48 48ON HER WAY HOME, MAGGIE DECIDED TO PICK UP GROCERies. She drove to a small market she had noticed near the wharf. There she gathered the makings of green salad and pasta pomodoro. I’ve had my fill of scrambled eggs and chicken soup, she thought. Then she saw a sign for freshly prepared New England clam chowder.
The clerk was a weathered-faced man in his sixties. “New here?” he asked affably, when she gave him her order.
Maggie smiled. “How can you tell?”
“Easy. When the missus makes her clam chowder, everyone buys at least a quart.”
“In that case, you’d better give me a second pint.”
“Got a head on your shoulders. I like that in young people,” he said.
As she drove away, Maggie smiled to herself. And another reason for keeping the house in Newport, she thought, was that with so many senior citizens around, she would be considered a youngster for quite a while to come.
And besides, I can’t just sort out Nuala’s things, take the best offer for the house, and walk away, she told herself. Even if Nuala was killed by a stranger, there are too many unanswered questions.
The bells, for instance. Who would put them on those graves? Maybe one of the old-guard friends does it on her own and never dreamt anyone would notice them, she acknowledged. For all I know, she thought, there may be bells on half the graves in Newport. On the other hand, one of them is missing. Did whoever it was change his or her mind about leaving it?
Pulling into the driveway at Nuala’s house, she carried the groceries around to the kitchen door and let herself in. Dropping the packages on the table, she turned and quickly locked the door. That’s something else, she thought. I meant to call in a locksmith. Liam would ask about that tonight. He had been so concerned about Earl showing up unexpectedly.
One of Nuala’s favorite expressions ran through Maggie’s head as she searched for a phone book: Better late than never. Maggie remembered how Nuala had said it one Sunday morning when she came running out to the car where Maggie and her father were already waiting.
Maggie hated to think about her father’s response, so typical of him: “And better still, never late, particularly when the rest of the congregation manages to show up on time.”
She found the phone book in a deep kitchen drawer, and smiled at the sight of the clutter beneath it: Xeroxed recipes, half-burned candles, rusty scissors, paper clips, small change.
I’d hate to try to find anything in this house, Maggie thought. There’s such a jumble. Then she felt her throat close. Whoever ransacked this house was looking for something, and chances are he didn’t find it, an interior voice whispered to her.
After she left a message on the machine of the first locksmith she called, she finished putting away the groceries and fixed herself a cup of the clam chowder, which at first taste made her glad she had bought more than she’d intended. Then she went up to the studio. Restlessly her fingers reached into the pot of wet clay. She wanted to go back to the bust she had started of Nuala but knew she could not. It was Greta Shipley whose face demanded to be captured—not really so much the face as the eyes, knowing, candid, and watchful. She was glad she had brought several armatures with her.
Maggie stayed at the worktable for an hour until the clay had taken on an approach to the likeness of the woman she had known so briefly. Finally the surging disquietude had passed, and she could wash her hands and start the job she knew she would find hardest: the task of sorting out Nuala’s paintings. She had to decide which to keep and which to offer to a dealer, knowing that a majority of them probably would end up in a scrap heap, cut out from their frames—frames some people would value more than the art they had once enhanced.
* * *
At three o’clock she started going through the works that had not yet been framed. In the storage closet off the studio, she found dozens of Nuala’s sketches, watercolors, and oils, a dizzying array that Maggie soon realized she could not hope to analyze without professional assistance.
The sketches for the most part were only fair, and only a few of the oils were interesting—but some of the watercolors were extraordinary. Like Nuala, she thought, they were warm and joyous, and filled with unexpected depths. She especially loved a winter scene in which a tree, its branches laden and bent with snow, was sheltering an incongruous ring of flowering plants, including snapdragons and roses, violets and lilies, orchids and chrysanthemums.
Maggie became so engrossed in the task that it was after five-thirty when she hurried downstairs just in time to catch the phone that she thought she heard ringing.
It was Liam. “Hey, this is my third attempt to get you. I was afraid I was being stood up,” he said, relief in his voice. “Do you realize that my only other offer tonight was my cousin, Earl?”
Maggie laughed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear the phone. I was in the studio. I guess Nuala didn’t believe in extension telephones.”
“I’ll buy you one for Christmas. Pick you up in about an hour?”
“Fine.”
