Moonlight Becomes You

32

In the six days since Nuala Moore had been found murdered in her home, Chief of Police Chet Brower’s initial instinct had become a certainty, at least in his own mind. No random thief had committed that crime, of that he was now sure. It had to be someone who knew Mrs. Moore, probably someone she trusted. But who? And what was the motive? he asked himself.

It was Brower’s habit to think through such questions out loud with Detective Jim Haggerty. On Thursday morning, he called Haggerty into his office to review the situation.

“Mrs. Moore may have left her door unlocked, and in that case anyone could have walked in. On the other hand, she might very well have opened it for someone she knew. Either way, there was no sign of forced entry.”

Jim Haggerty had worked with Brower for fifteen years. He knew he was being used as a sounding board, so while he had his own opinions, he would wait to share them. He had never forgotten overhearing a neighbor describe him once, saying, “Jim may look more like a grocery clerk than a cop, but he thinks like a cop.”

He knew that the remark was meant as a compliment of sorts. He also knew that it wasn’t totally unjustified-his mild, bespectacled appearance was not exactly a Hollywood casting director’s image of supercop. But that disparity sometimes worked to his advantage. His benign demeanor tended to make people more comfortable around him, so they relaxed and talked freely.

“Let’s proceed on the premise that it was someone she knew,” Brower continued, his brow creased with thought. “That opens the suspect list to nearly everyone in Newport. Mrs. Moore was well liked and active in the community. Her latest project was to give art lessons at that Latham Manor place.”

Haggerty knew that his boss did not approve of Latham Manor or of places like it. He was bothered by the idea of senior citizens investing that much nonrefundable money in a kind of gamble that they would live long enough to make the investment worthwhile. His own opinion was that since Brower’s mother-in-law had been living with him for almost twenty years now, the chief was just plain envious of anyone whose parent could afford to live out her declining years in a luxurious residence instead of her child’s guest bedroom.

“But I think we can eliminate most of Newport by considering the fact that whoever killed Mrs. Moore, and then ransacked her house, could hardly help seeing the preparations she’d been making for a dinner party,” Brower mused.

“The table was set-” Haggerty began, then quickly closed his lips. He had interrupted his boss.

Brower’s frown deepened. “I was getting to that. So that means that whoever was in the house wasn’t worried that somebody might arrive on the scene any minute. Which means that it is a good chance the killer will turn out to be one of the dinner guests we talked to in the neighbor’s house Friday night. Or less likely, someone who knew when the guests were expected.”

He paused. “It’s time to take a serious look at all of them. Wipe the slate clean. Forget what we know about them. Start from scratch.” He leaned back. “What do you think, Jim?”

Haggerty proceeded carefully. “Chief, I had a hunch you might be thinking along those lines, and you know how I like to pass the time of day with people, so I did a little looking in that direction already. And I think I’ve turned up a few things that might be interesting.”

Brower eyed him speculatively. “Go on.”

“Well, I’m sure you saw the expression on the face of that pompous windbag, Malcolm Norton, when Mrs. Woods told us about the will change and the canceled sale.”

“I saw it. What I’d call shock and dismay, heavily tinged with anger.”

“You know it’s common knowledge that Norton’s law practice is down to dog bites and the kind of divorces that involve splitting the pickup truck and the secondhand car. So it interested me to find out where he’d get the kind of money he’d need to buy Mrs. Moore’s house. I also unearthed a little gossip about him and his secretary, a woman named Barbara Hoffman.”

“Interesting. So where did he get the money?” Brower asked.

“By mortgaging his own house, which is probably his biggest asset. Maybe his only asset. Even talked his wife into co-signing.”

“Does she know he has a girlfriend?”

“From what I gather, that woman misses nothing.”

“Then why would she jeopardize their one mutual asset?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. I talked to someone at Hopkins Realtors-and got their opinion on the transaction. Frankly they were surprised that Norton was willing to pay two hundred thousand for the Moore place. According to them, the house needs a total overhaul.”

“Does Norton’s girlfriend have money?”

“No. Everything I could find out indicated that Barbara Hoffman’s a nice woman, a widow who raised and educated her kids alone, and who has a modest bank balance.” Haggerty forestalled the next question. “My wife’s cousin is a teller at the bank. Hoffman deposits fifty dollars in her savings account twice a month.”

“The question then is why did Norton want that house? Is there oil on the property?”

