Moonlight Becomes You (10 page)

“By that time, Janice and I will be separated, I
promise
you.
Please
stay! I
can't
let you go.”

Not after all I've done to keep you! he thought desperately.

19

A
FTER
M
AGGIE PICKED UP
G
RETA
S
HIPLEY, THEY MADE A
stop at the florist's to buy flowers. As they were driving to the cemetery, Greta reminisced to Maggie about her friendship with Nuala.

“Her parents rented a cottage here for several years when we both were about sixteen. She was such a pretty girl, and so much fun. She and I were inseparable during that time, and she had many admirers. Why, Tim Moore was always hanging around her. Then her father was transferred to London, and she moved there and went to school there, as well. Later, I heard she was married. Eventually we just lost track of each other, something I always regretted.”

Maggie steered the car through the quiet streets that led to St. Mary's cemetery in Newport. “How did you happen to get together again?” she asked.

“It was just twenty-one years ago. My phone rang one day. Someone asked to speak to the former Greta Carlyle. I knew the voice was familiar but for the moment couldn't place it. I responded that
I
was Greta Carlyle Shipley, and Nuala whooped, ‘Good for you, Gret. You landed Carter Shipley!' ”

It seemed to Maggie that she was hearing Nuala's voice coming from everyone's lips. She heard it when Mrs. Woods talked about the will, when Doctor Lane reminisced about her feeling of being twenty-two, and now in Mrs. Shipley's
memories about the same kind of warm reunion Maggie herself had experienced less than two weeks ago.

Despite the warmth in the car, Maggie shivered. Thoughts of Nuala always came back to the same question: Was the kitchen door unlocked, allowing an intruder to come in, or did Nuala unlock the door herself to let someone she knew—someone she trusted—enter her home?

Sanctuary,
Maggie thought. Our homes ought to offer us sanctuary. Had Nuala pleaded for her life? How long did she feel the blows that rained on her head? Chief Brower had said that he thought whoever had killed Nuala had been looking for something, and, from the look of things, might not have found it.

“. . . and so we picked up immediately where we left off, went right back to being best friends,” Greta continued. “Nuala told me she'd been widowed young and then remarried, and that the second marriage had been a terrible mistake, except for you. She was so soured on marriage that she said hell would freeze over before she'd try it again, but by then Tim was a widower, and they started going out. One morning she phoned and said, ‘Gret, want to go ice-skating? Hell just froze over.' She and Tim were engaged. I don't think I ever saw her happier.”

They arrived at the gate of the cemetery. A carved limestone angel with outstretched arms greeted them.

“The grave is to the left and up the hill,” Mrs. Shipley said, “but of course you know that. You were here yesterday.”

Yesterday, Maggie thought. Had it really been only yesterday?

They parked at the top of the hill, and with Maggie's hand tucked firmly under Greta Shipley's arm, they walked along the path that led to Nuala's grave. Already the ground had been smoothed over and resodded. The thick green grass
gave the plot an air of soothing timelessness. The only sound was the rustle of the wind through the fall-colored leaves of a nearby maple.

Mrs. Shipley managed a smile as she placed flowers on the grave. “Nuala loved that big tree. She said when her time came she wanted plenty of shade so that her complexion wouldn't be ruined by too much sun.”

They laughed softly as they turned to go. Then Greta hesitated. “Would I be imposing terribly if I asked you to stop for just a moment at the graves of some of my other friends? I saved a few flowers for them, too. Two are here in St. Mary's. The others are in Trinity. This road goes directly there. The cemeteries are side by side, and the north gate between them is always open during the day.”

It didn't take long to make the five other stops. The headstone on the last grave was inscribed, “Constance Van Sickle Rhinelander.” Maggie noted that the date of death was only two weeks ago.

“Was she a close friend?” Maggie asked.

“Not nearly as close as Nuala, but she lived in Latham Manor, and I had gotten to know her very well.” She paused. “It's sudden, it's all so sudden,” she said, then turned to Maggie and smiled. “I'd better get back. I'm afraid I'm a bit tired. It's so hard to lose so many people you care about.”

“I know.” Maggie put her arm around the older woman and realized just how frail she seemed.

On the twenty-minute drive back to the residence, Greta Shipley dozed off. When they reached Latham Manor, she opened her eyes and said apologetically, “I used to have so much energy. All my family did. My grandmother was still going strong at ninety. I'm beginning to think I'm being waited on too much.”

As Maggie escorted her inside, Greta said hesitantly,
“Maggie, I hope you'll come to see me again before you leave. When are you going back to New York?”

Maggie surprised herself by answering firmly, “I was planning to stay two weeks and that's exactly what I'm going to do. I'll call you before the weekend and we'll make a date.”

It was not until she got back to Nuala's house and put the kettle on that she realized something was troubling her. There was a kind of unease about Greta Shipley, and about their visit to the cemeteries. Something wasn't right. But what
was
it?

