Moonlight Becomes You

50

The Requiem for Greta Shipley at Trinity Church was wellattended. As she sat and listened to the familiar prayers, Maggie realized that all the people who had been invited to Nuala’s dinner party were in attendance.

Dr. Lane and his wife, Odile, sat with a number of the guests from the residence, including everyone who had been at Mrs. Shipley’s table on Wednesday evening, with the exception of Mrs. Bainbridge.

Malcolm Norton and his wife, Janice, were there. He had a hangdog look, Maggie thought. When he passed her on the way in, he stopped to say he had been trying to reach her and would like to meet with her after the funeral.

Earl Bateman had come over to speak to her before the service began. “After all this, when you think about Newport, I’m very much afraid that your memories of the place will be of funerals and cemeteries,” he said, his eyes owlish behind lightly tinted round-frame sunglasses.

He hadn’t waited for an answer but had walked past her to take an empty place in the first pew.

Liam arrived halfway through the service and sat down next to her. “Sorry,” he murmured in her ear. “Damn alarm didn’t go off.” He took her hand, but after an instant she withdrew it. She knew that she was the object of many sidelong glances and did not want to have rumors swirling about her and Liam. But, she admitted to herself, her sense of isolation was relieved when his firm shoulder brushed against hers.

When she had filed past the casket at the funeral home, Maggie had studied for an instant the tranquil, lovely face of the woman she had known so briefly yet liked so much. The thought had crossed her mind that Greta Shipley and Nuala and all their other good friends were probably having a joyous reunion.

That thought had brought with it the nagging question of the Victorian bells.

When she passed the three people who had been introduced as Mrs. Shipley’s cousins, their faces were fixed in appropriately serious expressions, but she detected there none of the honest, raw pain that she saw in the eyes and countenances of Mrs. Shipley’s close friends from Latham Manor.

I’ve got to find out when and how each of those women whose graves I visited died, and how many of them had close relatives, Maggie thought, information that she had recognized as pertinent during her visit to Mrs. Bainbridge.

For the next two hours, she felt as if she were operating on some kind of remote control-observing, recording, but not feeling. “I am a camera” was her own reaction to herself as, Liam at her side, she walked away from Greta Shipley’s grave after the interment.

She felt a hand on her arm. A handsome woman with silver hair and remarkably straight carriage stopped her. “Ms. Holloway,” she said, “I’m Sarah Bainbridge Cushing. I want to thank you for visiting Mother yesterday. She so appreciated it.”

Sarah. This was the daughter who had tangled with Earl about his lecture on Victorian bells, Maggie reflected. She wanted to have a chance to talk privately to her.

In the next breath, Sarah Cushing provided the opportunity: “I don’t know how long you’re staying in Newport, but tomorrow morning I’m taking Mother out for brunch, and I’d be delighted if you could join us.”

Maggie agreed readily.

“You’re staying at Nuala’s house, aren’t you? I’ll pick you up at eleven o’clock, if that’s all right.” With a nod, Sarah Cushing turned and dropped back to rejoin the group she had been with.

“Let’s have a quiet lunch,” Liam suggested. “I’m sure you’re not up to any more post-funeral get-togethers.”

“No, I’m not. But I really do want to get back to the house. I simply have to go through Nuala’s clothes and sort them out.”

“Dinner tonight, then?”

Maggie shook her head. “Thanks, but I’m going to stay at the sort-and-pack job till I drop.”

“Well, I have to see you before I go back to Boston tomorrow night,” Liam protested.

Maggie knew he wasn’t going to allow her to say no. “Okay, call me,” she said. “We’ll figure something out.”

He left her at her car. She was turning the key in the ignition when a rap at the window startled her. It was Malcolm Norton. “We need to talk,” he said urgently.

Maggie decided to bite the bullet and not waste his time or hers. “Mr. Norton, if it’s about buying Nuala’s house, I can only tell you this: I have absolutely no plans of selling it at this time, and I’m afraid that, absolutely unsolicited, I have already received a substantially higher offer than yours.”

Murmuring, “I’m sorry,” she slid the selector into DRIVE. She found it almost painful to see the horrified shock in the man’s expression.