“If there is, he can’t touch it. The section of the property on the water side is designated wetland. The buildable part of the lot is small, which restricts even enlarging the house much, and unless you’re on the top floor, you don’t have a view.”

“I think I’d better have a talk with Norton,” Brower said.

“I’d suggest having a talk with his wife, too, Chief. Everything I learned indicates she’s too shrewd to be talked into mortgaging her house without a very good reason, and it would have to be one that will benefit her.”

“Okay, it’s as good a place as any to start.” Brower stood up. “By the way, I don’t know if you’ve seen the background check we did on Maggie Holloway. It would appear she’s clean. Her father apparently left her a little money, and she seems to be very successful as a photographer, bringing down fairly big bucks, so there’s no money motive on her part that I can see. And there’s no question that she’s telling the truth about what time she left New York. The doorman at her apartment building verified it.”

“I’d like to have a chat with her,” Haggerty offered. “Mrs. Moore’s phone bill shows that she talked to Maggie Holloway a half-dozen times in the week before the murder. Maybe something Moore told her about the people she was inviting to the dinner would come out, something that might give us a lead.”

He paused, then added, “But, Chief, you know the thing that’s driving me nuts is not having any idea what Nuala Moore’s murderer was looking for when he or she ransacked that house. I’ll bet my bottom dollar that’s the key to this crime.”

33

Maggie awoke early but waited until eleven before she phoned Greta Shipley. She had been deeply concerned about how frail Greta had seemed last evening, and hoped that she had gotten a good night’s sleep. There was no answer in the room. Maybe Mrs. Shipley is feeling much better and went downstairs, she told herself.

The telephone rang fifteen minutes later. It was Dr. Lane. “Maggie, I have very sad news,” he said. “Mrs. Shipley had asked not to be disturbed this morning, but an hour ago Nurse Markey thought it best to check on her anyway. Sometime last night, she died peacefully in her sleep.”

Maggie sat for a long time after the phone call, numb with sadness, but also angry at herself for not being more insistent that Mrs. Shipley get a medical opinion-an outside medical opinion-to determine what was wrong. Dr. Lane said that all indicators pointed to heart failure. Clearly she had not felt well all evening.

First Nuala; now Greta Shipley. Two women, best friends, now both dead in one week, Maggie thought. She had been so excited, so happy to have Nuala back in her life. And now this…

Maggie thought of the time when Nuala had first given her a jar of wet clay. Although she was only six, Nuala recognized the fact that if Maggie had any particular artistic talent, it was not as a painter. “You’re no Rembrandt,” Nuala had said, laughing. “But just seeing you play with that crazy plastic clay, I have a hunch…”

She had propped up a picture of Maggie’s miniature poodle, Porgie, in front of her. “Try to copy him,” she had instructed. That had been the beginning. Ever since, Maggie had enjoyed a love affair with sculpting. Early on, however, she had realized that as satisfying as it was artistically, for her it could only be a hobby. Fortunately she also had an interest in photography-in which she proved to be genuinely talented-and so she had made that her career. But her passion for sculpting had never left her.

I still remember how wonderful it felt to put my hands in that clay, Maggie thought as, dry-eyed, she climbed the stairs to the third floor. I was clumsy with it, but I recognized something was happening, that with clay there was a connection from my brain to my fingers.

Now with the news of Greta Shipley’s death, something that still hadn’t really sunk in, Maggie knew she had to get her hands into wet clay. It would be therapeutic, and it would also give her a chance to think, to try to work out what she should do next.

She began work on a bust of Nuala but soon realized that it was Greta Shipley’s face that now filled her mind.

She had looked so pale last night, Maggie remembered. She rested her hand on the chair when she got up, and then took my arm when we walked from the grand salon in to dinner; I could feel how weak she was. Today she had intended to stay in bed. She wouldn’t admit it, but she was feeling ill. And the day we went to the cemeteries, she talked about feeling as if she was being waited on too much, as if she had no energy.

That’s the way it happened to Dad, Maggie remembered. His friends told her that, pleading fatigue, he had skipped a sched uled dinner with them and had gone to bed early. He never woke up. Heart failure. Exactly what Dr. Lane said happened to Greta.

Empty, she thought. I feel so empty. It was no use trying to work now. She felt no inspiration. Even the clay was failing her.

Dear God, she thought, another funeral. Greta Shipley had never had children, so probably there would be mostly friends in attendance.

