Moonlight Becomes You Read online

  “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

  DOUGLAS HANSEN 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.

  Cora Gebhart daintily finished the last of her meal. “Excellent,” she announced as she sipped at the chardonnay in her glass. Hansen had wanted to order a full bottle, but she had informed him adamantly that one glass at luncheon was her limit.

  Douglas laid his knife on the plate and carefully placed the fork beside it with prongs turned down, European style.

  Cora Gebhart sighed. “That’s the way my husband always left the silver on his plate. Were you educated in Europe as well?”

  “I spent my junior year at the Sorbonne,” Hansen responded with studied nonchalance.

  “How delightful!” Mrs. Gebhart exclaimed, and immediately slipped into flawless French, which Douglas desperately tried to follow.

  After a few moments, he held up his hand, smiling. “I can read and write French fluently, but it has been eleven years since I was there, and I’m afraid I’m a bit rusty. En anglais, s’il vous plaît.”

  They laughed together, but Hansen’s antenna went up. Had Mrs. Gebhart been testing him? he wondered. She had commented on his handsome tweed jacket and his overall distinguished appearance, saying it was unusual in a time when so many young men, her grandson included, looked as though they had just returned from a camping trip. Was she telling him in a subtle way that she could see right through him? That she could sense that he wasn’t really a graduate of Williams and the Wharton School of Business, as he claimed?

  He knew that his lean, blond, aristocratic appearance was impressive. It had gotten him entry-level jobs with both Merrill Lynch and Salomon Brothers, but he hadn’t lasted six months at either place.

  Mrs. Gebhart’s next words reassured him, however. “I think I’ve been too conservative,” she complained. “I’ve tied up too much of my money in trusts so my grandchildren can buy more faded jeans. Because of that, I don’t have a lot left for myself. I’ve thought about moving in
to one of the retirement residences—I even recently toured Latham Manor with that in mind—but I would have to move into one of the smaller units, and I’m just used to more space.” She paused, then looked Hansen squarely in the face. “I’m thinking favorably about putting three hundred thousand dollars in the stock you recommended.”

  He tried not to let his emotions register on his face, but it was a struggle. The amount she mentioned was considerably more than he had hoped for.

  “My accountant is opposed to it, of course, but I’m beginning to think he’s a fuddy-duddy. Do you know him? His name is Robert Stephens. He lives in Portsmouth.”

  Hansen did know the name. Robert Stephens took care of the taxes for Mrs. Arlington, and she had lost a bundle investing in a high-tech company he had recommended.

  “But I pay him to do my taxes, not to run my life,” Mrs. Gebhart continued, “so without discussing it with him, I’m going to cash in my bonds and let you make me a killing, too. Now that the decision is made, maybe I will have that second glass of wine.”

  As the midafternoon sun bathed the restaurant in golden warmth, they toasted each other.

  28

  MAGGIE SPENT ALMOST TWO HOURS AT ST. MARY’S AND Trinity cemeteries. Funerals were taking place in some of the areas she wanted to photograph, so in each case she waited until the mourners had departed before taking out her camera.

  The beautiful warm day ran counter to her chilling quest, but she persevered, revisiting all the graves she had been to with Greta Shipley, and taking pictures from every angle.

  Her initial hunch had been that she had detected something odd at Mrs. Rhinelander’s grave, which had been the last they had visited. For that reason she reversed the order she and Mrs. Shipley had followed yesterday, starting with the Rhinelander plot and ending at Nuala’s grave.

  It was at this final stop that a young girl of about eight or nine appeared and stayed nearby, watching her intently.

  When Maggie finished shooting a roll of film, she turned to the little girl. “Hi, I’m Maggie,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “Marianne. What do you want to take pictures here for?”

  “Well, I’m a photographer and I do some special projects, and this is one I’m working on.”

  “Do you want to take a picture of my grandfather’s grave? It’s right over there.” She pointed off to the left, where Maggie could see several women standing by a tall headstone.

  “No, I don’t think so. I’m actually done for the day. But thank you. And I’m sorry about your grandfather.”

  “Today’s his third anniversary. He got married again when he was eighty-two. Mom says that woman wore him out.”

  Maggie tried not to smile. “That happens sometimes, I guess.”

  “My dad said that after fifty years with Grandma, at least he had some fun for two years. The lady he was married to has a new boyfriend now. Dad says he’s probably got only a couple years left.”

  Maggie laughed. “I think your dad must be fun.”

  “He is. Okay, I gotta go. Mom’s waving to me. See you.”

  It was a conversation Nuala would have enjoyed, Maggie reflected. What am I looking for? she asked herself as she stared down at the grave. The flowers Greta Shipley had left were starting to wilt, but otherwise, this plot looked exactly like the others. Even so, she shot one more roll of film, just to be safe.

