Moonlight Becomes You

24

Neil Stephens was normally able to give his total, undivided attention to the shifting tides of the stock market. His clients, both corporate and private, swore by the accuracy of his predictions and his strong eye in discerning trends. But in the five days since he had been unable to reach Maggie, he had found himself distracted when he needed to be attentive, and as a result, needlessly sharp with his assistant, Trish.

Finally allowing her irritation to show, she put him in his place by raising her hand in a gesture that clearly said stop, and saying, “There’s only one reason for a guy like you to be so grouchy. You’re finally interested in someone, and she isn’t buying it. Well, I guess I should say ‘welcome to the real world,’ but the fact is, I am sorry and so I’ll try to be patient with your unnecessary carping.”

After a feeble and unanswered “Who runs this place anyhow?” Neil retreated to his own office and renewed his memory search for the name of Maggie’s stepmother.

The frustration from a nagging sense that something was wrong made him uncharacteristically impatient with two of his longtime clients, Lawrence and Frances Van Hilleary, who visited his office that morning.

Wearing a Chanel suit that Neil recognized as one of her favorites, Frances sat elegantly straight on the edge of a leather club chair in the “client-friendly conversation area” and told him of a hot tip on an oil-well stock they had received at a dinner party. Her eyes sparkled as she gave him the details.

“The company is based in Texas,” she explained enthusiastically. “But ever since China opened to the West, they’ve been sending top engineers there.”

China ! Neil thought, dismayed, but leaned back, trying to give the appearance of listening with courteous attention while first Frances and then Lawrence talked excitedly of coming political stability in China, of pollution concerns there, of oil gushers waiting to be tapped, and of course, of fortunes to be made.

Doing rapid mental calculations, Neil realized with dismay that they were talking about investing roughly three quarters of their available assets.

“Here’s the prospectus,” Lawrence Van Hilleary concluded, pushing it at him.

Neil took the glossy folder and found the contents to be exactly what he had expected. At the bottom of the page, in print almost too small to read, were cautionary words to the effect that only those with at least half a million dollars in assets, excluding their residences, would be allowed to participate.

He cleared his throat. “Okay, Frances and Lawrence, you pay me for my advice. You are two of the most generous people I’ve ever dealt with. You’ve already given away a tremendous amount of money to your children and grandchildren and charities in the family limited partnership, real estate trust, generation-skipping trusts, and charitable IRAs. I firmly believe that what you have left for yourselves should not be wasted on this kind of pie-in- the-sky investment. It’s much too high risk, and I’d venture to say that there is more oil dripping from the car in your garage than you’ll ever see spurting from one of these so-called gushers. I couldn’t with any conscience handle a transaction like this, and I beg you not to waste your money on it.”

There was a moment of silence, broken by Frances who turned to her husband and said, “Dear, remind me to get the car checked.”

Lawrence Van Hilleary shook his head, then sighed with resignation. “Thanks, Neil. There’s no fool like an old fool, I guess.”

There was a soft knock, and Trish came in carrying a tray with coffee. “Is he still trying to sell you that Edsel stock, Mr. Van Hilleary?”

“No, he just cut me off at the pass when I was about to buy it, Trish. That coffee smells good.”

After discussing a few items in their investment portfolio, the subject changed to a decision the Van Hillearys were pondering.

“We’re both seventy-eight,” Lawrence said, glancing fondly at his wife. “I know we look pretty good, but there’s no question that we can’t do things we used to do even a few years ago… None of the kids live in the area. The house in Greenwich is expensive to maintain, and to top it off, our old housekeeper has just retired. We’re seriously considering looking for a retirement community somewhere in New England. We’d still go down to Florida in the winter, but it might be nice to get rid of all the responsibilities of a house and grounds.”

“Where in New England?” Neil asked.

“Perhaps the Cape. Or maybe Newport. We’d like to stay near the water.”

“In that case, I might be able to do some scouting for you over the weekend.” Briefly he told them how several of the women whose income tax his father handled had moved to Latham Manor Residence in Newport and were very happy there.

When they got up to go, Frances Van Hilleary kissed Neil’s cheek. “No oil for the lamps of China, I promise. And let us know what you find out about the place in Newport.”

“Of course.” Tomorrow, Neil thought, tomorrow I’ll be in Newport and maybe I’ll bump into Maggie.

Fat chance! said a niggling voice in the back of his mind.

Then the brainstorm hit him. One night, when they had had dinner at Neary’s, Jimmy Neary and Maggie had talked about her pending visit to Newport. She told Jimmy her stepmother’s name, and he said something about it being one of the grandest of old Celtic names. Jimmy would remember, surely, he told himself.

A much happier Neil settled down to finish up the day’s business. Tonight he would have dinner at Neary’s, he decided, then go home and pack. Tomorrow he would head north.

At eight o’clock that evening, as Neil was contentedly finishing sautéed scallops and mashed potatoes, Jimmy Neary joined him. Mentally keeping his fingers crossed, Neil asked whether Jimmy could remember the name of Maggie’s stepmother.

