Moonlight Becomes You

by Mary Higgins Clark

  Through the heavy woods and thick foliage, he could make out the figures of at least a dozen people. Policemen or volunteers? he wondered. He knew they had found nothing so far, so the search had spread out over a wider area. In despair, he realized that they were expecting to find Maggie’s body.

  He shoved his hands into his pockets and bowed his head. Finally he broke the silence. “She can’t be dead,” he said. “I’d know it if she were dead.”

  “Neil, let’s go,” his father said quietly. “I don’t even know why we came out here. Standing around here isn’t helping Maggie.”

  “What do you suggest I do?” Neil asked, anger and frustration showing in his voice.

  “From what Chief Brower said, the police haven’t spoken to this guy Hansen yet, but they found out he’s expected at his office in Providence around noon. At this point they consider him small potatoes. They’ll turn over the fraud information Norton left with his note to the district attorney. But it wouldn’t hurt for us to be at Hansen’s office when he comes in.”

  “Dad, you can’t expect me to worry about stock deals now,” Neil said angrily.

  “No, and at this moment I’m not worried about them either. But you did authorize the sale of fifty thousand shares of stock that Cora Gebhart didn’t own. You certainly have a right to go to Hansen’s office and demand some answers,” Robert Stephens urged.

  He looked into his son’s face. “Don’t you see what I’m driving at? Something made Maggie mighty uneasy about Hansen. I don’t think it’s just a coincidence that he’s the guy who fronted an offer on her house. You can get him on the defensive about the stocks. But the real reason I want to see him right away is to try and find out if he knows anything at all about Maggie’s disappearance.”

  When Neil continued to shake his head, Robert Stephens pointed to the woods. “If you believe Maggie’s body is lying out there somewhere, then go join the search. I happen to hope—to believe—that she’s still alive, and if she is, I bet her abductor didn’t leave her in the vicinity of the car.”

  He turned to leave. “Get a ride from someone else. I’m going to Providence to see Hansen.”

  He got into the car and slammed the door. As he was turning the ignition key, Neil jumped in on the passenger side.

  “You’re right,” he admitted. “I don’t know where we’ll find her, but it won’t be here.”

  78

  AT 11:30, EARL BATEMAN WAS WAITING FOR CHIEF Brower and Detective Haggerty on the porch of his funeral museum.

  “The casket was here yesterday afternoon,” Bateman said heatedly. “I know, because I gave a tour of the place, and I remember pointing it out. I can’t believe anyone would have the insolence to desecrate an important collection like this just as a prank. Every single object in my museum was purchased only after meticulous research.

  “Halloween is coming,” he continued, as he nervously thumped his right hand on his left palm. “I’m positive a bunch of kids pulled this stunt. And I can tell you right now that if that’s what happened, I will press charges. No ‘boyish prank’ excuses, do you understand?”

  “Professor Bateman, why don’t we go inside and talk about it?” Brower said.

  “Of course. Actually I may have a picture of the casket in my office. It’s an item of particular interest, and, in fact, I’ve been planning to make it the focal point of a new exhibit when I expand the museum. Come this way.”

  The two policemen followed him through the foyer, past the life-sized figure dressed in black, to what obviously had been the kitchen. A sink, refrigerator, and stove still lined the far wall. Legal-size files were under the back windows. An immense old-fashioned desk stood in the center of the room, its surface covered with blueprints and sketches.

  “I’m planning an outdoor exhibit,” Bateman told them. “I have some property nearby that will make a wonderful site. Go ahead, sit down. I’ll try to find that picture.”

  He’s awfully worked up, Jim Haggerty thought. I wonder if he was this agitated when they threw him out of Latham Manor that time? Maybe he isn’t the harmless weirdo I pegged him for.

  “Why don’t we just ask you a few questions before you look for the picture,” Brower suggested.

  “Oh, all right.” Bateman yanked out the desk chair and sat down.

  Haggerty took out his notebook.

  “Was anything else taken, Professor Bateman?” Brower asked.