Funeral. The word jogged her memory. She thought of the pictures she had taken at the cemeteries. Certainly they would be developed by now. She should pick them up and study them. But study them for what? She shook her head. She didn’t have the answer yet, but she was sure there was one.

She had left the rolls of film at a drugstore on Thames Street. As she parked the car, she reflected how only yesterday, just down the block, she had bought an outfit to wear to last night’s dinner with Greta. How less than a week ago, she had driven up to Newport, so excited about her visit with Nuala. Now both women were dead. Was there some connection? she asked herself.

The thick packet of prints was waiting for her at the photography counter at the back of the drugstore.

The clerk raised his eyes when he looked at the bill. “You did want all of these enlarged, Ms. Holloway?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

She resisted the urge to open the packet immediately. When she got home she would go right upstairs to the studio and study the photos carefully.

When she arrived at the house, however, she found a latemodel BMW backing out of her driveway. The driver, a man who appeared to be about thirty, hastily pulled out to make room for her. He then parked on the street, got out of his car, and was already walking up the driveway as Maggie opened her car door.

What does he want? she wondered. He was well dressed, good looking in an upscale sort of way, so she felt no sense of insecurity. Still, his aggressive presence bothered her.

“Miss Holloway,” he said, “I hope I didn’t startle you. I’m Douglas Hansen. I wanted to reach you, but your phone number isn’t listed. So, since I had an appointment in Newport today, I thought I’d swing by and leave you a note. It’s on the door.”

He reached in his pocket and handed her his card: Douglas Hansen, Investment Advisor. The address was in Providence.

“One of my clients told me about Mrs. Moore’s passing. I didn’t really know her, but I’d met her on several occasions. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was, but also to ask you if you’re planning to sell this house.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hansen, but I haven’t made any decision,” Maggie said quietly.

“The reason I wanted to speak to you directly is that before you list the place with a realtor, if indeed you do decide to sell, I have a client who would be interested in acquiring it through me. Her daughter is planning a divorce and wants to have a place to move to when she breaks the news to her husband. I know there’s a lot of work to be done here, but the mother can afford that. Her name is one you would recognize.”

“Probably not. I don’t know many Newport people,” Maggie said.

“Then let’s say that many people would recognize the name. That’s why they have asked me to act as intermediary. Discretion is very important.”

“How do you even know that the house is mine to sell?” Maggie asked.

Hansen smiled. “Miss Holloway, Newport is a small town. Mrs. Moore had many friends. Some of them are my clients.”

He’s expecting me to ask him in to discuss this whole thing, Maggie thought, but I’m not going to do it. Instead she said, noncommittally, “As I told you, I have made no decision as yet. But thank you for your interest. I’ll keep your card.” She turned and started walking toward the house.

“Let me add that my client is willing to pay two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I believe that that amount is significantly higher than the offer Mrs. Moore was prepared to accept.”

“You seem to know a great deal, Mr. Hansen,” Maggie said. “ Newport must be a very small town. Thank you again. I will call if I decide to sell.” Again she turned toward the house.

“Just one more thing, Miss Holloway. I have to ask you not to mention this offer to anyone. Too many people would guess the identity of my client, and it could become a significant problem for her daughter.”

“You needn’t worry. I’m not in the habit of discussing my business with anyone. Good-bye, Mr. Hansen.” This time she moved briskly up the walk. But obviously he was intent on slowing her down. “That’s quite a stack of photographs,” he said, indicating the package under her arm as she looked back once more. “I understand you’re a commercial photographer. This area must be a wonderland for you.”

This time Maggie did not answer, but with a dismissive nod, she turned and crossed the porch to the door.

The note Hansen had mentioned had been wedged in next to the door handle. Maggie took it without reading it, then slipped the key into the lock. When she looked out the living room window, she saw Douglas Hansen driving away. Suddenly she felt terribly foolish.

Am I starting to jump at my own shadow? she asked herself. That man must have thought I was a fool, the way I scurried in here. And I certainly can’t ignore his offer. If I do decide to sell, that’s fifty thousand dollars more than Malcolm Norton offered Nuala. No wonder he looked so upset when Mrs. Woods told us about the will-he knew he was getting a bargain.

Maggie went directly upstairs to the study and opened the envelope containing the photographs. It didn’t help her state of mind that the first one her eye fell on was of Nuala’s grave, and on it the now fading flowers Greta Shipley had left lying at the base of the tombstone.

