Moonlight Becomes You

15

When the phone rang at 8:00 A.M., Robert Stephens reached with his left hand to answer it, while his right maintained a firm hold on his coffee cup.

His “good morning” was a trifle curt, his wife of forty-three years noted with amusement. Dolores Stephens knew that her husband did not appreciate early morning phone calls.

“Anything that can be said at eight can wait until nine,” was his axiom.

Usually these calls were from one of the senior-citizen clients whose taxes he handled. He and Dolores had come to Portsmouth three years ago, looking to retire, but Robert decided to keep his hand in, as he put it, by taking on a few selected clients. Within six months he had all he could handle.

The hint of annoyance disappeared quickly from his voice as he said, “Neil, how are you?”

“Neil!” Dolores exclaimed, her tone immediately apprehensive. “Oh, I hope he’s not going to say he can’t make it this weekend,” she murmured.

Her husband waved her into silence. “The weather? Great. Couldn’t be better. I’m not taking the boat out of the water yet. You can get up Thursday? Wonderful. Your mother will be delighted. She’s grabbing the receiver. You know how impatient she is. Fine. I’ll call the club for a two o’clock tee-off.”

Dolores got on the line and heard the amused voice of her only child. “Aren’t you impatient this morning,” he said.

“I know. It’s just that it will be so good to see you. I’m so glad you’re able to come. And you will stay till Sunday, won’t you, Neil?”

“Of course. Looking forward to it. Okay, gotta run. Tell Dad his ‘good morning’ sounded more like ‘go to hell.’ He still hasn’t finished that first cup of coffee, huh?”

“You got it. Bye, dear.”

The parents of Neil Stephens looked at each other. Dolores sighed. “The one thing I miss about leaving New York is having Neil just drop by anytime,” she said.

Her husband got up, went over to the stove, and refilled his cup. “Did Neil say I sounded grouchy when I answered?”

“Something like that.”

Robert Stephens smiled reluctantly. “Well, I know I’m not all sunshine early in the morning, but just now I was afraid the call was from Laura Arlington. She’s all upset. Keeps calling me.”

Dolores waited.

“She made some serious investments that haven’t worked out, and she thinks now that she’s getting a big run-around.”

“Is she right?”

“I think she is. It was one of those supposedly hot tips. The broker persuaded her to invest in a small high-tech company that was supposed to be bought out by Microsoft. She bought one hundred thousand shares of stock at five dollars a share, convinced she’d end up with a big profit.”

“Five hundred thousand dollars! What’s it worth now?”

“The stock was just suspended from trading. As of yesterday, if you could sell it, you’d get eighty cents a share. Laura can’t afford to lose that kind of money. I wish to God she’d talked to me before she got into that one.”

“Isn’t she thinking of going into the Latham Manor Residence?”

“Yes, and that was the money that was going to pay for it. It was just about all she had. Her children wanted her to get settled there, but this broker convinced her that with this investment she’d not only be able to live at Latham but have money to leave her kids as well.”

“Was what he did illegal?”

“I don’t think so, unfortunately. Unethical perhaps, but probably not illegal. Anyway, I’m going to talk it over with Neil. That’s why I’m especially glad he’s coming up.”

Robert Stephens walked to the large window that overlooked Narragansett Bay. Like his son, he was a broad, athletic-looking man. At sixty-eight, his once-sandy hair was now white.

The water in the bay was quiet, almost as still as a lake. The grass behind the house, sloping down to the water, was starting to lose its velvety green. The maples were already displaying clusters of orange, copper, and burgundy leaves.

“Beautiful, peaceful,” he said, shaking his head. “Hard to believe that six miles from here, a woman was murdered in her own home.”

He turned and looked at his wife, effortlessly pretty, her silver hair knotted at the top of her head, her features still delicate and soft. “Dolores,” he said, his tone suddenly stern, “when I’m out, I want you to keep the alarm system on at all times.”

“Fine,” she agreed amiably. In fact, she had not wanted her husband to realize just how deeply that murder had shaken her, or that when she had read the paper’s graphic account, she had checked both her front and back doors, and, as usual, found them unlocked.

16

Dr. William Lane was not especially pleased by Maggie Holloway’s request for an appointment. Already irritated by his wife’s aimless, nonstop chatter over the lunch table, and behind in completing the ever-increasing load of forms the government required of him as director of Latham Manor, he found the thought of another lost half-hour galling. He regretted now having agreed to it. He couldn’t imagine what she needed to talk to him about.

Particularly since Nuala Moore had never signed the final papers committing her to move to the residence. She had completed all the forms for entrance, had taken her physical, and, when she started to seem hesitant, he had taken it upon himself to have the second bedroom of the available suite stripped of the carpeting and furniture to show her how easily it would accommodate her easels and art supplies and cabinets. But then she called and simply said she had decided to keep her house instead.

