I'll Be Seeing You (17 page)

As she began the long drive back to Connecticut she realized that the smooth, pleasant interview with Dr. Williams had been a respite.

Now her thoughts were back to the moment Cyrus Graham had greeted her as Annie. Every word he said in their time together replayed in her mind.

That same evening, at 8:15, Fiona Black phoned Bob Marron. “Edwin Collins is dead,” she said quietly. “He has been dead for many months. His body is submerged in water.”

I
t was nine-thirty when Meghan arrived home on Thursday night, relieved to find that Mac was waiting with her mother. Seeing the question in his eyes, she nodded. It was a gesture not lost on her mother.

“Meg, what is it?”

Meg could catch the lingering aroma of onion soup. “Any of that left?” She waved her hand in the direction of the kitchen.

“You didn't have any dinner? Mac, pour her a glass of wine while I heat something up.”

“Just soup, Mom, please.”

When Catherine left, Mac came over to her. “How bad was it,” he asked, his voice low.

She turned away, not wanting him to see the weary tears that threatened to spill over. “Pretty bad.”

“Meg, if you want to talk to your mother alone, I'll get out of here. I just thought she needed company, and Mrs. Dileo was willing to stay with Kyle.”

“That was nice of you, Mac, but you shouldn't have left Kyle. He looks forward to you coming home so much. Little kids shouldn't be disappointed. Don't ever let him down.”

She felt that she was babbling. Mac's hands were holding her face, turning it to him.

“Meggie, what's the matter?”

Meg pressed her knuckles to her lips. She must not break down. “It's just . . .”

She could not go on. She felt Mac's arms around her. Oh God, to just let go, to be held by him. The letter. Nine years ago he had come to her with the letter she had written, the letter that begged him not to marry Ginger . . .

“I think you'd rather I didn't save this,” he'd said then. He'd put his arm around her then as well, she remembered. “Meg, someday you'll fall in love. What you feel for me is something else. Everyone feels that way when a best friend gets married. There's always the fear that everything will be different. It won't be that way between us. We'll always be buddies.”

The memory was as sharp as a dash of cold water. Meg straightened up and stepped back. “I'm all right, I'm just tired and hungry.” She heard her mother's footsteps and waited until she was back in the room. “I have some pretty disturbing news for you, Mom.”

“I think I should leave you two to talk it out,” Mac said.

It was Catherine who stopped him. “Mac, you're family. I wish you'd stay.”

They sat at the kitchn table. It seemed to Meghan that
she could feel her father's presence. He was the one who would fix the late-evening supper if the restaurant had been crowded and her mother too busy to eat. He was a perfect mimic, taking on the mannerisms of one of the captains dealing with a cranky guest. “This table is not satisfactory? The banquette? Of course. A draft? But there is no window open. The inn is sealed shut. Perhaps it is the air flowing between your ears, madame.”

Sipping a glass of wine, the steaming soup so appetizing, but untouched until she could tell them about the meeting in Chestnut Hill, Meghan talked about her father. She deliberately told about his childhood first, about Cyrus Graham's belief that the reason he turned his back on his mother was that he could not endure the chance of her abandoning him again.

Meghan watched her mother's face and found the reaction she had hoped for, pity for the little boy who had not been wanted, for the man who could not risk being hurt a third time.

But then it was necessary to tell her about the meeting in Scottsdale between Cyrus Graham and Edwin Collins.

“He introduced another woman as his wife?” There was no expression in her mother's voice.

“Mom, I don't know. Graham knew that Dad was married and had a daughter. He assumed that Dad was with his wife and daughter. Dad said something to him like, ‘Frances and Annie, this is Cyrus Graham.' Mom, did Dad have any other relatives you know about? Is it a possibility that we have cousins in Arizona?”

“For God's sake, Meg, if I didn't know that your grandmother was alive all those years, how would I know about cousins?” Catherine Collins bit her lip. “I'm sorry.” Her expression changed. “You say your father's stepbrother thought you were Annie. You looked that much like her?”

“Yes.” Meg looked imploringly at Mac.

He understood what she was asking. “Meg,” he said, “I don't think there's any point in not telling your mother why we went to New York yesterday.”

“No, there isn't. Mom, there's something else you have to know . . .” She looked steadily at her mother as she told her what she had hoped to conceal.

When she finished, her mother sat staring past her as though trying to understand what she had been hearing.

Finally, in a steady voice that was almost a monotone, she said, “A girl was stabbed who looked like you, Meg? She was carrying a piece of paper from Drumdoe Inn with your name and work number in Dad's handwriting? Within hours after she died, you got a fax that said, ‘Mistake. Annie was a mistake'?”

Catherine's eyes became bleak and frightened.

“You went to have your DNA checked against hers because you thought you might be related to that girl.”

“I did it because I'm trying to find answers.”

“I'm glad I saw that Fiona woman tonight,” Catherine burst out. “Meg, I don't suppose you'll approve, but Bob Marron of the New Milford police phoned this afternoon . . .”

Meg listened as her mother spoke of Fiona Black's visit. It's bizarre, she thought, but no more bizarre than anything else that's happened these last months.

At ten-thirty, Mac got up to leave. “If I may give advice, I'd suggest that both of you go to bed,” he said.

Mrs. Dileo, Mac's housekeeper, was watching television when he arrived home. “Kyle was so disappointed when you didn't get home before he fell asleep,” she said. “Well, I'll be on my way.”

Mac waited until her car pulled out, then turned off the outside lights and locked the door. He went in to look at Kyle. His small son was hunched in the fetal position, the pillow bunched under his head.

