“I don’t know. She talked about it to us, but certainly everyone knew she had a business creating her own designs and always wore beautiful jewelry.”
As she was speaking, Mariah felt as though she was an observer of what was going on in this room. She looked past the detectives to the portrait of her father hanging over the piano. It was a wonderful likeness that captured the intelligence in his expression and the hint of a smile that was never far from his lips.
The sun was streaming through the windows on the back wall, creating patterns of light on the geometric design of the creamy carpet. Feeling somehow detached, Mariah realized how much cleaning Betty must have done to restore the shining orderliness of the spacious living room after the investigators had dusted for fingerprints. It seemed incredible to her that the room was now again so cheerful and welcoming, with its matching floral-patterned couches and wing chairs at the fireplace and occasional tables that could be moved so easily. When her father’s friends had visited they would always pull the chairs up to the couch to form a semicircle where they would have coffee and a nightcap after dinner.
Greg, Richard, Albert, Charles.
How often had she sat here with them over the years since her father had retired from teaching? Some nights Betty would cook, but other nights, her father would take over the kitchen. Cooking had become a hobby for him, and he had not only enjoyed it but had been naturally good at it. Three weeks ago he made a big green salad, a Virginia ham, baked macaroni, and garlic bread, she thought. That was the last dinner we all had together…
The last dinner. The last supper. Dad’s seventieth birthday.
She had to tell the detectives about the parchment her father may have found.
With a start, she realized that both detectives had been observing her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You asked about Lisa’s jewelry.”
“From what you said, she was known to have it, and maybe some people knew she kept it at home. But frankly, Ms. Lyons, that isn’t our focus. We came here to speak with you and your mother. Since Mr. Scott has said he is now representing your mother, perhaps we can sit down now and talk to you.”
“Yes, of course,” Mariah said, trying to keep her voice steady. Suppose it comes up about the gun? she thought. How much should I tell them if they ask? Stalling for time, she said, “Please let me first check on my mother. There are some medications she has to take now.”
Without waiting for a reply, she went into the foyer and saw Kathleen, followed by Delia, coming down the stairs. With a determined expression, Kathleen walked rapidly through the foyer into her husband’s study, opened the door of the closet, and pushed Delia away. “You can’t come in here!” she shouted.
“Mom, please… ” Mariah’s pleading voice could be heard in the living room.
Benet and Rodriguez looked at each other. “I want to see this,” Benet said quietly. Together they went into the study. Kathleen Lyons was sitting at the far end of the closet, hunched against the wall. In an anguished voice she kept repeating, “So much noise… so much blood.”
“Shall I try moving her?” Delia asked Mariah uncertainly.
“No, it’s useless,” Mariah said. “Just stay in the room. I’ll sit in there with her for a while.”
Delia nodded and stood at the place where Jonathan’s leather chair had been. Seeing her in that exact spot brought back to Mariah the vivid memory of her father sprawled on that chair, blood dripping from his head. The police had removed the chair as evidence on the night of the murder. Will they give it back to me? she wondered. Do I want it back?
“Ms. Lyons,” Benet said quietly, “we really need to speak with you.”
“Now?” she asked. “You can see how my mother is. She needs me to be with her.”
“I won’t keep you long,” he promised. “Perhaps the caretaker can stay with your mother while you’re with us.”
Mariah looked uncertainly from him to her mother. “All right. Delia, bring in a chair from the dining room. Don’t go in the closet, just be here for her.” She looked apologetically at Detective Benet. “I’m afraid to leave her alone. If she gets a crying spell she can lose her breath.”
Rita Rodriguez heard the break in Mariah’s voice and knew Mariah was aware of the skepticism in Simon Benet’s face. Knowing him as well as she did, she was sure that Simon thought Kathleen Lyons was putting on an act for them.
When Delia returned carrying the dining room chair, she placed it just outside the closet and sat down.
Kathleen looked up. “Close the door,” she demanded. “Close the door. I don’t want any more blood on me.”