  “No. Nothing else seems to have been disturbed. Thank God the place wasn’t vandalized. You should realize that this could have been done by someone working alone, because the catafalque is missing too, and it would have been no trouble to wheel the casket out.”

  “Where was the casket located?”

  “On the second floor, but I have an elevator for moving heavy objects up and down.” The telephone rang. “Oh, excuse me. That will probably be my cousin Liam. He was in a meeting when I called to tell him what happened. I thought he’d be interested.”

  Bateman picked up the receiver. “Hello,” he said, then listened, nodding to indicate that it was the call he had been expecting.

  Brower and Haggerty listened to the one-sided conversation as Bateman informed his cousin of the theft.

  “A very valuable antique,” he said excitedly. “A Victorian coffin. I paid ten thousand dollars for it, and that was a bargain. This one has the original breathing tube with it and was—”

  He stopped suddenly, as though interrupted. Then in a shocked voice, he cried, “What do you mean Maggie Holloway is missing? That’s impossible!”

  When he hung up, he seemed dazed. “This is terrible! How could something happen to Maggie? Oh, I just knew it, I knew she wasn’t safe. I had a premonition. Liam is very upset. They are very close, you know. He called from his car phone. He said he just heard about Maggie on the news, and he’s on his way down from Boston.” Then Bateman frowned. “You knew Maggie was missing?” he asked Brower accusingly.

  “Yes,” Brower said shortly. “And we also know she was here with you yesterday afternoon.”

  “Well, yes. I’d brought her a picture of Nuala Moore taken at a recent family reunion, and she was very appreciative. Because she’s such a successful photographer, I asked her to help me by suggesting visuals for the television series I’m going to do about funeral customs. That’s why she came to see the exhibits,” he explained earnestly.

  “She looked over just about everything,” he went on. “I was disappointed that she hadn’t brought her camera, so when she left I told her to come back on her own at any time. I showed her where I hide the key.”

  “That was yesterday afternoon,” Brower said. “Did she come back here last night?”

  “I don’t think so. Why would she come here at night? Most women wouldn’t.” He looked upset. “I hope nothing bad has happened to Maggie. She’s a nice woman, and very attractive. I’ve been quite drawn to her, in fact.”

  He shook his head, then added, “No, I think it’s a safe bet that she didn’t steal the casket. Why, when I showed her the place yesterday, she wouldn’t even set foot in the coffin room.”

  Is that supposed to be a joke? Haggerty wondered. This guy had that explanation right on tap, he noted. Ten to one he’d already heard about Maggie Holloway’s disappearance.

  Bateman got up. “I’ll go look for the picture.”

  “Not yet,” Brower said. “First I’d like to talk to you about a little problem you had when you gave a lecture at Latham Manor. I heard something about Victorian cemetery bells and your being asked to leave.”

  Bateman angrily slammed his fist on the desk. “I don’t want to talk about that! What’s the matter with all of you? Only yesterday I had to tell Maggie Holloway the same thing. Those bells are locked in my storeroom, and there they’ll stay. I won’t talk about it. Got it?” His face was white with anger.

  79

  THE WEATHER WAS CHANGING, BECOMING SHARPLY cooler. The morning sun had given way to clouds, and by eleven the sky was bleak an
d gray.

  Neil and his father sat on the two upright wooden chairs that, along with a secretary’s desk and chair, were the sole furnishings in the reception area of Douglas Hansen’s office.

  The one employee was a laconic young woman of about twenty who disinterestedly informed them that Mr. Hansen had been out of the office since Thursday afternoon, and that all she knew was that he had said he would be in by about ten today.

  The door leading to the inside office was open, and they could see that that room appeared to be as sparsely furnished as the reception area. A desk, chair, filing cabinet, and small computer were all they could see in it.

  “Doesn’t exactly look like a thriving brokerage firm,” Robert Stephens said. “In fact, I’d say it looks like more of a setting for a floating crap game—set up so you can get out of town fast if someone blows the whistle.”

  Neil found it agonizing to have to simply sit there, doing nothing. Where is Maggie? he kept asking himself.

