64

AT TWO O’CLOCK, CHIEF CHET BROWER SUMMONED Detective Jim Haggerty to his office but learned that Haggerty had left just a few minutes earlier, saying that he would be back shortly. When he came in, he was carrying papers identical to the ones Brower had been hunched over at his desk—copies of the obituaries Maggie Holloway had looked up at the Newport Sentinel. Haggerty knew that, as requested, another set had been faxed to Lara Horgan at the coroner’s office in Providence.

“What did you see, Jim?” Brower demanded.

Haggerty slumped into a seat. “Probably the same thing you did, Chief. Five of the six deceased women lived at that fancy retirement home.”

“Right.”

“None of those five had close relatives.”

Brower looked at him benignly. “Very good.”

“They all died in their sleep.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And Dr. William Lane, the director of Latham Manor, was in attendance in each instance. Meaning he signed the death certificates.”

Brower smiled approvingly. “You catch on real fast.”

“Also,” Haggerty continued, “what the articles don’t say is that when you die at Latham Manor, the studio or apartment you had purchased to live in reverts to the management, which means it can be sold again, pronto.”

Brower frowned. “I didn’t think of that angle,” he admitted. “I just spoke to the coroner. Lara picked up on all of this too. She’s running a check on Dr. William Lane. She already was investigating the background of a nurse there, Zelda Markey. She wants to come with me to talk to Maggie Holloway this afternoon.”

Haggerty looked pensive. “I knew Mrs. Shipley, the woman who died at Latham last week. I liked her a lot. It occurred to me that her next of kin were still in town. I asked around, and they’ve been staying at the Harborside Inn, so I just popped over there.”

Brower waited. Haggerty wore his most noncommittal expression, which Brower knew meant he had stumbled onto something.

“I extended my sympathy and talked to them a bit. Turned out that yesterday, who should be at Latham Manor but Maggie Holloway.”

“Why was she there?” Brower snapped.

“She was a guest at brunch of old Mrs. Bainbridge and her daughter. But afterward she did go up and speak to Mrs. Shipley’s relatives when they were packing up her effects.” He sighed. “Ms. Holloway had an odd request. She said her stepmother, Nuala Moore, who taught an art class at Latham, had helped Mrs. Shipley make a sketch, and she asked if they minded if she took it. Funny thing, though, it wasn’t there.”

“Maybe Mrs. Shipley tore it up.”

“Not likely. Anyhow, later a couple of the residents stopped in to talk to Mrs. Shipley’s relatives while they were doing the packing, and they asked them about the sketch. One of the old girls said she had seen it. It was supposed to be a World War II poster that showed a spy eavesdropping on two defense workers.”

“Why would Ms. Holloway want that?”

“Because Nuala Moore had put her own face and Greta Shipley’s face over those of the defense workers, and in place of the spy, guess who she’d sketched?”

Brower looked at Haggerty, his eyes narrowed.

“Nurse Markey,” the detective said with satisfaction. “And one more thing, Chief. The rule at Latham Manor is that when a death occurs, as soon as the body is removed, the room or apartment is locked until the family has had a chance to come to take possession of valuables. In other words, nobody had any business being in there and taking that sketch.” He paused. “Kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”