The Lost Years (20 page)

O
n Tuesday morning at eleven
A.M
. Wally Gruber was brought before New York Judge Rosemary Gaughan for arraignment on charges of burglary and attempted theft. His round face was devoid of its usual friendly smile. His bulky body was garbed in an orange jail jumpsuit. His hands and legs were shackled.

The assistant district attorney began. “Your Honor, Mr. Gruber is charged with burglary and attempted theft at the residence specified in the complaint. He has a prior conviction for burglary, for which he served a prison sentence. We submit that the evidence here is extremely strong. Mr. Gruber was caught by the police as he broke into the home. We further note that the police are investigating another burglary in New Jersey for which he may be responsible. He is employed as a parking attendant at a city garage and there is evidence that he has been placing GPS trackers on cars so that he may be aware of when people are not home. The recent New Jersey burglary involved a theft of over three million dollars in jewelry while the family was away on vacation. We have been informed that a GPS tracker similar to the one surreptitiously placed on the vehicle of the owner of the New York home has been discovered on the vehicle of the owner of the New Jersey home. We anticipate criminal charges in New Jersey will be filed in the near future. I note further that the defendant is single and lives by himself in a studio apartment that he
rents. Under all of these circumstances, we believe he is a high risk of flight and we request a two-hundred-thousand-dollar cash bail.”

The defense attorney standing next to Wally, Joshua Schultz, then spoke. “First, Your Honor, Mr. Gruber is pleading not guilty. With respect to the district attorney’s request for bail, I submit that it is clearly excessive. As of right now, no charges in New Jersey have been filed. Mr. Gruber is a longtime resident of New York City and has every intention of appearing at all court proceedings. He is a man of very limited means. Mr. Gruber has indicated to me that if you allow him to use a bondsman, he can make a fifteen-thousand-dollar bail.”

Judge Gaughan looked down from the bench. “While the defendant is absolutely presumed to be innocent, the district attorney has proffered what appears to be strong evidence in this case. Given his exposure to a long custodial term if convicted, I conclude that there is a substantial risk of flight. I will not allow a bond. Bail is set at two hundred thousand dollars, cash only. Of course, if criminal charges are filed in New Jersey, additional bail will be set by a judge in that jurisdiction.”

Three hours later, unable to post bail, Wally was on his way to Rikers Island. As he was hustled into the van, he breathed in the first hint of fall in the crisp breeze and compared it with the stale smell of the holding cell. I’ve got an ace in the hole, he reassured himself. They’ll have to make a deal with me. When they hear what I know, they’ll have to give me probation.

He smirked. I can sit down with their composite guy and give them every detail of the face of the person who blew away that professor, he thought. But if they don’t want to play ball, I’ll call the old lady’s fancy lawyer and let him know I’m her ticket to go home.

T
he first thing Mariah did on Tuesday morning was call the hospital. The nurse at the desk of the psychiatric unit was reassuring. “Your mother was mildly sedated last night and slept quite well. She ate a little breakfast this morning and seems to be very calm.”

“Is she asking for me or my father?”

“The notes on her chart indicate that last night she woke up several times and seemed to be carrying on a conversation with your father. She apparently thought that they were in Venice together. This morning she has been repeating the name ‘Rory.’” The nurse seemed to hesitate, then asked, “Is she a relative or a caregiver?”

“A caregiver,” Mariah answered, sensing that the nurse was holding something back. “Is there anything you’re not telling me?” she asked bluntly.

“Oh, no. Of course not.”

Maybe, maybe not, Mariah thought. Then, knowing that if she requested a visit with her mother before the next court hearing she would receive an automatic refusal, she asked, “Does my mother seem frightened? Sometimes she wants to hide in a closet when she’s home.”

“She is, of course, confused, but I would not say that she appears frightened.”

Mariah had to be content with that.

She spent the rest of the morning on the computer in the study, thankful that so many of her accounts could be handled from home. Then she went upstairs to her father’s bedroom and spent several hours removing his clothing from the closets and drawers and placing them, neatly folded, in boxes, to be given to a charitable distribution center.

Her eyes stinging with unshed tears, she remembered how her mother had not been able to bring herself to empty her grandmother’s closet for nearly a year after her death. It doesn’t make sense, Mariah thought. There are so many people who need clothes. Dad would want every stitch of his that could be passed on to be given away immediately.

She did keep the Irish cable-knit sweater coat that had been her Christmas present to him seven years ago. Once the cold weather arrived, it was his favorite at-home apparel. The first thing he did when he returned from the university was hang up his suit jacket, pull off his tie, and put on that sweater. He used to call it his second skin.

In his bathroom, she opened the door of the medicine cabinet and discarded the high-blood-pressure pills and the vitamins and fish oil he had taken religiously every morning. She was surprised to see a half-empty bottle of Tylenol for arthritis. He never told me he had arthritis, she thought.

It was another fresh and hurtful reminder of their estrangement.

