Mary Clark - The Lost Years

“Yes, I am.”

“Then he must have had his findings verified by at least one other expert whose opinion is beyond reproach.”

“He told me that he did exactly that.”

“Did he name the person who saw it?”

“No. But there must have been several, because he said he regretted his choice of one of them. He intended of course to return the parchment to the Vatican Library, but that person told him they could get an enormous amount of money for it from a private collector.”

In the pre-Lily days, I would have been the first one Dad told about his find, Mariah thought, and he would have told me who else he was going to share it with. A fresh wave of bitterness and regret washed over her as she looked from table to table. Many of the people here were my father’s colleagues, she thought. Dad might have consulted a couple of them, like Charles and Albert, about an ancient parchment like that. If, pray God, Mom isn’t responsible, is it possible that his death was something other than a random burglary gone wrong? Is someone in this very room the person who took his life?

Before she could voice that thought to Father Aiden, she saw her mother rushing back into the room, Rory a step behind her. Her mother headed straight to where Mariah and Father Aiden were sitting. “She won’t leave without you!” Rory explained, her tone annoyed and impatient.

Kathleen Lyons smiled vacantly at Father Aiden. “Did you hear all that noise?” she asked him. “And see all that blood?”

Then she added, “The woman in the pictures with Jonathan was standing next to him today. Her name is Lily. Why did she come? Wasn’t going to Venice with him enough for her?”

5

Alvirah and Willy Meehan were on their annual trip on board the Queen Mary 2 when they heard that their good friend Professor Jonathan Lyons was shot to death. Shocked beyond words to express how terrible she felt, her voice shaking, Alvirah conveyed the news to Willy. But she realized that apart from leaving a message of condolence on an answering machine, they could do nothing else at this time. They would not be getting home until the day of the funeral.

The ship had just sailed from Southampton and the only way to get off would be by medical helicopter. Besides, Alvirah was a guest lecturer who was booked as a celebrity author to tell stories about lottery winners she knew and how some of them had lost every nickel in harebrained schemes. She talked about people who had worked two jobs most of their lives, won millions, then were conned into buying white elephant hotels or chains of knickknack stores that couldn’t pay the rent selling cutesy items like cocktail napkins, sparkling key rings, and embroidered pillows.

She always explained that she had been a cleaning woman and Willy a plumber when they won forty million dollars in the lottery. They had elected to take the money in annual payments for twenty years. Every year they paid their taxes first and lived on half of what was left. The rest they invested wisely.

The passengers loved Alvirah’s stories and snapped up copies of her bestselling book, From Pots to Plots. And though Alvirah was truly heartsick about Jonathan’s death, being a trouper she did not show it. Even when people animatedly discussed theories of why the prominent scholar might have been murdered, neither she nor Willy ever mentioned that they had known Professor Lyons well.

Actually they had met Jonathan when Alvirah was lecturing on a cruise from Venice to Istanbul, two years ago. She and Professor Lyons had attended each other’s lectures, and she had been so fascinated by his spellbinding tales of ancient Egypt, Greece, and Israel that, in her usual forthcoming way, she had invited him to have dinner with them. The professor accepted readily, but then added that he was traveling with his companion so it would be a foursome.

And that’s when we met Lily, was the refrain that ran through Alvirah’s head during the days of the crossing. I really liked her. She’s smart, attractive in that way that lets you know she was always attractive; as a six-year-old I bet she knew what looked good on her. She’s as passionate about archaeology as Professor Jon was and has just as many degrees. She doesn’t have any airs about her, and no two ways about it, she was madly in love with Jonathan Lyons even though she’s a lot younger.

Alvirah, of course, had Googled Professor Jonathan Lyons and knew he was married and had a daughter named Mariah. “But, Willy, I guess he and his wife grew apart,” Alvirah had said to her husband. “It happens, you know. And sometimes, they stick it out together.”

Willy had his own system of agreeing with Alvirah when she came to definite conclusions. “As usual, you hit the nail on the head, honey,” he told her, although for the life of him he could not imagine even glancing at another woman when he was lucky enough to have his beloved Alvirah.

On the last day of that crossing, when they disembarked in Istanbul, there had been the usual flurry of people who had really enjoyed their time together and began to pass out hurried invitations, telling their new friends that they must come visit them in Hot Springs or Hong Kong or on their dear little island just a boat ride from St. John. Alvirah said, “Willy, can’t you just see the look on their faces if we arrived bag and baggage? You know it’s just a nice way of saying that they really enjoyed our company.”

That was why six months after they got back to Central Park South from their Venice-to-Istanbul trip, they were astonished to receive a phone call from Professor Jonathan Lyons. Even if he hadn’t started by introducing himself, there was no mistaking that warm, resonant voice. “This is Jon Lyons. I’ve told my wife and daughter so much about you that they want to meet you. If Tuesday works for you, my daughter, Mariah, who lives in Manhattan, will pick you up, drive you out to our home in the Garden State, and at the end of the evening drive you back home.”

Alvirah was thrilled at the invitation, but when she hung up the phone, she said, “Willy, I wonder if his wife knows about Lily. Remember, keep a guard on your tongue.”

Promptly at six thirty P.M. the following Tuesday evening, the doorman buzzed the intercom in the Meehan apartment on Central Park South to announce that Ms. Lyons had arrived to pick them up.

If Alvirah had taken a liking to Jonathan Lyons, her reaction to his daughter was equally strong. Mariah was friendly and warm, and had not only gone to the trouble of reading Alvirah’s book but had the common ground of being in the business of trying to help people invest sensibly and with minimum risk. By the time they got to Mahwah, New Jersey, Alvirah had already decided that Mariah was the kind of person she wanted to steer some of her lottery winners to, especially the ones who had already lost too much of their winnings in crazy schemes.

It was only when they pulled into the driveway that, her voice hesitant, Mariah asked, “Did my father tell you that my mother has dementia? She’s aware of it and tries hard to cover it up, but if she asks you the same question two or three times, you’ll understand.”

They had cocktails in Jonathan’s study because he was sure Alvirah would be interested in seeing some of the artifacts he’d collected over the years. Betty, the housekeeper, had cooked a delicious meal, and between them, Mariah and her father successfully covered for the lapses in conversation of the delicately pretty, if aging, Kathleen Lyons. It was a stimulating and enjoyable evening that Alvirah was sure would be one of many more to come.

As they were saying good-bye Kathleen suddenly asked how Willy and Alvirah had met Jonathan. When they told her it was on a recent sailing they made from Venice to Istanbul, she became upset. “I wanted so much to go on that trip,” she said. “We honeymooned in Venice, did Jonathan tell you that?”