Mary Clark - The Lost Years

They were in Japan when they heard about Jonathan’s death and did not arrive home until the morning after the funeral. Knowing Kathleen’s condition so well, they both had been concerned that she might be involved in the tragedy.

As soon as they set down their bags in Mahwah that Saturday morning, they rushed next door. The bell was answered by a visibly distressed Mariah. She broke in on their attempts to offer condolences. “Two detectives are here,” she said. “They’re talking to Mom now. They called last night and asked to come and speak to us.”

“I don’t like that,” Lloyd snapped.

“It’s because she was alone with Dad that night…” Mariah’s voice trailed off as she tried to stay composed, but then she burst out, “Lloyd, it’s meaningless. Mom doesn’t even get it. She asked me why Dad didn’t come to breakfast this morning.”

Lisa looked at her husband. As she had expected, his face was settling into what she called his “take no prisoners” expression. Frowning slightly, his brow creased, his eyes narrowed behind his glasses, he said, “Mariah, this is my territory. I don’t want to butt in, but whether your mother understands what’s going on or not, she should not be answering questions from the police without legal counsel. Let me sit in with you and be sure we keep her protected.”

Lisa cupped Mariah’s face in her hands. “I’ll see you later,” she promised as she turned to go.

It was a hot day even for August. Back in the house Lisa lowered the temperature on the air conditioner and walked to the kitchen, glancing into the living room as she passed it. It was in perfect order and the warm feeling that inevitably followed a vacation enveloped her. No matter how nice the trip was, and how much we enjoyed it, it’s always great to get home, she thought.

She made a decision not to nibble on anything. She’d skipped the breakfast snack on the plane, but she figured that when Lloyd got back they could have an early lunch. He’d be hungry too. Without looking, she knew the refrigerator had been stocked by their trusted housekeeper of twenty-five years. Again pushing back the urge to treat herself to something like a cracker and cheese, she retraced her steps to the foyer, picked up the carry-on bag that contained the jewelry she had traveled with, and went upstairs to the master bedroom.

She laid the bag on the bed, opened it, and removed the leather pouches containing the jewelry. At least this time I listened to Lloyd and didn’t bring as much as usual, she thought. But I sure wish I’d had the emeralds with me for the captain’s dinner on the ship.

Oh well.

She removed the rings and bracelets and earrings and necklaces from the pouches, spread them on the coverlet of the bed, and looked over them carefully, checking once again to be sure that everything she had taken with her had come back in the carry-on bag.

Then she transferred them to the tray on her vanity table, carried it into her dressing room, and opened the door of the closet. The steel safe, dark and formidable, was there. She tapped in the combination to unlock it and tugged at the door.

There were ten rows of drawers with various-shaped velvet-lined compartments. Lisa pulled out the top one, gasped, then frantically yanked out drawer after drawer. Instead of her beautiful and valuable jewelry sparkling up at her, she was staring at a sea of black velvet.

The safe was empty.

11

Alvirah decided she would wait until the next morning to phone Mariah. “Willy, you know how it is after a funeral. There’s such a letdown. I’ll bet anything that when Mariah got home, all she wanted to do was be quiet. And God only knows what’s running through poor Kathleen’s mind.”

Six of Willy’s sisters had entered the convent. The seventh, the oldest and the only one who had married, had died fifteen years earlier. Willy still remembered how glad he had been to get back home to their apartment in Jackson Heights after the funeral in Nebraska and the long flight home. Alvirah had fixed him a sandwich and a cold beer and let him sit and think about Madeline, who had been his favorite sister. Madeline had been quiet and unassuming, so unlike the wonderful but bossy Sister Cordelia, his next-oldest sibling.

“When was the last time we were out to Jonathan’s house in Mahwah for dinner?” he asked Alvirah. “Am I right that it was about two months ago, in late June?”

Alvirah had finished unpacking and sorting clothes for the laundry and cleaners. Now happily comfortable in her favorite stretch slacks and a cotton T-shirt, she settled into a chair opposite Willy in their Central Park South apartment.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Jonathan invited us over, and Mariah and Richard and Greg were there. And so were those other two who always go on the trips. You know who. What were their names?” Alvirah frowned in concentration as she went through the tricks for memory retention that she had learned at the Dale Carnegie course she had taken after they won the money in the lottery. “One of them is a direction. North… no. South, no. West. That’s it. Albert West. He’s a little guy with a deep voice. The other one was Michaelson. He’s easy to remember. Michael is one of my favorite names. Just add the ‘-son’ and you have it.”

“His first name is Charles,” Willy volunteered. “And you can bet nobody ever called that guy ‘Charlie.’ Do you remember how he cut down West when West misidentified one of the ruins they had on the pictures they showed us?”

Alvirah nodded. “But I remember Kathleen was pretty good that night. She seemed to enjoy seeing the pictures, and she didn’t say a word about Lily.”

“I suppose Lily was on that trip too, even though they didn’t show any photos with her in them.”

“Sure she was.” Alvirah sighed. “And, Willy, if it turns out that Kathleen pulled that trigger, you can bet it was because of Lily. I just don’t know how Mariah will be able to handle it.”

“They certainly wouldn’t put Kathleen in prison,” Willy protested. “It’s obvious the woman has Alzheimer’s and isn’t responsible for what she does.”

“That’s up to the courts,” Alvirah said soberly. “But a psychiatric prison hospital wouldn’t be much better. Oh, Willy, pray God it doesn’t turn out that way.”

The thought of that possibility did not improve Alvirah’s chances of a good night’s rest, even though she was grateful that she would be back in her own bed, comfortably spooning against the sleeping Willy. The beds on those ships are so big, you can hardly see each other, she thought. Poor Kathleen. Mariah told me how happy her parents had been together before the dementia set in. But Kathleen never did go on the archaeological trips with him. From what Mariah said, that was his thing and her mother couldn’t take the summer heat in the places he went. Maybe that’s one of the reasons that Jonathan got involved with Lily. From what I could see, she sure shared his passion for digging through old ruins.

Reluctantly, Alvirah thought of that first trip two years ago from Venice to Istanbul where they had met her fellow lecturer Jonathan Lyons and his companion, Lily Stewart. No question they were in love, she thought. They were crazy about each other.

Alvirah remembered how after Jonathan had invited Willy and her to dinner that first time, and they had met Mariah and Kathleen, she and Mariah had lunch the next week. “You’re the right fit for some of my lottery winners,” she had told Mariah. “I can tell you’re the kind of conservative investment advisor they need to make sure they don’t squander their money or put it in high-risk stocks.”