54
AS MAGGIE WAS DRESSING FOR HER DATE WITH NEIL STEphens, she realized there was a stronger-than-usual hint of dampness in the sea-scented breeze that came in through the bedroom window. Ringlets and waves, she thought with resignation. She would just fluff her hair with her fingers after she had brushed it, she decided. On a night like this, it was inevitable that the natural curl would assert itself.
She thought about Neil as she continued getting ready. Over these past months she had found herself more and more looking forward to his calls and too disappointed when they didn’t come.
But it was very obvious that, to Neil, she was an occasional date and nothing more. He’d certainly made that clear. Even so, she really had expected him to call before she left for Newport, and now she was determined to place no special significance on this evening. She knew that grown children—and especially single men—when visiting their parents, frequently looked for excuses to get away.
And then there was Liam, Maggie thought briefly. She didn’t quite know what to make of his sudden show of interest. “Oh well,” she shrugged.
All tarted up, she thought wryly after she applied eye shadow and mascara and blush, then carefully made up her lips in a soft coral shade.
Looking through the outfits she had to choose from, she picked the one she had intended to wear to Nuala’s dinner party, a vivid blue silk print blouse and matching long skirt. A narrow gold chain and earrings were her only jewelry, except for the oval-shaped sapphire ring that had belonged to her mother.
When she passed Nuala’s bedroom on the way downstairs, Maggie entered for a moment and turned on the lamp on the nightstand. As she looked around, she decided definitely to make this her room. She would move into it tomorrow, after she returned from the brunch with Mrs. Bainbridge and her daughter. I can shove the furniture around by myself, she decided, and the only things I haven’t cleaned out are the shoes and whatever is on the closet floor, and it won’t take long to finish with that.
Walking through the living room, she noticed that the roses Liam had brought needed a change of water. She refilled the vase at the kitchen sink, reached into the clutter drawer for scissors, cut the stems, and rearranged the roses before taking them back to the living room. Then she walked around the room, “fussing” with little things, like straightening the ottoman in front of the club chair, removing some of the profusion of small framed pictures on the mantel and tabletops, leaving only a few of the most flattering ones of Nuala and her husband, plumping the pillows on the couch.
In a few minutes the room took on a more tranquil, less busy feeling. Maggie studied the space and mentally rearranged the furniture, knowing that the love seat behind which Nuala’s body had been hunched would have to go. The very sight of it haunted her.
I’m nesting, she told herself, more than I’ve ever done anyplace since that silly little apartment Paul and I had in Texas. She was at once surprised and pleased with herself.
The front doorbell rang at ten of seven. Neil was early. Realizing how ambivalent she felt about the evening ahead of her, she waited a long minute before answering the ring. When she opened the door, she was careful to keep her voice and smile friendly but impersonal.
“Neil, how nice to see you.”
Neil did not answer but stood looking down at her, studying her face, unsmiling, his eyes troubled.
Maggie opened the door wider. “As my father used to ask, ‘Cat got your tongue?’ Come in, for heaven’s sake.”
He stepped inside and waited as she closed the door; then he followed her into the living room.
“You look lovely, Maggie,” he said finally, as they stood facing each other.
She raised her eyebrows. “Surprised?”
“No, of course not. But I was sick when I heard what happened to your stepmother. I know how much you were looking forward to being with her.”
“Yes, I was,” Maggie agreed. “Now, where are we going for dinner?”
Fumbling with his words, he asked if she’d mind having dinner with his parents to celebrate his mother’s birthday.
“Why don’t we just try doing this some other time?” Maggie asked curtly. “I’m sure your folks don’t need a perfect stranger horning in on a family party.”
“They’re looking forward to meeting you, Maggie. Don’t back out,” Neil pleaded. “They’ll know it’s because of them that you didn’t come.”
Maggie sighed. “I guess I have to eat.”
She let Neil do the talking as they drove to the restaurant, answering his questions as directly and succinctly as possible. She noted with some amusement, however, that he was being especially attentive and charming, and it took all of her determination to maintain her aloofness.
