Moonlight Becomes You

39

When Maggie first awoke on Friday morning, she squinted at the clock and saw that it was only six. She knew she probably had had enough sleep, but she wasn’t yet willing to get up, so she closed her eyes again. About half an hour later she fell into an uneasy sleep in which vague, troublesome dreams came and went, then faded altogether when she woke up again at seven-thirty.

She arose feeling groggy and headachy and decided that a brisk, after-breakfast walk along Ocean Drive would probably help clear her head. I need that, she thought, especially since I’ve got to go to the cemeteries again this morning.

And tomorrow you’ll be at Trinity Cemetery for Mrs. Shipley’s funeral, an interior voice reminded her. For the first time, Maggie realized that Mrs. Bainbridge had said that Greta Shipley was being buried there. Not that that made a difference. She would have gone to both cemeteries today no matter what. After spending so much time going over those photographs last night, she was anxious to see what was causing the odd glint she detected on Nuala’s grave.

She showered, dressed in jeans and a sweater, and had a quick juice and coffee before she went out. Maggie was immediately glad she had made the decision to take the walk. The early fall day was magnificent. The sun was brilliant as it rose in the sky, though there was a cool ocean breeze that made her thankful she had reached for her jacket. There was also the glorious sound of the crashing waves, and the unique, wonderful scent of salt and sea life that filled the air.

I could fall in love with this place, she thought. Nuala spent her summers here when she was a girl. How she must have missed this when she moved away from it.

After a mile, Maggie turned and retraced her steps. Looking up, she realized that only a glimpse of the third floor of Nuala’s house-my house, she thought-showed from the road. There are too many trees around it, she told herself. They should come down or at least be trimmed. And I wonder why the end of the property that would afford a drop-dead view of the ocean has never been built on. Could there be restrictions against building there?

The question nagged at her as she finished her walk. I really should look into that, she thought. From what Nuala told me, Tim Moore bought this property at least fifty years ago. Haven’t there been any changes in building restrictions since then? she wondered.

Back at the house, she paused only long enough to have another quick cup of coffee before she left promptly at nine. She wanted to get the cemetery visits over with.

40

At quarter past nine, Neil Stephens stopped his car in front of the mailbox with the name MOORE painted on it. He got out, walked up the path and onto the porch, and rang the bell. There was no answer. Feeling like a voyeur, he went over to the window. The shade was only half drawn, and he had a clear view into what seemed to be the living room.

Not knowing what he was looking for, other than for some tangible sign that Maggie Holloway might be there, he walked around to the back and peered through the window in the kitchen door. He could see a coffeepot on the stove, and next to the sink a cup and saucer and juice glass were upturned, suggesting that they had been rinsed and left to dry. But had they been there for days or only minutes?

Finally he decided he had nothing to lose by ringing a neighbor’s bell and inquiring whether anyone had seen Maggie. He received no response at the first two houses he tried. At the third house, the doorbell was answered by an attractive couple who appeared to be in their mid-sixties. As he quickly told them why he was there, he realized he had lucked out.

The couple, who introduced themselves as Irma and John Woods, told him of Nuala Moore’s death and funeral, and of Maggie’s presence in the house. “We were supposed to visit our daughter last Saturday but didn’t go until after Nuala’s funeral,” Mrs. Woods explained. “Just got back late last night. I know Maggie is here. I haven’t spoken to her since we got back, but I saw her go for a walk this morning.”

“And I saw her drive past about fifteen minutes ago,” John Woods volunteered.

They invited him in for coffee and told him about the night of the murder.

“What a sweet girl Maggie is,” Irma Woods sighed. “I could tell how heartbroken she was about losing Nuala, but she isn’t one to carry on. The hurt was all in her eyes.”

Maggie, Neil thought. I wish I could have been here for you.

The Woodses had no idea where Maggie might have gone this morning, or how long she would be out.

I’ll leave her a note to call me, Neil decided. There’s nothing else I can do. But then he had an inspiration. When he drove away five minutes later, he had left a note for Maggie on the door, and he also had her phone number tucked securely in his pocket.

41

Remembering the curious questions asked by the child who had wanted to know why she was taking pictures at Nuala’s grave, Maggie stopped at a florist’s and bought an assortment of fall flowers to place on the graves she intended to inspect.

As before, once she passed the entrance to St. Mary’s, the welcoming statue of the angel and the meticulously kept plots seemed to impart a sense of peace and immortality. Veering to the left, she drove up the winding incline that led to Nuala’s grave.

As she stepped from the car, she sensed that a workman weeding the gravel path nearby was watching her. She had heard of people being mugged in cemeteries, but the thought passed quickly. There were other workmen in the area as well.

But given the fact there was someone so close by, she was glad she had thought to pick up the flowers; she would rather not seem to be examining the grave. Squatting down next to the plot, she selected a half dozen of the flowers and laid them one by one at the base of the tombstone.

The flowers Greta Shipley had placed there on Tuesday had been removed, and Maggie quickly consulted the snapshot she was holding to see exactly where she had detected the glint of some metal-like object.

It was fortunate she had brought the picture, she realized, because the object she was looking for had sunk more deeply into the moist earth and easily could have been missed. But it was there.

She looked swiftly to the side and realized she had the workman’s undivided attention. Kneeling forward, she bowed her head and crossed herself, then let her folded hands drop to the ground. Still in the posture of prayer, her fingers touching the sod, she dug around the object and freed it.

She waited for a moment. When she glanced around again, the workman had his back turned to her. With one motion, she yanked the object up and hastily concealed it between her joined palms. As she did this, she heard a muffled ringing sound.

A bell? she thought. Why in God’s name would anyone bury a bell on Nuala’s grave? Certain that the workman had heard the sound as well, she got up and walked quickly back to her car.

She laid the bell down on top of the remaining flowers. Not wanting to stay another minute under the scrutiny of the watchful maintenance worker, she drove slowly in the direction of the second grave she wanted to visit. She parked in the nearby cul-de-sac, then looked around. There was no one nearby.

Opening the car window, she carefully picked up the bell and held it outside. After brushing off the loose earth that clung to it, she turned it around in her hand, examining it, her fingers holding the clapper to keep it from pealing.

The bell was about three inches high, and surprisingly heavy, not unlike an old-fashioned miniature school bell, except for the decorative garland of flowers bordering the base. The clapper was heavy too, she noticed. When allowed to hang freely, it no doubt could make quite a sound.

