The Chrysalis (26 page)

thirty-five

NEW YORK CITY, PRESENT DAY

T
HE MARBLE BENCH FELT COLD AGAINST MARA'S SKIN. THE
air around her was still and frigid, even though the day outside burned bright and warm. The long room was a haze of gray-and-white granite honoring Lillian's ancestors, indistinct through the blur of Mara's tears. Lillian's memorial plaque alone appeared clear.

Silence engulfed the mausoleum now that the mourners had departed. Mara was relieved. She wanted to be alone with her pain, her loss, her guilt, and not to feel the old impulse to put up a good front for others.

The loud clack of approaching steps echoed through the chamber. At first, Mara started to flee. As she rushed about looking for an exit, she wondered how the intruder got past the guard she had engaged for protection from Michael, from Philip, from those they might hire to stop her from revealing the other purloined Strasser documents. They didn't know she planned on keeping those documents secret, for proper restitution and private amends; she no longer counted on the courts as an equitable recourse.

Mara was almost at the heavy wrought-iron gates when she collided with the intruder: Sophia.

Sophia reached out to stop her old friend from running, hurried in her speech, and stumbled over her words. “Mara, I've come to apologize. I know there is nothing I can say or do…I don't know how I can make it up….” Eyes brimming with contrition, she began to weep. “I can't believe I didn't help you. Worse, I can't believe I brought you to Michael in the diner, after all I've read about him in the papers. I should've trusted you.”

“Yes, you should have. Sophia, I didn't think that you'd help me, but I didn't expect you to betray me.”

“Mara, please believe me that I didn't think I was betraying you. I thought I was rescuing you, stopping you from destroying your career.” The words were barely intelligible through the sobs. “It's just that my moral compass was so off course. I was righteous about all the wrong things.”

This was really the first time Mara had seen Sophia cry, and it weakened Mara's resolve. She knew that Sophia hadn't acted out of malice, but full mercy still eluded her. “I believe you, Sophia. But I may never get to forgiveness.”

“Oh, Mara, I don't expect forgiveness. How could I after I threw you in the lion's den? Or should I say, brought you to the lion? I'm just thankful you're willing to talk to me.” She wiped the tears from her face and, out of long habit, patted her hair back into place. “Well, I guess I'll leave you alone now. Mara, if there's anything I can do…”

Mara paused. “You could tell me about the fallout from the
New York Times
article three days ago.”

“You really don't know?”

“No, I've kind of been in hiding, ignoring reporters' messages and too many calls from my father to count. Today's the first day that I've been back in public since the article ran.”

“The authorities dove right in; in fact, the federal and state agencies fought a little turf war as to who should lead the charge. They contacted that reporter you talked to and got the documents from her. Then they made Michael and Philip targets of their investigation. They haven't filed any charges just yet, but the rumor is that they'll bring Michael and Philip before a grand jury on criminal fraud for their
Chrysalis
scheme.”

“Are they being blamed equally for it?”

“Philip tried to distance himself and pin it all on Michael, but Michael dragged him right back into it. They're hardly a unified front right now.”

“What about Lillian's death? Has that been associated with all this?”

“Should it be?” Sophia's mouth dropped open.

Mara paused for a moment, struggling with whether to answer the question. She had made a vow to shield Lillian's involvement, and she knew if she revealed the connection between Lillian's death and Michael and Philip's actions, she would be revealing Lillian's connection with
The Chrysalis
's flawed provenance. Yet Mara did not believe that Lillian would want Michael and Philip to escape punishment for their involvement in her death.

“Yes, it should be.”

Sophia's mouth widened. “Oh my God.”

“I know,” Mara uttered softly. “I need to go to the police. I'm just a little overwhelmed by the prospect of reliving the past few days for them.”

The women sat in the oppressive quiet of the mausoleum, each lost in her own thoughts.

Sophia broke the silence. “Let me go to the police for you, Mara.”

“You? Why should
you
go?”

“You've been through too much, and it will buy you some time. It's the very least I can do…after I betrayed you to Michael.” Sophia turned to Mara, her eyes red from crying. “Please.”

Moved by Sophia's plea, Mara softened and decided to let Sophia pay her uncommon penance. She shared with Sophia the information she would have to impart to the police and then, emotionally drained, changed the subject to less charged matters. “Has any of this impacted Harlan?”

“Not really. There's been some gossip about his suspicious ties to Philip; maybe that scuttlebutt will shrink his stature one day. But right now, he's still as big as ever, literally and figuratively.”

“And what about me?”

“What do you mean?”

“How does the firm judge my actions?”

“Oh.” Sophia broke the eye contact she had been so desperate to make minutes before. “Certain partners sympathize with your actions, but they're in the minority. Most don't condone your behavior, even though the authorities seem willing. The naysayers worry about the impact on the clients' confidence.”

“That's what I figured. I didn't think there'd be a job waiting for me. I accepted that the minute I contacted the
Times.
” As the women sat in silence, Mara thought about what she had kept hidden, beyond the other Strasser documents: the new domicile of the “stolen”
Chrysalis.
Had she taken the right route by not heading back to the reporter? Mara thought so. Hilda had endured enough loss; if
The Chrysalis
helped ease her suffering, then let it stay with her, however deceitfully she had obtained it. The Jesuits would receive the money they sought anyway. All Mara still wanted was to see Michael punished and to have a clear pathway for a private return of the rest of the Strasser paintings.

