Moonlight Becomes You

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “Of course. Has something come up? I mean about Nuala?”

  “Oh, nothing special. I just wanted to talk with you. And I may bring someone with me. Is that all right? I’ll phone before I come.”

  “Of course,” she said. Then, suspecting that Earl Bateman might be trying to overhear what she was saying, she raised her voice slightly. “Chief, I’m just visiting with Earl Bateman. He brought over a wonderful picture of Nuala. I’ll see you in a while.”

  When she went back into the living room, she saw that the ottoman in front of Earl’s chair had been pushed aside, indicating that he had stood up. He did eavesdrop, she thought. Good. With a smile, she said, “That was Chief Brower.” Something you already know, she added silently. “He’s coming over this afternoon. I told him you were visiting.”

  Bateman’s nod was solemn. “A good police chief. Respects people. Not like security police in some cultures. You know what happens when a king dies? During the mourning period, the police seize control of the government. Sometimes they even murder the king’s family. In fact, in some societies that was a regular occurrence. I could give you so many examples. You know I lecture on funeral customs?”

  Maggie sat down, oddly fascinated by the man. She sensed something different about Earl Bateman’s expression, which had become one of almost religious absorption. From a living example of the awkward, absentminded professor, he was transformed entirely into a silver-voiced, messianic other. Even the way he was sitting was different. The rigid schoolboy posture had been replaced by the comfortable stance of a man who was secure and at ease. He was leaning slightly toward her, his left elbow on the arm of the chair, his head slightly tilted. He was no longer staring at her; his eyes were fixed instead somewhere just to her left.

  Maggie felt her mouth go dry. Unconsciously she had sat on the love seat, and now she realized he was looking just beyond her, focused on the place where Nuala’s body had been hunched.

  “Did you know I lecture on funeral customs?” he asked again, and she realized with a start that she had not answered his question.

  “Oh, yes,” she said quickly. “Remember? You told me that the first night we met.”

  “I’d really like to talk to you about it,” Bateman said earnestly. “You see, a cable company is very interested in having me do a television series, provided I am able to offer a range of subjects for at least thirteen thirty-minute programs. That’s not a problem. I’ve got more than enough material for the programs, but I’d like to include some visuals.”

  Maggie waited.

  Earl clasped his hands. Now his voice became coaxing. “The response to this kind of offer shouldn’t be delayed. I need to act on it soon. You’re a very successful photographer. Visuals are what you understand. It would be such a favor if you’d let me take you to see my museum today. It’s downtown, right next to the funeral parlor my family used to own. You know where that is, of course. Would you just spend an hour with me? I’ll show you the exhibits, and explain them, and maybe you could help me decide which ones to suggest to the producers.”

  He paused. “Please, Maggie.”

  He has to have overheard me, Maggie thought. He knows Chief Brower is coming here, and he knows I told him who was visiting me. Liam had told her about Earl’s Victorian bell replicas. He’s supposed to have twelve of them. Suppose they’re on exhibit, she thought. And suppose there are only six of them now. If so, then it would be reasonable to believe that he put the others on the graves.

  “I’d be glad to go,” she said after a moment, “but Chief Brower is coming to see me this afternoon. Just in case he gets here early, I’ll leave a note on the door saying that I’m with you at the museum, and that I’ll be back by four.”

  Earl smiled. “That’s very wise, Maggie. That should give us plenty of time.”

  64

  AT TWO O’CLOCK, CHIEF CHET BROWER SUMMONED Detective Jim Haggerty to his office but learned that Haggerty had left just a few minutes earlier, saying that he would be back shortly. When he came in, he was carrying papers identical to the ones Brower had been hunched over at his desk—copies of the obituaries Maggie Holloway had looked up at the Newport Sentinel. Haggerty knew that, as requested, another set had been faxed to Lara Horgan at the coroner’s office in Providence.

  “What did you see, Jim?” Brower demanded.

  Haggerty slumped into a seat. “Probably the same thing you did, Chief. Five of the six deceased women lived at that fancy retirement home.”

  “Right.”

