Moonlight Becomes You

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “I don’t know her last name, but her first name is unusual. Finnuala. It’s Celtic, I believe.”

  “That sounds familiar,” Dolores Stephens said slowly, searching her memory. “Does it to you, Robert?”

  “I don’t think so. No, that’s a new one on me,” he told her.

  “Isn’t it funny. I feel as though I’ve heard that name recently,” Dolores mused. “Oh well, maybe it will come to me.”

  The phone rang. Dolores got up to answer it.

  “Now no long conversations,” Robert Stephens warned his wife. “We’ve got to leave in ten minutes.”

  The call, however, was for him. “It’s Laura Arlington,” Dolores Stephens said as she handed the portable phone to her husband. “She sounds terribly upset.”

  Robert Stephens listened for a minute before speaking, his voice consoling. “Laura, you’re going to get yourself sick over this. My son, Neil, is in town. I’ve spoken to him about you, and he will go over everything with you in the morning. Now promise me you’ll calm yourself down.”

  35

  EARL BATEMAN’S LAST CLASS BEFORE THE WEEKEND HAD been at 1:00 that afternoon. He had stayed in his campus apartment for several hours, grading papers. Then, just as he was about to leave for Newport, the phone rang.

  It was his cousin Liam, calling from Boston. He was surprised to hear from Liam. They had never had much in common. What’s this all about? he asked himself.

  He responded to Liam’s hearty attempts at general conversation with monosyllabic answers. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell him about the cable series, but he knew it would only become yet another family joke. Maybe he should invite Liam over for a drink and leave the latest three-thousand-dollar check from the speakers bureau where he couldn’t miss seeing it. Good idea, he decided.

  But then he felt anger build as Liam gradually got to the point of the call, the gist of which was that if Earl was going to Newport for the weekend, he shouldn’t just drop in on Maggie Holloway. His visit the other day had upset her.

  “Why?” Earl spat out the word, his irritation growing.

  “Look, Earl, you think you can analyze people. Well, I’ve known Maggie for a year. She’s a terrific girl—in fact, I hope I can soon make her realize just how special she is to me. But I promise you she’s not the kind who’s going to cry on someone’s shoulder. She’s contained. She’s not one of your prehistoric cretins, mutilating herself because she’s unhappy.”

  “I lecture about tribal customs, not prehistoric cretins,” Earl said stiffly. “And I stopped in to see her because of genuine concern that she, like Nuala, might carelessly leave the door unlocked.”

  Liam’s voice became soothing. “Earl, I’m not saying this right. What I’m trying to tell you is that Maggie isn’t fey, the way poor old Nuala was. It isn’t necessary to warn her, especially when it comes out more like a threat. Look, why don’t we have a drink over the weekend.”

  “Fine.” He’d shove the check under Liam’s nose. “Come over to my place tomorrow night around six,” Earl said.

  “Not good. I’m having dinner with Maggie. How about Saturday?”

  “All right, I guess. See you then.”

  So he’s interested in Maggie Holloway after all, Earl thought as he hung up the phone. One would never have guessed it from the way he left her by herself at the Four Seasons party. But that was typical of Liam the glad-hander, he reasoned. He did know one thing for certain, though: If he’d been seeing Maggie for a year, he would have paid much more attention to her.

  Once again a strange feeling came over him, a premonition that something was about to go wrong, that Maggie Holloway was in danger, the same sensation he’d had last week regarding Nuala.

  The first time Earl had had such a premonition was when he was sixteen. He had been in the hospital at the time, recovering from an appendix operation. His best friend, Ted, stopped in to see him on his way to an afternoon of sailing.

  Something had made Earl want to ask Ted not to go out on the boat, but that would have sounded stupid. He remembered how all afternoon he had felt as though he were waiting for an ax to fall.

  They found Ted’s boat two days later, adrift. There were a number of theories as to what had gone wrong, but there were never any answers.

  Earl, of course, never talked about the incident, nor about his failure to give his friend a warning. And now Earl didn’t ever let himself think about the other times the presentiment had come.

