On Wednesdays, Earl’s last class was at 2:00 P.M., which today gave him the rest of the afternoon to polish his speech for a women’s club, and to answer his mail. One letter he had received recently intrigued him to the point that he could not get it off his mind.
A cable station had written to ask whether he felt he had sufficient material to do a series of half-hour, illustrated television programs on the cultural aspects of death. The remuneration would not be significant perhaps, but they had pointed out that similar exposure had proven beneficial to a number of their other hosts.
Sufficient material? Earl thought sarcastically, as he propped his feet on the coffee table. Of course I have sufficient material. Death masks, for example, he thought. I’ve never spoken on that topic. The Egyptians and Romans had them. The Florentines began to make them in the late fourteenth century. Few people realize that a death mask exists of George Washington, his calm and even noble face in permanent repose, with no hint of his ill-fitting wooden teeth that in life marred his appearance.
The trick was always to inject an element of human interest so that the people discussed were not perceived as objects of macabre interest but as sympathetic fellow humans.
The subject of tonight’s lecture had led Earl to thinking of many other possibilities for lectures. Tonight, of course, he would talk about mourning attire through the ages. But his research had made him realize that etiquette books were a rich source of other material.
Some Amy Vanderbilt dictums he included were her half-century-ago advice on muffling the clapper on the doorbell for the protection of the bereaved, and avoiding the use of words such as “died,” “death,” or “killed” in notes of sympathy.
The clapper! The Victorians had a horror of being buried alive and wanted a bell hung over the grave, with a string or wire threaded through an air vent into the coffin so that the person inside could ring in case he or she wasn’t really dead. But he wouldn’t, couldn’t, touch that subject again.
Earl knew he had or could find enough material for any number of programs. He was about to become famous, he mused. He, Earl, the family joke, would show them all—those sprawling, raucous cousins, those misbegotten descendants of a crazed, avaricious thief who had cheated and schemed his way to wealth.
He felt his heart begin to pound. Don’t think about them! he warned himself. Concentrate on the lecture, and on developing subjects for the cable program. There was another topic he had been pondering, one that he knew would be extremely well received.
But first . . . he would have a drink. Just one, he promised himself, as he prepared a very dry martini in his combination kitchen-dinette. As he took the first sip, he reflected on the fact that often before death someone close to the soon-to-be-deceased experienced a premonition, a kind of uneasiness or warning of what was to come.
When he sat down again, he removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes, and leaned his head back on the convertible couch that also served as his bed.
Someone close . . . “Like me,” he said aloud. “I’m not really that close to Maggie Holloway, but I sense that she isn’t close to anyone. Maybe that’s why I’m the one who has been given the premonition. I know that Maggie is going to die very soon, just as I was sure last week that Nuala had only hours to live.”
* * *
Three hours later, to the enthusiastic applause of the audience, he began his lecture with a beaming and somewhat incongruous smile. “We don’t want to talk about it, but we’re all going to die. Occasionally the date is deferred. We’ve all heard of people who were clinically dead, then returned to life. But other times the gods have spoken and the biblical prophecy, ‘Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,’ is fulfilled.”
He paused, while the audience hung on his words. Maggie’s face filled his mind—that cloud of dark hair surrounding the small, exquisite features, dominated by those beautiful, pain-filled blue eyes . . .
At least, he consoled himself, soon she won’t experience any more pain.
31
ANGELA, THE SOFT-SPOKEN MAID WHO HAD ADMITTED HER yesterday, showed Maggie the supply closet where Nuala’s art materials were kept. Typical of Nuala, she thought affectionately. They had been piled on the shelves haphazardly, but with Angela’s help, it didn’t take long to get them into boxes and, with the assistance of a kitchen helper, stowed in Maggie’s car.
“Mrs. Shipley is waiting for you in her apartment,” the maid told her. “I’ll take you to her now.”
“Thank you.”
The young woman hesitated for a moment, looking around the large activity room. “When Mrs. Moore had her classes here, everyone had such a good time. It didn’t matter that most of them couldn’t draw a straight line. Just a couple of weeks ago, she began by asking everyone to remember a slogan from World War II, the kind that were on posters hanging everywhere. Even Mrs. Shipley joined in, despite the fact that she had been so upset earlier that day.”