51

Neil Stephens and his father teed up at seven o’clock and were back in the clubhouse by noon. This time, Neil heard the phone being picked up after the second ring. When he recognized Maggie’s voice, he let out a sigh of relief.

Sounding disjointed, even to himself, he told her how he had phoned her after she left on Friday, how he had gone to Jimmy Neary to try to get Nuala’s name so he could contact her here, how he had learned of Nuala’s death, and was so terribly sorry… “Maggie, I have to see you, today,” he finished.

He sensed her hesitation, then listened as she told him she had to stay in and finish clearing out her stepmother’s personal effects.

“No matter how busy you are, you still have to eat dinner,” he pleaded. “Maggie, if you won’t let me take you out, I’m going to arrive on your doorstep with meals-on-wheels.” Then he thought about the man with the Jaguar. “Unless somebody else is already doing that,” he added.

At her response, a smile broke out on his face. “Seven o’clock? Terrific. I found a great place for lobster.”

“I gather you reached this Maggie of yours,” Robert Stephens said dryly when Neil joined him at the door of the clubhouse.

“Yes, I did. We’re going out to dinner tonight.”

“Well, then, we’ll be happy for you to bring her along with us. You know we’re having your mother’s birthday dinner at the club tonight.”

“Her birthday isn’t until tomorrow,” Neil protested.

“Thanks for telling me! You’re the one who asked that we have the celebration this evening. You said you wanted to get started home by midafternoon tomorrow.”

Neil stood with his hand to his mouth, as though in deep thought. Then he silently shook his head. Robert Stephens smiled. “A lot of people consider your mother and me good company.”

“You are good company,” Neil protested feebly. “I’m sure Maggie will enjoy being with you.”

“Of course she will. Now let’s get home. Another client of mine, Laura Arlington, is coming over at two. I want you to go over what’s left of her stock portfolio and see if you can recommend any way to upgrade her income. Thanks to that sleazy broker, she’s really in bad shape.”

I don’t want to risk telling Maggie over the phone about the change in plans, Neil thought. She’d probably bow out. I’ll show up at her doorstep and plead my case.

Two hours later, Neil sat with Mrs. Arlington in his father’s office. She is in bad shape, he thought. She had once owned blue-chip stocks that paid good dividends but had sold them all to buy into another of those crazy venture offerings. Ten days ago, Mrs. Arlington had been persuaded to buy one hundred thousand shares of some piece of trash at five dollars a share. The next morning the stock went to five and a quarter, but by that afternoon it had begun to plunge. Now it was valued below a dollar.

So five hundred thousand dollars in stock is reduced to about eighty thousand, assuming there’s even a buyer, Neil thought, glancing with pity across the desk at the ashen-faced woman whose entwined hands and slumping shoulders betrayed her agitation. She’s only Mother’s age, he thought, sixty-six, yet right now she looks twenty years older.

“It’s pretty awful, isn’t it?” Mrs. Arlington asked.

“I’m afraid so,” Neil said.

“You see, that was the money I was going to use when one of the larger apartments in Latham Manor became available. But I’ve always felt guilty about the idea of using so much money selfishly. I have three children, and when Douglas Hansen was so persuasive, and Mrs. Downing told me how much money she had made in less than a week with his help, I thought, well, if I double that money, I’ll have an inheritance for the children as well as being able to live in Latham Manor.”

She tried to blink back tears. “Then not only did I lose my money last week, but the very next day I got a call that one of the big apartments was available, the one that Nuala Moore had been scheduled to take.”

“Nuala Moore?” Neil said quickly.

“Yes, the woman who was murdered last week.” Mrs. Arlington held a handkerchief to the tears that she could no longer hold back. “Now I don’t have the apartment, and the children not only don’t get an inheritance but one of them may be stuck with having to take me in.”

She shook her head. “I’ve known this for over a week, but seeing the confirmation of the stock purchase in writing this morning just about did me in.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, well.”

Laura Arlington stood up and attempted a smile. “You’re just as nice a young man as your father keeps telling all of us you are. So you think I should just leave what’s left of my portfolio alone?”

“Absolutely,” Neil said. “I’m sorry this happened, Mrs. Arlington.”