  Five minutes later, he set off on the thirty-six-mile drive to Newport. At four-thirty he stopped at a small store in town to pick up some groceries, and it was there that he heard about the death of Greta Shipley.

  “Before she went to live in Latham Manor, she used to do her shopping here,” the store’s elderly owner, Ernest Winter, said regretfully. “A real nice lady.”

  “My mother and father were friends of hers,” Earl said. “Had she been ill?”

  “From what I hear, she wasn’t feeling well the last couple of weeks. Two of her closest friends died recently, one at Latham Manor, and then Mrs. Moore was murdered. I guess that really got to her. That can happen, you know. Funny I should remember it, but I recall years ago Mrs. Shipley told me that there was a saying, ‘Death comes in threes.’ Looks like she was right. Kind of gives you the chills, though.”

  Earl picked up his packages. Another interesting lecture topic, he thought. Is it possible that there is a psychological basis for that expression as there is for so many others? Her close friends were gone. Did something in Greta Shipley’s spirit cry out to them, “Wait! I’m coming too!”

  That made two new topics he had come up with just today for his lecture series. Earlier, he had come across a newspaper item about a new supermarket about to open in England where the bereaved could select all the necessary trappings for a funeral—casket, lining, clothing for the deceased, flowers, guest book, even the grave site, if necessary—and thereby eliminate the middleman, the funeral director.

  It’s a good thing the family got out of the business when they did, Earl decided as he said good-bye to Mr. Winter. On the other hand, the new owners of the Bateman Funeral Home had handled Mrs. Rhinelander’s funeral, Nuala’s funeral, and would undoubtedly handle Greta Shipley’s funeral, too. It was only appropriate, since his father had taken care of her husband’s final arrangements.

  Business is booming, he thought ruefully.

  36

  AS THEY FOLLOWED JOHN, THE MAÎTRE D’, INTO THE YACHT club dining room, Robert Stephens stopped and turned to his wife. “Look, Dolores, there’s Cora Gebhart. Let’s go by her table and say hello. Last time we talked, I’m afraid I was a little harsh with her. She was going on about cashing in some bonds for one of those crazy venture schemes, and I got so irritated I didn’t even ask her what it was, just told her to forget it.”

  Ever the diplomat, Neil thought, as he dutifully trailed in his parents’ footsteps as they crossed the restaurant, although he also noted that his father did not signal their detour to the maître d’, who was blithely heading for a window table, unaware that he had lost the Stephens family.

  “Cora, I owe you an apology,” Robert Stephens began expansively, “but first I don’t think you’ve ever met my son, Neil.”

  “Hello, Robert. Dolores, how are you?” Cora Gebhart looked up at Neil, her lively eyes warm and interested. “Your father brags about you all the time. You’re the head of the New York office of Carson & Parker, I understand. Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Yes, I am, and thank you, it’s nice to meet you, too. I’m glad to hear my father brags about me. Most of my life he’s been second-guessing me.”

  “I can understand that. He’s always second-guessing me, too. But Robert, you don’t owe me an apology. I asked for your opinion and you gave it.”

  “Well, that’s fine. I’d hate to hear that another one of my clients lost her shirt investing in high-risk flings.”

  “Don’t worry about this
one,” Cora Gebhart responded.

  “Robert, poor John is waiting with the menus at our table,” Neil’s mother urged.

  As they threaded their way through the room, Neil wondered whether his father had missed the tone Mrs. Gebhart used when she said not to worry about her. Dollars to do-nuts, she didn’t take his advice, Neil thought.

  * * *

  They had finished their meal and were lingering over coffee when the Scotts stopped by their table to say hello.

  “Neil, you owe Harry a word of thanks,” Robert Stephens said by way of introduction. “He switched tee-off times with us today.”

  “Didn’t matter,” Harry Scott responded. “Lynn was in Boston for the day, so we planned on a late dinner anyway.”

  His wife, stocky and pleasant faced, asked, “Dolores, do you remember meeting Greta Shipley at a luncheon here for the Preservation Society? It was three or four years ago, I think. She sat at our table.”