“Mom, it’s all right,” Mariah said soothingly. “I’ll just leave it open a tiny bit so you have some light. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
Biting her lips to keep them from quivering, she led the detectives into the living room. Simon Benet was direct. “Ms. Lyons, this burglary is of course very unfortunate and we can understand that Mr. Scott is terribly upset about it. We also understand that he will be representing your mother and wants an opportunity to speak with her. However we are in the midst of investigating a homicide and must proceed without delay. Let me put it to you bluntly: We need to speak with both you and your mother and get answers to some important questions.”
The doorbell rang, and this time without waiting for an answer, Lloyd Scott opened the door and came in. His face ashen, he said, “The Mahwah cops are in our house. My God, someone got in without tripping the house alarm or the alarm on the safe. I thought we had a foolproof system installed.”
“As I just told Ms. Lyons, there’s no such thing anymore,” Benet told him. “It’s obvious you had a pro in there.” Then his tone changed. “Mr. Scott, we understand you’re very involved in your own situation, but as I was just telling Ms. Lyons, it is imperative we speak to her mother and her.”
“My mother is in no condition to talk with you,” Mariah said, interrupting. “You should be able to see that for yourself.” She realized she had raised her voice and had done it because now she could hear her mother wailing. “I said that I’ll talk with you,” she reminded Benet, “but could we do it when my mother is calmer?” Helplessly, she added, “I’ve got to go to her,” and hurried back to the study.
Simon Benet looked straight at Lloyd Scott. “Mr. Scott, I can tell you that right now we have probable cause to arrest Kathleen Lyons for the murder of her husband. She was alone in the house with him. She was holding the gun and her fingerprints are on it. There is no sign of forced entry nor evidence of anything missing in the house. We have held off so far because we want to make sure that she hasn’t been set up. If you won’t allow us to speak to her in the next couple of days, we’ll have no choice but to arrest her.”
“There is no sign of forced entry into my house either, but someone did get in and make off with some three million dollars’ worth of jewelry,” Lloyd Scott replied.
“But nobody was found in your house clutching a gun,” Benet said.
Ignoring the remark, Lloyd Scott continued. “Obviously, I’m needed in my own home now. I will talk to Kathleen. But clearly she is in no condition to speak to even me right now. Give me until tomorrow. If I do allow her to talk to you at all, it will be tomorrow afternoon. If you decide to arrest her, contact me. I’ll surrender her. As you can see, she is a very, very sick woman.” Then he added, “I’m also advising Mariah to wait and talk to me before she answers your questions.”
“Sorry,” Benet said curtly. “This is a homicide investigation. We insist on talking to Mariah as soon as her mother quiets down. You don’t represent her.”
“Mr. Scott, you just heard Mariah say that she is willing to talk with us,” Rodriguez said firmly.
Lloyd Scott’s normally florid complexion was recovering from the paleness that had come over it when he had learned of the burglary in his home. “All right. It’s up to Mariah, but you must understand that you cannot speak to Kathleen now or at any time without my permis
sion.”
“Yes, we understand. But if you try to put us off again tomorrow and she is not immediately arrested, your client will end up with a subpoena to appear before the grand jury, and there’s no question she would be a target of that grand jury. If she takes the Fifth and won’t testify after that, so be it,” Benet told him. “But that would pretty much be telling us that she did it, wouldn’t it?” he asked sarcastically.
“Given her illness, I can assure you that she has no idea what taking the Fifth Amendment would even mean, and if she did, drawing that conclusion would be absurd.” Lloyd Scott then looked in the direction of the study. “I have to get back to my wife. When Mariah comes out, I would appreciate it if you would tell her that I will call her later.”
“Of course.” Benet and Rodriguez waited until they heard the front door close behind the lawyer, then Benet said flatly, “I think the mother is putting on an act for our benefit.”