  She’s alive, she’s alive, he repeated with determination. And I’m going to find her. He tried to concentrate on what his father was saying, then replied, “I doubt he shows this place to his potential clients.”

  “He doesn’t,” Robert Stephens answered. “He takes them to fancy lunches and dinners. From what Cora Gebhart and Laura Arlington told me, he can put on the charm, although they both said he sounded very knowledgeable about investments.”

  “Then he’s taken a crash course somewhere. Our security guy who ran the check on him told me that Hansen’s been fired from two brokerage houses for just plain ineptitude.”

  Both men spun their heads sharply as the outer door opened. They were just in time to catch the startled expression on Douglas Hansen’s face when he saw them.

  He thinks we’re cops, Neil realized. He must already have heard about his uncle’s suicide.

  They stood up. Robert Stephens spoke first. “I represent Mrs. Cora Gebhart and Mrs. Laura Arlington,” he said formally. “As their accountant, I’m here to discuss the recent investments you purport to have made for them.”

  “And I’m here to represent Maggie Holloway,” Neil said angrily. “Where were you last night, and what do you know about her disappearance?”

  80

  MAGGIE BEGAN TO SHIVER UNCONTROLLABLY. HOW LONG had she been here? she wondered. Had she drifted off to sleep, or lost consciousness? Her head hurt so much. Her mouth was dry with thirst.

  How long was it since she last called for help? Was anyone looking for her? Did anyone even know that she was missing?

  Neil. He said he would call tonight. No, last night, she thought, trying to make sense of time. I was in the museum at nine o’clock, she reminded herself. I know I’ve been here for hours. Is it morning now, or even later than that?

  Neil would call her.

  Or would he?

  She had rejected his expressions of concern. Maybe he wouldn’t call. She had been cold to him. Maybe he had washed his hands of her.

  No, no, she prayed. Neil wouldn’t do that. Neil would look for her. “Find me, Neil, please find me,” she whispered, then blinked back tears.

  His face loomed in her mind. Troubled. Concerned. Worried about her. If only she had told him about the bells on the graves. If only she had asked him to go with her to the museum.

  The museum, she thought suddenly. The voice behind her.

  Mentally she replayed what had happened in the attack. She turned and saw the look on his face before he crashed the flashlight down on her head. Evil. Murderous.

  As he must have looked when he murdered Nuala.

  Wheels. She hadn’t been totally unconscious when she felt herself being wheeled.

  A woman’s voice. She had heard a familiar woman’s voice talking to him. Maggie moaned as she remembered whose voice it was.

  I’ve got to get out of here, she thought. I can’t die; knowing this, I mustn’t die. She’ll do it again for him. I know she will.

  “Help,” she shrieked. “Help me.”

  Over and over she called until she finally was able to force herself to stop. Don’t panic, she warned herself. Above all, don’t panic.

  I’ll count to five hundred very slowly and then call out three times, she decided. I’ll keep doing that.

  She heard a steady, muffled sound from above, then felt a cold trickle on her hand. It was raining, she realized, and the rain was dripping down through the air vent.

  81

  AT ELEVEN-THIRTY, CHIEF BROWER AND DETECTIVE HAGGERTY entered Latham Manor. It was obvious that the residents knew that something was wrong. They were standing in small groups in the entrance hall and library.

  The officers were aware of the curious gazes that followed them when the maid led them to the office wing.

  Dr. Lane greeted them courteously. “Come right in. I’m at your service.” He indicated they should be seated.

  He looks like hell, Haggerty thought, taking in the bloodshot eyes, the gray lines around the doctor’s mouth, and the beads of perspiration on his forehead.

  “Dr. Lane, at this point we’re simply asking some questions, nothing more,” Brower began.

  “Nothing more than what?” Lane asked, attempting a smile.

  “Doctor, before you took this position, you’d been unemployed for several years. Why was that?”

  Lane was silent for a moment, then said quietly, “I suspect you already know the answer to that.”

