35
The first thing Mariah did on Tuesday morning was call the hospital. The nurse at the desk of the psychiatric unit was reassuring. “Your mother was mildly sedated last night and slept quite well. She ate a little breakfast this morning and seems to be very calm.”
“Is she asking for me or my father?”
“The notes on her chart indicate that last night she woke up several times and seemed to be carrying on a conversation with your father. She apparently thought that they were in Venice together. This morning she has been repeating the name ‘Rory.’” The nurse seemed to hesitate, then asked, “Is she a relative or a caregiver?”
“A caregiver,” Mariah answered, sensing that the nurse was holding something back. “Is there anything you’re not telling me?” she asked bluntly.
“Oh, no. Of course not.”
Maybe, maybe not, Mariah thought. Then, knowing that if she requested a visit with her mother before the next court hearing she would receive an automatic refusal, she asked, “Does my mother seem frightened? Sometimes she wants to hide in a closet when she’s home.”
“She is, of course, confused, but I would not say that she appears frightened.”
Mariah had to be content with that.
She spent the rest of the morning on the computer in the study, thankful that so many of her accounts could be handled from home. Then she went upstairs to her father’s bedroom and spent several hours removing his clothing from the closets and drawers and placing them, neatly folded, in boxes, to be given to a charitable distribution center.
Her eyes stinging with unshed tears, she remembered how her mother had not been able to bring herself to empty her grandmother’s closet for nearly a year after her death. It doesn’t make sense, Mariah thought. There are so many people who need clothes. Dad would want every stitch of his that could be passed on to be given away immediately.
She did keep the Irish cable-knit sweater coat that had been her Christmas present to him seven years ago. Once the cold weather arrived, it was his favorite at-home apparel. The first thing he did when he returned from the university was hang up his suit jacket, pull off his tie, and put on that sweater. He used to call it his second skin.
In his bathroom, she opened the door of the medicine cabinet and discarded the high-blood-pressure pills and the vitamins and fish oil he had taken religiously every morning. She was surprised to see a half-empty bottle of Tylenol for arthritis. He never told me he had arthritis, she thought.
It was another fresh and hurtful reminder of their estrangement.
She also decided to keep his aftershave lotion. When she unscrewed the cap and sniffed the subtle but familiar scent, it was momentarily as though he was in the room with her. “Dad,” she pleaded softly, “help me to know what to do.”
Then she wondered if an answer had come to her. Tonight for dinner, she should also invite Father Aiden and Alvirah and Willy Meehan. It was Father Aiden to whom her father had confided that he was sure the parchment was the one stolen from the Vatican Library and that one of the experts he had shown it to was interested only in its monetary value. It was Alvirah to whom Lillian had admitted that she had not seen or spoken to her father in the five days prior to his death. In a happy coincidence, Alvirah and Willie had known Father Aiden long before they met Mariah.
Mariah went downstairs and made the calls to invite them. “Sorry for the last-minute notice, Alvirah,” she said apologetically, “but you’re a good judge of people. I cannot believe that Dad did not show that parchment to at least one or two of his dinner group. You’ve already met them at least half a dozen times. I want to bring it up tonight and see what their reactions are. I want to get your take on what happens. And certainly if Father Aiden is willing to repeat tonight what Dad told him, it would be hard for any of them to try to suggest Dad was mistaken about the authenticity of the parchment. God forgive me, and I hope I’m wrong, but I’m beginning to think that Charles Michaelson might be involved in some way. Don’t forget that he and Lily used to come to dinner together and were pretty cozy. And I distinctly remember that one time Dad mentioned Charles had had some kind of legal or ethical situation that I gather had been a real problem.”
“I’d love to be there,” Alvirah said heartily. “And let me make it easy for you. I’ll phone Father Aiden and if he can come, we’ll pick him up. I’ll call back in five minutes. By the way, what time do you want us?”
“Six thirty would be perfect.”
