“I guess so.” Again Maggie spoke slowly, measuring what she was about to say. “I know his lectures are very successful, but I gather that there was one unfortunate incident at Latham Manor. Do you know about that?”
“Can’t say as I do, but if I were the age of those folks, I wouldn’t want to hear about funerals, would you?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“I’ve never gone to one of his lectures myself,” Haggerty continued, then lowered his voice. “I’m not one to gossip, but folks around here thought that museum idea was crazy. But heck, the Batemans could buy and sell most of the Moores. Earl may not look it or sound it, but he’s got serious money in his own right. Came to him from his father’s side.”
“I see.”
“The Moore clan call him Cousin Weirdo, but I say most of it’s because they’re jealous.”
Maggie thought of Earl as she had seen him today: staring past her at the spot where Nuala’s body had been lying; frenetically charged as he dragged her from exhibit to exhibit; sitting in the hearse, his eyes staring intently after her.
“Or maybe it’s because they know him too well,” she said. “Thanks for calling, Detective Haggerty.”
She hung up, grateful that she had made the decision not to talk about the bells. She was sure Haggerty would have laughingly ascribed their ghoulish appearance on the graves to another eccentricity of a rich man.
Maggie went back to the job of sorting out the shoes. This time she decided that the simplest thing to do was to bundle most of them in garbage bags. Worn shoes in a small, narrow size certainly wouldn’t be much use to anyone else.
The fur-lined boots, however, were worth saving. The left one was lying on its side, the right one standing. She picked up the left one and put it beside her, then reached for the other.
As Maggie lifted it, she heard a single muffled clang coming from the interior of the boot.
“Oh, God, no!”
Even before she forced herself to put her hand down into the furry interior, she knew what she would find. Her fingers closed over cool metal, and as she withdrew the object, she was certain that she had found the thing Nuala’s killer had been seeking—the missing bell.
Nuala took this from Mrs. Rhinelander’s grave, she thought, her mind working with a steadiness independent of her shaking hands. She stared at it; it was the exact twin of the bell she had taken from Nuala’s grave.
Streaks of dry dirt clung to the rim. Other tiny particles of soft earth crumbled loose on her fingers.
Maggie remembered that there had been dirt in the pocket of the gold raincoat, and she recalled that when she rehung the cocktail suit the other day she had had the impression of something falling.
Nuala was wearing her raincoat when she took this bell off Mrs. Rhinelander’s grave, she thought. It must have frightened her. She left it in her pocket for a reason. Did she find it the day she changed her will, Maggie wondered, the day before she died?
Did it in some way validate suspicions Nuala was beginning to have about the residence?
Earl claimed that the bells he had cast were in the storeroom of the museum. If the twelve he had were still there, someone else might have been placing others on the graves, she reasoned.
Maggie knew that Earl had gone back to Providence. And that the key to the museum was under the planter on the porch. Even if she told the police about the bells, they would have no legal right to go into the museum and look for the twelve Earl said were there, assuming they took her seriously, which they probably wouldn’t.
But he did invite me to let myself into the museum at any time, to try to come up with visuals for his cable programs, Maggie thought. I’ll take my camera with me. That will give me an excuse for being there if anyone happens to see me.
But I don’t want anyone to see me, she told herself. I’ll wait until it’s dark, then I’ll drive over there. There’s only one way to find out for sure. I’ll look in the storeroom for the box with the bells. I’m sure I won’t find more than six of them.
And if that’s all I find, I’ll know he’s a liar. I’ll take pictures so I can compare them with the bells on the graves and the two I have. Then tomorrow, when Chief Brower comes, I’ll give him the roll of film, she decided, and I’ll tell him that I think Earl Bateman has found a way to take revenge on the residents of Latham Manor. And he’s doing it with the help of Nurse Zelda Markey.
