Alvirah still could not believe that it was over, that Marianne was safe. Her hands still tingled with the impact of catching the baby, of feeling that little heart fluttering beneath her fingertips.
Everything that had happened after that point was still something of a blur. She remembered snatches of things—Vonny running to her grandmother, crying that she didn’t mean to hurt the baby, that she never meant to hurt any of her babies; Maeve hanging out the window and yelling to the cops below; the cops rushing into the apartment; the crowds of people and the cameras and reporters that materialized on the street in the few minutes it took the ambulance to appear. It was a jumble of images, like a crazy, dizzying, wonderful, happy dream.
The ambulance pulled into the driveway of the hospital, and as soon as it had stopped, the doors were thrown open by waiting attendants. As hands reached in to take the baby, Maeve stood and said firmly, “There’s only one person who should hand that baby back to its mother, and that is Alvirah Meehan.”
Less than a minute later, as cameras clicked and onlookers cheered, Alvirah strode triumphantly into the lobby of Empire Hospital, holding Marianne, now snugly wrapped in the yellow bunting. Minutes later she laid her small charge in the yearning arms of a radiantly happy Joan O’Brien.
* * *
“It certainly didn’t take you long to bounce back,” Willy observed as he and Alvirah walked home arm in arm along Fifth Avenue from St. Patrick’s Cathedral. They had just attended Christmas morning Mass, which seemed especially joyous this year.
“Isn’t that the truth,” Alvirah responded, shaking her head. “Oh, Willy, I’ve never had a better Christmas. At Mass I prayed for that girl, Vonny. I know she’s sick and needs help, and she deserves to get it. But let me tell you, my throat closed at the thought of putting in a good word for that skunk who called with all those false messages. But then I decided that since the cops had tracked him down, and I know he’ll pay for what he did, I’d go ahead and mention him.”
She looked around. “Isn’t New York beautiful with the snow on the ground and the store windows all decorated? Tomorrow morning I’m going shopping again for Marianne—after, of course, I write a report on the Baby Bunting Case for the Globe. But today . . . ” Alvirah smiled. “Today I just want to savor the miracle.”
“That Marianne is okay?”
“That she’s okay because of the way everything happened. I realized she was in that apartment only because my sleeve happened to catch on the handle of the refrigerator door, and that handle happened to be loose. That’s the miracle, Willy. If that handle hadn’t been so loose, if that door hadn’t opened so easily, if I hadn’t seen that baby bottle . . . ”
Willy laughed. “Honey, be sure to mention that to Cordelia at dinner tonight. When I fixed the leak in Wanda Brown’s kitchen last month, I noticed that handle was loose and promised to come back and fix it. And only last week Cordelia was bugging me about it, asking when I was going to get back there. But then you kept me so busy shopping and carrying packages, I just never got a chance.” He paused. “I see what you mean. A miracle.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
MARY HIGGINS CLARK, born and raised in New York, is of Irish descent and constantly draws on her Irish background to create the characters in her books. “This was never more true than in the case of Alvirah and Willy,” she says.
“Alvirah and Willy had worked all their lives—she as a cleaning woman and he as a plumber. Never having had children of their own, they lavished their affection on family members, friends and the needy. A couple who lived next door when I was growing up in the Bronx were my inspiration for Alvirah and Willy,” she recalls.
“Their names were Annie and Charlie Potters. Charlie, whom Annie always referred to as ‘my Charlie,’ was a big, good-looking Irish cop. Annie had dyed red hair, a jutting jaw and a warm heart. What Annie couldn’t wear she carried, and she’d sail out bedecked from head to toe in mismatched outfits, sure she was stepping out of the pages of Vogue. Annie and Charlie were wonderful neighbors, and I hope I have caught something of their essence in Alvirah and Willy.
“Winning the lottery changed the way Alvirah and Willy lived. But it never changed Alvirah and Willy’s innate wisdom about what really matters in life.”