“Ah-hah,” Jimmy said. “Give me a minute. It’s a grand name. Let’s see.” Jimmy’s cherubic face puckered in concentration. “Nieve… Siobhan… Maeve… Cloissa… no, none of those. It’s-it’s-by God, I’ve got it! Finnuala! It means ‘the fair one,’ in Gaelic. And Maggie said the old girl’s known as Nuala.”

“At least that’s a start. I could kiss you, Jimmy,” Neil said fervently.

A look of alarm crossed Jimmy’s face. “Don’t you dare!” he said.

25

Maggie had not expected to sleep well, but wrapped as she was in the soft eiderdown quilt, her head burrowed in the goose-down pillows, she did not wake up until the phone rang at nine-thirty in the master bedroom.

Feeling clearheaded and refreshed for the first time in several days, she hurried to answer it, even taking note of the bright sunbeams that spilled into the room around the edges of the window shades.

It was Greta Shipley calling. Almost apologetically, she began, “Maggie, I wanted to thank you for yesterday. It meant so much to me. And please don’t agree to this unless it’s something you really want to do, but you mentioned that you wanted to collect the art supplies Nuala left here and, well… You see, we’re allowed to invite a guest for dinner on a rotating basis. I thought that if you don’t have any plans, you might consider joining me this evening.”

“I don’t have any plans at all, and I’d enjoy it very much,” Maggie said sincerely. Then a sudden thought flashed through her mind, a kind of mental picture. The cemetery. Mrs. Rhinelander’s grave. Or was it? Something had caught her attention there yesterday. But what? She’d have to go back. She thought it had been at Mrs. Rhinelander’s grave, but if she were wrong, she would have to revisit all the other ones they had gone to.

“Mrs. Shipley,” she said, “while I’m up here, I’m going to be taking some pictures around Newport for a project I’m working on. It may sound macabre, but St. Mary’s and Trinity have such a tranquil, old-world feeling about them, they’re perfect for my purposes. I know that some of the graves we left flowers on yesterday had beautiful vistas behind them. I’d like to go back there. Can you tell me which ones we visited?”

She hoped the hastily assembled excuse didn’t sound too lame. But I am working on a project, she thought.

Greta Shipley, however, did not seem to find Maggie’s request peculiar. “Oh, they are beautifully situated, aren’t they?” she agreed. “Certainly, I can tell you where we went. Have you got a pen and paper handy?”

“Right here.” Nuala had left a small writing pad and a pen next to the phone.

Three minutes later, Maggie had jotted down not only the names but specific directions to each plot. She knew she could locate the grave sites; now if she only knew what it was she hoped to find.

After hanging up, Maggie got out of bed, stretched, and decided on a quick shower to complete the wake-up process. A warm bath at night to put you to sleep, she thought, a cool shower to wake you up. I’m glad I wasn’t born four hundred years ago. She thought of the line she had read in a book about Queen Elizabeth I: “The Queen takes a bath once a month whether she needs it or no.”

The showerhead, obviously an addition to the beautiful claw-footed tub, provided a spray that was needle sharp and thoroughly satisfying. Wrapped in a chenille robe, her still-damp hair in a towel turban, Maggie went downstairs and fixed herself a light breakfast, which she carried back to her room to enjoy as she dressed.

Ruefully she realized that the casual clothes she had packed for the vacation with Nuala would not get her through her two-week stay here. This afternoon she would have to find a boutique or whatever and get herself an extra skirt or two and a couple of blouses or sweaters. She knew that dress at Latham Manor was a bit on the formal side, plus she had agreed to have dinner with Liam on Friday night, and that probably meant dressing up. Whenever she and Liam had been out to dinner in New York, he invariably chose fairly pricey restaurants.

Raising the shade, she opened the front window and felt the warm, gentle breeze that confirmed that after yesterday’s chilly dampness, Newport was experiencing picture-perfect early fall weather. There would be no need for a heavy jacket today, she decided. A white tee shirt, jeans, a pullover blue sweater and sneakers were what she picked to wear.

When she was dressed, Maggie stood for a moment in front of the mirror that hung over the bureau, studying herself. Her eyes no longer held traces of the tears she had wept for Nuala. They were clear again. Blue. Sapphire blue. That’s how Paul had described her eyes the night they met. It seemed a lifetime ago. She had been a bridesmaid at Kay Koehler’s wedding; he had been a groomsman.

The rehearsal dinner was at the Chevy Chase Country Club, in Maryland, near Washington. He had sat next to her. We talked to each other all night, Maggie thought, remembering. Then, after the wedding, we danced practically every dance. When he put his arms around me, I felt as though I had suddenly come home.

They were both only twenty-three at the time. He was attending the Air Force Academy, she, just finishing the master’s program at NYU.

Everyone said what a handsome couple we were, Maggie reminisced. A study in contrasts. Paul was so fair, with straight blond hair and ice-blue eyes, the Nordic look he said he had inherited from his Finnish grandmother. Me, the dark-haired Celt.

For five years after his death, she had kept her hair the way Paul liked it. Finally, last year, she had chopped off three inches; now it barely skimmed the collar line, but as a bonus the shorter length emphasized the bouncing natural curl. It also required a lot less fussing, and for Maggie that was paramount.

Paul also had liked the fact that she wore only mascara and almost-natural lipstick. Now, at least for festive occasions, she had a more sophisticated supply of makeup.

