Moonlight Becomes You (7 page)

He didn't really want to go to the cemetery now, although he knew there was no way out of it. Later. He would go there later . . . and alone. As with the others, his special gift would be a private memorial to her.

He filed out of the church with the thirty or so others who accompanied Nuala to her final resting place. It was the cemetery in which many of Newport's more prominent longtime Catholic residents were buried. Nuala's grave was beside that of her last husband. The legend on the marble would soon be complete. Next to Timothy James Moore's name and birth and death dates, her name and birth date were already inscribed. Soon, Friday's date would be added. “Rest in peace” was already there.

He forced himself to look solemn as the final prayers were read . . . rather too rapidly, he thought. On the other hand, it was obvious that the dark clouds above were about to release a heavy torrent of rain.

When the service ended, Irma Woods invited everyone back to her house for refreshments.

He reasoned that it would be awkward to refuse, and besides, it would be a good time to learn exactly when Maggie Holloway planned to leave. Go away, Maggie, he thought. You'll only get in trouble here.

*   *   *

An hour later, as the guests mingled and chatted, drinks and sandwiches in their hands, he was stunned to hear Irma Woods tell Maggie that the cleaning service had completed straightening the house and removing the mess created by the police when they had dusted for fingerprints.

“So the house is ready for you, Maggie,” Mrs. Woods
told her. “But are you sure you won't be nervous there? You know you're welcome to continue staying here.”

Trying to seem casual, he moved closer, straining to hear. His back was turned toward them as Maggie said, “No, I won't be nervous in Nuala's home. I'd intended to stay two weeks, and so I shall. I'll use the time to sort out everything, and, of course, to visit Greta Shipley at Latham Manor as Nuala requested.”

He stiffened as she added, “Mrs. Woods, you've been so kind. I can't thank you enough. There's just one thing. When Nuala came to see you Friday morning with that handwritten will, didn't you question her? I mean, weren't you surprised that she was so anxious to have it witnessed and notarized, so intent on having it done at once?”

It seemed to him that an eternity passed before Mrs. Woods answered, her response measured. “Well, yes, I did wonder. At first I just thought it was impulsive. Nuala had been very lonely since Tim died and was absolutely ecstatic that she'd found you. But since her death, I've been thinking that there was more to it than that. It was almost as if Nuala knew something terrible might happen to her.”

He drifted toward the fireplace, joining a group gathered there. He responded to their remarks, but his mind was racing. Maggie would be visiting Greta Shipley. How much did Greta know? How much did she suspect? Something had to be done. It could not be risked.

Greta. Obviously she was not well. Everyone had seen her helped out of church today. Everyone would believe that the shock of her friend's death had contributed to a fatal heart attack. Unexpected, of course, but not really a surprise.

Sorry, Greta, he thought.

13

W
HEN SHE WAS STILL A RELATIVELY YOUNG AGE SIXTY-EIGHT
, Greta Shipley had been invited to a reception at the newly renovated Latham House, just rechristened the Latham Manor Residence. The new home for retirees was open and was accepting applications.

She liked everything she saw there. The house's magnificent first floor included the grand salon and marble and crystal dining room, where the enormous banquet table she remembered from her youth had been replaced by smaller tables. The handsome library, with its deep leather chairs and cheerful fireplace, was inviting, and the smaller salon, which would serve as a television room, suggested shared evenings of companionable viewing.

Greta also approved of the regulations: The social hour would begin at 5:00
P.M
. in the grand salon, followed by dinner at six. She was pleased that guests would be required to dress for the evening, as though they were dining in a country club. Greta had been raised by a stern grandmother who could wither with a glance the luckless individual garbed in inappropriate attire. Any residents not up to dressing appropriately would be served in their own quarters.

There also was a section set aside for long-term nursing care, should that be required.

The admission fee was steep, of course. It began at two hundred thousand dollars for a large private room and bath, and climbed to five hundred thousand for a two-bedroom
suite, of which there were four in the mansion. And while the resident got full and exclusive use of the apartment during his or her lifetime, at the time of death, ownership reverted to the residence, which would make the rooms available for sale to the next applicant. Guests would also pay a maintenance fee of two thousand dollars a month, which, of course, was partially covered by Social Security payments.

Guests were invited to furnish their own quarters, but only with staff approval of what they chose to bring. The model studios and apartments were exquisitely comfortable and impeccably tasteful.

Recently widowed and nervous about living alone, Greta had gladly sold her home on Ochre Point, moved to Latham Manor, and felt she had made a good decision. As one of the first occupants, she had a select studio. Large, with a living area alcove, it accommodated all her most treasured furnishings. And best of all, when she closed her door, it was with the secure sense of not being alone in the night. There always was a guard on the premises, a nurse on duty, and a bell to summon help if necessary.

Greta enjoyed the companionship of most of the other residents and easily avoided the ones who got on her nerves. She also kept up her long friendship with Nuala Moore; they often went out to lunch together, and at Greta's request Nuala agreed to give art classes twice a week at the residence.