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MARY HIGGINS CLARK
LET ME CALL YOU
SWEETHEART
Wednesday, October 11th
Kerry smoothed down the skirt of her dark green suit, straightened the narrow gold chain on her neck and ran her fingers through her collar-length, dusky blond hair. Her entire afternoon had been a mad rush, leaving the courthouse at two-thirty, picking up Robin at school, driving from Hohokus through the heavy traffic of Routes 17 and 4, then over the George Washington Bridge to Manhattan, finally parking the car and arriving at the doctor’s office just in time for Robin’s four o’clock appointment.
Now, after all the rush, Kerry could only sit and wait to be summoned into the examining room, wishing that she’d been allowed to be with Robin while the stitches were removed. But the nurse had been adamant. “During a procedure, Dr. Smith will not permit anyone except the nurse in the room with a patient.”
“But she’s only ten!” Kerry had protested, then had closed her lips and reminded herself that she should be grateful that Dr. Smith was the one who had been called in after the accident. The nurses at St. Luke’s-Roosevelt had assured her that he was a wonderful plastic surgeon. The emergency room doctor had even called him a miracle worker.
Reflecting back on that day, a week ago, Kerry realized she still hadn’t recovered from the shock of that phone call. She’d been working late in her office at the courthouse in Hackensack, preparing for the murder case she would be prosecuting, taking advantage of the fact that Robin’s father, her ex-husband, Bob Kinellen, had unexpectedly invited Robin to see New York City’s Big Apple Circus, followed by dinner.
At six-thirty her phone had rung. It was Bob. There had been an accident. A van had rammed into his Jaguar while he was pulling out of the parking garage. Robin’s face had been cut by flying glass. She’d been rushed to St. Luke’s-Roosevelt, and a plastic surgeon had been called. Otherwise she seemed fine, although she was being examined for internal injuries.
Remembering that terrible evening, Kerry shook her head. She tried to push out of her mind the agony of the hurried drive into New York, dry sobs shaking her body, her lips forming only one word, “please,” her mind racing with the rest of the prayer, Please God, don’t let her die, she’s all I have. Please, she’s just a baby. Don’t take her from me.
With her wide blue eyes, oval face, high forehead and sculpted features, Robin was a beautiful child and the image of her father. On the way in, Robin had asked, “My face won’t be all messed up, will it, Mom?” Kerry had reassured her with a heartiness she hoped was truthful. Now, to distract herself, Kerry looked around the waiting room. It was tastefully furnished with several couches and chairs covered in a small floral print design. The lights were soft, the carpeting luxurious.
A woman who appeared to be in her early forties, wearing a bandage across her nose, was among those waiting to be called inside. Another, who looked somewhat anxious, was confiding to her attractive companion: “Now that I’m here, I’m glad you made me come. You look fabulous.”
She does, Kerry thought as she self-consciously reached into her bag for her compact. Snapping it open. she examined herself in the mirror, deciding that today she looked every minute of her thirty-six years. She was aware that many people found her attractive, but still she remained self-conscious about her looks. She brushed the powder puff over the bridge of her nose, trying to cover the spray of detested freckles, studied her eyes and decided that whenever she was tired, as she was today, their hazel color changed from green to muddy brown. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, then with a sigh close
d the compact and smoothed back the half bang that needed trimming.
Anxiously she fastened her gaze on the door that led to the examining rooms. Why was it taking so long to remove Robin’s stitches? she wondered. Could there be complications?
A moment later the door opened. Kerry looked up expectantly. Instead of Robin, however, there emerged a young woman who seemed to be in her mid-twenties, a cloud of dark hair framing the petulant beauty of her face.
I wonder if she always looked like that, Kerry mused as she studied the high cheeckbones, straight nose, exquisitely shaped pouty lips, luminous eyes, arched brows.
Perhaps sensing her gaze, the young woman looked quizzically at Kerry as she passed her.
Kerry’s throat tightened. I know you, she thought. But from where? She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. That face—I’ve seen her before.
Once the woman had left, Kerry went over to the receptionist and explained that she thought she might know the lady who just came out of the doctor’s office. Who was she?
