The Lost Years

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?”