“How do you even know that the house is mine to sell?” Maggie asked.
Hansen smiled. “Miss Holloway, Newport is a small town. Mrs. Moore had many friends. Some of them are my clients.”
He’s expecting me to ask him in to discuss this whole thing, Maggie thought, but I’m not going to do it. Instead she said, noncommittally, “As I told you, I have made no decision as yet. But thank you for your interest. I’ll keep your card.” She turned and started walking toward the house.
“Let me add that my client is willing to pay two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I believe that that amount is significantly higher than the offer Mrs. Moore was prepared to accept.”
“You seem to know a great deal, Mr. Hansen,” Maggie said. “ Newport must be a
“Just one more thing, Miss Holloway. I have to ask you not to mention this offer to anyone. Too many people would guess the identity of my client, and it could become a significant problem for her daughter.”
“You needn’t worry. I’m not in the habit of discussing my business with anyone. Good-bye, Mr. Hansen.” This time she moved briskly up the walk. But obviously he was intent on slowing her down. “That’s quite a stack of photographs,” he said, indicating the package under her arm as she looked back once more. “I understand you’re a commercial photographer. This area must be a wonderland for you.”
This time Maggie did not answer, but with a dismissive nod, she turned and crossed the porch to the door.
The note Hansen had mentioned had been wedged in next to the door handle. Maggie took it without reading it, then slipped the key into the lock. When she looked out the living room window, she saw Douglas Hansen driving away. Suddenly she felt terribly foolish.
Am I starting to jump at my own shadow? she asked herself. That man must have thought I was a fool, the way I scurried in here. And I certainly can’t ignore his offer. If I
Maggie went directly upstairs to the study and opened the envelope containing the photographs. It didn’t help her state of mind that the first one her eye fell on was of Nuala’s grave, and on it the now fading flowers Greta Shipley had left lying at the base of the tombstone.
34
As Neil Stephens turned his car in to the driveway that led to his parents’ home, he took in the trees that lined the property, their leaves now ablaze with the gold and amber, the burgundy and cardinal red colors of fall.
Coming to a stop, he admired as well the fall plantings around the house. His father’s new hobby was gardening, and each season he displayed a new array of flowers.
Before Neil could get out of the car, his mother had flung open the side door of the house and rushed out. As he stepped out, she hugged him, then reached up to smooth his hair, a familiar gesture he remembered from childhood.
“Oh, Neil, it’s
His father appeared behind her, his smile an indication of his pleasure at seeing his son, although his greeting was somewhat less effusive. “You’re running late, pal. We tee up in half an hour. Your mother has a sandwich ready.”
“I forgot my clubs,” Neil said, then relented when he saw his father’s horrified expression. “Sorry, Dad, that was a joke.”
“And not funny. I had to talk Harry Scott into switching starting times with us. If we want to play eighteen holes, we’ve got to be there by two. We’re having dinner at the club.” He clasped Neil’s shoulder. “Glad you’re here, son.”
It was not until they were on the back nine of the golf course that his father opened the subject he had mentioned on the phone. “One of the old girls whose income tax I handle is on the verge of a nervous breakdown,” he said. “Some young fellow in Providence talked her into investing in some fly-by-night stock, and now she’s lost the money that was supposed to take care of her later. She had hoped to move into that fancy retirement residence I told you about.”
Neil eyed his shot and selected a club from the bag the caddie was holding. Carefully he tapped the ball, swung, then nodded with satisfaction as it rose in the air, soaring over the pond and landing on the green of the next hole.
“You’re better than you used to be,” his father said approvingly. “But you’ll notice I went farther on the green using an iron.”
They talked as they walked to the next hole. “Dad, what you just told me about that woman is something I hear all the time,” Neil said. “Just the other day a couple whose investments I’ve been handling for ten years came in all fired up and wanting to pour most of their retirement income into one of the craziest harebrained schemes I’ve ever come across. Fortunately I was able to dissuade them. Apparently this woman didn’t consult with anyone, right?”
“Certainly not with me.”
“And the stock was on one of the exchanges, or was it over the counter?”
“It was listed.”
“And it had a brief, fast run-up, and then dropped like a stone. And now it isn’t worth the paper it was written on.”
“That’s about it.”
“You’ve heard the expression, ‘There’s a sucker born every minute.’ For some reason that goes double in the market; otherwise fairly bright people go brain dead when someone gives them a hot tip.”
“In this instance I think there was some kind of extraordinary pressure applied. Anyhow, I wish you’d talk to her. Her name is Laura Arlington. Maybe you can go over the rest of her portfolio with her and see what she can do to enhance her remaining income. I told her about you, and she said she’d like to talk to you.”
“I’d be glad to, Dad. I just hope it’s not too late.”
At six-thirty, dressed for dinner, they sat on the back porch, sipping cocktails and looking out at Narragansett Bay.
“You look great, Mom,” Neil said with affection.
“Your mother’s always been a pretty woman, and all the tender loving care she’s received from me over the last forty-three years has only enhanced her beauty,” his father said. Noticing the bemused expression on their faces, he added, “What are you two smiling at?”
“You know full well I’ve also waited on you hand and foot, dear,” Dolores Stephens replied.
“Neil, are you still seeing that girl you brought up here in August?” his father asked.
“Who was that?” Neil wondered momentarily. “Oh, Gina. No, as a matter of fact I’m not.” It seemed the right time to ask about Maggie. “There is someone I’ve been seeing who’s visiting her stepmother in Newport for a couple of weeks. Her name is Maggie Holloway; unfortunately she left New York before I got her phone number here.”
“What’s the stepmother’s name?” his mother asked.
“I don’t know her last name, but her first name is unusual. Finnuala. It’s Celtic, I believe.”
“That sounds familiar,” Dolores Stephens said slowly, searching her memory. “Does it to you, Robert?”
“I don’t think so. No, that’s a new one on me,” he told her.
“Isn’t it funny. I feel as though I’ve heard that name recently,” Dolores mused. “Oh well, maybe it will come to me.”
The phone rang. Dolores got up to answer it.
“Now no long conversations,” Robert Stephens warned his wife. “We’ve got to leave in ten minutes.”
The call, however, was for him. “It’s Laura Arlington,” Dolores Stephens said as she handed the portable phone