Why am I thinking about all this now? Maggie asked herself, as she prepared to leave for the morning. It was almost as though she were telling Nuala all about this, she realized. These were all the things that had happened in the years since they had seen each other, things she wanted to talk about with her. Nuala was widowed young. She would have understood.

Now, with a final silent prayer that Nuala would use her influence with her favorite saints so that Maggie might understand just why she was being compelled to go to the cemeteries, she picked up her breakfast tray and carried it back downstairs to the kitchen.

Three minutes later, after checking the contents of her shoulder bag, double locking the door, and getting her Nikon and camera equipment out of the car trunk, she was on her way to the cemeteries.

26

Mrs. Eleanor Robinson Chandler arrived at Latham Manor Residence promptly at ten-thirty, the appointed time for her meeting with Dr. William Lane.

Lane received his aristocratic guest with the charm and cour tesy that made him the perfect director and attending physician for the residence. He knew Mrs. Chandler’s history by heart. The family name was well known throughout Rhode Island. Mrs. Chandler’s grandmother had been one of Newport ’s social grandes dames during the city’s social zenith in the 1890s. She would make an excellent addition to the residence and very possibly attract future guests from among her friends.

Her financial records, while impressive, were a shade disappointing. It was obvious that she had managed to give away a great deal of her money to her large family. Seventy-six years old, she had clearly done her share to help populate the earth: four children, fourteen grandchildren, seven great-grandchildren, and no doubt more to come.

However, given her name and background, she might well be persuaded to take the top apartment that had been intended for Nuala Moore, he decided. It was clear that she was used to the best.

Mrs. Chandler was dressed in a beige knit suit and low-heeled pumps. A single strand of matched pearls, small pearl earrings, a gold wedding band, and a narrow gold watch were her only jewelry, but each item was superb. Her classic features, framed by pure white hair, were set in a gracious, reserved expression. Lane understood full well that he was the one being interviewed.

“You do understand that this is only a preliminary meeting,” Mrs. Chandler was saying. “I am not at all sure that I’m prepared to enter any residence, however attractive. I will say that from what I’ve seen so far, the restoration of this old place is in excellent taste.”

Approbation from Sir Hubert is praise indeed, Lane thought sarcastically. He smiled appreciatively, however. “Thank you,” he said. If Odile were here she would be gushing that, coming from Mrs. Chandler, such praise meant so much to them, and on and on.

“My eldest daughter lives in Santa Fe and very much wants me to make my home there,” Mrs. Chandler continued.

But you don’t want to go there, do you? Lane thought, and suddenly he felt much better. “Of course, having lived in this area so many years, it’s a little hard to make such a complete change, I would think,” he said sympathetically. “So many of our guests visit their families for a week or two, then are very glad to come back to the quiet and comfort of Latham Manor.”

“Yes; I’m sure.” Mrs. Chandler’s tone was noncommittal. “I understand you have several units available?”

“As a matter of fact one of our most desirable units just became available.”

“Who most recently occupied it?”

“Mrs. Constance Van Sickle Rhinelander.”

“Oh, of course. Connie had been quite ill, I understand.”

“I’m afraid so.” Lane did not mention Nuala Moore. He would explain away the room that he had emptied for her art studio by saying that the suite was being totally redecorated.

They went up in the elevator to the third floor. For long minutes, Mrs. Chandler stood on the terrace overlooking the ocean. “This is lovely,” she conceded. “However, I believe this unit is five hundred thousand dollars?”

“That’s correct.”

“Well, I don’t intend to spend that much. Now that I’ve seen this one, I would like to see your other available units.”

She’s going to try to bargain me down, Dr. Lane thought, and had to resist the urge to tell her that such a ploy was of absolutely no use. The cardinal rule of all Prestige Residences was absolutely no discounts. Otherwise, fury resulted, because the word of special deals always got around to those who hadn’t gotten them.

Mrs. Chandler rejected out of hand the smallest, the medium-size, and then the largest single bedroom apartments. “None of these will do. I’m afraid we’re wasting each other’s time.”

They were on the second floor. Dr. Lane turned to see Odile walking toward them, arm in arm with Mrs. Pritchard, who was recovering from foot surgery. She smiled at them, but to Lane’s relief did not stop. Even Odile occasionally knew when not to barge in, he thought.

Nurse Markey was seated at the second-floor desk. She looked up at them with a bright, professional smile. Lane was itching to get to her. This morning Mrs. Shipley had told him she intended to have a dead bolt put on her door to insure privacy. “That woman regards a closed door as a challenge,” she had snapped.

They passed Mrs. Shipley’s studio apartment. A maid had just finished cleaning it, and the wide door was open. Mrs. Chandler glanced in and stopped. “Oh, this is lovely,” she said sincerely, as she absorbed the large alcove seating area with the Renaissance fireplace.

“Step in,” Dr. Lane urged. “I know Mrs. Shipley won’t mind. She’s at the hairdresser’s.”

“Just this far. I feel like an intruder.” Mrs. Chandler took in the bedroom section and the magnificent ocean views on three sides of the unit. “I think this is preferable to the largest suite,” she told him. “How much is a unit like this?”

“Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Now that I would pay. Is there another like it available? For that price, of course?”