  “Yes, I liked her very much. Why?”

  “She died last night, in her sleep, apparently.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “What upsets me,” Lynn Scott continued contritely, “is that I’d heard that she had lost two close friends recently, and I’d been meaning to call her. One of the friends was that poor woman who was murdered in her home last Friday. You must have read about that. Her stepdaughter from New York discovered the body.”

  “Stepdaughter from New York!” Neil exclaimed.

  Excitedly, his mother interrupted him. “That’s where I read that name. It was in the newspaper. Finnuala. Neil, she was the woman who was murdered!”

  * * *

  When they got back home, Robert Stephens showed Neil the neatly bound newspapers in the garage, waiting for recycling. “It was in Saturday’s paper, the 28th,” his father told him. “I’m sure it’s in that pile.”

  “The reason I didn’t remember the name right away was that in the article they called her Nuala Moore,” his mother said. “It was only somewhere toward the end of the article that her complete first name was mentioned.”

  Two minutes later, with increasing dismay, Neil was reading the account of Nuala Moore’s death. As he did, his mind kept replaying the happiness in Maggie’s eyes when she told him about finding her stepmother again, and the plans she had made to visit her.

  “She gave me the five happiest years of my childhood,” she had said. Maggie, Maggie, Neil thought. Where was she now? Had she gone back to New York? He quickly called her apartment, but her phone message was unchanged—she would be gone until the 13th.

  The address of Nuala Moore’s home was in the newspaper account of the murder, but when he called information, he was told that the phone there was unlisted.

  “Damn!” he exclaimed as he snapped the receiver back on the cradle.

  “Neil,” his mother said softly. “It’s quarter of eleven. If this young woman is still in Newport, whether at that house or somewhere else, it’s no time to go looking for her. Drive over there in the morning, and if you don’t find her there, then try the police station. There’s a criminal investigation taking place, and since she discovered the body, the police will certainly know where to reach her.”

  “Listen to your mother, son,” his father said. “Now, you’ve had a long day. I suggest you pack it in.”

  “I guess so. Thanks, both of you.” Neil kissed his mother, touched his father’s arm and walked dejectedly into the hallway that led to the bedrooms.

  Dolores Stephens waited until her son was out of earshot, then quietly said to her husband, “I have a feeling Neil has finally met a girl he really cares about.”

  37

  EVEN A PAINSTAKING EXAMINATION OF EACH OF THE ENlarged photographs did not reveal to Maggie anything on those graves that should have troubled her subconscious so greatly.

  They all looked the same, showed the same things: headstones with varying degrees of plantings around them; grass still velvety green in this early fall season, except Nuala’s, which had sod that showed some patchy spots.

  Sod. For some reason that word struck a note with her. Mrs. Rhinelander’s grave must have been freshly sodded as well. She had died only two weeks earlier.

  Once more, Maggie studied all the photographs of Constance Rhinelander’s grave, using a magnifying glass to pore over every inch of them. The only thing that attracted her attention was a small hole showing in the plantings around the headstone. It looked as though a rock or something might have been removed from there. Whoever had taken it had not bothered to smooth over the earth.

  She looked again at the best close-ups she had of the tombstone at Nuala’s grave. The sod there was smooth to the point where the plantings began, but in one of the shots she thought she could detect something—a stone?—just behind the flowers Greta Shipley had left yesterday. Was whatever it was there simply because the earth had been carelessly sifted for clods and stones after the interment, or was it perhaps a cemetery marker of some sort? There was an odd glint . . .

  She studied the pictures of the other four graves but could see nothing on any of them that should have attracted her attention.

  Finally she laid the prints down on a corner of the refectory table and reached for an armature and the pot of wet clay.

  Using recent pictures of Nuala she’d found around the house, Maggie began to sculpt. For the next several hours, her fingers became one with clay and knife as she began to shape Nuala’s small, lovely face, suggesting the wide, round eyes and full eyelashes. She insinuated the signs of age in the lines around the eyes, and around the mouth and neck, and in the shoulders that curved forward.

