As Time Goes By

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “Love it. We can watch the passing parade.”

  As they walked across Columbus Circle, he asked, “How did it go in court?”

  “I don’t think it went well at all for Betsy Grant. The guy she had been dating was on the stand and the prosecutor got him to admit that he was in love with her and planned to ask her to marry him.”

  Jon whistled. “Not good.”

  “No, it isn’t. And as I just said on air, I was amazed that the defense attorney didn’t ask him any questions. I know he may not have wanted to belabor the fact that Peter Benson had been a serious boyfriend in the past, but I could tell that the jury was expecting something more from him. I’ve said from the beginning that Robert Maynard is not worth his Park Avenue fees.”

  They walked in silence down Central Park South until they reached the restaurant Jon had selected.

  When they were settled with glasses of wine in front of them, Delaney said, “Jon, I’m a reporter and I know I’m supposed to be objective, but I am convinced in my heart and soul that Betsy Grant is innocent. In my head I can’t picture her murdering anyone, never mind a husband who everyone agrees she treated with tenderness.”

  “Delaney, I’d like to agree with you that it seems illogical, but on the other hand the courts have been filled with people who wouldn’t dream of committing an act of violence being driven to the point when they snap.”

  “I know it,” Delaney acknowledged, “but, Jon, from his pictures Ted Grant was a pretty big man, not fat but certainly big. While he was asleep, did Betsy pull him to a sitting position and hit him in precisely the spot where his skull would be fractured and there wouldn’t be any blood?”

  “Does she have any medical knowledge, as far as you know?”

  “Nothing that has come out, but from what I understand his library was filled with medical books,” Delaney admitted.

  Jon did not press the point any further. “Let it unfold, Delaney,” he said.

  Delaney realized there was no point in more speculating. On the other hand her mind and heart were filled with the tormented expression on Betsy Grant’s face when she had listened to the funeral director describe the blow that killed her husband.

  She forced a smile. “Jon, catch me up on your investigation.”

  “Very interesting. Let’s look at the menu first. I only had a pretzel from a street vendor for lunch and I’m hungry.”

  “I had a cold grilled cheese sandwich at the courthouse cafeteria for lunch. Let me correct that. The sandwich was fine, but I was so busy trying to eavesdrop again on the people sitting around me that I forgot about it.”

  “What kind of reactions did you hear?”

  “Pretty much the same as last week. ‘You can understand why she did that, but on the other hand how could anyone crush that poor sick man’s skull? You just can’t get away with something like that no matter how stressed you are.’ ” Delaney sighed. “Okay, now let’s look at the menu.”

  They both decided on salmon and a salad.

  “A guy I dated last year hated salmon,” Delaney observed. “He insisted on telling me that it was a very heavy fish and probably filled with mercury.”

  “A lady I dated last year ate only salads. Then one night she started lecturing me on why I should never eat red meat. Just for spite, I ordered a hamburger.”

  They exchanged a smile. Jon reached across the table and took Delaney’s hand. “So far we seem to agree on a lot of very important subjects.”

  “Like the menu.”

  The waiter took their orders, then Jon said, “You were asking about my investigation. I got a real break when Lucas Harwin, the director whose son overdosed last week, called me. I met with him and he gave me Steven’s E-ZPass statements, which showed two trips to New Jersey in the three weeks before he died and three trips in the three weeks before he relapsed almost two years ago. There were two credit card charges at the same restaurant in Fort Lee, New Jersey, and both times unusually large cash withdrawals from his bank account just before the Jersey visits. Lucas said that Steven had told his counselor that he got his drugs from a doctor.”

  “What are you going to do with that?”

  “I’m getting a list of all the doctors in Fort Lee with a ring around the ones closest to the diner.”

  “Any interesting names on it?”

  “Yes—This is strictly between us. Included on it are the offices of Dr. Grant’s former partners, Dr. Kent Adams and Dr. Scott Clifton. And they’re both within walking distance of the diner.”

