Moonlight Becomes You

by Mary Higgins Clark

  When she left, Neil went back to the house. His parents were in the sunroom. “Where’s Laura?” his mother asked anxiously.

  “I knew she wouldn’t want to visit now,” Robert Stephens commented. “Everything that has changed for her is just beginning to sink in.”

  “She’s a classy lady,” Neil said heatedly. “I’d like to strangle that jerk, Douglas Hansen. But I swear that first thing Monday morning I’m going to dig up every last little bit of dirt I can get to pin on him, and if there’s any way I can file a complaint with the SEC, trust me, I’ll do it.”

  “Good!” Robert Stephens said enthusiastically.

  “You sound more and more like your father every day,” Dolores Stephens said dryly.

  Later, as Neil watched the rest of the Yankees–Red Sox game, he found himself annoyed by the feeling that he had missed something in Laura Arlington’s portfolio. There was something wrong there other than a misguided investment. But what? he wondered.

  52

  DETECTIVE JIM HAGGERTY HAD KNOWN AND LIKED GRETA Shipley nearly all his life. From the time he was a little boy delivering newspapers to her door, he could never remember a single time when she hadn’t been gracious and friendly to him. She also paid promptly and tipped generously when he collected on Saturday mornings.

  She wasn’t like some of the tightwads in the other swanky houses, he thought, who ran up bills, then paid for six weeks of papers and added on a ten-cent tip. He particularly remembered one snowy day when Mrs. Shipley had insisted he come in and get warm and had dried his gloves and knit cap on the radiator while he drank the cocoa she made for him.

  Earlier that morning, when he had attended the service at Trinity Church, he was sure that many in the congregation shared the thought that he couldn’t get out of his mind: Greta Shipley’s death had been hastened by the shocking murder of her close friend Nuala Moore.

  If someone has a heart attack when a crime is taking place, the perpetrator can sometimes be tried for murder, Haggerty thought—but how about when a friend dies in her sleep a few days later?

  At the service for Mrs. Shipley, he was surprised to see Nuala Moore’s stepdaughter, Maggie Holloway, sitting with Liam Payne. Liam always had an eye for pretty women, Haggerty mused, and Lord knows enough of them had had an eye for him over the years. He was one of Newport’s “most eligible” bachelors.

  He had also spotted Earl Bateman in church. Now there is a guy who may be educated enough to be a professor, but who still isn’t playing with a full deck of cards, Haggerty had thought. That museum of his is like something out of the Addams Family—it gave Haggerty the shivers. Earl should have stayed in the family business, he thought. Every shirt on his back had been paid for by someone’s next of kin.

  * * *

  Haggerty had slipped away before the recessional, but not before he deduced that Maggie Holloway must have gotten very close to Mrs. Shipley to have taken the time to come to her funeral service. The thought occurred to him that maybe if she had visited Mrs. Shipley at Latham Manor, she might have learned something from her that could be helpful in understanding why Nuala Moore had canceled the sale of her house to Malcolm Norton.

  Norton was the guy Jim Haggerty believed knew something he wasn’t telling. And it was that thinking that brought him unannounced to 1 Garrison Avenue at three o’clock that afternoon.

  * * *

  When the bell rang, Maggie was in Nuala’s bedroom, where she was separating carefully folded clothing into piles: good, usable clothing for Goodwill; older, well-worn outfits for the ragbag; fairly expensive, dressy outfits for the hospital thrift shop.

  She was keeping for herself the blue outfit Nuala had worn that night at the Four Seasons, as well as one of her painting smocks. Memory Lane, she thought.

  In the crammed closets she had come across several cardigans and tweed jackets—Tim Moore’s clothing, she was sure, sentimentally kept by Nuala.

  Nuala and I were always on the same wavelength, she mused, thinking of the box in her walk-in closet in the apartment. It held the dress she had worn the night she met Paul, as well as one of his flight suits and their matching jogging outfits.