That should give me just enough time for a soak in the tub, Maggie thought as she hung up. It was obvious the evening air was turning cool. The house felt drafty, and in an odd and uncomfortable way it seemed to her she could still feel the chill of the damp earth she had touched at the graves.
When the water was rushing into the tub, she thought she heard the phone again and quickly turned off the taps. No sound of ringing came from Nuala’s room, however. Either I didn’t hear anything, or I missed another call, she decided.
Feeling relaxed after her bath, she dressed carefully in the new white evening sweater and calf-length black skirt she had purchased earlier in the week, then decided that a little care with her makeup was in order.
It’s fun to dress up for Liam, she thought. He makes me feel good about myself.
At quarter of seven she was waiting in the living room when the bell rang. Liam stood on the doorstep, a dozen long-stemmed red roses in one hand, a folded sheet of paper in the other. The warmth in his eyes and the light kiss that for a moment lingered on her lips gave Maggie a sudden lift of the heart.
“You look spectacular,” he told her. “I’ll have to change the plans for the evening. Obviously McDonald’s won’t do.”
Maggie laughed. “Oh dear! And I was so looking forward to a Big Mac.” She quickly read the note he had brought in. “Where was this?” she asked.
“On your front door, madame.”
“Oh, of course. I came in through the kitchen earlier.” She refolded the piece of paper. So Neil is in Portsmouth, she thought, and wants to get together. Isn’t that nice? She hated to admit to herself how disappointed she had been when he hadn’t called last week before she left. And then she reminded herself of how she had chalked it up as another indication of his indifference toward her.
“Anything important?” Liam asked casually.
“No. A friend who’s up for the weekend wants me to call. Maybe I’ll give him a ring tomorrow.” And maybe I won’t, she thought. I wonder how he found me.
She went back upstairs for her handbag, and as she picked it up she felt the extra weight of the bell. Should she show it to Liam? she wondered.
No, not tonight, she decided. I don’t want to talk about death and graves, not now. She took the bell out of her purse. Even though it had been there for hours, it still felt cold and clammy to her touch, causing her to shiver.
I don’t want this to be the first thing I see when I get in later, she thought as she opened the closet door and put it on the shelf, pushing it back until it was completely out of sight.
* * *
Liam had made a reservation in the Commodore’s Room of The Black Pearl, a toney restaurant with a sweeping view of Narragansett Bay. “My condo isn’t far from here,” he explained, “but I miss the big house I was raised in. One of these days I’m going to bite the bullet and buy one of the old places and renovate it.” His voice became serious. “By then I’ll have settled down and, with any luck, will have a beautiful wife who’s an award-winning photographer.”
“Stop it, Liam,” Maggie protested. “As Nuala would have said, you sound half daft.”
“But I’m not,” he said quietly. “Maggie, please start looking at me with different eyes, won’t you? Ever since last week, you haven’t been out of my mind for a minute. All I’ve been able to think about is that if you had walked in on whatever hophead attacked Nuala, the same thing could have happened to you. I’m a big, strong guy, and I want to take care of you. I know that such sentiments are out of fashion, but I can’t help it. It’s who I am, and it’s how I feel.” He paused. “And now that’s entirely enough of that. Is the wine okay?”
Maggie stared at him and smiled, glad that he had not asked for a further response from her. “It’s fine, but Liam, I have to ask you something. Do you really think a stranger on drugs attacked Nuala?”
Liam appeared astonished at her question. “If not, who else?” he asked.
“But whoever did it must have seen that guests were expected and yet still took time to ransack the house.”
“Maggie, whoever did it was probably desperate to get a fix and searched the place for money or jewelry. The newspaper account said Nuala’s wedding ring was taken off her finger, so robbery must have been the motive.”
“Yes, the ring was taken,” Maggie acknowledged.
“I happen to know she had very little jewelry,” Liam said. “She wouldn’t let Uncle Tim give her an engagement ring. She said that two of them in one lifetime was enough, and besides, both of them had been stolen when she lived in New York. I remember her telling my mother after that happened that she never wanted to own anything except costume jewelry.”
“You know more than I do,” Maggie said.
“So except for whatever cash was around, her killer didn’t get much, did he? At least that gives me some satisfaction,” Liam said, his voice grim. He smiled, breaking the dark mood that had settled over them. “Now, tell me about your week. I hope Newport is beginning to get under your skin? Or better yet, let me continue to give you my life history.”