“Well, think of all the people in this world who don’t have half a million dollars ‘to piss away,’ as my grandson would put it.” Her eyes widened. “I cannot believe I said that! Forgive me.” Then a hint of a smile appeared on her lips. “But you know something? I feel a lot better for saying it. Your mother and father wanted me to stop in and visit. But I think I’d better run along. Do thank them for me, please.”

When she left, Neil went back to the house. His parents were in the sunroom. “Where’s Laura?” his mother asked anxiously.

“I knew she wouldn’t want to visit now,” Robert Stephens commented. “Everything that has changed for her is just beginning to sink in.”

“She’s a classy lady,” Neil said heatedly. “I’d like to strangle that jerk, Douglas Hansen. But I swear that first thing Monday morning I’m going to dig up every last little bit of dirt I can get to pin on him, and if there’s any way I can file a complaint with the SEC, trust me, I’ll do it.”

“Good!” Robert Stephens said enthusiastically.

“You sound more and more like your father every day,” Dolores Stephens said dryly.

Later, as Neil watched the rest of the Yankees-Red Sox game, he found himself annoyed by the feeling that he had missed something in Laura Arlington’s portfolio. There was something wrong there other than a misguided investment. But what? he wondered.

52

Detective Jim Haggerty had known and liked Greta Shipley nearly all his life. From the time he was a little boy delivering newspapers to her door, he could never remember a single time when she hadn’t been gracious and friendly to him. She also paid promptly and tipped generously when he collected on Saturday mornings.

She wasn’t like some of the tightwads in the other swanky houses, he thought, who ran up bills, then paid for six weeks of papers and added on a ten-cent tip. He particularly remembered one snowy day when Mrs. Shipley had insisted he come in and get warm and had dried his gloves and knit cap on the radiator while he drank the cocoa she made for him.

Earlier that morning, when he had attended the service at Trinity Church, he was sure that many in the congregation shared the thought that he couldn’t get out of his mind: Greta Shipley’s death had been hastened by the shocking murder of her close friend Nuala Moore.

If someone has a heart attack when a crime is taking place, the perpetrator can sometimes be tried for murder, Haggerty thought-but how about when a friend dies in her sleep a few days later?

At the service for Mrs. Shipley, he was surprised to see Nuala Moore’s stepdaughter, Maggie Holloway, sitting with Liam Payne. Liam always had an eye for pretty women, Haggerty mused, and Lord knows enough of them had had an eye for him over the years. He was one of Newport ’s “most eligible” bachelors.

He had also spotted Earl Bateman in church. Now there is a guy who may be educated enough to be a professor, but who still isn’t playing with a full deck of cards, Haggerty had thought. That museum of his is like something out of the Addams Family -it gave Haggerty the shivers. Earl should have stayed in the family business, he thought. Every shirt on his back had been paid for by someone’s next of kin.

Haggerty had slipped away before the recessional, but not before he deduced that Maggie Holloway must have gotten very close to Mrs. Shipley to have taken the time to come to her funeral service. The thought occurred to him that maybe if she had visited Mrs. Shipley at Latham Manor, she might have learned something from her that could be helpful in understanding why Nuala Moore had canceled the sale of her house to Malcolm Norton.

Norton was the guy Jim Haggerty believed knew something he wasn’t telling. And it was that thinking that brought him unannounced to 1 Garrison Avenue at three o’clock that afternoon.

When the bell rang, Maggie was in Nuala’s bedroom, where she was separating carefully folded clothing into piles: good, usable clothing for Goodwill; older, well-worn outfits for the ragbag; fairly expensive, dressy outfits for the hospital thrift shop.

She was keeping for herself the blue outfit Nuala had worn that night at the Four Seasons, as well as one of her painting smocks. Memory Lane, she thought.

In the crammed closets she had come across several cardigans and tweed jackets-Tim Moore’s clothing, she was sure, sentimentally kept by Nuala.

Nuala and I were always on the same wavelength, she mused, thinking of the box in her walk-in closet in the apartment. It held the dress she had worn the night she met Paul, as well as one of his flight suits and their matching jogging outfits.

As she sorted, Maggie’s mind worked ceaselessly on an explanation for the presence of the bells at the graves. It had to be Earl who had placed them there, she reasoned. Was it his idea of a sly joke on women from the residence, because of the uproar that had followed his handing out the bells during his lecture at Latham Manor?

