All Through The Night

12

Over a pot of tea and a generous slice of Kate Durkin’s melt-in-your-mouth crumb cake, Alvirah began to form a plan of action aimed at saving the townhouse from the clutches of the Bakers.

“Isn’t it awful to think that you have to keep your voice down in your own home?” Kate asked. “Those two are always pussyfooting around. Just before you arrived, my heart almost stopped when I turned around and saw the two of them watching me. That’s why I closed the door just now.” Then she glanced at the copy of her sister’s will and sighed. “I guess I can’t do anything about it, though. They seem to have everything in their favor.”

“We’ll see about that,” Alvirah said firmly as she turned on the microphone in her sunburst pin. “I’ve got a whole bunch of questions for you, so let’s get started. Now, Monsignor came over to see you on Friday the 27th. He said that there was no question in his mind that Bessie would be leaving the house to you, although he did know that she was unhappy at the prospect of having kids mess it up.”

Kate nodded. Her soft blue eyes-magnified by large, round glasses-were thoughtful. “You know Bessie,” she said. “She was so set in her ways, and she complained about how nothing would be the same here with a bunch of kids running around. But I remember that then she sort of laughed and said, ‘Well, at least by then I won’t be here to clean up after them-that’ll be your job, Kate.’”

“That was Friday the 27th, right?” Alvirah asked. “How was Bessie over the weekend?”

“Tired. Her heart was just giving out, and she knew it. She had me get out her blue print dress and have it pressed. Then she told me that when her time came I should put her pearls on her. She said they really weren’t valuable, but they were the only jewelry the judge ever gave her, other than the wedding band, of course, and that neither one was worth leaving to anyone. Then she said, ‘You know, Kate, Aloysius was really a good man. If I’d married him when I was young, I probably would have had a family of my own and wouldn’t have had a chance to get so fussy about scratches and finger marks.’

“That was Saturday?” Alvirah asked.

“Actually, Sunday.”

“Then on Monday she supposedly had the new will witnessed. Didn’t you hear her banging away on the typewriter before that? What did you think when the witnesses came in for the signing?”

“I never saw them,” Kate replied, shaking her head. “You know how I always volunteer for a couple of hours at the hospital on Monday and Friday afternoons. Bessie would never hear of me not going. She seemed pretty good when I left-she was sitting downstairs in her chair in the parlor, watching television. I remember she said she’d be glad to be rid of me for a few hours. That she was feeling all right and getting sick of me looking worried.”

“And where was she when you got home?”

“Why, still there, watching one of her soap operas.”

“All right. Now, the next thing I want to do is talk to those two witnesses.” Alvirah studied the last page of the will. “Do you have any idea who they are?”

“I’ve never heard of them,” Kate replied.

“Well, I intend to call on them. Their address is here under their signatures. James and Eileen Gordon, on West Seventy-ninth.” Alvirah looked up as Vic Baker pushed open the door to the dining room without knocking.

“Having a nice little cup of tea?” he asked with forced joviality.

“We were,” Alvirah said.

“1 just wanted to let you know that we’re going out for a bit, but when we come back we’ll be glad to help you carry dear Bessie’s clothing downstairs.”

“We’re going to take good care of Bessie’s possessions,” Alvirah told him. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

The cheery expression disappeared from Baker’s face. “I happened to have overheard what you just said about speaking to the witnesses, Mrs. Meehan,” he snapped. “I’ll be happy to give you their phone number. You’ll find them to be perfectly responsible people.” He fished in his pocket. “As a matter of fact, I have their card.”

Baker handed Alvirah the card, then turned and walked out, pulling the door closed behind him with a bang. Both women turned and watched as the door slowly swung open again.

“It won’t stay closed,” Kate said. “He’s one of those fixit guys who talks a good game, and obviously he impressed Bessie. The truth is he can use a paintbrush, but that’s about it.” She pointed to the door. “Did you notice he didn’t turn the knob just now? He pushed the door open. It used to stick, so he shaved it down. Now it doesn’t even catch. Same thing in the parlor-that’s become a swinging door.” She sniffed.

