Moonlight Becomes You

Finally it had registered, when he remembered that Laura Arlington said that she had just received the confirmation of her stock purchase. Those documents are mailed out right after the transaction, so she should have received it days earlier, Neil said to himself.

Then, this morning, he had learned that there was no record that Mrs. Gebhart had owned the stock Hansen claimed he bought for her at nine bucks a share. Today that stock was down to two dollars. Was Hansen’s game to let people think they had bought a stock at one price-a stock he happened to know was on the skids-and then to wait to put the transaction through once it had reached a very low point? That way, Hansen could pocket the difference.

Accomplishing that would involve faking a confirmation of the order from the clearing house. It wasn’t simple, but it wasn’t impossible, Neil reflected.

So I actually may be onto what Hansen is doing, he thought as he finally passed the WELCOME TO RHODE ISLAND sign. But what in hell made that crook bid on Maggie’s house? How does that relate to stealing money from gullible older ladies? There must be something else in play there.

Be home when I get there, Maggie, Neil implored silently. You’re setting too much in motion, and I won’t let you do it alone any longer.

71

At eight-thirty, Maggie drove to Earl Bateman’s funeral museum. Before leaving, she had taken the bell she found in Nuala’s closet and compared it with the bell she had dug out of Nuala’s grave. Both were now placed side by side on the refectory table in the studio, an overhead spotlight shining on them.

Almost as an afterthought she had pulled out the Polaroid camera she used when she was setting up a shoot, and had snapped a picture of the two bells lying together. She hadn’t waited to see the picture, however, but had pulled the print from the camera and tossed it on the table to study when she returned.

Then with her equipment bag in hand, heavy with two cameras and all the film and lenses, she had headed out. She hated the thought of going back into that place, but there seemed to be no other way to get the answers she needed.

Get it over with, she told herself, as she double locked the front door and got into the station wagon.

Fifteen minutes later, she was passing the Bateman Funeral Home. Obviously the establishment had experienced a busy evening. A stream of cars were pulling out of the driveway.

Another funeral tomorrow… Well, at least it isn’t someone connected with Latham Manor, Maggie thought grimly. As of yesterday, at least, all the residents were present and accounted for.

She turned right, onto the quiet street where the funeral museum was located. She drove into the parking lot, grateful to see that the hearse was gone, remembering that Earl had said he was going to garage it.

As she approached the old house, she was surprised to see faint light emerging from behind a curtained ground-floor window. It’s probably on a timer and will go off later, she thought, but at least it will help me get my bearings. She had brought a flashlight to use when inside, however; even though Earl Bateman had suggested she come back later on her own, she didn’t want to announce her presence by turning on more lights.

The key was under the planter where Earl had left it. As before, it made a loud, grating sound when she turned it in the old-fashioned lock. And as in the earlier visit, the first thing her eye encountered was the liveried-footman mannequin, although now his gaze seemed less attentive than hostile.

I really don’t want to be here, Maggie thought as she darted for the stairs, intent on avoiding even a glimpse of the room where the mannequin of a young woman was lying on the couch.

Likewise, she tried not to think about the exhibits on the second floor, as she switched on the flashlight at the top of the first staircase. Keeping the beam pointed down, she continued up the next flight. Still, the memory of what she had seen there earlier haunted her-those two large end rooms, one depicting an ancient Roman aristocrat’s funeral, the other, the coffin room. Both were grisly, but she found the sight of all those coffins in one room to be the most disturbing.

She had hoped the third floor here would be like Nuala’s third level-a studio, surrounded by large closets and shelves. Unfortunately, what she found instead was clearly another floor of rooms. With dismay, Maggie remembered Earl saying that originally the house had been his great-great-grandparents’ living quarters.

Trying not to allow herself to be nervous, Maggie opened the first door. In the cautiously low beam of the flashlight, she could see that this was an exhibit in the making; a wooden hutlike structure set atop two poles was off to one side. God knows what it means, she thought, shuddering, or what it’s for, but at least the room was empty enough to tell that there was nothing else there she needed to look at.

The next two rooms were similar; both seemed to contain partially completed death-ritual scenes.

The last door proved to be the one she had been seeking. It opened into a large storage room, its walls covered with shelves that were crammed with boxes. Two racks of clothing, ranging from ornate robes to virtual rags, were blocking the windows. Heavy wooden crates, all apparently sealed, were piled randomly on top of each other.

Where can I begin? Maggie thought, a sense of helplessness overtaking her. It would take her hours to go through everything, and though she had been there only minutes, already she was anxious to leave.

With a deep sigh, she fought back the urge to bolt, slipped the equipment bag from her shoulder, and set it on the floor. Reluctantly she closed the door of the storeroom, hoping to prevent any spill of light out into the hall and thus through the uncurtained window at the end of the passage.

All that clothing should be enough to make sure that nothing would show through the windows in the room, she told herself. Still, she felt herself shaking as she moved tentatively into the large room. Her mouth was dry. Every nerve in her body seemed to be quivering, urging her to get out of this place.

There was a stepladder to her left. Obviously it was used to get at the top shelves, she reasoned. It looked old and heavy, and it would mean taking even more time if she had to drag it around every few feet. She decided to start her search in the shelves right behind the ladder and work her way around the room from there. When she climbed up and looked down, she found that there were neat labels pasted on the tops of all the boxes. At least Earl had identified everything, she realized, and for the first time she felt a glimmer of hope that this would not be as difficult a process as she had feared.

Even so, the cartons seemed to be arranged in no particular order. Some that were labeled DEATH MASKS filled a whole section of shelves; others were marked MOURNING RAIMENT, HOUSEHOLD LIVERY, TORCHERE REPLICAS, DRUMS, BRASS CYMBALS, RITUAL PAINTS, and so forth-but no bells.

It’s hopeless, Maggie thought. I’ll never find them. She had only moved the ladder twice, and her watch told her that already she had been there more than half an hour.

She moved the ladder again, hating the rasping screech it made on the floor. Once again she started to climb up it, but as she put her foot on the third rung, her glance fell on a deep cardboard box wedged between two others, almost hidden behind them.

It was labeled BELLS/BURIED ALIVE!

She grasped the box and tugged, finally wrestling it loose. Almost losing her balance when it came free, she got down from the ladder and placed the carton on the floor. With frantic haste, she squatted beside it and yanked off the lid.

Brushing aside the loose popcorn packing, she uncovered the first of the metal bells, wrapped and sealed in plastic, a covering that gave it a deceptively shiny appearance. Eagerly, her fingers fished through the popcorn, until she was sure that she had found everything in the box.

Everything was six bells, identical to the others she had found.

The packing slip was still inside the box: “12 Victorian bells, cast to the order of Mr. Earl Bateman,” it read.

Twelve-and now only six.

I’ll take shots of them and the packing slip, and then I can get out of here, Maggie thought. Suddenly she was almost desperate to be safely away from this place, outside with her proof that Earl Bateman was certainly a liar, possibly even a murderer.