It was an explanation that made sense. He probably knew all of these women. After all, most of the residents of Latham Manor were originally from Newport, or at least had spent the spring and summer months there.

Maggie held up a robe, decided it had seen its day, and put it in the ragbag. But Nuala didn’t live in Latham, she reminded herself. Did he put a bell on her grave as a tribute of friendship? He seemed to have honestly liked her.

One of the graves did not have a bell, though. Why? she wondered. I have the names of all those women, Maggie thought. Tomorrow I’m going to go back to the cemetery and copy the date they died from their tombstones. There must have been an obituary in the newspaper for each of them. I want to see what those say.

The sound of the doorbell was an unwelcome interruption. Who would just drop in? she wondered as she headed downstairs. Then she found herself praying it was not another unexpected visit from Earl Bateman; she didn’t know if she could handle that this afternoon.

It took a moment to realize that the man at the door was one of the Newport police officers who had responded originally to her 911 call the night of Nuala’s murder. He introduced himself as Detective Jim Haggerty. Once inside the house, he settled in the club chair with the air of a man who had nothing to do except exchange pleasantries for the day.

Maggie sat facing him, balanced on the edge of the couch. If he had any appreciation of body language, he would see that she hoped to keep this interview as brief as possible.

He began by answering a question she had not asked. “I’m afraid we’re still in the dark as far as having a real suspect in mind. But this crime isn’t going to go unpunished. I can promise you that,” he said.

Maggie waited.

Haggerty tugged on his glasses till they rested on the end of his nose. He crossed his legs and massaged his ankle. “Old skiing injury,” he explained. “Now it lets me know if the wind is shifting. It’ll be raining by tomorrow night.”

You didn’t come to talk about the weather, Maggie thought.

“Ms. Holloway, you’ve been here a little over a week, and I’m glad most of our visitors don’t experience the kind of shock that greeted you. And then today, I saw you in church, at the funeral for Mrs. Shipley. I guess you got friendly with her since coming here.”

“Yes, I did. Actually it was a request Nuala made in her will, but it was something I did with pleasure.”

“Wonderful woman, Mrs. Shipley. Knew her all my life. A shame she didn’t have a family. She liked kids. Do you think she was happy at Latham Manor?”

“Yes, I do. I had dinner there with her the night she died, and she clearly enjoyed her friends.”

“Did she tell you why her best friend, your stepmother, changed her mind at the last minute about moving there?”

“I don’t think anyone knows that,” Maggie said. “Dr. Lane was confident that Nuala would change it yet again and decide to take the apartment. No one can be sure of her state of mind.”

“I guess I was hoping that Mrs. Moore might have explained to Mrs. Shipley her reason for canceling her reservation. From what I understand, Mrs. Shipley was real pleased that her old friend was going to be under the same roof.”

Maggie thought of the caricature Nuala had sketched on the poster, showing Nurse Markey eavesdropping. Was that still in Greta Shipley’s apartment? she wondered.

“I don’t know if this had any bearing,” she said carefully, “but I believe that both Nuala and Mrs. Shipley were very careful of what they said when one of the nurses was around. She had a way of barging in without notice.”

Haggerty stopped kneading his ankle. “Which nurse?” he asked, his tone a shade quicker.

“Nurse Markey.”

Haggerty got up to go. “Any decisions made about the house, Ms. Holloway?”

“Well, of course the will still has to be probated, but I’m absolutely not putting it on the market at this time. In fact I may very well never put it up for sale. Newport is lovely, and it would make a nice retreat from Manhattan.”

“Does Malcolm Norton know that?”

“As of this morning, he does. In fact, I told him not only do I not want to sell, but I have received a substantially better offer for the property.”

Haggerty’s eyebrows raised. “Now, this is a lovely old house, so I hope you understand I’m not being denigrating when I say that this place must have buried treasure hidden in it. I hope you find it.”

“If there’s anything to be found here, I intend to unearth it,” Maggie said. “I’m not going to have any peace until someone pays for what happened to a woman I loved very much.”

As Haggerty got up to go, Maggie impulsively asked, “Do you know if it’s possible to look up some information at the newspaper office this afternoon, or is it closed on Saturday?”