He wondered why she had changed her mind so suddenly. She had seemed the perfect candidate. Surely it wasn’t because she fantasized that the stepdaughter would come live with her and wanted to have a place for her to stay?

Ridiculous! Lane muttered to himself. How likely was it that an attractive young woman with a successful career would come rushing up to Newport to play house with a woman she hadn’t seen in years? Lane figured that now that she had been left the place, Maggie Holloway would take a good look at all the work and expense involved to fix it up and would decide to sell it. But in the meantime she was coming here to take up his time, time that he needed to spend getting that suite put back in order to make it suitable for viewing. The management of Prestige Residence Corporation had made it clear that they would not tolerate empty living space.

Still, an uneasy thought would not go away: Was there any other reason Nuala had backed out of the arrangement? And if there was, had she confided it to her stepdaughter? What could it be? he wondered. Maybe it was all to the good that she was coming to see him after all.

He looked up from his work as the door to his office opened. Odile wandered in, as usual without knocking, a habit that drove him crazy. And one that she unfortunately shared with Nurse Zelda Markey. In fact, he would have to do something about that. Mrs. Shipley had complained about Nurse Markey’s habit of opening doors without waiting to be invited.

As he expected, Odile ignored his look of annoyance and began speaking. “William, I don’t think Mrs. Shipley is that well. As you saw, she had a little episode after the funeral Mass yesterday and a dizzy spell last evening. I wonder if she shouldn’t go into the nursing section for a few days of observation?”

“I intend to keep a close eye on Mrs. Shipley,” Dr. Lane said brusquely. “Try to remember, my dear, that in our family, I’m the one with the medical degree. You never finished nursing school.”

He knew it was a stupid thing to say and regretted it immediately, knowing what was coming next.

“Oh, William, that’s so unfair,” she cried. “Nursing is a vocation, and I realized it wasn’t for me. Perhaps it would have been better for you-and others-if you had made the same choice.” Her lip quivered. “And I think you should keep in mind that it was only because of me that Prestige Residences considered you for this job.”

They stared at each other in silence for a moment; then, as usual, Odile became contrite. “Oh, William, that was unkind of me. I know how devoted you are to all our guests. It’s just that I want to help you, and I worry that another episode could ruin you.”

She came over to the desk and leaned over him. She reached for his hand, lifting it to her face, moving it so that it caressed her cheek and chin.

Lane sighed. She was a lightweight-“a ninny,” his grandmother would have snapped-but she was pretty. He had felt himself most fortunate eighteen years ago, to have convinced an attractive-younger-a woman to marry him. Plus, she did care about him, and he knew her frequent, sugary-warm visits to the residents delighted most of them. She might seem cloying at times, but she was nonetheless sincere, and that counted for a lot. A few residents, like Greta Shipley, found her vacuous and irritating, which to Lane only proved Mrs. Shipley’s intelligence, but there was no question that here at Latham Manor, Odile was an asset to him.

Lane knew what was expected of him. With virtually no show of the resignation he felt, he stood up, put his arms around his wife and murmured, “What would I do without you?”

It was a relief when his secretary buzzed him on the intercom. “Miss Holloway is here,” she announced.

“You’d better go, Odile,” Lane whispered, forestalling her inevitable suggestion that she stay and be part of the meeting.

For once she didn’t argue but slipped out the unmarked door of his suite that led to the main corridor.

17

The night before, blaming the three-hour nap she had taken earlier, Maggie had been still wide awake at midnight. Giving up on going to sleep anytime soon, she had gone downstairs again and, in the small study, found books, several of them fully illustrated, on the “cottages” of Newport.

Carrying them up to bed, she had propped pillows behind her back and read for nearly two hours. As a result, when she was admitted to Latham Manor by a uniformed maid who then called Dr. Lane to announce her arrival, she was able to take in her surroundings with some degree of knowledge.

The mansion had been built by Ernest Latham in 1900, as a deliberate rebuke to what he considered the vulgar ostentation of the Vanderbilt mansion, The Breakers. The layout for the two houses was almost the same, but the Latham house had livable proportions. The entrance hall was still overwhelmingly large, but was, in fact, only a third of the size of The Breakers’ “Great Hall of Entry.” Satinwood-rather than Caen limestone-covered the walls, and the staircase of richly carved mahogany, carpeted in cardinal red, stood in place of the marble staircase The Breakers boasted.

The doors on the left were closed, but Maggie knew the dining room would be there.

To the right, what originally must have been the music room looked most inviting, with comfortable chairs and matching hassocks, all richly upholstered in moss green and floral patterns. The magnificent Louis Quinze mantel was even more breathtak ing in reality than it had appeared in the pictures she had seen. The ornately carved space above the fireplace stretched to the ceiling, filled with Grecian figures, tiny angels, and pineapples and grapes, except for the smooth center, where a Rembrandt-school oil painting had been hung.

It really is beautiful, she thought, mentally comparing it with the unspeakably squalid condition of a nursing home interior she had surreptitiously photographed for Newsmaker magazine.

