said her step mother, Nuala Moore, who taught an art class at Latham, had helped Mrs. Shipley make a sketch, and she asked if they minded if she took it. Funny thing, though, it wasn’t there.”
“Maybe Mrs. Shipley tore it up.”
“Not likely. Anyhow, later a couple of the residents stopped in to talk to Mrs. Shipley’s relatives while they were doing the packing, and they asked them about the sketch. One of the old girls said she had seen it. It was supposed to be a World War II poster that showed a spy eavesdropping on two defense workers.”
“Why would Ms. Holloway want that?”
“Because Nuala Moore had put her own face and Greta Shipley’s face over those of the defense workers, and in place of the spy, guess who she’d sketched?”
Brower looked at Haggerty, his eyes narrowed.
“Nurse Markey,” the detective said with satisfaction. “And one more thing, Chief. The rule at Latham Manor is that when a death occurs, as soon as the body is removed, the room or apartment is locked until the family has had a chance to come to take possession of valuables. In other words, nobody had any business being in there and taking that sketch.” He paused. “Kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
65
Neil canceled a lunch date he had made and instead had a sandwich and coffee at his desk. He had instructed Trish to fend off all but the most urgent calls as he worked feverishly to clear his calendar for the next few days.
At three o’clock, just as Trish came back with a fresh batch of papers, he phoned his father. “Dad, I’m coming up tonight,” he said. “I’ve been trying to get that Hansen guy on the phone, but they keep telling me he’s out. So I’m going to come up there and track him down myself. There’s a lot more going on with that guy than just giving lousy advice to old women.”
“That’s what Maggie said, and I’m sure she’s onto something.”
“Maggie!”
“She seems to think there’s some kind of connection between Hansen and the women who put in applications to Latham Manor. I’ve been talking to Laura Arlington and Cora Gebhart. It turns out Hansen called them out of the blue.”
“Why didn’t they just hang up on him? Most people don’t get involved over the phone with stock peddlers they don’t know.”
“Apparently using Alberta Downing’s name gave him credibility. He urged them to call her for a reference. But then-and this is where it gets interesting-he talked about how some people have investments that are losing buying power because of inflation, and he just
“Yes,” Neil said. “I remember Mrs. Gebhart saying something of the sort. I need to talk to this Mrs. Downing. Something’s definitely not right here. And, by the way, I expected you’d call me as soon as you saw Maggie,” he added, knowing that now he sounded annoyed. “I’ve been worried about her. Was she okay?”
“I planned to call you as soon as I finished checking out her take on Hansen,” Robert Stephens answered. “I thought perhaps
Neil rolled his eyes. “Sorry,” he said. “And thanks for going over to see her.”
“You must know I went immediately. I happen to like that young lady very much. One more thing: Hansen dropped in on Maggie last week and made an offer on her house. I’ve been talking to real estate agents to get their opinions of its value. Maggie had speculated that his offer was too high, given the condition of the house, and she’s right. So while you’re at it, try to figure out what game he’s playing with her.”
Neil remembered Maggie’s startled reaction when he mentioned Hansen’s name, and how when he had asked if she knew him, her answer had been evasive.
But I was right about one thing: She
When he got off the phone, he looked over at Trish and the papers in her hand. “You’ll have to take care of those. I’m out of here.”
“Oh my, my,” Trish said, her tone teasing but affectionate. “So her name is Maggie and you’re worried sick about her. What a learning experience for
“You bet I am.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Get moving.”
66
“I’m very proud of my museum,” Earl explained as he held the door for Maggie to get out of her car. She had declined his offer to drive with him and was aware that he had been annoyed at the refusal.
As she had followed his gray Oldsmobile into town and past the Bateman Funeral Home, she realized why she hadn’t noticed the museum. It fronted on a side street to the rear of the large property and had its own parking lot behind it. The lot was empty now except for one other vehicle, parked in the corner- a shiny black hearse.
Earl pointed to it as they walked toward the museum. “That’s thirty years old,” he said proudly. “My father was going to trade it in when I was starting college, but I talked him into letting me have it. I keep it in the garage here and only pull it out in the summer. That’s when I invite visitors to the museum, although just for a couple of hours on weekends. It kind of sets the tone for the place, don’t you think?”
“I guess so,” Maggie said uncertainly. In these last ten days I’ve seen enough hearses for a lifetime, she thought. She turned to study the three-story Victorian house with its wide porch and gingerbread trim. Like the Bateman Funeral Home, it was painted glistening white with black shutters. Black crepe streamers draped around the front door fluttered in the breeze.
“The house was built in 1850 by my great-great-grandfather,” Earl explained. “It was our first funeral parlor, and back then the family lived on the top floor. My grandfather built the present establishment, and my father expanded it. This house was used by a caretaker for a while. When we sold the business ten years ago, we separated the house and an acre of the property, and I took it over completely. I opened the museum shortly after that, although I’d been putting it together for years.”
Earl put his hand on Maggie’s elbow. “You’re in for a treat. Now remember, I want you to look at everything with an eye toward what I should suggest for visuals. I don’t mean just for the individual lectures, but maybe something as well for an opening and closing signature for the series.”
They were on the porch. Located on the broad railing, and helping to offset somewhat the overall funerary gloom, were several planters filled with violets and mountain pinks. Bateman lifted the edge of the nearest planter and withdrew a key. “See how I trust you, Maggie? I’m showing you my secret hiding place. This is an old-fashioned lock, and the key is much too heavy to bother carrying around.”
Pausing at the door, he pointed to the crepe. “In our society it used to be the custom to drape the door like this to signify that this was a house of mourning.”
My God, how he enjoys this! Maggie thought, shivering slightly. She realized her hands were damp and shoved them in the pockets of her jeans. The irrational thought went through her head that she had no business entering a house of grief dressed in a plaid shirt and jeans.
The key turned with a grating sound, and Earl Bateman pushed the door open and then stood back. “Now what do you think of that?” he asked proudly, as Maggie moved slowly past him.
A life-sized figure of a man in black livery stood at attention in the foyer, as though ready to receive guests.
“In Emily Post’s first etiquette book, published in 1922, she wrote that when a death occurred, the butler in his
