rushed into the house. “We’ve been robbed!” she shrieked. “All my jewelry is gone.”
In the living room, Lloyd Scott and the detectives could hear what his wife was saying. Lloyd let go of Kathleen’s hand and sprang up from the couch. The detectives exchanged startled glances and followed him, leaving Kathleen alone.
In an instant Delia was beside her charge. “Now, Kathleen, why don’t we get dressed while the men who were talking to you are busy?” she asked gently, even as she hooked Kathleen’s arm in hers, forcing her to get up.
A clear flash of memory came and went through Kathleen’s failing brain. “Was there dirt on the gun?” she asked. “It was muddy in the flower bed along the walk.”
“Oh, sweetheart, don’t you even think about that kind of thing,” Delia said soothingly. “It just gets you upset. I think you should wear your pretty white blouse today. Is that a good idea?”
13
L illian Stewart lived in an apartment building opposite Lincoln Center on Manhattan’s West Side. She had moved there after an amicable divorce from Arthur Ambruster, the husband she had met when they both were students at Georgetown University in Washington, DC. They had decided to put off having children until they earned their PhDs, hers in English, his in sociology. They then had both secured teaching jobs in New York, at Columbia University.
The children they were then ready to have had never arrived, and when they were both thirty-five they agreed that their interests and outlook on life were radically different. Now, fifteen years later, Arthur was the father of three sons and active in New York politics. Lillian’s avocation had become archaeology, and every summer she had happily joined an archaeological dig. Five years ago, at age forty-five, she had gone on a dig headed by Professor Jonathan Lyons and that had changed both their lives.
I am the reason Kathleen killed Jonathan, was the thought that had haunted Lillian’s dreams at night since his death. And it wasn’t necessary. Jonathan was going to give me up. He came to me last week and said that he couldn’t live this way any longer, that it was making Kathleen’s condition worse, and that his relationship with Mariah had become unbearably strained.
The memory of that meeting was like a recording that played inLillian’s mind over and over again on Saturday morning. She could still see the pain in Jonathan’s eyes and hear the tremor in his voice. “Lily, I think you know how much I love you, and I did honestly think that when Kathleen was no longer aware, it would be all right to put her in a nursing home and divorce her. But I know now that I can’t do that. And I can’t spoil your life any longer. You’re only fifty years old. You should meet someone your own age. If Kathleen lives another ten years, and I do as well, I’ll be eighty. What life would you have with me then?”
Then Jonathan had added, “Some people have a premonition of their impending death. My father did. They say Abraham Lincoln, the week before he was shot, had a dream of his body lying in a casket in the White House. I know this may sound silly but I have a premonition that I am going to die soon.”
I talked him into seeing me one more time, Lillian thought. It would have been Tuesday morning. But then Kathleen shot him on Monday night.
Oh, God, what shall I do?
Alvirah had agreed to meet Lillian for lunch at one o’clock. I like her so much, Lillian thought. But I already know what she will tell me to do. I already know what the right thing to do is.
But am I going to do it? Maybe it’s too soon to decide. I’m not thinking straight.
Restlessly she walked around the apartment, making the bed, straightening up the bathroom, putting her few breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. The living room, restful with its earth-toned carpet and furniture, and the paintings of ancient sites on the walls, had always been Jonathan’s favorite room.
In the living room, Lloyd Scott and the detectives could hear what his wife was saying. Lloyd let go of Kathleen’s hand and sprang up from the couch. The detectives exchanged startled glances and followed him, leaving Kathleen alone.
In an instant Delia was beside her charge. “Now, Kathleen, why don’t we get dressed while the men who were talking to you are busy?” she asked gently, even as she hooked Kathleen’s arm in hers, forcing her to get up.
A clear flash of memory came and went through Kathleen’s failing brain. “Was there dirt on the gun?” she asked. “It was muddy in the flower bed along the walk.”
“Oh, sweetheart, don’t you even think about that kind of thing,” Delia said soothingly. “It just gets you upset. I think you should wear your pretty white blouse today. Is that a good idea?”
13
L illian Stewart lived in an apartment building opposite Lincoln Center on Manhattan’s West Side. She had moved there after an amicable divorce from Arthur Ambruster, the husband she had met when they both were students at Georgetown University in Washington, DC. They had decided to put off having children until they earned their PhDs, hers in English, his in sociology. They then had both secured teaching jobs in New York, at Columbia University.
The children they were then ready to have had never arrived, and when they were both thirty-five they agreed that their interests and outlook on life were radically different. Now, fifteen years later, Arthur was the father of three sons and active in New York politics. Lillian’s avocation had become archaeology, and every summer she had happily joined an archaeological dig. Five years ago, at age forty-five, she had gone on a dig headed by Professor Jonathan Lyons and that had changed both their lives.
I am the reason Kathleen killed Jonathan, was the thought that had haunted Lillian’s dreams at night since his death. And it wasn’t necessary. Jonathan was going to give me up. He came to me last week and said that he couldn’t live this way any longer, that it was making Kathleen’s condition worse, and that his relationship with Mariah had become unbearably strained.
The memory of that meeting was like a recording that played inLillian’s mind over and over again on Saturday morning. She could still see the pain in Jonathan’s eyes and hear the tremor in his voice. “Lily, I think you know how much I love you, and I did honestly think that when Kathleen was no longer aware, it would be all right to put her in a nursing home and divorce her. But I know now that I can’t do that. And I can’t spoil your life any longer. You’re only fifty years old. You should meet someone your own age. If Kathleen lives another ten years, and I do as well, I’ll be eighty. What life would you have with me then?”
Then Jonathan had added, “Some people have a premonition of their impending death. My father did. They say Abraham Lincoln, the week before he was shot, had a dream of his body lying in a casket in the White House. I know this may sound silly but I have a premonition that I am going to die soon.”
I talked him into seeing me one more time, Lillian thought. It would have been Tuesday morning. But then Kathleen shot him on Monday night.
Oh, God, what shall I do?
Alvirah had agreed to meet Lillian for lunch at one o’clock. I like her so much, Lillian thought. But I already know what she will tell me to do. I already know what the right thing to do is.
But am I going to do it? Maybe it’s too soon to decide. I’m not thinking straight.
Restlessly she walked around the apartment, making the bed, straightening up the bathroom, putting her few breakfast dishes in the dishwasher. The living room, restful with its earth-toned carpet and furniture, and the paintings of ancient sites on the walls, had always been Jonathan’s favorite room.
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