Moonlight Becomes You
Page 19
“Absolutely.” “Go right ahead.” “Take it,” they chorused amiably.
“We haven’t gotten to anything except the bureau so far,” one of them added.
Maggie opened the drawer expectantly. It was empty. The sketch to which Nuala had added her own face, Greta Shipley’s face, and the image of Nurse Markey eavesdropping, was gone. “It isn’t here,” she said.
“Then perhaps Greta either moved it or disposed of it,” said a cousin who bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. Shipley. “Dr. Lane told us that after anyone passes away, the apartment is immediately locked until the family comes in and removes personal items. But do tell us what the sketch looks like in case we come across it.”
Maggie described it, gave them her phone number, thanked them, and left. Somebody took that sketch, she thought as she left the room. But why?
Stepping into the hall, she almost ran into Nurse Markey.
“Oh, excuse me,” the nurse said. “I just want to see if I can give Mrs. Shipley’s relatives a hand. Have a nice day, Miss Holloway.”
56
IT WAS NOON WHEN EARL BATEMAN ARRIVED AT St. Mary’s cemetery. He circled the winding roads slowly, ever anxious to get a look at the kinds of people who were spending a part of their Sunday visiting a loved one.
Not too many out so far today, he noted: a few oldsters, a middle-aged couple, a large family, probably showing up for an anniversary, after which they would have brunch at the restaurant down the road. The typical Sunday crew.
He then drove through to the old section of Trinity cemetery, where he parked and got out. After a quick glance around, he began to scrutinize the tombstones for interesting inscriptions. It had been several years since he took rubbings here, and he knew he might well have missed some.
He prided himself that his awareness of subtleties had heightened considerably since then. Yes, he thought, tombstones definitely would be a subject to outline for the cable series. He would start with a reference from Gone With the Wind, which said that three infant boys, all named Gerald O’Hara, Jr., were buried in the family plot on Tara. Oh, the hopes, and dreams, we see sculpted on stone, fading, ignored, no longer read, but still leaving a message of lasting love. Think of it—three little sons! That’s the way he would begin that lecture.
Of course, he would move quickly from tragic to upbeat by telling about one of the stones he had seen in a Cape Cod cemetery, actually advertising the fact that the business operation that had been run by the deceased was being carried on by his son. It even gave the new address.
Earl frowned as he looked about him. Even though it was a warm and pleasant October day, and even though he thoroughly enjoyed his profitable hobby, he was upset and angry.
As they had arranged, last night Liam had come to his house for drinks and then they had gone out to dinner together. Even though he had left his three-thousand-dollar check right next to the vodka bottle on the bar where it couldn’t possibly be missed, Liam had pointedly ignored it. Instead, he had emphasized yet again that Earl ought to go golfing instead of haunting cemeteries.
“Haunting” indeed, Earl thought, his face darkening. I could show him what haunting is all about, he said to himself.
And he was damned if he would let Liam warn him away from Maggie Holloway again. It simply was none of his business. Liam had asked if he had seen her, and when he told Liam that since Monday night he had seen Maggie only at the cemetery and, of course, at Mrs. Shipley’s funeral, Liam had said, “Earl, you and your cemeteries. I’m getting worried about you. You’re becoming obsessive.”
“He didn’t believe me when I tried to explain my premonitions,” Earl muttered aloud. “He never takes me seriously.” He stopped suddenly and looked about. There was no one. Don’t think about it anymore, he warned himself, at least not now.
He walked along the paths of the oldest section of the cemetery, where some of the barely discernible carvings on the small headstones bore dates from the 1600s. He squatted by one that had almost fallen over, squinting to read the faint lettering. His eyes brightened as he made out the inscription: “Betrothed to Roger Samuels but gathered to the Lord . . .” and the dates.
Earl opened his kit to take a rubbing of the stone. Another angle to discuss in one of his lectures on tombstones would be the tender age at which so many young people were struck down in the old days. There had been no penicillin to treat the pneumonia that resulted when winter cold made its insidious way into chests and lungs . . .