34

As Neil Stephens turned his car in to the driveway that led to his parents’ home, he took in the trees that lined the property, their leaves now ablaze with the gold and amber, the burgundy and cardinal red colors of fall.

Coming to a stop, he admired as well the fall plantings around the house. His father’s new hobby was gardening, and each season he displayed a new array of flowers.

Before Neil could get out of the car, his mother had flung open the side door of the house and rushed out. As he stepped out, she hugged him, then reached up to smooth his hair, a familiar gesture he remembered from childhood.

“Oh, Neil, it’s so good to see you!” she exclaimed.

His father appeared behind her, his smile an indication of his pleasure at seeing his son, although his greeting was somewhat less effusive. “You’re running late, pal. We tee up in half an hour. Your mother has a sandwich ready.”

“I forgot my clubs,” Neil said, then relented when he saw his father’s horrified expression. “Sorry, Dad, that was a joke.”

“And not funny. I had to talk Harry Scott into switching starting times with us. If we want to play eighteen holes, we’ve got to be there by two. We’re having dinner at the club.” He clasped Neil’s shoulder. “Glad you’re here, son.”

It was not until they were on the back nine of the golf course that his father opened the subject he had mentioned on the phone. “One of the old girls whose income tax I handle is on the verge of a nervous breakdown,” he said. “Some young fellow in Providence talked her into investing in some fly-by-night stock, and now she’s lost the money that was supposed to take care of her later. She had hoped to move into that fancy retirement residence I told you about.”

Neil eyed his shot and selected a club from the bag the caddie was holding. Carefully he tapped the ball, swung, then nodded with satisfaction as it rose in the air, soaring over the pond and landing on the green of the next hole.

“You’re better than you used to be,” his father said approvingly. “But you’ll notice I went farther on the green using an iron.”

They talked as they walked to the next hole. “Dad, what you just told me about that woman is something I hear all the time,” Neil said. “Just the other day a couple whose investments I’ve been handling for ten years came in all fired up and wanting to pour most of their retirement income into one of the craziest harebrained schemes I’ve ever come across. Fortunately I was able to dissuade them. Apparently this woman didn’t consult with anyone, right?”

“Certainly not with me.”

“And the stock was on one of the exchanges, or was it over the counter?”

“It was listed.”

“And it had a brief, fast run-up, and then dropped like a stone. And now it isn’t worth the paper it was written on.”

“That’s about it.”

“You’ve heard the expression, ‘There’s a sucker born every minute.’ For some reason that goes double in the market; otherwise fairly bright people go brain dead when someone gives them a hot tip.”

“In this instance I think there was some kind of extraordinary pressure applied. Anyhow, I wish you’d talk to her. Her name is Laura Arlington. Maybe you can go over the rest of her portfolio with her and see what she can do to enhance her remaining income. I told her about you, and she said she’d like to talk to you.”

“I’d be glad to, Dad. I just hope it’s not too late.”

At six-thirty, dressed for dinner, they sat on the back porch, sipping cocktails and looking out at Narragansett Bay.

“You look great, Mom,” Neil said with affection.

“Your mother’s always been a pretty woman, and all the tender loving care she’s received from me over the last forty-three years has only enhanced her beauty,” his father said. Noticing the bemused expression on their faces, he added, “What are you two smiling at?”

“You know full well I’ve also waited on you hand and foot, dear,” Dolores Stephens replied.

“Neil, are you still seeing that girl you brought up here in August?” his father asked.

“Who was that?” Neil wondered momentarily. “Oh, Gina. No, as a matter of fact I’m not.” It seemed the right time to ask about Maggie. “There is someone I’ve been seeing who’s visiting her stepmother in Newport for a couple of weeks. Her name is Maggie Holloway; unfortunately she left New York before I got her phone number here.”

“What’s the stepmother’s name?” his mother asked.

“I don’t know her last name, but her first name is unusual. Finnuala. It’s Celtic, I believe.”

“That sounds familiar,” Dolores Stephens said slowly, searching her memory. “Does it to you, Robert?”

“I don’t think so. No, that’s a new one on me,” he told her.

“Isn’t it funny. I feel as though I’ve heard that name recently,” Dolores mused. “Oh well, maybe it will come to me.”

The phone rang. Dolores got up to answer it.

“Now no long conversations,” Robert Stephens warned his wife. “We’ve got to leave in ten minutes.”

