Moonlight Becomes You Read online

  He wondered why she had changed her mind so suddenly. She had seemed the perfect candidate. Surely it wasn’t because she fantasized that the stepdaughter would come live with her and wanted to have a place for her to stay?

  Ridiculous! Lane muttered to himself. How likely was it that an attractive young woman with a successful career would come rushing up to Newport to play house with a woman she hadn’t seen in years? Lane figured that now that she had been left the place, Maggie Holloway would take a good look at all the work and expense involved to fix it up and would decide to sell it. But in the meantime she was coming here to take up his time, time that he needed to spend getting that suite put back in order to make it suitable for viewing. The management of Prestige Residence Corporation had made it clear that they would not tolerate empty living space.

  Still, an uneasy thought would not go away: Was there any other reason Nuala had backed out of the arrangement? And if there was, had she confided it to her stepdaughter? What could it be? he wondered. Maybe it was all to the good that she was coming to see him after all.

  He looked up from his work as the door to his office opened. Odile wandered in, as usual without knocking, a habit that drove him crazy. And one that she unfortunately shared with Nurse Zelda Markey. In fact, he would have to do something about that. Mrs. Shipley had complained about Nurse Markey’s habit of opening doors without waiting to be invited.

  As he expected, Odile ignored his look of annoyance and began speaking. “William, I don’t think Mrs. Shipley is that well. As you saw, she had a little episode after the funeral Mass yesterday and a dizzy spell last evening. I wonder if she shouldn’t go into the nursing section for a few days of observation?”

  “I intend to keep a close eye on Mrs. Shipley,” Dr. Lane said brusquely. “Try to remember, my dear, that in our family, I’m the one with the medical degree. You never finished nursing school.”

  He knew it was a stupid thing to say and regretted it immediately, knowing what was coming next.

  “Oh, William, that’s so unfair,” she cried. “Nursing is a vocation, and I realized it wasn’t for me. Perhaps it would have been better for you—and others—if you had made the same choice.” Her lip quivered. “And I think you should keep in mind that it was only because of me that Prestige Residences considered you for this job.”

  They stared at each other in silence for a moment; then, as usual, Odile became contrite. “Oh, William, that was unkind of me. I know how devoted you are to all our guests. It’s just that I want to help you, and I worry that another episode could ruin you.”

  She came over to the desk and leaned over him. She reached for his hand, lifting it to her face, moving it so that it caressed her cheek and chin.

  Lane sighed. She was a lightweight—“a ninny,” his grandmother would have snapped—but she was pretty. He had felt himself most fortunate eighteen years ago, to have convinced an attractive—younger—woman to marry him. Plus, she did care about him, and he knew her frequent, sugary-warm visits to the residents delighted most of them. She might seem cloying at times, but she was nonetheless sincere, and that counted for a lot. A few residents, like Greta Shipley, found her vacuous and irritating, which to Lane only proved Mrs. Shipley’s intelligence, but there was no question that here at Latham Manor, Odile was an asset to him.

  Lane knew what was expected of him. With virtually no show of the resignation he felt, he stood up, put his arms around his wife and murmured, “What would I do without you?”

  It was a relief when his secretary buzzed him on the intercom. “Miss Holloway is here,” she announced.

  “You’d better go, Odile,” Lane whispered, forestalling her inevitable suggestion that she stay and be part of the meeting.

  For once she didn’t argue but slipped out the unmarked door of his suite that led to the main corridor.

  17

  THE NIGHT BEFORE, BLAMING THE THREE-HOUR NAP SHE had taken earlier, Maggie had been still wide awake at midnight. Giving up on going to sleep anytime soon, she had gone downstairs again and, in the small study, found books, several of them fully illustrated, on the “cottages” of Newport.

  Carrying them up to bed, she had propped pillows behind her back and read for nearly two hours. As a result, when she was admitted to Latham Manor by a uniformed maid who then called Dr. Lane to announce her arrival, she was able to take in her surroundings with some degree of knowledge.

  The mansion had been built by Ernest Latham in 1900, as a deliberate rebuke to what he considered the vulgar ostentation of the Vanderbilt mansion, The Breakers. The layout for the two houses was almost the same, but the Latham house had livable proportions. The entrance hall was still overwhelmingly large, but was, in fact, only a third of the size of The Breakers’ “Great Hall of Entry.” Satinwood—rather than Caen limestone—covered the walls, and the staircase of richly carved mahogany, carpeted in cardinal red, stood in place of the marble staircase The Breakers boasted.

