13

WHEN SHE WAS STILL A RELATIVELY YOUNG AGE SIXTY-EIGHT, Greta Shipley had been invited to a reception at the newly renovated Latham House, just rechristened the Latham Manor Residence. The new home for retirees was open and was accepting applications.

She liked everything she saw there. The house’s magnificent first floor included the grand salon and marble and crystal dining room, where the enormous banquet table she remembered from her youth had been replaced by smaller tables. The handsome library, with its deep leather chairs and cheerful fireplace, was inviting, and the smaller salon, which would serve as a television room, suggested shared evenings of companionable viewing.

Greta also approved of the regulations: The social hour would begin at 5:00 P.M. in the grand salon, followed by dinner at six. She was pleased that guests would be required to dress for the evening, as though they were dining in a country club. Greta had been raised by a stern grandmother who could wither with a glance the luckless individual garbed in inappropriate attire. Any residents not up to dressing appropriately would be served in their own quarters.

There also was a section set aside for long-term nursing care, should that be required.

The admission fee was steep, of course. It began at two hundred thousand dollars for a large private room and bath, and climbed to five hundred thousand for a two-bedroom suite, of which there were four in the mansion. And while the resident got full and exclusive use of the apartment during his or her lifetime, at the time of death, ownership reverted to the residence, which would make the rooms available for sale to the next applicant. Guests would also pay a maintenance fee of two thousand dollars a month, which, of course, was partially covered by Social Security payments.

Guests were invited to furnish their own quarters, but only with staff approval of what they chose to bring. The model studios and apartments were exquisitely comfortable and impeccably tasteful.

Recently widowed and nervous about living alone, Greta had gladly sold her home on Ochre Point, moved to Latham Manor, and felt she had made a good decision. As one of the first occupants, she had a select studio. Large, with a living area alcove, it accommodated all her most treasured furnishings. And best of all, when she closed her door, it was with the secure sense of not being alone in the night. There always was a guard on the premises, a nurse on duty, and a bell to summon help if necessary.

Greta enjoyed the companionship of most of the other residents and easily avoided the ones who got on her nerves. She also kept up her long friendship with Nuala Moore; they often went out to lunch together, and at Greta’s request Nuala agreed to give art classes twice a week at the residence.

After Timothy Moore died, Greta had begun a campaign to get Nuala to move to the residence. When Nuala demurred, saying she would be fine alone and insisting further that she couldn’t do without her art studio, Greta urged her to at least put in her application so that when one of the two-bedroom suites became available, she would be in a position to change her mind. Nuala had finally agreed, admitting that her lawyer was encouraging her to do the same thing.

But now that would never happen, Greta thought sadly, as she sat in her easy chair, the virtually untouched dinner tray in front of her.

She was still upset that she had experienced that weak spell at Nuala’s funeral earlier in the day. She had been feeling perfectly fine until this morning. Perhaps if she had taken time to eat a proper breakfast it wouldn’t have happened, she reasoned.

She simply could not allow herself to become ill now. Especially now she wanted to keep as active as possible. Being busy was the only way to work out grief; life had taught her that. She also knew it wasn’t going to be easy, for she would miss Nuala’s cheerful presence very much.

It was reassuring to know that Nuala’s stepdaughter, Maggie Holloway, would be visiting her. At the funeral parlor yesterday, before the service, Maggie had introduced herself and said, “Mrs. Shipley, I hope you’re going to let me spend time with you. I know you were Nuala’s closest friend. I want to make you my friend, too.”

There was a tap at the door.

Greta liked the fact that unless they had reason to suspect a problem, the staff was instructed to enter a guest’s room only when invited. Nurse Markey, however, didn’t seem to understand: Just because the door isn’t locked doesn’t mean that she is free to barge in at any time. Some appeared to like the intrusive nurses. Greta did not.

Predictably, before Greta could respond to the knock, Nurse Markey strode in, a professional smile wreathing her strong features. “How are we doing tonight, Mrs. Shipley?” she asked loudly as she came over and perched on the hassock, her face uncomfortably close to Greta’s.

“I’m quite fine, thank you, Miss Markey. I hope you are.”

The solicitous “we” always irritated Greta. She had mentioned that fact several times, but this woman clearly did not intend to change anything, so why bother? Greta asked herself. Suddenly she realized that her heartbeat was beginning to accelerate.

“I hear we had a weak spell in church . . .”

Greta put her hand on her chest as though by that act she could stop the wild pounding.

“Mrs. Shipley, what’s the matter? Are you all right?”

Greta felt her wrist being seized.

As suddenly as it had begun, the pounding slackened. She managed to say, “Just give me a moment. I’ll be fine. I just felt a little breathless, that’s all.”

“I want you to lean back and close your eyes. I’m going to call Dr. Lane.” Nurse Markey’s face was barely inches from hers now. Instinctively Greta turned away.

Ten minutes later, propped up on pillows in bed, Greta tried to reassure the doctor that the little spell she had had was completely past. But later, as she drifted off to sleep with the help of a mild sedative, she could not escape the chilling memory of how just two weeks ago, Constance Rhinelander, who had been here so briefly, had died of heart failure, so unexpectedly.

First Constance, she thought, then Nuala. Grandmother’s housekeeper used to say that deaths come in threes. Please don’t let me be the third, she thought as she drifted off.