The Lost Years

2

Detective Simon Benet of the Bergen County Prosecutor’s office had the look of a man who spent a lot of time outdoors. He was in his midforties, with thinning sandy hair and a ruddy complexion. The jacket of his suit was always wrinkled because the minute he didn’t have to wear it, he tossed it over a chair or in the backseat of the car.

His partner, Detective Rita Rodriguez, was a trim Hispanic woman in her late thirties with stylishly short brown hair. Always impeccably dressed, she made an incongruous counterpart to Benet. In fact they were a top-notch investigative team, and they had been assigned to the Jonathan Lyons murder case.

They were the first to arrive at the funeral parlor on Friday morning. On the theory that if an intruder had been responsible for the murder, he or she might come here to view the victim, they were on the watch for anyone whom they might recognize as a potential suspect. They had studied the pictures of convicted felons who were now on parole but had been involved in break-ins in the surrounding communities.

Anyone who has gone through this kind of day knows what it’s all about, Rodriguez thought. There were flowers galore, even though she knew that in the obituary it had been requested that, in lieu of them, donations be made to the local hospital.

The funeral parlor began to fill up well before nine o’clock. The detectives knew that some of the people there had come out of morbid curiosity—Rodriguez could spot them in an instant. They stood at the casket for an unnecessarily long time searching for any sign of trauma on the face of the deceased. But Jonathan Lyons’s expression was peaceful and the artistry of the cosmetician at the funeral home had successfully hidden any bruising that might have occurred.

For the past three days they had been ringing the doorbells of the neighbors in the hope that someone might have heard the shot or observed someone running from the house after the bullet was fired. The investigation had come to nothing. The closest neighbors were away on vacation, and no one else had heard or seen anything unusual.

Mariah had given them the names of the people who were very close to her father and in whom he might have confided if he had been having any kind of problem.

“Richard Callahan, Charles Michaelson, Albert West, and Greg Pearson have gone on all of Dad’s annual archaeological trips for at least six years,” she had told them. “All of them come to our house for dinner about once a month. Richard is a professor of Bible studies at Fordham University. Charles and Albert are also professors. Greg is a successful businessman. His company has something to do with computer software.” And then, her anger clearly showing, Mariah had also given them the name of Lillian Stewart, her father’s mistress.

These were the people the detectives wanted to meet and set up appointments to interview. Benet had requested that the caregiver, Rory Steiger, identify them when they arrived.

At twenty minutes of nine, Mariah, her mother, and Rory entered the funeral parlor. Even though the detectives had been in her home twice in the past few days, Kathleen Lyons stared vacantly at them. Mariah nodded to them and went to stand by the casket and greet the visitors who were already passing by it.

The detectives chose a spot nearby where they could clearly see their faces and how they interacted with Mariah.

Rory got Kathleen settled on a seat in the front row, then joined them. Unobtrusive in her black-and-white print dress, her graying hair pulled back into a bun, Rory stood behind the detectives. She tried not to show that she was nervous about assisting them. She could not stop thinking that the only reason she had taken this job two years ago was because of Joe Peck, the sixty-five-year-old widower in the same apartment complex she lived in on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

She had been going out for dinner regularly with Joe, a retired fireman who had a home in Florida. Joe had confided to her how lonely he had been since his wife died, and Rory had built up her hopes that he was going to ask her to marry him. Then one evening he told her that while he enjoyed their occasional dates, he had met someone else who was going to move in with him.

At dinner that night, angry and disappointed, Rory had told her best friend, Rose, that she would take the job she’d just been offered in New Jersey. “It pays well. It does mean I’ll be stuck there from Monday to Friday, but no reason to come rushing home from a day job hoping Joe will call,” Rory had said bitterly.

I never thought taking this job would lead to this, she thought. Then she spotted two men in their late sixties. “Just so you know,” she whispered to Detectives Benet and Rodriguez, “those men are experts in Professor Lyons’s field. They came to the house about once a month, and I know they used to talk on the phone a lot to Professor Lyons. The taller one is Professor Charles Michaelson. The other one is Dr. Albert West.”

A minute later she tugged at Benet’s sleeve. “Here are Callahan and Pearson,” she said. “The girlfriend is with them.”

Mariah’s eyes widened when she saw who was coming. I didn’t think that Lily of the Nile Valley would dare show up, she thought, even while unwillingly admitting to herself that Lillian Stewart was a very attractive woman, with chestnut hair and wide-set brown eyes. She was wearing a light gray linen suit with a white collar. I wonder how long she ransacked boutiques to find it, Mariah asked herself. It looks like the perfect mourning outfit for a mistress.

That’s exactly the kind of crack I’ve been making to Dad about her, she thought remorsefully. And I asked him if she wears those high heels of hers when they’re digging for ruins. Ignoring Stewart, Mariah reached out to clasp the hands of Greg Pearson and Richard Callahan. “Not the best day, is it?” she asked them.

The grief she saw in both their eyes was comforting. She knew how deeply these men had valued her father’s friendship. Both in their midthirties and avid amateur archaeologists, they could not have been more different. Richard, a lean six feet four, with a full head of graying black hair, had a quick sense of humor. She knew that he had been in the seminary for one year and had not ruled out returning to it. He lived near Fordham University, where he taught.

Greg was exactly her height when she was wearing heels. His brown hair was close-cropped. His eyes, a light shade of gray-green, dominated his face. He always had a quiet deferential manner, and Mariah had wondered if despite his business success, Greg might be innately shy. Maybe that’s one of the reasons he loved to be around Dad, she thought. Dad was truly a spellbinding raconteur.

She had gone on a few dates with Greg, but knowing she was not going to be interested in him in any romantic way and afraid he might be going in that direction, she hinted that she was seeing someone else and he never asked her out again.

The two men knelt by the casket for a moment. “No more long evenings with the storyteller,” Mariah said as they stood up.

“It’s so impossible to believe,” Lily murmured.

Then Albert West and Charles Michaelson came over to where she was standing. “Mariah, I’m so sorry. I can’t believe it. It seems so sudden,” Albert said.

“I know, I know,” Mariah said as she looked at the four men, who had been so dear to her father. “Have the police talked to any of you yet? I had to give a list of close friends and of course that included all of you.” Then she turned to Lily. “And needless to say I included your name.”

Did I sense a sudden change in one of them in that instant? Mariah wondered. She couldn’t be sure because at that moment the funeral director came in and asked people to walk past the casket for the last time, then go to their cars; it was time to leave for the church.

She waited with her mother till the others had left. She was relieved that Lily had had the decency not to touch her father’s body. I think I would have tripped her if she had bent over to kiss him, she thought.

Her mother seemed totally unaware of what was going on. When Mariah led her over to the casket, she looked blankly down at the face of her dead husband and said, “I’m glad he washed his face. So much noise… so much blood.”

Mariah turned her mother over to Rory, then stood by the casket herself. Daddy, you should have had another twenty years, she thought. Somebody is going to pay for doing this to you.

She leaned over and laid her cheek against his, then was sorry she had done so. That hard, cold flesh belonged to an object, not her father.

As she straightened up, she whispered, “I’ll take good care of Mom, I promise you, I will.”