But Barbara was gone. The reality of it was just beginning to sink in. He had known the minute Chief Brower left the other day that she would leave. Brower’s questioning of both of them had terrified her. She had felt his hostility, and it had been the deciding thing for her—she had to leave.
How much did Brower know? Norton wondered. He sat at his desk, his hands folded. Everything had been so well planned. If the buy agreement with Nuala had gone into effect, he would have given her the twenty thousand he had gotten by cashing in his retirement money. They wouldn’t have closed on the sale for ninety days, which would have given him time to sign a settlement with Janice, then float a demand loan to cover the purchase.
If only Maggie Holloway hadn’t come into the picture, he thought bitterly.
If only Nuala hadn’t made a new will.
If only he hadn’t had to let Janice in on the change in the wetlands preservation laws.
If only . . .
Malcolm had driven past Barbara’s house this morning. It had the closed look that houses get when the summer residents lock up for the winter. Shades were drawn on every window; a smattering of unswept leaves had blown onto the porch and the walk. Barbara must have left for Colorado on Saturday. She had not called him. She just left.
Malcolm Norton sat in his dark, still office, contemplating his next move. He knew what he was going to do, the only question now was when to do it.
59
ON MONDAY MORNING, LARA HORGAN ASKED AN ASSIStant in the coroner’s office to run a check on Zelda Markey, the nurse employed at the Latham Manor Residence in Newport who had found Mrs. Greta Shipley’s body.
The initial report was in by late morning. It showed she had a good work record. No professional complaints ever had been filed against her. She was a lifelong resident of Rhode Island. During her twenty years of practice, she had worked at three hospitals and four nursing homes, all within the state. She had been at Latham Manor since it opened.
Except for Latham, she’d done a lot of moving around, Dr. Horgan thought. “Follow up with the personnel people at the places where she’s worked,” she instructed the assistant. “There’s something about that lady that bothers me.”
She then phoned the Newport police and asked to speak to Chief Brower. In the short time since she was appointed coroner, they had come to like and respect each other.
She asked Brower about the investigation of the Nuala Moore murder. He told her they had no specific leads but were following up on a couple of things and trying to approach the crime from all the logical angles. As they were speaking, Detective Jim Haggerty stuck his head in the chief’s office.
“Hold on, Lara,” Brower said. “Haggerty was doing a little follow-up on Nuala Moore’s stepdaughter. He has an expression on his face that tells me he’s onto something.”
“Maybe,” Haggerty said. “Maybe not.” He took out his notebook. “At 10:45 this morning, Nuala Moore’s stepdaughter, Maggie Holloway, went into the morgue at the Newport Sentinel and requested to see the obituaries of five women. Since all five were longtime Newport residents, extensive features had been written on each of them. Ms. Holloway took the computer printouts and left. I have a copy of them here.”
Brower repeated Haggerty’s report to Lara Horgan, then added, “Ms. Holloway arrived here ten days ago for the first time. It’s pretty certain she couldn’t have known any of these women except Greta Shipley. We’ll study those obits to see if we can figure out what might have made them so interesting to her. I’ll get back to you.”
“Chief, do me a favor,” Dr. Horgan asked. “Fax copies of them to me too, okay?”
60
JANICE NORTON OBSERVED WITH A NOTE OF CYNICISM THAT life in Latham Manor did manage to survive the momentary upheaval caused by a recent death. Spurred on by her nephew’s lavish praise for the assist she had provided in relieving Cora Gebhart of her financial assets, Janice was anxious to dip once more into Dr. Lane’s applicant file, which he kept in his desk.
She had to be careful never to be caught going through his desk. To avoid being found out, she scheduled her furtive visits at times when she was sure he was out of the residence.
Late Monday afternoon was one of those times. The Lanes were driving to Boston for some sort of medical affair, a cocktail party and dinner. Janice knew that the rest of the office staff would take advantage of his absence and would be scurrying out at five o’clock on the dot.
That would be the ideal time to take the entire file to her own office and to study it carefully.
Lane’s in a really sunny mood, she thought as he popped his head into her office at three-thirty to announce he was leaving. Soon she understood the reason for his upbeat manner as he told her that someone had been by over the weekend to look at the big apartment for some clients and then had recommended it to them. The Van Hillearys had called to say they would be coming up next Sunday.
“From what I understand, they’re very substantial people who would use the residence as their base in the northeast,” Dr. Lane said with obvious satisfaction. “We could wish for more guests like that.”
Meaning much less service for all that money, Janice thought. It sounds unlikely that they’ll be much good to Doug and me. If they like this place, then they already have an apartment available to them. But even if they were just going on the waiting list, there is too much risk in ripping off a couple with major assets, she reasoned. Inevitably they were surrounded by financial advisers who kept a hawk-eye watch on investments. Even her charming nephew would have a tough time softening them up.
“Well, I hope you and Odile enjoy the evening, Doctor,” Janice said as she turned briskly back to the computer. He would have been suspicious if she had stepped out of character by making small talk.
