Moonlight Becomes You

58

Malcolm Norton opened his office on Monday morning at the usual time, nine-thirty. He passed through the reception area where Barbara Hoffman’s desk faced the door. The desk, however, was now cleared of all Barbara’s personal belongings. The framed pictures of her three children and their families, the narrow vase in which she had kept seasonal flowers or a sprig of leaves, the orderly pile of current work-all of these were missing.

Norton shivered slightly. The reception area was clinical and cold once more. Janice’s idea of interior decorating, he thought grimly. Cold. Sterile. Like her.

And like me, he added bitterly as he crossed into his office. No clients. No appointments-the day loomed long and quiet before him. The thought occurred to him that he had two hundred thousand dollars in the bank. Why not just withdraw it and disappear? he asked himself.

If Barbara would join him, he would do just that, in an instant. Let Janice have the mortgaged house. In a good market, it was worth nearly twice the amount of the mortgage. Equitable distribution, he thought, remembering the bank statement he had found in his wife’s briefcase.

But Barbara was gone. The reality of it was just beginning to sink in. He had known the minute Chief Brower left the other day that she would leave. Brower’s questioning of both of them had terrified her. She had felt his hostility, and it had been the deciding thing for her-she had to leave.

How much did Brower know? Norton wondered. He sat at his desk, his hands folded. Everything had been so well planned. If the buy agreement with Nuala had gone into effect, he would have given her the twenty thousand he had gotten by cashing in his retirement money. They wouldn’t have closed on the sale for ninety days, which would have given him time to sign a settlement with Janice, then float a demand loan to cover the purchase.

If only Maggie Holloway hadn’t come into the picture, he thought bitterly.

If only Nuala hadn’t made a new will.

If only he hadn’t had to let Janice in on the change in the wetlands preservation laws.

If only…

Malcolm had driven past Barbara’s house this morning. It had the closed look that houses get when the summer residents lock up for the winter. Shades were drawn on every window; a smattering of unswept leaves had blown onto the porch and the walk. Barbara must have left for Colorado on Saturday. She had not called him. She just left.

Malcolm Norton sat in his dark, still office, contemplating his next move. He knew what he was going to do, the only question now was when to do it.

59

On Monday morning, Lara Horgan asked an assistant in the coroner’s office to run a check on Zelda Markey, the nurse employed at the Latham Manor Residence in Newport who had found Mrs. Greta Shipley’s body.

The initial report was in by late morning. It showed she had a good work record. No professional complaints ever had been filed against her. She was a lifelong resident of Rhode Island. During her twenty years of practice, she had worked at three hospitals and four nursing homes, all within the state. She had been at Latham Manor since it opened.

Except for Lathem, she’d done a lot of moving around, Dr. Horgan thought. “Follow up with the personnel people at the places where she’s worked,” she instructed the assistant. “There’s something about that lady that bothers me.”

She then phoned the Newport police and asked to speak to Chief Brower. In the short time since she was appointed coroner, they had come to like and respect each other.

She asked Brower about the investigation of the Nuala Moore murder. He told her they had no specific leads but were following up on a couple of things and trying to approach the crime from all the logical angles. As they were speaking, Detective Jim Haggerty stuck his head in the chief’s office.

“Hold on, Lara,” Brower said. “Haggerty was doing a little follow-up on Nuala Moore’s stepdaughter. He has an expression on his face that tells me he’s onto something.”

“Maybe,” Haggerty said. “Maybe not.” He took out his note book. “At 10:45 this morning, Nuala Moore’s stepdaughter, Maggie Holloway, went into the morgue at the Newport Sentinel and requested to see the obituaries of five women. Since all five were longtime Newport residents, extensive features had been written on each of them. Ms. Holloway took the computer printouts and left. I have a copy of them here.”

Brower repeated Haggerty’s report to Lara Horgan, then added, “Ms. Holloway arrived here ten days ago for the first time. It’s pretty certain she couldn’t have known any of these women except Greta Shipley. We’ll study those obits to see if we can figure out what might have made them so interesting to her. I’ll get back to you.”

“Chief, do me a favor,” Dr. Horgan asked. “Fax copies of them to me too, okay?”

60

Janice Norton observed with a note of cynicism that life in Latham Manor did manage to survive the momentary upheaval caused by a recent death. Spurred on by her nephew’s lavish praise for the assist she had provided in relieving Cora Gebhart of her financial assets, Janice was anxious to dip once more into Dr. Lane’s applicant file, which he kept in his desk.

She had to be careful never to be caught going through his desk. To avoid being found out, she scheduled her furtive visits at times when she was sure he was out of the residence.

Late Monday afternoon was one of those times. The Lanes were driving to Boston for some sort of medical affair, a cocktail party and dinner. Janice knew that the rest of the office staff would take advantage of his absence and would be scurrying out at five o’clock on the dot.

That would be the ideal time to take the entire file to her own office and to study it carefully.

Lane’s in a really sunny mood, she thought as he popped his head into her office at three-thirty to announce he was leaving. Soon she understood the reason for his upbeat manner as he told her that someone had been by over the weekend to look at the big apartment for some clients and then had recommended it to them. The Van Hillearys had called to say they would be coming up next Sunday.

“From what I understand, they’re very substantial people who would use the residence as their base in the northeast,” Dr. Lane said with obvious satisfaction. “We could wish for more guests like that.”

Meaning much less service for all that money, Janice thought. It sounds unlikely that they’ll be much good to Doug and me. If they like this place, then they already have an apartment available to them. But even if they were just going on the waiting list, there is too much risk in ripping off a couple with major assets, she reasoned. Inevitably they were surrounded by financial advisers who kept a hawk-eye watch on investments. Even her charming nephew would have a tough time softening them up.

“Well, I hope you and Odile enjoy the evening, Doctor,” Janice said as she turned briskly back to the computer. He would have been suspicious if she had stepped out of character by making small talk.

The rest of the afternoon crawled by for her. She knew it wasn’t just the anticipation of getting at the files that made the day drag. It was also the faint, nagging suspicion that someone had gone through her briefcase.

Ridiculous, she told herself. Who could have done it? Malcolm doesn’t come near my room, never mind his turning into a snooper. Then a thought came that brought a smile to her face. I’m getting paranoid because that’s exactly what I’m doing to Dr. Lane, she reasoned. Besides, Malcolm doesn’t have enough brains to spy on me.

On the other hand, she did have a hunch he was up to something. From now on she resolved to keep her personal bank statements and her copies of the files away from any place where he would have a chance to happen on them.

61

Neil’s two early meetings on Monday morning kept him out of his office until eleven o’clock. When he finally arrived there, he immediately called Maggie, but got no answer.

He then called the Van Hillearys and briefly gave them his impression of Latham Manor, concluding with a recommendation that they visit there so they could judge the place for themselves.

His next call was to the private investigator who worked on confidential assignments for Carson amp; Parker, requesting a dossier on Douglas Hansen. “Dig deep,” he instructed, “I know there’s got to be something there. This guy is a world-class sleaze.”

He then called Maggie again and was relieved when she picked up. She sounded breathless when she answered. “I just got in,” she told him.

Neil was sure he could hear agitation and anxiety in her voice. “Maggie, is anything wrong?” he asked.

“No, not at all.”

Her denial was almost a whisper, as though she were afraid of being overheard.

“Is someone with you?” he asked, his concern growing.

“No, I’m alone. I just got here.”

It wasn’t like Maggie to repeat herself, but Neil realized that, once again, she was not going to let him in on whatever was bothering her. He wanted to bombard her with questions, like “Where have you been?” and “Have you come up with any answers to the things you said were bothering you?” and “Can I help?” but he didn’t. He knew better.

Instead, he said simply, “Maggie, I’m here. Just remember that if you want to talk to someone.”

“I’ll remember.”

And you’ll do nothing about it, he thought. “Okay, I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He replaced the receiver and sat for long minutes before punching in the number of his parents’ home. His father answered. Neil got straight to the point. “Dad, have you got those locks for Maggie’s windows?”

“Just picked them up.”

“Good. Do me a favor and phone over there and tell her you want to put them in this afternoon. I think something has come up that is making her nervous.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

It was a mixed comfort, Neil thought wryly, that Maggie might be more willing to confide in his father than in himself. But at least his father would be on the alert to pick up any hint of problems.

