17

THE NIGHT BEFORE, BLAMING THE THREE-HOUR NAP SHE had taken earlier, Maggie had been still wide awake at midnight. Giving up on going to sleep anytime soon, she had gone downstairs again and, in the small study, found books, several of them fully illustrated, on the “cottages” of Newport.

Carrying them up to bed, she had propped pillows behind her back and read for nearly two hours. As a result, when she was admitted to Latham Manor by a uniformed maid who then called Dr. Lane to announce her arrival, she was able to take in her surroundings with some degree of knowledge.

The mansion had been built by Ernest Latham in 1900, as a deliberate rebuke to what he considered the vulgar ostentation of the Vanderbilt mansion, The Breakers. The layout for the two houses was almost the same, but the Latham house had livable proportions. The entrance hall was still overwhelmingly large, but was, in fact, only a third of the size of The Breakers’ “Great Hall of Entry.” Satinwood—rather than Caen limestone—covered the walls, and the staircase of richly carved mahogany, carpeted in cardinal red, stood in place of the marble staircase The Breakers boasted.

The doors on the left were closed, but Maggie knew the dining room would be there.

To the right, what originally must have been the music room looked most inviting, with comfortable chairs and matching hassocks, all richly upholstered in moss green and floral patterns. The magnificent Louis Quinze mantel was even more breathtaking in reality than it had appeared in the pictures she had seen. The ornately carved space above the fireplace stretched to the ceiling, filled with Grecian figures, tiny angels, and pineapples and grapes, except for the smooth center, where a Rembrandt-school oil painting had been hung.

It really is beautiful, she thought, mentally comparing it with the unspeakably squalid condition of a nursing home interior she had surreptitiously photographed for Newsmaker magazine.

She realized suddenly that the maid had spoken to her. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologized, “I was just trying to take it all in.”

The maid was an attractive young woman with dark eyes and olive skin. “It is lovely, isn’t it?” she said. “Even working here is a pleasure. I’ll take you to Dr. Lane now.”

His office was the largest in a suite of offices along the back of the house. A mahogany door separated the area from the rest of the first floor. As Maggie followed the maid down the carpeted corridor, she glanced through an open office door and noticed a familiar face—Janice Norton, the wife of Nuala’s lawyer, sat behind a desk.

I didn’t know she worked here, Maggie thought. But then I really don’t know much at all about any of these people, do I?

Their eyes met, and Maggie could not help feeling uncomfortable. She had not missed the bitter disappointment on Malcolm Norton’s face when Mrs. Woods revealed that Nuala had canceled the sale of her house. But he had been cordial at the wake and funeral yesterday and had suggested that he would like to have a chat with her about her plans for the house.

She paused just long enough to greet Mrs. Norton, then followed the maid down the corridor to the corner office.

The maid knocked, waited, and at the invitation to enter, opened the door for Maggie and stepped back, closing it once Maggie was inside.

Dr. Lane stood up and came around his desk to greet her. His smile was cordial, but it seemed to Maggie that his eyes were appraising her professionally. His greeting confirmed that impression.

“Ms. Holloway, or Maggie, if I may, I’m glad to see that you look a bit more rested. Yesterday was a very difficult day for you, I know.”

“I’m sure it was difficult for everyone who loved Nuala,” Maggie said quietly. “But I’m really concerned about Mrs. Shipley. How is she this morning?”

“She had another weak spell last evening, but I looked in on her just a while ago, and she seems quite fit. She’s looking forward to your visit.”

“When I spoke to her this morning, she particularly asked if I would drive her out to the cemetery. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

Lane indicated the leather chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, please.” He returned to his own chair. “I wish she’d wait a few days, but when Mrs. Shipley makes up her mind to do something . . . well, nothing changes it. I do think that both of her little spells yesterday were caused by her deep emotion over Nuala’s death. The two of them were really very close. They’d gotten into the habit of going up to Mrs. Shipley’s studio after Nuala’s art class, and they would gossip and have a glass or two of wine. I told them they were like a pair of schoolgirls. Frankly, though, it probably was good for both of them, and I know Mrs. Shipley will miss those visits.”

He smiled, reminiscing. “Nuala once told me that if she were hit over the head and then asked her age when she came to, she’d say twenty-two and mean it. Inside, she said, she really was twenty-two.”

Then as he realized what he had said, he looked shocked. “I’m so sorry. How careless of me.”

Hit over the head, Maggie thought. But feeling sorry for the man’s acute embarrassment, she said, “Please don’t apologize. You’re right. In spirit Nuala never was older than twenty-two.” She hesitated, then decided to plunge in. “Doctor, there’s one thing I must ask you. Did Nuala ever confide to you that something was troubling her? I mean, did she have a physical problem she may have mentioned?”

He shook his head. “No, not physical. I think Nuala was having a great deal of difficulty with what she perceived to be giving up her independence. I really think that if she had lived she eventually would have made up her mind to come here. She was always concerned about the relatively high cost of the large apartment with the extra bedroom, but as she said, she had to have a studio where she could both work and close the door when she was finished.” He paused. “Nuala told me that she knew she was a bit untidy by nature but that her studio was always the scene of organized chaos.”

“Then you believe that canceling the sale of her house and the hasty will she left were simply a last-minute panic attack of sorts?”

“Yes, I do.” He stood up. “I’ll ask Angela to bring you up to Mrs. Shipley. And if you do go to the cemetery, observe her carefully, please. If she seems in any way distraught, return immediately. After all, the families of our guests have entrusted their lives to our care, and we take that responsibility very seriously.”