“Not at the moment,” he said, then added, “But why don’t you fill out an application?” He smiled at her. “We’d very much like to have you as a guest someday.”

27

Douglas Hansen smiled ingratiatingly across the table at Cora Gebhart, a peppery septuagenarian who was clearly enjoying the scallops over braised endive she had ordered for lunch.

She was a talker, he thought, not like some of the others that he’d had to shower with attention before he could elicit any information from them. Mrs. Gebhart was opening up to him like a sunflower to the sun, and he knew that by the time the espresso was served, he would have a good chance of winning her confidence.

“Everyone’s favorite nephew,” one of these women had called him, and it was just the way he wanted to be perceived: the fondly solicitous thirty-year-old, who extended to them all the little courtesies they hadn’t enjoyed for years.

Intimate, gossipy luncheons at a restaurant that was either upscale gourmet like this one, Bouchard’s, or a place like the Chart House, where great views could be enjoyed over excellent lobster. The lunches were followed up with a box of candy for the ones who ordered sweet desserts, flowers for those who confided stories of their long-ago courtships, and even an arm-in-arm stroll on Ocean Drive for a more recent widow who wistfully confided how she and her late husband used to take long walks every day. He knew just how to do it.

Hansen had great respect for the fact that all of these women were intelligent, and some of them were even shrewd. The stock offerings he touted to them were the kind that even a moderate investor would have to admit had possibilities. In fact, one of them had actually worked out, which in a way had been disastrous for him, but in the end turned out to be a plus. Because now, in order to cap his pitch, he would suggest that a would-be client call Mrs. Alberta Downing in Providence, that she could confirm Hansen’s expertise.

“Mrs. Downing invested one hundred thousand dollars and made a three-hundred-thousand-dollar profit in one week,” he was able to tell prospective clients. It was an honest claim. The fact that the stock had been artificially inflated at the last minute, and that Mrs. Downing had ordered him to sell, going against his own advice, had seemed like a disaster at the time. They had had to raise the money to pay her her profits, but now at least they had a genuine blue-blood reference.

Cora Gebhart daintily finished the last of her meal. “Excellent,” she announced as she sipped at the chardonnay in her glass. Hansen had wanted to order a full bottle, but she had informed him adamantly that one glass at luncheon was her limit.

Douglas laid his knife on the plate and carefully placed the fork beside it with prongs turned down, European style.

Cora Gebhart sighed. “That’s the way my husband always left the silver on his plate. Were you educated in Europe as well?”

“I spent my junior year at the Sorbonne,” Hansen responded with studied nonchalance.

“How delightful!” Mrs. Gebhart exclaimed, and immediately slipped into flawless French, which Douglas desperately tried to follow.

After a few moments, he held up his hand, smiling. “I can read and write French fluently, but it has been eleven years since I was there, and I’m afraid I’m a bit rusty. En anglais, s’il vous plaît.”

They laughed together, but Hansen’s antenna went up. Had Mrs. Gebhart been testing him? he wondered. She had commented on his handsome tweed jacket and his overall distinguished appearance, saying it was unusual in a time when so many young men, her grandson included, looked as though they had just returned from a camping trip. Was she telling him in a subtle way that she could see right through him? That she could sense that he wasn’t really a graduate of Williams and the Wharton School of Business, as he claimed?

He knew that his lean, blond, aristocratic appearance was impressive. It had gotten him entry-level jobs with both Merrill Lynch and Salomon Brothers, but he hadn’t lasted six months at either place.

Mrs. Gebhart’s next words reassured him, however. “I think I’ve been too conservative,” she complained. “I’ve tied up too much of my money in trusts so my grandchildren can buy more faded jeans. Because of that, I don’t have a lot left for myself. I’ve thought about moving into one of the retirement residences -I even recently toured Latham Manor with that in mind- but I would have to move into one of the smaller units, and I’m just used to more space.” She paused, then looked Hansen squarely in the face. “I’m thinking favorably about putting three hundred thousand dollars in the stock you recommended.”

He tried not to let his emotions register on his face, but it was a struggle. The amount she mentioned was considerably more than he had hoped for.

“My accountant is opposed to it, of course, but I’m beginning to think he’s a fuddy-duddy. Do you know him? His name is Robert Stephens. He lives in Portsmouth.”

Hansen did know the name. Robert Stephens took care of the taxes for Mrs. Arlington, and she had lost a bundle investing in a high-tech company he had recommended.

“But I pay him to do my taxes, not to run my life,” Mrs. Gebhart continued, “so without discussing it with him, I’m going to cash in my bonds and let you make me a killing, too. Now that the decision is made, maybe I will have that second glass of wine.”

As the midafternoon sun bathed the restaurant in golden warmth, they toasted each other.

28

Maggie spent almost two hours at St. Mary’s and Trinity cemeteries. Funerals were taking place in some of the areas she wanted to photograph, so in each case she waited until the mourners had departed before taking out her camera.

The beautiful warm day ran counter to her chilling quest, but she persevered, revisiting all the graves she had been to with Greta Shipley, and taking pictures from every angle.

Her initial hunch had been that she had detected something odd at Mrs. Rhinelander’s grave, which had been the last they had visited. For that reason she reversed the order she and Mrs. Shipley had followed yesterday, starting with the Rhinelander plot and ending at Nuala’s grave.