Trish came into his office the moment he was off the phone. In her hand she held a stack of messages. As she placed them on his desk, she pointed to the one on top. “I see your new client asked you to sell stock she doesn’t own,” she said severely.

“What are you talking about?” Neil demanded.

“Nothing much. Just the clearinghouse has notified us that they have no record of Cora Gebhart owning the fifty thousand shares of stock you sold for her on Friday.”

62

Maggie hung up at the end of her call from Neil and went to the stove. Automatically she filled the kettle. She wanted the feeling of hot tea warming her. She needed something that would help her separate the jarring reality of the obituaries from the disturbing, even crazy, thoughts that were shooting through her head.

She did a quick mental review of what she had learned so far.

Last week when she had taken Greta Shipley to the cemetery, they had left flowers at Nuala’s grave and the graves of five other women.

Someone had placed a bell on three of those graves as well as on Nuala’s. She had found them there herself.

There was an impression, as if a bell had been sunk into the earth, near Mrs. Rhinelander’s tombstone, but for some reason that bell was missing.

Greta Shipley had died in her sleep two days later, and barely twenty-four hours after she was buried a bell had been placed on her grave as well.

Maggie laid the printouts of the obituaries on the table and read quickly through them again. They confirmed what had occurred to her yesterday: Winifred Pierson, the one woman in that group whose grave showed no evidence of a bell, had a large, caring family. She had died with her personal physician in attendance.

With the exception of Nuala, who had been murdered in her own home, the other women had died in their sleep.

Meaning, Maggie thought, that no one was in attendance at the time of death.

They had all been under the ongoing care of Dr. William Lane, director of Latham Manor.

Dr. Lane. Maggie thought of how quickly Sarah Cushing had rushed her mother to an outside doctor. Was it because she knew, or maybe subconsciously suspected, that Dr. Lane was not a skillful practitioner?

Or perhaps too skillful a practitioner? a nagging inner voice queried. Remember, Nuala was murdered.

Don’t think that way, she warned herself. But no matter how one looked at it, she thought, Latham Manor had been a jinx for a lot of people. Two of Mr. Stephens’ clients had lost their money while they were waiting to get into the place, and five women, all Latham residents-who weren’t that elderly, or that sick- had died in their sleep there.

What had made Nuala change her mind about selling her house and going to live there? she wondered again. And what made Douglas Hansen, who had sold stocks to the women who lost their money, show up here wanting to buy this house? Maggie shook her head. There has to be a connection, she told herself, but what is it?

The kettle was whistling. As Maggie got up to make the tea, the phone rang. It was Neil’s father. He said, “Maggie, I’ve got those locks. I’m on my way over. If you have to go out, tell me where I can find a key.”

“No, I’ll be here.”

Twenty minutes later he was at the door. After a “Good to see you, Maggie,” he said, “I’ll start upstairs.”

While he changed the locks, she worked in the kitchen, straightening drawers, tossing out the odds and ends she found in most of them. The sound of his footsteps overhead was reassuring; she used the time while she worked to once more think through all that she knew. Putting together all the pieces of the puzzle she had so far, she came to a decision: she had absolutely no right to voice any suspicions about Dr. Lane as yet, but there was no reason not to talk about Douglas Hansen, she decided.

Robert Stephens came back to the kitchen. “Okay, you’re all set. No charge, but can you spare a cup of coffee? Instant is fine. I’m easy to please.”

He settled in a chair, and Maggie knew he was studying her. Neil sent him, she thought. He could tell I was upset.

“Mr. Stephens,” she began, “you don’t know very much about Douglas Hansen, do you?”

“Enough to know that he’s wrecked the lives of some very nice women, Maggie. But have I ever met him? No. Why do you ask?”

“Because both the ladies you know who lost their money thanks to him had been planning to go into Latham Manor, which meant they could afford a sizable outlay of money. My stepmother also had planned to live there, but she changed her mind at the last minute. Last week, Hansen showed up here and offered me fifty thousand dollars more for this house than Nuala almost sold it for, and from what I’ve learned, that’s much more than it’s worth.

“My point is, I wonder how he happened to contact the women you know who invested with him, and I wonder what made him show up on this doorstep. There’s got to be more than just coincidence at play here.”

63

Earl Bateman drove past Maggie’s house twice. On the third trip, he saw that the car with the Rhode Island plates was gone; Maggie’s station wagon, however, was still in the driveway. He slowed to a halt and reached for the framed picture he had brought with him.

He was fairly sure that if he had phoned and said he would like to see her, Maggie would have turned him down. But now she wouldn’t have a choice. She would have to invite him in.

He rang the doorbell twice before she opened the door. It was obvious that she was surprised to see him. Surprised and nervous, he thought.

He quickly held up the package. “A present for you,” he said enthusiastically. “A marvelous picture of Nuala that was taken at the Four Seasons party. I framed it for you.”

“How nice of you,” Maggie said, trying to smile, a look of uncertainty on her face. Then she reached out her hand.

Earl pulled the package back, withholding it. “Aren’t you going to ask me in?” he asked, his tone light and joking.

“Of course.”

She stood aside and let him pass, but to his annoyance, she swung the door wide open and left it that way.

“I’d close that if I were you,” he said. “I don’t know if you’ve been out today, but there’s a stiff breeze.” He again saw her uncertainty and smiled grimly. “And no matter what my dear cousin has told you, I don’t bite,” he said, finally handing her the package.

He walked ahead of her into the living room and sat in the big club chair. “I can see Tim ensconced here with his books and newspapers and Nuala fussing around him. What a pair of lovebirds they were! They invited me over to dinner occasionally, and I was always glad to come. Nuala wasn’t much of a housekeeper, but she was an excellent cook. And Tim told me that, often, when they were alone and watching TV late at night, she’d curl up in this chair with him. She was such a petite lady.”

He looked around. “I can see you’re already putting your stamp on this place,” he said. “I approve. There’s a much calmer feeling. Does that love seat spook you?”

“I’ll do some refurnishing,” Maggie said, her tone still wary.

Bateman watched her as she opened the package and congratulated himself on thinking of the photograph. Just seeing the way her face lit up confirmed how smart he had been to think of it.

“Oh, it’s a wonderful picture of Nuala!” Maggie said enthusiastically. “She looked so pretty that evening. Thank you. I really am glad to have this.” Her smile was now genuine.

“I’m sorry Liam and I are in it as well,” Bateman said. “Maybe you can have us airbrushed out.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Maggie answered quickly. “And thank you for taking the time to bring it yourself.”

“You’re most welcome,” he said as he leaned further back into the deep chair.

He’s not going to go, she thought in dismay. His scrutiny made her uncomfortable. She felt as though she were under a spotlight. Bateman’s eyes, too large behind his round-framed glasses, were fixed on her with an unwavering stare. Despite his apparent effort at nonchalance, he seemed almost to be at attention, his body rigid. I couldn’t imagine him curling up anywhere, or even being comfortable in his own skin, she reflected.

He’s like a wire, stretched too far, ready to snap, she thought.

Nuala was such a petite lady. ..

Wasn’t much of a housekeeper… excellent cook…

How often had Earl Bateman been here? Maggie wondered. How well did he know this house? Maybe he knew the reason Nuala had decided not to become a resident of Latham Manor, she decided, about to voice the question until another thought hit her.

Or maybe he suspected the reason-and killed her!

She jumped involuntarily when the telephone rang. Excusing herself, she went to the kitchen to answer it. Police Chief Brower was calling. “Ms. Holloway, I was wondering if I could stop in and see you late this afternoon,” he said.

“Of course. Has something come up? I mean about Nuala?”

“Oh, nothing special. I just wanted to talk with you. And I may bring someone with me. Is that all right? I’ll phone before I come.”

“Of course,” she said. Then, suspecting that Earl Bateman might be trying to overhear what she was saying, she raised her voice slightly. “Chief, I’m just visiting with Earl Bateman. He brought over a wonderful picture of Nuala. I’ll see you in a while.”

When she went back into the living room, she saw that the ottoman in front of Earl’s chair had been pushed aside, indicating that he had stood up. He did eavesdrop, she thought. Good. With a smile, she said, “That was Chief Brower.” Something you already know, she added silently. “He’s coming over this afternoon. I told him you were visiting.”