  Delaney ignored the fact that the waiter was placing dishes in front of them. “What is the next step?”

  “Continue the investigation, of course. Check the backgrounds of the doctors in that area. See if I can find out if any of them have been writing an unusually high number of prescriptions for opioid drugs.”

  “Jon, we’re both investigators, although in a different way. Is it only a coincidence that Doctors Clifton and Adams are in the same area you’re investigating?”

  “Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.” Jon smiled. “Eat your salmon. Don’t let it get cold like your grilled cheese sandwich.”

  34

  It was not too difficult for Alvirah to locate Leslie Fallowfield. A disbarred lawyer, he had served ten years in prison for buying and selling newly born infants. His most recent address was a post office box in Rowayton, Connecticut.

  “We’re getting close, Willy,” Alvirah said exultantly when Willy managed to dig up the information. “And wasn’t he the one? He must have been in on Cora Banks’ terrible racket.”

  “There’s no question. They’re both the lowest of the low,” Willy agreed. “But it won’t be easy to find the guy if he just has a PO box. For all you know, he may keep his mailing address there but be living in California.”

  “One step at a time,” Alvirah said confidently. “If we were lucky enough to have Sam spot us the other day when we were in Philadelphia, we’re going to be lucky enough to track this guy down. We’ll head for Connecticut tomorrow.”

  This time Willy had no problem agreeing. The Mets and the Phillies had identical records and were heading for a season-ending three-game series. It was an off day for them. Otherwise he would have been forced to put his foot down and say, “No way.”

  The September weather continued to vary, one day warm as it had been yesterday, and now again turning chilly. But as Alvirah said, “God made four seasons for a reason, so don’t complain that it’s too hot in August and then complain again when the temperature starts to drop.”

  When they were on their way, Alvirah was silent for nearly half an hour, which, as Willy knew, was highly unlike her.

  “Honey, anything wrong?” he asked her anxiously.

  “What? Oh, no. I’m fine. It’s just that I have my thinking cap on. We know that Delaney’s adoptive parents must have paid money for her, maybe a lot of money. But I bet even if we’re lucky enough to find Cora through Leslie Fallowfield, do you think she bothered to keep records of the people who sold babies and the people who bought them? I mean, apparently she was doing it for years. The neighbors in Philadelphia said that pregnant girls were going into her house at least every few days. And Delaney is twenty-six years old. Even if we find Cora, she may just tell us she has no idea of the real names of either set of parents, that they were always called ‘the Smiths and the Joneses.’ In that case, we’ll really be at the end of the line.”

  “Alvirah, honey, it’s not like you to look forward to being disappointed.”

  “Well, I’m not exactly looking forward to it, but naturally it’s a worry.” Alvirah sighed, then looked around as they turned off at exit thirteen from Route 95 North. “Oh, Willy, didn’t I always say that Connecticut is the most beautiful state? I know we only get to see a little of it when we’re driving up to the Cape, but remember when my Thursday job, Mrs. Daniels, moved to Darien when her husband got the great new job, and I came up for a few days to help her get settled? I got to see
it then.”

  “Oh, of course.” As he answered, Willy searched in his mind for that occurrence and when it was. He had spent those few days fixing the plumbing for the nursing home run by his sibling Sister Pauline.

  Willy also remembered that it was one of the few occasions in their married life that he and Alvirah had been apart for a few days, and he hadn’t liked it. Now he told Alvirah that.

  “I agree,” she said. “And with all the work I did, Mrs. Daniels only paid me to the penny, not a red cent extra for all the heavy lifting I did for her. You know I don’t like to brag, but she was one of the first I called to tell we won forty million dollars in the lottery.”

  “I remember that.”

  “I could hear her teeth grinding when she said, ‘How wonderful.’ It made me feel so good. Oh, here’s the sign for Rowayton.”

  Ten minutes later they were in the post office talking to one of the postal clerks who introduced himself as George Spahn. A small man with sparse hair, he had a nasal condition which caused him to clear his throat frequently.