Just then, a finger tapped her shoulder. Mara jumped. A gentle, non-threatening face, with graying brown hair and soft eyes magnified by thick glasses, stared back at her. Sloping shoulders and a nondescript charcoal-gray suit completed the man's unassuming appearance.

His voice matched his countenance and put her at ease. “Ms. Coyne, please forgive me for bothering you during this difficult time, particularly today, but I've been trying to reach you for days. I understood from mutual acquaintances that you were lying low, after all the news articles about
The Chrysalis
and the investigation at Beazley's. I thought this might be our only chance to speak.”

On guard, Mara demanded, “Who are you?”

“Again, my apologies. My name is Timothy Edwards. I'm the late Miss Joyce's attorney.”

“Oh…I guess it's my turn to apologize.”

“Not at all, Ms. Coyne. Not at all.” He glanced over at Sophia, uncomfortable with her presence.

His unease registered with Sophia, who stood. “I guess I'll take my leave. Mara, if you need anything, anything in the world, please call me.” Sophia's eyes welled up again. “Again, I'm so sorry.”

Timothy, as he insisted she call him, asked if they could sit together.

“Of course.” Mara listened as Timothy shared with her his firm's long-standing representation of Lillian. The relationship stemmed back to his father's time and Lillian's father's time, and included the handling of Lillian's father's will as well as Lillian's own.

Mara grew confused. “Timothy, while I appreciate all this history, I really don't see what it has to do with me.”

“Ms. Coyne, it has everything to do with you. You're a beneficiary of Miss Joyce's estate. She has left to you a painting of particular importance to her, and she has made you the beneficiary of a substantial trust.”

Mara, who had believed she now possessed a certain immunity from shock, was dumbfounded. She explained to the hapless Timothy her deep feelings for Lillian and her enormous gratitude, but weren't there others who might prove more worthy recipients?

Timothy placed his hand on hers. “Ms. Coyne, it's not for me to understand, or to judge, my client's wishes. It's my job to carry out those desires. Miss Joyce came to me ten days ago and asked me to change her will in accordance with her directions. She explained her warm affection for you and the fact that she wanted to leave you the trust and the painting on the stipulation that you would carry out certain work you two had begun.” He cast his eyes down.

“What kind of work?” Mara thought she knew but needed to hear him say it aloud.

“I'd prefer to let her explain it to you. She left you a letter, which is back in my office.”

“Can you at least give me a hint?”

He coughed, a nervous tic. He obviously knew but was reluctant to say. “I believe it has to do with the restitution of the Strasser paintings. It's all highly confidential, of course.”

As they drove back into the city in Timothy's car, he explained that Lillian had, in fact, no family to speak of. An only child of only-child parents, their legacy was hers exclusively, hers to pass on as she wished. Lillian had earmarked her birthright—not enormous but not inconsequential, Timothy assured Mara—for a number of charities. But, with the entry of Mara into Lillian's life, that had changed in part.

Entering his office, Timothy fended off Mara's relentless questions. “Really, Ms. Coyne, I would prefer Miss Joyce to explain it for herself. Here is her letter.”

Timothy left Mara to her privacy. She settled into one of his high-backed leather wing chairs and opened the envelope. Tears streamed down her face at the first sight of Lillian's perfect penmanship. Brushing them away, she savored Lillian's parting words.

Dear Mara,

It feels unbelievably maudlin and trite to be saying—as if we were in some stormy mystery novel—that if you are reading this letter, then my time has come. But it must be so, and rather than wallow in the inevitable, I prefer to discuss the terms of my bequest, which I expect that my steadfast Timothy has now shared with you.

I am certain that my bequest will come as a shock to you. Oh, I know, you think that I tolerated you at best, but the truth is that I admire you. You alone rose to defend right when no one else would do so—including myself, very nearly. Thus, I have every confidence that you will embrace the conditions for the trust of which you are now the beneficiary: the restitution of the Strasser paintings, as I am loath but forced to dub them, to their rightful owners. I cannot allow my legacy to be besmirched by Edward's maltreatment of me, even if no one but you and I ever discover it. The return of the Strasser paintings is a necessary tonic for the easing of my tormented conscience and, quite possibly, my wandering soul.

The bequest of the Miereveld painting above my mantel, however, has no such provisos, no conditions whatsoever. Of all my possessions, it is my most cherished one. I acquired the painting some years ago in commemoration not only of the very first provenance I completed—the now-tainted
Chrysalis
provenance that launched my career—but also in honor of my distant ancestral relationship to its creator, Johannes Miereveld. Yes, I know, I should have told you of this genealogical tie, but, until very recently, with some private research I undertook as part of our
Chrysalis
crusade, the connection was only anecdotal, and I felt a bit foolish in flaunting it. In any event, the painting is for you and you alone, and I believe you will appreciate it as no other.