Revenge? Maggie froze with the realization of what she was considering. Yes, placing the bells on the graves of women who had been party to his humiliation would be a form of revenge. But would that have been enough for Earl? Or could he possibly, somehow, have been involved with their deaths as well? And that nurse, Zelda Markey—clearly she was tied to Earl somehow. Could she be his accomplice?
69
ALTHOUGH IT WAS WELL PAST HIS NORMAL DINNERTIME, Chief Brower was still at the station. It had been a hectic and senselessly tragic afternoon, involving two terrible incidents. A carful of teenagers out for a joyride had plowed into an elderly couple, and they were now in critical condition. Then an angry husband had violated a restraining order and shot his wife, from whom he was separated.
“At least we know the wife will make it,” Brower told Haggerty. “And thank God; she’s got three kids.”
Haggerty nodded.
“Where’ve you been?” Brower asked sourly. “Lara Horgan’s waiting to hear what time Maggie Holloway can see us tomorrow morning.”
“She told me she’ll be home all morning,” Haggerty said. “But wait a minute before you call Dr. Horgan. I want to tell you first about a little visit I paid to Sarah Cushing. Her mother, Mrs. Bainbridge, lives at Latham Manor. When I was a kid I was in a Boy Scout troop with Sarah Cushing’s son. Got to know her real well. Nice lady. Very impressive. Very smart.”
Brower knew there was no use rushing Haggerty when he got into one of these accounts. Besides, he looked especially pleased with himself. To speed things along, the chief asked the expected question: “So what made you go see her?”
“Something Maggie Holloway said when I phoned her for you. She mentioned Earl Bateman. I tell you, Chief, that young lady has a real nose for trouble. Anyhow, we nattered a little.”
Like you’re doing right now, Brower thought.
“And I got the distinct impression that Ms. Holloway is very nervous about Bateman, maybe even afraid of him.”
“Of Bateman? He’s harmless,” Brower snapped.
“Now that’s exactly what I would have thought, but maybe Maggie Holloway has a sharp eye when it comes to detecting what makes people tick. She is a photographer, you know. Anyhow, she mentioned a little problem that Bateman had at Latham Manor, a little ‘incident’ that took place not all that long ago, and I called one of my friends whose cousin is a maid there, and one thing led to the other, and she finally told me about a lecture Bateman gave there one afternoon that even caused one of the old girls to pass out, and she told me also how Sarah Cushing happened to be there, and that she gave Bateman hell.”
Haggerty saw the chief’s mouth tighten, his signal that it was time to come to the point. “So that’s why I went to see Mrs. Cushing, and she told me that the reason she hustled Bateman out was for upsetting the guests with his lecture about people worrying about being buried alive, and then handing out replicas of the bells they used to put on graves in Victorian times. Seems there would be a string or wire attached to the bell, and the other end was then tied to the finger of the deceased. The string ran through an air vent from the casket to the surface of the ground. That way if you woke up in the coffin, you could wiggle your finger, the bell would ring on top of the grave, and the guy who was paid to listen for it would start digging.
“Bateman told the ladies to slip their ring finger into the loop at the end of the string, to pretend they’d been buried alive, and then to start ringing the bells.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No, I’m not, Chief. That’s when all hell broke l
oose apparently. One eighty-year-old who’s claustrophobic started screaming and fainted. Mrs. Cushing said she grabbed the bells, broke up the lecture, and all but threw Bateman out the door. Then she made it her business to find out who had suggested he lecture there.”
Haggerty paused just an instant for effect. “That person was Nurse Zelda Markey, the lady who apparently has a habit of sneaking in and out of rooms. Sarah Cushing heard through the grapevine that Markey took care of Bateman’s aunt in a nursing home years ago, and got real close to the family. She heard also that the Batemans were mighty generous in rewarding her for taking special care of old Auntie.”
He shook his head. “Women do have a way of finding out things, don’t they, Chief? You know how there’s a question now that there just might be a little problem about all those ladies dying in their sleep over at the home? Mrs. Cushing remembers that at least some of them were at that lecture, and she’s not sure, but she thinks all of them who have died recently might have been there.”