She had intended to continue treating Neil with distinct reserve throughout the evening, but the warmth of his parents’ greeting and their obviously sincere distress over what had happened to Nuala made it impossible not to loosen up.
“My dear, you didn’t know a soul up here,” Dolores Stephens said. “How awful for you to go through all that alone.”
“Actually I do know one person fairly well—the man who took me to the party at the Four Seasons where I met Nuala again.” Maggie looked over at Neil. “Maybe you know him, Neil. Liam Payne. He’s in the investment business, too. He has his own firm in Boston but comes to New York regularly.”
“Liam Payne,” Neil said thoughtfully. “Yes, I do know him slightly. He’s a good investment guy. Too good for his former bosses at Randolph and Marshall, if I remember correctly. He took some of their best clients with him when he went out on his own.”
Maggie could not resist a feeling of satisfaction at seeing the frown on Neil’s face. Let him wonder if Liam is important to me, she thought. He’s already made it plain how unimportant I am to him.
Nevertheless over a relaxing meal that included lobster and chardonnay, she found herself thoroughly enjoying Neil’s parents and was flattered to learn that Dolores Stephens was familiar with her fashion photography.
“When I read the newspaper about your stepmother’s death,” Mrs. Stephens said, “and then when Neil spoke about Maggie, I didn’t connect you with your work. Then this afternoon when I was reading Vogue, I saw your name under the Armani spread. A thousand years ago—before I was married—I worked in a small advertising agency, and we had the Givenchy account. That was before Givenchy became famous. I used to have to go to all the shoots.”
“Then you know all about . . .” Maggie began, and soon found herself telling war stories about temperamental designers and difficult models, ending with the last job that she had done before coming to Newport. They agreed there was nothing worse for a photographer than a nervous and indecisive art director.
As she opened up more, Maggie found herself telling them about her inclination to keep the house. “It’s too soon to be sure, so the best thing is to do nothing for a while, I guess. But in a way, living in the house this week makes me understand why Nuala was so reluctant to give it up.”
At Neil’s inquiry, she told them about Nuala canceling her reservation at Latham Manor. “It was even for the large unit she had particularly wanted,” she explained. “And I understand that they go quickly.”
“Neil and I were over there today,” Robert Stephens said. “He’s scouting it for one of his clients.”
“It sounds to me as though the apartment your stepmother didn’t take is the one that’s being offered right now,” Neil commented.
“And it’s the same one that Laura Arlington wanted,” his father noted. “Seems to me there is a real scramble for those places.”
“Someone else wanted it?” Maggie asked quickly. “Did she change her mind?”
“No. She got talked into investing the bulk of her money in a fly-by-night stock and, unfortunately, lost it all,” Neil said.
The conversation drifted to many other subjects, with Neil’s mother gradually drawing her out about her childhood. While Neil and his father got into a d
iscussion about how Neil might follow through in looking into the bad investment Mrs. Arlington had made, Maggie found herself telling Dolores Stephens that her birth mother had died in an accident when she was an infant and how happy she had been the five years Nuala and she had lived together.
Finally, realizing that tears were close, she said, “No more nostalgia and no more wine. I’m getting mushy.”
* * *
When Neil drove Maggie home, he walked her to the door and took the key from her hand. “I’ll only stay a minute,” he said, opening the door. “I just want to see something. Which way is the kitchen?”
“Back through the dining room.” Bewildered, Maggie followed him.
He went immediately to the door and examined the lock. “From what I read, the police think that the intruder either found this door unlocked, or your stepmother opened it for someone she knew.”
“That’s right.”
“I offer a third possibility: That lock is so loose anyone could open it with a credit card,” he said, and then proceeded to demonstrate the fact.
“I have a call in to a locksmith,” Maggie said. “I guess I’ll hear from him Monday.”
“Not good enough. My dad is a wunderkind around the house, and I grew up as his unwilling little helper. I, or maybe both of us, will be back tomorrow to install a dead bolt and check all the windows.”