Mac tucked the covers around him, bent down and kissed the top of his head. Kyle seemed to be just fine, a pretty normal kid, but now Mac asked himself if he was ignoring any signals that Kyle might be sending out. Most other seven-year-olds grew up with mothers. Mac wasn't
sure if the overwhelming surge of tenderness he felt now was for his son, or for the little boy Edwin Collins had been fifty years ago in Philadelphia. Or for Catherine and Meghan, who surely were the victims of the unhappy childhood of their husband and father.

Meghan and Catherine saw Stephanie Petrovic's impassioned interview at the Manning Clinic on the eleven o'clock news. Meg listened as the anchorman reported that Stephanie Petrovic had lived with her aunt in their New Jersey home. “The body is being shipped to Rumania; the memorial mass will be held at noon in St. Dominic's Rumanian Church in Trenton,” he finished.

“I'm going to that mass,” Meghan told her mother. “I want to talk to that girl.”

At eight o'clock Friday morning, Bob Marron received a call at home. An illegally parked car, a dark blue Cadillac sedan, had been ticketed in Battery Park City, Manhattan, outside Meghan Collins' apartment house. The car was registered to Edwin Collins, and appeared to be the car he was driving the evening he disappeared.

As Marron dialed State Attorney John Dwyer he said to his wife, “The psychic sure dropped the ball on this one.”

Fifteen minutes later, Marron was telling Meghan about the discovery of her father's car. He asked if she and Mrs. Collins could come to John Dwyer's office. He would like to see them together as soon as possible.

E
arly Friday morning, Bernie watched again the replay of the interview he had taped at the Manning Clinic. He didn't hold the camera steady enough, he decided. The picture wobbled. He'd be more careful next time.

“Bernard!” His mother was yelling for him at the top of the stairs. Reluctantly he turned off the equipment.

“I'll be right there, Mama.”

“Your breakfast is getting cold.” His mother was wrapped in her flannel robe. It had been washed so often that the neck and the sleeves and the seat were threadbare. Bernie had told her that she washed it too much, but Mama said she was a clean person, that in her house you could eat off the floors.

This morning Mama was in a bad mood. “I was sneezing a lot last night,” she told him as she dished out oatmeal from the pot on the stove. “I think I smelled dust coming from the basement just now. You do mop the floor down there, don't you?”

“Yes, I do, Mama.”

“I wish you'd fix those cellar stairs so I can get down there and see for myself.”

Bernie knew that his mother would never take a chance on those stairs. One of the steps was broken, and the bannister was wobbly.

“Mama, those stairs are dangerous. Remember what happened to your hip—and now, what with your arthritis, your knees are really bad.”

“Don't think I'm taking a chance like that again,” she
snapped. “But see that you keep it mopped. I don't know why you spend so much time down there anyhow.”

“Yes, you do, Mama. I don't need much sleep, and if I have the television on in the living room, it keeps you awake.” Mama had no idea about all the electronic equipment he had and she never would.

“I didn't sleep much last night. My allergies were at me.”

“I'm sorry, Mama.” Bernie finished the lukewarm oatmeal. “I'll be late.” He grabbed his jacket.

She followed him to the door. When he was going down the walk, she called after him, “I'm glad to see you're keeping the car decent for a change.”

After the phone call from Bob Marron, Meghan hurriedly showered, dressed and went down to the kitchen. Her mother was already there, preparing breakfast.

Catherine's attempt at a cheery “Good morning, Meg” froze on her lips as she saw Meg's face. “What is it?” she asked. “I did hear the phone ring when I was in the shower, didn't I?”

Meg took both her mother's hands in hers. “Mom, look at me. I'm going to be absolutely honest with you. I thought for months that Daddy was lost on the bridge that night. With all that's happened this past week I need to make myself think as a lawyer and reporter. Look at all the possibilities, weigh each one carefully. I tried to make myself consider whether he might be alive and in serious trouble. But I know . . . I am sure . . . that what has gone on these last few days was something Dad would never do to us. That call, the flowers . . . and now . . .” She stopped.

“And now, what, Meg?”

“Dad's car was found in the city, illegally parked outside my apartment building.”

“Mother of God!” Catherine's face went ashen.

“Mom, someone else put it there. I don't know why, but there's a reason behind all of this. The assistant state
attorney wants to see us. He and his investigators are going to try to persuade us that Dad is alive. They didn't know him. We did. Whatever else may have been wrong in his life, he wouldn't send those flowers or leave his car where he'd be sure it would be found. He'd know how frantic we'd be. When we have this meeting, we're going to stick to our guns and defend him.”

Neither one of them cared about food. They brought steaming cups of coffee out to the car. As Meghan backed out of the garage, trying to sound matter-of-fact, she said, “It may be illegal to drive one-handed, but coffee does help.”

“That's because we're both so cold, inside and out. Look, Meg. The first dusting of snow is on the lawn. It's going to be a long winter. I've always loved winter. Your father hated it. That was one of the reasons he didn't mind traveling so much. Arizona is warm all year, isn't it?”

When they passed the Drumdoe Inn, Meghan said, “Mom, look over there. When we get back I'm going to drop you at the inn. You're going to work, and I'm going to start looking for answers. Promise me you won't say anything about what Cyrus Graham told me yesterday. Remember, he only assumed the woman and girl Dad was with ten years ago were you and me. Dad never introduced them except by their names, Frances and Annie. But until we can do some checking on our own, let's not give the state attorney any more reason to destroy Dad's reputation.”

Meghan and Catherine were escorted immediately to John Dwyer's office. He was waiting there with investigators Bob Marron and Arlene Weiss. Meghan took the chair next to her mother, her hand protectively covering hers.

It was quickly apparent what was wanted. All three, the attorney and the officers, were convinced that Edwin Collins was alive and about to directly contact his wife
and daughter. “The phone call, the flowers, now his car,” Dwyer pointed out. “Mrs. Collins, you knew your husband had a gun permit?”