Bateman’s nod was solemn. “A good police chief. Respects people. Not like security police in some cultures. You know what happens when a king dies? During the mourning period, the police seize control of the government. Sometimes they even murder the king’s family. In fact, in some societies that was a regular occurrence. I could give you so many examples. You know I lecture on funeral customs?”

Maggie sat down, oddly fascinated by the man. She sensed something different about Earl Bateman’s expression, which had become one of almost religious absorption. From a living example of the awkward, absentminded professor, he was transformed entirely into a silver-voiced, messianic other. Even the way he was sitting was different. The rigid schoolboy posture had been replaced by the comfortable stance of a man who was secure and at ease. He was leaning slightly toward her, his left elbow on the arm of the chair, his head slightly tilted. He was no longer staring at her; his eyes were fixed instead somewhere just to her left.

Maggie felt her mouth go dry. Unconsciously she had sat on the love seat, and now she realized he was looking just beyond her, focused on the place where Nuala’s body had been hunched.

“Did you know I lecture on funeral customs?” he asked again, and she realized with a start that she had not answered his question.

“Oh, yes,” she said quickly. “Remember? You told me that the first night we met.”

“I’d really like to talk to you about it,” Bateman said earnestly. “You see, a cable company is very interested in having me do a television series, provided I am able to offer a range of subjects for at least thirteen thirty-minute programs. That’s not a problem. I’ve got more than enough material for the programs, but I’d like to include some visuals.”

Maggie waited.

Earl clasped his hands. Now his voice became coaxing. “The response to this kind of offer shouldn’t be delayed. I need to act on it soon. You’re a very successful photographer. Visuals are what you understand. It would be such a favor if you’d let me take you to see my museum today. It’s downtown, right next to the funeral parlor my family used to own. You know where that is, of course. Would you just spend an hour with me? I’ll show you the exhibits, and explain them, and maybe you could help me decide which ones to suggest to the producers.”

He paused. “Please, Maggie.”

He has to have overheard me, Maggie thought. He knows Chief Brower is coming here, and he knows I told him who was visiting me. Liam had told her about Earl’s Victorian bell replicas. He’s supposed to have twelve of them. Suppose they’re on exhibit, she thought. And suppose there are only six of them now. If so, then it would be reasonable to believe that he put the others on the graves.

“I’d be glad to go,” she said after a moment, “but Chief Brower is coming to see me this afternoon. Just in case he gets here early, I’ll leave a note on the door saying that I’m with you at the museum, and that I’ll be back by four.”

Earl smiled. “That’s very wise, Maggie. That should give us plenty of time.”

64

At two o’clock, Chief Chet Brower summoned Detective Jim Haggerty to his office but learned that Haggerty had left just a few minutes earlier, saying that he would be back shortly. When he came in, he was carrying papers identical to the ones Brower had been hunched over at his desk-copies of the obituaries Maggie Holloway had looked up at the Newport Sentinel. Haggerty knew that, as requested, another set had been faxed to Lara Horgan at the coroner’s office in Providence.

“What did you see, Jim?” Brower demanded.

Haggerty slumped into a seat. “Probably the same thing you did, Chief. Five of the six deceased women lived at that fancy retirement home.”

“Right.”

“None of those five had close relatives.”

Brower looked at him benignly. “Very good.”

“They all died in their sleep.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And Dr. William Lane, the director of Latham Manor, was in attendance in each instance. Meaning he signed the death certificates.”

Brower smiled approvingly. “You catch on real fast.”

“Also,” Haggerty continued, “what the articles don’t say is that when you die at Latham Manor, the studio or apartment you had purchased to live in reverts to the management, which means it can be sold again, pronto.”

Brower frowned. “I didn’t think of that angle,” he admitted. “I just spoke to the coroner. Lara picked up on all of this too. She’s running a check on Dr. William Lane. She already was investigating the background of a nurse there, Zelda Markey. She wants to come with me to talk to Maggie Holloway this afternoon.”

Haggerty looked pensive. “I knew Mrs. Shipley, the woman who died at Latham last week. I liked her a lot. It occurred to me that her next of kin were still in town. I asked around, and they’ve been staying at the Harborside Inn, so I just popped over there.”

Brower waited. Haggerty wore his most noncommittal expression, which Brower knew meant he had stumbled onto something.

“I extended my sympathy and talked to them a bit. Turned out that yesterday, who should be at Latham Manor but Maggie Holloway.”

“Why was she there?” Brower snapped.

“She was a guest at brunch of old Mrs. Bainbridge and her daughter. But afterward she did go up and speak to Mrs. Shipley’s relatives when they were packing up her effects.” He sighed. “Ms. Holloway had an odd request. She said her step mother, Nuala Moore, who taught an art class at Latham, had helped Mrs. Shipley make a sketch, and she asked if they minded if she took it. Funny thing, though, it wasn’t there.”

“Maybe Mrs. Shipley tore it up.”

“Not likely. Anyhow, later a couple of the residents stopped in to talk to Mrs. Shipley’s relatives while they were doing the packing, and they asked them about the sketch. One of the old girls said she had seen it. It was supposed to be a World War II poster that showed a spy eavesdropping on two defense workers.”

“Why would Ms. Holloway want that?”

“Because Nuala Moore had put her own face and Greta Shipley’s face over those of the defense workers, and in place of the spy, guess who she’d sketched?”

Brower looked at Haggerty, his eyes narrowed.

“Nurse Markey,” the detective said with satisfaction. “And one more thing, Chief. The rule at Latham Manor is that when a death occurs, as soon as the body is removed, the room or apartment is locked until the family has had a chance to come to take possession of valuables. In other words, nobody had any business being in there and taking that sketch.” He paused. “Kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

65

Neil canceled a lunch date he had made and instead had a sandwich and coffee at his desk. He had instructed Trish to fend off all but the most urgent calls as he worked feverishly to clear his calendar for the next few days.

At three o’clock, just as Trish came back with a fresh batch of papers, he phoned his father. “Dad, I’m coming up tonight,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get that Hansen guy on the phone, but they keep telling me he’s out. So I’m going to come up there and track him down myself. There’s a lot more going on with that guy than just giving lousy advice to old women.”

“That’s what Maggie said, and I’m sure she’s onto something.”

“Maggie!”

“She seems to think there’s some kind of connection between Hansen and the women who put in applications to Latham Manor. I’ve been talking to Laura Arlington and Cora Gebhart. It turns out Hansen called them out of the blue.”

“Why didn’t they just hang up on him? Most people don’t get involved over the phone with stock peddlers they don’t know.”

“Apparently using Alberta Downing’s name gave him credibility. He urged them to call her for a reference. But then-and this is where it gets interesting-he talked about how some people have investments that are losing buying power because of inflation, and he just happened to give as examples the very stocks and bonds that Cora Gebhart and Laura Arlington owned.”

“Yes,” Neil said. “I remember Mrs. Gebhart saying something of the sort. I need to talk to this Mrs. Downing. Something’s definitely not right here. And, by the way, I expected you’d call me as soon as you saw Maggie,” he added, knowing that now he sounded annoyed. “I’ve been worried about her. Was she okay?”

“I planned to call you as soon as I finished checking out her take on Hansen,” Robert Stephens answered. “I thought perhaps that was more important than filing a report with you,” he added acerbically.

Neil rolled his eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “And thanks for going over to see her.”

“You must know I went immediately. I happen to like that young lady very much. One more thing: Hansen dropped in on Maggie last week and made an offer on her house. I’ve been talking to real estate agents to get their opinions of its value. Maggie had speculated that his offer was too high, given the condition of the house, and she’s right. So while you’re at it, try to figure out what game he’s playing with her.”

Neil remembered Maggie’s startled reaction when he mentioned Hansen’s name, and how when he had asked if she knew him, her answer had been evasive.

But I was right about one thing: She did open up to Dad, he thought. When I get to Newport, I’m going straight to her house, and I’m not leaving until she tells me just what it is I’ve done wrong.

When he got off the phone, he looked over at Trish and the papers in her hand. “You’ll have to take care of those. I’m out of here.”

“Oh my, my,” Trish said, her tone teasing but affectionate. “So her name is Maggie and you’re worried sick about her. What a learning experience for you.” Then she frowned. “Wait a minute, Neil. You really are worried, aren’t you?”

“You bet I am.”

“Then what are you waiting for? Get moving.”

