The Lost Years Page 3

  4

  The rest of the day passed for Mariah in the merciful and predictable pattern of funerals. Now poised and beyond tears, Mariah listened attentively as her family’s longtime friend Father Aiden O’Brien, a friar from Saint Francis of Assisi in Manhattan, celebrated the Mass, eulogized her father, and conducted the graveside prayers at nearby Maryrest Cemetery. After that they went to the Ridgewood Country Club, where a luncheon had been laid out for those who had attended the Mass and funeral.

  There were over two hundred people there. The mood was somber, but a Bloody Mary or two cheered everyone up and the atmosphere took on a more festive note. Mariah was glad because the stories she was hearing from people were about what a great guy her father was. Brilliant. Witty. Handsome. Charming. Yes, yes, she thought.

  It was when the luncheon was over and Rory had started home with her mother that Father Aiden pulled her aside. His tone low, even though there was no one near them, he asked, “Mariah, did your father confide in you that he had a premonition he was going to die?”

  The look on her face was obviously answer enough for him. “Your dad came to see me last Wednesday. He told me he had that premonition. I invited him into the friary for coffee. Then he shared a secret with me. As you may know, he has been translating some ancient parchments that were found in a hidden safe in a church that has been closed for years and is about to be torn down.”

  “Yes, I knew that. He mentioned something about their being remarkably well preserved.”

  “There is one that is of extraordinary value if your father was right. More than just value in terms of money,” he added.

  Shocked, Mariah stared at the seventy-eight-year-old priest. At Mass she had noticed that his arthritis was causing him to limp badly. Now his thick white hair accentuated the deep creases in his forehead. It was impossible to miss the concern in his voice.

  “Did he tell you what was in the manuscript?” she asked.

  Father Aiden looked around. Most people were standing up and saying their good-byes to their friends. It was obvious that they’d be making their way to Mariah to offer their final condolences, accompanied by a squeeze of the hand and the inevitable words, “Be sure to call us if you need anything.”

  “Mariah,” he asked, his tone urgent. “Did your father ever talk about a letter it is believed that Christ wrote to Joseph of Arimathea?”

  “Yes, a number of times over the years. He told me it had been in the Vatican Library, but little was known of it because several Popes, including Sixtus IV, refused to believe it was genuine. It was stolen during his reign in the fifteenth century, supposedly by someone who believed Pope Sixtus was planning to burn it.” Astonished, she asked, “Father Aiden, are you telling me that my father thought he had found that letter?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Then he must have had his findings verified by at least one other expert whose opinion is beyond reproach.”

  “He told me that he did exactly that.”

  “Did he name the person who saw it?”

  “No. But there must have been several, because he said he regretted his choice of one of them. He intended of course to return the parchment to the Vatican Library, but that person told him they could get an enormous amount of money for it from a private collector.”

  In the pre-Lily days, I would have been the first one Dad told about his find, Mariah thought, and he would have told me who else he was going to share it with. A fresh wave of bitterness and regret washed over her as she looked from table to table. Many of the people here were my father’s colleagues, she thought. Dad might have consulted a couple of them, like Charles and Albert, about an ancient parchment like that. If, pray God, Mom isn’t responsible, is it possible that his death was something other than a random burglary gone wrong? Is someone in this very room the person who took his life?

  Before she could voice that thought to Father Aiden, she saw her mother rushing back into the room, Rory a step behind her. Her mother headed straight to where Mariah and Father Aiden were sitting. “She won’t leave without you!” Rory explained, her tone annoyed and impatient.

  Kathleen Lyons smiled vacantly at Father Aiden. “Did you hear all that noise?” she asked him. “And see all that blood?”

  Then she added, “The woman in the pictures with Jonathan was standing next to him today. Her name is Lily. Why did she come? Wasn’t going to Venice with him enough for her?”

