53

JANICE AND MALCOLM NORTON HAD DRIVEN TOGETHER TO the funeral service and interment of Greta Shipley. Both of them had known Shipley all their lives, although they had never been more than acquaintances. When Janice had looked around the congregation during the eulogy, she was made freshly and bitterly aware of the financial gap that existed between her and so many of the people there.

She saw Regina Carr’s mother off to one side. Regina was now Regina Carr Wayne. She had been Janice’s roommate at Dana Hall, and they both had gone to Vassar. Now Wes Wayne was the chief stockholder and CEO of Cratus Pharmaceuticals, and you could be sure that Regina was not an accountant in an old-folks home.

Arlene Randel Greene’s mother was weeping softly. Arlene was another Dana Hall girl from Newport. Bob Greene, an unknown screenwriter when Arlene married him, was now a powerful Hollywood producer. She was probably off on a cruise somewhere at this very moment, Janice thought, a frown of envy creasing her face.

And there were others: mothers of her friends and acquaintances. They had all come to say good-bye to their dear friend Greta Shipley. Later, as Janice accompanied them as they walked from the grave site, she listened with sour envy as they outdid each other, chronicling the busy social lives of “the girls” and their grandchildren.

She felt an emotion somewhat akin to loathing as she watched Malcolm rush ahead to catch up with Maggie Holloway. My handsome husband, she thought bitterly. If only I hadn’t wasted all that time trying to turn him into something he never could be.

And he had seemed to have it all: the good looks, the impeccable background, the excellent schools—Roxbury Latin, Williams, Columbia Law—even a membership in Mensa, where a genius IQ was the admittance requirement. But in the end, none of it had mattered; for all his credentials, Malcolm Norton was a loser.

Then to top it all, she thought, he was planning to leave me for another woman, and he had no intention of sharing with me any of the killing he expected to make off the sale of that house. Her angry ruminations were interrupted when she realized that Regina’s mother was talking about Nuala Moore’s death.

“Newport isn’t what it used to be,” she said. “And to think the house was ransacked. I wonder what whoever it was could have been looking for?”

Arlene Greene’s mother said, “I hear that Nuala Moore changed her will the day before she died. Maybe someone who was being cut out of the old will was searching for the new one.”

Janice Norton’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Had someone suspected Nuala might be planning to write a new will, then killed her to prevent it? If Nuala had died before she actually wrote the new will, the sale of her house to Malcolm would have been completed, she thought. There was a signed agreement in place, and Malcolm, as executor of her estate, would have managed to complete the purchase. Besides, Janice reasoned, no one who didn’t know about the impending change in the Wetlands Act would have been interested in the property.

Was Malcolm desperate enough to kill Nuala, just to get his hands on that house? she asked herself, wondering suddenly if her husband had still more secrets he was trying to keep from her.

At the end of the walkway, good-byes were exchanged and people scattered. Ahead of her, Janice saw Malcolm walking slowly to their car. As she neared him, she saw the anguish on his face and knew Maggie Holloway must have told him she would not sell him the house.

They did not speak as they got in the car. Malcolm stared ahead for a few moments, then he turned toward her. “I’ll pay off the mortgage on our house,” he said quietly, his voice a monotone. “Holloway won’t sell now, and she says she has a substantially higher offer anyway, which means if she does change her mind, it won’t do me any good.”

“Us any good,” Janice corrected automatically, then bit her lip. She did not want to antagonize him, not now.

If he ever found out that she had had a hand in the counteroffer that was made on Nuala’s house, he might well be angry enough to kill her, she thought with rising uneasiness. Her nephew Doug had made the offer, of course, but if Malcolm found that out, he would surely know that she had put him up to it. Had Maggie Holloway told him anything that might implicate her? she wondered.

As though reading her mind, her husband turned toward her. “Surely you haven’t talked to anyone, have you, Janice?” he asked quietly.

*   *   *

“A bit of a headache,” he had said when they reached home, his tone remote but cordial. Then he had gone upstairs to his room. It had been years since they had shared a bedroom.

He did not come downstairs again until nearly seven o’clock. Janice had been watching the evening news and looked up as he stopped at the door of the family room. “I’m going out,” he said. “Good night, Janice.”

She stared unseeingly at the television screen, listening carefully for the sound of the front door closing behind him. He’s up to something, she thought, but what is it? She allowed him plenty of time to leave, then turned off the TV and collected her purse and car keys. She had told Malcolm earlier that she was going out to dinner. They had grown so distant of late that he didn’t ask her whom she was meeting any more than she bothered to inquire about his plans.

Not that she would have told him if he had asked, Janice thought grimly as she headed for Providence. There, at a small out-of-the-way restaurant, her nephew would be waiting. And there, over steaks and scotch, he would pass her an envelope containing cash, her share for supplying him with a detailed account of Cora Gebhart’s financial situation. As Doug had happily told her, “This one was a real bonanza, Aunt Janice. Keep ’em coming!”