The safe was empty.
11
Alvirah decided she would wait until the next morning to phone Mariah. “Willy, you know how it is after a funeral. There’s such a letdown. I’ll bet anything that when Mariah got home, all she wanted to do was be quiet. And God only knows what’s running through poor Kathleen’s mind.”
Six of Willy’s sisters had entered the convent. The seventh, the oldest and the only one who had married, had died fifteen years earlier. Willy still remembered how glad he had been to get back home to their apartment in Jackson Heights after the funeral in Nebraska and the long flight home. Alvirah had fixed him a sandwich and a cold beer and let him sit and think about Madeline, who had been his favorite sister. Madeline had been quiet and unassuming, so unlike the wonderful but bossy Sister Cordelia, his next-oldest sibling.
“When was the last time we were out to Jonathan’s house in Mahwah for dinner?” he asked Alvirah. “Am I right that it was about two months ago, in late June?”
Alvirah had finished unpacking and sorting clothes for the laundry and cleaners. Now happily comfortable in her favorite stretch slacks and a cotton T-shirt, she settled into a chair opposite Willy in their Central Park South apartment.
“Yes,” she agreed. “Jonathan invited us over, and Mariah and Richard and Greg were there. And so were those other two who always go on the trips. You know who. What were their names?” Alvirah frowned in concentration as she went through the tricks for memory retention that she had learned at the Dale Carnegie course she had taken after they won the money in the lottery. “One of them is a direction. North… no. South, no. West. That’s it. Albert West. He’s a little guy with a deep voice. The other one was Michaelson. He’s easy to remember. Michael is one of my favorite names. Just add the ‘-son’ and you have it.”
“His first name is Charles,” Willy volunteered. “And you can bet nobody ever called that guy ‘Charlie.’ Do you remember how he cut down West when West misidentified one of the ruins they had on the pictures they showed us?”
Alvirah nodded. “But I remember Kathleen was pretty good that night. She seemed to enjoy seeing the pictures, and she didn’t say a word about Lily.”
“I suppose Lily was on that trip too, even though they didn’t show any photos with her in them.”
“Sure she was.” Alvirah sighed. “And, Willy, if it turns out that Kathleen pulled that trigger, you can bet it was because of Lily. I just don’t know how Mariah will be able to handle it.”
“They certainly wouldn’t put Kathleen in prison,” Willy protested. “It’s obvious the woman has Alzheimer’s and isn’t responsible for what she does.”
“That’s up to the courts,” Alvirah said soberly. “But a psychiatric prison hospital wouldn’t be much better. Oh, Willy, pray God it doesn’t turn out that way.”
The thought of that possibility did not improve Alvirah’s chances of a good night’s rest, even though she was grateful that she would be back in her own bed, comfortably spooning against the sleeping Willy. The beds on those ships are so big, you can hardly see each other, she thought. Poor Kathleen. Mariah told me how happy her parents had been together before the dementia set in. But Kathleen never did go on the archaeological trips with him. From what Mariah said, that was his thing and her mother couldn’t take the summer heat in the places he went. Maybe that’s one of the reasons that Jonathan got involved with Lily. From what I could see, she sure shared his passion for digging through old ruins.
Reluctantly, Alvirah thought of that first trip two years ago from Venice to Istanbul where they had met her fellow lecturer Jonathan Lyons and his companion, Lily Stewart. No question they were in love, she thought. They were crazy about each other.
Alvirah remembered how after Jonathan had invited Willy and her to dinner that first time, and they had met Mariah and Kathleen, she and Mariah had lunch the next week. “You’re the right fit for some of my lottery winners,” she had told Mariah. “I can tell you’re the kind of conservative investment advisor they need to make sure they don’t squander their money or put it in high-risk stocks.”
A month or so after that, Jonathan had been lecturing at the 92nd Street Y and invited Alvirah and Willy to attend and have dinner with him afterward. What he did not tell them was that Lily would be there.