He knelt down, enjoying the feel of the soft earth that sent its cool dampness through his old trousers to his skin. As he began his careful effort to transfer the stone’s poignant sentiment onto thin, almost translucent parchment, he found himself thinking of the young girl who lay beneath him, her body sheltered by the ageless ground.
She had just passed her sixteenth birthday, he calculated.
Had she been pretty? Yes, very pretty, he decided. She had had a cloud of dark curls, and sapphire blue eyes. And she had been small boned.
Maggie Holloway’s face floated before him.
* * *
At one-thirty, as he was driving back toward the entrance of the cemetery, Earl passed a vehicle with New York plates parked at the curb. It looks familiar, he thought, then realized that it was Maggie Holloway’s Volvo wagon. What was she doing here again today? he wondered. Greta Shipley’s grave was nearby, but certainly Maggie wasn’t so close to Greta that she would feel the need to visit the grave again, only a day after the funeral.
Slowing his car, he looked about. When he spotted Maggie in the distance, walking toward him, he put his foot on the accelerator. He didn’t want her to see him. Clearly something was going on. He had to think about this.
He did make one decision. Since he did not have classes tomorrow, he would stay an extra day in Newport. And whether Liam liked it or not, tomorrow he was going to visit Maggie Holloway.
57
MAGGIE WALKED QUICKLY AWAY FROM GRETA SHIPLEY’S grave, her hands jammed in the pockets of her jacket, her eyes not seeing the path she was following.
In every fiber of her being, she felt chilled and shaken. She had found it, buried so deeply that, had she not run her hand over every inch of the area at the base of the tombstone, she might have missed it.
A bell! Exactly like the one she had taken from Nuala’s grave. Like the bells on the other women’s graves. Like the bells that well-to-do Victorians had placed on their graves in case they were buried while still alive.
Who had come back here since the funeral and put that object on Mrs. Shipley’s grave? she wondered. And why?
Liam had told her that his cousin Earl had had twelve of these bells cast to use to illustrate his lectures. He had also indicated that Earl apparently relished the fact that he had frightened the women at Latham Manor by handing the bells out during his talk there.
Was this Earl’s idea of a bizarre joke, Maggie wondered, putting these bells on the graves of Latham Manor residents?
It’s possible, she decided as she reached her car. It could be his warped and demented way of taking some small revenge for having been criticized publicly by Mrs. Bainbridge’s daughter. According to Liam, Sarah had gathered the bells, thrust them at Earl, and then had practically ordered him out of the residence.
Revenge was a logical, if appalling, explanation. I’m glad I took the one from Nuala’s grave, Maggie thought. I feel like going back and collecting the others too—especially the one from Mrs. Shipley’s plot.
But she decided against it, at least for the time being. She wanted to be certain that they were, in fact, nothing more than Earl’s childish and sickening act of revenge. I will come back later, she decided. Besides, I’ve got to get home. Neil said he would be there at two.
* * *
As she drove down her street, she noticed that two cars were parked in front of her house. Pulling into the driveway, she saw that Neil and his father were sitting on the porch steps, a tool kit between them.
“Apparently I make a lot of mistakes,” Neil said, looking directly at Maggie.
She ignored the remark, refusing to rise to the bait. “It’s awfully nice of both of you to come,” she said sincerely. Unlocking the door, she led them in.
Robert Stephens examined the front door as he closed it. “Needs weather stripping,” he observed. “Pretty soon that sea air will get mighty cold, with a stiff wind behind it. Now I’d like to start at that back door Neil told me about, and then we’ll check all the window locks and see which ones need replacing. I have some spares with me, and I’ll come back if you need more.”
Neil stood beside Maggie. Keenly aware of his nearness, she stepped away as he said, “Humor him, Maggie. My grandfather built an atomic-bomb shelter after World War II. When I was growing up, my friends and I used it as a hangout. By then people realized those shelters would be as useless in a nuclear attack as a parasol in a tornado. My father has something of his father’s ‘anticipate the worst’ mentality. He always anticipates the unthinkable.”