  “None of those five had close relatives.”

  Brower looked at him benignly. “Very good.”

  “They all died in their sleep.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And Dr. William Lane, the director of Latham Manor, was in attendance in each instance. Meaning he signed the death certificates.”

  Brower smiled approvingly. “You catch on real fast.”

  “Also,” Haggerty continued, “what the articles don’t say is that when you die at Latham Manor, the studio or apartment you had purchased to live in reverts to the management, which means it can be sold again, pronto.”

  Brower frowned. “I didn’t think of that angle,” he admitted. “I just spoke to the coroner. Lara picked up on all of this too. She’s running a check on Dr. William Lane. She already was investigating the background of a nurse there, Zelda Markey. She wants to come with me to talk to Maggie Holloway this afternoon.”

  Haggerty looked pensive. “I knew Mrs. Shipley, the woman who died at Latham last week. I liked her a lot. It occurred to me that her next of kin were still in town. I asked around, and they’ve been staying at the Harborside Inn, so I just popped over there.”

  Brower waited. Haggerty wore his most noncommittal expression, which Brower knew meant he had stumbled onto something.

  “I extended my sympathy and talked to them a bit. Turned out that yesterday, who should be at Latham Manor but Maggie Holloway.”

  “Why was she there?” Brower snapped.

  “She was a guest at brunch of old Mrs. Bainbridge and her daughter. But afterward she did go up and speak to Mrs. Shipley’s relatives when they were packing up her effects.” He sighed. “Ms. Holloway had an odd request. She said her stepmother, Nuala Moore, who taught an art class at Latham, had helped Mrs. Shipley make a sketch, and she asked if they minded if she took it. Funny thing, though, it wasn’t there.”

  “Maybe Mrs. Shipley tore it up.”

  “Not likely. Anyhow, later a couple of the residents stopped in to talk to Mrs. Shipley’s relatives while they were doing the packing, and they asked them about the sketch. One of the old girls said she had seen it. It was supposed to be a World War II poster that showed a spy eavesdropping on two defense workers.”

  “Why would Ms. Holloway want that?”

  “Because Nuala Moore had put her own face and Greta Shipley’s face over those of the defense workers, and in place of the spy, guess who she’d sketched?”

  Brower looked at Haggerty, his eyes narrowed.

  “Nurse Markey,” the detective said with satisfaction. “And one more thing, Chief. The rule at Latham Manor is that when a death occurs, as soon as the body is removed, the room or apartment is locked until the family has had a chance to come to take possession of valuables. In other words, nobody had any business being in there and taking that sketch.” He paused. “Kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  65

  NEIL CANCELED A LUNCH DATE HE HAD MADE AND INSTEAD had a sandwich and coffee at his desk. He had instructed Trish to fend off all but the most urgent calls as he worked feverishly to clear his calendar for the next few days.

  At three o’clock, just as Trish came back with a fresh batch of papers, he phoned his father. “Dad, I’m coming up tonight,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get that Hansen guy on the phone, but they keep telling me he’s out. So I’m going to come up there and track him down myself. There’s a lot more going on with that guy than just giving lous
y advice to old women.”

  “That’s what Maggie said, and I’m sure she’s onto something.”

  “Maggie!”

  “She seems to think there’s some kind of connection between Hansen and the women who put in applications to Latham Manor. I’ve been talking to Laura Arlington and Cora Gebhart. It turns out Hansen called them out of the blue.”

  “Why didn’t they just hang up on him? Most people don’t get involved over the phone with stock peddlers they don’t know.”

  “Apparently using Alberta Downing’s name gave him credibility. He urged them to call her for a reference. But then—and this is where it gets interesting—he talked about how some people have investments that are losing buying power because of inflation, and he just happened to give as examples the very stocks and bonds that Cora Gebhart and Laura Arlington owned.”

  “Yes,” Neil said. “I remember Mrs. Gebhart saying something of the sort. I need to talk to this Mrs. Downing. Something’s definitely not right here. And, by the way, I expected you’d call me as soon as you saw Maggie,” he added, knowing that now he sounded annoyed. “I’ve been worried about her. Was she okay?”