66

“I’m very proud of my museum,” Earl explained as he held the door for Maggie to get out of her car. She had declined his offer to drive with him and was aware that he had been annoyed at the refusal.

As she had followed his gray Oldsmobile into town and past the Bateman Funeral Home, she realized why she hadn’t noticed the museum. It fronted on a side street to the rear of the large property and had its own parking lot behind it. The lot was empty now except for one other vehicle, parked in the corner- a shiny black hearse.

Earl pointed to it as they walked toward the museum. “That’s thirty years old,” he said proudly. “My father was going to trade it in when I was starting college, but I talked him into letting me have it. I keep it in the garage here and only pull it out in the summer. That’s when I invite visitors to the museum, although just for a couple of hours on weekends. It kind of sets the tone for the place, don’t you think?”

“I guess so,” Maggie said uncertainly. In these last ten days I’ve seen enough hearses for a lifetime, she thought. She turned to study the three-story Victorian house with its wide porch and gingerbread trim. Like the Bateman Funeral Home, it was painted glistening white with black shutters. Black crepe streamers draped around the front door fluttered in the breeze.

“The house was built in 1850 by my great-great-grandfather,” Earl explained. “It was our first funeral parlor, and back then the family lived on the top floor. My grandfather built the present establishment, and my father expanded it. This house was used by a caretaker for a while. When we sold the business ten years ago, we separated the house and an acre of the property, and I took it over completely. I opened the museum shortly after that, although I’d been putting it together for years.”

Earl put his hand on Maggie’s elbow. “You’re in for a treat. Now remember, I want you to look at everything with an eye toward what I should suggest for visuals. I don’t mean just for the individual lectures, but maybe something as well for an opening and closing signature for the series.”

They were on the porch. Located on the broad railing, and helping to offset somewhat the overall funerary gloom, were several planters filled with violets and mountain pinks. Bateman lifted the edge of the nearest planter and withdrew a key. “See how I trust you, Maggie? I’m showing you my secret hiding place. This is an old-fashioned lock, and the key is much too heavy to bother carrying around.”

Pausing at the door, he pointed to the crepe. “In our society it used to be the custom to drape the door like this to signify that this was a house of mourning.”

My God, how he enjoys this! Maggie thought, shivering slightly. She realized her hands were damp and shoved them in the pockets of her jeans. The irrational thought went through her head that she had no business entering a house of grief dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans.

The key turned with a grating sound, and Earl Bateman pushed the door open and then stood back. “Now what do you think of that?” he asked proudly, as Maggie moved slowly past him.

A life-sized figure of a man in black livery stood at attention in the foyer, as though ready to receive guests.

“In Emily Post’s first etiquette book, published in 1922, she wrote that when a death occurred, the butler in his day clothes should be on duty at the door until a footman in black livery could replace him.”

Earl flicked something Maggie could not see from the sleeve of the mannequin.

“You see,” he said earnestly, “the downstairs rooms show our grief culture in this century; I thought the liveried figure would be interesting to people as they came in. How many people today, even wealthy people, would have a footman in black livery stationed at the door when someone in the family dies?”

Maggie’s thoughts abruptly leaped back to that painful day when she was ten years old and Nuala told her she was going away. “You see, Maggie,” she had explained, “for a long time after my first husband died, I carried dark glasses with me. I cried so easily that I was embarrassed. When I felt it coming on, I’d reach in my pocket and grab the glasses, and I’d think ‘Time to put on the grief equipment again.’ I hoped your father and I could love each other that way. I’ve tried hard, but it just can’t be. And for the rest of my life, whenever I think of the years I’m going to miss with you, I’ll have to reach for my grief equipment.”

Remembering that day always brought tears to Maggie’s eyes. I wish I had some grief equipment right now, she thought as she brushed the moisture off her cheek.

“Oh, Maggie, you’re touched,” Earl said, his tone reverent. “How understanding of you. Now on this floor, as I told you, I have rooms that exhibit twentieth-century death rituals.”

He pushed aside a heavy curtain. “In this room, I’ve staged Emily Post’s version of a very small funeral. See?”

Maggie looked in. The figure of a young woman, dressed in a pale green silk robe, was laid out on a brocaded sofa. Long auburn ringlets spilled around a narrow satin pillow. Her hands were folded over silk replicas of lilies of the valley.

“Isn’t that charming? Doesn’t she look just like she’s sleeping?” Earl whispered. “And look.” He pointed to a discreet silver lectern near the entrance. “Today, this would be where visitors sign the guest book. What I did instead was to copy a page from the original Emily Post book about the care of the bereaved. Let me read it to you. It’s really quite fascinating.”

His voice echoed through the too-quiet room:

“‘The ones in sorrow should be urged if possible to sit in a sunny room and where there is an open fire. If they feel unequal to going to the table, a very little food should be taken to them on a tray. A cup of tea or coffee or bouillon, a little thin toast, a poached egg, milk if they like it hot, or milk toast. Cold milk is bad for one who is already over-chilled. The cook may suggest something that appeals usually to their taste…’”

He stopped. “Isn’t that something? How many people today, no matter how much money they have, have a cook who is worried about what appeals to their taste? Right? But I think this would make a wonderful individual visual, don’t you? The signatures for the opening and closing, though, have to have a broader scope.”

He took her arm. “I know you don’t have a lot of time, but please come on upstairs with me. I’ve got some great replicas of archaic separation rites from ancient times. Banquet tables, for example. It would seem that diverse people inherently understood that death must include a banquet or feast at the end of the ceremony, because extended grief is debilitating to the individual and to the community. I’ve got typical examples set up.

“Then there’s my burial section,” he continued enthusiastically as they ascended the stairs. “Have I mentioned a custom of the Sudan people who suffocated their leader when he was becoming old or feeble? You see, the principle was that the leader embodied the vitality of the nation and must never die or the nation would die with him. So when the leader was clearly losing his power, he was secretly put to death, then walled up in a mud hut. The custom then was to believe that he had not died but, rather, had vanished.” He laughed.

They were on the second floor. “In this first room, I’ve created a replica of a mud hut. Now just between us, I’ve already gotten started on an outdoor museum where the burial area can be even more realistic. It’s about ten miles from here. So far I’ve had some excavation done, basically just some bulldozing. I’m designing the entire project myself. But when it’s completed, it really will be quite wonderful. In one area I’ll have a miniature replica of a pyramid, with a section of it transparent so that people can see how the ancient Egyptians entombed their pharaohs with their gold and priceless jewels to accompany them into the hereafter…”

He’s babbling, Maggie thought, a leaden sense of unease settling over her. He’s crazy! Her mind was racing as he propelled her from room to room, each of them containing what resembled an elaborately structured stage setting. Earl was holding her hand now, pulling her along as he darted about to show everything, explain everything.

They were almost at the end of the long hallway, and Maggie realized that she still had not seen anything resembling the bells she had found on the graves.

“What do you have on the third floor?” she asked.

“That’s not ready for exhibits yet,” he replied absently. “I use it for storage.”

Then he stopped abruptly and turned to her, his eyes intense. They were at the end of the hallway, in front of a heavy door. “Oh, Maggie, this is one of my best exhibits!”

Earl turned the handle and with a dramatic flourish threw open the door. “I combined two rooms to get the effect I wanted here. This depicts an aristocrat’s funeral in ancient Rome.” He pulled her inside. “Let me explain. First they built a bier, then they put the couch on it. On top of that were placed two mattresses. Maybe this would make a good opening shot for the series. Of course, right now the torches just have red light bulbs, but we could really have them flaming. The old man who made this bier for me was a real craftsman. He copied it exactly from the picture I gave him. Look at the fruit and flowers he carved into the wood. Feel it.”

He grasped her hand and ran it along the bier. “And this mannequin is a treasure. He’s dressed just like a dead aristocrat would be dressed. I found that fancy raiment in a costume shop. What a show these funerals must have been! Think of it. Heralds, musicians, flaming torches…”

Abruptly he stopped and frowned. “I do get carried away on this subject, Maggie. Forgive me.”

“No, I’m fascinated,” she said, trying to sound calm, hoping he would not notice the dampness of the hand he was at last relinquishing.

“Oh, good. Well, there’s just one more room. Right here. My coffin room.” He opened the last door. “Quite a spread here too, wouldn’t you say?”