“Why was she upset?”
“Mrs. Rhinelander died that Monday. They were good friends. Anyhow, I was helping to pass out materials, and they came up with different slogans like, ‘Keep ’em Flying,’ which Mrs. Moore sketched—a flag flying behind an airplane—and everyone copied it. And then someone suggested ‘Don’t Talk, Chum. Chew Topps Gum.’ ”
“That was a slogan?” Maggie exclaimed.
“Yes. Everybody laughed, but as Mrs. Moore explained, it was meant as a serious warning to people who worked in defense industries not to say anything that a spy might overhear. It was such a lively session.” Angela smiled reminiscently. “It was the last class Mrs. Moore taught. We all miss her. Well, I’d better take you up to Mrs. Shipley,” she said.
Greta Shipley’s warm smile when she saw Maggie did not disguise the fact that there was a grayish pallor under her eyes and around her lips. Maggie noticed too that when she stood up, she had to rest her hand on the arm of the chair for support. She seemed tired, and distinctly weaker than she had just yesterday.
“Maggie, how lovely you look. And how kind of you to come on such short notice,” Mrs. Shipley said. “But we have a very pleasant group at the table, and I do think you’ll enjoy them. I thought we’d have an aperitif here before we join the others.”
“That would be nice,” Maggie agreed.
“I hope you like sherry, I’m afraid that’s all I have.”
“I do like sherry.”
Unbidden, Angela went to the sideboard, poured the amber liquid from a decanter into antique crystal glasses, and served them both. Then she quietly left the room.
“That girl is a treasure,” Mrs. Shipley said. “So many little courtesies that would never occur to most of the others. Not that they’re not well trained,” she added quickly, “but Angela is special. Did you collect Nuala’s art supplies?”
“Yes, I did,” Maggie told her. “Angela helped me, and she was telling me about one of Nuala’s classes that she sat in on, the one where you all drew posters.”
Greta Shipley smiled. “Nuala was positively wicked! When she and I came up here after the class, she took my drawing—which, of course, was pretty bad—and added her own touches to it. You must see it. It’s in that second drawer,” she said, pointing to the table next to the sofa.
Maggie opened the drawer indicated and removed the heavy sheet of sketching paper. Looking at it, she felt a sudden chill. Mrs. Shipley’s original sketch vaguely resembled one defense worker with a hard hat talking to another on a train or bus. Behind them a long-faced figure in a black cape and hat was obviously eavesdropping.
Nuala had drawn what was clearly her face and Greta Shipley’s over those of the defense workers. The image of a nurse with narrowed eyes and an outsized ear floated above the spy.
“Does this represent anyone here?” Maggie asked.
Mrs. Shipley laughed. “Oh, yes. That dreadful sneak, Nurse Markey. Although that day I thought it was just a joke, all her snooping around. But now I’m not so sure.”
“Why is that?” Maggie asked quickly.
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe I’m just getting to be a bit fanciful. Old ladies do that sometimes, you know. Now I think we really should go downstairs.”
* * *
Maggie found the grand salon to be a wonderfully attractive room, rich in both design and furnishings. The air was filled with the buzzing of well-bred voices that emanated from handsome senior citizens who were seated about the room. From what Maggie could see, they ranged in age from late sixties to late eighties, although Greta whispered that an attractive woman in a black velvet suit, with a ramrod straight back and lively eyes, had just turned ninety-four.
“That’s Letitia Bainbridge,” she whispered. “People told her she was crazy to pay four hundred thousand dollars for an apartment when she came here six years ago, but she said that with the genes in her family, the money would be well spent. And, of course, time has proven her right. She’ll be at our table, and you’ll enjoy her, I promise.
“You’ll notice that the staff serves the guests without asking what they want,” Mrs. Shipley continued. “Most guests are allowed by the doctor to have a glass of wine or a cocktail. Those who aren’t are served Perrier or a soft drink.”