  As she sorted, Maggie’s mind worked ceaselessly on an explanation for the presence of the bells at the graves. It had to be Earl who had placed them there, she reasoned. Was it his idea of a sly joke on women from the residence, because of the uproar that had followed his handing out the bells during his lecture at Latham Manor?

  It was an explanation that made sense. He probably knew all of these women. After all, most of the residents of Latham Manor were originally from Newport, or at least had spent the spring and summer months there.

  Maggie held up a robe, decided it had seen its day, and put it in the ragbag. But Nuala didn’t live in Latham, she reminded herself. Did he put a bell on her grave as a tribute of friendship? He seemed to have honestly liked her.

  One of the graves did not have a bell, though. Why? she wondered. I have the names of all those women, Maggie thought. Tomorrow I’m going to go back to the cemetery and copy the date they died from their tombstones. There must have been an obituary in the newspaper for each of them. I want to see what those say.

  The sound of the doorbell was an unwelcome interruption. Who would just drop in? she wondered as she headed downstairs. Then she found herself praying it was not another unexpected visit from Earl Bateman; she didn’t know if she could handle that this afternoon.

  It took a moment to realize that the man at the door was one of the Newport police officers who had responded originally to her 911 call the night of Nuala’s murder. He introduced himself as Detective Jim Haggerty. Once inside the house, he settled in the club chair with the air of a man who had nothing to do except exchange pleasantries for the day.

  Maggie sat facing him, balanced on the edge of the couch. If he had any appreciation of body language, he would see that she hoped to keep this interview as brief as possible.

  He began by answering a question she had not asked. “I’m afraid we’re still in the dark as far as having a real suspect in mind. But this crime isn’t going to go unpunished. I can promise you that,” he said.

  Maggie waited.

  Haggerty tugged on his glasses till they rested on the end of his nose. He crossed his legs and massaged his ankle. “Old skiing injury,” he explained. “Now it lets me know if the wind is shifting. It’ll be raining by tomorrow night.”

  You didn’t come to talk about the weather, Maggie thought.

  “Ms. Holloway, you’ve been here a little over a week, and I’m glad most of our visitors don’t experience the kind of shock that greeted you. And then today, I saw you in church, at the funeral for Mrs. Shipley. I guess you got friendly with her since coming here.”

  “Yes, I did. Actually it was a request Nuala made in her will, but it was something I did with pleasure.”

  “Wonderful woman, Mrs. Shipley. Knew her all my life. A shame she didn’t have a family. She liked kids. Do you think she was happy at Latham Manor?”

  “Yes, I do. I had dinner there with her the night she died, and she clearly enjoyed her friends.”

  “Did she tell you why her best friend, your stepmother, changed her mind at the last minute about moving there?”

  “I don’t think anyone knows that,” Maggie said. “Dr. Lane was confident that Nuala would change it yet again and decide to take the apartment. No one can be sure of her state of mind.”

  “I guess I was hoping that Mrs. Moore might have explained to Mrs. Shipley her reason for canceling her reservation. From what I understand, Mrs. Shipley was real pleased that her old friend was going to be under the same roof.”

  Maggie thought of the caricature Nuala had sketched on the poster, showing Nurse Markey eavesdropping. Was that still in Greta Shipley’s apartment? she wondered.

  “I don’t know if this had any bearing,” she said carefully, “but I believe that both Nuala and Mrs. Shipley were very careful of what they said
when one of the nurses was around. She had a way of barging in without notice.”

  Haggerty stopped kneading his ankle. “Which nurse?” he asked, his tone a shade quicker.

  “Nurse Markey.”

  Haggerty got up to go. “Any decisions made about the house, Ms. Holloway?”

  “Well, of course the will still has to be probated, but I’m absolutely not putting it on the market at this time. In fact I may very well never put it up for sale. Newport is lovely, and it would make a nice retreat from Manhattan.”

  “Does Malcolm Norton know that?”

  “As of this morning, he does. In fact, I told him not only do I not want to sell, but I have received a substantially better offer for the property.”