She also decided to keep his aftershave lotion. When she unscrewed the cap and sniffed the subtle but familiar scent, it was momentarily as though he was in the room with her. “Dad,” she pleaded softly, “help me to know what to do.”

Then she wondered if an answer had come to her. Tonight for dinner, she should also invite Father Aiden and Alvirah and Willy Meehan. It was Father Aiden to whom her father had confided that he was sure the parchment was the one stolen from the Vatican
Library and that one of the experts he had shown it to was interested only in its monetary value. It was Alvirah to whom Lillian had admitted that she had not seen or spoken to her father in the five days prior to his death. In a happy coincidence, Alvirah and Willie had known Father Aiden long before they met Mariah.

Mariah went downstairs and made the calls to invite them. “Sorry for the last-minute notice, Alvirah,” she said apologetically, “but you’re a good judge of people. I cannot believe that Dad did not show that parchment to at least one or two of his dinner group. You’ve already met them at least half a dozen times. I want to bring it up tonight and see what their reactions are. I want to get your take on what happens. And certainly if Father Aiden is willing to repeat tonight what Dad told him, it would be hard for any of them to try to suggest Dad was mistaken about the authenticity of the parchment. God forgive me, and I hope I’m wrong, but I’m beginning to think that Charles Michaelson might be involved in some way. Don’t forget that he and Lily used to come to dinner together and were pretty cozy. And I distinctly remember that one time Dad mentioned Charles had had some kind of legal or ethical situation that I gather had been a real problem.”

“I’d love to be there,” Alvirah said heartily. “And let me make it easy for you. I’ll phone Father Aiden and if he can come, we’ll pick him up. I’ll call back in five minutes. By the way, what time do you want us?”

“Six thirty would be perfect.”

Four minutes later, the phone rang. “Aiden can make it. See you tonight.”

In the late afternoon Mariah went for a long walk, trying to clear her head, trying to prepare herself for what might come out of tonight.

The four most likely people to have been shown that parchment
will be at my father’s table, she thought. Charles and Albert have already asked me if I found it. The other night at dinner, Greg said that Dad talked about it but had not shown it to him. Richard has never even mentioned it to me.

Well, tonight, one way or the other, we are all going to talk about it.

Mariah picked up her pace, walking swiftly, trying to get the stiffness out of her limbs. The light breeze was becoming stronger. She had pinned her hair loosely into a bun but now she felt it slipping down around her shoulders. With a half smile she remembered how her father had told her that with her long black hair she reminded him of Bess, the landlord’s daughter from the poem “The Highwayman.”

When she got back to the house, Betty told her no one had called while she had been out. The first thing she did was to phone the hospital and receive virtually the same report as in the morning. Her mother was basically calm and not asking for her.

It was time to get dressed. The drop in temperature made a long-sleeved white silk blouse and black silk wide-bottomed pants feel like a good choice to wear at dinner. On impulse, she left her hair loose, again remembering her father’s reference to Bess, the landlord’s daughter.

Greg was the first to arrive. As she opened the door to let him in, he immediately embraced her. When he had dropped her off on Saturday night, his kiss on her lips had been brief and tentative. Now he held her tightly and stroked her hair. “Mariah, have you any idea how much I care about you?”

When Mariah pulled back, he immediately let her go. She gently put her hands on his face. “Greg, that means so much to me. It’s just that, well—you know everything that’s going on. Dad was murdered only eight days ago. My mother is locked up in a psychiatric hospital. I’m their only child. At least until this nightmare with the charges against my mother is resolved, I just can’t think about my own life.”

“And you shouldn’t,” he said crisply. “I completely understand. But you have got to realize that if there is anything you need, at any hour of the day or night, I will see you get it right away.” Greg paused, almost as if he needed to catch his breath. “Mariah, I’ll say it once and then I won’t bring it up again while you’re going through all of this. I love you and I always want to take care of you. But first I want to help you. If the psychiatrists who are evaluating your mother in the hospital don’t do the right thing, I’ll hire the best experts in the country. I know that the doctors I’d get would conclude that she has advanced Alzheimer’s, is not capable of standing trial, and that with proper supervision she is no danger to anyone and should be at home.”

As usual Albert and Charles had driven out together in Charles’s car. As Greg finished speaking, the two were ringing the doorbell.

Mariah was profoundly grateful for the interruption. She had always known that Greg cared for her, but now she fully realized the intensity of his feelings. As much as she truly did appreciate his offer of help, his ardor added yet another layer of stress that both upset and smothered her. In the past few days, she had begun to understand subconsciously that for the past several years the terrible worry about her mother’s deepening dementia and then the distress over her father’s involvement with Lillian had wrung her emotionally dry.

I am twenty-eight years old, she thought. Since I was twenty-two, I have been heartsick over Mom, then for the past year and a half I have been basically estranged from the father I adored. I so wish I had a brother or a sister to share this with, but I do know one thing. I’ve got to get Mom home and comfortable and in the hands of a good caregiver. Then I need to have time to figure out my own life.