The call, however, was for him. “It’s Laura Arlington,” Dolores Stephens said as she handed the portable phone to her husband. “She sounds terribly upset.”

Robert Stephens listened for a minute before speaking, his voice consoling. “Laura, you’re going to get yourself sick over this. My son, Neil, is in town. I’ve spoken to him about you, and he will go over everything with you in the morning. Now promise me you’ll calm yourself down.”

35

Earl Bateman’s last class before the weekend had been at 1:00 P.M. that afternoon. He had stayed in his campus apartment for several hours, grading papers. Then, just as he was about to leave for Newport, the phone rang.

It was his cousin Liam, calling from Boston. He was surprised to hear from Liam. They had never had much in common. What’s this all about? he asked himself.

He responded to Liam’s hearty attempts at general conversation with monosyllabic answers. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell him about the cable series, but he knew it would only become yet another family joke. Maybe he should invite Liam over for a drink and leave the latest three-thousand-dollar check from the speakers bureau where he couldn’t miss seeing it. Good idea, he decided.

But then he felt anger build as Liam gradually got to the point of the call, the gist of which was that if Earl was going to Newport for the weekend, he shouldn’t just drop in on Maggie Holloway. His visit the other day had upset her.

“Why?” Earl spat out the word, his irritation growing.

“Look, Earl, you think you can analyze people. Well, I’ve known Maggie for a year. She’s a terrific girl-in fact, I hope I can soon make her realize just how special she is to me. But I promise you she’s not the kind who’s going to cry on someone’s shoulder. She’s contained. She’s not one of your prehistoric cretins, mutilating herself because she’s unhappy.”

“I lecture about tribal customs, not prehistoric cretins,” Earl said stiffly. “And I stopped in to see her because of genuine concern that she, like Nuala, might carelessly leave the door unlocked.”

Liam’s voice became soothing. “Earl, I’m not saying this right. What I’m trying to tell you is that Maggie isn’t fey, the way poor old Nuala was. It isn’t necessary to warn her, especially when it comes out more like a threat. Look, why don’t we have a drink over the weekend.”

“Fine.” He’d shove the check under Liam’s nose. “Come over to my place tomorrow night around six,” Earl said.

“Not good. I’m having dinner with Maggie. How about Saturday?”

“All right, I guess. See you then.”

So he’s interested in Maggie Holloway after all, Earl thought as he hung up the phone. One would never have guessed it from the way he left her by herself at the Four Seasons party. But that was typical of Liam the glad-hander, he reasoned. He did know one thing for certain, though: If he’d been seeing Maggie for a year, he would have paid much more attention to her.

Once again a strange feeling came over him, a premonition that something was about to go wrong, that Maggie Holloway was in danger, the same sensation he’d had last week regarding Nuala.

The first time Earl had had such a premonition was when he was sixteen. He had been in the hospital at the time, recovering from an appendix operation. His best friend, Ted, stopped in to see him on his way to an afternoon of sailing.

Something had made Earl want to ask Ted not to go out on the boat, but that would have sounded stupid. He remembered how all afternoon he had felt as though he were waiting for an ax to fall.

They found Ted’s boat two days later, adrift. There were a number of theories as to what had gone wrong, but there were never any answers.

Earl, of course, never talked about the incident, nor about his failure to give his friend a warning. And now Earl didn’t ever let himself think about the other times the presentiment had come.

Five minutes later, he set off on the thirty-six-mile drive to Newport. At four-thirty he stopped at a small store in town to pick up some groceries, and it was there that he heard about the death of Greta Shipley.

“Before she went to live in Latham Manor, she used to do her shopping here,” the store’s elderly owner, Ernest Winter, said regretfully. “A real nice lady.”

“My mother and father were friends of hers,” Earl said. “Had she been ill?”

“From what I hear, she wasn’t feeling well the last couple of weeks. Two of her closest friends died recently, one at Latham Manor, and then Mrs. Moore was murdered. I guess that really got to her. That can happen, you know. Funny I should remember it, but I recall years ago Mrs. Shipley told me that there was a saying, ‘Death comes in threes.’ Looks like she was right. Kind of gives you the chills, though.”

Earl picked up his packages. Another interesting lecture topic, he thought. Is it possible that there is a psychological basis for that expression as there is for so many others? Her close friends were gone. Did something in Greta Shipley’s spirit cry out to them, “Wait! I’m coming too!”

