Moonlight Becomes You

cousin is a teller at the bank. Hoffman deposits fifty dollars in her savings account twice a month.”

“The question then is why did Norton want that house? Is there oil on the property?”

“If there is, he can’t touch it. The section of the property on the water side is designated wetland. The buildable part of the lot is small, which restricts even enlarging the house much, and unless you’re on the top floor, you don’t have a view.”

“I think I’d better have a talk with Norton,” Brower said.

“I’d suggest having a talk with his wife, too, Chief. Everything I learned indicates she’s too shrewd to be talked into mortgaging her house without a very good reason, and it would have to be one that will benefit her.”

“Okay, it’s as good a place as any to start.” Brower stood up. “By the way, I don’t know if you’ve seen the background check we did on Maggie Holloway. It would appear she’s clean. Her father apparently left her a little money, and she seems to be very successful as a photographer, bringing down fairly big bucks, so there’s no money motive on her part that I can see. And there’s no question that she’s telling the truth about what time she left New York. The doorman at her apartment building verified it.”

“I’d like to have a chat with her,” Haggerty offered. “Mrs. Moore’s phone bill shows that she talked to Maggie Holloway a half-dozen times in the week before the murder. Maybe something Moore told her about the people she was inviting to the dinner would come out, something that might give us a lead.”

He paused, then added, “But, Chief, you know the thing that’s driving me nuts is not having any idea what Nuala Moore’s murderer was looking for when he or she ransacked that house. I’ll bet my bottom dollar that’s the key to this crime.”

33

Maggie awoke early but waited until eleven before she phoned Greta Shipley. She had been deeply concerned about how frail Greta had seemed last evening, and hoped that she had gotten a good night’s sleep. There was no answer in the room. Maybe Mrs. Shipley is feeling much better and went downstairs, she told herself.

The telephone rang fifteen minutes later. It was Dr. Lane. “Maggie, I have very sad news,” he said. “Mrs. Shipley had asked not to be disturbed this morning, but an hour ago Nurse Markey thought it best to check on her anyway. Sometime last night, she died peacefully in her sleep.”

Maggie sat for a long time after the phone call, numb with sadness, but also angry at herself for not being more insistent that Mrs. Shipley get a medical opinion-an outside medical opinion-to determine what was wrong. Dr. Lane said that all indicators pointed to heart failure. Clearly she had not felt well all evening.

First Nuala; now Greta Shipley. Two women, best friends, now both dead in one week, Maggie thought. She had been so excited, so happy to have Nuala back in her life. And now this…

Maggie thought of the time when Nuala had first given her a jar of wet clay. Although she was only six, Nuala recognized the fact that if Maggie had any particular artistic talent, it was not as a painter. “You’re no Rembrandt,” Nuala had said, laughing. “But just seeing you play with that crazy plastic clay, I have a hunch…”

She had propped up a picture of Maggie’s miniature poodle, Porgie, in front of her. “Try to copy him,” she had instructed. That had been the beginning. Ever since, Maggie had enjoyed a love affair with sculpting. Early on, however, she had realized that as satisfying as it was artistically, for her it could only be a hobby. Fortunately she also had an interest in photography-in which she proved to be genuinely talented-and so she had made that her career. But her passion for sculpting had never left her.

I still remember how wonderful it felt to put my hands in that clay, Maggie thought as, dry-eyed, she climbed the stairs to the third floor. I was clumsy with it, but I recognized something was happening, that with clay there was a connection from my brain to my fingers.

Now with the news of Greta Shipley’s death, something that still hadn’t really sunk in, Maggie knew she had to get her hands into wet clay. It would be therapeutic, and it would also give her a chance to think, to try to work out what she should do next.

She began work on a bust of Nuala but soon realized that it was Greta Shipley’s face that now filled her mind.

She had looked so pale last night, Maggie remembered. She rested her hand on the chair when she got up, and then took my arm when we walked from the grand salon in to dinner; I could feel how weak she was. Today she had intended to stay in bed. She wouldn’t admit it, but she was feeling ill. And the day we went to the cemeteries, she talked about feeling as if she was being waited on too much, as if she had no energy.

That’s the way it happened to Dad, Maggie remembered. His friends told her that, pleading fatigue, he had skipped a sched uled dinner with them and had gone to bed early. He never woke up. Heart failure. Exactly what Dr. Lane said happened to Greta.

Empty, she thought. I feel so empty. It was no use trying to work now. She felt no inspiration. Even the clay was failing her.

Dear God, she thought, another funeral. Greta Shipley had never had children, so probably there would be mostly friends in attendance.

Funeral. The word jogged her memory. She thought of the pictures she had taken at the cemeteries. Certainly they would be developed by now. She should pick them up and study them. But study them for what? She shook her head. She didn’t have the answer yet, but she was sure there was one.

She had left the rolls of film at a drugstore on Thames Street. As she parked the car, she reflected how only yesterday, just down the block, she had bought an outfit to wear to last night’s dinner with Greta. How less than a week ago, she had driven up to Newport, so excited about her visit with Nuala. Now both women were dead. Was there some connection? she asked herself.

The thick packet of prints was waiting for her at the photography counter at the back of the drugstore.

The clerk raised his eyes when he looked at the bill. “You did want all of these enlarged, Ms. Holloway?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

She resisted the urge to open the packet immediately. When she got home she would go right upstairs to the studio and study the photos carefully.

When she arrived at the house, however, she found a latemodel BMW backing out of her driveway. The driver, a man who appeared to be about thirty, hastily pulled out to make room for her. He then parked on the street, got out of his car, and was already walking up the driveway as Maggie opened her car door.

What does he want? she wondered. He was well dressed, good looking in an upscale sort of way, so she felt no sense of insecurity. Still, his aggressive presence bothered her.

“Miss Holloway,” he said, “I hope I didn’t startle you. I’m Douglas Hansen. I wanted to reach you, but your phone number isn’t listed. So, since I had an appointment in Newport today, I thought I’d swing by and leave you a note. It’s on the door.”

He reached in his pocket and handed her his card: Douglas Hansen, Investment Advisor. The address was in Providence.

“One of my clients told me about Mrs. Moore’s passing. I didn’t really know her, but I’d met her on several occasions. I wanted to tell you how sorry I was, but also to ask you if you’re planning to sell this house.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hansen, but I haven’t made any decision,” Maggie said quietly.

“The reason I wanted to speak to you directly is that before you list the place with a realtor, if indeed you do decide to sell, I have a client who would be interested in acquiring it through me. Her daughter is planning a divorce and wants to have a place to move to when she breaks the news to her husband. I know there’s a lot of work to be done here, but the mother can afford that. Her name is one you would recognize.”

“Probably not. I don’t know many Newport people,” Maggie said.

“Then let’s say that many people would recognize the name. That’s why they have asked me to act as intermediary. Discretion is very important.”