Four minutes later, the phone rang. “Aiden can make it. See you tonight.”
In the late afternoon Mariah went for a long walk, trying to clear her head, trying to prepare herself for what might come out of tonight.
The four most likely people to have been shown that parchment will be at my father’s table, she thought. Charles and Albert have already asked me if I found it. The other night at dinner, Greg said that Dad talked about it but had not shown it to him. Richard has never even mentioned it to me.
Well, tonight, one way or the other, we are all going to talk about it.
Mariah picked up her pace, walking swiftly, trying to get the stiffness out of her limbs. The light breeze was becoming stronger. She had pinned her hair loosely into a bun but now she felt it slipping down around her shoulders. With a half smile she remembered how her father had told her that with her long black hair she reminded him of Bess, the landlord’s daughter from the poem “The Highwayman.”
When she got back to the house, Betty told her no one had called while she had been out. The first thing she did was to phone the hospital and receive virtually the same report as in the morning. Her mother was basically calm and not asking for her.
It was time to get dressed. The drop in temperature made a long-sleeved white silk blouse and black silk wide-bottomed pants feel like a good choice to wear at dinner. On impulse, she left her hair loose, again remembering her father’s reference to Bess, the landlord’s daughter.
Greg was the first to arrive. As she opened the door to let him in, he immediately embraced her. When he had dropped her off on Saturday night, his kiss on her lips had been brief and tentative. Now he held her tightly and stroked her hair. “Mariah, have you any idea how much I care about you?”
When Mariah pulled back, he immediately let her go. She gently put her hands on his face. “Greg, that means so much to me. It’s just that, well—you know everything that’s going on. Dad was murdered only eight days ago. My mother is locked up in a psychiatric hospital. I’m their only child. At least until this nightmare with the charges against my mother is resolved, I just can’t think about my own life.”
“And you shouldn’t,” he said crisply. “I completely understand. But you have got to realize that if there is anything you need, at any hour of the day or night, I will see you get it right away.” Greg paused, almost as if he needed to catch his breath. “Mariah, I’ll say it once and then I won’t bring it up again while you’re going through all of this. I love you and I always want to take care of you. But first I want to help you. If the psychiatrists who are evaluating your mother in the hospital don’t do the right thing, I’ll hire the best experts in the country. I know that the doctors I’d get would conclude that she has advanced Alzheimer’s, is not capable of standing trial, and that with proper supervision she is no danger to anyone and should be at home.”
As usual Albert and Charles had driven out together in Charles’s car. As Greg finished speaking, the two were ringing the doorbell.
Mariah was profoundly grateful for the interruption. She had always known that Greg cared for her, but now she fully realized the intensity of his feelings. As much as she truly did appreciate his offer of help, his ardor added yet another layer of stress that both upset and smothered her. In the past few days, she had begun to understand subconsciously that for the past several years the terrible worry about her mother’s deepening dementia and then the distress over her father’s involvement with Lillian had wrung her emotionally dry.
I am twenty-eight years old, she thought. Since I was twenty-two, I have been heartsick over Mom, then for the past year and a half I have been basically estranged from the father I adored. I so wish I had a brother or a sister to share this with, but I do know one thing. I’ve got to get Mom home and comfortable and in the hands of a good caregiver. Then I need to have time to figure out my own life.
These thoughts were flooding her mind as she greeted Albert and Charles. She immediately sensed that there was tension between them. Charles was wearing his usual frown, only now it was more like a scowl. Albert, normally quite easygoing, seemed troubled. Quickly Mariah ushered them and Greg into the living room, where Betty had laid out a platter of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres. In the past, it had been their custom to have a cocktail in her father’s study before dinner. Mariah sensed that they understood why they wouldn’t be in that room tonight.
A few minutes later the bell rang again. This time it was Alvirah and Willy and Father Aiden. “I’m so glad you could all make it,” Mariah said as she embraced each one of them. “Come on in. Everyone except Richard is here.”
