Moonlight Becomes You (36 page)

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 through 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
,
TORCH
È
RE 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.

Everything
was six bells, identical to the others she had found.

The packing slip was still inside the box: “12 Victorian bells, cast to the order of Mr. Earl Bateman,” it read.

Twelve—and now only six.

I'll take shots of them and the packing slip, and then I can get out of here, Maggie thought. Suddenly she was almost desperate to be safely away from this place, outside with her proof that Earl Bateman was certainly a liar, possibly even a murderer.

She wasn't sure what first made her realize that she was no longer alone.

Had she actually heard the faint sound of the door opening, or was it the narrow beam of light from another flashlight that had alerted her?

She spun around as he raised the flashlight, heard him speaking as it crashed down on her head.

And then there was nothing but impressions of voices and movement, and finally dreamless oblivion, until she awoke to the terrible silent darkness of the grave.

72

N
EIL ARRIVED AT
M
AGGIE
'
S HOUSE WELL AFTER NINE
o'clock, much later than he had wished. Intensely disappointed to see that her station wagon wasn't in the driveway, he had a moment of hope when he noticed that one of the bright studio lights was on.

Maybe her car was being serviced, he told himself. But
when there was no answer to his insistent ringing of the doorbell, he went back to his car to wait. At midnight he finally gave up and drove to his parents' house in Portsmouth.

Neil found his mother in the kitchen, making hot cocoa. “For some reason I couldn't sleep,” she said.

Neil knew that she had expected him to arrive hours earlier, and he felt guilty for worrying her. “I should have called,” he said. “But then why didn't you try me on the car phone?”

Dolores Stephens smiled. “Because no thirty-seven-year-old man wants his mother checking up on him just because he's late. It occurred to me that you probably had stopped at Maggie's, so I really wasn't that worried.”

Neil shook his head glumly. “I did stop at Maggie's. She wasn't home. I waited around till now.”

Dolores Stephens studied her son. “Did you eat any dinner?” she asked gently.

“No, but don't bother.”

Ignoring him, she got up and opened the refrigerator. “She may have had a date,” she said, her tone thoughtful.

“She was in her
own
car. It's
Monday
night,” Neil said, then paused. “Mom, I'm worried about her. I'm going to phone every half hour until I know she's home.”

Despite protesting that he really wasn't hungry, he ate the thick club sandwich his mother made for him. At one o'clock, he tried Maggie's number.

His mother sat with him as he tried again at one-thirty, then at two, at two-thirty, and again at three.

At three-thirty his father joined them. “What's going on?” he asked, his eyes heavy with sleep. When he was told, he snapped, “For goodness sake, call the police and ask if any accidents have been reported.”

The officer who answered assured Neil that it had been a quiet night. “No accidents, sir.”

“Give him Maggie's description. Tell him what kind of car she drives. Leave your name and this phone number,” Robert Stephens said. “Dolores, you've been up all this time. You get some sleep. I'll stay with Neil.”

“Well—” she began.

“There may be a perfectly simple explanation,” her husband said gently. When his wife was out of earshot, he said, “Your mother is very fond of Maggie.” He looked at his son. “I know that you haven't been seeing Maggie for all that long a time, but why does she seem indifferent to you, sometimes even downright chilly? Why is that?”

“I don't know,” Neil confessed. “She's always held back, and I guess I have too, but I'm positive there's something special going on between us.” He shook his head. “I've gone over and over it in my mind. It certainly isn't just that I didn't call her in time to get her number before she came up here. Maggie isn't that
trivial.
But I thought about it a lot driving up, and I've come up with one thing that I can maybe pin it on.”

He told his father about the time he saw Maggie weeping in the theater during a film. “I didn't think I should intrude,” he said. “At the time I thought I should just give her space. But now I wonder if maybe she knew I was there and perhaps resented the fact I didn't at least say something. What would you have done?”

“I'll tell you what I'd have done,” his father said immediately. “If I'd seen your mother in that situation, I'd have been right beside her, and I'd have put my arm around her. Maybe I wouldn't have
said
anything, but I'd have let her know I was there.”

He looked at Neil severely. “I'd have done
that
whether or not I was in love with her. On the other hand, if I was
trying to deny to myself that I loved her, or if I was afraid of getting involved, then maybe I'd have run away. There's a famous biblical incident about washing the hands.”

“Come on, Dad,” Neil muttered.

“And if I were Maggie, and I had sensed you were there, and maybe had even wanted to be able to turn to you, I'd have written you off if you walked out on me,” Robert Stephens concluded.

The telephone rang. Neil beat his father to grabbing the receiver.

It was a police officer. “Sir, we found the vehicle you described parked on Marley Road. It's an isolated area, and there are no houses nearby, so we don't have any witnesses as to when it was left there, or by whom, whether it was Ms. Holloway or another person.”

73

A
T EIGHT O
'
CLOCK ON
T
UESDAY MORNING
, M
ALCOLM
N
ORTON
walked downstairs from his bedroom and looked into the kitchen. Janice was already there, seated at the table, reading the paper and drinking coffee.

She made the unprecedented offer to pour him a cup, then asked, “Toast?”

He hesitated, then said, “Why not?” and sat opposite her.

“You're leaving pretty early, aren't you?” she asked. He could see she was nervous. No doubt she knew he was up to something.

“You must have had a late dinner last night,” she continued, as she placed the steaming cup in front of him.

“Ummmm,” he responded, enjoying her unease. He had known she was awake when he came in at midnight.

He took a few sips of the coffee, then pushed his chair back. “On second thought, I'll skip the toast. Good-bye, Janice.”

*   *   *

When he reached the office, Malcolm Norton sat for a few minutes at Barbara's desk. He wished he could write a few lines to her, something to remind her of what she had meant to him, but it would be unfair. He didn't want to drag her name into this.

He went into his own office and looked again at the copies he had made of the papers he had found in Janice's briefcase, as well as the copy of her bank statement.