He told her how, as a child, he had counted the weeks in boarding school until it was time to go to Newport for the summer, about his decision to become a stockbroker like his father, about leaving his position at Randolph and Marshall and starting his own investment firm. “It’s pretty flattering that some gilt-edged clients elected to come with me,” he said. “It’s always scary to go out on your own, but their vote of trust led me to believe I’d made the right decision. And I had.”
By the time the crème brûlée had arrived, Maggie was fully relaxed. “I’ve learned more about you tonight than I knew from a dozen other dinners,” she told him.
“Maybe I’m a little different on my home territory,” he said. “And maybe I just want you to see what a terrific guy I am.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m also trying to let you know what a substantial guy I am. Just so you know, in these parts, I’m considered quite a catch.”
“Stop that kind of talk right now,” Maggie said, trying to sound firm, but unable to suppress a slight smile.
“Okay. Your turn. Now tell me about your week.”
Maggie was reluctant to really go into things. She did not want to destroy the almost festive mood of the evening. It was impossible to talk about the week and not to speak of Greta Shipley, but she put the emphasis on how much she had enjoyed her in the time she had spent with her, and then she told him about her blossoming friendship with Letitia Bainbridge.
“I knew Mrs. Shipley, and she was a very special lady,” Liam said. “And, as for Mrs. Bainbridge, well, she’s great,” he enthused. “A real legend around here. Has she filled you in on all the goings-on in Newport’s heyday?”
“A little.”
“Get her going sometime on her mother’s stories about Mamie Fish. She really knew how to shake up the old crew. There’s a great story about a dinner party she threw, when one of her guests asked to bring Prince del Drago from Corsica with him. Of course Mamie was delighted to give permission, so you can imagine her horror when ‘the prince’ turned out to be a monkey, in full evening dress.”
They laughed together. “Mrs. Bainbridge is probably one of the very few left whose parents took part in the famous 1890s parties,” Liam said.
“What’s nice is that Mrs. Bainbridge has so many protective family members nearby,” Maggie said. “Just yesterday, after she heard that Mrs. Shipley died, her daughter came over to take her to the doctor for a checkup, because she knew she’d be upset.”
“That daughter would be Sarah,” Liam said. Then he smiled. “Did Mrs. Bainbridge happen to tell you about the stunt my idiot cousin Earl pulled that sent Sarah into orbit?”
“No.”
“It’s priceless. Earl lectures about funeral customs. You’ve heard that, haven’t you? I swear the guy is batty. When everybody else is off playing golf or sailing, his idea of a good time is to spend hours in cemeteries, taking tombstone rubbings.”
“In cemeteries!” Maggie exclaimed.
“Yes, but that’s only a small part of it. What I’m getting to is the time he lectured on funeral practices to a group at Latham Manor, of all places. Mrs. Bainbridge wasn’t feeling well, but Sarah had been visiting her and attended the lecture.
“Earl included in his little talk the story about the Victorian bell ringers. It seems that wealthy Victorians were so afraid of being buried alive that they had a hole built into the top of their caskets, for an air vent reaching up to the surface of the ground. A string was tied to the finger of the presumed deceased, run through the air vent, and attached to a bell on top of the grave. Then someone was paid to keep watch for a week in case the person in the casket did, in fact, regain consciousness and try ringing the bell.”
“Dear God,” Maggie gasped.
“No, but here’s the best part now, the part about Earl. Believe it or not, he has a sort of museum up here near the funeral home that’s filled with all kinds of funeral symbols and paraphernalia, and he got the brainstorm to have a dozen replicas of a Victorian cemetery bell cast to use to illustrate the lecture. Without telling them what they were, the jerk passed them out to twelve of these ladies, all in their sixties and seventies and eighties, and tied the string attached to them onto their ring fingers. Then he told them to hold the bell in their other hand, wiggle their fingers, and pretend they were in a casket and trying to communicate with the grave watcher.”
“How appalling!” Maggie said.
“One of the old girls actually fainted. Mrs. Bainbridge’s daughter collected Earl’s bells and was so irate she practically threw him and his bells off the premises.”
Liam paused, then in a more somber voice added, “The worrisome part is that I think Earl relishes telling that story himself.”