Moonlight Becomes You

“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 bou tique 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