Moonlight Becomes You (28 page)

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?

55

A
T HIS WIFE
'
S URGING
, D
R
. W
ILLIAM
L
ANE 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 the 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.”

“Absolutely.” “Go right ahead.” “Take it,” they chorused amiably.

“We haven't gotten to anything except the bureau so far,” one of them added.

Maggie opened the drawer expectantly. It was empty. The sketch to which Nuala had added her own face, Greta Shipley's face, and the image of Nurse Markey eavesdropping, was gone. “It isn't here,” she said.

“Then perhaps Greta either moved it or disposed of it,” said a cousin who bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. Shipley. “Dr. Lane told us that after anyone passes away, the apartment is immediately locked until the family comes in and removes personal items. But do tell us what the sketch looks like in case we come across it.”

Maggie described it, gave them her phone number, thanked them, and left. Somebody
took
that sketch, she thought as she left the room. But why?

Stepping into the hall, she almost ran into Nurse Markey.

“Oh, excuse me,” the nurse said. “I just want to see if I can give Mrs. Shipley's relatives a hand. Have a nice day, Miss Holloway.”

56

I
T WAS NOON WHEN
E
ARL
B
ATEMAN ARRIVED AT
St. Mary's cemetery. He circled the winding roads slowly, ever anxious to get a look at the kinds of people who were spending a part of their Sunday visiting a loved one.

Not too many out so far today, he noted: a few oldsters, a middle-aged couple, a large family, probably showing up for an anniversary, after which they would have brunch at the restaurant down the road. The typical Sunday crew.

He then drove through to the old section of Trinity cemetery, where he parked and got out. After a quick glance around, he began to scrutinize the tombstones for interesting inscriptions. It had been several years since he took rubbings here, and he knew he might well have missed some.

He prided himself that his awareness of subtleties had heightened considerably since then. Yes, he thought, tombstones definitely would be a subject to outline for the cable series. He would start with a reference from
Gone With the Wind,
which said that three infant boys, all named Gerald O'Hara, Jr., were buried in the family plot on Tara.
Oh, the hopes, and dreams, we see sculpted on stone, fading, ignored, no longer read, but still leaving a message of lasting love. Think of it—three little sons!
That's the way he would begin that lecture.

Of course, he would move quickly from tragic to upbeat
by telling about one of the stones he had seen in a Cape Cod cemetery, actually advertising the fact that the business operation that had been run by the deceased was being carried on by his son. It even gave the new address.

Earl frowned as he looked about him. Even though it was a warm and pleasant October day, and even though he thoroughly enjoyed his profitable hobby, he was upset and angry.

As they had arranged, last night Liam had come to his house for drinks and then they had gone out to dinner together. Even though he had left his three-thousand-dollar check right next to the vodka bottle on the bar where it couldn't possibly be missed, Liam had pointedly ignored it. Instead, he had emphasized yet again that Earl ought to go golfing instead of haunting cemeteries.

“Haunting”
indeed, Earl thought, his face darkening. I could show him what haunting is all about, he said to himself.

And he was damned if he would let Liam warn him away from Maggie Holloway again. It simply was none of his business. Liam had asked if he had seen her, and when he told Liam that since Monday night he had seen Maggie only at the cemetery and, of course, at Mrs. Shipley's funeral, Liam had said, “Earl, you and your cemeteries. I'm getting worried about you. You're becoming obsessive.”

“He didn't
believe
me when I tried to explain my premonitions,” Earl muttered aloud. “He never takes me seriously.” He stopped suddenly and looked about. There was no one. Don't think about it anymore, he warned himself, at least not now.

He walked along the paths of the oldest section of the cemetery, where some of the barely discernible carvings on the small headstones bore dates from the 1600s. He
squatted by one that had almost fallen over, squinting to read the faint lettering. His eyes brightened as he made out the inscription: “Betrothed to Roger Samuels but gathered to the Lord . . .” and the dates.