Alvirah was only half listening. She was studying the card Vic Baker had given her. “This is a business card,” she said. “The Gordons have a real estate agency. Now how about that?”

“He may not be able to fix doors, but he sure can get a will done,” Alvirah told Willy late that afternoon, when he arrived home and found her sitting dejectedly in the living room of their apartment. “Jim and Eileen Gordon seem like straight arrows to me.”

“How did they happen to become witnesses to the will?”

“According to them, almost accidentally. It seems that Vic Baker has been looking at townhouses and condos ever since he moved here nearly a year ago. They say they’ve taken him out a number of times, to look at homes. He had an appointment with them at three o’clock on the 30th, to see some place on Eighty-first Street, and while they were there, Linda apparently called him on his cell phone. She told him Bessie wasn’t feeling well and wanted to get her new will witnessed. Vic asked the Gordons if they would mind. So the Gordons went along, and-now this is the part that’s so upsetting-they tell me Vic and Linda both nearly fell over in a faint when Bessie read the will to them before she signed it.”

“If the Gordons have been taking Baker out looking at real estate they must have checked his credit,” Willy said. “Did you ask about that?”

“They did. Believe it or not, the Bakers are well fixed.” She attempted a smile. “Cordelia keep you busy today?”

“I never got up for air. A pipe broke at the thrift shop, and I couldn’t fix it until I turned off all the water. Good thing it was Saturday and there were no kids upstairs.”

“Well, that won’t be a problem soon,” Alvirah said with a sigh. “And unless my gray cells come up with something I’m missing, there won’t be a place for them anywhere.” She reached up and flipped on the microphone in her sunburst pin. Deftly she rewound the last bit of tape, then pressed the PLAY button.

Eileen Gordon’s pleasant voice was clear and easy to understand. “The last thing Mrs. Maher said was that now she could die in peace, knowing her home would remain pristine.”

“I swear that miserable word ‘pristine’ is the key,” Alvirah said as the dejected look left her face. “What is that expression Monsignor always uses when he’s suspicious about something?”

“‘Something is rotten in the state of Denmark,’” Willy replied. “Is that what you mean?”

“That’s it. In this case, though, I think there’s something rotten on the Upper West Side,” Alvirah said. “And I’m going to keep dropping in on the Gordons and talking to them until I find out just what it is. I think they’re good people, but still there’s something fishy about them just happening to be witnesses. Maybe they’re very good actors, and I’m falling for their baloney.”

“Talking about baloney,” Willy said, “let’s have an early dinner. I’m starving.”

They were going out the door at six-thirty when Monsignor Ferris phoned. “Kate was at Mass,” he said. “She told me you went to see the witnesses. How did it go?”

Alvirah gave him a fast rundown, assuring him she wasn’t giving up. Then, before saying good-bye, she added, “Has that young woman we saw yesterday been around again?”

“She was here twice today. This morning she came to Mass, then left during the sermon. She seemed to be in great distress over something. Then I spotted her at the five o’clock, but again I didn’t have a chance to talk to her. Alvirah, you said you thought she looked familiar. Any idea who she is or where you might have seen her before? I’d really like to try to help her.”

“I’ve been searching my mind, but so far I haven’t come up with it,” Alvirah replied regretfully. “But give me time. The thing is, I am sure I’ve seen her picture somewhere, but I just can’t place it.”

Two hours later, as she and Willy passed Carnegie Hall on their way home from dinner, she stopped in the middle of a sentence and pointed. “Willy, look. It’s that girl.”

A glass-covered poster for the Christmas concert included photographs of the artists who would be performing, including Plácido Domingo, Kathleen Battle, Yo-Yo Ma, Emanuel Ax and Sondra Lewis.

Alvirah and Willy went over to read the caption under Sondra Lewis’s picture. Even in this photo she appeared sad-eyed and unsmiling. “Why would a girl about to make her Carnegie Hall debut be so unhappy?” Willy asked, clearly puzzled.

“Obviously it has something to do with St. Clement’s,” Alvirah told him. “And I intend to figure out what that one’s all about too.”