Lily had sensed Alvirah’s discomfort and addressed it. “Alvirah, I told Jonathan that you and Mariah have become very friendly and that she would resent it bitterly if she thought that you were seeing her father with me socially.”
“Yes, I think she would,” Alvirah had answered frankly.
Jonathan had tried to dismiss that possibility. “Mariah knows that Richard and Greg, to name just a few, see Lily and me together. What’s the difference?”
Alvirah remembered how Lily had smiled sadly. “Jonathan,” Lily said, “it’s different for Alvirah, and I do understand. She would feel two-faced about seeing us socially outside your home.”
I like Lily, Alvirah thought. I can only imagine what she’s feeling right now. And if it turns out that Kathleen killed Jonathan, I’ll bet Lily will be blaming herself for being the cause of the problem. I should at least call her and tell her how sorry I am.
But I won’t meet with her, she decided as she happily accepted Willy’s offer of a glass of wine.
“It’s the witching hour, honey,” he said. “Five P.M. on the dot.”
In the morning, she waited until eleven o’clock to call Mariah. “Alvirah, I can’t talk,” Mariah said quickly, her voice strained and tremulous. “The detectives are here to talk to Mom and me again. Are you home? I’ll call you back.”
Alvirah did not have time to say more than, “Yes, I’m home,” before the click in her ear told her that the connection was broken.
Less than five minutes later, her phone rang. It was Lily Stewart. It was obvious that she was crying. “Alvirah, you probably don’t want to hear from me, but I need your advice. I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know what to do. How soon can we get together?”
12
Mariah admitted to herself that she liked her mother’s weekend caregiver Delia Jackson, a handsome black woman in her late forties, better than she liked Rory Steiger. Delia was always cheerful. The only drawback was that her mother would sometimes absolutely refuse to get dressed or eat when Delia was with her.
“Mom’s intimidated by Rory,” Mariah and her father had agreed, “but she’s more relaxed with Delia.”
On Saturday morning when the detectives arrived, despite Mariah and Delia’s entreaties, Kathleen was still in her nightgown and robe, sitting in the wing chair in the living room, her eyes half-closed. At breakfast she had asked Mariah where her father was. Now she had ignored the detectives’ attempt to open a conversation with her, except to say that her husband would be down shortly to speak with them. But at the sound of Lloyd Scott’s voice, Kathleen sprang up and rushed across the room to throw her arms around him. “Lloyd, I’m so glad you’re back,” she cried. “Did you hear that Jonathan is dead, that someone shot him?”
Mariah’s heart sank as she caught the look the detectives exchanged. They believe Mom has been putting on an act, she thought. They don’t realize how she goes in and out of reality.
Lloyd Scott led Kathleen over to the couch and sat beside her, holding her hand. Looking directly at Simon Benet, he asked, “Is Mrs. Lyons a person of interest in this investigation?”
“Mrs. Lyons was apparently alone with her husband when he was shot,” Benet answered. “There is no sign of forced entry. However, we are aware that in her condition, Mrs. Lyons could be vulnerable to a setup. We’re simply here to try to get a complete picture of what happened last Monday evening, as much as she can tell us.”
“I understand. Then you do realize that Mrs. Lyons is in an advanced state of dementia and not capable of comprehending either your questions or her responses?”
“The gun was found in the closet with Mrs. Lyons,” Rita Rodriguez explained quie
tly. “Three discernible fingerprints were on it. Professor Lyons, of course, had handled it at some point. It was his gun. We have his prints from the medical examiner. Mariah Lyons found her mother in the closet holding the gun and took it from her. Mariah’s fingerprints are on the barrel. The fingerprints of Kathleen Lyons are on the trigger. Of course at the hospital we took their fingerprints for comparison purposes. From what Kathleen has said to her daughter and caretaker, she picked up the gun and hid it in the closet. According to the caregiver Rory Steiger, and this was verified by the housekeeper Betty Pierce, Mrs. Lyons was quite agitated at dinner on the night of the murder about her husband’s involvement with another woman, Lillian Stewart. Both Mrs. Lyons and Mariah Lyons said they embraced the body, which is consistent with the bloodstains on both their upper bodies.”