That made two new topics he had come up with just today for his lecture series. Earlier, he had come across a newspaper item about a new supermarket about to open in England where the bereaved could select all the necessary trappings for a funeral -casket, lining, clothing for the deceased, flowers, guest book, even the grave site, if necessary-and thereby eliminate the middleman, the funeral director.

It’s a good thing the family got out of the business when they did, Earl decided as he said good-bye to Mr. Winter. On the other hand, the new owners of the Bateman Funeral Home had handled Mrs. Rhinelander’s funeral, Nuala’s funeral, and would undoubtedly handle Greta Shipley’s funeral, too. It was only appropriate, since his father had taken care of her husband’s final arrangements.

Business is booming, he thought ruefully.

36

As they followed John, the maître d’, into the yacht club dining room, Robert Stephens stopped and turned to his wife. “Look, Dolores, there’s Cora Gebhart. Let’s go by her table and say hello. Last time we talked, I’m afraid I was a little harsh with her. She was going on about cashing in some bonds for one of those crazy venture schemes, and I got so irritated I didn’t even ask her what it was, just told her to forget it.”

Ever the diplomat, Neil thought, as he dutifully trailed in his parents’ footsteps as they crossed the restaurant, although he also noted that his father did not signal their detour to the maître d’, who was blithely heading for a window table, unaware that he had lost the Stephens family.

“Cora, I owe you an apology,” Robert Stephens began expansively, “but first I don’t think you’ve ever met my son, Neil.”

“Hello, Robert. Dolores, how are you?” Cora Gebhart looked up at Neil, her lively eyes warm and interested. “Your father brags about you all the time. You’re the head of the New York office of Carson amp; Parker, I understand. Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Yes, I am, and thank you, it’s nice to meet you, too. I’m glad to hear my father brags about me. Most of my life he’s been second-guessing me.”

“I can understand that. He’s always second-guessing me, too. But Robert, you don’t owe me an apology. I asked for your opinion and you gave it.”

“Well, that’s fine. I’d hate to hear that another one of my clients lost her shirt investing in high-risk flings.”

“Don’t worry about this one,” Cora Gebhart responded.

“Robert, poor John is waiting with the menus at our table,” Neil’s mother urged.

As they threaded their way through the room, Neil wondered whether his father had missed the tone Mrs. Gebhart used when she said not to worry about her. Dollars to donuts, she didn’t take his advice, Neil thought.

They had finished their meal and were lingering over coffee when the Scotts stopped by their table to say hello.

“Neil, you owe Harry a word of thanks,” Robert Stephens said by way of introduction. “He switched tee-off times with us today.”

“Didn’t matter,” Harry Scott responded. “ Lynn was in Boston for the day, so we planned on a late dinner anyway.”

His wife, stocky and pleasant faced, asked, “Dolores, do you remember meeting Greta Shipley at a luncheon here for the Preservation Society? It was three or four years ago, I think. She sat at our table.”

“Yes, I liked her very much. Why?”

“She died last night, in her sleep, apparently.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“What upsets me,” Lynn Scott continued contritely, “is that I’d heard that she had lost two close friends recently, and I’d been meaning to call her. One of the friends was that poor woman who was murdered in her home last Friday. You must have read about that. Her stepdaughter from New York discovered the body.”

“Stepdaughter from New York!” Neil exclaimed.

Excitedly, his mother interrupted him. “That’s where I read that name. It was in the newspaper. Finnuala. Neil, she was the woman who was murdered!”

• • •

When they got back home, Robert Stephens showed Neil the neatly bound newspapers in the garage, waiting for recycling. “It was in Saturday’s paper, the 28th,” his father told him. “I’m sure it’s in that pile.”

“The reason I didn’t remember the name right away was that in the article they called her Nuala Moore,” his mother said. “It was only somewhere toward the end of the article that her complete first name was mentioned.”

Two minutes later, with increasing dismay, Neil was reading the account of Nuala Moore’s death. As he did, his mind kept replaying the happiness in Maggie’s eyes when she told him about finding her stepmother again, and the plans she had made to visit her.

“She gave me the five happiest years of my childhood,” she had said. Maggie, Maggie, Neil thought. Where was she now? Had she gone back to New York? He quickly called her apartment, but her phone message was unchanged-she would be gone until the 13th.

The address of Nuala Moore’s home was in the newspaper account of the murder, but when he called information, he was told that the phone there was unlisted.

“Damn!” he exclaimed as he snapped the receiver back on the cradle.