“Absolutely true,” Robert Stephens agreed. “And in this house I would say the unthinkable took place ten days ago.”
Maggie saw Neil wince and said hastily, “I’m very grateful you’re here.”
“If you want to do anything, we won’t be in your way,” Robert Stephens told her as they went into the kitchen and he opened his tool kit, spreading it out on the table.
“I think you should stay with us,” Neil urged. “We might want to ask you about something.” He added, “Don’t disappear, Maggie.”
Looking at him, dressed as he was in a tan shirt, chinos, and sneakers, Maggie found herself wishing she were holding her camera. She realized there was an aspect to Neil she had never seen in the city. He doesn’t have that “Don’t invade my territory” air about him today, she thought. He looks as though he actually might care about other people’s feelings. Even my feelings.
His forehead was creased with a look of worried concern, and his dark brown eyes had the same questioning look Maggie had observed last night.
Then, as his father began working at the old door lock, Neil said in a low voice, “Maggie, I can tell something is bothering you. I wish to God you’d let me in on it.”
“Neil, give me the big screwdriver,” his father ordered.
Maggie settled in an old bentwood chair. “I’ll watch. Maybe I can learn something useful.”
For nearly an hour, father and son worked, going from room to room, examining windows, tightening some locks, noting others for replacement. In the studio, Robert Stephens asked to examine the clay sculptures on the refectory table. When Maggie showed him the one she was beginning of Greta Shipley, he said, “I hear she wasn’t well at the end. Last time I saw her, she was pretty sprightly, even feisty.”
“Is this Nuala?” Neil asked, pointing to the other bust.
“There’s a lot of work to do on it, but yes, that was Nuala. I guess my fingers saw something I didn’t realize. She always had such a merry look, but it isn’t there for me now.”
When they were on the way downstairs, Robert Stephens pointed to Nuala’s room. “I hope you’re planning to move in there,” he said. “It’s twice the size of the guest rooms.”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” Maggie admitted.
Mr. Stephens stood at the door. “That bed should be opposite the windows, not where it is now.”
Maggie felt helpless. “I’m planning to put it there.”
“Who was going to help you?”
“I thought I’d just start yanking. I’m stronger than I look.”
“You’re kidding! You don’t mean you were going to try to shove this rock maple around yourself? Come on, Neil, we’ll start with the bed. Where do you want the dresser moved, Maggie?”
Neil paused only long enough to say, “Don’t take it personally. He’s like this with everyone.”
“Everyone I care about,” his father corrected.
In less than ten minutes the furniture had been rearranged. As she watched, Maggie planned the way she would redecorate the room. The old wallpaper needed replacing, she decided. And then the floor would have to be refinished, and then she would get area rugs to replace the faded green carpet.
Nesting again, she thought.
“Okay, that’s it,” Robert Stephens announced.
Maggie and Neil followed him down the stairs as he said, “I’m on my way. Some folks coming over for a drink later. Neil, you’ll be up next weekend?”
“Absolutely,” Neil said. “I’m taking Friday off again.”
“Maggie, I’ll be back with the other locks, but I’ll call you first,” Robert Stephens said as he headed out the door. He was in his car before Maggie could even thank him.
“He’s wonderful,” she said as she watched his car disappear.
“Incredible as it may seem, I think so too,” Neil said, smiling. “Some people, of course, find him overwhelming.” He paused for a moment. “Were you at your stepmother’s grave this morning, Maggie?”
“No, I wasn’t. What makes you think that?”
“Because the knees of your slacks are stained with dirt. I’m sure you weren’t gardening in that outfit.”
Maggie realized that, with Neil and his father here, she had shaken off or at least suspended the profound uneasiness caused by finding the bell on Greta Shipley’s grave. Neil’s question quickly brought back the old concern.
