As Time Goes By (15 page)

“That's what Delaney told us. She got in touch with Victoria Carney's niece, but she said that her aunt never talked about any details of Delaney's birth and that she had gotten rid of any papers she had when her aunt died.

“We knew that much,” Alvirah continued, a trace of defeat in her voice, “and we know that she expressed concern over the midwife who arranged the adoption. Is there anyone else you can think of we may talk to who might have some information about Delaney's background?”

“I've been thinking about that ever since you called me,” Bridget said. She put down her teacup and walked over to the upright desk in the corner of the room. From a drawer she took out a picture. “I dug this out. I wasn't sure I'd kept it. One day Miss Carney came to the house. She asked me to take a picture of her and her friend Edith Howell, who'd come with her, with Delaney. She told me she had bragged so much to Miss Howell about how beautiful Delaney was, that Miss Howell wanted to take a picture with her.

“Anyway, I took the pictures with Miss Carney's camera, one of Miss Carney holding Delaney and one of Miss Howell holding her. She was nice enough to send me a copy of both pictures. She wrote on the back of them.”

Eagerly Alvirah reached for the pictures. On the back of one was written, “Delaney and I,” and the date; on the other, “Delaney, Edith Howell and I.”

The other woman was obviously much younger than Victoria Carney.

“Have you any idea where Edith Howell lived?” Alvirah asked.

“I only know she was Miss Carney's neighbor in Westbury,” Bridget said. “I looked her up in the phone book. If it's the same Edith Howell, she still lives there.”

It was a slim lead to follow, Alvirah thought with resignation. But if Edith Howell was a neighbor of Victoria Carney, there was always the hope that over a cup of tea or a glass of wine Victoria had confided something about the adoption to her.

She thanked Bridget O'Keefe profusely, then on the way out paused and stopped. “Bridget, you speak to Delaney regularly, don't you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Please don't tell her about Victoria Carney's neighbor yet. I mean if she hears about her, she'll get her hopes up and then be so disappointed if it doesn't amount to anything.”

Bridget made the promise, then laughed. “When we were kids and promised something, we would say, ‘Cross my heart and hope to die.' ”

When they were back in the car, Willy said, “Honey, why not just call this lady now and see if we could drop in for a few minutes?”

“I thought about that,” Alvirah said, “but I decided it wasn't a good idea. You just heard Bridget say that my call jogged her memory. If I get to talk to Edith Howell, I want to give her time to jog her memory after I tell her why I'm calling.”

“That makes sense,” Willy said even as he noted that the westbound traffic was already thickening. Resigning himself to a long drive home, he turned on the radio and learned there was a traffic accident on the westbound Long Island Expressway and to expect heavy delays.

A
fter discussing on the phone the fact that they both liked northern Italian cooking, Jon and Delaney met at Primola's restaurant. It was only their third date but Delaney realized how totally comfortable she was with Jon.

She asked him how the investigation into the drug dealers was going.

“I paid a visit to Lucas Harwin, the father,” he said. “I told him that I was conducting an investigation for the
Washington Post
about a drug ring in Washington, New York and New Jersey that we believe is selling prescription pills to high-end people. He assured me that he would keep that confidential.”

“How was the father when you talked with him?”

“If you ever wanted to see the face of grief, he was the one to look at. His wife was there. Of the two she seems to be bearing up better, although that isn't saying much. Steven was an only child.

“She told me that she had so looked forward to having grandchildren someday and now it would never happen. She said the overdose didn't just kill Steven, but also the next generation and the ones after that.”

“Did Lucas Harwin have any idea where their son might have gotten the pills?”

“Well, as he said in that statement, these were not the kind you can ordinarily get on the street corners. He almost certainly had a prescription, but the ones that were found in his apartment were in medicine bottles without labels. That suggests that the pharmacy he went to knew enough to keep its name off the bottle. The police are undoubtedly checking Steven's cell phone to see if they can trace any calls to or from a doctor or pharmacist. The Harwin interview will be my first column in the
Washington Post
and will come out tomorrow. It will focus on Steven's life and the impact of his loss on his family, but of course, it's not going to reveal our investigation.”

“What then?”

Jon lowered his voice. “I'm going to start going to a couple of those clubs where some minor-league celebrities are known to go.”

“Celebrities who use drugs?”

“Exactly. The word gets around among the upscale users. Some of them are names you would recognize but not the kind who go somewhere with an entourage of bodyguards. I'll try to get on a friendly basis with one or a couple of them in that group and see what happens.”

As the waiter cleared their dishes, Jon asked, “As much as I could, I've watched your coverage of the Betsy Grant trial on television. Of course, you were objective, but what are your thoughts about her now?”

Delaney paused, then looked directly at him. “It's like watching a coffin being nailed shut with her in it. The testimony sounds so devastating, every word of it. I mean her outburst after Ted Grant slapped her hard. The caregiver suddenly taking ill. The security system being on. Then Professor Peter Benson, the boyfriend. She had dinner with him the night before her husband's birthday gathering.”

“Is there any chance that he might have done it?”