She realized suddenly that the maid had spoken to her. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologized, “I was just trying to take it all in.”

The maid was an attractive young woman with dark eyes and olive skin. “It is lovely, isn’t it?” she said. “Even working here is a pleasure. I’ll take you to Dr. Lane now.”

His office was the largest in a suite of offices along the back of the house. A mahogany door separated the area from the rest of the first floor. As Maggie followed the maid down the carpeted corridor, she glanced through an open office door and noticed a familiar face-Janice Norton, the wife of Nuala’s lawyer, sat behind a desk.

I didn’t know she worked here, Maggie thought. But then I really don’t know much at all about any of these people, do I?

Their eyes met, and Maggie could not help feeling uncomfortable. She had not missed the bitter disappointment on Malcolm Norton’s face when Mrs. Woods revealed that Nuala had canceled the sale of her house. But he had been cordial at the wake and funeral yesterday and had suggested that he would like to have a chat with her about her plans for the house.

She paused just long enough to greet Mrs. Norton, then followed the maid down the corridor to the corner office.

The maid knocked, waited, and at the invitation to enter, opened the door for Maggie and stepped back, closing it once Maggie was inside.

Dr. Lane stood up and came around his desk to greet her. His smile was cordial, but it seemed to Maggie that his eyes were appraising her professionally. His greeting confirmed that impression.

“Ms. Holloway, or Maggie, if I may, I’m glad to see that you look a bit more rested. Yesterday was a very difficult day for you, I know.”

“I’m sure it was difficult for everyone who loved Nuala,” Maggie said quietly. “But I’m really concerned about Mrs. Shipley. How is she this morning?”

“She had another weak spell last evening, but I looked in on her just a while ago, and she seems quite fit. She’s looking forward to your visit.”

“When I spoke to her this morning, she particularly asked if I would drive her out to the cemetery. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

Lane indicated the leather chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, please.” He returned to his own chair. “I wish she’d wait a few days, but when Mrs. Shipley makes up her mind to do something… well, nothing changes it. I do think that both of her little spells yesterday were caused by her deep emotion over Nuala’s death. The two of them were really very close. They’d gotten into the habit of going up to Mrs. Shipley’s studio after Nuala’s art class, and they would gossip and have a glass or two of wine. I told them they were like a pair of schoolgirls. Frankly, though, it probably was good for both of them, and I know Mrs. Shipley will miss those visits.”

He smiled, reminiscing. “Nuala once told me that if she were hit over the head and then asked her age when she came to, she’d say twenty-two and mean it. Inside, she said, she really was twenty-two.”

Then as he realized what he had said, he looked shocked. “I’m so sorry. How careless of me.”

Hit over the head, Maggie thought. But feeling sorry for the man’s acute embarrassment, she said, “Please don’t apologize. You’re right. In spirit Nuala never was older than twenty-two.” She hesitated, then decided to plunge in. “Doctor, there’s one thing I must ask you. Did Nuala ever confide to you that something was troubling her? I mean, did she have a physical problem she may have mentioned?”

He shook his head. “No, not physical. I think Nuala was having a great deal of difficulty with what she perceived to be giving up her independence. I really think that if she had lived she eventually would have made up her mind to come here. She was always concerned about the relatively high cost of the large apartment with the extra bedroom, but as she said, she had to have a studio where she could both work and close the door when she was finished.” He paused. “Nuala told me that she knew she was a bit untidy by nature but that her studio was always the scene of organized chaos.”

“Then you believe that canceling the sale of her house and the hasty will she left were simply a last-minute panic attack of sorts?”

“Yes, I do.” He stood up. “I’ll ask Angela to bring you up to Mrs. Shipley. And if you do go to the cemetery, observe her carefully, please. If she seems in any way distraught, return immediately. After all, the families of our guests have entrusted their lives to our care, and we take that responsibility very seriously.”

18

Malcolm Norton sat in his office on Thames Street, staring at his appointment calendar for the remainder of the day. It was now entirely empty, thanks to the cancellation of his two o’clock appointment. It wouldn’t have been much of a case-just a young housewife suing her neighbor over a nasty dog bite. But the dog had a previous complaint against it-another neighbor had fought off an attack with a broom-so it was a foregone conclusion that the insurance company would be anxious to settle, particularly since the gate had been carelessly left open, and the dog allowed to run loose.

The trouble was, it was too easy a case. The woman had phoned to say the insurance company had settled to her satisfaction. Meaning I’m out three or four thousand dollars, Norton thought glumly.

He still could not get over the sickening realization that less than twenty-four hours before she died, Nuala Moore had secretly canceled the sale of her house to him. Now he was stuck with the two-hundred-thousand-dollar mortgage he had raised on his own house.

It had been hell getting Janice to agree to co-sign for the mortgage. Finally he had told her about the impending change in the Wetlands Act, and about the profits he hoped to reap in reselling Nuala Moore’s property.