After Timothy Moore died, Greta had begun a campaign to get Nuala to move to the residence. When Nuala demurred, saying she would be fine alone and insisting further that she couldn't do without her art studio, Greta urged her to at least put in her application so that when one of the two-bedroom suites became available, she would be in a position to change her mind. Nuala had finally agreed, admitting
that her lawyer was encouraging her to do the same thing.

But now that would never happen, Greta thought sadly, as she sat in her easy chair, the virtually untouched dinner tray in front of her.

She was still upset that she had experienced that weak spell at Nuala's funeral earlier in the day. She had been feeling perfectly fine until this morning. Perhaps if she had taken time to eat a proper breakfast it wouldn't have happened, she reasoned.

She simply could not allow herself to become ill now. Especially now she wanted to keep as active as possible. Being busy was the only way to work out grief; life had taught her that. She also knew it wasn't going to be easy, for she would miss Nuala's cheerful presence very much.

It was reassuring to know that Nuala's stepdaughter, Maggie Holloway, would be visiting her. At the funeral parlor yesterday, before the service, Maggie had introduced herself and said, “Mrs. Shipley, I hope you're going to let me spend time with you. I know you were Nuala's closest friend. I want to make you my friend, too.”

There was a tap at the door.

Greta liked the fact that unless they had reason to suspect a problem, the staff was instructed to enter a guest's room only when invited. Nurse Markey, however, didn't seem to understand: Just because the door isn't locked doesn't mean that she is free to barge in at any time. Some appeared to like the intrusive nurses. Greta did not.

Predictably, before Greta could respond to the knock, Nurse Markey strode in, a professional smile wreathing her strong features. “How are we doing tonight, Mrs. Shipley?” she asked loudly as she came over and perched on the hassock, her face uncomfortably close to Greta's.

“I'm
quite fine, thank you, Miss Markey. I hope you are.”

The solicitous “we” always irritated Greta. She had mentioned that fact several times, but this woman clearly did not intend to change anything, so why bother? Greta asked herself. Suddenly she realized that her heartbeat was beginning to accelerate.

“I hear we had a weak spell in church . . .”

Greta put her hand on her chest as though by that act she could stop the wild pounding.

“Mrs. Shipley, what's the matter? Are you all right?”

Greta felt her wrist being seized.

As suddenly as it had begun, the pounding slackened. She managed to say, “Just give me a moment. I'll be fine. I just felt a little breathless, that's all.”

“I want you to lean back and close your eyes. I'm going to call Dr. Lane.” Nurse Markey's face was barely inches from hers now. Instinctively Greta turned away.

Ten minutes later, propped up on pillows in bed, Greta tried to reassure the doctor that the little spell she had had was completely past. But later, as she drifted off to sleep with the help of a mild sedative, she could not escape the chilling memory of how just two weeks ago, Constance Rhinelander, who had been here so briefly, had died of heart failure, so unexpectedly.

First Constance, she thought, then Nuala. Grandmother's housekeeper used to say that deaths come in threes. Please don't let me be the third, she thought as she drifted off.

14

N
O
,
IT HAD NOT BEEN A NIGHTMARE
;
IT REALLY HAD
happened. The full reality of events of the past few days settled firmly in Maggie's mind as she stood in Nuala's kitchen, in the house that now, incredibly, was hers.

At three o'clock, Liam had helped carry her bags here from the Woodses' guest room. He had left them at the top of the stairs. “Do you know which bedroom you're going to use?” he had asked.

“No.”

“Maggie, you look ready to collapse. Are you
sure
you want to stay here? I don't think it's such a hot idea.”

“Yes,” she had replied after a thoughtful pause, “I do want to stay.”

Now as she put the kettle on, Maggie reflected with gratitude that one of Liam's nicest qualities was that he didn't argue.

Instead of objecting further, he had said simply, “Then I'll leave you alone. But I do hope you'll rest for a while. Don't start unpacking or trying to sort out Nuala's things.”

“Certainly not tonight.”

“I'll call you tomorrow.”

At the door, he had put an arm around her and given her a friendly hug. Then he was gone.

Feeling suddenly exhausted, moving as though it was an effort to put one foot in front of the other, Maggie had locked the front and back doors, then climbed the stairs.
Glancing through the bedrooms, she saw immediately that the one Nuala had meant her to have was the second largest. It was simply furnished—a maple double bed, a dresser with mirror, a night table and rocking chair—and there were no personal effects around. The dresser top held only an old-fashioned enamel toiletry set: comb, brush, mirror, buttonhook and nail file.

After dragging her bags into that room, Maggie had peeled off her skirt and sweater, slipped into her favorite robe, and climbed under the covers.

Now, after a nearly three-hour nap, and aided by a cup of tea, she was finally beginning to feel clearheaded. She even sensed that she was over the shock of Nuala's death.

The sadness, though, that's another story, she thought. That won't go away.

She realized suddenly that for the first time in four days she was hungry. She opened the refrigerator and saw that it had been stocked: eggs, milk, juice, a small roasted chicken, a loaf of bread, and a container of homemade chicken soup. Obviously Mrs. Woods, she thought.

She settled on making herself a chicken sandwich, slicing and skinning the chicken and using only a trace of mayonnaise.