  “I planned to call you as soon as I finished checking out her take on Hansen,” Robert Stephens answered. “I thought perhaps that was more important than filing a report with you,” he added acerbically.

  Neil rolled his eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “And thanks for going over to see her.”

  “You must know I went immediately. I happen to like that young lady very much. One more thing: Hansen dropped in on Maggie last week and made an offer on her house. I’ve been talking to real estate agents to get their opinions of its value. Maggie had speculated that his offer was too high, given the condition of the house, and she’s right. So while you’re at it, try to figure out what game he’s playing with her.”

  Neil remembered Maggie’s startled reaction when he mentioned Hansen’s name, and how when he had asked if she knew him, her answer had been evasive.

  But I was right about one thing: She did open up to Dad, he thought. When I get to Newport, I’m going straight to her house, and I’m not leaving until she tells me just what it is I’ve done wrong.

  When he got off the phone, he looked over at Trish and the papers in her hand. “You’ll have to take care of those. I’m out of here.”

  “Oh my, my,” Trish said, her tone teasing but affectionate. “So her name is Maggie and you’re worried sick about her. What a learning experience for you.” Then she frowned. “Wait a minute, Neil. You really are worried, aren’t you?”

  “You bet I am.”

  “Then what are you waiting for? Get moving.”

  66

  “I’M VERY PROUD OF MY MUSEUM,” EARL EXPLAINED AS he held the door for Maggie to get out of her car. She had declined his offer to drive with him and was aware that he had been annoyed at the refusal.

  As she had followed his gray Oldsmobile into town and past the Bateman Funeral Home, she realized why she hadn’t noticed the museum. It fronted on a side street to the rear of the large property and had its own parking lot behind it. The lot was empty now except for one other vehicle, parked in the corner—a shiny black hearse.

  Earl pointed to it as they walked toward the museum. “That’s thirty years old,” he said proudly. “My father was going to trade it in when I was starting college, but I talked him into letting me have it. I keep it in the garage here and only pull it out in the summer. That’s when I invite visitors to the museum, although just for a couple of hours on weekends. It kind of sets the tone for the place, don’t you think?”

  “I guess so,” Maggie said uncertainly. In these last ten days I’ve seen enough hearses for a lifetime, she thought. She turned to study the three-story Victorian house with its wide porch and gingerbread trim. Like the Bateman Funeral Home, it was painted glistening white with black shutters. Black crepe streamers draped around the front door fluttered in the breeze.

  “The house was built in 1850 by my great-great-grandfather,” Earl explained. “It was our first funeral parlor, and back then the family lived on the top floor. My grandfather built the present establishment, and my father expanded it. This house was used by a caretaker for a while. When we sold the business ten years ago, we separated the house and an acre of the property, and I took it over completely. I opened the museum shortly after that, although I’d been putting it together for years.”

  Earl put his hand on Maggie’s elbow. “You’re in for a treat. Now remember, I want you to look at everything with an eye toward what I should suggest for visuals. I don’t mean just for the individual lectures, but maybe something as well for an opening and closing signature for the series.”

  They were on the porch. Located on the broad railing, and helping to offset somewhat the overall funerary gloom, were several planters filled with violets and mountain pinks. Bateman lifted the edge of the nearest planter and withdrew a key. “See how I trust you, Maggie? I’m showing you my secret hiding place. This is an old-fashioned lock, and the key is much too heavy to bother carrying around.”

  Pausing at the door, he pointed to the crepe. “In our society it used to be the custom to drape the door like this to signify that this was a house of mourning.”

  My God, how he enjoys this! Maggie thought, shivering slightly. She realized her hands were damp and shoved them in the pockets of her jeans. The irrational thought went through her head that she had no business entering a house of grief dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans.

  The key turned with a grating sound, and Earl Bateman pushed the door open and then stood back. “Now what do you think of that?” he asked proudly, as Maggie moved slowly past him.

  A life-sized figure of a man in black livery stood at attention in the foyer, as though ready to receive guests.