“Look,” he had said, trying to reason with her, “you’re tired of working in the nursing home. God knows I hear that every day. It’s an absolutely legitimate sale. The house needs everything done to it. The worst possible scenario is that the new wetlands legislation doesn’t go through, which won’t happen. In that case, we take a renovating mortgage on Nuala’s place, fix it up, and sell it for three-fifty.”

“A second mortgage,” she had said sarcastically. “My, my, you’re quite the entrepreneur. So I quit my job. And what will you do with your new-found wealth, after the change in the Wetlands Act goes through?”

It was, of course, a question he was not prepared to answer. Not until after the sales had been completed. And that, of course, was not going to happen now. Not unless things changed. He could still hear Janice’s furious words after they got home Friday night. “So now we have a two-hundred-thousand-dollar mortgage and the expense we went through to get it. You march yourself right down to the bank and pay it off. I don’t intend to lose my home.”

“You’re not going to lose it,” he had said, pleading for time to work everything out. “I already told Maggie Holloway that I wanted to see her. She knows it’s about the house. Do you think she’ll want to stay in a place where her stepmother was murdered? Ms. Holloway will get out of Newport as fast as possible, and I’m going to point out that over the years I’ve been a big help to Nuala and Tim Moore without charging them my usual fee. By next week she’ll have agreed to sell the house.”

She had to agree to sell the house, he told himself morosely. It was his only way out of this mess.

The intercom buzzed. He picked it up. “Yes, Barbara,” he said, his voice formal. He was careful never to let an intimate quality intrude into their exchanges when she was in the outer office. He could never be certain that someone else had not come in.

From her tone of voice today, it was obvious to him that she was alone. “Malcolm, may I talk to you for a few minutes?” was all she said, but immediately he sensed that something was wrong.

A moment later she was sitting opposite him, her hands folded in her lap, her lovely hazel eyes averted. “Malcolm, I don’t know how to say this, so I’d better just plunge in. I can’t stay here. I feel rotten about myself these days.” She hesitated, then added, “Even loving you as much as I do, I can’t get away from the fact that you’re married to someone else.”

“You’ve seen me with Janice. You know our relationship.”

“But she’s still your wife. It’s better this way, believe me. I’m going to visit my daughter in Vail for a couple of months. Then, when I come back, I’ll find a different job.”

“Barbara, you can’t just walk out like this,” he pleaded, suddenly panicked.

She smiled sadly. “Not this minute. I wouldn’t do that. I’m giving you a week’s notice.”

“By that time, Janice and I will be separated, I promise you. Please stay! I can’t let you go.”

Not after all I’ve done to keep you! he thought desperately.

19

After Maggie picked up Greta Shipley, they made a stop at the florist’s to buy flowers. As they were driving to the cemetery, Greta reminisced to Maggie about her friendship with Nuala.

“Her parents rented a cottage here for several years when we both were about sixteen. She was such a pretty girl, and so much fun. She and I were inseparable during that time, and she had many admirers. Why, Tim Moore was always hanging around her. Then her father was transferred to London, and she moved there and went to school there, as well. Later, I heard she was married. Eventually we just lost track of each other, something I always regretted.”

Maggie steered the car through the quiet streets that led to St. Mary’s cemetery in Newport. “How did you happen to get together again?” she asked.

“It was just twenty-one years ago. My phone rang one day. Someone asked to speak to the former Greta Carlyle. I knew the voice was familiar but for the moment couldn’t place it. I responded that I was Greta Carlyle Shipley, and Nuala whooped, ‘Good for you, Gret. You landed Carter Shipley!’”

It seemed to Maggie that she was hearing Nuala’s voice coming from everyone’s lips. She heard it when Mrs. Woods talked about the will, when Doctor Lane reminisced about her feeling of being twenty-two, and now in Mrs. Shipley’s memories about the same kind of warm reunion Maggie herself had experienced less than two weeks ago.

Despite the warmth in the car, Maggie shivered. Thoughts of Nuala always came back to the same question: Was the kitchen door unlocked, allowing an intruder to come in, or did Nuala unlock the door herself to let someone she knew-someone she trusted-enter her home?

Sanctuary, Maggie thought. Our homes ought to offer us sanctuary. Had Nuala pleaded for her life? How long did she feel the blows that rained on her head? Chief Brower had said that he thought whoever had killed Nuala had been looking for something, and, from the look of things, might not have found it.

“… and so we picked up immediately where we left off, went right back to being best friends,” Greta continued. “Nuala told me she’d been widowed young and then remarried, and that the second marriage had been a terrible mistake, except for you. She was so soured on marriage that she said hell would freeze over before she’d try it again, but by then Tim was a widower, and they started going out. One morning she phoned and said, ‘Gret, want to go ice-skating? Hell just froze over.’ She and Tim were engaged. I don’t think I ever saw her happier.”

They arrived at the gate of the cemetery. A carved limestone angel with outstretched arms greeted them.