It was at this final stop that a young girl of about eight or nine appeared and stayed nearby, watching her intently.

When Maggie finished shooting a roll of film, she turned to the little girl. “Hi, I’m Maggie,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Marianne. What do you want to take pictures here for?”

“Well, I’m a photographer and I do some special projects, and this is one I’m working on.”

“Do you want to take a picture of my grandfather’s grave? It’s right over there.” She pointed off to the left, where Maggie could see several women standing by a tall headstone.

“No, I don’t think so. I’m actually done for the day. But thank you. And I’m sorry about your grandfather.”

“Today’s his third anniversary. He got married again when he was eighty-two. Mom says that woman wore him out.”

Maggie tried not to smile. “That happens sometimes, I guess.”

“My dad said that after fifty years with Grandma, at least he had some fun for two years. The lady he was married to has a new boyfriend now. Dad says he’s probably got only a couple years left.”

Maggie laughed. “I think your dad must be fun.”

“He is. Okay, I gotta go. Mom’s waving to me. See you.”

It was a conversation Nuala would have enjoyed, Maggie reflected. What am I looking for? she asked herself as she stared down at the grave. The flowers Greta Shipley had left were starting to wilt, but otherwise, this plot looked exactly like the others. Even so, she shot one more roll of film, just to be safe.

The afternoon passed quickly. Consulting the map on the passenger seat, Maggie drove into the center of Newport. Because as a professional photographer she always preferred to do her own developing, it was with real reluctance she dropped off her rolls of film at a drugstore. But realistically there was no other way. She hadn’t brought any of her darkroom equipment with her; it would have been just too complicated for so brief a trip. After securing a promise that her pictures would be ready the next day, she had a burger and a Coke at the Brick Alley Pub, then found a boutique on Thames Street where she was able to find two cowl-necked sweaters-one white, one black-two long skirts and a cream-colored tapered jacket with matching slacks. Used in combination with what she had, these additions to her wardrobe would take care of anything that might come up in Newport for the next ten days. And besides, she really liked them.

Newport is special, she thought as she drove along Ocean Drive, back to Nuala’s house.

My house, she amended, still surprised at the realization. Malcolm Norton had had an agreement with Nuala to buy the house, that Maggie knew. He said he wanted to talk with me, she reflected. Of course it has to be about the house. Do I want to sell it? she asked herself. Last night I’d have said, “Probably.” But now, at this moment, with that glorious ocean and this lovely, quaint town on this special island, I’m not so sure.

No. If I had to make up my mind right now, she thought, I wouldn’t sell it.

29

At four-thirty, Nurse Zelda Markey was relieved from duty and reported as directed to the office of Dr. William Lane. She knew she was going to be called on the carpet, and she knew why: Greta Shipley had complained about her. Well, Nurse Markey was ready for Dr. Lane.

Look at him, she thought contemptuously, as he frowned across the desk at her. I bet he can’t tell the difference between measles and chicken pox. Or palpitations and congestive heart failure.

He was frowning, but the telltale beads of perspiration on his forehead told Nurse Markey exactly how uncomfortable he was with this session. She decided to make it easier for him because she was well aware that the best defense was always a good offense.

“Doctor,” she began, “I know exactly what you’re going to say: Mrs. Shipley has complained that I walk in on her without knocking. The fact is, Mrs. Shipley is doing a great deal of sleeping, much more than she did even a few weeks ago, and I’ve been a little concerned. It’s probably just the emotional response to the death of her friends, but I assure you that I open that door without invitation only when there is no response to repeated knocking.”

She saw the flicker of uncertainty in Lane’s eyes before he spoke. “Then I would suggest, Miss Markey, that if Mrs. Shipley does not respond after a reasonable period, you open the door slightly and call in to her. The fact is she’s becoming quite agitated about this, and I want to head it off before it becomes a real problem.”

“But, Dr. Lane, if I had not been in her room two nights ago when she had that spell, something terrible might have happened.”

“The spell passed quickly, and it turned out to be nothing. I do appreciate your concern, but I can’t have these complaints. Do we understand each other, Miss Markey?”

“Of course, Doctor.”

“Is Mrs. Shipley planning to be at dinner this evening?”

“Oh, yes, she’ll not only be there, but she’s having a guest, Miss Holloway, the stepdaughter of Mrs. Moore. Mrs. Lane was told about that. She said that Miss Holloway is going to collect Mrs. Moore’s art supplies while she is here.”

“I see. Thank you, Miss Markey.”

As soon as she had left, Lane picked up the phone to call his wife at home. When she answered, he snapped, “Why didn’t you tell me Maggie Holloway would be having dinner here tonight?”

“What difference could that possibly make?” Odile asked in a puzzled tone.

“The difference is-” Lane closed his lips and took a deep breath. Certain things were better left unsaid. “I want to know about any guests who are at dinner,” he said. “For one thing, I want to be there to greet them.”

“I know that, dear. I arranged for us to dine in the residence tonight. Mrs. Shipley declined rather ungraciously when I suggested that she and her guest join us at our table. But at least you’ll be able to chat with Maggie Holloway at the social hour.”

