The Lost Years

59

Mariah’s office was on Wall Street. After another sleepless night and unable to stay in her parents’ house any longer, despite wanting to be near her mother, she had driven into New York at six A.M. Thursday morning and gone into work. Long before anyone else came into the suite where she rented her own space, she was at her desk going through her e-mail and the regular mail that the receptionist/secretary had left for her.

It was pretty much as she had expected. The e-mails she had been receiving and sending to her clients basically covered anything of importance. But it was good to be here with the television on, watching the markets all over the world as they began to open or close. It was also a place that was a refuge from everything that had happened during the last week and a half, particularly the bombshell that Richard had been planning to buy the parchment from Lillian.

She could vividly see the look on Richard’s face when they were all sitting at the dinner table only the night before last and he had again denied ever having seen the parchment. She had watched his expression as he nodded in agreement with Father Aiden’s stern reminder that the parchment, which probably would be proven to be sacred, was the property of the Vatican.

The once and maybe future Jesuit, she thought scornfully. Well, the Bible says that the soldiers cast dice for Christ’s robe. Now, two thousand years later, some of my father’s so-called dear friends may have been casting dice for the letter Christ may have written to Joseph of Arimathea. A letter thanking Joseph for his kindness.

Mariah thought about Lillian’s message to Richard: “I’ve decided to accept your two-million-dollar offer. Get back to me.”

His offer, Mariah thought. How many offers did she have, and where did they come from? If nobody at the table except Richard was lying, who are the other experts Dad may have consulted? The detectives were checking Dad’s phone records. I wonder if they came up with anyone?

If Lillian doesn’t show up, has something happened to her?

It was unthinkable that Richard would harm Lillian, just as unthinkable as it was that her mother had shot her father.

There, at least, I can take some comfort, Mariah promised herself. Richard may be the antithesis of everything I thought him to be, but he isn’t a murderer. Dear God, let Lillian show up. Let us be able to find the parchment.

There were a few letters she should answer. She turned off the television, drafted her responses, and e-mailed them to her secretary to print out and mail. It was almost eight A.M., and she knew the early birds would be arriving soon. She didn’t want to run into anybody. At the wake she had told her friends that she understood how much they grieved with her, but for the immediate future, she needed to concentrate on taking care of her mother and assisting her defense attorney.

Since then, she had received many e-mails that began in a similar way. “Love you, Mariah. Thinking of you. No need to respond.” Nice, but no help.

She left the office and took the elevator down to the main floor. She decided that her next stop would be her apartment in Greenwich Village.

She retrieved her car from the parking lot and drove the short distance to Downing Street. Her apartment was on the third floor of a town house that had been a private residence eighty years ago. She had been here only once, to get clothing, since the fateful night she had rushed out to New Jersey when her second call to her father at ten thirty P.M. had not been answered.

Her apartment was small. It consisted of a living room, a bedroom, and a kitchen, which barely accommodated a stove, a sink, a microwave oven, and a few cabinets. Dad helped move me in here, she thought. That was six years ago. Mom had already been diagnosed as having signs of early Alzheimer’s. She was getting repetitive and forgetful. I offered to move home and commute. Dad practically threw me out. He said I was young and had my own life to live.

Aware that the apartment felt stuffy, Mariah opened the window and welcomed the sound of the street noise. Music to my ears, she thought. I love the house, but what happens now? Even when this nightmare is over and Mom is allowed to come home permanently, she certainly couldn’t come live here. I’ll have to move back to Mahwah. But how long can I pay full-time caregivers?

She sat down on the club chair that her father used to sit in before he retired. Once every week or ten days, he would walk over from NYU and have a drink with her here at around six o’clock. Then they would go out to their favorite Italian restaurant on West 4th Street. By nine o’clock, he would be on his way home.

Or on his way to Lillian’s, an uncomfortable voice in her mind whispered.

Mariah tried to push aside her speculation on that possibility. Eighteen months ago, when she’d found out about Lillian, the intimate dinners they had both enjoyed had stopped. I told Dad I didn’t want to interfere with his precious time with Lillian…

To distract herself from the guilt she felt at that memory, she looked around the living room. The walls throughout the apartment were a soft yellow shade that gave an illusion of space. Dad went through the swatches of paint with me, she remembered. He had a much better ability to judge the finished product than I ever did.

The painting over the couch had been his gift to her on move-in day. It was one he had bought in Egypt on an expedition and depicted the sun setting over the ruins of a pyramid there.

Everywhere I look, either here or at the house, something reminds me of him, she thought. She walked into the bedroom and picked up the picture of her parents taken about ten years ago, before the onslaught of the Alzheimer’s. Her father’s arms were locked around her mother’s waist and they were both smiling. I hope that in some way his arms are still around her and protecting her, Mariah thought. She needs his protection now, more than ever.

What will happen to Mom in court tomorrow?

She was about to call Alvirah to see if she had heard anything more when the land line on the night table beside her bed rang. It was Greg. “Mariah, where are you? I called the house and Betty said you had left before she came in and you’re not answering your cell phone. I’ve been worried about you.”

Mariah had turned off her phone because she was afraid that Richard might contact her again. She did not want to repeat her performance of the night before, when she had broken down at the sound of his voice at Lloyd’s dinner table. Now she said apologetically, “Greg, my cell phone was off. As you can imagine, I’m not thinking straight.”

“Neither am I. But I am worried about you. Your father’s girlfriend and your mother’s caregiver have both disappeared in the last few days. I can’t let anything happen to you.”

He hesitated, then said, “Mariah, I’m a pretty good judge of people. I know you are devastated at the thought that Richard would buy the parchment from Lillian. I don’t know whether he did or he did not, but if anything has happened to Lillian, I doubt very much that Richard is responsible.”

“Why do you say that, Greg?” Mariah asked quietly.

“Because it’s what I believe.” Greg paused, then said slowly, “Mariah, I love you and I want your happiness above everything. At all of your father’s dinners, I sensed that there was a growing attraction between you and Richard. If it turns out that he would buy a stolen and sacred object, I frankly hope that whatever your feeling is for him, it will change.”

Mariah chose her words carefully. “If you saw a growing attraction between us, I have never been aware that it existed. And certainly, judging from that phone message, if Richard is what I think he is, I want no part of him ever.”

“That’s good news,” Greg said. “And I’m going to give you plenty of time to think of me as a guy worth spending your life with.”

“Greg,” Mariah began to protest.

“Forget I said that. But, Mariah, I am dead serious now. I’ve done some of my own investigation. Charles Michaelson is a fraud. He’s been trying to find a buyer for the parchment. I can even give you the name of the man who heard about it from his contacts. He’s Desmond Rogers, a well-known collector. Mariah, I beg you, don’t let Michaelson get near you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he turns out to be responsible for Lillian’s disappearance and the disappearance of your mother’s caregiver, too. And, Mariah—maybe even for your father’s death.”