“The grave is to the left and up the hill,” Mrs. Shipley said, “but of course you know that. You were here yesterday.”

Yesterday, Maggie thought. Had it really been only yesterday?

They parked at the top of the hill, and with Maggie’s hand tucked firmly under Greta Shipley’s arm, they walked along the path that led to Nuala’s grave. Already the ground had been smoothed over and resodded. The thick green grass gave the plot an air of soothing timelessness. The only sound was the rustle of the wind through the fall-colored leaves of a nearby maple.

Mrs. Shipley managed a smile as she placed flowers on the grave. “Nuala loved that big tree. She said when her time came she wanted plenty of shade so that her complexion wouldn’t be ruined by too much sun.”

They laughed softly as they turned to go. Then Greta hesitated. “Would I be imposing terribly if I asked you to stop for just a moment at the graves of some of my other friends? I saved a few flowers for them, too. Two are here in St. Mary’s. The others are in Trinity. This road goes directly there. The cemeteries are side by side, and the north gate between them is always open during the day.”

It didn’t take long to make the five other stops. The headstone on the last grave was inscribed, “Constance Van Sickle Rhinelander.” Maggie noted that the date of death was only two weeks ago.

“Was she a close friend?” Maggie asked.

“Not nearly as close as Nuala, but she lived in Latham Manor, and I had gotten to know her very well.” She paused. “It’s sudden, it’s all so sudden,” she said, then turned to Maggie and smiled. “I’d better get back. I’m afraid I’m a bit tired. It’s so hard to lose so many people you care about.”

“I know.” Maggie put her arm around the older woman and realized just how frail she seemed.

On the twenty-minute drive back to the residence, Greta Shipley dozed off. When they reached Latham Manor, she opened her eyes and said apologetically, “I used to have so much energy. All my family did. My grandmother was still going strong at ninety. I’m beginning to think I’m being waited on too much.”

As Maggie escorted her inside, Greta said hesitantly, “Maggie, I hope you’ll come to see me again before you leave. When are you going back to New York?”

Maggie surprised herself by answering firmly, “I was planning to stay two weeks and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’ll call you before the weekend and we’ll make a date.”

It was not until she got back to Nuala’s house and put the kettle on that she realized something was troubling her. There was a kind of unease about Greta Shipley, and about their visit to the cemeteries. Something wasn’t right. But what was it?

20

Liam Moore Payne’s office overlooked Boston Common. Since leaving his former brokerage house and opening his own investment firm, he had been overwhelmingly busy. The prestigious clients he had brought with him demanded and received his meticulous personal attention, earning him their complete confidence.

He had not wanted to phone Maggie too early, but when he did call, at 11:00 A.M., he was disappointed not to reach her. After that he had his secretary try her every hour, but it was nearly four o’clock when he finally heard the welcome news that Ms. Holloway was on the phone.

“Maggie, at last,” he began, then stopped. “Is that a kettle I hear whistling?”

“Yes, hold on a minute, Liam. I was just fixing a cup of tea.”

When she picked up the receiver again, he said, “I was afraid you might have made up your mind to go home. I wouldn’t blame you for being nervous in that house.”

“I’m careful about locking up,” Maggie told him, then added almost without pause, “Liam, I’m glad you called. I’ve got to ask you something. Yesterday, after you brought my bags here, did you have a discussion with Earl about me?”

Liam’s eyebrows raised. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t. What makes you think I did?”

She told him about Earl’s sudden appearance at the kitchen door.

“You mean he was just going to check the lock without even letting you know? You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not. And I don’t mind saying that he really frightened me. I was shaky enough as it was about being alone here, and then to have him just show up that way… Plus, he started quoting something about sorrow like joy leaping from mind to mind. It was weird.”

“That’s one of his favorite quotes. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him give a lecture when he hasn’t included it. It always gives me the creeps, too.” Liam paused, then sighed. “Maggie, Earl is my cousin and I’m fond of him, but he is somewhat odd, and there’s no question that he’s obsessed with the subject of death. Do you want me to speak to him about that little visit to you?”

“No. I don’t think so. But I’m going to have a locksmith put dead bolts on the doors.”

“I’m selfish enough to hope that means you’ll be staying in Newport for a while.”

“At least the two weeks I had initially planned.”

“I’ll be down on Friday. Will you have dinner with me?”

“I’d like that.”

“Maggie, get that locksmith in today, will you?”

“First thing in the morning.”

“All right. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

Liam replaced the receiver slowly. How much should he tell Maggie about Earl, he wondered. He didn’t want to overdo warning her, but still…

Clearly it was something he would have to think over.

21

At quarter of five, Janice Norton locked the desk in her office at Latham Manor Residence. Out of habit, she tugged at the handle of each one of the drawers and confirmed that they were indeed secured. It was a safeguard that William Lane would have been wise to adopt, she thought sarcastically.

