It didn’t take long to make the five other stops. The headstone on the last grave was inscribed, “Constance Van Sickle Rhinelander.” Maggie noted that the date of death was only two weeks ago.
“Was she a close friend?” Maggie asked.
“Not nearly as close as Nuala, but she lived in Latham Manor, and I had gotten to know her very well.” She paused. “It’s sudden, it’s all so sudden,” she said, then turned to Maggie and smiled. “I’d better get back. I’m afraid I’m a bit tired. It’s so hard to lose so many people you care about.”
“I know.” Maggie put her arm around the older woman and realized just how frail she seemed.
On the twenty-minute drive back to the residence, Greta Shipley dozed off. When they reached Latham Manor, she opened her eyes and said apologetically, “I used to have so much energy. All my family did. My grandmother was still going strong at ninety. I’m beginning to think I’m being waited on too much.”
As Maggie escorted her inside, Greta said hesitantly, “Maggie, I hope you’ll come to see me again before you leave. When are you going back to New York?”
Maggie surprised herself by answering firmly, “I was planning to stay two weeks and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’ll call you before the weekend and we’ll make a date.”
It was not until she got back to Nuala’s house and put the kettle on that she realized something was troubling her. There was a kind of unease about Greta Shipley, and about their visit to the cemeteries. Something wasn’t right. But what was it?
20
LIAM MOORE PAYNE’S OFFICE OVERLOOKED BOSTON COMmon. Since leaving his former brokerage house and opening his own investment firm, he had been overwhelmingly busy. The prestigious clients he had brought with him demanded and received his meticulous personal attention, earning him their complete confidence.
He had not wanted to phone Maggie too early, but when he did call, at 11:00 A.M., he was disappointed not to reach her. After that he had his secretary try her every hour, but it was nearly four o’clock when he finally heard the welcome news that Ms. Holloway was on the phone.
“Maggie, at last,” he began, then stopped. “Is that a kettle I hear whistling?”
“Yes, hold on a minute, Liam. I was just fixing a cup of tea.”
When she picked up the receiver again, he said, “I was afraid you might have made up your mind to go home. I wouldn’t blame you for being nervous in that house.”
“I’m careful about locking up,” Maggie told him, then added almost without pause, “Liam, I’m glad you called. I’ve got to ask you something. Yesterday, after you brought my bags here, did you have a discussion with Earl about me?”
Liam’s eyebrows raised. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t. What makes you think I did?”
She told him about Earl’s sudden appearance at the kitchen door.
“You mean he was just going to check the lock without even letting you know? You’re kidding.”
“No, I’m not. And I don’t mind saying that he really frightened me. I was shaky enough as it was about being alone here, and then to have him just show up that way . . . Plus, he started quoting something about sorrow like joy leaping from mind to mind. It was weird.”
“That’s one of his favorite quotes. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him give a lecture when he hasn’t included it. It always gives me the creeps, too.” Liam paused, then sighed. “Maggie, Earl is my cousin and I’m fond of him, but he is somewhat odd, and there’s no question that he’s obsessed with the subject of death. Do you want me to speak to him about that little visit to you?”
“No. I don’t think so. But I’m going to have a locksmith put dead bolts on the doors.”
“I’m selfish enough to hope that means you’ll be staying in Newport for a while.”
“At least the two weeks I had initially planned.”
“I’ll be down on Friday. Will you have dinner with me?”
“I’d like that.”
“Maggie, get that locksmith in today, will you?”
“First thing in the morning.”
“All right. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Liam replaced the receiver slowly. How much should he tell Maggie about Earl, he wondered. He didn’t want to overdo warning her, but still . . .
Clearly it was something he would have to think over.
21
AT QUARTER OF FIVE, JANICE NORTON LOCKED THE DESK in her office at Latham Manor Residence. Out of habit, she tugged at the handle of each one of the drawers and confirmed that they were indeed secured. It was a safeguard that William Lane would have been wise to adopt, she thought sarcastically.
Lane’s assistant, Eileen Burns, worked only until two each day, and after that Janice doubled as both bookkeeper and assistant. She smiled to herself, reflecting that her unquestioned access to Lane’s office had been extremely useful over the years. Just now when she’d copied the information she wanted from two more files, she’d had a sense that she should hold off. Call it a premonition.
She shrugged. Well, she’d done it, and the copies were in her briefcase and the originals where they belonged in Lane’s desk. It was ridiculous to get jumpy about it now.
Her eyes narrowed with secret satisfaction as she thought of the undisguisable shock on her husband’s face when Irma Woods had told them about Nuala Moore’s last-minute will. What pleasure she had had since then, berating him about repaying the mortgage on their own house.
She knew, of course, that he wouldn’t do any such thing. Malcolm was destined to wander forever through a field of broken dreams. It had taken her far too long to figure out that one, but working at Latham had been an eye-opener. Some of the guests there may not have had fancy backgrounds, but they had been born sucking on the proverbial silver spoon; they had never known a day’s worry about money. Others were like Malcolm, blue bloods with lineage they could trace back past the Mayflower to the aristocracy, even to the crowned heads of Europe, passionately proud that they were the great-great-nephews or whatever, nine times removed, of the prince regent of some idiotic duchy.