Maggie closed the car window, held the bell near the floor of the car and swung it. A melancholy but nevertheless clear ringing sound resounded through the car.

A Stone for Danny Fisher, she thought. That was the title of one of the books that had been in her father’s library. She remembered that as a child she had asked him what the title meant, and he had explained that it was a tradition in the Jewish faith that anyone stopping by the grave of a friend or relative would place a stone there as a sign of the visit.

Could this bell signify something like that? Maggie wondered. Feeling vaguely as though she were doing something amiss in taking the bell, she slid it out of sight under the seat of the car. Then she selected another half-dozen flowers, and with the appropriate photograph in hand, went to revisit the grave of another of Greta Shipley’s friends.

Her last stop was at Mrs. Rhinelander’s grave; it had been the photograph of this grave that most clearly seemed to show a gap in the sod near the base of the tombstone. As Maggie arranged the remaining flowers on the damp grass, her fingers sought and found the indented area.

• • •

Maggie needed to think, and she was not ready to go back to the house where there might be interruptions. Instead she drove into the center of town and found a luncheonette, where she ordered a toasted blueberry muffin and coffee.

I was hungry, she admitted to herself as the crusty muffin and strong coffee helped to dissipate the all-encompassing uneasiness she had experienced in the cemeteries.

Another memory of Nuala flashed into her mind. When Maggie was ten, Porgie, her roguish miniature poodle, had jumped on Nuala as she lay dozing on the couch. She had let out a shriek, and when Maggie went running in, Nuala had laughed and said, “Sorry, honey. I don’t know why I’m so jumpy. Someone must be walking on my grave.”

Then, because Maggie had been at an age when she wanted to know everything, Nuala had had to explain that the expression was an old Irish saying meaning that someone was walking over the spot where you would someday be buried.

There had to be a simple explanation for what she had found today, Maggie reasoned. Of the six burial plots she had visited, four, including Nuala’s, had bells at the base of the tombstone, each exactly like the others in weight and size. It appeared as well that one had been removed from the ground near Mrs. Rhinelander’s tombstone. So that meant only one of Greta Shipley’s friends had not received this odd tribute-if, indeed, that was what it was.

As she drained the last of the coffee and shook her head, refusing the waitress’s smiling offer of a refill, a name popped into Maggie’s mind: Mrs. Bainbridge!

Like Greta Shipley, she had been at Latham Manor since it opened. She must have known all those women too, Maggie realized.

Back in her car, Maggie called Letitia Bainbridge on the cellular phone. She was in her apartment.

“Come right over,” she told Maggie. “I’d love to see you. I’ve been a bit blue this morning.”

“I’m on my way,” Maggie replied.

When she replaced the phone in its cradle, she reached under the seat for the bell she had taken from Nuala’s grave. Then she put it in her shoulder bag.

She shuddered involuntarily as she pulled away from the curb. The metal had felt cold and clammy to her touch.

42

It had been one of the longest weeks of Malcolm Norton’s life. The shock of having Nuala Moore cancel the sale of her house, followed by Barbara’s announcement that she was going to visit for an extended period with her daughter in Vail, had left him numbed and frightened.

He had to get his hands on that house! Telling Janice about the impending change in the Wetlands Act had been a terrible mistake. He should have taken a chance and forged her name on the mortgage papers. He was that desperate.

Which was why, when Barbara put through the call from Chief Brower on this Friday morning, Malcolm felt perspiration spring out on his forehead. It took him a few moments to compose himself enough to be satisfied that his tone of voice would radiate good cheer.

“Good morning, Chief. How are you?” he said, trying to put a smile in his voice.

Chet Brower clearly was not in the mood for chitchat. “I’m fine. I’d like to drop over and talk with you for a few minutes today.”

What about? Malcolm thought, momentarily panicked, but said in a hearty voice, “That would be great, but I warn you, I already bought my tickets to the Policemen’s Ball.” Even in his own ears, his stab at humor fell flat.

“When are you free?” Brower snapped.

Norton had no intention of telling Brower exactly how free he was. “I had a closing at eleven that’s been postponed till one, so I do have an opening.”

“I’ll see you at eleven.”

Well after hearing the dismissive click, Malcolm stared nervously at the receiver he held in his hand. Finally he set it down.

There was a gentle tap on the door, and Barbara poked her head in the office. “Malcolm, is there anything wrong?”

“What could be wrong? He just wants to talk to me. The only thing I can imagine is that it has to do with last Friday night.”

“Oh, of course. The murder. The usual procedure is for the police to keep asking close friends if they might have remembered anything that didn’t seem important at the time. And, of course, you and Janice did go to Mrs. Moore’s for the dinner party.”

You and Janice. Malcolm frowned. Was that reference intended to remind him that he still had taken no action to legally separate from Janice? No, unlike his wife, Barbara didn’t play word games filled with hidden meanings. Her son-in-law was an assistant district attorney in New York; she had probably heard him talk about his cases, Malcolm reasoned. And, of course, television and movies were filled with details of police procedure.

She started to close the door again. “Barbara,” he said, his voice pleading, “just give me a little more time. Don’t leave me now.”

Her only answer was to close the door with a firm click.

• • •

Brower arrived promptly at eleven. He sat bolt upright in the armchair opposite Norton’s desk and got right to the point.

“Mr. Norton, you were due at Nuala Moore’s home at eight o’clock the night of the murder?”

“Yes, my wife and I arrived at perhaps ten after eight. From what I understand, you had just arrived on the scene. As you know, we were instructed to wait in the home of Nuala’s neighbors, the Woodses.”

“What time did you leave your office that evening?” Brower asked.

Norton’s eyebrows raised. He thought for a moment. “At the usual time… no, actually a bit later. About quarter of six. I had a closing outside the office and brought the file back here and checked on messages.”

“Did you go directly home from here?”

“Not quite. Barbara… Mrs. Hoffman, my secretary, had been out that day with a cold. The day before, she had taken home a file I needed to study over the weekend, so I stopped at her house to pick it up.”

“How long did that take?”

Norton thought for a moment. “She lives in Middletown. There was tourist traffic, so I’d say about twenty minutes each way.”

“So you were home around six-thirty.”

“Actually, it was probably a bit after that. Closer to seven, I should think.”

