Moonlight Becomes You (19 page)

E
VEN A PAINSTAKING EXAMINATION OF EACH OF THE EN
larged photographs did not reveal to Maggie anything on those graves that should have troubled her subconscious so greatly.

They all looked the same, showed the same things: headstones with varying degrees of plantings around them; grass still velvety green in this early fall season, except Nuala's, which had sod that showed some patchy spots.

Sod.
For some reason that word struck a note with her. Mrs. Rhinelander's grave must have been freshly sodded as well. She had died only two weeks earlier.

Once more, Maggie studied all the photographs of Constance Rhinelander's grave, using a magnifying glass to pore over every inch of them. The only thing that attracted her attention was a small hole showing in the plantings around the headstone. It looked as though a rock or something might have been removed from there. Whoever had taken it had not bothered to smooth over the earth.

She looked again at the best close-ups she had of the tombstone at Nuala's grave. The sod there was smooth to the point where the plantings began, but in one of the shots she thought she could detect something—a stone?—just behind the flowers Greta Shipley had left yesterday. Was whatever it was there simply because the earth had been carelessly sifted for clods and stones after the interment, or was it perhaps a cemetery marker of some sort? There was an odd glint . . .

She studied the pictures of the other four graves but could see nothing on any of them that should have attracted her attention.

Finally she laid the prints down on a corner of the refectory table and reached for an armature and the pot of wet clay.

Using recent pictures of Nuala she'd found around the house, Maggie began to sculpt. For the next several hours, her fingers became one with clay and knife as she began to shape Nuala's small, lovely face, suggesting the wide, round eyes and full eyelashes. She insinuated the signs of age in the lines around the eyes, and around the mouth and neck, and in the shoulders that curved forward.

She could tell that when she was done, she would have succeeded in catching those traits she had so loved in Nuala's face—the indomitable and merry spirit behind a face that on someone else might have been merely pretty.

Like Odile Lane, she thought, and then winced at the memory of how the woman had wagged her finger at Greta Shipley barely twenty-four hours ago. “Naughty, naughty,” she had said.

As she cleaned up, Maggie thought about the people she had dined with last evening. How distressed they must be, she thought. It was obvious how much they enjoyed Greta, and now she is gone. So suddenly.

Maggie looked at her watch as she went downstairs. Nine o'clock: not really too late to phone Mrs. Bainbridge, she decided.

Letitia Bainbridge answered on the first ring. “Oh, Maggie, we're all heartsick. Greta hadn't been feeling well for a few weeks, but till then she was perfectly fine. I knew she was on blood pressure and heart medicine, but she'd been on them for years and never had any problems.”

“I came to like her so much in such a short time,” Maggie said sincerely. “I can imagine how all of you must feel. Do you know what the arrangements are?”

“Yes. Bateman Funeral is handling them. I guess we'll all end up there. The Requiem is Saturday morning at eleven at Trinity Episcopal Church, and interment is at Trinity Cemetery. Greta had left instructions that the only viewing was to be at Bateman's between nine and ten-thirty.”

“I'll be there,” Maggie promised. “Did she have any family?”

“Some cousins. I gather they're coming. I know that she left her securities and the contents of her apartment to them, so they certainly should show that much respect for her.” Letitia Bainbridge paused, then added, “Maggie, do you know what has haunted me? Practically the last thing I said to Greta last night was that if Eleanor Chandler had been seen eyeing her apartment, then she should change her locks.”

“But she was amused by the remark,” Maggie protested. “Please, you mustn't let that upset you.”

“Oh, that's not what upsets me. It's the fact that I'd bet anything, no matter who else may be on the list, Eleanor Chandler gets that place now.”

*   *   *

I'm specializing in late dinners, Maggie thought, as she put on the kettle, scrambled some eggs and dropped bread
into the toaster—and not particularly exciting ones, she added. At least tomorrow night I can count on Liam to buy me a good meal.

It would be good to see him, she reflected. He was always fun in an outrageous kind of way. She wondered if he had talked to Earl Bateman about his unexpected visit Monday night. She hoped so.

Not wanting to spend any more time in the kitchen, she prepared a tray and carried it into the living room. Even though Nuala had met her death in this room less than a week ago, Maggie had come to realize that for Nuala this had been a happy, warm room.

The back and sides of the fireplace were blackened with soot. The bellows and tongs on the hearth showed signs of frequent use. Maggie could imagine having roaring fires here on cold New England evenings.

The bookcases were overflowing with books, interesting titles all of them, many familiar, others she would love to explore. She had already gone through the photo albums—the dozens of snapshots of Nuala with Tim Moore showed two people who obviously enjoyed each other's company.

Larger, framed pictures of Tim and Nuala—boating with friends, picnicking, at formal dinners, on vacations—were scattered on the walls.

The deep, old club chair with the hassock probably had been his, Maggie decided. She remembered that whether engrossed in a book, chatting, or watching television, Nuala had always liked to curl up, kitten-like, on the couch, propped in a corner between the back and armrest.

No wonder the prospect of moving to Latham Manor had proven daunting, Maggie thought. It would be quite a wrench for Nuala to leave this home where obviously she had been happy for so many years.