20

L
IAM
M
OORE
P
AYNE
'
S OFFICE OVERLOOKED
B
OSTON
C
OM
mon. Since leaving his former brokerage house and opening his own investment firm, he had been overwhelmingly busy. The prestigious clients he had brought with him demanded and received his meticulous personal attention, earning him their complete confidence.

He had not wanted to phone Maggie too early, but when he did call, at 11:00
A.M
., he was disappointed not to reach her. After that he had his secretary try her every hour, but it was nearly four o'clock when he finally heard the welcome news that Ms. Holloway was on the phone.

“Maggie, at last,” he began, then stopped. “Is that a kettle I hear whistling?”

“Yes, hold on a minute, Liam. I was just fixing a cup of tea.”

When she picked up the receiver again, he said, “I was afraid you might have made up your mind to go home. I wouldn't blame you for being nervous in that house.”

“I'm careful about locking up,” Maggie told him, then added almost without pause, “Liam, I'm glad you called. I've got to ask you something. Yesterday, after you brought my bags here, did you have a discussion with Earl about me?”

Liam's eyebrows raised. “As a matter of fact, I didn't. What makes you think I did?”

She told him about Earl's sudden appearance at the kitchen door.

“You mean he was just going to check the lock without even letting you know? You're kidding.”

“No, I'm not. And I don't mind saying that he really frightened me. I was shaky enough as it was about being alone here, and then to have him just show up that way . . . Plus, he started quoting something about sorrow like joy leaping from mind to mind. It was weird.”

“That's one of his favorite quotes. I don't think I've ever heard him give a lecture when he hasn't included it. It always gives me the creeps, too.” Liam paused, then sighed. “Maggie, Earl is my cousin and I'm fond of him, but he
is
somewhat odd, and there's no question that he's obsessed with the subject of death. Do you want me to speak to him about that little visit to you?”

“No. I don't think so. But I'm going to have a locksmith put dead bolts on the doors.”

“I'm selfish enough to hope that means you'll be staying in Newport for a while.”

“At least the two weeks I had initially planned.”

“I'll be down on Friday. Will you have dinner with me?”

“I'd like that.”

“Maggie, get that locksmith in today, will you?”

“First thing in the morning.”

“All right. I'll call you tomorrow.”

Liam replaced the receiver slowly. How much should he tell Maggie about Earl, he wondered. He didn't want to overdo warning her, but still . . .

Clearly it was something he would have to think over.

21

A
T QUARTER OF FIVE
, J
ANICE
N
ORTON LOCKED THE DESK
in her office at Latham Manor Residence. Out of habit, she tugged at the handle of each one of the drawers and confirmed that they were indeed secured. It was a safeguard that William Lane would have been wise to adopt, she thought sarcastically.

Lane's assistant, Eileen Burns, worked only until two each day, and after that Janice doubled as both bookkeeper and assistant. She smiled to herself, reflecting that her unquestioned access to Lane's office had been extremely useful over the years. Just now when she'd copied the information she wanted from two more files, she'd had a sense that she should hold off. Call it a premonition.

She shrugged. Well, she'd done it, and the copies were in her briefcase and the originals where they belonged in Lane's desk. It was ridiculous to get jumpy about it now.

Her eyes narrowed with secret satisfaction as she thought of the undisguisable shock on her husband's face when Irma Woods had told them about Nuala Moore's last-minute will.
What pleasure she had had since then, berating him about repaying the mortgage on their own house.

She knew, of course, that he wouldn't do any such thing. Malcolm was destined to wander forever through a field of broken dreams. It had taken her far too long to figure out that one, but working at Latham had been an eye-opener. Some of the guests there may not have had fancy backgrounds, but they had been born sucking on the proverbial silver spoon; they had never known a day's worry about money. Others were like Malcolm, blue bloods with lineage they could trace back past the Mayflower to the aristocracy, even to the crowned heads of Europe, passionately proud that they were the great-great-nephews or whatever, nine times removed, of the prince regent of some idiotic duchy.

However, the blue bloods at Latham differed from Malcolm in one very important way. They hadn't rested on their genealogical charts. They had gone out and made their own fortunes. Or married them.

But not Malcolm, she thought. Oh, no, not handsome, debonair, courtly, so-well-bred Malcolm! At her wedding, she had been the envy of her girlfriends—except for Anne Everett. On that day, in the yacht club powder room, she had overheard Anne refer to Malcolm disparagingly as the “ultimate Ken doll.”

It was a remark that had burned into her mind, because even then, on what was supposed to be the happiest day of her life, dressed as she was, like a princess, in billowing yards of satin, she had realized it was true. To put it another way,
she had married the frog.
And then spent thirty-plus years trying to give reality the lie. What a waste!