Mary Clark - The Lost Years

A month or so after that, Jonathan had been lecturing at the 92nd Street Y and invited Alvirah and Willy to attend and have dinner with him afterward. What he did not tell them was that Lily would be there.

Lily had sensed Alvirah’s discomfort and addressed it. “Alvirah, I told Jonathan that you and Mariah have become very friendly and that she would resent it bitterly if she thought that you were seeing her father with me socially.”

“Yes, I think she would,” Alvirah had answered frankly.

Jonathan had tried to dismiss that possibility. “Mariah knows that Richard and Greg, to name just a few, see Lily and me together. What’s the difference?”

Alvirah remembered how Lily had smiled sadly. “Jonathan,” Lily said, “it’s different for Alvirah, and I do understand. She would feel two-faced about seeing us socially outside your home.”

I like Lily, Alvirah thought. I can only imagine what she’s feeling right now. And if it turns out that Kathleen killed Jonathan, I’ll bet Lily will be blaming herself for being the cause of the problem. I should at least call her and tell her how sorry I am.

But I won’t meet with her, she decided as she happily accepted Willy’s offer of a glass of wine.

“It’s the witching hour, honey,” he said. “Five P.M. on the dot.”

In the morning, she waited until eleven o’clock to call Mariah. “Alvirah, I can’t talk,” Mariah said quickly, her voice strained and tremulous. “The detectives are here to talk to Mom and me again. Are you home? I’ll call you back.”

Alvirah did not have time to say more than, “Yes, I’m home,” before the click in her ear told her that the connection was broken.

Less than five minutes later, her phone rang. It was Lily Stewart. It was obvious that she was crying. “Alvirah, you probably don’t want to hear from me, but I need your advice. I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know what to do. How soon can we get together?”

12

Mariah admitted to herself that she liked her mother’s weekend caregiver Delia Jackson, a handsome black woman in her late forties, better than she liked Rory Steiger. Delia was always cheerful. The only drawback was that her mother would sometimes absolutely refuse to get dressed or eat when Delia was with her.

“Mom’s intimidated by Rory,” Mariah and her father had agreed, “but she’s more relaxed with Delia.”

On Saturday morning when the detectives arrived, despite Mariah and Delia’s entreaties, Kathleen was still in her nightgown and robe, sitting in the wing chair in the living room, her eyes half-closed. At breakfast she had asked Mariah where her father was. Now she had ignored the detectives’ attempt to open a conversation with her, except to say that her husband would be down shortly to speak with them. But at the sound of Lloyd Scott’s voice, Kathleen sprang up and rushed across the room to throw her arms around him. “Lloyd, I’m so glad you’re back,” she cried. “Did you hear that Jonathan is dead, that someone shot him?”

Mariah’s heart sank as she caught the look the detectives exchanged. They believe Mom has been putting on an act, she thought. They don’t realize how she goes in and out of reality.

Lloyd Scott led Kathleen over to the couch and sat beside her, holding her hand. Looking directly at Simon Benet, he asked, “Is Mrs. Lyons a person of interest in this investigation?”

“Mrs. Lyons was apparently alone with her husband when he was shot,” Benet answered. “There is no sign of forced entry. However, we are aware that in her condition, Mrs. Lyons could be vulnerable to a setup. We’re simply here to try to get a complete picture of what happened last Monday evening, as much as she can tell us.”

“I understand. Then you do realize that Mrs. Lyons is in an advanced state of dementia and not capable of comprehending either your questions or her responses?”

“The gun was found in the closet with Mrs. Lyons,” Rita Rodriguez explained quietly. “Three discernible fingerprints were on it. Professor Lyons, of course, had handled it at some point. It was his gun. We have his prints from the medical examiner. Mariah Lyons found her mother in the closet holding the gun and took it from her. Mariah’s fingerprints are on the barrel. The fingerprints of Kathleen Lyons are on the trigger. Of course at the hospital we took their fingerprints for comparison purposes. From what Kathleen has said to her daughter and caretaker, she picked up the gun and hid it in the closet. According to the caregiver Rory Steiger, and this was verified by the housekeeper Betty Pierce, Mrs. Lyons was quite agitated at dinner on the night of the murder about her husband’s involvement with another woman, Lillian Stewart. Both Mrs. Lyons and Mariah Lyons said they embraced the body, which is consistent with the bloodstains on both their upper bodies.”

Appalled, Mariah realized that even though the detectives knew of her mother’s dementia, it was clear that they thought her mother had pulled the trigger. And as far as Mariah knew, they weren’t even aware yet that Kathleen had been taught how to fire a gun. When Lloyd asked his next question, it was as if he was reading her mind. “Was there any presence of blood or brain matter on the clothing of Mrs. Lyons?”

“Yes. Although whoever fired the bullet was at least ten feet from Professor Lyons, both the mother and daughter hugged him and got blood all over themselves.”

Mariah exchanged glances with Lloyd Scott. Lloyd remembers that Mom used to go to the shooting range with Dad, she thought. He knows that will come up. They’ll find out about it.

“Detective Benet,” Lloyd began. “I am going on record as being the attorney for Mrs. Kathleen Lyons. I—”

He was interrupted by the frantic chiming of the doorbell. Mariah rushed to answer it, but Delia, who had left the living room when the detectives arrived, was there ahead of her. It was Lisa Scott. Shaking, she rushed into the house. “We’ve been robbed!” she shrieked. “All my jewelry is gone.”

In the living room, Lloyd Scott and the detectives could hear what his wife was saying. Lloyd let go of Kathleen’s hand and sprang up from the couch. The detectives exchanged startled glances and followed him, leaving Kathleen alone.

In an instant Delia was beside her charge. “Now, Kathleen, why don’t we get dressed while the men who were talking to you are busy?” she asked gently, even as she hooked Kathleen’s arm in hers, forcing her to get up.

A clear flash of memory came and went through Kathleen’s failing brain. “Was there dirt on the gun?” she asked. “It was muddy in the flower bed along the walk.”

“Oh, sweetheart, don’t you even think about that kind of thing,” Delia said soothingly. “It just gets you upset. I think you should wear your pretty white blouse today. Is that a good idea?”

13

Lillian Stewart lived in an apartment building opposite Lincoln Center on Manhattan’s West Side. She had moved there after an amicable divorce from Arthur Ambruster, the husband she had met when they both were students at Georgetown University in Washington, DC. They had decided to put off having children until they earned their PhDs, hers in English, his in sociology. They then had both secured teaching jobs in New York, at Columbia University.

The children they were then ready to have had never arrived, and when they were both thirty-five they agreed that their interests and outlook on life were radically different. Now, fifteen years later, Arthur was the father of three sons and active in New York politics. Lillian’s avocation had become archaeology, and every summer she had happily joined an archaeological dig. Five years ago, at age forty-five, she had gone on a dig headed by Professor Jonathan Lyons and that had changed both their lives.