The name Barbara Tompkins, however, meant nothing to her. She must have been mistaken. Still, when she sat down again, an overwhelming sense of déjà vu filled her mind. The effect was so chilling, she actually shivered.
Monday, October 23rd
Kerry glanced at her watch. Robin had told her that last week she had waited in the examining room for half an hour. “I wish I’d brought a book with me,” she had said. This time she’d made sure she had one.
I wish to God that Dr. Smith would set realistic appointment times, Kerry thought with irritation as she glanced in the direction of the examining rooms, the door to which was just opening.
Immediately, Kerry froze, and her glance became a stare. The young woman who emerged had a face framed by a cloud of dark hair, a straight nose, pouty lips, wideset eyes, arched brows. Kerry felt her throat constrict. It wasn’t the same woman she had seen last time but it looked like her. Could the two be related? If they were patients, surely Dr. Smith couldn’t be trying to make them look alike, she thought.
And why did that face remind her so much of someone else that it had brought on a nightmare? She shook her head, unable to come up with an answer.
Last visit she had asked the receptionist about the woman she had seen there and had been told her name was Barbara Tompkins. Now she could ask the nurse about this other woman. “That young woman who just left, she looked familiar,” Kerry said. “What is her name?”
“Pamela Worth,” Mrs. Carpenter said tersely.
* * *
That night the dream returned. Again, Kerry was standing in a doctor’s office. A young woman was lying on the floor, a cord knotted around her neck, her dark hair framing a face with wide unfocused eyes, a mouth open as though gasping for breath, the tip of a pink tongue protruding.
In her dream, Kerry tried to scream, but only a moaning protest came from her lips. A moment later Robin was shaking her awake. “Mom. Mom, wake up. What’s wrong?”
Kerry opened her eyes. “What. Oh my God, Rob, what a rotten nightmare. Thanks.”
But when Robin had returned to her room, Kerry lay awake, pondering the dream. What was triggering it? she wondered. Why was it different from the last time?
This time there had been flowers scattered over the woman’s body. Roses. Sweetheart roses.
She sat up suddenly. That was it! That was what she had been trying to remember! In Dr. Smith’s office, the woman today, and the woman a couple of weeks ago, the ones who had resembled each other so closely. She knew now why they seemed so familiar. She knew who they looked like.
Suzanne Reardon, the victim in the Sweetheart Murder Case. It had been nearly eleven years ago that she had been murdered by her husband. It had gotten a lot of press attention—a crime of passion and roses scattered over the beautiful victim.
The day I started in the prosecutor’s office was the day the jury found the husband guilty, Kerry thought. The papers had been plastered with pictures of Suzanne. I’m sure I’m right, she told herself. I sat in at the sentencing. It made such an impression on me. But why in the name of God would two of Dr. Smith’s patients be look-alikes for a murder victim?
Wednesday, October 25th
At six-thirty that evening, Geoff Dorso glanced reluctantly at the stack of messages that had come in while he was in court. Then he turned away from them. From his office windows in Newark he had a magnificent view of the New York City skyline, a sight that after a long day on a trial was still soothing.
Geoff was a city kid. Born in Manhattan and reared there till the age of eleven, at which point the family moved to New Jersey, he felt that he had one foot on either side of the Hudson, and he liked it that way.
Thirty-eight years old, Geoff was tall and lean, with a physique that did not reflect the fact that he had a sweet tooth. His jet-black hair and olive skin were evidence of his Italian ancestry. His intensely blue eyes came from his Irish-English grandmother.
Still a bachelor, Geoff looked the part. His selection of ties was hit-and-miss, and his clothes usually had a slightly rumpled look. But the stack of messages was an indication of his excellent reputation as an attorney specializing in criminal defense and of the respect he had earned in the legal community.
As he leafed through them, he pulled out the important ones and discarded the others. Suddenly he raised his eyebrows. There was a request to call Kerry McGrath. She had left two numbers, her office and her home. What’s that about? he wondered. He didn’t have any cases pending in Bergen County, her area of jurisdiction.