Appalled, Mariah realized that even though the detectives knew of her mother’s dementia, it was clear that they thought her mother had pulled the trigger. And as far as Mariah knew, they weren’t even aware yet that Kathleen had been taught how to fire a gun. When Lloyd asked his next question, it was as if he was reading her mind. “Was there any presence of blood or brain matter on the clothing of Mrs. Lyons?”
“Yes. Although whoever fired the bullet was at least ten feet from Professor Lyons, both the mother and daughter hugged him and got blood all over themselves.”
Mariah exchanged glances with Lloyd Scott. Lloyd remembers that Mom used to go to the shooting range with Dad, she thought. He knows that will come up. They’ll find out about it.
“Detective Benet,” Lloyd began. “I am going on record as being the attorney for Mrs. Kathleen Lyons. I—”
He was interrupted by the frantic chiming of the doorbell. Mariah rushed to answer it, but Delia, who had left the living room when the detectives arrived, was there ahead of her. It was Lisa Scott. Shaking, she rushed into the house. “We’ve been robbed!” she shrieked. “All my jewelry is gone.”
In the living room, Lloyd Scott and the detectives could hear what his wife was saying. Lloyd let go of Kathleen’s hand and sprang up from the couch. The detectives exchanged startled glances and followed him, leaving Kathleen alone.
In an instant Delia was beside her charge. “Now, Kathleen, why don’t we get dressed while the men who were talking to you are busy?” she asked gently, even as she hooked Kathleen’s arm in hers, forcing her to get up.
A clear flash of memory came and went through Kathleen’s failing brain. “Was there dirt on the gun?” she asked. “It was muddy in the flower bed along the walk.”
“Oh, sweetheart, don’t you even think about that kind of thing,” Delia said soothingly. “It just gets you upset. I think you should wear your pretty white blouse today. Is that a good idea?”
13
Lillian Stewart lived in an apartment building opposite Lincoln Center on Manhattan’s West Side. She had moved there after an amicable divorce from Arthur Ambruster, the husband she had met when they both were students at Georgetown University in Washington, DC. They had decided to put off having children until they earned their PhDs, hers in English, his in sociology. They then had both secured teaching jobs in New York, at Columbia University.
The children they were then ready to have had never arrived, and when they were both thirty-five they agreed that their interests and outlook on life were radically different. Now, fifteen years later, Arthur was the father of three sons and active in New York politics. Lillian’s avocation had become archaeology, and every summer she had happily joined an archaeological dig. Five years ago, at age forty-five, she had gone on a dig headed by Professor Jonathan Lyons and that had changed both their lives.
I am the reason Kathleen killed Jonathan, was the thought that had haunted Lillian’s dreams at night since his death. And it wasn’t necessary. Jonathan was going to give me up. He came to me last week and said that he couldn’t live this way any longer, that it was making Kathleen’s condition worse, and that his relationship with Mariah had become unbearably strained.
The memory of that meeting was like a recording that played in Lillian’s mind over and over again on Saturday morning. She could still see the pain in Jonathan’s eyes and hear the tremor in his voice. “Lily, I think you know how much I love you, and I did honestly think that when Kathleen was no longer aware, it would be all right to put her in a nursing home and divorce her. But I know now that I can’t do that. And I can’t spoil your life any longer. You’re only fifty years old. You should meet someone your own age. If Kathleen lives another ten years, and I do as well, I’ll be eighty. What life would you have with me then?”
Then Jonathan had added, “Some people have a premonition of their impending death. My father did. They say Abraham Lincoln, the week before he was shot, had a dream of his body lying in a casket in the White House. I know this may sound silly but I have a premonition that I am going to die soon.”
I talked him into seeing me one more time, Lillian thought. It would have been Tuesday morning. But then Kathleen shot him on Monday night.
