Moonlight Becomes You (13 page)

Greta Shipley, however, did not seem to find Maggie's request peculiar. “Oh, they are beautifully situated, aren't they?” she agreed. “Certainly, I can tell you where we went. Have you got a pen and paper handy?”

“Right here.” Nuala had left a small writing pad and a pen next to the phone.

Three minutes later, Maggie had jotted down not only the names but specific directions to each plot. She knew she could locate the grave sites; now if she only knew what it was she hoped to find.

*   *   *

After hanging up, Maggie got out of bed, stretched, and decided on a quick shower to complete the wake-up process. A warm bath at night to put you to sleep, she thought, a cool shower to wake you up. I'm glad I wasn't born four hundred years ago. She thought of the line she had read in a book about Queen Elizabeth I: “The Queen takes a bath once a month whether she needs it or no.”

The showerhead, obviously an addition to the beautiful claw-footed tub, provided a spray that was needle sharp
and thoroughly satisfying. Wrapped in a chenille robe, her still-damp hair in a towel turban, Maggie went downstairs and fixed herself a light breakfast, which she carried back to her room to enjoy as she dressed.

Ruefully she realized that the casual clothes she had packed for the vacation with Nuala would not get her through her two-week stay here. This afternoon she would have to find a boutique or whatever and get herself an extra skirt or two and a couple of blouses or sweaters. She knew that dress at Latham Manor was a bit on the formal side, plus she had agreed to have dinner with Liam on Friday night, and that probably meant dressing up. Whenever she and Liam had been out to dinner in New York, he invariably chose fairly pricey restaurants.

Raising the shade, she opened the front window and felt the warm, gentle breeze that confirmed that after yesterday's chilly dampness, Newport was experiencing picture-perfect early fall weather. There would be no need for a heavy jacket today, she decided. A white tee shirt, jeans, a pullover blue sweater and sneakers were what she picked to wear.

When she was dressed, Maggie stood for a moment in front of the mirror that hung over the bureau, studying herself. Her eyes no longer held traces of the tears she had wept for Nuala. They were clear again. Blue. Sapphire blue. That's how Paul had described her eyes the night they met. It seemed a lifetime ago. She had been a bridesmaid at Kay Koehler's wedding; he had been a groomsman.

The rehearsal dinner was at the Chevy Chase Country Club, in Maryland, near Washington. He had sat next to her. We talked to each other all night, Maggie thought, remembering. Then, after the wedding, we danced practically every dance. When he put his arms around me, I felt as though I had suddenly come home.

They were both only twenty-three at the time. He was attending the Air Force Academy, she, just finishing the master's program at NYU.

Everyone said what a handsome couple we were, Maggie reminisced. A study in contrasts. Paul was so fair, with straight blond hair and ice-blue eyes, the Nordic look he said he had inherited from his Finnish grandmother. Me, the dark-haired Celt.

For five years after his death, she had kept her hair the way Paul liked it. Finally, last year, she had chopped off three inches; now it barely skimmed the collar line, but as a bonus the shorter length emphasized the bouncing natural curl. It also required a lot less fussing, and for Maggie that was paramount.

Paul also had liked the fact that she wore only mascara and almost-natural lipstick. Now, at least for festive occasions, she had a more sophisticated supply of makeup.

Why am I thinking about all this now? Maggie asked herself, as she prepared to leave for the morning. It was almost as though she were telling Nuala all about this, she realized. These were all the things that had happened in the years since they had seen each other, things she wanted to talk about with her. Nuala was widowed young. She would have understood.

Now, with a final silent prayer that Nuala would use her influence with her favorite saints so that Maggie might understand just
why
she was being compelled to go to the cemeteries, she picked up her breakfast tray and carried it back downstairs to the kitchen.

Three minutes later, after checking the contents of her shoulder bag, double locking the door, and getting her Nikon and camera equipment out of the car trunk, she was on her way to the cemeteries.

26

M
RS
. E
LEANOR
R
OBINSON
C
HANDLER ARRIVED AT
L
ATHAM
Manor Residence promptly at ten-thirty, the appointed time for her meeting with Dr. William Lane.

Lane received his aristocratic guest with the charm and courtesy that made him the perfect director and attending physician for the residence. He knew Mrs. Chandler's history by heart. The family name was well known throughout Rhode Island. Mrs. Chandler's grandmother had been one of Newport's social grandes dames during the city's social zenith in the 1890s. She would make an excellent addition to the residence and very possibly attract future guests from among her friends.

Her financial records, while impressive, were a shade disappointing. It was obvious that she had managed to give away a great deal of her money to her large family. Seventy-six years old, she had clearly done her share to help populate the earth: four children, fourteen grandchildren, seven great-grandchildren, and no doubt more to come.

However, given her name and background, she might well be persuaded to take the top apartment that had been intended for Nuala Moore, he decided. It was clear that she was used to the best.

Mrs. Chandler was dressed in a beige knit suit and low-heeled pumps. A single strand of matched pearls, small pearl earrings, a gold wedding band, and a narrow gold watch were her only jewelry, but each item was superb. Her classic
features, framed by pure white hair, were set in a gracious, reserved expression. Lane understood full well that
he
was the one being interviewed.