  “In Emily Post’s first etiquette book, published in 1922, she wrote that when a death occurred, the butler in his day clothes should be on duty at the door until a footman in black livery could replace him.”

  Earl flicked something Maggie could not see from the sleeve of the mannequin.

  “You see,” he said earnestly, “the downstairs rooms show our grief culture in this century; I thought the liveried figure would be interesting to people as they came in. How many people today, even wealthy people, would have a footman in black livery stationed at the door when someone in the family dies?”

  Maggie’s thoughts abruptly leaped back to that painful day when she was ten years old and Nuala told her she was going away. “You see, Maggie,” she had explained, “for a long time after my first husband died, I carried dark glasses with me. I cried so easily that I was embarrassed. When I felt it coming on, I’d reach in my pocket and grab the glasses, and I’d think ‘Time to put on the grief equipment again.’ I hoped your father and I could love each other that way. I’ve tried hard, but it just can’t be. And for the rest of my life, whenever I think of the years I’m going to miss with you, I’ll have to reach for my grief equipment.”

  Remembering that day always brought tears to Maggie’s eyes. I wish I had some grief equipment right now, she thought as she brushed the moisture off her cheek.

  “Oh, Maggie, you’re touched,” Earl said, his tone reverent. “How understanding of you. Now on this floor, as I told you, I have rooms that exhibit twentieth-century death rituals.”

  He pushed aside a heavy curtain. “In this room, I’ve staged Emily Post’s version of a very small funeral. See?”

  Maggie looked in. The figure of a young woman, dressed in a pale green silk robe, was laid out on a brocaded sofa. Long auburn ringlets spilled around a narrow satin pillow. Her hands were folded over silk replicas of lilies of the valley.

  “Isn’t that charming? Doesn’t she look just like she’s sleeping?” Earl whispered. “And look.” He pointed to a discreet silver lectern near the entrance. “Today, this would be where visitors sign the guest book. What I did instead was to copy a page from the original Emily Post book a
bout the care of the bereaved. Let me read it to you. It’s really quite fascinating.”

  His voice echoed through the too-quiet room:

  “ ‘The ones in sorrow should be urged if possible to sit in a sunny room and where there is an open fire. If they feel unequal to going to the table, a very little food should be taken to them on a tray. A cup of tea or coffee or bouillon, a little thin toast, a poached egg, milk if they like it hot, or milk toast. Cold milk is bad for one who is already over-chilled. The cook may suggest something that appeals usually to their taste . . . ’ ”

  He stopped. “Isn’t that something? How many people today, no matter how much money they have, have a cook who is worried about what appeals to their taste? Right? But I think this would make a wonderful individual visual, don’t you? The signatures for the opening and closing, though, have to have a broader scope.”

  He took her arm. “I know you don’t have a lot of time, but please come on upstairs with me. I’ve got some great replicas of archaic separation rites from ancient times. Banquet tables, for example. It would seem that diverse people inherently understood that death must include a banquet or feast at the end of the ceremony, because extended grief is debilitating to the individual and to the community. I’ve got typical examples set up.

  “Then there’s my burial section,” he continued enthusiastically as they ascended the stairs. “Have I mentioned a custom of the Sudan people who suffocated their leader when he was becoming old or feeble? You see, the principle was that the leader embodied the vitality of the nation and must never die or the nation would die with him. So when the leader was clearly losing his power, he was secretly put to death, then walled up in a mud hut. The custom then was to believe that he had not died but, rather, had vanished.” He laughed.

  They were on the second floor. “In this first room, I’ve created a replica of a mud hut. Now just between us, I’ve already gotten started on an outdoor museum where the burial area can be even more realistic. It’s about ten miles from here. So far I’ve had some excavation done, basically just some bulldozing. I’m designing the entire project myself. But when it’s completed, it really will be quite wonderful. In one area I’ll have a miniature replica of a pyramid, with a section of it transparent so that people can see how the ancient Egyptians entombed their pharaohs with their gold and priceless jewels to accompany them into the hereafter . . .”