Moonlight Becomes You

around.”

“Mother certainly does,” Mrs. Bainbridge said dryly. They all turned as she joined them. “Sorry to be late, Maggie. Seems as though it takes longer and longer to do less and less these days. Do I understand that Greta Shipley’s apartment is already sold?”

“Yes, it is,” Dr. Lane said smoothly. “Mrs. Shipley’s relatives will be here this afternoon to remove her personal effects and arrange for her furniture to be shipped out. Now if you’ll excuse us, Odile and I should visit with some of the other guests.”

When they were out of earshot, Letitia Bainbridge said, “Sarah, when I close my eyes, make sure that nobody goes near my apartment until the first of the next month. The maintenance fee is supposed to guarantee that much. Seems to me that around here you’re not allowed to get cold before they’ve replaced you.”

Soft chimes signaled that brunch was being served. As soon as they were seated, Maggie noticed that everybody at their table had shifted places, and wondered if that was customary after a death.

Sarah Cushing was the right person for this group today, she thought. Like her mother, she was a good storyteller. As Maggie nibbled on eggs Benedict, and sipped her coffee, she listened appreciatively to Sarah Cushing’s skillful management of the conversation, directing it so that everyone was involved and cheerful.

During the second round of coffee, however, the talk turned to Greta Shipley. Rachel Crenshaw, who with her husband was sitting opposite Maggie, said, “I still can’t get used to it. We know we’re all going to die, and when someone moves to the long-term care area, you know it’s usually only a matter of time. But Greta and Constance-it was just so sudden!”

“And last year Alice and Jeanette went the same way,” Mrs. Bainbridge said, and then sighed.

Alice and Jeanette, Maggie thought. Those names were on two of the graves I visited with Mrs. Shipley. They both had bells embedded next to the tombstones. The woman whose grave didn’t have a bell was named Winifred Pierson. Trying to sound casual, Maggie said, “Mrs. Shipley had a close friend, Winifred Pierson. Was she a guest here as well?”

“No, Winifred lived in her own home. Greta used to visit her regularly,” Mrs. Crenshaw said.

Maggie felt her mouth go dry. She knew immediately what she had to do, and the full realization came with such force that she almost stood up from the table with the shock of it. She had to visit Greta Shipley’s grave and see if a bell had been placed there.

When good-byes were said, most of the Latham residents began drifting into the library, where a violinist was scheduled to perform for the Sunday afternoon entertainment.

Sarah Cushing stayed to visit with her mother, and Maggie headed for the front door. Then, on sudden impulse, she turned and went up the stairs to Greta Shipley’s apartment. Let the cousins be there, she prayed fervently.

The door of the apartment was open, and she saw the familiar signs of packing and sorting, which was being done by the three relatives she had seen at the funeral.

Knowing there was no simple way to make the request, she offered brief condolences and plunged in to tell them what she wanted. “When I was visiting Mrs. Shipley on Wednesday, she showed me a sketch my stepmother and she had made. It’s right in that drawer.” Maggie pointed to the table by the couch. “It was one of the last things Nuala did, and if you’re thinking of discarding it, it would mean a lot to me to have it.”

“Absolutely.” “Go right ahead.” “Take it,” they chorused amiably.

“We haven’t gotten to anything except the bureau so far,” one of them added.

Maggie opened the drawer expectantly. It was empty. The sketch to which Nuala had added her own face, Greta Shipley’s face, and the image of Nurse Markey eavesdropping, was gone. “It isn’t here,” she said.

“Then perhaps Greta either moved it or disposed of it,” said a cousin who bore a striking resemblance to Mrs. Shipley. “Dr. Lane told us that after anyone passes away, the apartment is immediately locked until the family comes in and removes personal items. But do tell us what the sketch looks like in case we come across it.”

Maggie described it, gave them her phone number, thanked them, and left. Somebody took that sketch, she thought as she left the room. But why?

Stepping into the hall, she almost ran into Nurse Markey.

“Oh, excuse me,” the nurse said. “I just want to see if I can give Mrs. Shipley’s relatives a hand. Have a nice day, Miss Holloway.”

56

It was noon when Earl Bateman arrived at St. Mary’s cemetery. He circled the winding roads slowly, ever anxious to get a look at the kinds of people who were spending a part of their Sunday visiting a loved one.

Not too many out so far today, he noted: a few oldsters, a middle-aged couple, a large family, probably showing up for an anniversary, after which they would have brunch at the restaurant down the road. The typical Sunday crew.

He then drove through to the old section of Trinity cemetery, where he parked and got out. After a quick glance around, he began to scrutinize the tombstones for interesting inscriptions. It had been several years since he took rubbings here, and he knew he might well have missed some.

He prided himself that his awareness of subtleties had heightened considerably since then. Yes, he thought, tombstones definitely would be a subject to outline for the cable series. He would start with a reference from Gone With the Wind, which said that three infant boys, all named Gerald O’Hara, Jr., were buried in the family plot on Tara. Oh, the hopes, and dreams, we see sculpted on stone, fading, ignored, no longer read, but still leaving a message of lasting love. Think of it-three little sons! That’s the way he would begin that lecture.

Of course, he would move quickly from tragic to upbeat by telling about one of the stones he had seen in a Cape Cod cemetery, actually advertising the fact that the business operation that had been run by the deceased was being carried on by his son. It even gave the new address.

Earl frowned as he looked about him. Even though it was a warm and pleasant October day, and even though he thoroughly enjoyed his profitable hobby, he was upset and angry.

As they had arranged, last night Liam had come to his house for drinks and then they had gone out to dinner together. Even though he had left his three-thousand-dollar check right next to the vodka bottle on the bar where it couldn’t possibly be missed, Liam had pointedly ignored it. Instead, he had empha sized yet again that Earl ought to go golfing instead of haunting cemeteries.

“Haunting” indeed, Earl thought, his face darkening. I could show him what haunting is all about, he said to himself.

And he was damned if he would let Liam warn him away from Maggie Holloway again. It simply was none of his business. Liam had asked if he had seen her, and when he told Liam that since Monday night he had seen Maggie only at the cemetery and, of course, at Mrs. Shipley’s funeral, Liam had said, “Earl, you and your cemeteries. I’m getting worried about you. You’re becoming obsessive.”

“He didn’t believe me when I tried to explain my premonitions,” Earl muttered aloud. “He never takes me seriously.” He stopped suddenly and looked about. There was no one. Don’t think about it anymore, he warned himself, at least not now.

He walked along the paths of the oldest section of the cemetery, where some of the barely discernible carvings on the small headstones bore dates from the 1600s. He squatted by one that had almost fallen over, squinting to read the faint lettering. His eyes brightened as he made out the inscription: “Betrothed to Roger Samuels but gathered to the Lord…” and the dates.

Earl opened his kit to take a rubbing of the stone. Another angle to discuss in one of his lectures on tombstones would be the tender age at which so many young people were struck down in the old days. There had been no penicillin to treat the pneumonia that resulted when winter cold made its insidious way into chests and lungs. ..

He knelt down, enjoying the feel of the soft earth that sent its cool dampness through his old trousers to his skin. As he began his careful effort to transfer the stone’s poignant sentiment onto thin, almost translucent