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11
Sondra felt the eyes of the monsignor following her when she fled from church. Trying to muffle her sobs, she jogged hack to the hotel. Once there, she showered, ordered coffee, then pressed cold wet cloths against her swollen eyes. I’ve got to stop crying, she told herself fiercely. I’ve got to stop crying! The concert was so very important, and she had to be prepared.
At nine o’clock she was scheduled to go to her rented studio in Carnegie Hall and practice for five hours. She had to get herself together. She knew she had been off form yesterday, distracted, not playing nearly to her usual standard.
But how can I think about anything but the baby? Sondra kept asking herself. What happened to my little girl? For these past seven years she had been picturing her living with a wonderful couple who maybe hadn’t had a child of their own and who loved and worshiped her. But now she had no idea who had found her-or even if she had been found at all.
She looked in the mirror. What a mess! She thought. Her face was blotchy and her eyes swollen. There was nothing more she could do about her eyes, she decided, but her long, delicate fingers moved deftly as she dabbed base makeup over her face to cover the evidence of her tears.
I’ll walk past the rectory again this afternoon, she decided. That thought at least was calming. It was the last place where she had seen her baby, and she felt near to her when she was there. Also, when she prayed at the portrait of Bishop Santori, something of the same peace her grandfather had described feeling when he prayed there all those years ago seemed to come to her. Her prayer was not to have the baby back. I don’t have the right to ask for that, she thought. Just give me a way to know she’s safe, and loved. That’s all I ask.
She had taken a parish bulletin from St. Clement’s, and now she dug it out of the pocket of her jogging jacket. Yes, she saw there was a five o’clock Mass. She would attend it, but she would arrive a little late. That way the monsignor wouldn’t have a chance to try to speak to her. Then she would slip out again before it was over.
As she twisted her dark-blond hair, gathering it up at the back of her head, she wondered if the baby had grown to look even a little bit like her.
12
Over a pot of tea and a generous slice of Kate Durkin’s melt-in-your-mouth crumb cake, Alvirah began to form a plan of action aimed at saving the townhouse from the clutches of the Bakers.
“Isn’t it awful to think that you have to keep your voice down in your own home?” Kate asked. “Those two are always pussyfooting around. Just before you arrived, my heart almost stopped when I turned around and saw the two of them watching me. That’s why I closed the door just now.” Then she glanced at the copy of her sister’s will and sighed. “I guess I can’t do anything about it, though. They seem to have everything in their favor.”
“We’ll see about that,” Alvirah said firmly as she turned on the microphone in her sunburst pin. “I’ve got a whole bunch of questions for you, so let’s get started. Now, Monsignor came over to see you on Friday the 27th. He said that there was no question in his mind that Bessie would be leaving the house to you, although he did know that she was unhappy at the prospect of having kids mess it up.”
Kate nodded. Her soft blue eyes-magnified by large, round glasses-were thoughtful. “You know Bessie,” she said. “She was so set in her ways, and she complained about how nothing would be the same here with a bunch of kids ru
“That was Friday the 27th, right?” Alvirah asked. “How was Bessie over the weekend?”
“Tired. Her heart was just giving out, and she knew it. She had me get out her blue print dress and have it pressed. Then she told me that when her time came I should put her pearls on her. She said they really weren’t valuable, but they were the only jewelry the judge ever gave her, other than the wedding band, of course, and that neither one was worth leaving to anyone. Then she said, ‘You know, Kate, Aloysius was really a good man. If I’d married him when I was young, I probably would have had a family of my own and wouldn’t have had a chance to get so fussy about scratches and finger marks.’
“That was Saturday?” Alvirah asked.
“Actually, Sunday.”
“Then on Monday she supposedly had the new will witnessed. Didn’t you hear her banging away on the typewriter before that? What did you think when the witnesses came in for the signing?”
“I never saw them,” Kate replied, shaking her head. “You know how I always volunteer for a couple of hours at the hospital on Monday and Friday afternoons. Bessie would never hear of me not going. She seemed pretty good when I left-she was sitting downstairs in her chair in the parlor, watching television. I remember she said she’d be glad to be rid of me for a few hours. That she was feeling all right and getting sick of me looking worried.”
“And where was she when you got home?”
“Why, still there, watching one of her soap operas.”
“All right. Now, the next thing I want to do is talk to those two witnesses.” Alvirah studied the last page of the will. “Do you have any idea who they are?”
“I’ve never heard of them,” Kate replied.
“Well, I intend to call on them. Their address is here under their signatures. James and Eileen Gordon, on West Seventy-ninth.” Alvirah looked up as Vic Baker pushed open the door to the dining room without knocking.
“Having a nice little cup of tea?” he asked with forced joviality.
“We were,” Alvirah said.
“1 just wanted to let you know that we’re going out for a bit, but when we come back we’ll be glad to help you carry dear Bessie’s clothing downstairs.”
“We’re going to take good care of Bessie’s possessions,” Alvirah told him. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”
The cheery expression disappeared from Baker’s face. “I happened to have overheard what you just said about speaking to the witnesses, Mrs. Meehan,” he snapped. “I’ll be happy to give you their phone number. You’ll find them to be perfectly responsible people.” He fished in his pocket. “As a matter of fact, I have their card.”
Baker handed Alvirah the card, then turned and walked out, pulling the door closed behind him with a bang. Both women turned and watched as the door slowly swung open again.
“It won’t stay closed,” Kate said. “He’s one of those fixit guys who talks a good game, and obviously he impressed Bessie. The truth is he can use a paintbrush, but that’s about it.” She pointed to the door. “Did you notice he didn’t turn the knob just now? He pushed the door open. It used to stick, so he shaved it down. Now it doesn’t even catch. Same thing in the parlor-that’s become a swinging door.” She sniffed.
Alvirah was only half listening. She was studying the card Vic Baker had given her. “This is a business card,” she said. “The Gordons have a real estate agency. Now how about that?”
“He may not be able to fix doors, but he sure can get a will done,” Alvirah told Willy late that afternoon, when he arrived home and found her sitting dejectedly in the living room of their apartment. “Jim and Eileen Gordon seem like straight arrows to me.”
“How did they happen to become witnesses to the will?”
“According to them, almost accidentally. It seems that Vic Baker has been looking at townhouses and condos ever since he moved here nearly a year ago. They say they’ve taken him out a number of times, to look at homes. He had an appointment with them at three o’clock on the 30th, to see some place on Eighty-first Street, and while they were there, Linda apparently called him on his cell phone. She told him Bessie wasn’t feeling well and wanted to get her new will witnessed. Vic asked the Gordons if they would mind. So the Gordons went along, and-now this is the part that’s so upsetting-they tell me Vic and Linda both nearly fell over in a faint when Bessie read the will to them before she signed it.”