No “if you’d like” or “is that okay?” Maggie thought, feeling a surge of irritation. Just “this is the way it is.”
“I’m going out to brunch,” she told him.
“Brunch is usually over by two,” Neil said. “Let’s figure on that time, or if you want, you can tell me where you’ll hide a key.”
“No, I’ll be here.”
Neil picked up one of the kitchen chairs and wedged it under the doorknob. “At least this would make noise if anyone tried to get in,” he said. Then he looked around the room before turning to her. “Maggie, I don’t want to alarm you, but from everything I’ve heard, the consensus of opinion is that whoever murdered your stepmother was looking for something, and no one knows what it was, or if he got it.”
“Assuming it was a ‘he,’ ” Maggie said. “But you’re right. That’s exactly what the police think.”
“I don’t like the idea of you being here alone,” he said as they walked to the front door.
“I’m honestly not nervous, Neil. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”
“And if you were nervous, you’d never admit it to me. Right?”
She looked up at him, taking in his grave, questioning face. “That’s right,” she said simply.
He sighed as he turned and opened the door. “I enjoyed tonight very much, Maggie. See you tomorrow.”
* * *
Later, as Maggie tossed about in bed, she found she could take no satisfaction in having wounded Neil, and it was obvious she had. Tit for tat, she tried to tell herself, but knowing she had evened the score didn’t make her feel any better. Game playing in relationships was not one of her favorite pastimes.
Her last thoughts as she finally began to doze off were disjointed, seemingly irrelevant, emerging totally from her subconscious.
Nuala had applied for an apartment at Latham Manor, then died shortly after withdrawing the application.
The Stephenses’ friend, Laura Arlington, had applied for the same apartment, then lost all her money.
Was that apartment jinxed, and if so, why?
Sunday, October 6th
55
AT HIS WIFE’S URGING, DR. WILLIAM LANE HAD BEGUN the practice of joining the residents and their guests at Latham Manor’s Sunday brunch.
As Odile had pointed out, the residence functioned as a kind of family, and visitors invited to partake of the brunch were potential future residents who might thus come to view Latham in a very favorable light.
“I don’t mean we have to spend hours there, darling,” she fluttered, “but you’re such a caring person, and if people know that their mothers or aunts or whoever are in such good hands, then when the time comes for them to make a change they might want to join us as well.”
Lane had thought a thousand times that if Odile were not so empty-headed, he might suspect that she was being sarcastic. But the truth was, since they had started the formal Sunday brunches, which also had been her suggestion, and then begun attending them, the number of people filling out forms indicating “possible future interest” had increased sharply.
But when he and Odile entered the grand salon that Sunday morning, Dr. Lane was anything but pleased to see Maggie Holloway with Mrs. Bainbridge’s daughter, Sarah Cushing.
Odile had spotted them as well. “Maggie Holloway does seem to make friends quickly,” she murmured to him.
Together they made their way across the room, pausing to chat with residents, to greet familiar visitors, and to be introduced to others.
Maggie had not seen them approaching. When they spoke to her, she smiled apologetically. “You must think I’m like The Man Who Came to Dinner,” she said. “Mrs. Cushing asked me to join her and Mrs. Bainbridge for brunch, but Mrs. Bainbridge was feeling a little tired this morning, so she thought it best if we didn’t go out.”
“You are always welcome,” Dr. Lane said gallantly, and then turned to Sarah. “Should I look in on your mother?”
“No,” Sarah said decisively. “She’ll be along in a moment. Doctor, is it true that Eleanor Chandler has decided to become a resident here?”
“As a matter of fact, it is,” he said. “When she heard of Mrs. Shipley’s demise, she phoned to request that apartment. She wants her decorator to redo it, so she probably won’t actually move in for several months.”
“And I think that’s better,” Odile Lane volunteered earnestly. “This way, Mrs. Shipley’s friends will have a period of adjustment, don’t you think?”
