63

EARL BATEMAN DROVE PAST MAGGIE’S HOUSE TWICE. ON the third trip, he saw that the car with the Rhode Island plates was gone; Maggie’s station wagon, however, was still in the driveway. He slowed to a halt and reached for the framed picture he had brought with him.

He was fairly sure that if he had phoned and said he would like to see her, Maggie would have turned him down. But now she wouldn’t have a choice. She would have to invite him in.

He rang the doorbell twice before she opened the door. It was obvious that she was surprised to see him. Surprised and nervous, he thought.

He quickly held up the package. “A present for you,” he said enthusiastically. “A marvelous picture of Nuala that was taken at the Four Seasons party. I framed it for you.”

“How nice of you,” Maggie said, trying to smile, a look of uncertainty on her face. Then she reached out her hand.

Earl pulled the package back, withholding it. “Aren’t you going to ask me in?” he asked, his tone light and joking.

“Of course.”

She stood aside and let him pass, but to his annoyance, she swung the door wide open and left it that way.

“I’d close that if I were you,” he said. “I don’t know if you’ve been out today, but there’s a stiff breeze.” He again saw her uncertainty and smiled grimly. “And no matter what my dear cousin has told you, I don’t bite,” he said, finally handing her the package.

He walked ahead of her into the living room and sat in the big club chair. “I can see Tim ensconced here with his books and newspapers and Nuala fussing around him. What a pair of lovebirds they were! They invited me over to dinner occasionally, and I was always glad to come. Nuala wasn’t much of a housekeeper, but she was an excellent cook. And Tim told me that, often, when they were alone and watching TV late at night, she’d curl up in this chair with him. She was such a petite lady.”

He looked around. “I can see you’re already putting your stamp on this place,” he said. “I approve. There’s a much calmer feeling. Does that love seat spook you?”

“I’ll do some refurnishing,” Maggie said, her tone still wary.

Bateman watched her as she opened the package and congratulated himself on thinking of the photograph. Just seeing the way her face lit up confirmed how smart he had been to think of it.

“Oh, it’s a wonderful picture of Nuala!” Maggie said enthusiastically. “She looked so pretty that evening. Thank you. I really am glad to have this.” Her smile was now genuine.

“I’m sorry Liam and I are in it as well,” Bateman said. “Maybe you can have us airbrushed out.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” Maggie answered quickly. “And thank you for taking the time to bring it yourself.”

“You’re most welcome,” he said as he leaned further back into the deep chair.

He’s not going to go, she thought in dismay. His scrutiny made her uncomfortable. She felt as though she were under a spotlight. Bateman’s eyes, too large behind his round-framed glasses, were fixed on her with an unwavering stare. Despite his apparent effort at nonchalance, he seemed almost to be at attention, his body rigid. I couldn’t imagine him curling up anywhere, or even being comfortable in his own skin, she reflected.

He’s like a wire, stretched too far, ready to snap, she thought.

Nuala was such a petite lady . . .

Wasn’t much of a housekeeper . . . excellent cook . . .

How often had Earl Bateman been here? Maggie wondered. How well did he know this house? Maybe he knew the reason Nuala had decided not to become a resident of Latham Manor, she decided, about to voice the question until another thought hit her.

Or maybe he suspected the reason—and killed her!

She jumped involuntarily when the telephone rang. Excusing herself, she went to the kitchen to answer it. Police Chief Brower was calling. “Ms. Holloway, I was wondering if I could stop in and see you late this afternoon,” he said.

“Of course. Has something come up? I mean about Nuala?”

“Oh, nothing special. I just wanted to talk with you. And I may bring someone with me. Is that all right? I’ll phone before I come.”

“Of course,” she said. Then, suspecting that Earl Bateman might be trying to overhear what she was saying, she raised her voice slightly. “Chief, I’m just visiting with Earl Bateman. He brought over a wonderful picture of Nuala. I’ll see you in a while.”

When she went back into the living room, she saw that the ottoman in front of Earl’s chair had been pushed aside, indicating that he had stood up. He did eavesdrop, she thought. Good. With a smile, she said, “That was Chief Brower.” Something you already know, she added silently. “He’s coming over this afternoon. I told him you were visiting.”

Bateman’s nod was solemn. “A good police chief. Respects people. Not like security police in some cultures. You know what happens when a king dies? During the mourning period, the police seize control of the government. Sometimes they even murder the king’s family. In fact, in some societies that was a regular occurrence. I could give you so many examples. You know I lecture on funeral customs?”

Maggie sat down, oddly fascinated by the man. She sensed something different about Earl Bateman’s expression, which had become one of almost religious absorption. From a living example of the awkward, absentminded professor, he was transformed entirely into a silver-voiced, messianic other. Even the way he was sitting was different. The rigid schoolboy posture had been replaced by the comfortable stance of a man who was secure and at ease. He was leaning slightly toward her, his left elbow on the arm of the chair, his head slightly tilted. He was no longer staring at her; his eyes were fixed instead somewhere just to her left.

Maggie felt her mouth go dry. Unconsciously she had sat on the love seat, and now she realized he was looking just beyond her, focused on the place where Nuala’s body had been hunched.

“Did you know I lecture on funeral customs?” he asked again, and she realized with a start that she had not answered his question.

“Oh, yes,” she said quickly. “Remember? You told me that the first night we met.”

“I’d really like to talk to you about it,” Bateman said earnestly. “You see, a cable company is very interested in having me do a television series, provided I am able to offer a range of subjects for at least thirteen thirty-minute programs. That’s not a problem. I’ve got more than enough material for the programs, but I’d like to include some visuals.”

Maggie waited.

Earl clasped his hands. Now his voice became coaxing. “The response to this kind of offer shouldn’t be delayed. I need to act on it soon. You’re a very successful photographer. Visuals are what you understand. It would be such a favor if you’d let me take you to see my museum today. It’s downtown, right next to the funeral parlor my family used to own. You know where that is, of course. Would you just spend an hour with me? I’ll show you the exhibits, and explain them, and maybe you could help me decide which ones to suggest to the producers.”

He paused. “Please, Maggie.”

He has to have overheard me, Maggie thought. He knows Chief Brower is coming here, and he knows I told him who was visiting me. Liam had told her about Earl’s Victorian bell replicas. He’s supposed to have twelve of them. Suppose they’re on exhibit, she thought. And suppose there are only six of them now. If so, then it would be reasonable to believe that he put the others on the graves.

“I’d be glad to go,” she said after a moment, “but Chief Brower is coming to see me this afternoon. Just in case he gets here early, I’ll leave a note on the door saying that I’m with you at the museum, and that I’ll be back by four.”

Earl smiled. “That’s very wise, Maggie. That should give us plenty of time.”