However, the blue bloods at Latham differed from Malcolm in one very important way. They hadn’t rested on their genealogical charts. They had gone out and made their own fortunes. Or married them.
But not Malcolm, she thought. Oh, no, not handsome, debonair, courtly, so-well-bred Malcolm! At her wedding, she had been the envy of her girlfriends—except for Anne Everett. On that day, in the yacht club powder room, she had overheard Anne refer to Malcolm disparagingly as the “ultimate Ken doll.”
It was a remark that had burned into her mind, because even then, on what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life, dressed as she was, like a princess, in billowing yards of satin, she had realized it was true. To put it another way, she had married the frog. And then spent thirty-plus years trying to give reality the lie. What a waste!
Years of giving intimate dinners for clients and potential clients, only to see them take their lucrative accounts to other attorneys, leaving Malcolm with token bones to pick over. Now even most of those were gone.
And then the ultimate insult. Despite the way she had stuck by him all these years, knowing she would have done better to strike out on her own, yet clinging stubbornly to what little dignity she had left, she had realized that he was mooning over his secretary and planning to get rid of her!
If only he’d been the man I thought I married, Janice mused as she pushed back the chair and stood, flexing her stiff shoulders. Even better, if only he’d been the man he thinks he is! Then I really would have had a prince.
She smoothed the sides of her skirt, taking a modicum of pleasure from the feel of her slim waistline and narrow hips. In the early days, Malcolm had compared her to a thoroughbred, slender, with long neck, lean legs, and shapely ankles. A beautiful thoroughbred, he had added.
She had been beautiful when she was young. Well, look what that had gotten her, she thought ruefully.
At least her body was still in excellent shape. And not because of regular visits to spas and pleasant days at the golf course with her well-heeled friends. No, she had spent her adult life working, and working hard—first as a real estate agent, then for the last five years as bookkeeper in this place.
She remembered how, as a real estate agent, she used to salivate over properties that went for a song because people needed ready cash. How many times she had thought, “If only I had the money . . .”
Well, now she had it. Now she could call the shots. And Malcolm didn’t even have a clue.
Not ever to have to set foot in this place again! she thought exultantly. Never mind the Stark carpet and brocaded draperies, even in the office area. It might be pretty, but it was still a nursing home—God’s waiting room—and at fifty-four, she was hurtling rapidly toward the age when she would be a candidate for admittance herself. Well, she would get out of here long before that ever happened.
The phone rang. Before she picked up the receiver, Janice glanced around the room, checking lest someone might have tiptoed in behind her back.
“Janice Norton,” she said sternly, holding the receiver close to her mouth.
It was the call she had hoped to receive. He didn’t bother with a greeting. “Well, for once dear Malcolm got something straight,” he said. “That Wetlands Act amendment absolutely will go through. That property will be worth a fortune.”
She laughed. “Then isn’t it time to make a counteroffer to Maggie Holloway?”
22
AFTER LIAM’S CALL, MAGGIE SAT AT THE KITCHEN TABLE, sipping tea and nibbling on some cookies she had found in the cupboard.
The box was almost full and looked as though it had been opened recently. She wondered if only a few nights ago Nuala had been sitting here sipping tea, eating cookies, planning her menu for the dinner party. She had found a shopping list next to the telephone: leg of lamb, green beans, carrots, apples, grapes, new potatoes, biscuit mix. And then there was a scribbled, typical Nuala note to herself: “Forgetting something. Look around store.” And Nuala obviously forgot to bring the list.
It’s funny, Maggie thought, but in an odd and certainly unexpected way, being here in Nuala’s house is giving her back to me. I feel almost as though I’ve lived here with her all these years.
Earlier she had glanced through a photograph album she found in the living room, and realized that the pictures of Nuala with Timothy Moore began the year after Nuala and her father divorced.
She also found a smaller album filled with pictures of herself taken during the five years Nuala had been part of her life. On the back pages were taped all the notes she had written to Nuala in those years.
The unmounted picture at the very end was of Nuala and her father and herself on their wedding day. She had been beaming with joy to have a mother. The expression on Nuala’s face had been just as happy. The smile on her father’s lips, however, was reserved, questioning, just like him.
He wouldn’t let her inside his heart, Maggie thought. I’ve always heard he was crazy about my mother, but she was dead, and wonderful Nuala was there. He was the big loser when she finally left because she couldn’t stand his carping.
And I was the loser, too, she reflected as she put the cup and saucer in the dishwasher. The simple act brought back another memory, that of her father’s annoyed voice: “Nuala, why is it so impossible to transfer dishes directly from the table to the dishwasher without first piling them in the sink?”
For a while, Nuala had cheerfully laughed about being genetically messy, but later she would say, “Dear God, Owen, this is the first time I’ve done that in three days.”
And sometimes, she’d burst into tears and I’d run after her and put my arms around her, Maggie thought sadly.