In fact, he had gotten home at seven-fifteen. He remembered the time distinctly. Silently, Malcolm cursed himself. Janice had told him that his face could have been read like an open book when Irma Woods had delivered the news about Nuala’s will. “You looked as if you wanted to kill someone,” she had said, a smirk on her face. “You can’t even plan to cheat someone without something going wrong.”

So this morning he quickly had prepared answers to questions that he anticipated Brower would ask about his reaction to the canceled sale. He would not let his emotions show again. And he was glad he had thought the situation through thoroughly, because, in fact, the officer asked a number of questions, probing for details of the proposed sale.

“Must have been a bit of a letdown,” Brower mused, “but on the other hand, every realtor in town has a house like Nuala Moore’s, just begging to be bought.”

Meaning, why did I want this one? Norton thought.

“Sometimes people can really want a house just because it grabs them. It says ‘Buy me, I’m yours,’” the chief continued.

Norton waited.

“You and Mrs. Norton must have really fallen in love with it,” Brower conjectured. “Word is, you mortgaged your own house to pay for it.”

Now Brower was leaning back, his eyes half closed, his fingers locked together.

“Anybody who wants a house that badly would hate to know that a relative of sorts was about to arrive on the scene and maybe mess things up. Only one way to prevent that. Stop the relative, or at least find a way to keep the relative from influencing the owner of the house.”

Brower stood up. “It’s been a pleasure talking to you, Mr. Norton,” he said. “Now, before I go, do you mind if I have a word with your secretary, Mrs. Hoffman?”

Barbara Hoffman did not enjoy dissembling. She had stayed home last Friday, pleading a cold, but actually what she had wanted was a quiet day to think things through. To placate her conscience, she had brought home a stack of files from the office, which she intended to clean up; she wanted them to be in good order if she decided to tell Malcolm she was leaving.

Oddly enough, he had inadvertently helped her to make her decision. He almost never came to her house, but then unexpectedly he had dropped by on Friday evening to see how she was feeling. He, of course, did not realize that her neighbor Dora Holt had stopped in. When Barbara had opened the door, he had bent to kiss her, then at her negative look, had stepped back.

“Oh, Mr. Norton,” she had said quickly, “I have that file on the Moore closing that you wanted to pick up.”

She had introduced him to Dora Holt and then made a show of going through the files and picking out one to hand him. But she hadn’t missed the knowing smirk and the lively curiosity in the eyes of the other woman. And that was the moment when she knew the situation was intolerable.

Now, as she sat facing Chief Brower, Barbara Hoffman felt sneaky and very uncomfortable telling him the lame story about why her employer had come to her home.

“Then Mr. Norton only stayed a moment?”

She relaxed a bit; at least here she could be entirely truthful. “Yes, he took the file and left immediately.”

“What file was it, Mrs. Hoffman?”

Another lie she had to tell. “I… I’m… actually, it was the file on the Moore closing.” She cringed inwardly at the stammered apology in her voice.

“Just one more thing. What time did Mr. Norton get to your house?”

“A little after six, I believe,” she replied honestly.

Brower got up and nodded at the intercom on her desk. “Would you tell Mr. Norton that I’d like another moment with him, please.”

When Chief Brower returned to the lawyer’s office, he didn’t waste words. “Mr. Norton, I understand the file you picked up from Mrs. Hoffman last Friday evening was one concerning Mrs. Moore’s closing. When exactly was the closing scheduled?”

“On Monday morning, at eleven,” Norton told him. “I wanted to be sure everything was in order.”

“You were the purchaser, but Mrs. Moore didn’t have a separate lawyer representing her? Isn’t that rather unusual?”

“Not really. But actually it was her idea. Nuala felt it was absolutely unnecessary to involve another attorney. I was paying a fair price and was handing the money over to her in the form of a certified check. She also had the right to stay there until the first of the year if she desired.”

Chief Brower stared silently at Malcolm Norton for a few moments. Finally he stood to leave. “Just one more thing, Mr. Norton,” he said. “The drive from Mrs. Hoffman’s house to your home shouldn’t have taken more than twenty minutes. That would have gotten you home by a few minutes past six-thirty. Yet you say it was nearly seven. Did you go anywhere else?”

“No. Perhaps I was mistaken about the time I arrived home.”

Why is he asking all these questions? Norton wondered. What does he suspect?

43

When Neil Stephens got back to Portsmouth, his mother knew immediately from the look on his face that he had not been successful in locating the young woman from New York.

“You only had a piece of toast earlier,” she reminded him. “Let me fix you breakfast. After all,” she added, “I don’t get much chance to fuss over you anymore.”

Neil sank into a chair at the kitchen table. “I should think fussing over Dad is a full-time job.”

“It is. But I like it.”

“Where is Dad?”

“In his office. Cora Gebhart, the lady whose table we stopped at last night, called and asked if she could come over and talk to him.”

“I see,” Neil said distractedly, jiggling the cutlery his mother had set in front of him.

Dolores stopped her preparations and turned and looked at him. “When you start fiddling like that, it means you’re worried,” she said.

“I am. If I had called Maggie as I intended last Friday, I would have had her phone number, I would have called, and I would have found out what happened. And I would have been here to help her.” He paused. “Mom, you just don’t know how hungry she was to spend this time with her stepmother. You’d never guess if you met her, but Maggie’s had a pretty bad time of it.”

Over waffles and bacon, he told her all he knew about Maggie. What he didn’t tell her was how angry he was at himself for not knowing more.

“She really does sound lovely,” Dolores Stephens said. “I’m anxious to meet her. But listen, you’ve got to stop driving yourself crazy. She is staying in Newport, and you’ve left her a note, and you have the phone number. You’ll surely reach her or hear from her today. So just relax.”

“I know. It’s just that I have this rotten feeling that there have been times when she needed me and I wasn’t there for her.”

“Afraid of getting involved, right?”

Neil put his fork down. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it? You know, Neil, a lot of the smart, successful young men of your generation who didn’t marry in their twenties decided they could play the field indefinitely. And some of them will-they really don’t want to get involved. But some of them also never seem to know when to grow up. I just wonder if this concern on your part doesn’t reflect a sudden realization that you care a lot about Maggie Holloway, something you wouldn’t admit to yourself earlier because you didn’t want to get involved.”

Neil stared at his mother for a long moment. “And I thought Dad was tough.”