  The doors on the left were closed, but Maggie knew the dining room would be there.

  To the right, what originally must have been the music room looked most inviting, with comfortable chairs and matching hassocks, all richly upholstered in moss green and floral patterns. The magnificent Louis Quinze mantel was even more breathtaking in reality than it had appeared in the pictures she had seen. The ornately carved space above the fireplace stretched to the ceiling, filled with Grecian figures, tiny angels, and pineapples and grapes, except for the smooth center, where a Rembrandt-school oil painting had been hung.

  It really is beautiful, she thought, mentally comparing it with the unspeakably squalid condition of a nursing home interior she had surreptitiously photographed for Newsmaker magazine.

  She realized suddenly that the maid had spoken to her. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologized, “I was just trying to take it all in.”

  The maid was an attractive young woman with dark eyes and olive skin. “It is lovely, isn’t it?” she said. “Even working here is a pleasure. I’ll take you to Dr. Lane now.”

  His office was the largest in a suite of offices along the back of the house. A mahogany door separated the area from the rest of the first floor. As Maggie followed the maid down the carpeted corridor, she glanced through an open office door and noticed a familiar face—Janice Norton, the wife of Nuala’s lawyer, sat behind a desk.

  I didn’t know she worked here, Maggie thought. But then I really don’t know much at all about any of these people, do I?

  Their eyes met, and Maggie could not help feeling uncomfortable. She had not missed the bitter disappointment on Malcolm Norton’s face when Mrs. Woods revealed that Nuala had canceled the sale of her house. But he had been cordial at the wake and funeral yesterday and had suggested that he would like to have a chat with her about her plans for the house.

  She paused just long enough to greet Mrs. Norton, then followed the maid down the corridor to the corner office.

  The maid knocked, waited, and at the invitation to enter, opened the door for Maggie and stepped back, closing it once Maggie was inside.

  Dr. Lane stood up and came around his desk to greet her. His smile was cordial, but it seemed to Maggie that his eyes were appraising her professionally. His greeting confirmed that impression.

  “Ms. Holloway, or Maggie, if I may, I’m glad to see that you look a bit more rested. Yesterday was a very difficult day for you, I know.”

  “I’m sure it was difficult for everyone who loved Nuala,” Maggie said quietly. “But I’m really concerned about Mrs. Shipley. How is she this morning?”

  “She had another weak spell last evening, but I looked in on her just a while ago, and she seems quite fit. She’s looking forward to your visit.”

  “When I spoke to her this morning, she particularly asked if I would drive her out to the cemetery. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  Lane indicated the leather chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, please.” He returned to his own chair. “I wish
she’d wait a few days, but when Mrs. Shipley makes up her mind to do something . . . well, nothing changes it. I do think that both of her little spells yesterday were caused by her deep emotion over Nuala’s death. The two of them were really very close. They’d gotten into the habit of going up to Mrs. Shipley’s studio after Nuala’s art class, and they would gossip and have a glass or two of wine. I told them they were like a pair of schoolgirls. Frankly, though, it probably was good for both of them, and I know Mrs. Shipley will miss those visits.”

  He smiled, reminiscing. “Nuala once told me that if she were hit over the head and then asked her age when she came to, she’d say twenty-two and mean it. Inside, she said, she really was twenty-two.”

  Then as he realized what he had said, he looked shocked. “I’m so sorry. How careless of me.”

  Hit over the head, Maggie thought. But feeling sorry for the man’s acute embarrassment, she said, “Please don’t apologize. You’re right. In spirit Nuala never was older than twenty-two.” She hesitated, then decided to plunge in. “Doctor, there’s one thing I must ask you. Did Nuala ever confide to you that something was troubling her? I mean, did she have a physical problem she may have mentioned?”

  He shook his head. “No, not physical. I think Nuala was having a great deal of difficulty with what she perceived to be giving up her independence. I really think that if she had lived she eventually would have made up her mind to come here. She was always concerned about the relatively high cost of the large apartment with the extra bedroom, but as she said, she had to have a studio where she could both work and close the door when she was finished.” He paused. “Nuala told me that she knew she was a bit untidy by nature but that her studio was always the scene of organized chaos.”

