be penetrated by experts,” Benet told her. “Was it generally known that Mrs. Scott kept a lot of valuable jewelry in her home?”
“I don’t know. She talked about it to us, but certainly everyone knew she had a business creating her own designs and always wore beautiful jewelry.”
As she was speaking, Mariah felt as though she was an observer of what was going on in this room. She looked past the detectives to the portrait of her father hanging over the piano. It was a wonderful likeness that captured the intelligence in his expression and the hint of a smile that was never far from his lips.
The sun was streaming through the windows on the back wall, creating patterns of light on the geometric design of the creamy carpet.Feeling somehow detached, Mariah realized how much cleaning Betty must have done to restore the shining orderliness of the spacious living room after the investigators had dusted for fingerprints. It seemed incredible to her that the room was now again so cheerful and welcoming, with its matching floral-patterned couches and wing chairs at the fireplace and occasional tables that could be moved so easily. When her father’s friends had visited they would always pull the chairs up to the couch to form a semicircle where they would have coffee and a nightcap after dinner.
Greg, Richard, Albert, Charles.
How often had she sat here with them over the years since her father had retired from teaching? Some nights Betty would cook, but other nights, her father would take over the kitchen. Cooking had become a hobby for him, and he had not only enjoyed it but had been naturally good at it. Three weeks ago he made a big green salad, a Virginia ham, baked macaroni, and garlic bread, she thought. That was the last dinner we all had together…
The last dinner. The last supper. Dad’s seventieth birthday.
She had to tell the detectives about the parchment her father may have found.
With a start, she realized that both detectives had been observing her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You asked about Lisa’s jewelry.”
“From what you said, she was known to have it, and maybe some people knew she kept it at home. But frankly, Ms. Lyons, that isn’t our focus. We came here to speak with you and your mother. Since Mr. Scott has said he is now representing your mother, perhaps we can sit down now and talk to you.”
“Yes, of course,” Mariah said, trying to keep her voice steady. Suppose it comes up about the gun? she thought. How much should I tell them if they ask? Stalling for time, she said, “Please let me first check on my mother. There are some medications she has to take now.”
Without waiting for a reply, she went into the foyer and saw Kathleen, followed by Delia, coming down the stairs. With a determined expression, Kathleen walked rapidly through the foyer into her husband’s study, opened the door of the closet, and pushed Delia away. “You can’t come in here!” she shouted.
“Mom, please… ” Mariah’s pleading voice could be heard in the living room.
Benet and Rodriguez looked at each other. “I want to see this,” Benet said quietly. Together they went into the study. Kathleen Lyons was sitting at the far end of the closet, hunched against the wall. In an anguished voice she kept repeating, “So much noise… so much blood.”
“Shall I try moving her?” Delia asked Mariah uncertainly.
“No, it’s useless,” Mariah said. “Just stay in the room. I’ll sit in there with her for a while.”
Delia nodded and stood at the place where Jonathan’s leather chair had been. Seeing her in that exact spot brought back to Mariah the vivid memory of her father sprawled on that chair, blood dripping from his head. The police had removed the chair as evidence on the night of the murder. Will they give it back to me? she wondered. Do I want it back?
“Ms. Lyons,” Benet said quietly, “we really need to speak with you.”
“Now?” she asked. “You can see how my
“I don’t know. She talked about it to us, but certainly everyone knew she had a business creating her own designs and always wore beautiful jewelry.”
As she was speaking, Mariah felt as though she was an observer of what was going on in this room. She looked past the detectives to the portrait of her father hanging over the piano. It was a wonderful likeness that captured the intelligence in his expression and the hint of a smile that was never far from his lips.
The sun was streaming through the windows on the back wall, creating patterns of light on the geometric design of the creamy carpet.Feeling somehow detached, Mariah realized how much cleaning Betty must have done to restore the shining orderliness of the spacious living room after the investigators had dusted for fingerprints. It seemed incredible to her that the room was now again so cheerful and welcoming, with its matching floral-patterned couches and wing chairs at the fireplace and occasional tables that could be moved so easily. When her father’s friends had visited they would always pull the chairs up to the couch to form a semicircle where they would have coffee and a nightcap after dinner.
Greg, Richard, Albert, Charles.
How often had she sat here with them over the years since her father had retired from teaching? Some nights Betty would cook, but other nights, her father would take over the kitchen. Cooking had become a hobby for him, and he had not only enjoyed it but had been naturally good at it. Three weeks ago he made a big green salad, a Virginia ham, baked macaroni, and garlic bread, she thought. That was the last dinner we all had together…
The last dinner. The last supper. Dad’s seventieth birthday.
She had to tell the detectives about the parchment her father may have found.
With a start, she realized that both detectives had been observing her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You asked about Lisa’s jewelry.”
“From what you said, she was known to have it, and maybe some people knew she kept it at home. But frankly, Ms. Lyons, that isn’t our focus. We came here to speak with you and your mother. Since Mr. Scott has said he is now representing your mother, perhaps we can sit down now and talk to you.”
“Yes, of course,” Mariah said, trying to keep her voice steady. Suppose it comes up about the gun? she thought. How much should I tell them if they ask? Stalling for time, she said, “Please let me first check on my mother. There are some medications she has to take now.”
Without waiting for a reply, she went into the foyer and saw Kathleen, followed by Delia, coming down the stairs. With a determined expression, Kathleen walked rapidly through the foyer into her husband’s study, opened the door of the closet, and pushed Delia away. “You can’t come in here!” she shouted.
“Mom, please… ” Mariah’s pleading voice could be heard in the living room.
Benet and Rodriguez looked at each other. “I want to see this,” Benet said quietly. Together they went into the study. Kathleen Lyons was sitting at the far end of the closet, hunched against the wall. In an anguished voice she kept repeating, “So much noise… so much blood.”
“Shall I try moving her?” Delia asked Mariah uncertainly.
“No, it’s useless,” Mariah said. “Just stay in the room. I’ll sit in there with her for a while.”
Delia nodded and stood at the place where Jonathan’s leather chair had been. Seeing her in that exact spot brought back to Mariah the vivid memory of her father sprawled on that chair, blood dripping from his head. The police had removed the chair as evidence on the night of the murder. Will they give it back to me? she wondered. Do I want it back?
“Ms. Lyons,” Benet said quietly, “we really need to speak with you.”
“Now?” she asked. “You can see how my
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