  Haggerty’s eyebrows raised. “Now, this is a lovely old house, so I hope you understand I’m not being denigrating when I say that this place must have buried treasure hidden in it. I hope you find it.”

  “If there’s anything to be found here, I intend to unearth it,” Maggie said. “I’m not going to have any peace until someone pays for what happened to a woman I loved very much.”

  As Haggerty got up to go, Maggie impulsively asked, “Do you know if it’s possible to look up some information at the newspaper office this afternoon, or is it closed on Saturday?”

  “I think you’ll have to wait till Monday. I happen to know that because we always have visitors wanting to look through the old society pages. They get a kick out of reading about the fancy parties.”

  Maggie smiled without comment.

  As Haggerty drove away he made a mental note to chat with the clerk in the newspaper office on Monday and find out exactly what information Ms. Holloway was searching for in their morgue.

  Maggie went back up to Nuala’s room. She was determined to get through the contents of the closets and dressers before she quit today. This is the room I should use for sorting, she thought as she dragged cartons full of things into the small third bedroom.

  Nuala had always enjoyed having things scattered around that reminded her of special moments. As Maggie discarded seashells from the dresser tops, stuffed animals from the window seat, a stack of restaurant menus from the nightstand, and inexpensive souvenirs from everywhere, the inherent beauty of the rock maple furniture became apparent. I’d move the bed to that wall. It’s a better place for it, she decided, and get rid of that old chaise . . . And I’d keep all of Nuala’s paintings that she had framed and hung. They’re the part of her that I’ll never lose or give up.

  At six o’clock she was going through the final item of clothing in the larger closet, a pale gold raincoat that had fallen to the floor. She remembered that when she had rehung Nuala’s blue cocktail suit the other day, the raincoat had been hanging precariously behind it.

  As with the other garments, she ran her hand into the pockets to be sure nothing was in them.

  The left-side pocket of the raincoat was empty. But when her fingertips explored the right pocket, they touched grit.

  Maggie closed her fingers over the substance and removed her hand. Long shadows filled the room as she walked over to the dresser and turned on the light. A wad of dry dirt crumbled beneath her fingers. Surely Nuala didn’t put dirt in her pocket, Maggie thought. Surely she didn’t garden in this coat. It’s practically new.

  As a matter of fact, Maggie told herself, I think they had this same coat in the boutique where I shopped the other day.

  Uncertainly, she laid the coat across the bed. Instinct made her decide that she wouldn’t brush the rest of the dirt from the pocket now.

  There was just one task left before this room would be cleared out completely. The shoes and boots and slippers that covered the floor of the larger closet had to be sorted through and categorized. Most would no doubt be discarded, but some might be worth giving to Goodwill.

  No more for tonight, though, she decided. That’s tomorrow’s job.

  It was time for the hot soak she had come to look forward to at this time of the day. And then she would get dressed for her dinner with Neil, something she hadn’t thought about much during the day but which she now realized she was looking forward to.

  53

  JANICE AND MALCOLM NORTON HAD DRIVEN TOGETHER TO the funeral service and interment of Greta Shipley. Both of them had known Shipley all their lives, although they had never been more than acquaintances. When Janice had looked around the congregation during the eulogy, she was made freshly and bitterly aware of the financial gap that existed between her and so many of the people there.

  She saw Regina Carr’s mother off to one side. Regina was now Regina Carr Wayne. She had been Janice’s roommate at Dana Hall, and they both had gone to Vassar. Now Wes Wayne was the chief stockholder and CEO of Cratus Pharmaceuticals, and you could be sure that Regina was not an accountant in an old-folks home.

  Arlene Randel Greene’s mother was weeping softly. Arlene was another Dana Hall girl from Newport. Bob Greene, an unknown screenwriter when Arlene married him, was now a powerful Hollywood producer. She was probably off on a cruise somewhere at this very moment, Janice thought, a frown of envy creasing her face.