“All right.” He paused, as though there was more he wanted to say but had changed his mind. “I’ll be home in ten minutes.”

“Well, you had better be if you want to freshen up.” Odile’s trilling laugh set Lane’s teeth on edge.

“After all, darling,” she continued, “if the rules insist that the guests be dressed for dinner, I think the director and his wife should at least set a good example. Don’t you?”

30

Earl Bateman kept a tiny apartment on the Hutchinson campus. He found the small liberal arts college, situated in a quiet section of Providence, an ideal spot from which to do research for his lectures. Overshadowed by the other institutions of higher learning in the area, Hutchinson nonetheless had excellent standards, and Earl’s class in anthropology was considered a major attraction there.

“Anthropology: The science that deals with the origins, physical and cultural development, racial characteristics, and social customs and beliefs of mankind.” Earl began any new term by having his students memorize those words. As he was fond of repeating, the difference between many of his colleagues and himself was that he felt true knowledge of any people or culture began with the study of their rituals of death.

It was a subject that never failed to fascinate him. Or his listeners, as demonstrated by the fact that he was increasingly in demand as a speaker. In fact several national speakers bureaus had written to offer him substantial fees to be the luncheon or dinner speaker at events as far as a year and a half away.

He found their correspondence most gratifying: “From what we understand, Professor, you really make even the subject of death very entertaining,” was typical of the letters he received regularly. He also found their response rewarding. His fee for such engagements was now three thousand dollars, plus expenses, and there were more offers than he could accept.

On Wednesdays, Earl’s last class was at 2:00 P.M., which today gave him the rest of the afternoon to polish his speech for a women’s club, and to answer his mail. One letter he had received recently intrigued him to the point that he could not get it off his mind.

A cable station had written to ask whether he felt he had sufficient material to do a series of half-hour, illustrated television programs on the cultural aspects of death. The remuneration would not be significant perhaps, but they had pointed out that similar exposure had proven beneficial to a number of their other hosts.

Sufficient material? Earl thought sarcastically, as he propped his feet on the coffee table. Of course I have sufficient material. Death masks, for example, he thought. I’ve never spoken on that topic. The Egyptians and Romans had them. The Florentines began to make them in the late fourteenth century. Few people realize that a death mask exists of George Washington, his calm and even noble face in permanent repose, with no hint of his ill-fitting wooden teeth that in life marred his appearance.

The trick was always to inject an element of human interest so that the people discussed were not perceived as objects of macabre interest but as sympathetic fellow humans.

The subject of tonight’s lecture had led Earl to thinking of many other possibilities for lectures. Tonight, of course, he would talk about mourning attire through the ages. But his research had made him realize that etiquette books were a rich source of other material.

Some Amy Vanderbilt dictums he included were her half-century-ago advice on muffling the clapper on the doorbell for the protection of the bereaved, and avoiding the use of words such as “died,” “death,” or “killed” in notes of sympathy.

The clapper! The Victorians had a horror of being buried alive and wanted a bell hung over the grave, with a string or wire threaded through an air vent into the coffin so that the person inside could ring in case he or she wasn’t really dead. But he wouldn’t, couldn’t, touch that subject again.

Earl knew he had or could find enough material for any number of programs. He was about to become famous, he mused. He, Earl, the family joke, would show them all-those sprawling, raucous cousins, those misbegotten descendants of a crazed, avaricious thief who had cheated and schemed his way to wealth.

He felt his heart begin to pound. Don’t think about them! he warned himself. Concentrate on the lecture, and on developing subjects for the cable program. There was another topic he had been pondering, one that he knew would be extremely well received.

But first… he would have a drink. Just one, he promised himself, as he prepared a very dry martini in his combination kitchen-dinette. As he took the first sip, he reflected on the fact that often before death someone close to the soon-to-be-deceased experienced a premonition, a kind of uneasiness or warning of what was to come.

When he sat down again, he removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and leaned his head back on the convertible couch that also served as his bed.

Someone close... “Like me,” he said aloud. “I’m not really that close to Maggie Holloway, but I sense that she isn’t close to anyone. Maybe that’s why I’m the one who has been given the premonition. I know that Maggie is going to die very soon, just as I was sure last week that Nuala had only hours to live.”

Three hours later, to the enthusiastic applause of the audience, he began his lecture with a beaming and somewhat incongruous smile. “We don’t want to talk about it, but we’re all going to die. Occasionally the date is deferred. We’ve all heard of people who were clinically dead, then returned to life. But other times the gods have spoken and the biblical prophecy, ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ is fulfilled.”

He paused, while the audience hung on his words. Maggie’s face filled his mind-that cloud of dark hair surrounding the small, exquisite features, dominated by those beautiful, painfilled blue eyes…

At least, he consoled himself, soon she won’t experience any more pain.

31

Angela, the soft-spoken maid who had admitted her yesterday, showed Maggie the supply closet where Nuala’s art materials were kept. Typical of Nuala, she thought affectionately. They had been piled on the shelves haphazardly, but with Angela’s help, it didn’t take long to get them into boxes and, with the assistance of a kitchen helper, stowed in Maggie’s car.

“Mrs. Shipley is waiting for you in her apartment,” the maid told her. “I’ll take you to her now.”

“Thank you.”