“It’s too hard to tell,” Rita replied, shaking her head. “But I do know one thing. Mariah Lyons is sad about her father and also obviously nervous. I don’t think she has anything to do with this. Ten to one she’s terrified her mother is guilty but will try to point us in other directions. It will be interesting to see what she comes up with.”
It was twenty minutes before Mariah came back into the living room. “My mother is asleep in the closet,” she said, her voice flat. “All this has been… ” Feeling herself start to choke up, she stopped and began again. “All this has been overwhelming.”
They spoke for over an hour. They were experienced detectives and they questioned her intently. She did not deny that she was intensely resentful about Lily or that she had been very disappointed in her father.
She answered all of their questions about the gun truthfully. Ten years ago her mother had enjoyed going to the shooting range with her father, but certainly she had not been there since the dementia had started. She was startled to hear that the gun showed no sign of rust. She told them that if her father had gone to the range himself since then, he had never mentioned it to her. “I know he used to keep it in his desk drawer,” she said, “and I know what you may be thinking now. But do you seriously believe that if my father was sitting at his desk and my mother came down and reached into that drawer and took out the gun, he wouldn’t have stopped her? I mean, my God, for all I know that gun may have been out of this house for years.”
Then she added, “But I just learned yesterday that my father had a premonition of death, and that he may have revealed to someone that he had come across a priceless ancient parchment and was concerned about one of the experts he had consulted.”
Mariah was intensely relieved when the detectives finally left. She watched their car pull out of the driveway and permitted herself a glimmer of hope. The detectives had phoned Father Aiden and were now headed to New York to speak with him about the parchment that may have been written by Christ to Joseph of Arimathea.
15
As the computer software company he had started began to grow, Greg Pearson had been definite in his plan that it would never go public. He had no desire to be splashed on the business pages of the Wall Street Journal or the Times or to have breathless speculation on the possible value of an initial public offering of Pearson Enterprises.
He was a low-key chairman and chief executive officer of the company while always totally aware of every detail. He was respected by his associates, but his painful shyness, which came across to many as aloofness, made it impossible for him to form close friendships. Over the years he had joined a few golf clubs and the Racquet and Tennis Club in New York. Never a good athlete, he didn’t much enjoy golf. But then he had realized that a relatively high handicap made it possible for him to compete, and he made himself try to participate in the enthusiasm that his golfing companions shared.
His tennis game was not bad at all now and he was a welcome partner at the Racquet and Tennis Club.
Everything Greg did had one object only, and that was to make Mariah fall in love with him. He often wondered if Jonathan had understood how Greg felt about her. Jonathan had joked that he should find a girl who talked a lot. That thought always made Greg smile. It wasn’t that Mariah was talkative. It was that she was sharp and funny and good company.
And beautiful.
When they were all at Jonathan’s dinners, it was hard for him not to follow her every move. He had loved observing the warmth between her and Jonathan. “Oh, God help us, Betty isn’t here and Dad’s the chef,” she would joke if she saw Jonathan in his chef’s apron. She was always so thoughtful of her mother, and when, in her dementia, Kathleen would pick up the knife instead of the fork and put it in her mouth, Mariah would lean over in an instant and make the substitution.
Greg treasured the evenings when the group would linger over espresso in the living room and he would happen to sit next to Mariah on the couch. Feeling her nearness, watching the expression on her face, looking into the magnificent deep sapphire-blue eyes that were so like Jonathan’s, was both thrilling and heartbreaking for him.
It’s such a damn shame that Kathleen came across those pictures a year and a half ago of Jonathan with Lily, Greg thought. When that happened, Mariah put her foot down and banished Lily from the dinners.
Before that, Lily had always driven back and forth to Mahwah with Charles, and Greg knew that Mariah had thought Lily and Charles were involved with each other. It had been better that way. Jonathan’s relationship with Mariah had suffered once she became aware of Lily, and it hurt both of them.
On Saturday morning, Greg played tennis, then went back to his apartment in the Time Warner Center on Columbus Circle. He had been in it for four years and still was not sure if its ultramodern décor had not been overdone by the interior designer.