“I think you’ll have to wait till Monday. I happen to know that because we always have visitors wanting to look through the old society pages. They get a kick out of reading about the fancy parties.”

Maggie smiled without comment.

As Haggerty drove away he made a mental note to chat with the clerk in the newspaper office on Monday and find out exactly what information Ms. Holloway was searching for in their morgue.

Maggie went back up to Nuala’s room. She was determined to get through the contents of the closets and dressers before she quit today. This is the room I should use for sorting, she thought as she dragged cartons full of things into the small third bedroom.

Nuala had always enjoyed having things scattered around that reminded her of special moments. As Maggie discarded seashells from the dresser tops, stuffed animals from the window seat, a stack of restaurant menus from the nightstand, and inexpensive souvenirs from everywhere, the inherent beauty of the rock maple furniture became apparent. I’d move the bed to that wall. It’s a better place for it, she decided, and get rid of that old chaise… And I’d keep all of Nuala’s paintings that she had framed and hung. They’re the part of her that I’ll never lose or give up.

At six o’clock she was going through the final item of clothing in the larger closet, a pale gold raincoat that had fallen to the floor. She remembered that when she had rehung Nuala’s blue cocktail suit the other day, the raincoat had been hanging precariously behind it.

As with the other garments, she ran her hand into the pockets to be sure nothing was in them.

The left-side pocket of the raincoat was empty. But when her fingertips explored the right pocket, they touched grit.

Maggie closed her fingers over the substance and removed her hand. Long shadows filled the room as she walked over to the dresser and turned on the light. A wad of dry dirt crumbled beneath her fingers. Surely Nuala didn’t put dirt in her pocket, Maggie thought. Surely she didn’t garden in this coat. It’s practically new.

As a matter of fact, Maggie told herself, I think they had this same coat in the boutique where I shopped the other day.

Uncertainly, she laid the coat across the bed. Instinct made her decide that she wouldn’t brush the rest of the dirt from the pocket now.

There was just one task left before this room would be cleared out completely. The shoes and boots and slippers that covered the floor of the larger closet had to be sorted through and categorized. Most would no doubt be discarded, but some might be worth giving to Goodwill.

No more for tonight, though, she decided. That’s tomorrow’s job.

It was time for the hot soak she had come to look forward to at this time of the day. And then she would get dressed for her dinner with Neil, something she hadn’t thought about much during the day but which she now realized she was looking forward to.

53

Janice and Malcolm Norton had driven together to the funeral service and interment of Greta Shipley. Both of them had known Shipley all their lives, although they had never been more than acquaintances. When Janice had looked around the congregation during the eulogy, she was made freshly and bitterly aware of the financial gap that existed between her and so many of the people there.

She saw Regina Carr’s mother off to one side. Regina was now Regina Carr Wayne. She had been Janice’s roommate at Dana Hall, and they both had gone to Vassar. Now Wes Wayne was the chief stockholder and CEO of Cratus Pharmaceuticals, and you could be sure that Regina was not an accountant in an old-folks home.

Arlene Randel Greene’s mother was weeping softly. Arlene was another Dana Hall girl from Newport. Bob Greene, an unknown screenwriter when Arlene married him, was now a powerful Hollywood producer. She was probably off on a cruise somewhere at this very moment, Janice thought, a frown of envy creasing her face.

And there were others: mothers of her friends and acquaintances. They had all come to say good-bye to their dear friend Greta Shipley. Later, as Janice accompanied them as they walked from the grave site, she listened with sour envy as they outdid each other, chronicling the busy social lives of “the girls” and their grandchildren.

She felt an emotion somewhat akin to loathing as she watched Malcolm rush ahead to catch up with Maggie Holloway. My handsome husband, she thought bitterly. If only I hadn’t wasted all that time trying to turn him into something he never could be.

And he had seemed to have it all: the good looks, the impeccable background, the excellent schools-Roxbury Latin, Williams, Columbia Law-even a membership in Mensa, where a genius IQ was the admittance requirement. But in the end, none of it had mattered; for all his credentials, Malcolm Norton was a loser.

Then to top it all, she thought, he was planning to leave me for another woman, and he had no intention of sharing with me any of the killing he expected to make off the sale of that house. Her angry ruminations were interrupted when she realized that Regina ’s mother was talking about Nuala Moore’s death.