Dolores Stephens folded her arms and smiled. “My grandmother had a saying: “‘The husband is the head of the family; the wife is the neck.’” She paused. “‘And the neck turns the head.’”

Seeing Neil’s startled expression, she laughed. “Trust me, I don’t agree with that particular piece of down-home wisdom. I think of a husband and wife as equals, not game players. But sometimes, as in our case, what seems to be is not necessarily what is. Your father’s fussing and complaining is his way of showing concern. I’ve known that since our first date.”

“Speak of the devil,” Neil said, as, through the window, he spotted his father walking down the path from his office.

His mother glanced out. “Uh-oh, he’s bringing Cora in. She looks upset.”

In a very few minutes after his father and Cora Gebhart joined them at the kitchen table, Neil understood why she was upset. On Wednesday she had sold her bonds through the broker who had been so persistent in trying to get her to invest in a venture stock he had recommended, and she had given the transaction a go-ahead.

“I couldn’t sleep last night,” she said. “I mean, after what Robert said at the club about not wanting another one of his ladies to lose her shirt… I had the awful feeling he was talking about me, and I sensed suddenly that I’d made a terrible mistake.”

“Did you call this broker and cancel the buy?” Neil asked.

“Yes. That may be the one intelligent thing I did. Or tried to do-he said it was too late.” Her voice trailed off and her lip trembled. “And he hasn’t been in his office since then.”

“What is this stock?” Neil asked.

“I’ve got the information,” his father said.

Neil read the prospectus and the fact sheet. It was even worse than he expected. He phoned his office and directed Trish to put him through to one of the senior traders. “Yesterday you bought fifty thousand shares at nine,” he told Mrs. Gebhart. “We’ll find out what’s happening to it today.”

Tersely he appraised his trading associate of the situation. Then he turned again to Mrs. Gebhart. “It’s at seven now. I’m putting in a sell order.”

She nodded her assent.

Neil stayed on the line. “Keep me posted,” he ordered. When he hung up, he said, “There was a rumor a few days ago that the company whose stock you purchased was being bought by Johnson amp; Johnson. But unfortunately, I’m positive it’s just that -a rumor intended to inflate the value of the stock artificially. I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Gebhart; at least we should be able to save most of your capital. My associate will call us back as soon as he makes a trade.”

“What makes me furious,” Robert Stephens growled, “is that this is the same broker who got Laura Arlington to invest in a fly-by-night company and caused her to lose her savings.”

“He seemed so nice,” Cora Gebhart said. “And he was so knowledgeable about my bonds, explaining how even though they were tax-free, the return didn’t justify all that money being tied up in them. And some were even losing buying power because of inflation.”

The statement caught Neil’s attention. “You must have told him about your bonds, if he was so knowledgeable,” he said sharply.

“But I didn’t. When he phoned to ask me to lunch, I explained I had no interest in discussing investments, but then he talked about the kind of clients he had-like Mrs. Downing. He told me that she had had bonds similar to the ones many older people hold and that he made a fortune for her. Then he talked about exactly the bonds I hold.”

“Who is this Mrs. Downing?” Neil asked.

“Oh, everybody knows her. She’s a pillar of the Providence old guard. I did call her, and she simply raved about Douglas Hansen.”

“I see. Even so, I’d like to run a check on him,” Neil said. “He sounds to me like just the kind of guy our business doesn’t need.”

The phone rang.

Maggie, Neil thought. Let it be Maggie.

Instead, it was his associate at the investment house. Neil listened, then turned to Cora Gebhart. “He got you out at seven. Count yourself lucky. There’s a rumor just starting to circulate that Johnson amp; Johnson is going to issue a statement saying it has absolutely no interest in taking over that company. Whether the rumor is true or not, it’s enough to send the company’s stock into a tailspin.”

When Cora Gebhart left, Robert Stephens looked at his son affectionately. “Thank God you were here, Neil. Cora has a good head and a big heart, but she’s too trusting. It would have been a damn shame to have her wiped out by one mistake. As it is, this may mean that she’ll have to give up the idea of moving into Latham Manor. She had her eye on a particular apartment there, but maybe she’ll still be able to take a smaller one.”

“Latham Manor,” Neil said. “I’m glad you mentioned it. I need to ask you about that place.”

“What on earth do you want to know about Latham Manor?” his mother asked.

Neil told them about the Van Hillearys, his clients who were looking for a retirement base. “I told them I’d investigate that place for them. I’d almost forgotten. I should have made an appointment to see it.”

“We’re not teeing up until one,” Robert Stephens said, “and Latham isn’t that far from the club. Why don’t you call over and see if you can make an appointment now, or at least pick up some literature about it for your clients.”

“Never put off till tomorrow what you can do today,” Neil said with a grin. “Unless, of course, I can get hold of Maggie first. She must be home by now.”

After six unanswered rings, he replaced the receiver. “She’s still out,” he said glumly. “Okay, where’s the phone book? I’ll call Latham Manor; let’s get it out of the way.”

Dr. William Lane could not have been more pleasant. “You’re calling at a very good time,” he said. “We have one of our best suites available-a two-bedroom unit with a terrace. It’s one of four such apartments, and the other three are occupied by charming couples. Come right over.”

44

Dr. Lara Horgan, the new medical examiner for the state of Rhode Island, had not been able to figure out what was making her uneasy. But then, it had been a busy week for her department: extraordinary deaths had included two suicides, three drownings, and a felony murder.

The death of the woman at the Latham Manor residence, on the other hand, was to all appearances purely routine. Still, something about it was bothering her. The medical history of the deceased woman, Greta Shipley, had been perfectly straightforward. Her longtime doctor had retired, but his associate verified that Mrs. Shipley had a ten-year history of hypertension and had suffered at least one silent heart attack.

Dr. William Lane, the director and attending physician at Latham Manor, seemed competent. The staff had experience, and the facilities were first-rate.

The fact that Mrs. Shipley had had a weak spell at the funeral Mass of her friend, the murder victim, Nuala Moore, and a second spell only verified the tension she must have been under.

Dr. Horgan had seen a number of instances where an elderly spouse expired hours or even minutes after the death of the husband or wife. Someone horrified by the circumstances of a dear friend’s death might easily experience that same fatal stress.