“Neil,” his mother said softly. “It’s quarter of eleven. If this young woman is still in Newport, whether at that house or somewhere else, it’s no time to go looking for her. Drive over there in the morning, and if you don’t find her there, then try the police station. There’s a criminal investigation taking place, and since she discovered the body, the police will certainly know where to reach her.”

“Listen to your mother, son,” his father said. “Now, you’ve had a long day. I suggest you pack it in.”

“I guess so. Thanks, both of you.” Neil kissed his mother, touched his father’s arm and walked dejectedly into the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

Dolores Stephens waited until her son was out of earshot, then quietly said to her husband, “I have a feeling Neil has finally met a girl he really cares about.”

37

Even a painstaking examination of each of the enlarged photographs did not reveal to Maggie anything on those graves that should have troubled her subconscious so greatly.

They all looked the same, showed the same things: headstones with varying degrees of plantings around them; grass still velvety green in this early fall season, except Nuala’s, which had sod that showed some patchy spots.

Sod. For some reason that word struck a note with her. Mrs. Rhinelander’s grave must have been freshly sodded as well. She had died only two weeks earlier.

Once more, Maggie studied all the photographs of Constance Rhinelander’s grave, using a magnifying glass to pore over every inch of them. The only thing that attracted her attention was a small hole showing in the plantings around the headstone. It looked as though a rock or something might have been removed from there. Whoever had taken it had not bothered to smooth over the earth.

She looked again at the best close-ups she had of the tombstone at Nuala’s grave. The sod there was smooth to the point where the plantings began, but in one of the shots she thought she could detect something-a stone?-just behind the flowers Greta Shipley had left yesterday. Was whatever it was there simply because the earth had been carelessly sifted for clods and stones after the interment, or was it perhaps a cemetery marker of some sort? There was an odd glint…

She studied the pictures of the other four graves but could see nothing on any of them that should have attracted her attention.

Finally she laid the prints down on a corner of the refectory table and reached for an armature and the pot of wet clay.

Using recent pictures of Nuala she’d found around the house, Maggie began to sculpt. For the next several hours, her fingers became one with clay and knife as she began to shape Nuala’s small, lovely face, suggesting the wide, round eyes and full eyelashes. She insinuated the signs of age in the lines around the eyes, and around the mouth and neck, and in the shoulders that curved forward.

She could tell that when she was done, she would have succeeded in catching those traits she had so loved in Nuala’s face -the indomitable and merry spirit behind a face that on someone else might have been merely pretty.

Like Odile Lane, she thought, and then winced at the memory of how the woman had wagged her finger at Greta Shipley barely twenty-four hours ago. “Naughty, naughty,” she had said.

As she cleaned up, Maggie thought about the people she had dined with last evening. How distressed they must be, she thought. It was obvious how much they enjoyed Greta, and now she is gone. So suddenly.

Maggie looked at her watch as she went downstairs. Nine o’clock: not really too late to phone Mrs. Bainbridge, she decided.

Letitia Bainbridge answered on the first ring. “Oh, Maggie, we’re all heartsick. Greta hadn’t been feeling well for a few weeks, but till then she was perfectly fine. I knew she was on blood pressure and heart medicine, but she’d been on them for years and never had any problems.”

“I came to like her so much in such a short time,” Maggie said sincerely. “I can imagine how all of you must feel. Do you know what the arrangements are?”

“Yes. Bateman Funeral is handling them. I guess we’ll all end up there. The Requiem is Saturday morning at eleven at Trinity Episcopal Church, and interment is at Trinity Cemetery. Greta had left instructions that the only viewing was to be at Bateman’s between nine and ten-thirty.”

“I’ll be there,” Maggie promised. “Did she have any family?”

“Some cousins. I gather they’re coming. I know that she left her securities and the contents of her apartment to them, so they certainly should show that much respect for her.” Letitia Bainbridge paused, then added, “Maggie, do you know what has haunted me? Practically the last thing I said to Greta last night was that if Eleanor Chandler had been seen eyeing her apartment, then she should change her locks.”

“But she was amused by the remark,” Maggie protested. “Please, you mustn’t let that upset you.”

“Oh, that’s not what upsets me. It’s the fact that I’d bet anything, no matter who else may be on the list, Eleanor Chandler gets that place now.”

I’m specializing in late dinners, Maggie thought, as she put on the kettle, scrambled some eggs and dropped bread into the toaster-and not particularly exciting ones, she added. At least tomorrow night I can count on Liam to buy me a good meal.