“ Newport isn’t what it used to be,” she said. “And to think the house was ransacked. I wonder what whoever it was could have been looking for?”

Arlene Greene’s mother said, “I hear that Nuala Moore changed her will the day before she died. Maybe someone who was being cut out of the old will was searching for the new one.”

Janice Norton’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Had someone suspected Nuala might be planning to write a new will, then killed her to prevent it? If Nuala had died before she actually wrote the new will, the sale of her house to Malcolm would have been completed, she thought. There was a signed agreement in place, and Malcolm, as executor of her estate, would have managed to complete the purchase. Besides, Janice reasoned, no one who didn’t know about the impending change in the Wetlands Act would have been interested in the property.

Was Malcolm desperate enough to kill Nuala, just to get his hands on that house? she asked herself, wondering suddenly if her husband had still more secrets he was trying to keep from her.

At the end of the walkway, good-byes were exchanged and people scattered. Ahead of her, Janice saw Malcolm walking slowly to their car. As she neared him, she saw the anguish on his face and knew Maggie Holloway must have told him she would not sell him the house.

They did not speak as they got in the car. Malcolm stared ahead for a few moments, then he turned toward her. “I’ll pay off the mortgage on our house,” he said quietly, his voice a monotone. “Holloway won’t sell now, and she says she has a substantially higher offer anyway, which means if she does change her mind, it won’t do me any good.”

“Us any good,” Janice corrected automatically, then bit her lip. She did not want to antagonize him, not now.

If he ever found out that she had had a hand in the counteroffer that was made on Nuala’s house, he might well be angry enough to kill her, she thought with rising uneasiness. Her nephew Doug had made the offer, of course, but if Malcolm found that out, he would surely know that she had put him up to it. Had Maggie Holloway told him anything that might implicate her? she wondered.

As though reading her mind, her husband turned toward her. “Surely you haven’t talked to anyone, have you, Janice?” he asked quietly.

“A bit of a headache,” he had said when they reached home, his tone remote but cordial. Then he had gone upstairs to his room. It had been years since they had shared a bedroom.

He did not come downstairs again until nearly seven o’clock. Janice had been watching the evening news and looked up as he stopped at the door of the family room. “I’m going out,” he said. “Good night, Janice.”

She stared unseeingly at the television screen, listening carefully for the sound of the front door closing behind him. He’s up to something, she thought, but what is it? She allowed him plenty of time to leave, then turned off the TV and collected her purse and car keys. She had told Malcolm earlier that she was going out to dinner. They had grown so distant of late that he didn’t ask her whom she was meeting any more than she bothered to inquire about his plans.

Not that she would have told him if he had asked, Janice thought grimly as she headed for Providence. There, at a small out-of-the-way restaurant, her nephew would be waiting. And there, over steaks and scotch, he would pass her an envelope containing cash, her share for supplying him with a detailed account of Cora Gebhart’s financial situation. As Doug had happily told her, “This one was a real bonanza, Aunt Janice. Keep ’em coming!”

54

As Maggie was dressing for her date with Neil Stephens, she realized there was a stronger-than-usual hint of dampness in the sea-scented breeze that came in through the bedroom window. Ringlets and waves, she thought with resignation. She would just fluff her hair with her fingers after she had brushed it, she decided. On a night like this, it was inevitable that the natural curl would assert itself.

She thought about Neil as she continued getting ready. Over these past months she had found herself more and more looking forward to his calls and too disappointed when they didn’t come.

But it was very obvious that, to Neil, she was an occasional date and nothing more. He’d certainly made that clear. Even so, she really had expected him to call before she left for Newport, and now she was determined to place no special significance on this evening. She knew that grown children-and especially single men-when visiting their parents, frequently looked for excuses to get away.

And then there was Liam, Maggie thought briefly. She didn’t quite know what to make of his sudden show of interest. “Oh well,” she shrugged.

All tarted up, she thought wryly after she applied eye shadow and mascara and blush, then carefully made up her lips in a soft coral shade.

Looking through the outfits she had to choose from, she picked the one she had intended to wear to Nuala’s dinner party, a vivid blue silk print blouse and matching long skirt. A narrow gold chain and earrings were her only jewelry, except for the oval-shaped sapphire ring that had belonged to her mother.

