Moonlight Becomes You (31 page)

“I'll take care of it.”

It was a mixed comfort, Neil thought wryly, that Maggie might be more willing to confide in his father than in himself.
But at least his father would be on the alert to pick up any hint of problems.

Trish came into his office the moment he was off the phone. In her hand she held a stack of messages. As she placed them on his desk, she pointed to the one on top. “I see your new client asked you to sell stock she doesn't own,” she said severely.

“What are you talking about?” Neil demanded.

“Nothing much. Just the clearinghouse has notified us that they have no record of Cora Gebhart owning the fifty thousand shares of stock you sold for her on Friday.”

62

M
AGGIE HUNG UP AT THE END OF HER CALL FROM
N
EIL
and went to the stove. Automatically she filled the kettle. She wanted the feeling of hot tea warming her. She needed something that would help her separate the jarring reality of the obituaries from the disturbing, even crazy, thoughts that were shooting through her head.

She did a quick mental review of what she had learned so far.

Last week when she had taken Greta Shipley to the cemetery, they had left flowers at Nuala's grave and the graves of five other women.

Someone had placed a bell on three of those graves as well as on Nuala's. She had found them there herself.

There was an impression, as if a bell had been sunk into
the earth, near Mrs. Rhinelander's tombstone, but for some reason
that
bell was missing.

Greta Shipley had died in her sleep two days later, and barely twenty-four hours after she was buried a bell had been placed on her grave as well.

Maggie laid the printouts of the obituaries on the table and read quickly through them again. They confirmed what had occurred to her yesterday: Winifred Pierson, the one woman in that group whose grave showed no evidence of a bell, had a large, caring family. She had died with her personal physician in attendance.

With the exception of Nuala, who had been murdered in her own home, the other women had died in their sleep.

Meaning, Maggie thought, that no one was in attendance at the time of death.

They had all been under the ongoing care of Dr. William Lane, director of Latham Manor.

Dr. Lane. Maggie thought of how quickly Sarah Cushing had rushed her mother to an outside doctor. Was it because she knew, or maybe subconsciously suspected, that Dr. Lane was not a skillful practitioner?

Or perhaps
too
skillful a practitioner? a nagging inner voice queried. Remember, Nuala was murdered.

Don't think that way, she warned herself. But no matter how one looked at it, she thought, Latham Manor had been a jinx for a lot of people. Two of Mr. Stephens' clients had lost their money while they were waiting to get into the place, and five women, all Latham residents—who weren't that elderly, or that sick—had died in their sleep there.

What had made Nuala change her mind about selling her house and going to live there? she wondered again. And what made Douglas Hansen, who had sold stocks to the women who lost their money, show up here wanting to
buy this house? Maggie shook her head. There has to be a connection, she told herself, but what is it?

The kettle was whistling. As Maggie got up to make the tea, the phone rang. It was Neil's father. He said, “Maggie, I've got those locks. I'm on my way over. If you have to go out, tell me where I can find a key.”

“No, I'll be here.”

Twenty minutes later he was at the door. After a “Good to see you, Maggie,” he said, “I'll start upstairs.”

While he changed the locks, she worked in the kitchen, straightening drawers, tossing out the odds and ends she found in most of them. The sound of his footsteps overhead was reassuring; she used the time while she worked to once more think through all that she knew. Putting together all the pieces of the puzzle she had so far, she came to a decision: she had absolutely no right to voice any suspicions about Dr. Lane as yet, but there was no reason not to talk about Douglas Hansen, she decided.

Robert Stephens came back to the kitchen. “Okay, you're all set. No charge, but can you spare a cup of coffee? Instant is fine. I'm easy to please.”

He settled in a chair, and Maggie knew he was studying her. Neil sent him, she thought. He could tell I was upset.

“Mr. Stephens,” she began, “you don't know very much about Douglas Hansen, do you?”

“Enough to know that he's wrecked the lives of some very nice women, Maggie. But have I ever met him? No. Why do you ask?”

“Because both the ladies you know who lost their money thanks to him had been planning to go into Latham Manor, which meant they could afford a sizable outlay of money. My stepmother also had planned to live there, but she changed her mind at the last minute. Last week, Hansen showed up here and offered me fifty thousand dollars more
for this house than Nuala almost sold it for, and from what I've learned, that's much more than it's worth.

“My point is, I wonder how he happened to contact the women you know who invested with him, and I wonder what made him show up on this doorstep. There's got to be more than just coincidence at play here.”

63

E
ARL
B
ATEMAN DROVE PAST
M
AGGIE
'
S HOUSE TWICE
. O
N
the third trip, he saw that the car with the Rhode Island plates was gone; Maggie's station wagon, however, was still in the driveway. He slowed to a halt and reached for the framed picture he had brought with him.

He was fairly sure that if he had phoned and said he would like to see her, Maggie would have turned him down. But now she wouldn't have a choice. She would
have to
invite him in.

He rang the doorbell twice before she opened the door. It was obvious that she was surprised to see him. Surprised and nervous, he thought.