  “Sure, sometimes we get to know the people who have boxes,” he said. “Most of them come in once a week for their mail. The others, who may travel a fair amount, like to have a box so the mail won’t pile up on the stoop and alert any crooks that the house is unoccupied.”

  “Very sensible,” Alvirah said encouragingly. “Now, how about Leslie Fallowfield?”

  “That’s not the kind of name you forget,” the clerk said and smiled. “Oh, sure I know him. A very quiet gentleman, but very pleasant. He comes in once a week like clockwork.”

  Alvirah tried to keep sounding casual. “Oh, then he lives nearby?”

  George Spahn suddenly looked concerned. “Hey, why are you asking me so much about Mr. Fallowfield?”

  “Only because a very dear friend of mine is looking to find her birth mother. Mr. Fallowfield is the lawyer who arranged the adoption. He’s her last hope of getting the information she needs.”

  Spahn studied Avirah’s face and seemed satisfied by what he saw. “I can understand that. But it may be better if I check with him and get back to you.”

  He’ll never want to see us, Alvirah thought despairingly.

  Willy stepped in. “My wife has worn herself out getting this far. If we meet Mr. Fallowfield, one of two things will happen. Either he will be able to provide the name of the birth mother or he won’t. How would you feel if you had been adopted and had this need to learn your roots? Haven’t you ever been curious about your family tree?”

  “I’ve spent time on Ancestry.com,” Spahn announced with pride. “My great-great-grandfather was a Civil War veteran.”

  “Then understand why a twenty-six-year-old woman needs to know who her parents are.”

  There was a long silence. Then Spahn looked at them and away from them. “Tell you what,” he said. “Mr. Fallowfield comes in every Wednesday at one o’clock on the dot. Why don’t you be here at that time? I’ll give him a big ‘good afternoon, Mr. Fallowfield,’ and you can take over from there. But keep me out of it.”

  “That’s very fair,” Alvirah said enthusiastically. “Willy, isn’t that wonderful?”

  “Absolutely,” Willy confirmed as with a sinking heart he realized that the Mets were scheduled to start at precisely that time.

  35

  Despite Scott’s feeble attempts to act attentive and loving, Lisa knew that it was a useless effort to try to save their marriage. Or excuse for a marriage, she corrected herself.

  She knew the reasons, or at least some of them. Ted Grant’s death had had a profound effect on Scott. The thought that Betsy Grant could have dealt such a vicious blow to a helpless man seemed to have impacted him to the core. His dreams about Ted, when he would mutter his name in his sleep, were occurring regularly.

  His habit of waking up after those dreams and going downstairs to watch television, or so he said, was increasing.

  Lisa knew that the financial pressure on him was mounting. It had been bad enough that Ted had been blasted with early Alzheimer’s, but then a few years before she married Scott, he and Kent had ended their partnership. From what she gathered, it was Adams who opted out, and the majority of the patients had left with him.

  And of course Scott had three kids in college. The twin boys had just started their senior year at University of Michigan and the daughter was a junior at Amherst.

  The tuition was a heavy burden, but the end was in sight. Certainly when Scott was courting her he had seemed pretty comfortable.

  But there was one factor that was clearly evident. No matter his protests, there was no doubt in her mind that Scott was having an affair. Too often after dinner he claimed he had to check on a patient.

  One time when she called the hospital to speak to him, she was told Dr. Clifton currently had no patients at the hospital.

  Lisa had left a very good job in J&J Pharmaceuticals when she married Scott. Now realizing she had to think about her future, she called her former boss Susan Smith. She went straight to the point: “Susan, by any chance do you have a job open for me?”

  “For you, of course I do. Your timing is perfect, but the opening I have will involve a lot of traveling every week.”

  “The travel part won’t be a problem.”

  “How will Scott feel about that?”

  “It’s not going to matter very much. The marriage was a mistake and it’s absolutely pointless to pretend it was anything other than that. I’m making an appointment with a divorce lawyer and filing immediately.”