When she passed Nuala’s bedroom on the way downstairs, Maggie entered for a moment and turned on the lamp on the nightstand. As she looked around, she decided definitely to make this her room. She would move into it tomorrow, after she returned from the brunch with Mrs. Bainbridge and her daughter. I can shove the furniture around by myself, she decided, and the only things I haven’t cleaned out are the shoes and whatever is on the closet floor, and it won’t take long to finish with that.

Walking through the living room, she noticed that the roses Liam had brought needed a change of water. She refilled the vase at the kitchen sink, reached into the clutter drawer for scissors, cut the stems, and rearranged the roses before taking them back to the living room. Then she walked around the room, “fussing” with little things, like straightening the ottoman in front of the club chair, removing some of the profusion of small framed pictures on the mantel and tabletops, leaving only a few of the most flattering ones of Nuala and her husband, plumping the pillows on the couch.

In a few minutes the room took on a more tranquil, less busy feeling. Maggie studied the space and mentally rearranged the furniture, knowing that the love seat behind which Nuala’s body had been hunched would have to go. The very sight of it haunted her.

I’m nesting, she told herself, more than I’ve ever done anyplace since that silly little apartment Paul and I had in Texas. She was at once surprised and pleased with herself.

The front doorbell rang at ten of seven. Neil was early. Realizing how ambivalent she felt about the evening ahead of her, she waited a long minute before answering the ring. When she opened the door, she was careful to keep her voice and smile friendly but impersonal.

“Neil, how nice to see you.”

Neil did not answer but stood looking down at her, studying her face, unsmiling, his eyes troubled.

Maggie opened the door wider. “As my father used to ask, ‘Cat got your tongue?’ Come in, for heaven’s sake.”

He stepped inside and waited as she closed the door; then he followed her into the living room.

“You look lovely, Maggie,” he said finally, as they stood facing each other.

She raised her eyebrows. “Surprised?”

“No, of course not. But I was sick when I heard what happened to your stepmother. I know how much you were looking forward to being with her.”

“Yes, I was,” Maggie agreed. “Now, where are we going for dinner?”

Fumbling with his words, he asked if she’d mind having dinner with his parents to celebrate his mother’s birthday.

“Why don’t we just try doing this some other time?” Maggie asked curtly. “I’m sure your folks don’t need a perfect stranger horning in on a family party.”

“They’re looking forward to meeting you, Maggie. Don’t back out,” Neil pleaded. “They’ll know it’s because of them that you didn’t come.”

Maggie sighed. “I guess I have to eat.”

She let Neil do the talking as they drove to the restaurant, answering his questions as directly and succinctly as possible. She noted with some amusement, however, that he was being especially attentive and charming, and it took all of her determination to maintain her aloofness.

She had intended to continue treating Neil with distinct reserve throughout the evening, but the warmth of his parents’ greeting and their obviously sincere distress over what had happened to Nuala made it impossible not to loosen up.

“My dear, you didn’t know a soul up here,” Dolores Stephens said. “How awful for you to go through all that alone.”

“Actually I do know one person fairly well-the man who took me to the party at the Four Seasons where I met Nuala again.” Maggie looked over at Neil. “Maybe you know him, Neil. Liam Payne. He’s in the investment business, too. He has his own firm in Boston but comes to New York regularly.”

“Liam Payne,” Neil said thoughtfully. “Yes, I do know him slightly. He’s a good investment guy. Too good for his former bosses at Randolph and Marshall, if I remember correctly. He took some of their best clients with him when he went out on his own.”

Maggie could not resist a feeling of satisfaction at seeing the frown on Neil’s face. Let him wonder if Liam is important to me, she thought. He’s already made it plain how unimportant I am to him.

Nevertheless over a relaxing meal that included lobster and chardonnay, she found herself thoroughly enjoying Neil’s parents and was flattered to learn that Dolores Stephens was familiar with her fashion photography.

“When I read the newspaper about your stepmother’s death,” Mrs. Stephens said, “and then when Neil spoke about Maggie, I didn’t connect you with your work. Then this afternoon when I was reading Vogue, I saw your name under the Armani spread. A thousand years ago-before I was married-I worked in a small advertising agency, and we had the Givenchy account. That was before Givenchy became famous. I used to have to go to all the shoots.”