Oh, God, what shall I do?
Alvirah had agreed to meet Lillian for lunch at one o’clock. I like her so much, Lillian thought. But I already know what she will tell me to do. I already know what the right thing to do is.
But am I going to do it? Maybe it’s too soon to decide. I’m not thinking straight.
Restlessly she walked around the apartment, making the bed, straightening up the bathroom, putting her few breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. The living room, restful with its earth-toned carpet and furniture, and the paintings of ancient sites on the walls, had always been Jonathan’s favorite room. Lillian thought of the evenings when Jonathan and she would come back and have a nightcap after dinner. She could see him sitting with his long legs stretched out on the hassock of the roomy leather chair she had bought him for his birthday. “It’s your home-away-from-home perch,” she had told him.
“How can you love someone so much, then turn your back on her?” she had cried angrily when Jonathan told her that he was ending their relationship.
“It’s because of love that I’m doing it,” he had answered. “Love of you, love of Kathleen, and love of Mariah.”
Alvirah had suggested that they meet at the relatively new restaurant down the block from her on Central Park South, then she had immediately changed her mind. “Make it the Russian Tea Room,” she said.
Lillian knew why Alvirah had switched. The name of the restaurant on Central Park South was Marea’s. Too close to “Mariah,” she thought.
Lillian had gone for an early jog that morning in Central Park, then showered and slipped on a robe while she had breakfast. Now she went to the closet and selected white summer slacks and a blue linen blazer, an outfit Jonathan had particularly liked.
As always, she wore high heels. Jonathan had joked about that. Only a few weeks ago he had told her that Mariah had sarcastically asked if she wore high heels on the digs. I flared up at him and he was sorry, Lillian thought as she brushed her cheeks with blush and gave a final pat to the short dark hair that framed her face.
But it was that kind of remark that Mariah was always making that wore him down, Lillian thought as resentment and bitterness splashed over her.
The phone rang as she was ready to leave. “Lily, why don’t I come around and take you to lunch?” the voice said. “Today has to be a terrible letdown for you.”
“It is. But I was talking to Alvirah Meehan. She’s back from her trip. We’re having lunch together.”
She felt, rather than heard, the pause that followed. “I hope you don’t intend to say a word to her about certain matters.”
“I haven’t decided,” she said.
“Then don’t. Will you promise me that? Because once you do, it’s all over. You’ve got to give yourself time to think calmly and practically. You owe Jonathan nothing. And beyond that, if it comes out that he broke up with you and you may have something he wanted, you could be suspect number two after his wife.
Trust me, the wife’s lawyer could claim you went there knowing the caretaker was gone. Jonathan left the door open for you. They could say that you went in with your face covered, shot him, then put the gun in his crazy wife’s hand and got out of there. It would create doubt about his wife.”
Lillian had answered the phone on the extension in the living room. She stared at the chair where Jonathan had so often sat, thinking of the times she had curled up with him in it. She looked at the door and could again see him walking out and saying, “I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry, Lily.”
“That’s absolutely ridiculous,” she said heatedly into the receiver. “Kathleen killed Jonathan because she was jealous of me. It’s bad enough without your dreaming up that scenario. But I will tell you this. I’m not saying one word to Alvirah or anyone else right now. For my own reasons. That’s a promise.”
14
In the thirty seconds following Lisa Scott’s outburst, Simon Benet put in a call to the Mahwah police department to report the theft of her jewelry. Lloyd Scott snapped, “I’ll be back,” and rushed next door to wait with his wife for a squad car to arrive.
Mariah looked from one detective to the other. “I can’t believe the Scotts were burglarized,” she said. “I can’t believe it. Just before they went on that trip last month, Lloyd was talking about the new security system and the cameras and God knows what-all he put in and around the house.”
“Today, unfortunately, there are few systems that can’t be penetrated by experts,” Benet told her. “Was it generally known that Mrs. Scott kept a lot of valuable jewelry in her home?”
The Lost Years Page 5