  * * *

  The afternoon passed quickly. Consulting the map on the passenger seat, Maggie drove into the center of Newport. Because as a professional photographer she always preferred to do her own developing, it was with real reluctance she dropped off her rolls of film at a drugstore. But realistically there was no other way. She hadn’t brought any of her darkroom equipment with her; it would have been just too complicated for so brief a trip. After securing a promise that her pictures would be ready the next day, she had a burger and a Coke at the Brick Alley Pub, then found a boutique on Thames Street where she was able to find two cowl-necked sweaters—one white, one black—two long skirts and a cream-colored tapered jacket with matching slacks. Used in combination with what she had, these additions to her wardrobe would take care of anything that might come up in Newport for the next ten days. And besides, she really liked them.

  Newport is special, she thought as she drove along Ocean Drive, back to Nuala’s house.

  My house, she amended, still surprised at the realization. Malcolm Norton had had an agreement with Nuala to buy the house, that Maggie knew. He said he wanted to talk with me, she reflected. Of course it has to be about the house. Do I want to sell it? she asked herself. Last night I’d have said, “Probably.” But now, at this moment, with that glorious ocean and this lovely, quaint town on this special island, I’m not so sure.

  No. If I had to make up my mind right now, she thought, I wouldn’t sell it.

  29

  AT FOUR-THIRTY, NURSE ZELDA MARKEY WAS RELIEVED from duty and reported as directed to the office of Dr. William Lane. She knew she was going to be called on the carpet, and she knew why: Greta Shipley had complained about her. Well, Nurse Markey was ready for Dr. Lane.

  Look at him, she thought contemptuously, as he frowned across the desk at her. I bet he can’t tell the difference between measles and chicken pox. Or palpitations and congestive heart failure.

  He was frowning, but the telltale beads of perspiration on his forehead told Nurse Markey exactly how uncomfortable he was with this session. She decided to make it easier for him because she was well aware that the best defense was always a good offense.

  “Doctor,” she began, “I know exactly what you’re going to say: Mrs. Shipley has complained that I walk in on her without knocking. The fact is, Mrs. Shipley is doing a great deal of sleeping, much more than she did even a few weeks ago, and I’ve been a little concerned. It’s probably just the emotional response to the death of her friends, but I assure you that I open that door without invitation only when there is no response to repeated knocking.”

  She saw the flicker of uncertainty in Lane’s eyes before he spoke. “Then I would suggest, Miss Markey, that if Mrs. Shipley does not respond after a reasonable period, you open the door slightly and call in to her. The fact is she’s becoming quite agitated about this, and I want to head it off before it becomes a real problem.”

  “But, Dr. Lane, if I had not been in her room two nights ago when she had that spell, something terrible might have happened.”

  “The spell passed quickly, and it turned out to be nothing. I do appreciate your concern, but I can’t have these complaints. Do we understand each other, Miss Markey?”

  “Of course, Doctor.”

  “Is Mrs. Shipley planning to be at dinner this evening?”

  “Oh, yes, she’ll not only be there, but she’s having a guest, Miss Holloway, the stepdaughter of Mrs. Moore. Mrs. Lane was told about that. She said that Miss Holloway is going to collect Mrs. Moore’s art supplies while she is here.”

  “I see. Thank you, Miss Markey.”

  As soon as she had left, Lane picked up the phone to call his wife at home. When she answered, he snapped, “Why didn’t you tell me Maggie Holloway would be having dinner here tonight?”

  “What difference could that possibly make?” Odile asked in a puzzled tone.

  “The difference is—” Lane closed his lips and took a deep breath. Certain things were better left unsaid. “I want to know about any guests who are at dinner,” he said. “For one thing, I want to be there to greet them.”

  “I know that, dear. I arranged for us to dine in the residence tonight. Mrs. Shipley declined rather ungraciously when I suggested that she and her guest join us at our table. But at least you’ll be able to chat with Maggie Holloway at the social hour.”

  “All right.” He paused, as though there was more he wanted to say but had changed his mind. “I’ll be home in ten minutes.”

  “Well, you had better be if you want to freshen up.” Odile’s trilling laugh set Lane’s tee
th on edge.

  “After all, darling,” she continued, “if the rules insist that the guests be dressed for dinner, I think the director and his wife should at least set a good example. Don’t you?”

  30

  EARL BATEMAN KEPT A TINY APARTMENT ON THE HUTCHINSON campus. He found the small liberal arts college, situated in a quiet section of Providence, an ideal spot from which to do research for his lectures. Overshadowed by the other institutions of higher learning in the area, Hutchinson nonetheless had excellent standards, and Earl’s class in anthropology was considered a major attraction there.

  “Anthropology: The science that deals with the origins, physical and cultural development, racial characteristics, and social customs and beliefs of mankind.” Earl began any new term by having his students memorize those words. As he was fond of repeating, the difference between many of his colleagues and himself was that he felt true knowledge of any people or culture began with the study of their rituals of death.

  It was a subject that never failed to fascinate him. Or his listeners, as demonstrated by the fact that he was increasingly in demand as a speaker. In fact several national speakers bureaus had written to offer him substantial fees to be the luncheon or dinner speaker at events as far as a year and a half away.

  He found their correspondence most gratifying: “From what we understand, Professor, you really make even the subject of death very entertaining,” was typical of the letters he received regularly. He also found their response rewarding. His fee for such engagements was now three thousand dollars, plus expenses, and there were more offers than he could accept.