A lot of careful planning created this place, Maggie thought. I can see why Nuala thought seriously of living here. She remembered that Dr. Lane had said he was sure Nuala would have reinstated her application if she had lived.
Glancing around, Maggie noticed that Dr. Lane and his wife were approaching. Odile Lane was wearing an aqua silk shirt and matching long skirt, an outfit Maggie had seen in the boutique where she herself had shopped. On the other occasions when she had seen Mrs. Lane—the night Nuala died and at the funeral—she hadn’t really focused on her. Now she realized that Odile was actually a beautiful woman.
Then she acknowledged to herself that even though he was balding and somewhat portly, Dr. Lane was attractive as well. His demeanor was both welcoming and courtly. When he reached her, he took Maggie’s hand and raised it to his lips, stopping just before they touched it, in the European fashion.
“What a great pleasure,” he said, his tone resonating with sincerity. “And may I say that even in one day you look considerably more rested. You’re obviously a very strong young woman.”
“Oh, darling, must you always be so clinical?” Odile Lane interrupted. “Maggie, it’s a pleasure. What do you think of all this?” She waved her hand in an all-encompassing gesture, obviously indicating the elegant room.
“I think that compared to some of the nursing homes I’ve photographed, it’s heaven.”
“Why did you choose to photograph nursing homes?” Dr. Lane asked.
“It was an assignment for a magazine.”
“If you ever wanted to do a ‘shoot’ here—that is the expression, isn’t it?—I’m sure it could be arranged,” he offered.
“I’ll certainly keep that in mind,” Maggie replied.
“When we learned you were coming, we so hoped to have you sit at our table,” Odile Lane said and then sighed, “but Mrs. Shipley wasn’t having any of it. She said she wanted you with her friends, at her usual table.” She wagged her finger at Greta Shipley. “Naughty, naughty,” she trilled.
Maggie saw Mrs. Shipley’s lips tighten. “Maggie,” she said abruptly, “I want you to meet some of my other friends.”
A few minutes later soft chimes announced that dinner was being served.
Greta Shipley took Maggie’s arm as they walked down the corridor to the dining room, and Maggie couldn’t help but notice a distinct quiver in her movement.
“Mrs. Shipley, are you sure you don’t feel ill?” Maggie asked.
“No, not a bit. It’s just that it’s such a pleasure to have you here. I can see why Nuala was so happy and excited when you came back into her life again.”
There were ten tables in the dining room, each with place settings for eight people. “Oh, tonight they’re using the Limoges china and the white linen,” Mrs. Shipley said with satisfaction. “Some of the other settings are a little too elaborate for my taste.”
Another beautiful room, Maggie thought. From what she had read of this mansion, the original banquet table for this room had seated sixty people.
“When the house was renovated and refurbished, the draperies were copied from the ones in the state dining room of the White House,” Mrs. Shipley told her as they took their seats. “Now, Maggie, you must meet your dinner companions.”
Maggie was seated at Greta Shipley’s right. The woman next to her was Letitia Bainbridge, who opened the conversation by saying, “You’re so pretty. I understand from Greta that you’re not married. Is there anyone special in your life?”
“No,” Maggie said with a smile, as the familiar ache stabbed at her.
“Excellent,” Mrs. Bainbridge said decisively. “I have a grandson I’d like to introduce to you. When he was a teenager I used to think he was a bit dim. Long hair and a guitar, all that. Dear God! But now, at thirty-five, he’s everything anyone could hope for. He’s president of his own company, doing something important with computers.”
“Letitia the matchmaker,” one of the others said, laughing.
“I’ve met the grandson. Forget it,” Greta Shipley whispered to Maggie, then in a normal tone introduced her to the others—three women and two men. “I managed to snare the Buckleys and the Crenshaws for our table,” she said. “One problem in any of these places is that they tend to become a pavilion of women, so that getting any male conversation becomes a struggle.”
It proved to be an interesting, lively group at the table, and Maggie kept asking herself why Nuala had changed her mind so abruptly about living here. Surely she wouldn’t have done it because she thought I needed the house, she reasoned. She knew Dad left me a little money, and I can take care of myself. Then why?
