, and now Dale won’t be back for another week,” she complained. “I’m starting to look like the old lady in the shoe.”

“You always look gorgeous, honey,” Willy assured her. “At least you and I have hair to worry about. Kathleen’s lawyer is a nice guy but he should get rid of those three strands he combs across his dome and cave in and just go bald. He’d look like Bruce Willis—”

Willy interrupted himself. “You’re too late, Alvirah. Lillian’s on her way out.”

“Oh, no,” Alvirah moaned as she watched the slim figure of Lillian Stewart, dressed in a lightweight running suit and sneakers, walk from the door to the sidewalk and turn right. Her shoulder bag was dangling on her left side and she was carrying something resembling a tote bag tucked under her right arm.

“Follow her, Willy,” Alvirah ordered.

“Alvirah, there’s a lot of traffic on Broadway. I don’t think I can trail her for long. I’ll keep half the buses and taxis in New York backed up behind us.”

“Look, Willy, she’s heading north. It looks as if she’s going at least another block on Broadway. Drive ahead and pull up at the corner. Everybody else around here double-parks. Why not you?”

Knowing it was useless to protest, Willy did as he was told. When Lillian reached the next block, she did not cross at the intersection but turned right.

“Oh, good,” Alvirah said, “it’s a one-way, going that way. Turn left, Willy.”

“Roger, over and out,” Willy deadpanned as he made a precariously sharp maneuver across two lanes of oncoming traffic.

At the next corner, Alvirah let out a triumphant gasp. “Look at that, Willy. She’s going into the bank. I’d bet anything she’s going to pay a visit to her safe-deposit box. Dollars to donuts, when she comes out, there’ll be something in that bag she’s carrying. Don’t forget she
accepted Richard’s offer for two million dollars. Shame on both of them.”

Once again Willy double-parked, this time a few doors down from the entrance to the bank. Moments later, an unsmiling face rapped on the driver’s window. “Move along, sir, right now,” a traffic policeman ordered. “You can’t stay here.”

Willy knew he had no choice. “What do you want me to do, honey?” he asked. “There’s no place to park around here.”

Alvirah was already opening the passenger door. “Drive around the block. I’ll get out here. I’ll hide behind that fruit stand and follow her when she comes out. My guess is she’ll be heading back to the apartment or going somewhere to meet Richard. If I have to leave here before you get back, I’ll call you on the cell.”

She was gone and the traffic cop was again at the window, ordering Willy to move. “Okay, Officer, okay,” he said. “I’m pulling out.”