A little while later as they were all chatting, Mariah realized that the always punctual Richard was nearly half an hour late. “He’s probably caught in traffic,” she commented to the others. “As we all know, you can normally set your watch by Richard.”
The thought crossed her mind that Richard had told her that he had just made a major decision. She wondered if he would tell her what it was tonight. She was also having a mixed reaction to the fact that Greg was taking over the role of host. It was he who offered to everyone the plate with the delicate sushi that Betty had prepared, and it was he who refilled glasses with the fine Merlot her father had enjoyed so much.
Then the chimes on the front door sounded again. Betty opened the door, and a moment later Richard stepped into the hallway and came directly to the living room. He was smiling. “Apologies, apologies,” he said. “I had a meeting that ran over. It’s so good to be with all of you.” He was looking at Mariah as he said it.
“Richard, what can I get you?” Greg asked.
“Don’t worry, Greg,” he replied as he started walking toward the bar, “I’ll get it myself.”
A few moments later, Betty stood in the doorway and signaled to Mariah that dinner was ready.
Mariah had already decided that she would not bring up the subject of the parchment until they were having dessert. She wanted to create an atmosphere of warmth and closeness and had told a couple of them that this gathering would be a sort of tribute to her father. But she also wanted to loosen them up to the point where, no doubt with Alvirah’s help, she would get some sense of who knew what about the parchment.
By the time that Betty was clearing the dinner plates from the table the anecdotes about her father had evoked both humor and nostalgia. Mariah did notice that Alvirah had switched on the microphone in her diamond pin when Albert talked about how much Jonathan enjoyed roughing it at excavation sites but despised the idea of camping for the sake of camping. “He asked me what in the name of God I could find pleasurable in sleeping in a pup tent with the possibility of bears visiting in the middle of the night. I told him that since I discovered the Ramapo Mountains, I could enjoy camping and keep an eye on him at the same time.”
That was when Alvirah’s hand brushed against the pin on her shoulder, but Albert did not say anything more about keeping an eye on Jonathan.
Usually after dessert they had coffee or espresso in the living room. This time Mariah had asked Betty to serve it at the table. She did not want the group separated when she brought up the subject of the parchment.
It was Greg who unwittingly gave her the opportunity to bring it up in a way that seemed spontaneous. “I was in awe of Jonathan’s ability to read an ancient inscription and translate it, or see a piece of pottery and tell where it came from and how old it was,” he said.
“That’s exactly why the missing parchment my father told all of you about must be found,” Mariah said. “Father Aiden, Dad talked to you about it. From what I understand, he mentioned it to Albert and Charles and Greg. Richard, did he ever show it to you or tell you about it?”
“He left word on my answering machine that he couldn’t wait to tell me about his incredible find, but I never did see it.”
“When did all of you receive those calls?” Alvirah asked, her tone casual.
“The week before last,” Greg replied promptly.
“About two weeks ago,” Charles said musingly.
“Two weeks ago yesterday,” Albert said firmly.
“That would be the same day he left the message on my phone,” Richard volunteered.
“However, he told none of you what it was and didn’t show it to any one of you?” Mariah deliberately allowed the skepticism she felt to be heard in her tone.
“He left word on my machine at home that he thought he had found the Arimathea parchment,” Albert said. “I was on a hiking trip in the Adirondacks and only got back the morning after his death. By then of course I had seen the headlines.”
“The parchment was not in this house,” Mariah said. “I think you all should hear what Dad told Father Aiden.”
Before Father Aiden could speak, Charles Michaelson suggested, “Of course Jonathan may have jumped to the conclusion that it was the Arimathea letter, then after he made those calls realized he had made a mistake and never got around to calling any one of us back. We all know no expert ever wants to admit that he was wrong.”
