Moonlight Becomes You

  “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 scheduled 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 h
ad 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 late-model 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.