Lane’s assistant, Eileen Burns, worked only until two each day, and after that Janice doubled as both bookkeeper and assistant. She smiled to herself, reflecting that her unquestioned access to Lane’s office had been extremely useful over the years. Just now when she’d copied the information she wanted from two more files, she’d had a sense that she should hold off. Call it a premonition.

She shrugged. Well, she’d done it, and the copies were in her briefcase and the originals where they belonged in Lane’s desk. It was ridiculous to get jumpy about it now.

Her eyes narrowed with secret satisfaction as she thought of the undisguisable shock on her husband’s face when Irma Woods had told them about Nuala Moore’s last-minute will. What pleasure she had had since then, berating him about repaying the mortgage on their own house.

She knew, of course, that he wouldn’t do any such thing. Malcolm was destined to wander forever through a field of broken dreams. It had taken her far too long to figure out that one, but working at Latham had been an eye-opener. Some of the guests there may not have had fancy backgrounds, but they had been born sucking on the proverbial silver spoon; they had never known a day’s worry about money. Others were like Malcolm, blue bloods with lineage they could trace back past the Mayflower to the aristocracy, even to the crowned heads of Europe, passionately proud that they were the great-great-nephews or whatever, nine times removed, of the prince regent of some idiotic duchy.

However, the blue-bloods at Latham differed from Malcolm in one very important way. They hadn’t rested on their genealogical charts. They had gone out and made their own fortunes. Or married them.

But not Malcolm, she thought. Oh, no, not handsome, debonair, courtly, so-well-bred Malcolm! At her wedding, she had been the envy of her girlfriends-except for Anne Everett. On that day, in the yacht club powder room, she had overheard Anne refer to Malcolm disparagingly as the “ultimate Ken doll.”

It was a remark that had burned into her mind, because even then, on what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life, dressed as she was, like a princess, in billowing yards of satin, she had realized it was true. To put it another way, she had married the frog. And then spent thirty-plus years trying to give reality the lie. What a waste!

Years of giving intimate dinners for clients and potential clients, only to see them take their lucrative accounts to other attorneys, leaving Malcolm with token bones to pick over. Now even most of those were gone.

And then the ultimate insult. Despite the way she had stuck by him all these years, knowing she would have done better to strike out on her own, yet clinging stubbornly to what little dignity she had left, she had realized that he was mooning over his secretary and planning to get rid of her!

If only he’d been the man I thought I married, Janice mused as she pushed back the chair and stood, flexing her stiff shoulders. Even better, if only he’d been the man he thinks he is! Then I really would have had a prince.

She smoothed the sides of her skirt, taking a modicum of pleasure from the feel of her slim waistline and narrow hips. In the early days, Malcolm had compared her to a thoroughbred, slender, with long neck, lean legs, and shapely ankles. A beautiful thoroughbred, he had added.

She had been beautiful when she was young. Well, look what that had gotten her, she thought ruefully.

At least her body was still in excellent shape. And not because of regular visits to spas and pleasant days at the golf course with her well-heeled friends. No, she had spent her adult life working, and working hard-first as a real estate agent, then for the last five years as bookkeeper in this place.

She remembered how, as a real estate agent, she used to salivate over properties that went for a song because people needed ready cash. How many times she had thought, “If only I had the money…”

Well, now she had it. Now she could call the shots. And Malcolm didn’t even have a clue.

Not ever to have to set foot in this place again! she thought exultantly. Never mind the Stark carpet and brocaded draperies, even in the office area. It might be pretty, but it was still a nursing home-God’s waiting room-and at fifty-four, she was hurtling rapidly toward the age when she would be a candidate for admittance herself. Well, she would get out of here long before that ever happened.

The phone rang. Before she picked up the receiver, Janice glanced around the room, checking lest someone might have tiptoed in behind her back.

“Janice Norton,” she said sternly, holding the receiver close to her mouth.

It was the call she had hoped to receive. He didn’t bother with a greeting. “Well, for once dear Malcolm got something straight,” he said. “That Wetlands Act amendment absolutely will go through. That property will be worth a fortune.”

She laughed. “Then isn’t it time to make a counteroffer to Maggie Holloway?”

22

After Liam’s call, Maggie sat at the kitchen table, sipping tea and nibbling on some cookies she had found in the cupboard.

The box was almost full and looked as though it had been opened recently. She wondered if only a few nights ago Nuala had been sitting here sipping tea, eating cookies, planning her menu for the dinner party. She had found a shopping list next to the telephone: leg of lamb, green beans, carrots, apples, grapes, new potatoes, biscuit mix. And then there was a scribbled, typical Nuala note to herself: “Forgetting something. Look around store.” And Nuala obviously forgot to bring the list.

It’s funny, Maggie thought, but in an odd and certainly unexpected way, being here in Nuala’s house is giving her back to me. I feel almost as though I’ve lived here with her all these years.

Earlier she had glanced through a photograph album she found in the living room, and realized that the pictures of Nuala with Timothy Moore began the year after Nuala and her father divorced.