“Then you know all about…” Maggie began, and soon found herself telling war stories about temperamental designers and difficult models, ending with the last job that she had done before coming to Newport. They agreed there was nothing worse for a photographer than a nervous and indecisive art director.

As she opened up more, Maggie found herself telling them about her inclination to keep the house. “It’s too soon to be sure, so the best thing is to do nothing for a while, I guess. But in a way, living in the house this week makes me understand why Nuala was so reluctant to give it up.”

At Neil’s inquiry, she told them about Nuala canceling her reservation at Latham Manor. “It was even for the large unit she had particularly wanted,” she explained. “And I understand that they go quickly.”

“Neil and I were over there today,” Robert Stephens said. “He’s scouting it for one of his clients.”

“It sounds to me as though the apartment your stepmother didn’t take is the one that’s being offered right now,” Neil commented.

“And it’s the same one that Laura Arlington wanted,” his father noted. “Seems to me there is a real scramble for those places.”

“Someone else wanted it?” Maggie asked quickly. “Did she change her mind?”

“No. She got talked into investing the bulk of her money in a fly-by-night stock and, unfortunately, lost it all,” Neil said.

The conversation drifted to many other subjects, with Neil’s mother gradually drawing her out about her childhood. While Neil and his father got into a discussion about how Neil might follow through in looking into the bad investment Mrs. Arlington had made, Maggie found herself telling Dolores Stephens that her birth mother had died in an accident when she was an infant and how happy she had been the five years Nuala and she had lived together.

Finally, realizing that tears were close, she said, “No more nostalgia and no more wine. I’m getting mushy.”

• • •

When Neil drove Maggie home, he walked her to the door and took the key from her hand. “I’ll only stay a minute,” he said, opening the door. “I just want to see something. Which way is the kitchen?”

“Back through the dining room.” Bewildered, Maggie followed him.

He went immediately to the door and examined the lock. “From what I read, the police think that the intruder either found this door unlocked, or your stepmother opened it for someone she knew.”

“That’s right.”

“I offer a third possibility: That lock is so loose anyone could open it with a credit card,” he said, and then proceeded to demonstrate the fact.

“I have a call in to a locksmith,” Maggie said. “I guess I’ll hear from him Monday.”

“Not good enough. My dad is a wunderkind around the house, and I grew up as his unwilling little helper. I, or maybe both of us, will be back tomorrow to install a dead bolt and check all the windows.”

No “if you’d like” or “is that okay?” Maggie thought, feeling a surge of irritation. Just “this is the way it is.”

“I’m going out to brunch,” she told him.

“Brunch is usually over by two,” Neil said. “Let’s figure on that time, or if you want, you can tell me where you’ll hide a key.”

“No, I’ll be here.”

Neil picked up one of the kitchen chairs and wedged it under the doorknob. “At least this would make noise if anyone tried to get in,” he said. Then he looked around the room before turning to her. “Maggie, I don’t want to alarm you, but from everything I’ve heard, the consensus of opinion is that whoever murdered your stepmother was looking for something, and no one knows what it was, or if he got it.”

“Assuming it was a ‘he,’” Maggie said. “But you’re right. That’s exactly what the police think.”

“I don’t like the idea of you being here alone,” he said as they walked to the front door.

“I’m honestly not nervous, Neil. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”

“And if you were nervous, you’d never admit it to me. Right?”

She looked up at him, taking in his grave, questioning face. “That’s right,” she said simply.

He sighed as he turned and opened the door. “I enjoyed tonight very much, Maggie. See you tomorrow.”

Later, as Maggie tossed about in bed, she found she could take no satisfaction in having wounded Neil, and it was obvious she had. Tit for tat, she tried to tell herself, but knowing she had evened the score didn’t make her feel any better. Game playing in relationships was not one of her favorite pastimes.

Her last thoughts as she finally began to doze off were disjointed, seemingly irrelevant, emerging totally from her subconscions.

Nuala had applied for an apartment at Latham Manor, then died shortly after withdrawing the application.

The Stephenses’ friend, Laura Arlington, had applied for the same apartment, then lost all her money.

Was that apartment jinxed, and if so, why?