“Zero. He can absolutely confirm that he was in Chicago at the time of the murder. He was meeting with professors he was recruiting for positions at Franklin.”

“From what you tell me, it doesn't sound as though it's going well for Betsy Grant.”

“It isn't. But Jon, if you were to see her, she's so pretty. She's forty-three but she doesn't look it. She's very slender and sitting next to that big hot-shot lawyer of hers, she looks so—” Delaney paused. “What is the word I'm looking for? I know, so vulnerable. My heart aches for her.”

“I read that she was a history teacher at a high school in New Jersey.”

“Pascack Valley. I phoned the principal there. Her name is Jeanne Cohen. She told me in no uncertain terms that Betsy Grant was a marvelous teacher, that the students loved her, and that she was loved by the other teachers and the parents. Cohen said that Betsy had taken a leave of absence to care for her husband about two years before he died. She was adamant that Betsy Grant would no more have taken another life, especially the life of the husband she loved dearly, than the sky would fall on top of all of us.”

“Pretty vehement,” Jon observed.

“And Jon, I don't think that Robert Maynard is passionate about her defense. For example, if she had killed Dr. Grant, and I say ‘if,' why would it be a blow to the back of the head? From all accounts he was given extra sedation after he made such a scene at dinner. Supposedly, she goes to his bedroom, manages to get him in a sitting position, hits him with the pestle on the back of his head, and then just goes back to bed? It doesn't make sense.”

“Delaney, it sounds as if you should be Betsy Grant's lawyer.”

“I only wish I could be. There's a little problem though. I don't have a law degree. But I do think I could do a better job.”

They both smiled, then Jon said, “Delaney, do you remember what I said last week about ‘love at first sight'?”

“I'm sure that it's little more than hyperbole. But it's a good line.”

“Actually not, but probably much too soon to have said it. I mean I wish I had waited a month or two.”

Delaney laughed. “That line gets better and better.” For a brief moment the images of the men she had dated since college ran through her mind. A couple of them had been mildly interesting, but not enough to go deeper into any steady kind of dating.

“It's not a line,” Jon said, “but we'll leave it at that.”

For a long moment they looked across the table at each other. Then Jon reached over and for a brief moment touched the hand Delaney had unconsciously reached out to him.

A
lan Grant often did the nightclub scene in SoHo with his buddy Mike Carroll. They had grown up together in Ridgewood and had much in common. Mike was also divorced and that had “freed him from bondage” as he liked to put it.

Like Alan, he lived on the west side of Manhattan near Lincoln Center. Unlike Alan, he was a partner in an engineering firm, and even after supporting his ex-wife and two children, he was able to live comfortably.

A ruddy-faced, slightly overweight thirty-seven-year-old, his quick humor and winning smile made it easy for him to pick up women at bars. As he had joked to Alan, “You look classy; I look sexy. Way to go.”

But friends though they were, Mike had been upset when he read in the
Post
that Alan had received a one-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar disbursement three months ago. When they met, Mike immediately pulled a folded sheet of paper from his wallet. “Pay-up time, buddy,” he said cheerfully but firmly.

Alan's eyes widened as he saw the total amount of the loans and interest, sixty thousand dollars. “I didn't know it had piled up so much,” he said.

“It sure has,” Mike said. “Don't forget you've been underwater for years. I helped bail you out. And you promised to pay me back as soon as you got any of your father's money.”

Alan's sense of euphoria after receiving the check from the estate was rapidly receding. Why did that have to come up at the trial? he asked himself. After reading the
Post
's article about how much he had received, Justin's mother had immediately called him and demanded back child support. His ex-wife Carly had phoned the same day. She had seen it too.

When he received the disbursement, he had paid Carly the arrears of fifty thousand dollars, but he had not paid her in the three months since then. He had just paid Justin's mother eight thousand dollars in arrears. Besides that, he was behind on the bank loan and on his condo maintenance and had bills all over the place. After his personal expenses of the last three months and now paying off Mike, he'd have a measly ten thousand dollars left to live on. And he didn't know if it would be weeks or months after the trial before he could get the rest of his money.

I'll have to find more jobs, he thought, as he wrote out a sixty-thousand-dollar check to Mike and shoved it down the bar to him. Not that many magazines were offering to hire him. He knew his reputation in the business was that he was very good but unreliable.

“It looks to me like your stepmother is going to get convicted,” Mike said as he signaled the bartender for a refill. “I read in the paper that she had a boyfriend. That sure won't help her any. Did you know about him?”

“No, I didn't,” Alan said vehemently. “I mean she was always doing the sweet, loving wife routine with Dad. Then she goes out and was probably having a fling with the guy. When I found that out, I felt like I'd been kicked in the gut.”

But the question buoyed him immensely. Mike was a smart guy and that was his take on the boyfriend issue. Great! When Betsy's found guilty, I get everything, he thought, every last dime.

The bartender was putting Mike's drink in front of him. Suddenly upbeat, Alan shrugged off the fact that his cash supply was dwindling rapidly. “Don't forget me,” he told the bartender as he pointed to his empty glass.