“You
do
understand that this is only a preliminary meeting,” Mrs. Chandler was saying. “I am not at all sure that I'm prepared to enter
any
residence, however attractive. I
will
say that from what I've seen so far, the restoration of this old place is in excellent taste.”

Approbation from Sir Hubert is praise indeed, Lane thought sarcastically. He smiled appreciatively, however. “Thank you,” he said. If Odile were here she would be gushing that, coming from Mrs. Chandler, such praise meant so much to them, and on and on.

“My eldest daughter lives in Santa Fe and very much wants me to make my home there,” Mrs. Chandler continued.

But you don't want to go there, do you? Lane thought, and suddenly he felt much better. “Of course, having lived in this area so many years, it's a little hard to make such a complete change, I would think,” he said sympathetically. “So many of our guests visit their families for a week or two, then are very glad to come back to the quiet and comfort of Latham Manor.”

“Yes; I'm sure.” Mrs. Chandler's tone was noncommittal. “I understand you have several units available?”

“As a matter of fact one of our most
desirable
units just became available.”

“Who most recently occupied it?”

“Mrs. Constance Van Sickle Rhinelander.”

“Oh, of course. Connie had been quite ill, I understand.”

“I'm afraid so.” Lane did not mention Nuala Moore. He would explain away the room that he had emptied for her art studio by saying that the suite was being totally redecorated.

They went up in the elevator to the third floor. For long
minutes, Mrs. Chandler stood on the terrace overlooking the ocean. “This
is
lovely,” she conceded. “However, I believe this unit is five hundred thousand dollars?”

“That's correct.”

“Well, I don't intend to spend that much. Now that I've seen this one, I would like to see your other available units.”

She's going to try to bargain me down, Dr. Lane thought, and had to resist the urge to tell her that such a ploy was of absolutely no use. The cardinal rule of all Prestige Residences was absolutely no discounts. Otherwise, fury resulted, because the word of special deals always got around to those who hadn't gotten them.

Mrs. Chandler rejected out of hand the smallest, the medium-size, and then the largest single bedroom apartments. “None of these will do. I'm afraid we're wasting each other's time.”

They were on the second floor. Dr. Lane turned to see Odile walking toward them, arm in arm with Mrs. Pritchard, who was recovering from foot surgery. She smiled at them, but to Lane's relief did not stop. Even Odile occasionally knew when not to barge in, he thought.

Nurse Markey was seated at the second-floor desk. She looked up at them with a bright, professional smile. Lane was itching to get to her. This morning Mrs. Shipley had told him she intended to have a dead bolt put on her door to insure privacy. “That woman regards a closed door as a challenge,” she had snapped.

They passed Mrs. Shipley's studio apartment. A maid had just finished cleaning it, and the wide door was open. Mrs. Chandler glanced in and stopped. “Oh, this is lovely,” she said sincerely, as she absorbed the large alcove seating area with the Renaissance fireplace.

“Step in,” Dr. Lane urged. “I know Mrs. Shipley won't mind. She's at the hairdresser's.”

“Just this far. I feel like an intruder.” Mrs. Chandler took in the bedroom section and the magnificent ocean views on three sides of the unit. “I think this is preferable to the largest suite,” she told him. “How much is a unit like this?”

“Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Now
that
I would pay. Is there another like it available? For that price, of course?”

“Not at the moment,” he said, then added, “But why don't you fill out an application?” He smiled at her. “We'd very much like to have you as a guest someday.”

27

D
OUGLAS
H
ANSEN SMILED INGRATIATINGLY ACROSS THE
table at Cora Gebhart, a peppery septuagenarian who was clearly enjoying the scallops over braised endive she had ordered for lunch.

She was a talker, he thought, not like some of the others that he'd had to shower with attention before he could elicit any information from them. Mrs. Gebhart was opening up to him like a sunflower to the sun, and he knew that by the time the espresso was served, he would have a good chance of winning her confidence.

“Everyone's favorite nephew,” one of these women had called him, and it was just the way he wanted to be perceived: the fondly solicitous thirty-year-old, who extended to them all the little courtesies they hadn't enjoyed for years.

Intimate, gossipy luncheons at a restaurant that was either upscale gourmet like this one, Bouchard's, or a place like
the Chart House, where great views could be enjoyed over excellent lobster. The lunches were followed up with a box of candy for the ones who ordered sweet desserts, flowers for those who confided stories of their long-ago courtships, and even an arm-in-arm stroll on Ocean Drive for a more recent widow who wistfully confided how she and her late husband used to take long walks every day. He knew just how to do it.

Hansen had great respect for the fact that all of these women were intelligent, and some of them were even shrewd. The stock offerings he touted to them were the kind that even a moderate investor would have to admit had possibilities. In fact, one of them had actually worked out, which in a way had been disastrous for him, but in the end turned out to be a plus. Because now, in order to cap his pitch, he would suggest that a would-be client call Mrs. Alberta Downing in Providence, that she could confirm Hansen's expertise.

“Mrs. Downing invested one hundred thousand dollars and made a three-hundred-thousand-dollar profit in one week,” he was able to tell prospective clients. It was an honest claim. The fact that the stock had been artificially inflated at the last minute, and that Mrs. Downing had ordered him to sell, going against his own advice, had seemed like a disaster at the time. They had had to raise the money to pay her her profits, but now at least they had a genuine blue-blood reference.