  “I’m so sorry. You seemed so happy.”

  “ ‘Seemed’ is the best word. It was so obvious almost from the beginning that Scott had a rush of emotion for me that wore out pretty quick.”

  There was a long silence, and then Susan said, “If you’re that definite about it, then I have a suggestion to make. How much of your personal stuff is in the house?”

  “Besides my jewelry, quite a lot. Some paintings that my grandfather collected that I know have gone up considerably in value. He and my grandmother were antique buffs. I have two Persian carpets, boxes of china and silver, a seventeenth-century desk, tables and lamps and some original Shaker chairs that she bought.

  “Scott bought his first wife out of the house and she left most of the original furniture here. For the last three years I’ve felt I’ve been living in another woman’s house. He told me that we’d buy a different house and put this one on the market, but it never happened. I didn’t want to mix my things in with the leftovers of the first Mrs. Clifton.”

  “Well, take a piece of advice. Before you breathe a word to Scott about your plans, get everything you have out and put it in storage. Remember the old expression, ‘possession is nine-tenths of the law.’ That house is in his name. You could go home one day to find he had the locks changed and it will be a long road to getting your stuff back.”

  “Oh, God, I hadn’t thought of that. In the next few days, I’ll drive down and see if I can find an apartment or condo near Morristown again.”

  When Lisa ended the call, she felt deflated and sad. She had so hoped that her marriage to Scott was going to be a happily-ever-after. He had been so ardent, so anxious to marry her. That emotion had been over in a year.

  She knew it wasn’t her fault. She had sympathy with him about his failing practice, put up with his restless sleeping habits and tried to be patient with the fact that he constantly demeaned her in public.

  My self-esteem at the moment is zero minus, she thought. Thirty-seven years old and about to be divorced. She knew that any feeling she had for Scott had been destroyed by his attitude, and maybe there was a third Mrs. Clifton waiting in the wings.

  Good luck to her, Lisa thought, as she got up from the chair where she had made the call to Susan. She was in the living room of the Ridgewood house. It was a large, pleasant room, but she was not into its stark monotone décor. Scott had said that his wife had redecorated the living room and dining room before she le
ft. I bet the only reason she left the new stuff, Lisa thought, was because she realized it lacks any warmth. It would fit better in the waiting room at his office.

  At the Ridgewood Country Club she had met a divorce lawyer and his wife. Even though Paul Stephenson and Scott were fellow members, she hoped he would take her case. The “prenup” was a simple one: “What’s yours is yours; what’s mine is mine.” She would not ask for or need alimony. Just get the paperwork done. She’d make the call later.

  But now she felt a sudden urge to look at the beautiful desk, tables, lamps and paintings she had grown up with.

  Feeling slightly better, she took the first step up the stairs to the attic.

  36

  At twelve thirty Alvirah and Willy were in the post office in Rowayton, Connecticut. Alvirah was so anxious not to miss Leslie Fallowfield that she insisted on arriving half an hour earlier than George Spahn had told them the usual time was for him to pick up his mail.

  A worried-looking Spahn greeted them with barely a nod, and they busied themselves putting stamps on empty envelopes for bills that would not need to be paid for three weeks.

  Of course all of those bills could have been paid by automatic deductions from one of their bank accounts, but Alvirah was having none of it. “Nobody takes money from our accounts except two people, Willy. One of them is you; the other is me.”

  As one o’clock approached she kept glancing at the clock. “Oh Willy, suppose he doesn’t show up?” she sighed.

  “He will,” Willy replied encouragingly. And then on the stroke of one the door of the post office opened and a skinny man in his late sixties, with thinning hair, came in.

  Alvirah did not need Spahn’s hearty “Hello, Mr. Fallowfield” to know that the man she desperately wanted to meet had arrived. As she approached him, the thought crossed her mind that she should have let Willy stay in the car in case Fallowfield brushed her off and drove away.