  “Then you believe that canceling the sale of her house and the hasty will she left were simply a last-minute panic attack of sorts?”

  “Yes, I do.” He stood up. “I’ll ask Angela to bring you up to Mrs. Shipley. And if you do go to the cemetery, observe her carefully, please. If she seems in any way distraught, return immediately. After all, the families of our guests have entrusted their lives to our care, and we take that responsibility very seriously.”

  18

  MALCOLM NORTON SAT IN HIS OFFICE ON THAMES STREET, staring at his appointment calendar for the remainder of the day. It was now entirely empty, thanks to the cancellation of his two o’clock appointment. It wouldn’t have been much of a case—just a young housewife suing her neighbor over a nasty dog bite. But the dog had a previous complaint against it—another neighbor had fought off an attack with a broom—so it was a foregone conclusion that the insurance company would be anxious to settle, particularly since the gate had been carelessly left open, and the dog allowed to run loose.

  The trouble was, it was too easy a case. The woman had phoned to say the insurance company had settled to her satisfaction. Meaning I’m out three or four thousand dollars, Norton thought glumly.

  He still could not get over the sickening realization that less than twenty-four hours before she died, Nuala Moore had secretly canceled the sale of her house to him. Now he was stuck with the two-hundred-thousand-dollar mortgage he had raised on his own house.

  It had been hell getting Janice to agree to co-sign for the mortgage. Finally he had told her about the impending change in the Wetlands Act, and about the profits he hoped to reap in reselling Nuala Moore’s property.

  “Look,” he had said, trying to reason with her, “you’re tired of working in the nursing home. God knows I hear that every day. It’s an absolutely legitimate sale. The house needs everything done to it. The worst possible scenario is that the new wetlands legislation doesn’t go through, which won’t happen. In that case, we take a renovating mortgage on Nuala’s place, fix it up, and sell it for three-fifty.”

  “A second mortgage,” she had said sarcastically. “My, my, you’re quite the entrepreneur. So I quit my job. And what will you do with your new-found wealth, after the change in the Wetlands Act goes through?”

  It was, of course, a question he was not prepared to answer. Not until after the sales had been completed. And that, of course, was not going to happen now. Not unless things changed. He could still hear Janice’s furious words after they got home Friday night. “So now we have a two-hundred-thousand-dollar mortgage and the expense we went through to get it. You march yourself right down to the bank and pay it off. I don’t intend to lose my home.”

  “You’re not going to lose it,” he had said, pleading for time to work everything out. “I already told Maggie Holloway that I wanted to see her. She knows it’s about the house. Do you think she’ll want to stay in a place where her stepmother was murdered? Ms. Holloway will get out of Newport as fast as possible, and I’m going to point out that over the years I’ve been a big help to Nuala and Tim Moore without charging them my usual fee. By next week she’ll have agreed to sell the house.”

  She had to agree to sell the house, he told himself morosely. It was his only way out of this mess.

  The intercom buzzed. He picked it up. “Yes, Barbara,” he said, his voice formal. He was careful never to let an intimate quality intrude into their exchanges when she was in the outer office. He could never be certain that someone else had not come in.

  From her tone of voice today, it was obvious to him that she was alone. “Malcolm, may I talk to you for a few minutes?” was all she said, but immediately he sensed that something was wrong.

  A moment later she was sitting opposite him, her hands folded in her lap, her lovely hazel eyes averted. “Malcolm, I don’t know how to say this, so I’d better just plunge in. I can’t stay here. I feel rotten about myself these days.” She hesitated, then added, “Even loving you as much as I do, I can’t get away from the fact that you’re married to someone else.”

  “You’ve seen me with Janice. You know our relationship.”

  “But she’s still your wife. It’s better this way, believe me. I’m going to visit my daughter in Vail for a couple of months. Then, when I come back, I’ll find a different job.”

  “Barbara, you can’t just walk out like this,” he pleaded, suddenly panicked.

  She smiled sadly. “Not this minute. I wouldn’t do that. I’m giving you a week’s notice.”

  “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

  AFTER MAGGIE PICKED UP GRETA SHIPLEY, 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 c
ome 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.”