Over the years he had met Kerry at bar association dinners, and he knew she was up for a judgeship, but he didn’t really know her. The call intrigued him. It was too late to get her at the office. He decided he would try her now, at home.
Thursday, October 26th
Promptly at six-thirty that evening the chiming of the doorbell sent Robin racing to greet Geoff Dorso. Kerry had told her he was coming and that they would be going over a case for half an hour or so. Robin had decided to eat early and promised to finish her homework in her room while Kerry was busy. In exchange she was getting an unaccustomed weeknight hour of television.
She inspected Dorso with benevolence and ushered him into the family room. “My mother will be right down,” she announced. “I’m Robin.”
“I’m Geoff Dorso. How does the other guy look?” Geoff asked. With a smile he indicated the still-vivid marks on her face.
Robin grinned. “I flattened him. Actually it was a fender bender with some flying glass.”
“It looks as though it’s healing fine.”
“Dr. Smith, the plastic surgeon, says it is. Mom says you know him. I think he’s creepy.”
“Robin!” Kerry had just come downstairs.
“From the mouths of babes,” Dorso said, smiling. “Kerry, it’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you, Geoff.” I hope I mean it, Kerry thought as her gaze fell on the bulging briefcase under Dorso’s arm. “Robin . . . ”
“I know. Homework,” Robin agreed cheerfully. “I’m not the neatest person in the world,” she explained to Dorso. “My last report card had ‘improvement needed’ checked above ‘home assignments.’ ”
“Also, ‘uses time well’ had a check above it,” Kerry reminded her.
“That’s because when I finish an assignment in school, I forget sometimes and start to talk to one of my friends. Okay.” With a wave of her hand, Robin headed for the staircase.
Geoff Dorso smiled after her. “Nice kid, Kerry, and she’s a knockout. In another five or six years you’ll have to barricade the door.”
“A scary prospect. Geoff, coffee, a drink, a glass of wine?”
“No, thanks. I promised not to take too much of your time.” He laid his briefcase on the coffee table. “Do you want to go over this in here?”
“Sure.” She sat next to him on the couch as he took out two thick volumes of bound paper. “The trial transcript,” he said. “One t
housand pages of it. If you really want to understand what went on, I suggest you read it carefully. Frankly, from start to finish, I’m ashamed of the defense we mounted. I know Skip had to take the stand, but he wasn’t properly prepared. The state’s witnesses weren’t vigorously questioned. And we called only two character witnesses for Skip when we should have called twenty.”
“Why was it handled that way?” Kerry asked.
“I was the most junior counsel, having just been hired by Farrell and Strauss. Farrell had been a good defense lawyer once upon a time, no doubt about that. But when Skip Reardon hired him, he was well past his prime and pretty much burned out. He just wasn’t interested in another murder case. I really think Skip would have been better off with a much less experienced attorney who had some fire in his gut.”
“Couldn’t you have filled the gap?”
“No, not really. I was just out of law school and didn’t have much to say about anything. I had very little participation in the trial at all. I was basically Farrell’s gofer. As inexperienced as I was, though, it was obvious to me that the trial was handled badly.”
“And Frank Green tore him apart on cross-examination.”
“As you read, he got Skip to admit that he and Suzanne had quarreled that morning, that he’d spoken to his accountant to find out what a divorce would cost, that he’d gone back to the house at six and again quarreled with Suzanne. The coroner estimated time of death to be between six and eight o’clock, so Skip could, by his own testimony, be placed at the scene of the crime at the possible time of the murder.”
“From the account I read, Skip Reardon claimed he went back to his office, had a couple of drinks and fell asleep. That’s pretty thin,” Kerry commented.
“It’s thin but it’s true. Skip had established a very successful business, mostly building quality homes, although recently he had expanded into shopping malls. Most of his time was spent in the office, taking care of the business end, but he loved to put on work clothes and spend the day with a crew. That’s what he’d done that day, before going back to work at the office. The guy was tired.”
The Lottery Winner Page 23
