Moonlight Becomes You (29 page)

Earl opened his kit to take a rubbing of the stone. Another angle to discuss in one of his lectures on tombstones would be the tender age at which so many young people were struck down in the old days.
There had been no penicillin to treat the pneumonia that resulted when winter cold made its insidious way into chests and lungs . . .

He knelt down, enjoying the feel of the soft earth that sent its cool dampness through his old trousers to his skin. As he began his careful effort to transfer the stone's poignant sentiment onto thin, almost translucent parchment, he found himself thinking of the young girl who lay beneath him, her body sheltered by the ageless ground.

She had just passed her sixteenth birthday, he calculated.

Had she been pretty? Yes, very pretty, he decided. She had had a cloud of dark curls, and sapphire blue eyes. And she had been small boned.

Maggie Holloway's face floated before him.

*   *   *

At one-thirty, as he was driving back toward the entrance of the cemetery, Earl passed a vehicle with New York plates parked at the curb. It looks familiar, he thought, then realized that it was Maggie Holloway's Volvo wagon. What was she doing here again today? he wondered. Greta Shipley's grave was nearby, but certainly Maggie wasn't so close to Greta that she would feel the need to visit the grave again, only a day after the funeral.

Slowing his car, he looked about. When he spotted Maggie in the distance, walking toward him, he put his foot on the accelerator. He didn't want her to see
him. Clearly something was going on. He had to think about this.

He did make one decision. Since he did not have classes tomorrow, he would stay an extra day in Newport. And whether Liam liked it or not, tomorrow he was going to visit Maggie Holloway.

57

M
AGGIE WALKED QUICKLY AWAY FROM
G
RETA
S
HIPLEY
'
S
grave, her hands jammed in the pockets of her jacket, her eyes not seeing the path she was following.

In every fiber of her being, she felt chilled and shaken. She had found it, buried so deeply that, had she not run her hand over every inch of the area at the base of the tombstone, she might have missed it.

A bell!
Exactly
like the one she had taken from Nuala's grave. Like the bells on the other women's graves. Like the bells that well-to-do Victorians had placed on their graves in case they were buried while still alive.

Who had come back here since the funeral and put that object on Mrs. Shipley's grave? she wondered. And
why?

Liam had told her that his cousin Earl had had twelve of these bells cast to use to illustrate his lectures. He had also indicated that Earl apparently relished the fact that he had frightened the women at Latham Manor by handing the bells out during his talk there.

Was this Earl's idea of a bizarre joke, Maggie wondered,
putting these bells on the graves of Latham Manor residents?

It's possible, she decided as she reached her car. It could be his warped and demented way of taking some small revenge for having been criticized publicly by Mrs. Bainbridge's daughter. According to Liam, Sarah had gathered the bells, thrust them at Earl, and then had practically ordered him out of the residence.

Revenge was a logical, if appalling, explanation. I'm glad I took the one from Nuala's grave, Maggie thought. I feel like going back and collecting the others too—especially the one from Mrs. Shipley's plot.

But she decided against it, at least for the time being. She wanted to be certain that they were, in fact, nothing more than Earl's childish and sickening act of revenge. I will come back later, she decided. Besides, I've got to get home. Neil said he would be there at two.

*   *   *

As she drove down her street, she noticed that two cars were parked in front of her house. Pulling into the driveway, she saw that Neil and his father were sitting on the porch steps, a tool kit between them.

Mr. Stephens waved aside her apologies. “You're not late. It's only one minute of two. Unless my son is mistaken, which is a distinct possibility, he said we'd be here at two.”

“Apparently I make a lot of mistakes,” Neil said, looking directly at Maggie.

She ignored the remark, refusing to rise to the bait. “It's awfully nice of both of you to come,” she said sincerely. Unlocking the door, she led them in.

Robert Stephens examined the front door as he closed it. “Needs weather stripping,” he observed. “Pretty soon that sea air will get mighty cold, with a stiff wind behind it. Now I'd like to start at that back door Neil told me about, and
then we'll check all the window locks and see which ones need replacing. I have some spares with me, and I'll come back if you need more.”

Neil stood beside Maggie. Keenly aware of his nearness, she stepped away as he said, “Humor him, Maggie. My grandfather built an atomic-bomb shelter after World War II. When I was growing up, my friends and I used it as a hangout. By then people realized those shelters would be as useless in a nuclear attack as a parasol in a tornado.
My
father has something of
his
father's ‘anticipate the worst' mentality. He always anticipates the unthinkable.”

“Absolutely true,” Robert Stephens agreed. “And in this house I would say the unthinkable took place ten days ago.”

Maggie saw Neil wince and said hastily, “I'm very grateful you're here.”

“If you want to do anything, we won't be in your way,” Robert Stephens told her as they went into the kitchen and he opened his tool kit, spreading it out on the table.

“I think you should stay with us,” Neil urged. “We might want to ask you about something.” He added, “Don't disappear, Maggie.”

Looking at him, dressed as he was in a tan shirt, chinos, and sneakers, Maggie found herself wishing she were holding her camera. She realized there was an aspect to Neil she had never seen in the city. He doesn't have that “Don't invade my territory” air about him today, she thought. He looks as though he actually might care about other people's feelings. Even
my
feelings.

His forehead was creased with a look of worried concern, and his dark brown eyes had the same questioning look Maggie had observed last night.

Then, as his father began working at the old door lock, Neil said in a low voice, “Maggie, I can tell something is bothering you. I wish to God you'd let me in on it.”