But clearly she had considered moving there. That first
evening, when they had had dinner after they met at the Moore reunion, Nuala had mentioned that the kind of apartment she wanted in the residence home had just become available.

What apartment
was
it? Maggie wondered. They had never discussed that.

Maggie realized suddenly that her hands were trembling. She carefully replaced the teacup on the saucer.
Could the apartment that had become available to Nuala possibly be the one that had belonged to Greta Shipley's friend Constance Rhinelander?

38

A
LL HE ASKED FOR WAS A LITTLE QUIET
,
BUT
D
R
. W
ILLIAM
Lane knew he was not going to be granted that wish. Odile was as wound up as a top about to spin. He lay in bed with his eyes closed, wishing to God that at least she would turn off the damn light. But instead she sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair as a torrent of words poured from her lips.

“These days are so trying, aren't they? Everyone just loved Greta Shipley, and she
was
one of our charter members. You know, that's two of our sweetest ladies in as many weeks. Of course, Mrs. Rhinelander was eighty-three, but she'd been doing so well—and then, all of a sudden, you could see her start to fail. That's the way it happens at a certain age, isn't it? Closure? The body just closes down.”

Odile did not seem to notice that her husband did not respond. It didn't matter; she continued anyway. “Of course,
Nurse Markey was concerned about that little spell Mrs. Shipley had Monday night. This morning she told me she spoke to you about it again yesterday.”

“I examined Mrs. Shipley right after she had that spell,” Dr. Lane said wearily. “There was no reason for alarm. Nurse Markey brought up that episode only because she was trying to justify the fact that she'd been barging into Mrs. Shipley's apartment without knocking.”

“Well, of course, you're the doctor, dear.”

Dr. Lane's eyes flew open with sudden realization. “Odile, I don't want you discussing my patients with Nurse Markey,” he said sharply.

Ignoring the tone of his voice, Odile continued, “That new medical examiner is quite young, isn't she? What was her name, Lara Horgan? I didn't know that Dr. Johnson had retired.”

“He retired as of the first. That was Tuesday.”

“I wonder why anyone would choose to be a medical examiner, especially such an attractive young woman? But she does seem to know her business.”

“I doubt if she'd have been appointed if she didn't know her business,” he responded tartly. “She stopped in with the police only because she was in the neighborhood and wanted to see our layout. She asked very competent questions about Mrs. Shipley's medical history. Now, Odile, if you don't mind, I really must get some sleep.”

“Oh, darling, I'm sorry. I know how tired you are, and how upsetting this day has been.” Odile put down the brush and took off her robe.

Ever the glamour girl, William Lane thought as he watched his wife's preparations for bed. In eighteen years of marriage, he had never seen her wear a nightgown that wasn't frilly. At one time she had charmed him. No longer, though—not for years.

She got into bed, and at last the light went out. But now William Lane was no longer sleepy. As usual, Odile had managed to say something that would gnaw at him.

That young medical examiner
was
a different cut from good old Dr. Johnson. He had always approved death certificates with a casual wave of his pen.
Be careful,
Lane warned himself. In the future, you've got to be more careful.

39

W
HEN
M
AGGIE FIRST AWOKE ON
F
RIDAY MORNING
,
SHE
squinted at the clock and saw that it was only six. She knew she probably had had enough sleep, but she wasn't yet willing to get up, so she closed her eyes again. About half an hour later she fell into an uneasy sleep in which vague, troublesome dreams came and went, then faded altogether when she woke up again at seven-thirty.

She arose feeling groggy and headachy and decided that a brisk, after-breakfast walk along Ocean Drive would probably help clear her head. I need that, she thought, especially since I've got to go to the cemeteries again this morning.

And tomorrow you'll be at Trinity Cemetery for Mrs. Shipley's funeral, an interior voice reminded her. For the first time, Maggie realized that Mrs. Bainbridge had said that Greta Shipley was being buried there. Not that that made a difference. She would have gone to both cemeteries today no matter what. After spending so much time going
over those photographs last night, she was anxious to see what was causing the odd glint she detected on Nuala's grave.

She showered, dressed in jeans and a sweater, and had a quick juice and coffee before she went out. Maggie was immediately glad she had made the decision to take the walk. The early fall day was magnificent. The sun was brilliant as it rose in the sky, though there was a cool ocean breeze that made her thankful she had reached for her jacket. There was also the glorious sound of the crashing waves, and the unique, wonderful scent of salt and sea life that filled the air.

I could fall in love with this place, she thought. Nuala spent her summers here when she was a girl. How she must have missed this when she moved away from it.

After a mile, Maggie turned and retraced her steps. Looking up, she realized that only a glimpse of the third floor of Nuala's house—
my
house, she thought—showed from the road. There are too many trees around it, she told herself. They should come down or at least be trimmed. And I wonder why the end of the property that would afford a drop-dead view of the ocean has never been built on. Could there be restrictions against building there?

The question nagged at her as she finished her walk. I really should look into that, she thought. From what Nuala told me, Tim Moore bought this property at least fifty years ago. Haven't there been any changes in building restrictions since then? she wondered.