Maggie stood back. She did not want to go in that room. Only ten days ago she had been the one to choose a casket for Nuala. “Actually, Earl, I should be heading back,” she said.

“Oh. I’d like to have explained these. Maybe you’ll come back. By the end of the week, I’ll have the newest one in. It’s shaped like a loaf of bread. It was designed for the corpse of a baker. The custom in some African cultures is to bury the deceased in a coffin that symbolizes the way that person’s life has been spent. I included that story in one of the lectures I gave to a women’s club right here in Newport.”

Maggie realized that he might have given her the opening she had been seeking. “Do you lecture in Newport very often?”

“Not anymore.” Earl closed the door of the coffin room slowly, as though he were reluctant to leave it. “You’ve heard it said that a prophet is without honor in his own country, no doubt? First they expect to get you without even an honorarium, then they insult you.”

Was he talking about the reaction to his lecture at Latham Manor? Maggie wondered. The closed doors of the rooms shut out most of the light, and the hall was filled with shadows, but even so she could see that his face was turning crimson. “Surely, no one insulted you?” she asked, her voice controlled, caring.

“Once,” he said darkly. “It upset me terribly.”

She didn’t dare tell him that Liam had been the one to tell her about the incident with the bells. “Oh, wait a minute,” she said slowly. “When I visited Mrs. Shipley at Latham Manor, didn’t I hear that something unpleasant had happened to you when you were kind enough to speak there? Something involving Mrs. Bainbridge’s daughter?”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Earl replied sharply. “She upset me so much that I stopped giving one of my most effective lectures.”

As they walked down the stairs to the first floor, past the mannequin of the liveried footman and out onto the porch, where, Maggie realized, the daylight felt unexpectedly strong after the dim interior of the museum, Bateman told of that evening at Latham Manor and described handing out the replicas of the Victorian bells.

“I had them cast specially,” he said, his voice ominous with anger. “Twelve of them. Maybe it wasn’t smart to have let those people hold them, but that was no reason for treating me the way that woman did.”

Maggie spoke carefully. “I’m sure other people don’t react that way.”

“It was very upsetting to all of us. Zelda was furious.”

“Zelda?” Maggie asked.

“Nurse Markey. She knows my research and had heard me speak a number of times. I was there because of her. She had told the activities chairperson at Latham how well I lecture.”

Nurse Markey, Maggie thought.

His eyes narrowed, became cautious. She could see he was studying her. “I don’t like to talk about this. It upsets me.”

“But I would think that would be a fascinating lecture,” Maggie persisted. “And maybe those bells would be a good visual for an opening or closing shot.”

“No. Forget it. They’re all in a box up in the storeroom, and that’s where they’ll stay.”

He replaced the key under the planter. “Now don’t tell anyone it’s here, Maggie.”

“No, I won’t.”

“But if you’d like to come back yourself and maybe take some pictures of the exhibits that you think I should submit to the cable people, that would be fine. You know where to find the key.”

He walked her to her car. “I have to get back to Providence,” he said. “Will you think about the visuals and see if you can come up with some suggestions? Can I call you in a day or so?”

“Of course,” she replied as, with relief, she slid into the driver’s seat. “And thank you,” she added, knowing that she had absolutely no intention of using the key, or of ever coming back to this place if she could help it.

“See you soon, I hope. Say hello to Chief Brower for me.”

She turned the key in the ignition. “Good-bye, Earl. It was very interesting.”

“My cemetery exhibit will be interesting too. Oh, that reminds me. I better put the hearse back in the garage. Cemetery. Hearse. Funny how the mind works, isn’t it?” he said as he walked away.

As Maggie drove out onto the street, she could see in the rearview mirror that Earl was sitting in the hearse, holding a phone. His head was turned in her direction.

She could feel his eyes, wide and luminous, watching her intently until at last she was beyond his range of vision.

67

Shortly before five, Dr. William Lane arrived at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Boston, where a cocktail party and dinner for a retiring surgeon were being held. His wife, Odile, had driven up earlier to go shopping and to keep an appointment with her favorite hairdresser. As usual when they had that kind of schedule, she had taken a room for the afternoon at the hotel.

As he drove through Providence, Lane’s earlier good mood gradually dissipated. The satisfaction he had felt after hearing from the Van Hillearys had dissolved, and in its place there resounded in his mind a warning, not unlike the beeping caused by a failing battery in a smoke detector. Something was wrong, but he wasn’t clear as yet just what it was.

The mental alarm had started just as he was leaving the residence, when Sarah Bainbridge Cushing called to say she was on her way in to visit her mother again. She had informed him that Letitia Bainbridge had phoned shortly after lunch to say that she wasn’t feeling well, and that she had become terribly nervous because Nurse Markey was darting in and out of her room without knocking.

He had warned Markey about that very thing after Greta Shipley complained last week. What was she up to? Dr. Lane fumed. Well, he wouldn’t warn her again; no, he would call Prestige and tell them to get rid of her.

By the time he arrived at the Ritz, Lane was thoroughly on edge. When he got up to his wife’s room, the sight of Odile in a frilly robe, just beginning to put on her makeup, annoyed him intensely. Surely she can’t have been shopping all this time, he thought with growing irritation.

“Hi, darling,” she said with a smile, looking up girlishly as he closed the door and crossed to her. “How do you like my hair? I let Magda try something a little different. Not too many trailing tendrils, I hope?” She shook her head playfully.

True, Odile had beautiful frosted blond hair, but Lane was tired of being trapped into admiring it. “It looks all right,” he said, irritation apparent in his voice.

“Only all right?” she asked, her eyes wide, her eyelids fluttering.

“Look, Odile, I have a headache. I shouldn’t have to remind you that I’ve had a rough few weeks at the residence.”

“I know you have, dear. Look, why don’t you lie down for a while while I finish painting the lily?”

That was another coy trick of Odile’s that drove him wild, the use of “paint the lily,” when most people said “gild the lily” instead. She loved it when someone tried to correct her. When they did, she was only too happy to point out that the line was often misquoted, that Shakespeare actually had written “To gild refined gold, to paint the lily.”

The would-be intellectual, Lane thought, his teeth on edge. He glanced at his watch. “Look, Odile, that party starts in ten minutes. Don’t you think you’d better get a move on?”

“Oh, William, nobody gets to a cocktail party the minute it starts,” she said, again using her little-girl voice. “Why are you so cross with me? I know you’re terribly worried about something, but please share it with me. I’ll try to help. I’ve helped you before, haven’t I?”

She looked to be on the verge of tears.

“Of course you have,” Dr. Lane said, relenting now, his voice softer. Then he paid her the compliment he knew would appease her: “You’re a beautiful woman, Odile.” He tried to sound affectionate. “Even before you paint the lily, you’re beautiful. You could walk into that party right now and outshine every woman there.”

Then, as she began to smile, he added, “But you’re right. I am worried. Mrs. Bainbridge wasn’t feeling well this afternoon, and I’d be a lot more comfortable if I were around, just in case there were to be an emergency. So…”

“Oh.” She sighed, knowing what was coming. “But how disappointing! I was looking forward to seeing everybody here tonight, and to spending time with them. I love our guests, but we do seem to give our whole lives to them.”

It was the reaction he had hoped to receive. “I’m not going to let you be disappointed,” he said firmly. “You stay and enjoy yourself. In fact, keep the room overnight and come back tomorrow. I don’t want you driving home at night unless I’m following you.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I’m sure. I’ll just make an appearance at the party now and head back. You can say hello for me to anyone who asks.” The warning beep in his head had become a keening siren. He wanted to bolt, but he paused to kiss her good-bye.

She took his face between her hands. “Oh, darling, I hope nothing happens to Mrs. Bainbridge, at least not for a long while. She is very old, of course, and can’t be expected to live forever, but she’s such a dear. If you suspect anything is seriously wrong, please call her own doctor in immediately. I wouldn’t want you to have to sign yet another death certificate for one of our ladies so soon after the last one. Remember all the trouble at the last residence.”

He took her hands from his face and held them. He wanted to strangle her.

68

When Maggie got back to the house, she stood for long minutes on the porch, breathing in deeply, inhaling the fresh, clean, salt scent of the ocean. It seemed to her that after the museum visit the smell of death was in her nostrils.