Before Haggerty even finished, Brower was on the phone to Coroner Lara Horgan. At the conclusion of his conversation with her, he turned to the detective. “Lara is going to initiate proceedings to have the bodies of both Mrs. Shipley and Mrs. Rhinelander, the two people who died most recently at Latham Manor, exhumed. And that’s just for starters.”
70
NEIL CHECKED HIS WATCH AT EIGHT O’CLOCK. HE WAS PASSING the Mystic Seaport exit on Route 95. Another hour and he would be in Newport, he thought. He had considered calling Maggie again, but decided against it, not wanting to give her a chance to tell him she didn’t want to see him tonight. If she’s not there, I’ll just park in front of her house until she comes back, he told himself.
He was angry that he hadn’t gotten away earlier. And as if it wasn’t bad enough to hit all the commuter traffic along the way, then he had been stymied by that damned jackknifed semitrailer that brought 95 North to a standstill for over an hour.
It hadn’t been all wasted time, though. He had finally had an opportunity to think through what it was that had nagged at him about his conversation with Mrs. Arlington, his father’s client who had lost just about all her money investing with Hansen. The confirmation of the purchase: something about that had just not seemed right.
Finally it had registered, when he remembered that Laura Arlington said that she had just received the confirmation of her stock purchase. Those documents are mailed out right after the transaction, so she should have received it days earlier, Neil said to himself.
Then, this morning, he had learned that there was no record that Mrs. Gebhart had owned the stock Hansen claimed he bought for her at nine bucks a share. Today that stock was down to two dollars. Was Hansen’s game to let people think they had bought a stock at one price—a stock he happened to know was on the skids—and then to wait to put the transaction through once it had reached a very low point? That way, Hansen could pocket the difference.
Accomplishing that would involve faking a confirmation of the order from the clearing house. It wasn’t simple, but it wasn’t impossible, Neil reflected.
So I actually may be onto what Hansen is doing, he thought as he finally passed the WELCOME TO RHODE ISLAND sign. But what in hell made that crook bid on Maggie’s house? How does that relate to stealing money from gullible older ladies? There must be something else in play there.
Be home when I get there, Maggie, Neil implored silently. You’re setting too much in motion, and I won’t let you do it alone any longer.
71
AT EIGHT-THIRTY, MAGGIE DROVE TO EARL BATEMAN’S funeral museum. Before leaving, she had taken the bell she found in Nuala’s closet and compared it with the bell she had dug out of Nuala’s grave. Both were now placed side by side on the refectory table in the studio, an overhead spotlight shining on them.
Almost as an afterthought she had pulled out the Polaroid camera she used when she was setting up a shoot, and had snapped a picture of the two bells lying together. She hadn’t waited to see the picture, however, but had pulled the print from the camera and tossed it on the table to study when she returned.
Then with her equipment bag in hand, heavy with two cameras and all the film and lenses, she had headed out. She hated the thought of going back into that place, but there seemed to be no other way to get the answers she needed.
Get it over with, she told herself, as she double locked the front door and got into the station wagon.
Fifteen minutes later, she was passing the Bateman Funeral Home. Obviously the establishment had experienced a busy evening. A stream of cars were pulling out of the driveway.
Another funeral tomorrow . . . Well, at least it isn’t someone connected with Latham Manor, Maggie thought grimly. As of yesterday, at least, all the residents were present and accounted for.
She turned right, onto the quiet street where the funeral museum was located. She drove into the parking lot, grateful to see that the hearse was gone, remembering that Earl had said he was going to garage it.
As she approached the old house, she was surprised to see faint light emerging from behind a curtained ground-floor window. It’s probably on a timer and will go off later, she thought, but at least it will help me get my bearings. She had brought a flashlight to use when inside, however; even though Earl Bateman had suggested she come back later on her own, she didn’t want to announce her presence by turning on more lights.