  5

  Alvirah and Willy Meehan were on their annual trip on board the Queen Mary 2 when they heard that their good friend Professor Jonathan Lyons was shot to death. Shocked beyond words to express how terrible she felt, her voice shaking, Alvirah conveyed the news to Willy. But she realized that apart from leaving a message of condolence on an answering machine, they could do nothing else at this time. They would not be getting home until the day of the funeral.

  The ship had just sailed from Southampton and the only way to get off would be by medical helicopter. Besides, Alvirah was a guest lecturer who was booked as a celebrity author to tell stories about lottery winners she knew and how some of them had lost every nickel in harebrained schemes. She talked about people who had worked two jobs most of their lives, won millions, then were conned into buying white elephant hotels or chains of knickknack stores that couldn’t pay the rent selling cutesy items like cocktail napkins, sparkling key rings, and embroidered pillows.

  She always explained that she had been a cleaning woman and Willy a plumber when they won forty million dollars in the lottery. They had elected to take the money in annual payments for twenty years. Every year they paid their taxes first and lived on half of what was left. The rest they invested wisely.

  The passengers loved Alvirah’s stories and snapped up copies of her bestselling book, From Pots to Plots. And though Alvirah was truly heartsick about Jonathan’s death, being a trouper she did not show it. Even when people animatedly discussed theories of why the prominent scholar might have been murdered, neither she nor Willy ever mentioned that they had known Professor Lyons well.

  Actually they had met Jonathan when Alvirah was lecturing on a cruise from Venice to Istanbul, two years ago. She and Professor Lyons had attended each other’s lectures, and she had been so fascinated by his spellbinding tales of ancient Egypt, Greece, and Israel that, in her usual forthcoming way, she had invited him to have dinner with them. The professor accepted readily, but then added that he was traveling with his companion so it would be a foursome.

  And that’s when we met Lily, was the refrain that ran through Alvirah’s head during the days of the crossing. I really liked her. She’s smart, attractive in that way that lets you know she was always attractive; as a six-year-old I bet she knew what looked good on her. She’s as passionate about archaeology as Professor Jon was and has just as many degrees. She doesn’t have any airs about her, and no two ways about it, she was madly in love with Jonathan Lyons even though she’s a lot younger.

  Alvirah, of course, had Googled Professor Jonathan Lyons and knew he was married and had a daughter named Mariah. “But, Willy, I guess he and his wife grew apart,” Alvirah had said to her husband. “It happens, you know. And sometimes, they stick it out together.”

  Willy had his own system of agreeing with Alvirah when she came to definite conclusions. “As usual, you hit the nail on the head, honey,” he told her, although for the life of him he could not imagine even glancing at another woman when he was lucky enough to have his beloved Alvirah.

  On the last day of that crossing, when they disembarked in Istanbul, there had been the usual flurry of people who had really enjoyed their time together and began to pass out hurried invitations, telling their new friends that they must come visit them in Hot Springs or Hong Kong or on their dear little island just a boat ride from St. John. Alvirah said, “Willy, can’t you just see the look on their faces if we arrived bag and baggage? You know it’s just a nice way of saying that they really enjoyed our company.”

  Tha
t was why six months after they got back to Central Park South from their Venice-to-Istanbul trip, they were astonished to receive a phone call from Professor Jonathan Lyons. Even if he hadn’t started by introducing himself, there was no mistaking that warm, resonant voice. “This is Jon Lyons. I’ve told my wife and daughter so much about you that they want to meet you. If Tuesday works for you, my daughter, Mariah, who lives in Manhattan, will pick you up, drive you out to our home in the Garden State, and at the end of the evening drive you back home.”

  Alvirah was thrilled at the invitation, but when she hung up the phone, she said, “Willy, I wonder if his wife knows about Lily. Remember, keep a guard on your tongue.”

  Promptly at six thirty P.M. the following Tuesday evening, the doorman buzzed the intercom in the Meehan apartment on Central Park South to announce that Ms. Lyons had arrived to pick them up.