Earl Bateman enjoyed death, she thought, feeling a shiver of repulsion run up her spine. He enjoyed talking about it, recreating it.

Liam had told her that Earl had relished describing how frightened the Latham residents had been when he had made them handle the bells. She could certainly understand their fright, although Earl’s version of the incident was that it had upset him so much, he had packed away the bells in the third-floor storeroom.

Maybe it was a little bit of both, she thought. He might have enjoyed terrifying them, but he certainly had been furious when he was sent packing, she thought.

He had seemed so anxious to show her everything in that strange museum. So why hadn’t he offered to show the bells to her as well? she wondered. Surely it couldn’t have been just because of painful memories over what had happened to him at Latham Manor.

So was it because he had hidden them on the graves of women from the residence-women who might have been in the audience the night of that lecture? Another thought struck her. Had Nuala attended that lecture?

Maggie realized that she was hugging her arms tight against her body and practically shivering. As she turned to go in the house, she took the note she had left for Chief Brower off the door. Once inside, the first thing she saw was the framed picture Earl had brought her.

She picked it up.

“Oh, Nuala,” she said aloud, “Finn-u-ala.” She studied the photo for a minute. It would be possible to crop it to show Nuala alone, and she could have it enlarged.

When she had started the sculpture of Nuala, she had collected the most recent pictures she could find of her around the house. None were as recent as this, though; it would be a wonderful help in the final stages of creating the bust. She would take it upstairs now, she decided.

Chief Brower had said he would stop by this afternoon, but it was already a little after five. She decided to go ahead and do a little work on the sculpture. But on the way up to the studio, Maggie remembered that Chief Brower had said he would phone before he came. She wouldn’t hear the phone in the studio.

I know, Maggie thought, as she passed the bedroom, this would be a good time to clean out the rest of Nuala’s things from the closet floor. I’ll just take the picture to the studio and come back.

In the studio, she took the photograph out of the frame and carefully tacked it to the bulletin board by the refectory table. Then she switched on the spotlight and examined the picture closely.

The photographer must have told them to smile, she thought. Smiling had come naturally to Nuala. If there’s anything wrong with this picture, it’s that it isn’t enough of a close-up to show what I saw in her eyes that night at dinner.

Standing next to Nuala, Earl Bateman looked uncomfortable, ill at ease, his smile definitely forced. Still, she thought, there was nothing about him that suggested the frightening obsessiveness she had witnessed this afternoon.

She remembered Liam saying once that a crazy streak ran in the family. She had taken his remark as a joke at the time, but now she wasn’t so sure.

Liam probably never took a bad photograph in his life, she thought, as she continued to study the picture. There’s a strong family resemblance between the cousins, mostly the facial structure. But what looks peculiar on Earl, looks good on Liam.

I was so lucky Liam brought me to that party, and so lucky I spotted Nuala, she mused as she turned away and started down the stairs. She remembered how it almost hadn’t happened, how she had decided to go home because Liam was so preoccupied, racing from one group of cousins to the next. She had definitely felt neglected that evening.

He’s certainly changed his tune since I arrived up here, though, she thought.

How much should I tell Chief Brower when he comes? she asked herself. Even if Earl Bateman put those bells on the graves, there’s nothing inherently illegal about that. But why would he lie about the bells being in the storeroom?

She went into the bedroom and opened the closet door. The only two items that remained hanging there were the blue cocktail suit Nuala had worn that night at the Four Seasons, and the pale gold raincoat that she had rehung in the closet when Neil and his father moved the bed.

Every inch of the closet floor, however, was covered with shoes and slippers and boots, mostly in disarray.

Maggie sat on the floor and began the job of sorting them out. Some of the shoes were quite worn, and those she tossed behind her to discard. But others, like the pair she thought she remembered Nuala wearing at the party, were both new and fairly expensive.

True, Nuala wasn’t a neatnik, but surely she never would have tossed new shoes around like that, Maggie decided. Then she caught her breath. She knew the bureau drawers had been ransacked by the intruder who killed Nuala, but had he even taken the time to rummage through her shoes?

The telephone rang and she jumped. Chief Brower, she thought, and realized she would not be at all sorry to see him.

Instead of Brower, however, it was Detective Jim Haggerty, calling to say that the chief would like to postpone the meeting until first thing in the morning. “Lara Horgan, the state medical examiner, wants to come with him, and they both are out on emergencies right now.”

“That’s all right,” Maggie said. “I’ll be here in the morning.” Then, remembering that she had felt comfortable with Detective Haggerty when he had stopped by to see her, she decided to ask him about Earl Bateman.

“Detective Haggerty,” she said, “this afternoon Earl Bateman invited me to see his museum.” She chose her words carefully. “It’s such an unusual hobby.”

“I’ve been there,” Haggerty said. “Quite a place. I guess it’s not really an unusual hobby for Earl, though, when you consider he’s from a fourth-generation funeral family. His father was mighty disappointed he didn’t go into the business. But you could say that in his own way he has.” He chuckled.

“I guess so.” Again Maggie spoke slowly, measuring what she was about to say. “I know his lectures are very successful, but I gather that there was one unfortunate incident at Latham Manor. Do you know about that?”

“Can’t say as I do, but if I were the age of those folks, I wouldn’t want to hear about funerals, would you?”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“I’ve never gone to one of his lectures myself,” Haggerty continued, then lowered his voice. “I’m not one to gossip, but folks around here thought that museum idea was crazy. But heck, the Batemans could buy and sell most of the Moores. Earl may not look it or sound it, but he’s got serious money in his own right. Came to him from his father’s side.”

“I see.”

“The Moore clan call him Cousin Weirdo, but I say most of it’s because they’re jealous.”

Maggie thought of Earl as she had seen him today: staring past her at the spot where Nuala’s body had been lying; frenetically charged as he dragged her from exhibit to exhibit; sitting in the hearse, his eyes staring intently after her.

“Or maybe it’s because they know him too well,” she said. “Thanks for calling, Detective Haggerty.”

She hung up, grateful that she had made the decision not to talk about the bells. She was sure Haggerty would have laughingly ascribed their ghoulish appearance on the graves to another eccentricity of a rich man.

Maggie went back to the job of sorting out the shoes. This time she decided that the simplest thing to do was to bundle most of them in garbage bags. Worn shoes in a small, narrow size certainly wouldn’t be much use to anyone else.

The fur-lined boots, however, were worth saving. The left one was lying on its side, the right one standing. She picked up the left one and put it beside her, then reached for the other.

As Maggie lifted it, she heard a single muffled clang coming from the interior of the boot.

“Oh, God, no!”

Even before she forced herself to put her hand down into the furry interior, she knew what she would find. Her fingers closed over cool metal, and as she withdrew the object, she was certain that she had found the thing Nuala’s killer had been seeking- the missing bell.

Nuala took this from Mrs. Rhinelander’s grave, she thought, her mind working with a steadiness independent of her shaking hands. She stared at it; it was the exact twin of the bell she had taken from Nuala’s grave.

Streaks of dry dirt clung to the rim. Other tiny particles of soft earth crumbled loose on her fingers.

Maggie remembered that there had been dirt in the pocket of the gold raincoat, and she recalled that when she rehung the cocktail suit the other day she had had the impression of something falling.

Nuala was wearing her raincoat when she took this bell off Mrs. Rhinelander’s grave, she thought. It must have frightened her. She left it in her pocket for a reason. Did she find it the day she changed her will, Maggie wondered, the day before she died?

Did it in some way validate suspicions Nuala was beginning to have about the residence?

Earl claimed that the bells he had cast were in the storeroom of the museum. If the twelve he had were still there, someone else might have been placing others on the graves, she reasoned.

Maggie knew that Earl had gone back to Providence. And that the key to the museum was under the planter on the porch. Even if she told the police about the bells, they would have no legal right to go into the museum and look for the twelve Earl said were there, assuming they took her seriously, which they probably wouldn’t.

But he did invite me to let myself into the museum at any time, to try to come up with visuals for his cable programs, Maggie thought. I’ll take my camera with me. That will give me an excuse for being there if anyone happens to see me.

But I don’t want anyone to see me, she told herself. I’ll wait until it’s dark, then I’ll drive over there. There’s only one way to find out for sure. I’ll look in the storeroom for the box with the bells. I’m sure I won’t find more than six of them.

