Moonlight Becomes You

  Greta. Obviously she was not well. Everyone had seen her helped out of church today. Everyone would believe that the shock of her friend’s death had contributed to a fatal heart attack. Unexpected, of course, but not really a surprise.

  Sorry, Greta, he thought.

  13

  WHEN SHE WAS STILL A RELATIVELY YOUNG AGE SIXTY-EIGHT, Greta Shipley had been invited to a reception at the newly renovated Latham House, just rechristened the Latham Manor Residence. The new home for retirees was open and was accepting applications.

  She liked everything she saw there. The house’s magnificent first floor included the grand salon and marble and crystal dining room, where the enormous banquet table she remembered from her youth had been replaced by smaller tables. The handsome library, with its deep leather chairs and cheerful fireplace, was inviting, and the smaller salon, which would serve as a television room, suggested shared evenings of companionable viewing.

  Greta also approved of the regulations: The social hour would begin at 5:00 P.M. in the grand salon, followed by dinner at six. She was pleased that guests would be required to dress for the evening, as though they were dining in a country club. Greta had been raised by a stern grandmother who could wither with a glance the luckless individual garbed in inappropriate attire. Any residents not up to dressing appropriately would be served in their own quarters.

  There also was a section set aside for long-term nursing care, should that be required.

  The admission fee was steep, of course. It began at two hundred thousand dollars for a large private room and bath, and climbed to five hundred thousand for a two-bedroom suite, of which there were four in the mansion. And while the resident got full and exclusive use of the apartment during his or her lifetime, at the time of death, ownership reverted to the residence, which would make the rooms available for sale to the next applicant. Guests would also pay a maintenance fee of two thousand dollars a month, which, of course, was partially covered by Social Security payments.

  Guests were invited to furnish their own quarters, but only with staff approval of what they chose to bring. The model studios and apartments were exquisitely comfortable and impeccably tasteful.

  Recently widowed and nervous about living alone, Greta had gladly sold her home on Ochre Point, moved to Latham Manor, and felt she had made a good decision. As one of the first occupants, she had a select studio. Large, with a living area alcove, it accommodated all her most treasured furnishings. And best of all, when she closed her door, it was with the secure sense of not being alone in the night. There always was a guard on the premises, a nurse on duty, and a bell to summon help if necessary.

  Greta enjoyed the companionship of most of the other residents and easily avoided the ones who got on her nerves. She also kept up her long friendship with Nuala Moore; they often went out to lunch together, and at Greta’s request Nuala agreed to give art classes twice a week at the residence.

  After Timothy Moore died, Greta had begun a campaign to get Nuala to move to the residence. When Nuala demurred, saying she would be fine alone and insisting further that she couldn’t do without her art studio, Greta urged her to at least put in her application so that when one of the two-bedroom suites became available, she would be in a position to change her mind. Nuala had finally agreed, admitting that her lawyer was encouraging her to do the same thing.

  But now that would never happen, Greta thought sadly, as she sat in her easy chair, the virtually untouched dinner tray in front of her.

  She was still upset that she had experienced that weak spell at Nuala’s funeral earlier in the day. She had been feeling perfectly fine until this morning. Perhaps if she had taken time to eat a proper breakfast it wouldn’t have happened, she reasoned.

  She simply could not allow herself to become ill now. Especially now she wanted to keep as active as possible. Being busy was the only way to work out grief; life had taught her that. She also knew it wasn’t going to be easy, for she would miss Nuala’s cheerful presence very much.

  It was reassuring to know that Nuala’s stepdaughter, Maggie Holloway, would be visiting her. At the funeral parlor yesterday, before the service, Maggie had introduced herself and said, “Mrs. Shipley, I hope you’re going to let me spend time with you. I know you were Nuala’s closest friend. I want to make you my friend, too.”

  There was a tap at the door.

  Greta liked the fact that unless they had reason to suspect a problem, the staff was instructed to enter a guest’s room only when invited. Nurse Markey, however, didn’t seem to understand: Just because the door isn’t locked doesn’t mean that she is free to barge in at any time. Some appeared to like the intrusive nurses. Greta did not.

  Predictably, before Greta could respond to the knock, Nurse Markey strode in, a professional smile wreathing her strong features. “How are we doing tonight, Mrs. Shipley?” she asked loudly as she came over and perched on the hassock, her face uncomfortably close to Greta’s.

  “I’m quite fine, thank you, Miss Markey. I hope you are.”

  The solicitous “we” always irritated Greta. She had mentioned that fact several times, but this woman clearly did not intend to change anything, so why bother? Greta asked herself. Suddenly she realized that her heartbeat was beginning to accelerate.

  “I hear we had a weak spell in church . . .”

  Greta put her hand on her chest as though by that act she could stop the wild pounding.

  “Mrs. Shipley, what’s the matter? Are you all right?”

  Greta felt her wrist being seized.

  As suddenly as it had begun, the pounding slackened. She managed to say, “Just give me a moment. I’ll be fine. I just felt a little breathless, that’s all.”

  “I want you to lean back and close your eyes. I’m going to call Dr. Lane.” Nurse Markey’s face was barely inches from hers now. Instinctively Greta turned away.

  Ten minutes later, propped up on pillows in bed, Greta tried to reassure the doctor that the little spell she had had was completely past. But later, as she drifted off to sleep with the help of a mild sedative, she could not escape the chilling memory of how just two weeks ago, Constance Rhinelander, who had been here so briefly, had died of heart failure, so unexpectedly.

  First Constance, she thought, then Nuala. Grandmother’s housekeeper used to say that deaths come in threes. Please don’t let me be the third, she thought as she drifted off.