  If Alvirah had taken a liking to Jonathan Lyons, her reaction to his daughter was equally strong. Mariah was friendly and warm, and had not only gone to the trouble of reading Alvirah’s book but had the common ground of being in the business of trying to help people invest sensibly and with minimum risk. By the time they got to Mahwah, New Jersey, Alvirah had already decided that Mariah was the kind of person she wanted to steer some of her lottery winners to, especially the ones who had already lost too much of their winnings in crazy schemes.

  It was only when they pulled into the driveway that, her voice hesitant, Mariah asked, “Did my father tell you that my mother has dementia? She’s aware of it and tries hard to cover it up, but if she asks you the same question two or three times, you’ll understand.”

  They had cocktails in Jonathan’s study because he was sure Alvirah would be interested in seeing some of the artifacts he’d collected over the years. Betty, the housekeeper, had cooked a delicious meal, and between them, Mariah and her father successfully covered for the lapses in conversation of the delicately pretty, if aging, Kathleen Lyons. It was a stimulating and enjoyable evening that Alvirah was sure would be one of many more to come.

  As they were saying good-bye Kathleen suddenly asked how Willy and Alvirah had met Jonathan. When they told her it was on a recent sailing they made from Venice to Istanbul, she became upset. “I wanted so much to go on that trip,” she said. “We honeymooned in Venice, did Jonathan tell you that?”

  “Sweetheart, I’ve told you how I met the Meehans and remember, the doctor warned you that it wouldn’t be wise to make that trip,” Jonathan Lyons said gently.

  When they were driving home, Mariah abruptly asked, “Was Lillian Stewart on that trip when you met my father?”

  Alvirah hesitated, trying to decide what to say. I’m certainly not going to lie, she thought, and I suspect that Mariah has already guessed that Lily was there. “Mariah, isn’t that a question you should ask your father?” she suggested.

  “I already have. He refused to answer, but you’ve as much as confirmed it by being evasive.”

  Alvirah was sitting in the front with Mariah. Willy was contentedly settled in the backseat, and Alvirah was sure that if he could hear what they were saying, he was happy to be out of the conversation. From the break in Mariah’s voice, she knew she was on the verge of tears. “Mariah,” she said, “your father is very loving with your mother and very attentive to her. Some things are better left alone, especially with your mother’s mind beginning to fail.”

  “It hasn’t failed so badly that she doesn’t remember how much she wanted to go on that trip,” Mariah said. “She told you they honeymooned in Venice. Mom knows she’s sick. She wanted to go while she’s still functioning pretty well. But my guess is that with Lillian in the picture, Dad got a specialist to convince Mom it would be too much for her. She gets really upset about it sometimes.”

  “Does she know about Lily?” Alvirah asked bluntly.

  “Can you believe that Dad used to have her out to the house for dinner with some of the others who go on the annual dig? I never guessed that they were involved, but then Mom found a couple of pictures of the two of them in Dad’s study. She showed them to me, and I told Dad to keep that woman out of the house, but sometimes my mother still asks about her, and when Mom does, she gets angry.”

  In the past year or so they had regularly driven out with Mariah to visit Jonathan and Kathleen, and Mariah was right. Kathleen, even with her ongoing memory loss, would often bring up the trip to Venice.

  All of this was on Alvirah’s mind when the Queen Mary 2 pulled into New York Harbor. By now Jonathan is in his grave, she thought. May he rest in peace.

  Then with her infallible sense for coming trouble, she added, “And please help Kathleen and Mariah.

  “And please, God, let them find that Jonathan was killed by an intruder,” she added fervently.

  6

  All day Greg Pearson was burning to tell Mariah how he could understand her pain and wanted to share it with her. He wanted to be able to say how much he would miss her father. He wanted to tell her how grateful he was to Jonathan, who had taught him so much, not only about archaeology, but about life.