And if that’s all I find, I’ll know he’s a liar. I’ll take pictures so I can compare them with the bells on the graves and the two I have. Then tomorrow, when Chief Brower comes, I’ll give him the roll of film, she decided, and I’ll tell him that I think Earl Bateman has found a way to take revenge on the residents of Latham Manor. And he’s doing it with the help of Nurse Zelda Markey.

Revenge? Maggie froze with the realization of what she was considering. Yes, placing the bells on the graves of women who had been party to his humiliation would be a form of revenge. But would that have been enough for Earl? Or could he possibly, somehow, have been involved with their deaths as well? And that nurse, Zelda Markey-clearly she was tied to Earl somehow. Could she be his accomplice?

69

Although it was well past his normal dinnertime, Chief Brower was still at the station. It had been a hectic and senselessly tragic afternoon, involving two terrible incidents. A carful of teenagers out for a joyride had plowed into an elderly couple, and they were now in critical condition. Then an angry husband had violated a restraining order and shot his wife, from whom he was separated.

“At least we know the wife will make it,” Brower told Haggerty. “And thank God; she’s got three kids.”

Haggerty nodded.

“Where’ve you been?” Brower asked sourly. “Lara Horgan’s waiting to hear what time Maggie Holloway can see us tomorrow morning.”

“She told me she’ll be home all morning,” Haggerty said. “But wait a minute before you call Dr. Horgan. I want to tell you first about a little visit I paid to Sarah Cushing. Her mother, Mrs. Bainbridge, lives at Latham Manor. When I was a kid I was in a Boy Scout troop with Sarah Cushing’s son. Got to know her real well. Nice lady. Very impressive. Very smart.”

Brower knew there was no use rushing Haggerty when he got into one of these accounts. Besides, he looked especially pleased with himself. To speed things along, the chief asked the expected question: “So what made you go see her?”

“Something Maggie Holloway said when I phoned her for you. She mentioned Earl Bateman. I tell you, Chief, that young lady has a real nose for trouble. Anyhow, we nattered a little.”

Like you’re doing right now, Brower thought.

“And I got the distinct impression that Ms. Holloway is very nervous about Bateman, maybe even afraid of him.”

“Of Bateman? He’s harmless,” Brower snapped.

“Now that’s exactly what I would have thought, but maybe Maggie Holloway has a sharp eye when it comes to detecting what makes people tick. She is a photographer, you know. Anyhow, she mentioned a little problem that Bateman had at Latham Manor, a little ‘incident’ that took place not all that long ago, and I called one of my friends whose cousin is a maid there, and one thing led to the other, and she finally told me about a lecture Bateman gave there one afternoon that even caused one of the old girls to pass out, and she told me also how Sarah Cushing happened to be there, and that she gave Bateman hell.”

Haggerty saw the chief’s mouth tighten, his signal that it was time to come to the point. “So that’s why I went to see Mrs. Cushing, and she told me that the reason she hustled Bateman out was for upsetting the guests with his lecture about people worrying about being buried alive, and then handing out replicas of the bells they used to put on graves in Victorian times. Seems there would be a string or wire attached to the bell, and the other end was then tied to the finger of the deceased. The string ran through an air vent from the casket to the surface of the ground. That way if you woke up in the coffin, you could wiggle your finger, the bell would ring on top of the grave, and the guy who was paid to listen for it would start digging.

“Bateman told the ladies to slip their ring finger into the loop at the end of the string, to pretend they’d been buried alive, and then to start ringing the bells.”

“You’re kidding!”

“No, I’m not, Chief. That’s when all hell broke loose apparently. One eighty-year-old who’s claustrophobic started screaming and fainted. Mrs. Cushing said she grabbed the bells, broke up the lecture, and all but threw Bateman out the door. Then she made it her business to find out who had suggested he lecture there.”

Haggerty paused just an instant for effect. “That person was Nurse Zelda Markey, the lady who apparently has a habit of sneaking in and out of rooms. Sarah Cushing heard through the grapevine that Markey took care of Bateman’s aunt in a nursing home years ago, and got real close to the family. She heard also that the Batemans were mighty generous in rewarding her for taking special care of old Auntie.”

He shook his head. “Women do have a way of finding out things, don’t they, Chief? You know how there’s a question now that there just might be a little problem about all those ladies dying in their sleep over at the home? Mrs. Cushing remembers that at least some of them were at that lecture, and she’s not sure, but she thinks all of them who have died recently might have been there.”

Before Haggerty even finished, Brower was on the phone to Coroner Lara Horgan. At the conclusion of his conversation with her, he turned to the detective. “Lara is going to initiate proceedings to have the bodies of both Mrs. Shipley and Mrs. Rhinelander, the two people who died most recently at Latham Manor, exhumed. And that’s just for starters.”

70

Neil checked his watch at eight o’clock. He was passing the Mystic Seaport exit on Route 95. Another hour and he would be in Newport, he thought. He had considered calling Maggie again, but decided against it, not wanting to give her a chance to tell him she didn’t want to see him tonight. If she’s not there, I’ll just park in front of her house until she comes back, he told himself.

He was angry that he hadn’t gotten away earlier. And as if it wasn’t bad enough to hit all the commuter traffic along the way, then he had been stymied by that damned jackknifed semitrailer that brought 95 North to a standstill for over an hour.

It hadn’t been all wasted time, though. He had finally had an opportunity to think through what it was that had nagged at him about his conversation with Mrs. Arlington, his father’s client who had lost just about all her money investing with Hansen. The confirmation of the purchase: something about that had just not seemed right.

Finally it had registered, when he remembered that Laura Arlington said that she had just received the confirmation of her stock purchase. Those documents are mailed out right after the transaction, so she should have received it days earlier, Neil said to himself.

Then, this morning, he had learned that there was no record that Mrs. Gebhart had owned the stock Hansen claimed he bought for her at nine bucks a share. Today that stock was down to two dollars. Was Hansen’s game to let people think they had bought a stock at one price-a stock he happened to know was on the skids-and then to wait to put the transaction through once it had reached a very low point? That way, Hansen could pocket the difference.

Accomplishing that would involve faking a confirmation of the order from the clearing house. It wasn’t simple, but it wasn’t impossible, Neil reflected.

So I actually may be onto what Hansen is doing, he thought as he finally passed the WELCOME TO RHODE ISLAND sign. But what in hell made that crook bid on Maggie’s house? How does that relate to stealing money from gullible older ladies? There must be something else in play there.

Be home when I get there, Maggie, Neil implored silently. You’re setting too much in motion, and I won’t let you do it alone any longer.

71

At eight-thirty, Maggie drove to Earl Bateman’s funeral museum. Before leaving, she had taken the bell she found in Nuala’s closet and compared it with the bell she had dug out of Nuala’s grave. Both were now placed side by side on the refectory table in the studio, an overhead spotlight shining on them.

Almost as an afterthought she had pulled out the Polaroid camera she used when she was setting up a shoot, and had snapped a picture of the two bells lying together. She hadn’t waited to see the picture, however, but had pulled the print from the camera and tossed it on the table to study when she returned.

Then with her equipment bag in hand, heavy with two cameras and all the film and lenses, she had headed out. She hated the thought of going back into that place, but there seemed to be no other way to get the answers she needed.

Get it over with, she told herself, as she double locked the front door and got into the station wagon.

Fifteen minutes later, she was passing the Bateman Funeral Home. Obviously the establishment had experienced a busy evening. A stream of cars were pulling out of the driveway.

Another funeral tomorrow… Well, at least it isn’t someone connected with Latham Manor, Maggie thought grimly. As of yesterday, at least, all the residents were present and accounted for.

She turned right, onto the quiet street where the funeral museum was located. She drove into the parking lot, grateful to see that the hearse was gone, remembering that Earl had said he was going to garage it.

As she approached the old house, she was surprised to see faint light emerging from behind a curtained ground-floor window. It’s probably on a timer and will go off later, she thought, but at least it will help me get my bearings. She had brought a flashlight to use when inside, however; even though Earl Bateman had suggested she come back later on her own, she didn’t want to announce her presence by turning on more lights.

The key was under the planter where Earl had left it. As before, it made a loud, grating sound when she turned it in the old-fashioned lock. And as in the earlier visit, the first thing her eye encountered was the liveried-footman mannequin, although now his gaze seemed less attentive than hostile.

