The Lost Years

62

After the call from Greg, Mariah sat on the edge of the bed in her apartment and tried to sort out her emotions. It was a relief to realize that she agreed with him. No matter how bad it was that Richard had tried to buy the parchment, she simply could not believe that he was a killer.

Was Greg right when he claimed that he sensed an attraction between her and Richard? In the past six years, ever since Richard had been on the first archaeological dig with her father, he’d come to the house at least once a month.

Was he the real reason why I always came home for those dinners? she asked herself. I don’t want to go there, she decided. She looked at the picture of her mother and father on the dresser. I felt so betrayed when I saw those pictures of Dad and Lillian. I feel the same sense of betrayal with Richard now.

She remembered an evening three years ago when she’d gone to the wake of a close friend’s husband. He had been killed in a car crash by a drunk driver speeding the wrong way on the Long Island Expressway. Her friend Joan was sitting quietly near the casket. When Mariah spoke to her, all she could say was, “I hurt so much. I hurt so much.”

That was the way I felt when I learned about Dad and Lillian, Mariah thought. That’s the way I feel now about Richard. I am beyond tears. I hurt so much.

Is Greg right that Charles Michaelson might have been one of the bidders for the parchment? That made sense too. He did something illegal years ago. I don’t know what it was, except that Dad was upset when he mentioned it. And Charles was the one who covered for Lillian whenever they were at our house…

She could hear him now. “Lillian and I went to see the new Woody Allen film. Try to catch it.” Or, “There’s a great new exhibit at the Met. Lillian and I…”

I could believe anything about Charles, Mariah thought. I’ve seen him explode when Albert disagreed with him about something. I guess he knew enough not to pull that sort of behavior with Dad or Greg. Or Richard.

She got up slowly, feeling as if everything was an effort, then remembered that she still hadn’t turned on her cell phone. She took it out of her purse and saw that there were seven new messages since last night. Alvirah had tried to reach her three times this morning, the latest only twenty minutes ago. Two of the other four were from Greg. Richard had called again last night and early this morning.

Without taking the time to listen to any of the messages, she dialed Alvirah, who filled her in about going into Lillian’s apartment with the cleaning woman and then going to Bergdorf’s. “I called Columbia, and the head of Lillian’s department is going to file a missing person report with the New York City police,” Alvirah said. “They’re terribly worried. The New Jersey detectives already know she’s still not home. Mariah, I’m at home with a cup of tea in front of me, trying to figure this whole thing out, but I don’t think there’s much more we can do right now.”

“I don’t think so either,” Mariah agreed. “But let me tell you what Greg has found out. Charles has been shopping the parchment around to underground collectors. Greg has been doing his own check on Charles. He heard it from a friend of his who is a well-known collector.”

“Now, that gives me something to go on,” Alvirah said with satisfaction. “What are you up to today, Mariah?”

“I stopped at my office and now I’m in my apartment. I’m about to head back to New Jersey.”

“Do you want to have a quick bite of lunch?”

“Thanks, but I don’t think so. I’d better get home. This afternoon Lloyd will be able to get the psychiatric report on Mom.”

“Then I’ll call you later. Hang in there, Mariah. We love you.”

Later, as she was getting into her car, Mariah called Alvirah back. “I just heard from Lloyd Scott. There may be a witness who saw someone running out of the house right after Dad was shot. He was in the middle of robbing the Scotts’ house when he says he heard the shot and looked out the window. He claims he clearly saw the face and can describe the person to the prosecutor’s sketch artist. Oh, Alvirah, pray, pray.”

An hour after that conversation, Alvirah still had not moved from her chair at her dining room table. As she looked out unseeingly at Central Park, Willy finally broke into her reverie. “Honey, what’s going on in that mind of yours?”

“I’m not sure,” Alvirah said. “But I think it’s time for me to make a friendly visit to Professor Albert West.”