It would be good to see him, she reflected. He was always fun in an outrageous kind of way. She wondered if he had talked to Earl Bateman about his unexpected visit Monday night. She hoped so.

Not wanting to spend any more time in the kitchen, she prepared a tray and carried it into the living room. Even though Nuala had met her death in this room less than a week ago, Maggie had come to realize that for Nuala this had been a happy, warm room.

The back and sides of the fireplace were blackened with soot. The bellows and tongs on the hearth showed signs of frequent use. Maggie could imagine having roaring fires here on cold New England evenings.

The bookcases were overflowing with books, interesting titles all of them, many familiar, others she would love to explore. She had already gone through the photo albums-the dozens of snapshots of Nuala with Tim Moore showed two people who obviously enjoyed each other’s company.

Larger, framed pictures of Tim and Nuala-boating with friends, picnicking, at formal dinners, on vacations-were scattered on the walls.

The deep, old club chair with the hassock probably had been his, Maggie decided. She remembered that whether engrossed in a book, chatting, or watching television, Nuala had always liked to curl up, kitten-like, on the couch, propped in a corner between the back and armrest.

No wonder the prospect of moving to Latham Manor had proven daunting, Maggie thought. It would be quite a wrench for Nuala to leave this home where obviously she had been happy for so many years.

But clearly she had considered moving there. That first evening, when they had had dinner after they met at the Moore reunion, Nuala had mentioned that the kind of apartment she wanted in the residence home had just become available.

What apartment was it? Maggie wondered. They had never discussed that.

Maggie realized suddenly that her hands were trembling. She carefully replaced the teacup on the saucer. Could the apartment that had become available to Nuala possibly be the one that had belonged to Greta Shipley’s friend Constance Rhinelander?

38

All he asked for was a little quiet, but Dr. William Lane knew he was not going to be granted that wish. Odile was as wound up as a top about to spin. He lay in bed with his eyes closed, wishing to God that at least she would turn off the damn light. But instead she sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair as a torrent of words poured from her lips.

“These days are so trying, aren’t they? Everyone just loved Greta Shipley, and she was one of our charter members. You know, that’s two of our sweetest ladies in as many weeks. Of course, Mrs. Rhinelander was eighty-three, but she’d been doing so well-and then, all of a sudden, you could see her start to fail. That’s the way it happens at a certain age, isn’t it? Closure? The body just closes down.”

Odile did not seem to notice that her husband did not respond. It didn’t matter; she continued anyway. “Of course, Nurse Markey was concerned about that little spell Mrs. Shipley had Monday night. This morning she told me she spoke to you about it again yesterday.”

“I examined Mrs. Shipley right after she had that spell,” Dr. Lane said wearily. “There was no reason for alarm. Nurse Markey brought up that episode only because she was trying to justify the fact that she’d been barging into Mrs. Shipley’s apartment without knocking.”

“Well, of course, you’re the doctor, dear.”

Dr. Lane’s eyes flew open with sudden realization. “Odile, I don’t want you discussing my patients with Nurse Markey,” he said sharply.

Ignoring the tone of his voice, Odile continued, “That new medical examiner is quite young, isn’t she? What was her name, Lara Horgan? I didn’t know that Dr. Johnson had retired.”

“He retired as of the first. That was Tuesday.”

“I wonder why anyone would choose to be a medical examiner, especially such an attractive young woman? But she does seem to know her business.”

“I doubt if she’d have been appointed if she didn’t know her business,” he responded tartly. “She stopped in with the police only because she was in the neighborhood and wanted to see our layout. She asked very competent questions about Mrs. Shipley’s medical history. Now, Odile, if you don’t mind, I really must get some sleep.”

“Oh, darling, I’m sorry. I know how tired you are, and how upsetting this day has been.” Odile put down the brush and took off her robe.

Ever the glamour girl, William Lane thought as he watched his wife’s preparations for bed. In eighteen years of marriage, he had never seen her wear a nightgown that wasn’t frilly. At one time she had charmed him. No longer, though-not for years.

She got into bed, and at last the light went out. But now William Lane was no longer sleepy. As usual, Odile had managed to say something that would gnaw at him.

That young medical examiner was a different cut from good old Dr. Johnson. He had always approved death certificates with a casual wave of his pen. Be careful, Lane warned himself. In the future, you’ve got to be more careful.