Letitia Bainbridge was particularly amusing as she told stories of Newport when she was young. “There was so much Anglomania then,” she said, sighing. “All the mothers were anxious to marry their daughters off to English nobility. Poor Consuelo Vanderbilt—her mother threatened to commit suicide if she didn’t marry the Duke of Marlborough. She finally did, and stuck it out for twenty years. Then she divorced him and married a French intellectual, Jacques Balsan, and was finally happy.
“And there was that dreadful Squire Moore. Everyone knew he came from nothing, but to hear him talk he was a direct descendant of Brian Boru. But he did have a bit of charm, and at least the pretense of a title, so of course he married well. And I suppose there isn’t much difference between impoverished nobility marrying an American heiress and an impoverished Mayflower descendant marrying a self-made millionaire. The difference is that Squire’s god was money and he’d do anything to accumulate it. And unfortunately, that characteristic has shown up in a number of his descendants.”
It was over dessert that Anna Pritchard, who was recovering from a hip operation, joked, “Greta, when I was walking with Mrs. Lane this morning, guess who I saw? Eleanor Chandler. She was with Dr. Lane. Of course, I know she didn’t recognize me, so I didn’t say anything to her. But she was admiring your apartment. The maid had just cleaned it, and the door was open.”
“Eleanor Chandler,” Letitia Bainbridge mused. “She went to school with my daughter. A rather forceful person, if I’m not mistaken. Is she thinking of coming here?”
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Pritchard said, “but I can’t imagine any other reason she’d be looking around. Greta, you’d better change your locks. If Eleanor wants your apartment, she’d think nothing of having you dispossessed.”
“Let her try,” Greta Shipley said with a hearty laugh.
* * *
When Maggie left, Mrs. Shipley insisted on walking her to the door.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Maggie urged. “I know you’re rather tired.”
“Never mind. I’ll have my meals sent up tomorrow and give myself a lazy day.”
“Then I’m going to call you tomorrow, and
I’d better find you doing just that.”
Maggie kissed the soft, almost translucent cheek of the older woman. “Till tomorrow,” she said.
Thursday, October 3rd
32
IN THE SIX DAYS SINCE NUALA MOORE HAD BEEN FOUND murdered in her home, Chief of Police Chet Brower’s initial instinct had become a certainty, at least in his own mind. No random thief had committed that crime, of that he was now sure. It had to be someone who knew Mrs. Moore, probably someone she trusted. But who? And what was the motive? he asked himself.
It was Brower’s habit to think through such questions out loud with Detective Jim Haggerty. On Thursday morning, he called Haggerty into his office to review the situation.
“Mrs. Moore may have left her door unlocked, and in that case anyone could have walked in. On the other hand, she might very well have opened it for someone she knew. Either way, there was no sign of forced entry.”
Jim Haggerty had worked with Brower for fifteen years. He knew he was being used as a sounding board, so while he had his own opinions, he would wait to share them. He had never forgotten overhearing a neighbor describe him once, saying, “Jim may look more like a grocery clerk than a cop, but he thinks like a cop.”
He knew that the remark was meant as a compliment of sorts. He also knew that it wasn’t totally unjustified—his mild, bespectacled appearance was not exactly a Hollywood casting director’s image of a supercop. But that disparity sometimes worked to his advantage. His benign demeanor tended to make people more comfortable around him, so they relaxed and talked freely.
“Let’s proceed on the premise that it was someone she knew,” Brower continued, his brow creased with thought. “That opens the suspect list to nearly everyone in Newport. Mrs. Moore was well liked and active in the community. Her latest project was to give art lessons at that Latham Manor place.”
Haggerty knew that his boss did not approve of Latham Manor or of places like it. He was bothered by the idea of senior citizens investing that much nonrefundable money in a kind of gamble that they would live long enough to make the investment worthwhile. His own opinion was that since Brower’s mother-in-law had been living with him for almost twenty years now, the chief was just plain envious of anyone whose parent could afford to live out her declining years in a luxurious residence instead of her child’s guest bedroom.
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