She also found a smaller album filled with pictures of herself taken during the five years Nuala had been part of her life. On the back pages were taped all the notes she had written to Nuala in those years.

The unmounted picture at the very end was of Nuala and her father and herself on their wedding day. She had been beaming with joy to have a mother. The expression on Nuala’s face had been just as happy. The smile on her father’s lips, however, was reserved, questioning, just like him.

He wouldn’t let her inside his heart, Maggie thought. I’ve always heard he was crazy about my mother, but she was dead, and wonderful Nuala was there. He was the big loser when she finally left because she couldn’t stand his carping.

And I was the loser, too, she reflected as she put the cup and saucer in the dishwasher. The simple act brought back another memory, that of her father’s annoyed voice: “Nuala, why is it so impossible to transfer dishes directly from the table to the dishwasher without first piling them in the sink?”

For a while, Nuala had cheerfully laughed about being genetically messy, but later she would say, “Dear God, Owen, this is the first time I’ve done that in three days.”

And sometimes, she’d burst into tears and I’d run after her and put my arms around her, Maggie thought sadly.

It was four-thirty. The window over the sink framed the handsome oak tree that stood to the side of the house. It should be trimmed, Maggie thought. In a bad storm, those dead branches could break and land on the house. She dried her hands and turned away. But why worry about that? She wasn’t going to stay here. She would sort out everything and earmark usable clothes and furniture for charity. If she started now, she could be done by the time she had to leave. Of course she would keep a few mementos for herself, but most things she would just get rid of. She supposed that after the will was probated, she would sell the house “as is,” but she preferred that it be as empty as possible. She didn’t want strangers going through Nuala’s home and perhaps making sarcastic comments.

She began in Nuala’s studio.

Three hours later, grimy from the dust of cabinets and countertops that had been cluttered and jammed with stiffened paint brushes, dried-up tubes of oils, paint rags, and small easels, Maggie had an impressive number of tagged trash bags lined up in a corner of the room.

And even though she had only made a start, just that much clearing up changed the appearance of the room for the better. Loyally, she reminded herself that Police Chief Brower had told her this space had been thoroughly ransacked. It was obvious that the cleaning service had not bothered to do more than shove as many items as possible back into the cabinets, and the spillover had been left on the countertops. The result was a sense of chaos that Maggie found disconcerting.

But the room itself was quite impressive. The floor-to-ceiling windows that seemed to be the only major alteration made in the house must let in wonderful northern light, Maggie thought. When Nuala had urged her to bring her sculpting materials with her, she had promised that she would find the long refectory table a perfect work area. Even though she was sure she wouldn’t use them, to please Nuala she had brought along a fifty-pound tub of wet clay, several armatures, the frameworks on which the figures would be constructed, and her modeling tools.

Maggie paused for a minute, wondering. On that table she could make a portrait head of Nuala. There were plenty of recent pictures of her around to use as models. As though I need them, Maggie thought. It seemed to her that Nuala’s face would be forever imprinted in her mind. Except for visiting Greta and clearing out the house, she had no real plans. As long as I know I’m staying until a week from Sunday, it would be nice to have a project, she told herself, and what better subject than Nuala?

The visit to Latham Manor and the time she had spent with Greta Shipley had served to convince her that the uneasiness she thought she had perceived in Nuala was simply the result of her concern over the effects of radically changing her life by selling the house and moving to the residence. There doesn’t seem to have been anything else weighing on her, she thought. At least, not that I can see.

She sighed. I guess there’s no way I can be sure. But if it was a random break-in, wasn’t it risky to kill Nuala, then take time to search the house? Whoever was here could smell the food cooking and see that the table was set for company. It would make sense that the killer would be terrified that someone might arrive while he was ransacking the house, she told herself. Unless that someone already knew dinner was scheduled for eight o’clock, and that I wouldn’t be arriving until nearly that time.

A window of opportunity, she reasoned. There certainly had been one for a person who knew the plans for the evening- perhaps was even part of them.

“Nuala wasn’t killed by a random thief,” Maggie said aloud. Mentally she reviewed the people who had been expected at the dinner. What did she know about any of them? Nothing, really.

Except for Liam; he was the only one she really knew. It was only because of him that she had run into Nuala again, and for that she always would be grateful. I’m also glad he felt the way I did about his cousin Earl, she thought. His showing up here really gave me the creeps.

The next time she and Liam talked, she wanted to ask him about Malcolm and Janice Norton. Even in that quick moment this morning, when she had greeted Janice at Latham Manor, she could detect something amiss in the woman’s expression. It looked like anger. Because of the canceled sale? Maggie wondered. But surely there were plenty of other houses like this one available in Newport. It couldn’t be that.

Maggie walked over to the trestle table and sat down. She looked at her folded hands and realized they were itching for the feel of clay. Whenever she was trying to think something through, she found working in clay helped her to find the answer, or at least come to some kind of conclusion.

