As Time Goes By (2 page)

It was a seemingly dead end. But she knew she was going to make a decision. She had heard about a retired detective who specialized in tracing the untraceable in cases like hers. She was so deep in thought as she began her one-mile walk home that, almost without noticing, she passed Fifth Avenue.

At 54th Street she turned east. Her apartment in one of the older buildings was next to the one where Greta Garbo, the legendary actress from the 1930s had once resided. Garbo's famous quote, “I ‘vant' to be alone,” often ran through Delaney's mind at the end of a particularly frantic day at the studio.

The always-smiling doorman, Danny, opened the door for her. Her apartment was a generous three rooms but certainly a vast difference from the large and beautiful home where she had been raised in Oyster Bay, Long Island. She dropped her bag, took a Perrier from the refrigerator, and, putting her feet on a hassock, settled in her comfortable chair.

On the table directly across the room was a large family picture taken when she was three years old. She was sitting on her mother's lap next to her father. Her three brothers were lined up behind them. Her black curly hair and dark brown eyes so obviously leaped out of the so-called family picture. The others had several shades of reddish blonde hair. Their eyes were varying shades of light blue and hazel.

It was a distinct memory. The first time she saw the picture she had begun to cry. “Why don't I look like all of you?” she had wailed. That was when she was told that she was adopted. Not in those words, but as best as they could, her parents had explained to her, at that very young age, that they had very much wanted a little girl, and as a baby she had become part of their family.

Last month in Oyster Bay there had been a big family reunion gathering for her mother's seventy-fifth birthday. Jim came in from Cleveland, Larry from San Francisco and Richard from Chicago, with their wives and children. It had been a truly happy time. Her mother and father were moving to Florida. They had given away the furniture they didn't need, telling Delaney and her brothers to pick out what they wanted. She had taken a few small pieces that fit in her apartment.

She looked at the family picture again, visualizing the mother she had never known. Do I look like you? she wondered.

The phone rang. Delaney raised her eyes to Heaven but then saw who was calling. It was Carl Ferro, the producer of the six o'clock show. His voice was exultant. “Stephanie took the job with
NOW News.
We're all thrilled. She was getting to be a ‘royal,' ” he paused, “ ‘nuisance.' She had the mistaken impression that she knew more than Kathleen.” Kathleen Gerard was the executive producer of the News Department. “Her resignation is coming in the morning. You're our new co-anchor with Don Brown. Congratulations!”

Delaney gasped. “Carl, I'm delighted! What else can I say?” Then she added, “My only regret is to miss covering the Grant trial.”

“We still want you to. We'll use rotating co-anchors until after the trial. You're a great reporter. This kind of trial is right up your alley.”

“It doesn't get any better than that, Carl. Thanks a lot,” Delaney said.

But as she put down the phone, she had a sudden disquieting moment. Her former nanny, Bridget O'Keefe, had an expression, “When things seem too good, there's trouble on the way.”

“W
illy, I really need a new project,” Alvirah said. They were having breakfast in their apartment on Central Park South. They were on their second cup of coffee, which was the time Alvirah loved to chat. It was also the time Willy had finished reading the
Post
up to the sports section, which he was anxious to devour.

With a sigh of resignation, he put aside the newspaper and looked across the table at his beloved wife of forty-three years. His mane of white hair, craggy face and intense blue eyes reminded older friends of Tip O'Neill, the legendary Speaker of the House of Representatives.

“I know you've been getting restless, honey,” he said soothingly.

“I have,” Alvirah admitted as she reached for a second slice of coffee cake. “There just hasn't been enough to do lately. I mean I really enjoyed the river cruise through the Seine. Who wouldn't? And to see where Van Gogh lived for the last months of his life. I loved it. But now it's nice to be home.”

She glanced out the window to admire their view of Central Park. “Willy, aren't we lucky to be here?” she said. “Just think what a comparison it is to our apartment in Astoria. The kitchen didn't even have a window.”

Willy remembered it all too well. Six years ago he had been a plumber and Alvirah a cleaning woman. They were sitting in their old apartment, Alvirah's feet so tired that she was soaking them in Epsom salt and warm water. Then the winning lottery ticket was announced on television. He had had to read their ticket twice before he realized they had won forty million dollars.

They had taken the money in yearly payments and always saved half of it. They had bought this apartment on Central Park South but kept the one in Astoria in case the government went broke and couldn't continue the payments.

Then the editor of the
Daily Standard
interviewed Alvirah. She told him that she had always wanted to go to the Cypress Point Spa in California. He asked her to write about her experiences there. He had given her a sunburst pin with a microphone in it to record her conversations. The editor said that would help her when she was writing the article. Instead it had helped her to learn the identity of a killer who was at the spa. Since then Alvirah, with the help of her microphone, had solved a number of crimes.