  14

  NO, IT HAD NOT BEEN A NIGHTMARE; IT REALLY HAD happened. The full reality of events of the past few days settled firmly in Maggie’s mind as she stood in Nuala’s kitchen, in the house that now, incredibly, was hers.

  At three o’clock, Liam had helped carry her bags here from the Woodses’ guest room. He had left them at the top of the stairs. “Do you know which bedroom you’re going to use?” he had asked.

  “No.”

  “Maggie, you look ready to collapse. Are you sure you want to stay here? I don’t think it’s such a hot idea.”

  “Yes,” she had replied after a thoughtful pause, “I do want to stay.”

  Now as she put the kettle on, Maggie reflected with gratitude that one of Liam’s nicest qualities was that he didn’t argue.

  Instead of objecting further, he had said simply, “Then I’ll leave you alone. But I do hope you’ll rest for a while. Don’t start unpacking or trying to sort out Nuala’s things.”

  “Certainly not tonight.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  At the door, he had put an arm around her and given her a friendly hug. Then he was gone.

  Feeling suddenly exhausted, moving as though it was an effort to put one foot in front of the other, Maggie had locked the front and back doors, then climbed the stairs. Glancing through the bedrooms, she saw immediately that the one Nuala had meant her to have was the second largest. It was simply furnished—a maple double bed, a dresser with mirror, a night table and rocking chair—and there were no personal effects around. The dresser top held
only an old-fashioned enamel toiletry set: comb, brush, mirror, buttonhook and nail file.

  After dragging her bags into that room, Maggie had peeled off her skirt and sweater, slipped into her favorite robe, and climbed under the covers.

  Now, after a nearly three-hour nap, and aided by a cup of tea, she was finally beginning to feel clearheaded. She even sensed that she was over the shock of Nuala’s death.

  The sadness, though, that’s another story, she thought. That won’t go away.

  She realized suddenly that for the first time in four days she was hungry. She opened the refrigerator and saw that it had been stocked: eggs, milk, juice, a small roasted chicken, a loaf of bread, and a container of homemade chicken soup. Obviously Mrs. Woods, she thought.

  She settled on making herself a chicken sandwich, slicing and skinning the chicken and using only a trace of mayonnaise.

  She had just gotten comfortable at the table when she was startled by a rap at the back door. She spun around and was on her feet even as the handle turned, her body tense, poised to react.

  She gasped with relief as Earl Bateman’s face appeared in the oval window that comprised most of the top half of the door.

  Chief Brower theorized that Nuala had been surprised by an intruder in this kitchen, an intruder who had come in the back door. That thought, and the mental image it conjured up, ran through her mind as she quickly crossed the room.

  Part of her worried if she was doing the right thing to even open the door, but now more annoyed than worried for her safety, she unlocked it and let him in.

  The absentminded professor look that she associated with Bateman was more in evidence at that moment than at any time in the last three days.

  “Maggie, forgive me,” he said. “I’m heading back to Providence until Friday, and as I got in the car, it occurred to me that you might not have locked this door. I know that Nuala was in the habit of leaving it unlocked. I spoke to Liam, and he mentioned that he had left you here earlier and thought you were going to go to bed. I didn’t mean to intrude; I thought I’d just drive by and check, and slip the lock myself if it wasn’t set. I’m sorry, but from the front of the house there was no sign that you were still up.”

  “You could have phoned.”

  “I’m one of those holdouts who doesn’t have a phone in the car. Sorry. I never was much good at playing the Boy Scout. And I’ve interrupted your dinner.”

  “It’s okay. It was just a sandwich. Would you like something?”

  “No, thanks. I’m on my way. Maggie, knowing how Nuala felt about you, I think I have a sense of how special your relationship with her was.”

  “Yes, it was special.”

  “If I may give you one bit of advice, it’s to heed the words of the great researcher Durkheim, on the subject of death. He wrote, ‘Sorrow like joy becomes exalted and amplified when leaping from mind to mind.’ ”

  “What are you trying to tell me?” Maggie asked quietly.

  “I’m distressing you and that’s the last thing I want to do. What I mean is that I suspect you have the habit of hugging grief to yourself. It’s easier if you are more open at a time like this. I guess what I’m attempting to say is that I’d like to be your friend.”

  He opened the door. “I’ll be back Friday afternoon. Double lock the door, please.”

  He was gone. Maggie snapped the lock and sank into a chair. The kitchen was suddenly frighteningly still, and she realized she was trembling. How could Earl Bateman have thought she would be grateful to him for appearing unannounced and surreptitiously trying the lock?

  She rose and with quick, silent steps ran through the dining room into the dark front room and knelt at the window to look out under the fringe of the shade.

  She saw Bateman walking down the path to the street.

  At his car, he opened the door, then turned and stood for a long moment, staring back at the house. Maggie had the feeling that even though she was surely hidden by the dark interior of the house, Earl Bateman knew, or at least sensed, that she was watching him.

  The torchlight at the end of the driveway shone a pool of light near him, and as she watched, Bateman stepped into the light and gave a broad wave of his hand, a farewell gesture clearly directed at her. He can’t see me, she thought, but he knows I’m here.

  Tuesday, October 1st

  15

  WHEN THE PHONE RANG AT 8:00 A.M., ROBERT STEPHENS reached with his left hand to answer it, while his right maintained a firm hold on his coffee cup.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “You got it. Bye, dear.”

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

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

  “Something like that.”

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

  Dolores waited.

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

  “Is she right?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Was what he did illegal?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  16

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

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