Something had bothered her today, something she had noticed subconsciously. It had registered mentally but had not made an impression at the moment. What could it have been? she asked herself. Moment by moment, she retraced her day from the time she got up, to the cursory inspection of the downstairs floor at Latham Manor and her appointment with Dr. Lane, to the drive with Greta Shipley to the cemeteries.

The cemeteries! Maggie sat up. That was it! She thought. That last grave they went to, of the Rhinelander woman, who died two weeks ago-I noticed something.

But what? Try as she might, she could not conceive of what had troubled her there.

In the morning, I’ll go back to the cemeteries and look around, she decided. I’ll take my camera, and if I don’t see exactly what it is, I’ll take pictures. Maybe whatever it is that’s nagging at me will show up when I develop them.

It had been a long day. She decided to bathe, scramble an egg, then go to bed and read more of the books about Newport.

On the way downstairs, she realized that the phone in Nuala’s bedroom was ringing. She hurried to answer it but was rewarded by a decisive click at the other end.

Whoever it was probably didn’t hear me, she thought, but it doesn’t matter. There was no one with whom she wanted to talk right now.

The closet door in the bedroom was open, and the light from the hallway revealed the blue cocktail suit Nuala had worn to the reunion party at the Four Seasons. It was haphazardly draped over a hanger, as though carelessly put away.

The suit was expensive. A sense that it might be damaged if left that way made Maggie go over to the closet to rehang it properly.

In the course of straightening the fabric, she thought she heard a soft thud, as though something had dropped on the floor. She looked down into the cluttered array of boots and shoes in the closet bottom and decided that if something had fallen, it would just have to wait.

She closed the closet door and left the room, headed for her bath. The solitude she enjoyed on many evenings in her New York apartment was not appealing in this house with flimsy locks and dark corners, in this house where a murder had been committed-perhaps by someone whom Nuala had counted as a friend.

23

Earl Bateman had not intended to drive to Newport on Tuesday evening. It was while preparing for a lecture he would be delivering the following Friday that he realized that for illustrative purposes he needed some of the slides he kept in the museum on the grounds of the Bateman Funeral Home. The home of his great-great-grandfather, the narrow Victorian house and the acre it stood on had been separated from the main house and property ten years earlier.

Technically the museum was private and not open to the public. It could only be visited by written request, and Earl personally escorted the few visitors through it. In response to the derisive humor heaped on him by his cousins whenever they discussed “Death Valley”-as they called his little museum-his icy and knowingly humorless retort was that, historically, people of all cultures and breeding attached great importance to the rituals surrounding death.

Over the years, he had gathered an impressive array of materials, all having to do with death: slides and films; recorded funeral dirges; Greek epic poems; paintings and prints, such as the apotheosis picture of Lincoln being received into heaven; scale reproductions of the Taj Mahal and the pyramids; native mausoleums of brass-trimmed hardwood; Indian funeral pyres; present-day caskets; replicas of drums; conch shells, umbrellas, and swords; statues of riderless horses with reversed stirrups; and examples of mourning attire throughout the ages.

“Mourning Attire” was the subject of the lecture he was to deliver to members of a reading group that had just finished discussing an assortment of books on death rituals. For the occasion, he wanted to show them slides of the costumes in the museum.

Visuals always help make for a lively lecture, he decided, as he drove along Route 138, over the Newport Bridge. Until last year, the final slide used when he lectured on attire was an excerpt from the 1952 Amy Vanderbilt’s Etiquette Guide, in which she instructed that patent-leather shoes were never appropriate at a funeral. Accompanying the text he had placed pictures of patent-leather shoes, from children’s Mary Janes to ladies’ pumps and men’s bowed evening slippers, all, he felt, to whimsical effect.

But now he had thought of a new twist for ending the lecture. “I wonder what generations in the future will say of us when they see illustrations of widows in red miniskirts and family mourners in jeans and leather jackets. Will they perhaps read social and cultural custom of deep significance into these costumes, as we ourselves try to read it into the clothing of the past? And if so, wouldn’t you like to have an opportunity to eavesdrop on their discussions?”

He liked that. It would lessen the uneasy reaction he always received when he discussed the fact that the Beerawan community dressed the widow or widower in rags, because of their belief that the soul of the dead person begins wandering immediately after cessation of breath and might reflect hostility to the living, even to those people the deceased had loved. Presumably the rags reflect grief and appropriately deep mourning.

At the museum, that thought had stayed with him as he collected the slides he wanted. He sensed a tension between the dead Nuala and the living Maggie. There was hostility to Maggie. She must be warned.

He knew Nuala’s phone number from memory, and in the dim light of his museum office, he dialed it. He had just started to hang up when he heard Maggie’s breathless greeting. Even so, he replaced the receiver.

She might think the warning odd, and he didn’t want her to think he was crazy.

“I am not crazy,” he said aloud. Then he laughed. “I’m not even odd.”