It was a thought he dismissed as unimportant.
His avocation was his work, and he had brought home plenty of high-tech material, which he studied for a while before he finally gave up and realized he absolutely had to talk to Mariah.
When she answered the phone, her voice was strained but warm. “Greg, how nice of you to call. You won’t believe what’s going on around here.”
He listened. “You mean someone broke into your neighbors’ house in the past three weeks and cleaned out the jewelry? Do they know when it happened?”
“No, I don’t know whether they can pin the time down,” Mariah said. “And Lloyd Scott—that’s our neighbor—is a criminal defense attorney. He’s going to represent Mother. Greg, I think they’re going to charge her with Dad’s murder.”
“Mariah, let me help. Please. I don’t know how good a lawyer your neighbor is, but your mother needs top-notch representation and maybe you do, too. I’m afraid that it’s pretty common knowledge that you and your father had serious problems.” Then, while his courage lasted, Greg added, “Mariah, I’m coming over at six o’clock. I know you said your mother’s weekend caregiver is very trustworthy. You and I are going out for dinner. Please don’t say no. I want to see you and I’m worried about you.”
When Greg put the phone down, he stood for a moment wondering if he could believe his ears.
Mariah had agreed to have dinner with him, and even said she was looking forward to it.
16
Professor Albert West knew he had taken a calculated risk on the drive home from the funeral on Friday afternoon by telling his fellow professor Charles Michaelson that Jonathan believed he had found the Joseph of Arimathea parchment. His eyes had narrowed behind his glasses as he had intently studied Charles’s face for his reaction.
Charles’s expression of shock may have been genuine, or it may have been a good act. Albert simply couldn’t be sure. But Charles’s immediate reference to the possibility that if Kathleen came across the parchment she might destroy it led to other possibilities. Would the same thought have occurred to Jonathan? And if so, would he have kept it someplace other than his home, perhaps even given it to someone he trusted to hold it for
him?
Someone like Charles?
A lifelong insomniac, during most of Friday night Albert wrestled with that thought.
On Saturday morning, after a light breakfast, he went to his home office in what would have been the second bedroom in his modest apartment, settled at his desk, and spent the morning going over lesson plans. He was glad that the fall semester would be starting next week. He had not taught during the summer, and while he was never lonely, he did heartily enjoy interaction with his students. He knew that because of his slight stature and deep voice their nickname for him was “Bellows.” He thought it not only appropriate but actually quite clever.
At noon Albert made a sandwich to eat in the car, collected his camping gear, and went down to the garage in his building. As he waited for his SUV, he realized that his favorite word, “suppose,” was running through his mind. Suppose Charles was lying? Suppose Charles had seen the parchment? Suppose he had told Jonathan that he, too, believed it was genuine?
Suppose Charles had warned Jonathan not to bring the parchment home? He might very well have reminded Jonathan that Kathleen had found the pictures of him and Lily that he thought were well hidden.
It was possible.
It made sense.
Jonathan respected Charles as a knowledgeable biblical expert and as a friend. He might easily have left the parchment with him. As Albert got in his car, he thought of the shocking incident fifteen years ago when Charles had accepted a bribe to authenticate a parchment that he knew to be fraudulent.
It happened when Charles was in the middle of his divorce and desperately needed money, he recalled. Fortunately for Charles, Desmond Rogers, the collector who had bought the parchment, was very wealthy and prided himself on his own expertise. When Rogers realized he had been duped, he had phoned Charles and threatened to call the police. Albert had then gone to him and pleaded with him not to turn this into a criminal case. He managed to convince Rogers that he would only embarrass himself if the matter became public, since he had openly scoffed at other experts who advised him that the parchment was a fake. “Desmond, you would ruin Charles, who over the years has helped you acquire some magnificent and valuable antiques,” Albert told him. “I beg you to understand that he was in an emotional and financial tailspin and did not act rationally.”
The Lost Years Page 6