As state medical examiner, Dr. Horgan was familiar as well with the circumstances surrounding the death of Nuala Moore, and she was aware how upsetting they might be to someone as close to the victim as Mrs. Shipley had been. Multiple vicious blows to the back of Mrs. Moore’s head had proven fatal. Grains of sand mixed in with blood and hair suggested that the perpetrator had found the weapon, probably a rock, somewhere on the beach and had entered the house carrying it. It also suggested that the perpetrator had known the resident of the house was small and frail, perhaps even actually knew Mrs. Moore. That’s what it is, she told herself. The niggling feeling that Nuala Moore’s death is somehow tied in with the one at Latham Manor is what’s sending alarm signals to me. She decided to call the Newport police and ask if they had turned up any leads as yet.

The newspapers from earlier in the week were stacked on her desk. She found a brief item on the obituary page detailing Mrs. Shipley’s background, her community activities, her membership in the DAR, her late husband’s position as board chairman of a successful company. It listed her survivors as three cousins, residing in New York City, Washington, D.C., and Denver.

No one nearby watching out for her, Dr. Horgan thought, as she put the paper down and turned to the mountain of work on her desk.

Then a final thought teased her: Nurse Markey. She was the one who had found Mrs. Shipley’s body at Latham Manor. There was something about that woman she didn’t like, a kind of sly, know-it-all quality. Maybe Chief Brower should talk to her again.

45

As part of his research for his lecture series, Earl Bateman had begun to take rubbings from old tombstones. He had made them the subject of one of his talks.

“Today, minimal information is recorded on gravestones,” he would explain, “only birth and death dates, really. But in other centuries, wonderful histories could be read from headstones. Some are poignant, while some are rather remarkable, as in the case of the sea captain buried with his five wives- none of whom, I might add, lived more than seven years once married.”

At that point, he was usually rewarded by a ripple of laughter.

“Other markers,” he would explain, “are awesome in the majesty and history they convey.”

He would then cite the chapel in Westminster Abbey, where Queen Elizabeth I was entombed only a few feet from the cousin she had ordered beheaded, Mary, Queen of Scots.

“One interesting note,” he would add, “in Ketchakan, Alaska, in the nineteenth century, Tombstone Cemetery, the burial ground there, reserved a special section for the ‘Soiled Doves,’ as they called the young women who resided in bordellos.”

On this Friday morning, Earl was preparing a synopsis of the lectures he proposed to deliver in the potential cable television series. When he came to the subject of tombstone rubbings, he was reminded that he had intended to look for other interesting ones; then, realizing it was a beautiful day, perfect for such an activity, he decided to visit the oldest sections of St. Mary’s and Trinity cemeteries.

He was driving down the road that led to the cemeteries when he saw a black Volvo station wagon come out through the open gates and turn the other way. Maggie Holloway had the same make and color car, he thought. Could she possibly have been here visiting Nuala’s grave?

Instead of going to the old section, he drove to the left and circled up the hill. Pete Brown, a cemetery worker he had come to know from his various meanderings among the old tombstones, was weeding a gravel path in the vicinity of Nuala’s grave.

Earl stopped the car and opened the window. “Pretty quiet around here, Pete,” he offered. It was an old joke they shared.

“Sure is, Professor.”

“I thought I saw Mrs. Moore’s stepdaughter’s car. Was she visiting the grave?” He was sure that everyone knew the details of Nuala’s death. There weren’t that many murders in Newport.

“Nice looking lady, skinny, dark hair, young?”

“That would be Maggie.”

“Yep. And she must know half of our guests,” Pete said, then laughed. “One of the fellows was saying that he saw her go from one plot to another and drop off flowers. All the guys noticed her. She’s a doll.”

Now isn’t that interesting? Earl thought. “Take care, Pete,” he said, then waved as he drove off slowly. Knowing that the all-seeing eyes of Pete Brown were on him, he continued on to the oldest section of Trinity and began wandering among the seventeenth-century headstones there.

46

Letitia Bainbridge’s studio apartment at Latham Manor was a large corner room with a magnificent ocean view. Proudly she pointed out the oversized dressing room and bath. “Being a charter member here has its perks,” she said briskly. “I remember how Greta and I decided to sign up right away, at that presentation reception. Trudy Nichols hemmed and hawed, and then never forgave me for picking off this unit. She ended up paying another hundred and fifty thousand for one of the largest apartments, and the poor darling only lived two years. The Crenshaws have it now. They were at our table the other night.”

“I remember them. They’re very nice.” Nichols, Maggie thought. Gertrude Nichols. Hers was one of the graves that has the bell.

Mrs. Bainbridge sighed, “It’s always hard when one of us goes, but especially hard when it’s someone from our table. And I just know that Eleanor Chandler will get Greta’s place. When my daughter Sarah took me to my family doctor yesterday, she told me the word is out that Eleanor is moving in here.”

“Aren’t you feeling well?” Maggie asked.

“Oh, I’m fine. But at my age anything can happen. I told Sarah that Dr. Lane could check my blood pressure just fine, but Sarah wanted me to be seen by Dr. Evans.”

They sat down opposite each other on slipper chairs that were placed by the windows. Mrs. Bainbridge reached over and plucked a framed snapshot from among the many on a nearby table. She showed it to Maggie. “My crowd,” she said proudly. “Three sons, three daughters, seventeen grandchildren, four great-grandchildren and three on the way.” She smiled with great satisfaction. “And the nice part is that so many of them are still in New England. Never a week goes by that somebody in the family isn’t around.”

Maggie consciously stored that piece of information; something to consider later, she thought. Then she noticed a picture that had been taken in the grand salon here at Latham Manor. Mrs. Bainbridge was in the center of a group of eight. She picked it up. “Special occasion?” she asked.

“My ninetieth birthday, four years ago.” Letitia Bainbridge leaned forward and indicated the women at either end of the group. “That’s Constance Rhinelander on the left. She just died a couple of weeks ago, and of course you knew Greta. She’s on the right.”

“Mrs. Shipley didn’t have close family, did she?” Maggie asked.

“No. Neither did Constance, but we were family for each other.”

It was time to ask about the bells, Maggie decided. She looked around for inspiration as to how to bring up the subject. The room had obviously been furnished with Mrs. Bainbridge’s personal belongings. The ornately carved four-poster bed, the antique English pie-crust table, the Bombay chest, the delicately toned Persian carpet, all spoke of generational history.

Then she saw it: a silver bell on the fireplace mantel. She got up and crossed over to it. “Oh, isn’t this lovely?” She picked it up.