  “We’d prefer to hear your version,” Haggerty told him.

  “My version, as you put it, is that we’d had an outbreak of flu in the Colony Nursing Home where I was in charge. Four of the women had to be transferred to the hospital. Therefore, when others came down with flu-like symptoms, I naturally assumed that they’d caught the same virus.”

  “But they hadn’t,” Brower said quietly. “In fact, in their section of the nursing home there was a faulty heater. They were suffering the effects of carbon monoxide poisoning. Three of them died. Isn’t that true?”

  Lane kept his eyes averted and did not answer.

  “And isn’t it true that the son of one of those women had told you that his mother’s disorientation did not seem consistent with flu symptoms, and even asked you to check for the possible presence of carbon monoxide?”

  Again Lane did not answer.

  “Your license was suspended for gross negligence, and yet you were able to secure this position. How did that happen?” Brower asked.

  Lane’s mouth became a straight line. “Because the people at Prestige Residence Corporation were fair enough to recognize that I had been the director of an overly crowded, low-budget facility, that I was working fifteen hours a day, that a number of the guests were suffering from flu, and the misdiagnosis therefore was understandable, and that the man who complained was constantly finding fault with everything from the hot water temperature, to doors that squeaked, to drafty windows.”

  He stood up. “I find these questions insulting. I suggest that you leave these premises immediately. As it is, you have thoroughly upset our guests. Someone apparently felt the need to inform everyone that you were coming here.”

  “That would be Nurse Markey,” Brower said. “Please tell me where I can find her.”

  * * *

  Zelda Markey was openly defiant as she sat across from Brower and Haggerty in the small second-floor room that served as her office. Her sharp-featured face was an angry red, her eyes cold with rage.

  “My patients need me,” she said tartly. “They’re aware that Janice Norton’s husband committed suicide, and they’ve heard a rumor that she’s been doing something illegal here. They’re even more distressed to learn that Miss Holloway is missing. Everyone who met her was very fond of her.”

  “Were you fond of her, Ms. Markey?” Brower asked.

  “I did not know her well enough to become fond of her. The few times I spoke with her, I found her very pleasant.”

  “Ms. Markey, you’re a friend of Earl Bateman’s, aren’t yo
u?” Brower asked.

  “To me, friendship implies familiarity. I know and admire Professor Bateman. He, like all the family, were very solicitous of his aunt, Alicia Bateman, who was a guest at the Seaside Nursing Home, where I was formerly employed.”

  “In fact, the Batemans were quite generous to you, weren’t they?”

  “They felt that I was taking excellent care of Alicia and were kind enough to insist on rewarding me.”

  “I see. I’d like to know why you thought a lecture on death might be of interest to the residents of Latham Manor. Don’t you think they’ll all be facing it soon enough?”

  “Chief Brower, I am aware that this society has a horror of the word ‘death.’ But the older generation has a much greater sense of reality. At least half of our residents have left specific instructions for their own final arrangements, and, indeed, frequently even joke about it.”

  She hesitated. “However, I will say that it was my understanding that Professor Bateman was planning to give his talk on royal funerals through the ages, which, of course, is quite an interesting subject. If he had stuck to that . . .” She paused for a moment, then continued, “And I will admit also that the use of the bells upset some people, but the way Mrs. Sarah Cushing treated Professor Bateman was unpardonable. He meant no harm, yet she treated him inhumanly.”

  “Do you think he was very angry?” Brower asked mildly.

  “I think he was humiliated, then perhaps angry, yes. When he’s not lecturing, he’s actually very shy.”

  Haggerty looked up from his notes. An unmistakable softness had come into the nurse’s tone and expression. Interesting, he thought. He was sure Brower had noticed as well. Friendship implies familiarity. Methinks the lady doth protest too much, he decided.

  “Nurse Markey, what do you know about a sketch that Mrs. Nuala Moore made with the late Mrs. Greta Shipley?”

  “Absolutely nothing,” she snapped.

  “It was in Mrs. Shipley’s apartment. It seems to have vanished after her death.”