“And I'm looking forward to seeing Delaney tomorrow night,” Alvirah said now. “She's so lucky to be covering the Betsy Grant trial.”

“Isn't Grant the one who murdered her husband?” Willy asked.

“No, Willy. She's the one who is
accused
of murdering her husband,” Alvirah corrected.

“Well, from the little I've read about it, I'd say it was an open-and-shut case,” Willy observed.

“I agree,” Alvirah responded promptly. “But as always I'm willing to keep an open mind. . . .”

Willy smiled. “You better be ‘open' to the fact that she's guilty.”

F
ourteen miles away, in her ten-room mansion in Alpine, New Jersey, Betsy Grant was brewing a second cup of coffee in the kitchen and staring reflectively out the window. Subconsciously she registered the fact that the signs of early September were present in the gold tone of the leaves on the elm trees.

The large picture windows made you “feel as though you were one with nature,” as the overly enthusiastic real estate agent had put it when he showed them this house twelve years ago.

After yet another sleepless night that memory was keen in her mind, as was the memory of the warmth in Ted's eyes as he looked at her for her reaction. She could already see that he wanted to buy it. And what was there not to like? she asked herself. I was so in love with him that any place he wanted to buy was fine with me. I hated the fact that the previous owner was willing to sell at a reduced price because his business was going into bankruptcy. I didn't like to think that we were profiting from someone else's misfortune. But this
is
a beautiful house, she thought.

Coffee cup in hand, she went upstairs. After Ted's death she had gone back to sleep in the master bedroom again. She passed through the sitting room where they had spent so many happy hours together. During the fall and winter they would often turn on the fire in there and watch a television show they both enjoyed or simply sit together reading.

The swift onset of early Alzheimer's when Ted was fifty-one years old had been an unexpected tragedy. Eventually she had blocked off the staircase to keep him from leaning precariously over the railing and had transformed the library on the first floor into a bedroom for him. At first she had slept in the small den next to it but then had turned it over to the full-time aide and moved to the guest bedroom and bath next to the kitchen on the first floor.

All of that kept whirling around in Betsy's mind as she set the cup down on the vanity in the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Her lawyer, Robert Maynard, would be here within the hour. I don't know why he's coming, Betsy thought, with a trace of resentment. I know everything he's going to say. I know everything to expect. As she slipped off her robe and nightgown she thought of the terrible moment when Maynard had informed her that the grand jury had indicted her for murder. The mug shot, the fingerprinting, the arraignment, the posting of her bail—all of these were fragments of memory that haunted her daily, no matter how hard she tried to banish them.

She showered, fastened her long, light brown hair in a comb, touched her eyelashes with mascara and applied a dab of blush to her lips. The weather report had said that the day would be sharply cooler. From the closet she selected a long-sleeved hunter-green cashmere shirt and dark brown slacks and put them on her slender body. She had stopped wearing all black four months ago when one of the columnists had commented that the accused murderer of Edward Grant was parading around in widow's weeds. But she did wear only dark colors, even at home.

Before she left the room, she looked around. That had become a habit. There had been occasions when during the night Ted had somehow climbed over the locked gate at the bottom of the stairwell and come up here.

It was easy to tell when that had happened. Every drawer in the chests and night tables had been dumped out. It was as though he was looking for something, Betsy thought now. It was easy for her and Carmen, her daily housekeeper, to put everything back. The one heartbreak was that somehow he must have remembered the combination of the safe in the closet and had taken out the beautiful emerald-and-diamond bracelet he had given her on their first anniversary. She was still hoping that one day she or Carmen would find it, but there was always the worry that Ted had thrown it in the garbage compactor.

She was tempted to make the bed but knew that Carmen would be coming in any moment. “Leave it for me, Miss Betsy. That's what I'm here for,” she would always say. But too many years of living with her mother's daily, relentless shining and polishing and vacuuming had made it impossible for Betsy to ever leave a dish in a sink or a robe on a chair.

With an unconscious sigh Betsy went downstairs just as Carmen let herself in. A half hour later the chiming of the doorbell signaled that Robert Maynard, Esquire, was standing on her front porch.

A
lan Grant, son of the late Edward “Ted” Grant, stared at his former wife, Carly, and tried not to let the burning anger he felt show in his expression. Their four-year-old son and two-year-old daughter had somehow sensed the antagonism in the air and had scurried into their bedroom to get away from it.

Carly pointed after them. “Will you please tell me how I'm supposed to put a roof over their heads if I get thrown out of here?” she demanded angrily.