Letitia Bainbridge smiled. “My mother used it to summon her maid. Mother was a late sleeper, and Hattie patiently sat in attendance outside the door each morning until the bell summoned her. My granddaughters find that ‘a hoot,’ as they put it, but the bell gives me many warm memories. A lot of us old girls grew up in that milieu.”

It was the opening Maggie wanted. She sat down again and reached into her purse. “Mrs. Bainbridge, I found this bell on Nuala’s grave. I was curious as to who left it there. Is there a custom here of putting a bell on the grave of a friend?”

Letitia Bainbridge looked astonished. “I never heard of such a thing. You mean someone deliberately left that object there?”

“Apparently, yes.”

“But how bizarre.” She turned away.

With a sinking heart, Maggie realized that for some reason the bell had upset Mrs. Bainbridge. She decided not to say anything about the fact that she had found bells on other graves as well. Clearly this did not represent a tribute that old friends gave to each other.

She dropped the bell back in her shoulder bag. “I’ll bet I know what happened,” she improvised. “There was a little girl in the cemetery the other day. She came over to talk to me while I arranged flowers around Nuala’s headstone. It was after she left that I found the bell.”

Happily, Letitia Bainbridge reached the conclusion Maggie wanted. “Oh, I think that must be it,” she said. “I mean, surely no adult would think of leaving a bell on a grave.” Then she frowned. “What is it I’m trying to remember? Oh, dear, something just came into my mind and now it’s gone. That’s old age, I guess.”

There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Bainbridge commented, “That will be the lunch tray.” She raised her voice, “Come in, please.”

It was Angela, the young maid whom Maggie had met on her earlier visits. She greeted her, then got up. “I really must run along,” Maggie said.

Mrs. Bainbridge rose. “I’m so glad you stopped in, Maggie. Will I see you tomorrow?”

Maggie knew what she meant. “Yes, of course. I’ll be at the funeral parlor, and at Mrs. Shipley’s Requiem.”

When she went downstairs, she was glad to see that the foyer was empty. Everyone must be in the dining room, she thought as she opened the front door. She reached in her pocketbook for her car keys and inadvertently hit the bell. A muffled ringing sound made her grab the clapper to silence it.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls, Maggie thought as she walked down the steps of Latham Manor.

47

Dr. Lane, Neil Stephens, and his father concluded their tour of Latham Manor at the entrance to the dining room. Neil took in the hum of conversation, the animated faces of the well-dressed seniors, the overall ambiance of the beautiful room. White-gloved waiters were serving, and the aroma of freshly baked bread was enticing.

Lane picked up a menu and handed it to Neil. “Today the main course is a choice of Dover sole with white asparagus, or chicken salad,” he explained. “The dessert choices are frozen yogurt or sorbet, with home-baked cookies.” He smiled. “I might add that this is a typical menu. Our chef is not only cordon bleu, but also a dietary specialist.”

“Very impressive,” Neil said, nodding appreciatively.

“Neil, we tee up in thirty minutes,” Robert Stephens reminded his son. “Don’t you think you’ve seen enough?”

“More important,” Dr. Lane said gently, “do you feel that you might recommend the available suite to your clients? Without meaning to pressure them, I can tell you that it won’t last long. Couples especially are attracted to the large units.”

“I’m going to speak to my clients on Monday when I get back to New York,” Neil said. “The place is most impressive. I’ll certainly send them the prospectus and recommend that they come up and look over everything for themselves.”

“Wonderful,” Dr. Lane said heartily, as Robert Stephens pointedly held up his watch, turned and began to walk down the corridor to the front door. Neil and Dr. Lane followed. “We like having couples here,” Dr. Lane continued. “Many of the guests are widows, but that doesn’t mean they don’t enjoy having men around. In fact, we’ve had several romances develop between single guests.”

Robert Stephens slowed and fell into step with them. “If you don’t settle down soon, Neil, maybe you should put in your application. This place may be your best chance.”

Neil grinned. “Just don’t ever let my father move in,” he told the doctor.

“Don’t worry about me. This place is too rich for my blood,” Robert Stephens declared. “But that reminds me. Doctor, do you remember receiving an application from a Mrs. Cora Gebhart?”

Dr. Lane frowned. “That name is familiar. Oh yes, she’s in what we call the ‘pending file.’ She visited here about a year ago, filled out an application but did not want it activated. It’s our practice to phone someone like that once or twice a year to see whether they’re nearer to a decision. The last time I spoke to Mrs. Gebhart, I had the impression that she was seriously considering joining us.”

“She was,” the elder Stephens said shortly. “All right, Neil, let’s be on our way.”

Neil tried calling Maggie once more from the car phone, but he still got no answer.

Even though it was a beautiful day and he played excellent golf, Neil found the afternoon unconscionably long. He could not shake the ominous feeling that something was wrong.

48

On her way home, Maggie decided to pick up groceries. She drove to a small market she had noticed near the wharf. There she gathered the makings of green salad and pasta pomodoro. I’ve had my fill of scrambled eggs and chicken soup, she thought. Then she saw a sign for freshly prepared New England clam chowder.

The clerk was a weathered-faced man in his sixties. “New here?” he asked affably, when she gave him her order.

Maggie smiled. “How can you tell?”

“Easy. When the missus makes her clam chowder, everyone buys at least a quart.”

“In that case, you’d better give me a second pint.”

“Got a head on your shoulders. I like that in young people,” he said.

As she drove away, Maggie smiled to herself. And another reason for keeping the house in Newport, she thought, was that with so many senior citizens around, she would be considered a youngster for quite a while to come.

And besides, I can’t just sort out Nuala’s things, take the best offer for the house, and walk away, she told herself. Even if Nuala was killed by a stranger, there are too many unanswered questions.

The bells, for instance. Who would put them on those graves? Maybe one of the old-guard friends does it on her own and never dreamt anyone would notice them, she acknowledged. For all I know, she thought, there may be bells on half the graves in Newport. On the other hand, one of them is missing. Did whoever it was change his or her mind about leaving it?

Pulling into the driveway at Nuala’s house, she carried the groceries around to the kitchen door and let herself in. Dropping the packages on the table, she turned and quickly locked the door. That’s something else, she thought. I meant to call in a locksmith. Liam would ask about that tonight. He had been so concerned about Earl showing up unexpectedly.