The young woman hesitated for a moment, looking around the large activity room. “When Mrs. Moore had her classes here, everyone had such a good time. It didn’t matter that most of them couldn’t draw a straight line. Just a couple of weeks ago, she began by asking everyone to remember a slogan from World War II, the kind that were on posters hanging everywhere. Even Mrs. Shipley joined in, despite the fact that she had been so upset earlier that day.”

“Why was she upset?”

“Mrs. Rhinelander died that Monday. They were good friends. Anyhow, I was helping to pass out materials, and they came up with different slogans like, ‘Keep ’em Flying,’ which Mrs. Moore sketched-a flag flying behind an airplane-and everyone copied it. And then someone suggested ‘Don’t Talk, Chum. Chew Topps Gum.’”

“That was a slogan?” Maggie exclaimed.

“Yes. Everybody laughed, but as Mrs. Moore explained, it was meant as a serious warning to people who worked in defense industries not to say anything that a spy might overhear. It was such a lively session.” Angela smiled reminiscently. “It was the last class Mrs. Moore taught. We all miss her. Well, I’d better take you up to Mrs. Shipley,” she said.

Greta Shipley’s warm smile when she saw Maggie did not disguise the fact that there was a grayish pallor under her eyes and around her lips. Maggie noticed too that when she stood up, she had to rest her hand on the arm of the chair for support. She seemed tired, and distinctly weaker than she had just yesterday.

“Maggie, how lovely you look. And how kind of you to come on such short notice,” Mrs. Shipley said. “But we have a very pleasant group at the table, and I do think you’ll enjoy them. I thought we’d have an aperitif here before we join the others.”

“That would be nice,” Maggie agreed.

“I hope you like sherry, I’m afraid that’s all I have.”

“I do like sherry.”

Unbidden, Angela went to the sideboard, poured the amber liquid from a decanter into antique crystal glasses, and served them both. Then she quietly left the room.

“That girl is a treasure,” Mrs. Shipley said. “So many little courtesies that would never occur to most of the others. Not that they’re not well trained,” she added quickly, “but Angela is special. Did you collect Nuala’s art supplies?”

“Yes, I did,” Maggie told her. “Angela helped me, and she was telling me about one of Nuala’s classes that she sat in on, the one where you all drew posters.”

Greta Shipley smiled. “Nuala was positively wicked! When she and I came up here after the class, she took my drawing- which, of course, was pretty bad-and added her own touches to it. You must see it. It’s in that second drawer,” she said, pointing to the table next to the sofa.

Maggie opened the drawer indicated and removed the heavy sheet of sketching paper. Looking at it, she felt a sudden chill. Mrs. Shipley’s original sketch vaguely resembled one defense worker with a hard hat talking to another on a train or bus. Behind them a long-faced figure in a black cape and hat was obviously eavesdropping.

Nuala had drawn what was clearly her face and Greta Shipley’s over those of the defense workers. The image of a nurse with narrowed eyes and an outsized ear floated above the spy.

“Does this represent anyone here?” Maggie asked.

Mrs. Shipley laughed. “Oh, yes. That dreadful sneak, Nurse Markey. Although that day I thought it was just a joke, all her snooping around. But now I’m not so sure.”

“Why is that?” Maggie asked quickly.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I’m just getting to be a bit fanciful. Old ladies do that sometimes, you know. Now I think we really should go downstairs.”

Maggie found the grand salon to be a wonderfully attractive room, rich in both design and furnishings. The air was filled with the buzzing of well-bred voices that emanated from handsome senior citizens who were seated about the room. From what Maggie could see, they ranged in age from late sixties to late eighties, although Greta whispered that an attractive woman in a black velvet suit, with a ramrod straight back and lively eyes, had just turned ninety-four.

“That’s Letitia Bainbridge,” she whispered. “People told her she was crazy to pay four hundred thousand dollars for an apartment when she came here six years ago, but she said that with the genes in her family, the money would be well spent. And, of course, time has proven her right. She’ll be at our table, and you’ll enjoy her, I promise.

“You’ll notice that the staff serves the guests without asking what they want,” Mrs. Shipley continued. “Most guests are allowed by the doctor to have a glass of wine or a cocktail. Those who aren’t are served Perrier or a soft drink.”

A lot of careful planning created this place, Maggie thought. I can see why Nuala thought seriously of living here. She remembered that Dr. Lane had said he was sure Nuala would have reinstated her application if she had lived.

Glancing around, Maggie noticed that Dr. Lane and his wife were approaching. Odile Lane was wearing an aqua silk shirt and matching long skirt, an outfit Maggie had seen in the bou tique where she herself had shopped. On the other occasions when she had seen Mrs. Lane -the night Nuala died and at the funeral-she hadn’t really focused on her. Now she realized that Odile was actually a beautiful woman.

Then she acknowledged to herself that even though he was balding and somewhat portly, Dr. Lane was attractive as well. His demeanor was both welcoming and courtly. When he reached her, he took Maggie’s hand and raised it to his lips, stopping just before they touched it, in the European fashion.

“What a great pleasure,” he said, his tone resonating with sincerity. “And may I say that even in one day you look considerably more rested. You’re obviously a very strong young woman.”