I really don’t want to be here, Maggie thought as she darted for the stairs, intent on avoiding even a glimpse of the room where the mannequin of a young woman was lying on the couch.

Likewise, she tried not to think about the exhibits on the second floor, as she switched on the flashlight at the top of the first staircase. Keeping the beam pointed down, she continued up the next flight. Still, the memory of what she had seen there earlier haunted her-those two large end rooms, one depicting an ancient Roman aristocrat’s funeral, the other, the coffin room. Both were grisly, but she found the sight of all those coffins in one room to be the most disturbing.

She had hoped the third floor here would be like Nuala’s third level-a studio, surrounded by large closets and shelves. Unfortunately, what she found instead was clearly another floor of rooms. With dismay, Maggie remembered Earl saying that originally the house had been his great-great-grandparents’ living quarters.

Trying not to allow herself to be nervous, Maggie opened the first door. In the cautiously low beam of the flashlight, she could see that this was an exhibit in the making; a wooden hutlike structure set atop two poles was off to one side. God knows what it means, she thought, shuddering, or what it’s for, but at least the room was empty enough to tell that there was nothing else there she needed to look at.

The next two rooms were similar; both seemed to contain partially completed death-ritual scenes.

The last door proved to be the one she had been seeking. It opened into a large storage room, its walls covered with shelves that were crammed with boxes. Two racks of clothing, ranging from ornate robes to virtual rags, were blocking the windows. Heavy wooden crates, all apparently sealed, were piled randomly on top of each other.

Where can I begin? Maggie thought, a sense of helplessness overtaking her. It would take her hours to go through everything, and though she had been there only minutes, already she was anxious to leave.

With a deep sigh, she fought back the urge to bolt, slipped the equipment bag from her shoulder, and set it on the floor. Reluctantly she closed the door of the storeroom, hoping to prevent any spill of light out into the hall and thus through the uncurtained window at the end of the passage.

All that clothing should be enough to make sure that nothing would show through the windows in the room, she told herself. Still, she felt herself shaking as she moved tentatively into the large room. Her mouth was dry. Every nerve in her body seemed to be quivering, urging her to get out of this place.

There was a stepladder to her left. Obviously it was used to get at the top shelves, she reasoned. It looked old and heavy, and it would mean taking even more time if she had to drag it around every few feet. She decided to start her search in the shelves right behind the ladder and work her way around the room from there. When she climbed up and looked down, she found that there were neat labels pasted on the tops of all the boxes. At least Earl had identified everything, she realized, and for the first time she felt a glimmer of hope that this would not be as difficult a process as she had feared.

Even so, the cartons seemed to be arranged in no particular order. Some that were labeled DEATH MASKS filled a whole section of shelves; others were marked MOURNING RAIMENT, HOUSEHOLD LIVERY, TORCHÈRE REPLICAS, DRUMS, BRASS CYMBALS, RITUAL PAINTS, and so forth-but no bells.

It’s hopeless, Maggie thought. I’ll never find them. She had only moved the ladder twice, and her watch told her that already she had been there more than half an hour.

She moved the ladder again, hating the rasping screech it made on the floor. Once again she started to climb up it, but as she put her foot on the third rung, her glance fell on a deep cardboard box wedged between two others, almost hidden behind them.

It was labeled BELLS/BURIED ALIVE!

She grasped the box and tugged, finally wrestling it loose. Almost losing her balance when it came free, she got down from the ladder and placed the carton on the floor. With frantic haste, she squatted beside it and yanked off the lid.

Brushing aside the loose popcorn packing, she uncovered the first of the metal bells, wrapped and sealed in plastic, a covering that gave it a deceptively shiny appearance. Eagerly, her fingers fished through the popcorn, until she was sure that she had found everything in the box.

Everything was six bells, identical to the others she had found.

The packing slip was still inside the box: “12 Victorian bells, cast to the order of Mr. Earl Bateman,” it read.

Twelve-and now only six.

I’ll take shots of them and the packing slip, and then I can get out of here, Maggie thought. Suddenly she was almost desperate to be safely away from this place, outside with her proof that Earl Bateman was certainly a liar, possibly even a murderer.

She wasn’t sure what first made her realize that she was no longer alone.

Had she actually heard the faint sound of the door opening, or was it the narrow beam of light from another flashlight that had alerted her?

She spun around as he raised the flashlight, heard him speaking as it crashed down on her head.

And then there was nothing but impressions of voices and movement, and finally dreamless oblivion, until she awoke to the terrible silent darkness of the grave.

72

Neil arrived at Maggie’s house well after nine o’clock, much later than he had wished. Intensely disappointed to see that her station wagon wasn’t in the driveway, he had a moment of hope when he noticed that one of the bright studio lights was on.

Maybe her car was being serviced, he told himself. But when there was no answer to his insistent ringing of the doorbell, he went back to his car to wait. At midnight he finally gave up and drove to his parents house in Portsmouth.

Neil found his mother in the kitchen, making hot cocoa. “For some reason I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

Neil knew that she had expected him to arrive hours earlier, and he felt guilty for worrying her. “I should have called,” he said. “But then why didn’t you try me on the car phone?”

Dolores Stephens smiled. “Because no thirty-seven-year-old man wants his mother checking up on him just because he’s late. It occurred to me that you probably had stopped at Maggie’s, so I really wasn’t that worried.”

Neil shook his head glumly. “I did stop at Maggie’s. She wasn’t home. I waited around till now.”

Dolores Stephens studied her son. “Did you eat any dinner?” she asked gently.

“No, but don’t bother.”

Ignoring him, she got up and opened the refrigerator. “She may have had a date,” she said, her tone thoughtful.

“She was in her own car. It’s Monday night,” Neil said, then paused. “Mom, I’m worried about her. I’m going to phone every half hour until I know she’s home.”

Despite protesting that he really wasn’t hungry, he ate the thick club sandwich his mother made for him. At one o’clock, he tried Maggie’s number.

His mother sat with him as he tried again at one-thirty, then at two, at two-thirty, and again at three.

At three-thirty his father joined them. “What’s going on?” he asked, his eyes heavy with sleep. When he was told, he snapped, “For goodness sake, call the police and ask if any accidents have been reported.”

The officer who answered assured Neil that it had been a quiet night. “No accidents, sir.”

“Give him Maggie’s description. Tell him what kind of car she drives. Leave your name and this phone number,” Robert Stephens said. “Dolores, you’ve been up all this time. You get some sleep. I’ll stay with Neil.”

“Well-” she began.

“There may be a perfectly simple explanation,” her husband said gently. When his wife was out of earshot, he said, “Your mother is very fond of Maggie.” He looked at his son. “I know that you haven’t been seeing Maggie for all that long a time, but why does she seem indifferent to you, sometimes even downright chilly? Why is that?”

“I don’t know,” Neil confessed. “She’s always held back, and I guess I have too, but I’m positive there’s something special going on between us.” He shook his head. “I’ve gone over and over it in my mind. It certainly isn’t just that I didn’t call her in time to get her number before she came up here. Maggie isn’t that trivial. But I thought about it a lot driving up, and I’ve come up with one thing that I can maybe pin it on.”

He told his father about the time he saw Maggie weeping in the theater during a film. “I didn’t think I should intrude,” he said. “At the time I thought I should just give her space. But now I wonder if maybe she knew I was there and perhaps resented the fact I didn’t at least say something. What would you have done?”

“I’ll tell you what I’d have done,” his father said immediately. “If I’d seen your mother in that situation, I’d have been right beside her, and I’d have put my arm around her. Maybe I wouldn’t have said anything, but I’d have let her know I was there.”

He looked at Neil severely. “I’d have done that whether or not I was in love with her. On the other hand, if I was trying to deny to myself that I loved her, or if I was afraid of getting involved, then maybe I’d have run away. There’s a famous biblical incident about washing the hands.”

“Come on, Dad,” Neil muttered.

“And if I were Maggie, and I had sensed you were there, and maybe had even wanted to be able to turn to you, I’d have written you off if you walked out on me,” Robert Stephens concluded.

The telephone rang. Neil beat his father to grabbing the receiver.

It was a police officer. “Sir, we found the vehicle you described parked on Marley Road. It’s an isolated area, and there are no houses nearby, so we don’t have any witnesses as to when it was left there, or by whom, whether it was Ms. Holloway or another person.”