The rest of the afternoon crawled by for her. She knew it wasn’t just the anticipation of getting at the files that made the day drag. It was also the faint, nagging suspicion that someone had gone through her briefcase.
Ridiculous, she told herself. Who could have done it? Malcolm doesn’t come near my room, never mind his turning into a snooper. Then a thought came that brought a smile to her face. I’m getting paranoid because that’s exactly what I’m doing to Dr. Lane, she reasoned. Besides, Malcolm doesn’t have enough brains to spy on me.
On the other hand, she did have a hunch he was up to something. From now on she resolved to keep her personal bank statements and her copies of the files away from any place where he would have a chance to happen on them.
61
NEIL’S TWO EARLY MEETINGS ON MONDAY MORNING KEPT him out of his office until eleven o’clock. When he finally arrived there, he immediately called Maggie, but got no answer.
He then called the Van Hillearys and briefly gave them his impression of Latham Manor, concluding with a recommendation that they visit there so they could judge the place for themselves.
His next call was to the private investigator who worked on confidential assignments for Carson & Parker, requesting a dossier on Douglas Hansen. “Dig deep,” he instructed, “I know there’s got to be something there. This guy is a world-class sleaze.”
He then called Maggie again and was relieved when she picked up. She sounded breathless when she answered. “I just got in,” she told him.
Neil was sure he could hear agitation and anxiety in her voice. “Maggie, is anything wrong?” he asked.
“No, not at all.”
Her denial was almost a whisper, as though she were afraid of being overheard.
“Is someone with you?” he asked, his concern growing.
“No, I’m alone. I just got here.”
It wasn’t like Maggie to repeat herself, but Neil realized that, once again, she was not going to let him in on whatever was bothering her. He wanted to bombard her with questions, like “Where have you been?” and “Have you come up with any answers to the things you said were bothering you?” and “Can I help?” but he didn’t. He knew better.
Instead, he said simply, “Maggie, I’m here. Just remember that if you want to talk to someone.”
“I’ll remember.”
And you’ll do nothing about it, he thought. “Okay, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He replaced the receiver and sat for long minutes before punching in the number of his parents’ home. His father answered. Neil got straight to the point. “Dad, have you got those locks for Maggie’s windows?”
“Just picked them up.”
“Good. Do me a favor and phone over there and tell her you want to put them in this afternoon. I think something has come up that is making her nervous.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
It was a mixed comfort, Neil thought wryly, that Maggie might be more willing to confide in his father than in himself. But at least his father would be on the alert to pick up any hint of problems.
Trish came into his office the moment he was off the phone. In her hand she held a stack of messages. As she placed them on his desk, she pointed to the one on top. “I see your new client asked you to sell stock she doesn’t own,” she said severely.
“What are you talking about?” Neil demanded.
“Nothing much. Just the clearinghouse has notified us that they have no record of Cora Gebhart owning the fifty thousand shares of stock you sold for her on Friday.”
62
MAGGIE HUNG UP AT THE END OF HER CALL FROM NEIL and went to the stove. Automatically she filled the kettle. She wanted the feeling of hot tea warming her. She needed something that would help her separate the jarring reality of the obituaries from the disturbing, even crazy, thoughts that were shooting through her head.
She did a quick mental review of what she had learned so far.
Last week when she had taken Greta Shipley to the cemetery, they had left flowers at Nuala’s grave and the graves of five other women.
Someone had placed a bell on three of those graves as well as on Nuala’s. She had found them there herself.
There was an impression, as if a bell had been sunk into the earth, near Mrs. Rhinelander’s tombstone, but for some reason that bell was missing.
Greta Shipley had died in her sleep two days later, and barely twenty-four hours after she was buried a bell had been placed on her grave as well.
Maggie laid the printouts of the obituaries on the table and read quickly through them again. They confirmed what had occurred to her yesterday: Winifred Pierson, the one woman in that group whose grave showed no evidence of a bell, had a large, caring family. She had died with her personal physician in attendance.
With the exception of Nuala, who had been murdered in her own home, the other women had died in their sleep.
Meaning, Maggie thought, that no one was in attendance at the time of death.
They had all been under the ongoing care of Dr. William Lane, director of Latham Manor.
Dr. Lane. Maggie thought of how quickly Sarah Cushing had rushed her mother to an outside doctor. Was it because she knew, or maybe subconsciously suspected, that Dr. Lane was not a skillful practitioner?
Or perhaps too skillful a practitioner? a nagging inner voice queried. Remember, Nuala was murdered.
Don’t think that way, she warned herself. But no matter how one looked at it, she thought, Latham Manor had been a jinx for a lot of people. Two of Mr. Stephens’ clients had lost their money while they were waiting to get into the place, and five women, all Latham residents—who weren’t that elderly, or that sick—had died in their sleep there.
What had made Nuala change her mind about selling her house and going to live there? she wondered again. And what made Douglas Hansen, who had sold stocks to the women who lost their money, show up here wanting to buy this house? Maggie shook her head. There has to be a connection, she told herself, but what is it?
The kettle was whistling. As Maggie got up to make the tea, the phone rang. It was Neil’s father. He said, “Maggie, I’ve got those locks. I’m on my way over. If you have to go out, tell me where I can find a key.”