One of Nuala’s favorite expressions ran through Maggie’s head as she searched for a phone book: Better late than never. Maggie remembered how Nuala had said it one Sunday morning when she came running out to the car where Maggie and her father were already waiting.

Maggie hated to think about her father’s response, so typical of him: “And better still, never late, particularly when the rest of the congregation manages to show up on time.”

She found the phone book in a deep kitchen drawer, and smiled at the sight of the clutter beneath it: Xeroxed recipes, half-burned candles, rusty scissors, paper clips, small change.

I’d hate to try to find anything in this house, Maggie thought. There’s such a jumble. Then she felt her throat close. Whoever ransacked this house was looking for something, and chances are he didn’t find it, an interior voice whispered to her.

After she left a message on the machine of the first locksmith she called, she finished putting away the groceries and fixed herself a cup of the clam chowder, which at first taste made her glad she had bought more than she’d intended. Then she went up to the studio. Restlessly her fingers reached into the pot of wet clay. She wanted to go back to the bust she had started of Nuala but knew she could not. It was Greta Shipley whose face demanded to be captured-not really so much the face as the eyes, knowing, candid, and watchful. She was glad she had brought several armatures with her.

Maggie stayed at the worktable for an hour until the clay had taken on an approach to the likeness of the woman she had known so briefly. Finally the surging disquietude had passed, and she could wash her hands and start the job she knew she would find hardest: the task of sorting out Nuala’s paintings. She had to decide which to keep and which to offer to a dealer, knowing that a majority of them probably would end up in a scrap heap, cut out from their frames-frames some people would value more than the art they had once enhanced.

At three o’clock she started going through the works that had not yet been framed. In the storage closet off the studio, she found dozens of Nuala’s sketches, watercolors, and oils, a dizzying array that Maggie soon realized she could not hope to analyze without professional assistance.

The sketches for the most part were only fair, and only a few of the oils were interesting-but some of the watercolors were extraordinary. Like Nuala, she thought, they were warm and joyous, and filled with unexpected depths. She especially loved a winter scene in which a tree, its branches laden and bent with snow, was sheltering an incongruous ring of flowering plants, including snapdragons and roses, violets and lilies, orchids and chrysanthemums.

Maggie became so engrossed in the task that it was after five-thirty when she hurried downstairs just in time to catch the phone that she thought she heard ringing.

It was Liam. “Hey, this is my third attempt to get you. I was afraid I was being stood up,” he said, relief in his voice. “Do you realize that my only other offer tonight was my cousin, Earl?”

Maggie laughed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear the phone. I was in the studio. I guess Nuala didn’t believe in extension telephones.”

“I’ll buy you one for Christmas. Pick you up in about an hour?”

“Fine.”

That should give me just enough time for a soak in the tub, Maggie thought as she hung up. It was obvious the evening air was turning cool. The house felt drafty, and in an odd and uncomfortable way it seemed to her she could still feel the chill of the damp earth she had touched at the graves.

When the water was rushing into the tub, she thought she heard the phone again and quickly turned off the taps. No sound of ringing came from Nuala’s room, however. Either I didn’t hear anything, or I missed another call, she decided.

Feeling relaxed after her bath, she dressed carefully in the new white evening sweater and calf-length black skirt she had purchased earlier in the week, then decided that a little care with her makeup was in order.

It’s fun to dress up for Liam, she thought. He makes me feel good about myself.

At quarter of seven she was waiting in the living room when the bell rang. Liam stood on the doorstep, a dozen long-stemmed red roses in one hand, a folded sheet of paper in the other. The warmth in his eyes and the light kiss that for a moment lingered on her lips gave Maggie a sudden lift of the heart.

“You look spectacular,” he told her. “I’ll have to change the plans for the evening. Obviously McDonald’s won’t do.”

Maggie laughed. “Oh dear! And I was so looking forward to a Big Mac.” She quickly read the note he had brought in. “Where was this?” she asked.

“On your front door, madame.”

“Oh, of course. I came in through the kitchen earlier.” She refolded the piece of paper. So Neil is in Portsmouth, she thought, and wants to get together. Isn’t that nice? She hated to admit to herself how disappointed she had been when he hadn’t called last week before she left. And then she reminded herself of how she had chalked it up as another indication of his indifference toward her.

“Anything important?” Liam asked casually.

“No. A friend who’s up for the weekend wants me to call. Maybe I’ll give him a ring tomorrow.” And maybe I won’t, she thought. I wonder how he found me.

She went back upstairs for her handbag, and as she picked it up she felt the extra weight of the bell. Should she show it to Liam? she wondered.

No, not tonight, she decided. I don’t want to talk about death and graves, not now. She took the bell out of her purse. Even though it had been there for hours, it still felt cold and clammy to her touch, causing her to shiver.

I don’t want this to be the first thing I see when I get in later, she thought as she opened the closet door and put it on the shelf, pushing it back until it was completely out of sight.

• • •

Liam had made a reservation in the Commodore’s Room of The Black Pearl, a toney restaurant with a sweeping view of Narragansett Bay. “My condo isn’t far from here,” he explained, “but I miss the big house I was raised in. One of these days I’m going to bite the bullet and buy one of the old places and renovate it.” His voice became serious. “By then I’ll have settled down and, with any luck, will have a beautiful wife who’s an award-winning photographer.”

“Stop it, Liam,” Maggie protested. “As Nuala would have said, you sound half daft.”

“But I’m not,” he said quietly. “Maggie, please start looking at me with different eyes, won’t you? Ever since last week, you haven’t been out of my mind for a minute. All I’ve been able to think about is that if you had walked in on whatever hophead attacked Nuala, the same thing could have happened to you. I’m a big, strong guy, and I want to take care of you. I know that such sentiments are out of fashion, but I can’t help it. It’s who I am, and it’s how I feel.” He paused. “And now that’s entirely enough of that. Is the wine okay?”

Maggie stared at him and smiled, glad that he had not asked for a further response from her. “It’s fine, but Liam, I have to ask you something. Do you really think a stranger on drugs attacked Nuala?”

Liam appeared astonished at her question. “If not, who else?” he asked.

“But whoever did it must have seen that guests were expected and yet still took time to ransack the house.”

“Maggie, whoever did it was probably desperate to get a fix and searched the place for money or jewelry. The newspaper account said Nuala’s wedding ring was taken off her finger, so robbery must have been the motive.”

“Yes, the ring was taken,” Maggie acknowledged.

