I'll Walk Alone - Mary Higgins Clark [101]
“Why would the girl have made up a story like that?” Willy asked.
“Who knows? Probably to justify herself for falling asleep on the job.”
An hour later, Alvirah was ringing the superintendent’s bell at Zan’s former apartment building. A young woman in a bathrobe answered the door.
“You must be Tiffany Shields,” Alvirah guessed, plastering her warmest smile on her face.
“So? What do you want?” was the hostile reply.
Alvirah had her card in her hand. “I’m Alvirah Meehan and I’m a columnist for the New York Globe. I’d love to interview you for a story I’m writing about Alexandra Moreland.” That’s not a lie, Alvi-rah told herself. I am going to write a column about Zan.
“You want to write about the stupid babysitter who everybody blamed for falling asleep while all this time it was his mother who was the kidnapper,” Tiffany snapped.
“No. I want to write about a teenage girl who was sick and only agreed to babysit because the child’s mother had to see a client and the new nanny hadn’t showed up.”
“Tiffany, who’s there?”
Looking past Tiffany into the foyer, Alvirah could see a broad-shouldered, balding man approaching them. She was about to introduce herself when Tiffany said, “Dad, this lady wants to interview me for an article she’s writing.”
“My daughter has taken enough of a pounding from you people,” Tiffany’s father said. “Just go home, lady.”
“I don’t intend to pound anyone,” Alvirah said. “Tiffany, listen to me. Zan Moreland has told me how much Matthew loved you, and that you and she were real friends. She told me that she knew you were sick and she blamed herself for insisting that you mind Matthew that day. That’s the story I want to tell.”
Alvirah kept her fingers crossed as the father and daughter looked at each other. Then the father said, “I think you should talk to this lady, Tiffany.”
As Tiffany opened the door wide to allow Alvirah to enter, her father escorted Alvirah into the living room and introduced himself. “I’m Marty Shields. I’ll leave you two. I’ve got to get upstairs to check out someone’s lock.” Then he looked down at the card. “Hey, wait a minute. Aren’t you the lady who won the lottery and wrote a book about solving crimes?”
“Yes. I am,” Alvirah acknowledged.
“Tiffany, your mother loved that book. She went to a bookstore and you signed it for her, Mrs. Meehan. She said she had a nice talk with you about it. She’s at work now. She’s a sales woman in Bloomingdale’s. I can tell you right now she’ll be real sorry she missed you. Okay, I’m on my way.”
What a piece of luck that his wife liked my book, Alvirah thought happily, as she took a straight chair near the couch where Tiffany was curling up. Tiffany is just a kid, she decided, and I can understand what kind of stress she’s been under all this time. I’ve heard her phone call played on the news and so have millions of other people.
“Tiffany,” she began, “my husband and I have been good friends with Zan almost since the time Matthew disappeared. I have to stress that I never once heard her blame you for what happened that day. I never ask her about Matthew because I know how hard it is for her to talk about him. What was he like?”
“He was adorable,” Tiffany said promptly. “And so smart. That isn’t surprising. Zan read to him every night, and on weekends she would take him everywhere. He loved to go to the zoo and he could name all the animals. He could count to twenty and never miss a number. Of course, Zan is a real artist. Her sketches of rooms and furniture and window treatments that she does for her job are wonderful. Even at three you could tell that Matthew had a real talent for drawing. He had big brown eyes that could look so solemn when he was thinking. And his hair was starting to turn red.”
“And you and Zan were real friends?”
Tiffany’s expression became wary. “Yes, I guess so.”
“Over a year ago, I remember she told me that you two were good friends, and that you always admired her clothes. Didn’t she sometimes give you a scarf or gloves or a pocketbook that she didn’t need?”