Moonlight Becomes You

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 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.

“But I think we can eliminate most of Newport by considering the fact that whoever killed Mrs. Moore, and then ransacked her house, could hardly help seeing the preparations she’d been making for a dinner party,” Brower mused.

“The table was set-” Haggerty began, then quickly closed his lips. He had interrupted his boss.

Brower’s frown deepened. “I was getting to that. So that means that whoever was in the house wasn’t worried that somebody might arrive on the scene any minute. Which means that it is a good chance the killer will turn out to be one of the dinner guests we talked to in the neighbor’s house Friday night. Or less likely, someone who knew when the guests were expected.”

He paused. “It’s time to take a serious look at all of them. Wipe the slate clean. Forget what we know about them. Start from scratch.” He leaned back. “What do you think, Jim?”

Haggerty proceeded carefully. “Chief, I had a hunch you might be thinking along those lines, and you know how I like to pass the time of day with people, so I did a little looking in that direction already. And I think I’ve turned up a few things that might be interesting.”

Brower eyed him speculatively. “Go on.”

“Well, I’m sure you saw the expression on the face of that pompous windbag, Malcolm Norton, when Mrs. Woods told us about the will change and the canceled sale.”

“I saw it. What I’d call shock and dismay, heavily tinged with anger.”

“You know it’s common knowledge that Norton’s law practice is down to dog bites and the kind of divorces that involve splitting the pickup truck and the secondhand car. So it interested me to find out where he’d get the kind of money he’d need to buy Mrs. Moore’s house. I also unearthed a little gossip about him and his secretary, a woman named Barbara Hoffman.”

“Interesting. So where did he get the money?” Brower asked.

“By mortgaging his own house, which is probably his biggest asset. Maybe his only asset. Even talked his wife into co-signing.”

“Does she know he has a girlfriend?”

“From what I gather, that woman misses nothing.”

“Then why would she jeopardize their one mutual asset?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. I talked to someone at Hopkins Realtors-and got their opinion on the transaction. Frankly they were surprised that Norton was willing to pay two hundred thousand for the Moore place. According to them, the house needs a total overhaul.”

“Does Norton’s girlfriend have money?”

“No. Everything I could find out indicated that Barbara Hoffman’s a nice woman, a widow who raised and educated her kids alone, and who has a modest bank balance.” Haggerty forestalled the next question. “My wife’s