  She could tell that when she was done, she would have succeeded in catching those traits she had so loved in Nuala’s face—the indomitable and merry spirit behind a face that on someone else might have been merely pretty.

  Like Odile Lane, she thought, and then winced at the memory of how the woman had wagged her finger at Greta Shipley barely twenty-four hours ago. “Naughty, naughty,” she had said.

  As she cleaned up, Maggie thought about the people she had dined with last evening. How distressed they must be, she thought. It was obvious how much they enjoyed Greta, and now she is gone. So suddenly.

  Maggie looked at her watch as she went downstairs. Nine o’clock: not really too late to phone Mrs. Bainbridge, she decided.

  Letitia Bainbridge answered on the first ring. “Oh, Maggie, we’re all heartsick. Greta hadn’t been feeling well for a few weeks, but till then she was perfectly fine. I knew she was on blood pressure and heart medicine, but she’d been on them for years and never had any problems.”

  “I came to like her so much in such a short time,” Maggie said sincerely. “I can imagine how all of you must feel. Do you know what the arrangements are?”

  “Yes. Bateman Funeral is handling them. I guess we’ll all end up there. The Requiem is Saturday morning at eleven at Trinity Episcopal Church, and interment is at Trinity Cemetery. Greta had left instructions that the only viewing was to be at Bateman’s between nine and ten-thirty.”

  “I’ll be there,” Maggie promised. “Did she have any family?”

  “Some cousins. I gather they’re coming. I know that she left her securities and the contents of her apartment to them, so they certainly should show that much respect for her.” Letitia Bainbridge paused, then added, “Maggie, do you know what has haunted me? Practically the last thing I said to Greta last night was that if Eleanor Chandler had been seen eyeing her apartment, then she should change her locks.”

  “But she was amused by the remark,” Maggie protested. “Please, you mustn’t let that upset you.”

  “Oh, that’s not what upsets me. It’s the fact that I’d bet anything, no matter who else may be on the list, Eleanor Chandler gets that place now.”

  * * *

  I’m specializing in late dinners, Maggie thought, as she put on the kettle, scrambled some eggs and dropped bread into the toaster—and not particularly exciting ones,
she added. At least tomorrow night I can count on Liam to buy me a good meal.

  It would be good to see him, she reflected. He was always fun in an outrageous kind of way. She wondered if he had talked to Earl Bateman about his unexpected visit Monday night. She hoped so.

  Not wanting to spend any more time in the kitchen, she prepared a tray and carried it into the living room. Even though Nuala had met her death in this room less than a week ago, Maggie had come to realize that for Nuala this had been a happy, warm room.

  The back and sides of the fireplace were blackened with soot. The bellows and tongs on the hearth showed signs of frequent use. Maggie could imagine having roaring fires here on cold New England evenings.

  The bookcases were overflowing with books, interesting titles all of them, many familiar, others she would love to explore. She had already gone through the photo albums—the dozens of snapshots of Nuala with Tim Moore showed two people who obviously enjoyed each other’s company.

  Larger, framed pictures of Tim and Nuala—boating with friends, picnicking, at formal dinners, on vacations—were scattered on the walls.

  The deep, old club chair with the hassock probably had been his, Maggie decided. She remembered that whether engrossed in a book, chatting, or watching television, Nuala had always liked to curl up, kitten-like, on the couch, propped in a corner between the back and armrest.

  No wonder the prospect of moving to Latham Manor had proven daunting, Maggie thought. It would be quite a wrench for Nuala to leave this home where obviously she had been happy for so many years.

  But clearly she had considered moving there. That first evening, when they had had dinner after they met at the Moore reunion, Nuala had mentioned that the kind of apartment she wanted in the residence home had just become available.

  What apartment was it? Maggie wondered. They had never discussed that.

  Maggie realized suddenly that her hands were trembling. She carefully replaced the teacup on the saucer. Could the apartment that had become available to Nuala possibly be the one that had belonged to Greta Shipley’s friend Constance Rhinelander?