The key was under the planter where Earl had left it. As before, it made a loud, grating sound when she turned it in the old-fashioned lock. And as in the earlier visit, the first thing her eye encountered was the liveried-footman mannequin, although now his gaze seemed less attentive than hostile.
I really don’t want to be here, Maggie thought as she darted for the stairs, intent on avoiding even a glimpse of the room where the mannequin of a young woman was lying on the couch.
Likewise, she tried not to think about the exhibits on the second floor, as she switched on the flashlight at the top of the first staircase. Keeping the beam pointed down, she continued up the next flight. Still, the memory of what she had seen there earlier haunted her—those two large end rooms, one depicting an ancient Roman aristocrat’s funeral, the other, the coffin room. Both were grisly, but she found the sight of all those coffins in one room to be the most disturbing.
She had hoped the third floor here would be like Nuala’s third level—a studio, surrounded by large closets and shelves. Unfortunately, what she found instead was clearly another floor of rooms. With dismay, Maggie remembered Earl saying that originally the house had been his great-great-grandparents’ living quarters.
Trying not to allow herself to be nervous, Maggie opened the first door. In the cautiously low beam of the flashlight, she could see that this was an exhibit in the making; a wooden hutlike structure set atop two poles was off to one side. God knows what it means, she thought, shuddering, or what it’s for, but at least the room was empty enough to tell that there was nothing else there she needed to look at.
The next two rooms were similar; both seemed to contain partially completed death-ritual scenes.
The last door proved to be the one she had been seeking. It opened into a large storage room, its walls covered with shelves that were crammed with boxes. Two racks of clothing, ranging from ornate robes to virtual rags, were blocking the windows. Heavy wooden crates, all apparently sealed, were piled randomly on top of each other.
Where can I begin? Maggie thought, a sense of helplessness overtaking her. It would take her hours to go through everything, and though she had been there only minutes, already she was anxious to leave.
With a deep sigh, she fought back the urge to bolt, slipped the equipment bag from her shoulder, and set it on the floor. Reluctantly she closed the door of the storeroom, hoping to prevent any spill of light out into the hall and thus through the uncurtained window at the end of the passage.
All that clothing should be enough to make sure that nothing would show t
hrough the windows in the room, she told herself. Still, she felt herself shaking as she moved tentatively into the large room. Her mouth was dry. Every nerve in her body seemed to be quivering, urging her to get out of this place.
There was a stepladder to her left. Obviously it was used to get at the top shelves, she reasoned. It looked old and heavy, and it would mean taking even more time if she had to drag it around every few feet. She decided to start her search in the shelves right behind the ladder and work her way around the room from there. When she climbed up and looked down, she found that there were neat labels pasted on the tops of all the boxes. At least Earl had identified everything, she realized, and for the first time she felt a glimmer of hope that this would not be as difficult a process as she had feared.
Even so, the cartons seemed to be arranged in no particular order. Some that were labeled DEATH MASKS filled a whole section of shelves; others were marked MOURNING RAIMENT, HOUSEHOLD LIVERY, TORCHÈRE REPLICAS, DRUMS, BRASS CYMBALS, RITUAL PAINTS, and so forth—but no bells.
It’s hopeless, Maggie thought. I’ll never find them. She had only moved the ladder twice, and her watch told her that already she had been there more than half an hour.
She moved the ladder again, hating the rasping screech it made on the floor. Once again she started to climb up it, but as she put her foot on the third rung, her glance fell on a deep cardboard box wedged between two others, almost hidden behind them.
It was labeled BELLS/BURIED ALIVE!
She grasped the box and tugged, finally wrestling it loose. Almost losing her balance when it came free, she got down from the ladder and placed the carton on the floor. With frantic haste, she squatted beside it and yanked off the lid.
Brushing aside the loose popcorn packing, she uncovered the first of the metal bells, wrapped and sealed in plastic, a covering that gave it a deceptively shiny appearance. Eagerly, her fingers fished through the popcorn, until she was sure that she had found everything in the box.