The priest had been quietly observing the others at the table. “Charles, you and Albert and Richard are biblical scholars. Greg, I know you have a deep interest in the study of ancient ruins and artifacts,” he began. “Jonathan came to see me the Wednesday before he died. He was absolutely clear on the subject. He had found the Vatican letter, or the Arimathea parchment, as it is known.” He glanced at Alvirah and Willy. “As I explained in the car on the way over, this letter is believed to have been written by Christ shortly before His death. In it He thanked Joseph of Arimathea for all the kindness he had extended to Him since He was a child. It was brought to Rome by Saint Peter and has always been a subject of debate.
“Some scholars believe that Joseph of Arimathea was at the temple in Jerusalem during Passover when the twelve-year-old Christ spent three days preaching there. Joseph was there when His parents came looking for Him and asked Him why He had not come home. Joseph heard him ask, ‘Did you not know that I must be about my Father’s business?’ At that moment Joseph came to believe that Jesus was the long-awaited Messiah.”
Father Aiden paused, then continued. “Later that year Joseph heard from his spies that King Herod’s son Archelaus now knew Jesus had been born in Bethlehem and might be the King of the Jews whom the Wise Men had been seeking. Archelaus was afraid of His power and was planning to have Him murdered.
“Joseph hurried to Nazareth and persuaded Mary and Joseph to allow him to take Jesus over the border to Egypt, where He would be safe. Jesus studied at the temple of Leontopolis for a period of time, then afterward went back and forth from His home in Nazareth to Leontopolis for further study until His public mission began. The presence of Coptic Christians in this area of Egypt supports that theory of course.”
Father Aiden’s voice became emphatic. “That parchment belongs in the Vatican Library. It was stolen from there over five hundred years ago. Recent scientific tests have suggested that the Shroud of Turin is indeed the burial robe of Christ. Similar tests may prove that this parchment is authentic beyond any doubt. Think of it: a letter written by Christ to one of His disciples! Even now it is priceless beyond imagination. If Jonathan did not show it to any of you who were his closest friends, and also experts in this field, and whose opinions he could trust, then surely you must be able to think of some other expert or experts he might have consulted.”
Before anyone could answer, the persistent ringing of the doorbell chimes startled everyone. Mariah jum
ped up and hurried to answer it. When she threw open the door, Detectives Benet and Rodriguez were standing on the porch. Her heart pounding, she invited them in. “Is my mother all right?” she demanded, her voice rising.
The others had followed her from the dining room. “Is Rory Steiger here, Ms. Lyons?” Benet asked tersely.
Relieved, Mariah knew their presence had nothing to do with her mother but then realized that Benet could have phoned and asked her that question. He did not have to come here.
“No, there’s no need for Rory to be here when my mother’s in the hospital,” she said. “Why do you ask?”
“We called on Ms. Steiger today and she wasn’t home. When we got there we were told by Rory’s next-door neighbors that Rose Newton, a friend she was supposed to meet last night, had already rung their doorbell this morning. She was worried because they were going to have a special celebration dinner, but Rory hadn’t shown up. She didn’t answer her cell phone. At our request, the superintendent of the building checked the apartment while we were there. There was nothing out of order as far as they could tell. Ms. Newton had left her telephone number with the neighbor and the neighbor gave it to us. We contacted her. She still hasn’t heard from Rory. She’s very upset and believes that something is very wrong.”
You didn’t phone me because you wanted to see my reaction when you told me Rory was missing, Mariah thought. “I would agree,” she said slowly. “If Rory was even fifteen minutes late coming here because she was caught in traffic, she’d phone to say she was on her way and she’d be terribly apologetic about the delay.”
“That’s what we understand,” Benet commented, then looked around at the others who were standing in the foyer.
Mariah turned and introduced them. “I know you’ve met Father Aiden, Detective Benet.” She gestured toward Richard, Albert, Charles, and Greg, who were standing in a semicircle “My father’s friends and colleagues,” she said.
The Lost Years Page 13