“Neil, give me the big screwdriver,” his father ordered.

Maggie settled in an old bentwood chair. “I'll watch. Maybe I can learn something useful.”

For nearly an hour, father and son worked, going from room to room, examining windows, tightening some locks, noting others for replacement. In the studio, Robert Stephens asked to examine the clay sculptures on the refectory table. When Maggie showed him the one she was beginning of Greta Shipley, he said, “I hear she wasn't well at the end. Last time I saw her, she was pretty sprightly, even feisty.”

“Is this Nuala?” Neil asked, pointing to the other bust.

“There's a lot of work to do on it, but yes, that was Nuala. I guess my fingers saw something I didn't realize. She always had such a merry look, but it isn't there for me now.”

When they were on the way downstairs, Robert Stephens pointed to Nuala's room. “I hope you're planning to move in there,” he said. “It's twice the size of the guest rooms.”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Maggie admitted.

Mr. Stephens stood at the door. “That bed should be opposite the windows, not where it is now.”

Maggie felt helpless. “I'm planning to put it there.”

“Who was going to help you?”

“I thought I'd just start yanking. I'm stronger than I look.”

“You're kidding! You don't mean you were going to try to shove this rock maple around yourself? Come on, Neil, we'll start with the bed. Where do you want the dresser moved, Maggie?”

Neil paused only long enough to say, “Don't take it personally. He's like this with everyone.”

“Everyone I
care
about,” his father corrected.

In less than ten minutes the furniture had been rearranged. As she watched, Maggie planned the way she would redecorate the room. The old wallpaper needed replacing, she decided.
And then the floor would have to be refinished, and then she would get area rugs to replace the faded green carpet.

Nesting again, she thought.

“Okay, that's it,” Robert Stephens announced.

Maggie and Neil followed him down the stairs as he said, “I'm on my way. Some folks coming over for a drink later. Neil, you'll be up next weekend?”

“Absolutely,” Neil said. “I'm taking Friday off again.”

“Maggie, I'll be back with the other locks, but I'll call you first,” Robert Stephens said as he headed out the door. He was in his car before Maggie could even thank him.

“He's wonderful,” she said as she watched his car disappear.

“Incredible as it may seem, I think so too,” Neil said, smiling. “Some people, of course, find him overwhelming.” He paused for a moment. “Were you at your stepmother's grave this morning, Maggie?”

“No, I wasn't. What makes you think that?”

“Because the knees of your slacks are stained with dirt. I'm sure you weren't gardening in that outfit.”

Maggie realized that, with Neil and his father here, she had shaken off or at least suspended the profound uneasiness caused by finding the bell on Greta Shipley's grave. Neil's question quickly brought back the old concern.

But she couldn't talk about it now, not to Neil, not to anyone, really, she decided. Not until she had found some way to determine whether Earl Bateman was responsible for the placement of the bells.

Seeing the change in her face, Neil confronted her. “Maggie, what the hell is the matter?” he asked, his voice low and intense. “You're mad at me and I don't know why, except that I didn't phone you in time to get this number before you left. I'll kick myself for that for the rest of my
life. If I had known what had happened, I'd have been here for you.”

“Would you?” Maggie shook her head, looking away. “Neil, I'm trying to work a lot of things through, things that don't make sense and may be the product of my overactive imagination. But they're things I've got to work through myself. Can we leave it at that for now?”

“I assume I have no choice,” Neil said. “Look, I've got to be on my way. I have to get ready for a board meeting in the morning. But I'll call you tomorrow, and I'll be here Thursday afternoon. You're staying until next Sunday?”

“Yes,” Maggie replied, adding to herself, And maybe by then I'll have some answers to my questions about Earl Bateman and about these bells and . . .

Her thoughts were interrupted as, unbidden, Latham Manor Residence jumped into her mind. “Neil, last night you said that you and your father were at Latham Manor yesterday. You were looking at a two-bedroom suite for your clients, weren't you?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Nuala almost took that suite. And didn't you say that another woman would have taken it but couldn't because she lost her money in a bad investment?”

“That's right. And he stung another client of Dad's who was on Latham's waiting list—Cora Gebhart. And that's something else I intend to take care of this week. I'm going to investigate the snake who roped both of them into making those investments, and if I can find anything at all to hang on Doug Hansen, I'll turn him in to the SEC. Maggie, what are you driving at?”

“Doug Hansen!” Maggie exclaimed.

“Yes. Why? Do you know him?”

“Not really, but let me know what you find out about him,” she said, remembering that she had told Hansen she
would not discuss his offer. “It's just that I've heard of him.”

“Well, don't invest money with him,” Neil said grimly. “Okay, I've got to go.” He bent down and kissed her cheek. “Lock the door behind me.”

She didn't hear his footsteps on the porch stairs until the decisive click of the dead-bolt lock signaled that the house was secure.

She watched him drive away. The front windows faced east, and late afternoon shadows were already filtering through the leaf-filled branches of the trees.

The house felt suddenly quiet and empty. Maggie looked down at her cream-colored slacks and pondered the streaks of dirt Neil had questioned.

I'll change and go up to the studio for a while, she decided. Then tomorrow morning I'll clean out the closet floor and move my things into Nuala's room. There were so many questions Maggie wished she could ask Nuala. Refining her features in the clay would be a way of communicating with her. And maybe I'll be able to think through my fingers what we can't talk about together, she thought.

And she could ask questions that needed to be answered, like, “Nuala, was there some reason you were
afraid
to live in Latham Manor?”