He quickly held up the package. “A present for you,” he said enthusiastically. “A marvelous picture of Nuala that was taken at the Four Seasons party. I framed it for you.”

“How nice of you,” Maggie said, trying to smile, a look of uncertainty on her face. Then she reached out her hand.

Earl pulled the package back, withholding it. “Aren't you going to ask me in?” he asked, his tone light and joking.

“Of course.”

She stood aside and let him pass, but to his annoyance, she swung the door wide open and left it that way.

“I'd close that if I were you,” he said. “I don't know if you've been out today, but there's a stiff breeze.” He again saw her uncertainty and smiled grimly. “And no matter what my dear cousin has told you, I don't bite,” he said, finally handing her the package.

He walked ahead of her into the living room and sat in the big club chair. “I can see Tim ensconced here with his books and newspapers and Nuala fussing around him. What a pair of lovebirds they were! They invited me over to dinner occasionally, and I was always glad to come. Nuala wasn't much of a housekeeper, but she was an excellent cook. And Tim told me that, often, when they were alone and watching TV late at night, she'd curl up in this chair with him. She was such a petite lady.”

He looked around. “I can see you're already putting your stamp on this place,” he said. “I approve. There's a much calmer feeling. Does that love seat spook you?”

“I'll do some refurnishing,” Maggie said, her tone still wary.

Bateman watched her as she opened the package and congratulated himself on thinking of the photograph. Just seeing the way her face lit up confirmed how smart he had been to think of it.

“Oh, it's a
wonderful
picture of Nuala!” Maggie said enthusiastically. “She looked so pretty that evening. Thank you. I really am glad to have this.” Her smile was now genuine.

“I'm sorry Liam and I are in it as well,” Bateman said. “Maybe you can have us airbrushed out.”

“I wouldn't do that,” Maggie answered quickly. “And thank you for taking the time to bring it yourself.”

“You're most welcome,” he said as he leaned further back into the deep chair.

He's not going to go, she thought in dismay. His scrutiny made her uncomfortable. She felt as though she were under a spotlight. Bateman's eyes, too large behind his round-framed glasses, were fixed on her with an unwavering stare. Despite his apparent effort at nonchalance, he seemed almost to be at attention, his body rigid. I couldn't imagine him curling up anywhere, or even being comfortable in his own skin, she reflected.

He's like a wire, stretched too far, ready to snap, she thought.

Nuala was such a petite lady . . .

Wasn't much of a housekeeper . . . excellent cook . . .

How often had Earl Bateman been here? Maggie wondered. How well did he know this house? Maybe he knew the reason Nuala had decided not to become a resident of Latham Manor, she decided, about to voice the question until another thought hit her.

Or maybe he suspected the reason—and killed her!

She jumped involuntarily when the telephone rang. Excusing herself, she went to the kitchen to answer it. Police Chief Brower was calling. “Ms. Holloway, I was wondering if I could stop in and see you late this afternoon,” he said.

“Of course. Has something come up? I mean about Nuala?”

“Oh, nothing special. I just wanted to talk with you. And I may bring someone with me. Is that all right? I'll phone before I come.”

“Of course,” she said. Then, suspecting that Earl Bateman might be trying to overhear what she was saying, she raised her voice slightly. “Chief, I'm just visiting with Earl Bateman. He brought over a wonderful picture of Nuala. I'll see you in a while.”

When she went back into the living room, she saw that the ottoman in front of Earl's chair had been pushed aside, indicating that he had stood up. He
did
eavesdrop, she thought. Good. With a smile, she said, “That was Chief Brower.” Something you already know, she added silently. “He's coming over this afternoon. I told him you were visiting.”

Bateman's nod was solemn. “A good police chief. Respects people. Not like security police in some cultures. You know what happens when a king dies? During the mourning period, the police seize control of the government. Sometimes they even murder the king's family. In fact, in some societies that was a regular occurrence. I could give you so many examples. You know I lecture on funeral customs?”

Maggie sat down, oddly fascinated by the man. She sensed something different about Earl Bateman's expression, which had become one of almost religious absorption. From a living example of the awkward, absentminded professor, he was transformed entirely into a silver-voiced, messianic other. Even the way he was sitting was different. The rigid schoolboy posture had been replaced by the comfortable stance of a man who was secure and at ease. He was leaning slightly toward her, his left elbow on the arm of the chair, his head slightly tilted. He was no longer staring at
her;
his eyes were fixed instead somewhere just to her left.

Maggie felt her mouth go dry. Unconsciously she had sat on the love seat, and now she realized he was looking just beyond her, focused on the place where Nuala's body had been hunched.

“Did you know I lecture on funeral customs?” he asked again, and she realized with a start that she had not answered his question.

“Oh, yes,” she said quickly. “Remember? You told me that the first night we met.”

“I'd really like to talk to you about it,” Bateman said earnestly. “You see, a cable company is very interested in having me do a television series, provided I am able to offer a range of subjects for at least thirteen thirty-minute programs. That's not a problem. I've got more than enough material for the programs, but I'd like to include some visuals.”