But she couldn’t talk about it now, not to Neil, not to anyone, really, she decided. Not until she had found some way to determine whether Earl Bateman was responsible for the placement of the bells.
Seeing the change in her face, Neil confronted her. “Maggie, what the hell is the matter?” he asked, his voice low and intense. “You’re mad at me and I don’t know why, except that I didn’t phone you in time to get this number before you left. I’ll kick myself for that for the rest of my life. If I had known what had happened, I’d have been here for you.”
“Would you?” Maggie shook her head, looking away. “Neil, I’m trying to work a lot of things through, things that don’t make sense and may be the product of my overactive imagination. But they’re things I’ve got to work through myself. Can we leave it at that for now?”
“I assume I have no choice,” Neil said. “Look, I’ve got to be on my way. I have to get ready for a board meeting in the morning. But I’ll call you tomorrow, and I’ll be here Thursday afternoon. You’re staying until next Sunday?”
“Yes,” Maggie replied, adding to herself, And maybe by then I’ll have some answers to my questions about Earl Bateman and about these bells and . . .
Her thoughts were interrupted as, unbidden, Latham Manor Residence jumped into her mind. “Neil, last night you said that you and your father were at Latham Manor yesterday. You were looking at a two-bedroom suite for your clients, weren’t you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Nuala almost took that suite. And didn’t you say that another woman would have taken it but couldn’t because she lost her money in a bad investment?”
“That’s right. And he stung another client of Dad’s who was on Latham’s waiting list—Cora Gebhart. And that’s something else I intend to take care of this week. I’m going to investigate the snake who roped both of them into making those investments, and if I can find anything at all to hang on Doug Hansen, I’ll turn him in to the SEC. Maggie, what are you driving at?”
“Doug Hansen!” Maggie exclaimed.
“Yes. Why? Do you know him?”
“Not really, but let me know what you find out about him,” she said, remembering that she had told Hansen she would not discuss his offer. “It’s just that I’ve heard of him.”
“Well, don’t invest money with him,” Neil said grimly. “Okay, I’ve got to go.” He bent d
own and kissed her cheek. “Lock the door behind me.”
She didn’t hear his footsteps on the porch stairs until the decisive click of the dead-bolt lock signaled that the house was secure.
She watched him drive away. The front windows faced east, and late afternoon shadows were already filtering through the leaf-filled branches of the trees.
The house felt suddenly quiet and empty. Maggie looked down at her cream-colored slacks and pondered the streaks of dirt Neil had questioned.
I’ll change and go up to the studio for a while, she decided. Then tomorrow morning I’ll clean out the closet floor and move my things into Nuala’s room. There were so many questions Maggie wished she could ask Nuala. Refining her features in the clay would be a way of communicating with her. And maybe I’ll be able to think through my fingers what we can’t talk about together, she thought.
And she could ask questions that needed to be answered, like, “Nuala, was there some reason you were afraid to live in Latham Manor?”
Monday, October 7th
58
MALCOLM NORTON OPENED HIS OFFICE ON MONDAY MORNING at the usual time, nine-thirty. He passed through the reception area where Barbara Hoffman’s desk faced the door. The desk, however, was now cleared of all Barbara’s personal belongings. The framed pictures of her three children and their families, the narrow vase in which she had kept seasonal flowers or a sprig of leaves, the orderly pile of current work—all of these were missing.
Norton shivered slightly. The reception area was clinical and cold once more. Janice’s idea of interior decorating, he thought grimly. Cold. Sterile. Like her.
And like me, he added bitterly as he crossed into his office. No clients. No appointments—the day loomed long and quiet before him. The thought occurred to him that he had two hundred thousand dollars in the bank. Why not just withdraw it and disappear? he asked himself.
If Barbara would join him, he would do just that, in an instant. Let Janice have the mortgaged house. In a good market, it was worth nearly twice the amount of the mortgage. Equitable distribution, he thought, remembering the bank statement he had found in his wife’s briefcase.