“No, I’ll be here.”
Twenty minutes later he was at the door. After a “Good to see you, Maggie,” he said, “I’ll start upstairs.”
While he changed the locks, she worked in the kitchen, straightening drawers, tossing out the odds and ends she found in most of them. The sound of his footsteps overhead was reassuring; she used the time while she worked to once more think through all that she knew. Putting together all the pieces of the puzzle she had so far, she came to a decision: she had absolutely no right to voice any suspicions about Dr. Lane as yet, but there was no reason not to talk about Douglas Hansen, she decided.
Robert Stephens came back to the kitchen. “Okay, you’re all set. No charge, but can you spare a cup of coffee? Instant is fine. I’m easy to please.”
He settled in a chair, and Maggie knew he was studying her. Neil sent him, she thought. He could tell I was upset.
“Mr. Stephens,” she began, “you don’t know very much about Douglas Hansen, do you?”
“Enough to know that he’s wrecked the lives of some very nice women, Maggie. But have I ever met him? No. Why do you ask?”
“Because both the ladies you know who lost their money thanks to him had been planning to go into Latham Manor, which meant they could afford a sizable outlay of money. My stepmother also had planned to live there, but she changed her mind at the last minute. Last week, Hansen showed up here and offered me fifty thousand dollars more for this house than Nuala almost sold it for, and from what I’ve learned, that’s much more than it’s worth.
“My point is, I wonder how he happened to contact the women you know who invested with him, and I wonder what made him show up on this doorstep. There’s got to be more than just coincidence at play here.”
63
EARL BATEMAN DROVE PAST MAGGIE’S HOUSE TWICE. ON the third trip, he saw that the car with the Rhode Island plates was gone; Maggie’s station wagon, however, was still in the driveway. He slowed to a halt and reached for the framed picture he had brought with him.
He was fairly sure that if he had phoned and said he would like to see her, Maggie would have turned him down. But now she wouldn’t have a choice. She would have to invite him in.
He rang the doorbell twice before she opened the door. It was obvious that she was surprised to see him. Surprised and nervous, he thought.
He quickly held up the package. “A present for you,” he said enthusiastically. “A marvelous picture of Nuala that was taken at the Four Seasons party. I framed it for you.”
“How nice of you,” Maggie said, trying to smile, a look of uncertainty on her face. Then she reached out her hand.
Earl pulled the package back, withholding it. “Aren’t you going to ask me in?” he asked, his tone light and joking.
“Of course.”
She stood aside and let him pass, but to his annoyance, she swung the door wide open and left it that way.
“I’d close that if I were you,” he said. “I don’t know if you’ve been out today, but there’s a stiff breeze.” He again saw her uncertainty and smiled grimly. “And no matter what my dear cousin has told you, I don’t bite,” he said, finally handing her the package.
He walked ahead of her into the living room and sat in the big club chair. “I can see Tim ensconced here with his books and newspapers and Nuala fussing around him. What a pair of lovebirds they were! They invited me over to dinner occasionally, and I was always glad to come. Nuala wasn’t much of a housekeeper, but she was an excellent cook. And Tim told me that, often, when they were alone and watching TV late at night, she’d curl up in this chair with him. She was such a petite lady.”
He looked around. “I can see you’re already putting your stamp on this place,” he said. “I approve. There’s a much calmer feeling. Does that love seat spook you?”
“I’ll do some refurnishing,” Maggie said, her tone still wary.
Bateman watched her as she opened the package and congr
atulated himself on thinking of the photograph. Just seeing the way her face lit up confirmed how smart he had been to think of it.
“Oh, it’s a wonderful picture of Nuala!” Maggie said enthusiastically. “She looked so pretty that evening. Thank you. I really am glad to have this.” Her smile was now genuine.
“I’m sorry Liam and I are in it as well,” Bateman said. “Maybe you can have us airbrushed out.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” Maggie answered quickly. “And thank you for taking the time to bring it yourself.”
“You’re most welcome,” he said as he leaned further back into the deep chair.
He’s not going to go, she thought in dismay. His scrutiny made her uncomfortable. She felt as though she were under a spotlight. Bateman’s eyes, too large behind his round-framed glasses, were fixed on her with an unwavering stare. Despite his apparent effort at nonchalance, he seemed almost to be at attention, his body rigid. I couldn’t imagine him curling up anywhere, or even being comfortable in his own skin, she reflected.
He’s like a wire, stretched too far, ready to snap, she thought.
Nuala was such a petite lady . . .
Wasn’t much of a housekeeper . . . excellent cook . . .
How often had Earl Bateman been here? Maggie wondered. How well did he know this house? Maybe he knew the reason Nuala had decided not to become a resident of Latham Manor, she decided, about to voice the question until another thought hit her.
Or maybe he suspected the reason—and killed her!
She jumped involuntarily when the telephone rang. Excusing herself, she went to the kitchen to answer it. Police Chief Brower was calling. “Ms. Holloway, I was wondering if I could stop in and see you late this afternoon,” he said.
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