“I happen to know she had very little jewelry,” Liam said. “She wouldn’t let Uncle Tim give her an engagement ring. She said that two of them in one lifetime was enough, and besides, both of them had been stolen when she lived in New York. I remember her telling my mother after that happened that she never wanted to own anything except costume jewelry.”

“You know more than I do,” Maggie said.

“So except for whatever cash was around, her killer didn’t get much, did he? At least that gives me some satisfaction,” Liam said, his voice grim. He smiled, breaking the dark mood that had settled over them. “Now, tell me about your week. I hope Newport is beginning to get under your skin? Or better yet, let me continue to give you my life history.”

He told her how, as a child, he had counted the weeks in boarding school until it was time to go to Newport for the summer, about his decision to become a stockbroker like his father, about leaving his position at Randolph and Marshall and starting his own investment firm. “It’s pretty flattering that some gilt-edged clients elected to come with me,” he said. “It’s always scary to go out on your own, but their vote of trust led me to believe I’d made the right decision. And I had.”

By the time the crème brulée had arrived, Maggie was fully relaxed. “I’ve learned more about you tonight than I knew from a dozen other dinners,” she told him.

“Maybe I’m a little different on my home territory,” he said. “And maybe I just want you to see what a terrific guy I am.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m also trying to let you know what a substantial guy I am. Just so you know, in these parts, I’m considered quite a catch.”

“Stop that kind of talk right now,” Maggie said, trying to sound firm, but unable to suppress a slight smile.

“Okay. Your turn. Now tell me about your week.”

Maggie was reluctant to really go into things. She did not want to destroy the almost festive mood of the evening. It was impossible to talk about the week and not to speak of Greta Shipley, but she put the emphasis on how much she had enjoyed her in the time she had spent with her, and then she told him about her blossoming friendship with Letitia Bainbridge.

“I knew Mrs. Shipley, and she was a very special lady,” Liam said. “And, as for Mrs. Bainbridge, well, she’s great,” he enthused. “A real legend around here. Has she filled you in on all the goings-on in Newport ’s heyday?”

“A little.”

“Get her going sometime on her mother’s stories about Mamie Fish. She really knew how to shake up the old crew. There’s a great story about a dinner party she threw, when one of her guests asked to bring Prince del Drago from Corsica with him. Of course Mamie was delighted to give permission, so you can imagine her horror when ‘the prince’ turned out to be a monkey, in full evening dress.”

They laughed together. “Mrs. Bainbridge is probably one of the very few left whose parents took part in the famous 1890s parties,” Liam said.

“What’s nice is that Mrs. Bainbridge has so many protective family members nearby,” Maggie said. “Just yesterday, after she heard that Mrs. Shipley died, her daughter came over to take her to the doctor for a checkup, because she knew she’d be upset.”

“That daughter would be Sarah,” Liam said. Then he smiled. “Did Mrs. Bainbridge happen to tell you about the stunt my idiot cousin Earl pulled that sent Sarah into orbit?”

“No.”

“It’s priceless. Earl lectures about funeral customs. You’ve heard that, haven’t you? I swear the guy is batty. When everybody else is off playing golf or sailing, his idea of a good time is to spend hours in cemeteries, taking tombstone rubbings.”

“In cemeteries!” Maggie exclaimed.

“Yes, but that’s only a small part of it. What I’m getting to is the time he lectured on funeral practices to a group at Latham Manor, of all places. Mrs. Bainbridge wasn’t feeling well, but Sarah had been visiting her and attended the lecture.

“Earl included in his little talk the story about the Victorian bell ringers. It seems that wealthy Victorians were so afraid of being buried alive that they had a hole built into the top of their caskets, for an air vent reaching up to the surface of the ground. A string was tied to the finger of the presumed deceased, run through the air vent, and attached to a bell on top of the grave. Then someone was paid to keep watch for a week in case the person in the casket did, in fact, regain consciousness and try ringing the bell.”

“Dear God,” Maggie gasped.

“No, but here’s the best part now, the part about Earl. Believe it or not, he has a sort of museum up here near the funeral home that’s filled with all kinds of funeral symbols and paraphernalia, and he got the brainstorm to have a dozen replicas of a Victorian cemetery bell cast to use to illustrate the lecture. Without telling them what they were, the jerk passed them out to twelve of these ladies, all in their sixties and seventies and eighties, and tied the string attached to them onto their ring fingers. Then he told them to hold the bell in their other hand, wiggle their fingers, and pretend they were in a casket and trying to communicate with the grave watcher.”

“How appalling!” Maggie said.

“One of the old girls actually fainted. Mrs. Bainbridge’s daughter collected Earl’s bells and was so irate she practically threw him and his bells off the premises.”

Liam paused, then in a more somber voice added, “The worrisome part is that I think Earl relishes telling that story himself.”

49

Neil had tried to phone Maggie several times, first from the locker room of the club, and again as soon as he got home. Either she’s been out all day, or she’s in and out, or she’s not answering the phone, he thought. But even if she was in and out, she surely would have seen his note.

Neil accompanied his parents to a neighbor’s home for cocktails, where he tried Maggie again at seven. He then elected to take his own car to dinner so that if he did reach her later, it might be possible to stop by her house for a drink.

There were six people at the table in the dinner party at Canfield House. But even though the lobster Newburg was superb, and his dinner companion, Vicky, the daughter of his parents’ friends, was a very attractive banking executive from Boston, Neil was wildly restless.

Knowing it would be rude to skip the after-dinner drink in the bar, he agonized through the chitchat, and when everyone finally stood up to go at ten-thirty, Neil managed to refuse gracefully Vicky’s invitation to join her and her friends for tennis on Sunday morning. Finally, with a sigh of relief, he was in his own car.

He checked the time; it was quarter of eleven. If Maggie was home and had gone to bed early, he didn’t want to disturb her. He justified his decision to drive by her house by telling himself that he simply wanted to see if her car was in the driveway- just to be sure she was still in Newport.

His initial excitement at seeing that her car was indeed there was tempered when he realized that another car was parked in front of her place, a Jaguar with Massachusetts plates. Neil drove by at a snail’s pace and was rewarded by seeing the front door open. He caught a glimpse of a tall man standing next to Maggie, then, feeling like a voyeur, he accelerated and turned the corner at Ocean Drive, heading back to Portsmouth, his stomach churning with regret and jealousy.