  And there were others: mothers of her friends and acquaintances. They had all come to say good-bye to their dear friend Greta Shipley. Later, as Janice accompanied them as they walked from the grave site, she listened with sour envy as they outdid each other, chronicling the busy social lives of “the girls” and their grandchildren.

  She felt an emotion somewhat akin to loathing as she watched Malcolm rush ahead to catch up with Maggie Holloway. My handsome husband, she thought bitterly. If only I hadn’t wasted all that time trying to turn him into something he never could be.

  And he had seemed to have it all: the good looks, the impeccable background, the excellent schools—Roxbury Latin, Williams, Columbia Law—even a membership in Mensa, where a genius IQ was the admittance requirement. But in the end, none of it had mattered; for all his credentials, Malcolm Norton was a loser.

  Then to top it all, she thought, he was planning to leave me for another woman, and he had no intention of sharing with me any of the killing he expected to make off the sale of that house. Her angry ruminations were interrupted when she realized that Regina’s mother was talking about Nuala Moore’s death.

  “Newport isn’t what it used to be,” she said. “And to think the house was ransacked. I wonder what whoever it was could have been looking for?”

  Arlene Greene’s mother said, “I hear that Nuala Moore changed her will the day before she died. Maybe someone who was being cut out of the old will was searching for the new one.”

  Janice Norton’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Had someone suspected Nuala might be planning to write a new will, then killed her to prevent it? If Nuala had died before she actually wrote the new will, the sale of her house to Malcolm would have been completed, she thought. There was a signed agreement in place, and Malcolm, as executor of her estate, would have managed to complete the purchase. Besides, Janice reasoned, no one who didn’t know about the impending change in the Wetlands Act would have been interested in the property.

  Was Malcolm desperate enough to kill Nuala, just to get his hands on that house? she asked herself, wondering suddenly if her husband had still more secrets he was trying to keep from her.

  At the end of the walkway, good-byes were exchanged and people scattered. Ahead of her, Janice saw Malcolm walking slowly to their car. As she neared him, she saw the anguish on his face and knew Maggie Holloway must have told him she would not sell him the house.

  They did not speak as they got in the car. Malcolm stared ahead for a few moments, then he turned toward her. “I’ll pay off the mortgage on our house,” he said quietly, his voice a monotone. “Holloway won’t sell now, and she says she has a substantially higher offer anyway, which means if she does change her mind, it won’t do me any good.”

  “Us any good,” Janice corrected automatically, then bit her lip. She did not want to antagoniz
e him, not now.

  If he ever found out that she had had a hand in the counteroffer that was made on Nuala’s house, he might well be angry enough to kill her, she thought with rising uneasiness. Her nephew Doug had made the offer, of course, but if Malcolm found that out, he would surely know that she had put him up to it. Had Maggie Holloway told him anything that might implicate her? she wondered.

  As though reading her mind, her husband turned toward her. “Surely you haven’t talked to anyone, have you, Janice?” he asked quietly.

  * * *

  “A bit of a headache,” he had said when they reached home, his tone remote but cordial. Then he had gone upstairs to his room. It had been years since they had shared a bedroom.

  He did not come downstairs again until nearly seven o’clock. Janice had been watching the evening news and looked up as he stopped at the door of the family room. “I’m going out,” he said. “Good night, Janice.”

  She stared unseeingly at the television screen, listening carefully for the sound of the front door closing behind him. He’s up to something, she thought, but what is it? She allowed him plenty of time to leave, then turned off the TV and collected her purse and car keys. She had told Malcolm earlier that she was going out to dinner. They had grown so distant of late that he didn’t ask her whom she was meeting any more than she bothered to inquire about his plans.

  Not that she would have told him if he had asked, Janice thought grimly as she headed for Providence. There, at a small out-of-the-way restaurant, her nephew would be waiting. And there, over steaks and scotch, he would pass her an envelope containing cash, her share for supplying him with a detailed account of Cora Gebhart’s financial situation. As Doug had happily told her, “This one was a real bonanza, Aunt Janice. Keep ’em coming!”