Sarah Cushing ignored the question. “The only reason I asked about Mrs. Chandler is that I want to make it absolutely clear that she is not to be put at my mother’s table. She is an impossible woman. I suggest you seat her with any hard-of-hearing guests you may have. They, mercifully, would miss some of her overbearing opinions.”
Dr. Lane smiled nervously. “I will make a special note of the seating arrangements, Mrs. Cushing,” he said. “As a matter of fact, an inquiry was made yesterday about the large two-bedroom apartment, on behalf of the Van Hillearys from Connecticut. The gentleman is going to recommend that they come to see it. Perhaps if it works out, your mother would want to consider having them at the table.”
The gentleman . . . He’s talking about Neil, Maggie thought.
Mrs. Cushing raised an eyebrow. “Of course I’d want to meet them first, but Mother does enjoy having men around.”
“Mother certainly does,” Mrs. Bainbridge said dryly. They all turned as she joined them. “Sorry to be late, Maggie. Seems as though it takes longer and longer to do less and less these days. Do I understand that Greta Shipley’s apartment is already sold?”
“Yes, it is,” Dr. Lane said smoothly. “Mrs. Shipley’s relatives will be here this afternoon to remove her personal effects and arrange for her furniture to be shipped out. Now if you’ll excuse us, Odile and I should visit with some of the other guests.”
When they were out of earshot, Letitia Bainbridge said, “Sarah, when I close my eyes, make sure that nobody goes near my apartment until the first of the next month. The maintenance fee is supposed to guarantee that much. Seems to me that around here you’re not allowed to get cold before they’ve replaced you.”
Soft chimes signaled that brunch was being served. As soon as they were seated, Maggie noticed that everybody at their table had shifted places, and wondered if that was customary after a death.
Sarah Cushing was the right person for this group today, she thought. Like her mother, she was a good storyteller. As Maggie nibbled on eggs Benedict, and sipped her coffee, she listened appreciatively to Sarah Cushing’s skillful management of t
he conversation, directing it so that everyone was involved and cheerful.
During the second round of coffee, however, the talk turned to Greta Shipley. Rachel Crenshaw, who with her husband was sitting opposite Maggie, said, “I still can’t get used to it. We know we’re all going to die, and when someone moves to the long-term care area, you know it’s usually only a matter of time. But Greta and Constance—it was just so sudden!”
“And last year Alice and Jeanette went the same way,” Mrs. Bainbridge said, and then sighed.
Alice and Jeanette, Maggie thought. Those names were on two of the graves I visited with Mrs. Shipley. They both had bells embedded next to the tombstones. The woman whose grave didn’t have a bell was named Winifred Pierson. Trying to sound casual, Maggie said, “Mrs. Shipley had a close friend, Winifred Pierson. Was she a guest here as well?”
“No, Winifred lived in her own home. Greta used to visit her regularly,” Mrs. Crenshaw said.
Maggie felt her mouth go dry. She knew immediately what she had to do, and the full realization came with such force that she almost stood up from the table with the shock of it. She had to visit Greta Shipley’s grave and see if a bell had been placed there.
When good-byes were said, most of the Latham residents began drifting into the library, where a violinist was scheduled to perform for the Sunday afternoon entertainment.
Sarah Cushing stayed to visit with her mother, and Maggie headed for the front door. Then, on sudden impulse, she turned and went up the stairs to Greta Shipley’s apartment. Let the cousins be there, she prayed fervently.
The door of the apartment was open, and she saw the familiar signs of packing and sorting, which was being done by the three relatives she had seen at the funeral.
Knowing there was no simple way to make the request, she offered brief condolences and plunged in to tell them what she wanted. “When I was visiting Mrs. Shipley on Wednesday, she showed me a sketch my stepmother and she had made. It’s right in that drawer.” Maggie pointed to the table by the couch. “It was one of the last things Nuala did, and if you’re thinking of discarding it, it would mean a lot to me to have it.”