Mary Clark - The Lost Years

I am the reason Kathleen killed Jonathan, was the thought that had haunted Lillian’s dreams at night since his death. And it wasn’t necessary. Jonathan was going to give me up. He came to me last week and said that he couldn’t live this way any longer, that it was making Kathleen’s condition worse, and that his relationship with Mariah had become unbearably strained.

The memory of that meeting was like a recording that played in Lillian’s mind over and over again on Saturday morning. She could still see the pain in Jonathan’s eyes and hear the tremor in his voice. “Lily, I think you know how much I love you, and I did honestly think that when Kathleen was no longer aware, it would be all right to put her in a nursing home and divorce her. But I know now that I can’t do that. And I can’t spoil your life any longer. You’re only fifty years old. You should meet someone your own age. If Kathleen lives another ten years, and I do as well, I’ll be eighty. What life would you have with me then?”

Then Jonathan had added, “Some people have a premonition of their impending death. My father did. They say Abraham Lincoln, the week before he was shot, had a dream of his body lying in a casket in the White House. I know this may sound silly but I have a premonition that I am going to die soon.”

I talked him into seeing me one more time, Lillian thought. It would have been Tuesday morning. But then Kathleen shot him on Monday night.

Oh, God, what shall I do?

Alvirah had agreed to meet Lillian for lunch at one o’clock. I like her so much, Lillian thought. But I already know what she will tell me to do. I already know what the right thing to do is.

But am I going to do it? Maybe it’s too soon to decide. I’m not thinking straight.

Restlessly she walked around the apartment, making the bed, straightening up the bathroom, putting her few breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. The living room, restful with its earth-toned carpet and furniture, and the paintings of ancient sites on the walls, had always been Jonathan’s favorite room. Lillian thought of the evenings when Jonathan and she would come back and have a nightcap after dinner. She could see him sitting with his long legs stretched out on the hassock of the roomy leather chair she had bought him for his birthday. “It’s your home-away-from-home perch,” she had told him.

“How can you love someone so much, then turn your back on her?” she had cried angrily when Jonathan told her that he was ending their relationship.

“It’s because of love that I’m doing it,” he had answered. “Love of you, love of Kathleen, and love of Mariah.”

Alvirah had suggested that they meet at the relatively new restaurant down the block from her on Central Park South, then she had immediately changed her mind. “Make it the Russian Tea Room,” she said.

Lillian knew why Alvirah had switched. The name of the restaurant on Central Park South was Marea’s. Too close to “Mariah,” she thought.

Lillian had gone for an early jog that morning in Central Park, then showered and slipped on a robe while she had breakfast. Now she went to the closet and selected white summer slacks and a blue linen blazer, an outfit Jonathan had particularly liked.

As always, she wore high heels. Jonathan had joked about that. Only a few weeks ago he had told her that Mariah had sarcastically asked if she wore high heels on the digs. I flared up at him and he was sorry, Lillian thought as she brushed her cheeks with blush and gave a final pat to the short dark hair that framed her face.

But it was that kind of remark that Mariah was always making that wore him down, Lillian thought as resentment and bitterness splashed over her.

The phone rang as she was ready to leave. “Lily, why don’t I come around and take you to lunch?” the voice said. “Today has to be a terrible letdown for you.”

“It is. But I was talking to Alvirah Meehan. She’s back from her trip. We’re having lunch together.”

She felt, rather than heard, the pause that followed. “I hope you don’t intend to say a word to her about certain matters.”

“I haven’t decided,” she said.

“Then don’t. Will you promise me that? Because once you do, it’s all over. You’ve got to give yourself time to think calmly and practically. You owe Jonathan nothing. And beyond that, if it comes out that he broke up with you and you may have something he wanted, you could be suspect number two after his wife. Trust me, the wife’s lawyer could claim you went there knowing the caretaker was gone. Jonathan left the door open for you. They could say that you went in with your face covered, shot him, then put the gun in his crazy wife’s hand and got out of there. It would create doubt about his wife.”

Lillian had answered the phone on the extension in the living room. She stared at the chair where Jonathan had so often sat, thinking of the times she had curled up with him in it. She looked at the door and could again see him walking out and saying, “I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry, Lily.”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous,” she said heatedly into the receiver. “Kathleen killed Jonathan because she was jealous of me. It’s bad enough without your dreaming up that scenario. But I will tell you this. I’m not saying one word to Alvirah or anyone else right now. For my own reasons. That’s a promise.”

14

In the thirty seconds following Lisa Scott’s outburst, Simon Benet put in a call to the Mahwah police department to report the theft of her jewelry. Lloyd Scott snapped, “I’ll be back,” and rushed next door to wait with his wife for a squad car to arrive.

Mariah looked from one detective to the other. “I can’t believe the Scotts were burglarized,” she said. “I can’t believe it. Just before they went on that trip last month, Lloyd was talking about the new security system and the cameras and God knows what-all he put in and around the house.”

“Today, unfortunately, there are few systems that can’t be penetrated by experts,” Benet told her. “Was it generally known that Mrs. Scott kept a lot of valuable jewelry in her home?”

“I don’t know. She talked about it to us, but certainly everyone knew she had a business creating her own designs and always wore beautiful jewelry.”

As she was speaking, Mariah felt as though she was an observer of what was going on in this room. She looked past the detectives to the portrait of her father hanging over the piano. It was a wonderful likeness that captured the intelligence in his expression and the hint of a smile that was never far from his lips.

The sun was streaming through the windows on the back wall, creating patterns of light on the geometric design of the creamy carpet. Feeling somehow detached, Mariah realized how much cleaning Betty must have done to restore the shining orderliness of the spacious living room after the investigators had dusted for fingerprints. It seemed incredible to her that the room was now again so cheerful and welcoming, with its matching floral-patterned couches and wing chairs at the fireplace and occasional tables that could be moved so easily. When her father’s friends had visited they would always pull the chairs up to the couch to form a semicircle where they would have coffee and a nightcap after dinner.

Greg, Richard, Albert, Charles.

How often had she sat here with them over the years since her father had retired from teaching? Some nights Betty would cook, but other nights, her father would take over the kitchen. Cooking had become a hobby for him, and he had not only enjoyed it but had been naturally good at it. Three weeks ago he made a big green salad, a Virginia ham, baked macaroni, and garlic bread, she thought. That was the last dinner we all had together…