Moonlight Becomes You

“And it’s the same one that Laura Arlington wanted,” his father noted. “Seems to me there is a real scramble for those places.”

“Someone else wanted it?” Maggie asked quickly. “Did she change her mind?”

“No. She got talked into investing the bulk of her money in a fly-by-night stock and, unfortunately, lost it all,” Neil said.

The conversation drifted to many other subjects, with Neil’s mother gradually drawing her out about her childhood. While Neil and his father got into a discussion about how Neil might follow through in looking into the bad investment Mrs. Arlington had made, Maggie found herself telling Dolores Stephens that her birth mother had died in an accident when she was an infant and how happy she had been the five years Nuala and she had lived together.

Finally, realizing that tears were close, she said, “No more nostalgia and no more wine. I’m getting mushy.”

• • •

When Neil drove Maggie home, he walked her to the door and took the key from her hand. “I’ll only stay a minute,” he said, opening the door. “I just want to see something. Which way is the kitchen?”

“Back through the dining room.” Bewildered, Maggie followed him.

He went immediately to the door and examined the lock. “From what I read, the police think that the intruder either found this door unlocked, or your stepmother opened it for someone she knew.”

“That’s right.”

“I offer a third possibility: That lock is so loose anyone could open it with a credit card,” he said, and then proceeded to demonstrate the fact.

“I have a call in to a locksmith,” Maggie said. “I guess I’ll hear from him Monday.”

“Not good enough. My dad is a wunderkind around the house, and I grew up as his unwilling little helper. I, or maybe both of us, will be back tomorrow to install a dead bolt and check all the windows.”

No “if you’d like” or “is that okay?” Maggie thought, feeling a surge of irritation. Just “this is the way it is.”

“I’m going out to brunch,” she told him.

“Brunch is usually over by two,” Neil said. “Let’s figure on that time, or if you want, you can tell me where you’ll hide a key.”

“No, I’ll be here.”

Neil picked up one of the kitchen chairs and wedged it under the doorknob. “At least this would make noise if anyone tried to get in,” he said. Then he looked around the room before turning to her. “Maggie, I don’t want to alarm you, but from everything I’ve heard, the consensus of opinion is that whoever murdered your stepmother was looking for something, and no one knows what it was, or if he got it.”

“Assuming it was a ‘he,’” Maggie said. “But you’re right. That’s exactly what the police think.”

“I don’t like the idea of you being here alone,” he said as they walked to the front door.

“I’m honestly not nervous, Neil. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”

“And if you were nervous, you’d never admit it to me. Right?”

She looked up at him, taking in his grave, questioning face. “That’s right,” she said simply.

He sighed as he turned and opened the door. “I enjoyed tonight very much, Maggie. See you tomorrow.”

Later, as Maggie tossed about in bed, she found she could take no satisfaction in having wounded Neil, and it was obvious she had. Tit for tat, she tried to tell herself, but knowing she had evened the score didn’t make her feel any better. Game playing in relationships was not one of her favorite pastimes.

Her last thoughts as she finally began to doze off were disjointed, seemingly irrelevant, emerging totally from her subconscions.

Nuala had applied for an apartment at Latham Manor, then died shortly after withdrawing the application.

The Stephenses’ friend, Laura Arlington, had applied for the same apartment, then lost all her money.

Was that apartment jinxed, and if so, why?

Sunday, October 6th

55

At his wife’s urging, Dr. William Lane had begun the practice of joining the residents and their guests at Latham Manor’s Sunday brunch.

As Odile had pointed out, the residence functioned as a kind of family, and visitors invited to partake of the brunch were potential future residents who might thus come to view Latham in a very favorable light.

“I don’t mean we have to spend hours there, darling,” she fluttered, “but you’re such a caring person, and if people know that their mothers or aunts or whoever are in such good hands, then when the time comes for them to make a change they might want to join us as well.”

Lane had thought a thousand times that if Odile were not so empty-headed, he might suspect that she was being sarcastic. But the truth was, since they had started the formal Sunday brunches, which also had been her suggestion, and then begun attending them, the number of people filling out forms indicating “possible future interest” had increased sharply.

But when he and Odile entered the grand salon that Sunday morning, Dr. Lane was anything but pleased to see Maggie Holloway with Mrs. Bainbridge’s daughter, Sarah Cushing.

Odile had spotted them as well. “Maggie Holloway does seem to make friends quickly,” she murmured to him.

Together they made their way across the room, pausing to chat with residents, to greet familiar visitors, and to be introduced to others.

Maggie had not seen them approaching. When they spoke to her, she smiled apologetically. “You must think I’m like The Man Who Came to Dinner,” she said. “Mrs. Cushing asked me to join her and Mrs. Bainbridge for brunch, but Mrs. Bainbridge was feeling a little tired this morning, so she thought it best if we didn’t go out.”

“You are always welcome,” Dr. Lane said gallantly, and then turned to Sarah. “Should I look in on your mother?”

“No,” Sarah said decisively. “She’ll be along in a moment. Doctor, is it true that Eleanor Chandler has decided to become a resident here?”

“As a matter of fact, it is,” he said. “When she heard of Mrs. Shipley’s demise, she phoned to request that apartment. She wants her decorator to redo it, so she probably won’t actually move in for several months.”

“And I think that’s better,” Odile Lane volunteered earnestly. “This way, Mrs. Shipley’s friends will have a period of adjustment, don’t you think?”

Sarah Cushing ignored the question. “The only reason I asked about Mrs. Chandler is that I want to make it absolutely clear that she is not to be put at my mother’s table. She is an impossible woman. I suggest you seat her with any hard-of-hearing guests you may have. They, mercifully, would miss some of her overbearing opinions.”

Dr. Lane smiled nervously. “I will make a special note of the seating arrangements, Mrs. Cushing,” he said. “As a matter of fact, an inquiry was made yesterday about the large two-bedroom apartment, on behalf of the Van Hillearys from Connecticut. The gentleman is going to recommend that they come to see it. Perhaps if it works out, your mother would want to consider having them at the table.”

The gentleman... He’s talking about Neil, Maggie thought.

Mrs. Cushing raised an eyebrow. “Of course I’d want to meet them first, but Mother does enjoy having men