  When Jon’s colleagues and friends were telling stories about him, about how helpful he had been in personal ways, he wanted to share his own story that he had confided to Jon, about what an insecure kid he had been. I told Jon that I was the guy in high school who stopped growing at five feet six when the other guys soared up to six feet two and six feet three, he wanted to say. I was a skinny weakling, the poster boy for nerd of the year. There wasn’t a team I tried out for that I made. I finally got to be five feet ten inches when I was in college, but it was too late.

  I guess I was looking for sympathy but I didn’t get any. Jonathan had just laughed.

  “So you spent your time studying instead of throwing basketballs in the net,” he said. “You’ve built a successful company. Get out your high school yearbook and look up the guys who were the hotshots in school. I’ll bet you find that most of them are scraping along.”

  I told Jon that I’d looked up a few of them, especially the ones who gave me a hard time, and he was right. Of course some of the guys are doing fine, but the ones who were the bullies haven’t amounted to a hill of beans so far.

  He made me feel good about myself, Greg wanted to say. Besides sharing his incredible knowledge about ancient times and archaeology, he made me feel good.

  Greg would have stopped there. It wouldn’t have been necessary to add that he’d told Jonathan that despite his success, he was still painfully shy, an outsider at parties, lacking the most basic skill at small talk, or that Jonathan’s suggestion had been to find a vivacious, talkative woman. “She’ll never notice that you’re quiet, and she’ll do all the talking at parties. I know at least three guys with wives like that, and it’s a great match.”

  All this Greg was thinking as he followed Mariah out of the country club. He held back until a valet brought Father Aiden’s car and the caregiver was helping Mariah’s mother into the black limousine that the funeral director had provided.

  Then he went up to her. “Mariah, it’s been a terrible day for you. I hope you understand how much we’ll all miss him.”

  Mariah nodded. “I do know, Greg. Thanks.”

  He wanted to add, “Let’s have dinner soon,” but the words froze on his lips. They had started dating a few years ago, but then when he persisted in calling her, she had hinted that she was seeing someone else. He had realized she was only trying to warn him away.

  Now, looking at the pain in her deep blue eyes and the way the afternoon sun was picking up the highlights in her shoulder-length hair, Greg wanted to tell her that he was still in love with her and would go to hell and back for her. Instead he said, “I’ll give you a call next week to see how your mother is doing.”

  “That would be nice.”

  He held the door for her as she stepped into the limo, then reluctantly closed it behind her. He watched, not knowing that he was also being observed, as the car slowly made its way around the
circular driveway.

  Richard Callahan was in the group of departing guests who had formed a line to retrieve their cars. He had seen the expression on Greg’s face brighten whenever Mariah came home for one of Jonathan’s dinners, but he also sensed that she had no interest in Greg. Of course things could change now with her father gone, he thought. She might be more receptive to a guy who could, and would, do anything for her.

  Especially, Richard thought as the valet brought his eight-year-old Volkswagen to the curb, if any of that gossip I heard at the table is true. From what I gathered, that caregiver has had too much to say to the neighbors about how angry Kathleen becomes when she gets on the subject of Jon’s relationship with Lily. There was no need for Rory to tell them about Lily. It was none of their—or Rory’s—business.

  Kathleen was alone with Jonathan the night he was shot. Mariah has to know that her mother may be a suspect in his death, he thought. Those detectives are going to call Lily and Greg and Albert and Charles and me and arrange private meetings with all of us. What are we supposed to tell them? They certainly must know by now that Lily and Jonathan were involved with each other, and that Kathleen was terribly upset about it.

  Richard tipped the valet and got into his car. For a moment he was tempted to stop and see how Kathleen and Mariah were doing, but then he reasoned that they both might be better off left alone for a while. As he started to drive home, his thoughts were of the shocked expression he had seen on Mariah’s face when Father Aiden was talking to her just before the luncheon ended.

  What did Father Aiden tell her? he wondered. And now that the funeral’s over, will those detectives be zeroing in on the fact that there is no explanation for Jonathan’s death other than that Kathleen pulled that trigger Monday night?