It was four-thirty. The window over the sink framed the handsome oak tree that stood to the side of the house. It should be trimmed, Maggie thought. In a bad storm, those dead branches could break and land on the house. She dried her hands and turned away. But why worry about that? She wasn’t going to stay here. She would sort out everything and earmark usable clothes and furniture for charity. If she started now, she could be done by the time she had to leave. Of course she would keep a few mementos for herself, but most things she would just get rid of. She supposed that after the will was probated, she would sell the house “as is,” but she preferred that it be as empty as possible. She didn’t want strangers going through Nuala’s home and perhaps making sarcastic comments.
She began in Nuala’s studio.
Three hours later, grimy from the dust of cabinets and countertops that had been cluttered and jammed with stiffened paint brushes, dried-up tubes of oils, paint rags, and small easels, Maggie had an impressive number of tagged trash bags lined up in a corner of the room.
And even though she had only made a start, just that much clearing up changed the appearance of the room for the better. Loyally, she reminded herself that Police Chief Brower had told her this space had been thoroughly ransacked. It was obvious that the cleaning service had not bothered to do more than shove as many items as possible back into the cabinets, and the spillover had been left on the countertops. The result was a sense of chaos that Maggie found disconcerting.
But the room itself was quite impressive. The floor-to-ceiling windows that seemed to be the only major alteration made in the house must let in wonderful northern light, Maggie thought. When Nuala had urged her to bring her sculpting materials with her, she had promised that she would find the long refectory table a perfect work area. Even though she was sure she wouldn’t use them, to please Nuala she had brought along a fifty-pound tub of wet clay, several armatures, the frameworks on which the figures would be constructed, and her modeling tools.
Maggie paused for a minute, wondering. On that table she could make a portrait head of Nuala. There were plenty of recent pictures of her around to use as models. As though I need them, Maggie thought. It seemed to her that Nuala’s face would be forever imprinted in her mind. Except for visiting Greta and clearing out the house, she had no real plans. As long as I know I’m staying until a week from Sunday, it would be nice to have a project, she told herself, and what better subject than Nuala?
The visit to Latham Manor and the time she had spent with Greta Shipley had served to convince her that the uneasiness she thought she had perceived in Nuala was simply the result of her concern over the effects of radically changing her life by selling the house and moving to the residence. There doesn’t seem to have been anything else weighing on her, she thought. At least, not that I can see.
She sighed. I guess there’s no way I can be sure. But if it was a random break-in, wasn’t it risky to kill Nuala, then take time to search the house? Whoever was here could smell the food cooking and see that the table was set for company. It would make sense that the killer would be terrified that someone might arrive while he was ransacking the house, she told herself. Unless that someone already knew dinner was scheduled for eight o’clock, and that I wouldn’t be arriving until nearly that time.
A window of opportunity, she reasoned. There certainly had been one for a person who knew the plans for the evening—perhaps was even part of them.
“Nuala wasn’t killed by a random thief,” Maggie said aloud. Mentally she reviewed the people who had been expected at the dinner. What did she know about any of them? Nothing, really.
Except for Liam; he was the only one she really knew. It was only because of him that she had run into Nuala again, and for that she always would be grateful. I’m also glad he felt the way I did about his cousin Earl, she thought. His showing up here really gave me the creeps.
The next time she and Liam talked, she wanted to ask him about Malcolm and Janice Norton. Even in that quick moment this morning, when she had greeted Janice at Latham Manor, she could detect something amiss in the woman’s expression. It looked like anger. Because of the canceled sale? Maggie wondered. But surely there were plenty of other houses
like this one available in Newport. It couldn’t be that.
Maggie walked over to the trestle table and sat down. She looked at her folded hands and realized they were itching for the feel of clay. Whenever she was trying to think something through, she found working in clay helped her to find the answer, or at least come to some kind of conclusion.
Something had bothered her today, something she had noticed subconsciously. It had registered mentally but had not made an impression at the moment. What could it have been? she asked herself. Moment by moment, she retraced her day from the time she got up, to the cursory inspection of the downstairs floor at Latham Manor and her appointment with Dr. Lane, to the drive with Greta Shipley to the cemeteries.
The cemeteries! Maggie sat up. That was it! she thought. That last grave they went to, of the Rhinelander woman, who died two weeks ago—I noticed something.
But what? Try as she might, she could not conceive of what had troubled her there.
In the morning, I’ll go back to the cemeteries and look around, she decided. I’ll take my camera, and if I don’t see exactly what it is, I’ll take pictures. Maybe whatever it is that’s nagging at me will show up when I develop them.
It had been a long day. She decided to bathe, scramble an egg, then go to bed and read more of the books about Newport.
On the way downstairs, she realized that the phone in Nuala’s bedroom was ringing. She hurried to answer it but was rewarded by a decisive click at the other end.
Whoever it was probably didn’t hear me, she thought, but it doesn’t matter. There was no one with whom she wanted to talk right now.
The closet door in the bedroom was open, and the light from the hallway revealed the blue cocktail suit Nuala had worn to the reunion party at the Four Seasons. It was haphazardly draped over a hanger, as though carelessly put away.