“Oh, darling, must you always be so clinical?” Odile Lane interrupted. “Maggie, it’s a pleasure. What do you think of all this?” She waved her hand in an all-encompassing gesture, obviously indicating the elegant room.

“I think that compared to some of the nursing homes I’ve photographed, it’s heaven.”

“Why did you choose to photograph nursing homes?” Dr. Lane asked.

“It was an assignment for a magazine.”

“If you ever wanted to do a ‘shoot’ here-that is the expression, isn’t it?-I’m sure it could be arranged,” he offered.

“I’ll certainly keep that in mind,” Maggie replied.

“When we learned you were coming, we so hoped to have you sit at our table,” Odile Lane said and then sighed, “but Mrs. Shipley wasn’t having any of it. She said she wanted you with her friends, at her usual table.” She wagged her finger at Greta Shipley. “Naughty, naughty,” she trilled.

Maggie saw Mrs. Shipley’s lips tighten. “Maggie,” she said abruptly, “I want you to meet some of my other friends.”

A few minutes later soft chimes announced that dinner was being served.

Greta Shipley took Maggie’s arm as they walked down the corridor to the dining room, and Maggie couldn’t help but notice a distinct quiver in her movement.

“Mrs. Shipley, are you sure you don’t feel ill?” Maggie asked.

“No, not a bit. It’s just that it’s such a pleasure to have you here. I can see why Nuala was so happy and excited when you came back into her life again.”

There were ten tables in the dining room, each with place settings for eight people. “Oh, tonight they’re using the Limoges china and the white linen,” Mrs. Shipley said with satisfaction. “Some of the other settings are a little too elaborate for my taste.”

Another beautiful room, Maggie thought. From what she had read of this mansion, the original banquet table for this room had seated sixty people.

“When the house was renovated and refurbished, the draperies were copied from the ones in the state dining room of the White House,” Mrs. Shipley told her as they took their seats. “Now, Maggie, you must meet your dinner companions.”

Maggie was seated at Greta Shipley’s right. The woman next to her was Letitia Bainbridge, who opened the conversation by saying, “You’re so pretty. I understand from Greta that you’re not married. Is there anyone special in your life?”

“No,” Maggie said with a smile, as the familiar ache stabbed at her.

“Excellent,” Mrs. Bainbridge said decisively. “I have a grandson I’d like to introduce to you. When he was a teenager I used to think he was a bit dim. Long hair and a guitar, all that. Dear God! But now, at thirty-five, he’s everything anyone could hope for. He’s president of his own company, doing something important with computers.”

“Letitia the matchmaker,” one of the others said, laughing.

“I’ve met the grandson. Forget it,” Greta Shipley whispered to Maggie, then in a normal tone introduced her to the others- three women and two men. “I managed to snare the Buckleys and the Crenshaws for our table,” she said. “One problem in any of these places is that they tend to become a pavilion of women, so that getting any male conversation becomes a struggle.”

It proved to be an interesting, lively group at the table, and Maggie kept asking herself why Nuala had changed her mind so abruptly about living here. Surely she wouldn’t have done it because she thought I needed the house, she reasoned. She knew Dad left me a little money, and I can take care of myself. Then why?

Letitia Bainbridge was particularly amusing as she told stories of Newport when she was young. “There was so much Anglomania then,” she said, sighing. “All the mothers were anxious to marry their daughters off to English nobility. Poor Consuelo Vanderbilt-her mother threatened to commit suicide if she didn’t marry the Duke of Marlborough. She finally did, and stuck it out for twenty years. Then she divorced him and married a French intellectual, Jacques Balsan, and was finally happy.

“And there was that dreadful Squire Moore. Everyone knew he came from nothing, but to hear him talk he was a direct descendant of Brian Boru. But he did have a bit of charm, and at least the pretense of a title, so of course he married well. And I suppose there isn’t much difference between impoverished nobility marrying an American heiress and an impoverished Mayflower descendant marrying a self-made millionaire. The difference is that Squire’s god was money and he’d do anything to accumulate it. And unfortunately, that characteristic has shown up in a number of his descendants.”

It was over dessert that Anna Pritchard, who was recovering from a hip operation, joked, “Greta, when I was walking with Mrs. Lane this morning, guess who I saw? Eleanor Chandler. She was with Dr. Lane. Of course, I know she didn’t recognize me, so I didn’t say anything to her. But she was admiring your apartment. The maid had just cleaned it, and the door was open.”

“Eleanor Chandler,” Letitia Bainbridge mused. “She went to school with my daughter. A rather forceful person, if I’m not mistaken. Is she thinking of coming here?”

“I don’t know,” Mrs. Pritchard said, “but I can’t imagine any other reason she’d be looking around. Greta, you’d better change your locks. If Eleanor wants your apartment, she’d think nothing of having you dispossessed.”

“Let her try,” Greta Shipley said with a hearty laugh.

When Maggie left, Mrs. Shipley insisted on walking her to the door.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Maggie urged. “I know you’re rather tired.”

“Never mind. I’ll have my meals sent up tomorrow and give myself a lazy day.”

“Then I’m going to call you tomorrow, and I’d better find you doing just that.”

Maggie kissed the soft, almost translucent cheek of the older woman. “Till tomorrow,” she said.