Like Odile Lane, she thought, and then winced at the memory of how the woman had wagged her finger at Greta Shipley barely twenty-four hours ago. “Naughty, naughty,” she had said.

As she cleaned up, Maggie thought about the people she had dined with last evening. How distressed they must be, she thought. It was obvious how much they enjoyed Greta, and now she is gone. So suddenly.

Maggie looked at her watch as she went downstairs. Nine o’clock: not really too late to phone Mrs. Bainbridge, she decided.

Letitia Bainbridge answered on the first ring. “Oh, Maggie, we’re all heartsick. Greta hadn’t been feeling well for a few weeks, but till then she was perfectly fine. I knew she was on blood pressure and heart medicine, but she’d been on them for years and never had any problems.”

“I came to like her so much in such a short time,” Maggie said sincerely. “I can imagine how all of you must feel. Do you know what the arrangements are?”

“Yes. Bateman Funeral is handling them. I guess we’ll all end up there. The Requiem is Saturday morning at eleven at Trinity Episcopal Church, and interment is at Trinity Cemetery. Greta had left instructions that the only viewing was to be at Bateman’s between nine and ten-thirty.”

“I’ll be there,” Maggie promised. “Did she have any family?”

“Some cousins. I gather they’re coming. I know that she left her securities and the contents of her apartment to them, so they certainly should show that much respect for her.” Letitia Bainbridge paused, then added, “Maggie, do you know what has haunted me? Practically the last thing I said to Greta last night was that if Eleanor Chandler had been seen eyeing her apartment, then she should change her locks.”

“But she was amused by the remark,” Maggie protested. “Please, you mustn’t let that upset you.”

“Oh, that’s not what upsets me. It’s the fact that I’d bet anything, no matter who else may be on the list, Eleanor Chandler gets that place now.”

I’m specializing in late dinners, Maggie thought, as she put on the kettle, scrambled some eggs and dropped bread into the toaster-and not particularly exciting ones, she added. At least tomorrow night I can count on Liam to buy me a good meal.

It would be good to see him, she reflected. He was always fun in an outrageous kind of way. She wondered if he had talked to Earl Bateman about his unexpected visit Monday night. She hoped so.

Not wanting to spend any more time in the kitchen, she prepared a tray and carried it into the living room. Even though Nuala had met her death in this room less than a week ago, Maggie had come to realize that for Nuala this had been a happy, warm room.

The back and sides of the fireplace were blackened with soot. The bellows and tongs on the hearth showed signs of frequent use. Maggie could imagine having roaring fires here on cold New England evenings.

The bookcases were overflowing with books, interesting titles all of them, many familiar, others she would love to explore. She had already gone through the photo albums-the dozens of snapshots of Nuala with Tim Moore showed two people who obviously enjoyed each other’s company.

Larger, framed pictures of Tim and Nuala-boating with friends, picnicking, at formal dinners, on vacations-were scattered on the walls.

The deep, old club chair with the hassock probably had been his, Maggie decided. She remembered that whether engrossed in a book, chatting, or watching television, Nuala had always liked to curl up, kitten-like, on the couch, propped in a corner between the back and armrest.

No wonder the prospect of moving to Latham Manor had proven daunting, Maggie thought. It would be quite a wrench for Nuala to leave this home where obviously she had been happy for so many years.

But clearly she had considered moving there. That first evening, when they had had dinner after they met at the Moore reunion, Nuala had mentioned that the kind of apartment she wanted in the residence home had just become available.

What apartment was it? Maggie wondered. They had never discussed that.

Maggie realized suddenly that her hands were trembling. She carefully replaced the teacup on the saucer. Could the apartment that had become available to Nuala possibly be the one that had belonged to Greta Shipley’s friend Constance Rhinelander?

38

All he asked for was a little quiet, but Dr. William Lane knew he was not going to be granted that wish. Odile was as wound up as a top about to spin. He lay in bed with his eyes closed, wishing to God that at least she would turn off the damn light. But instead she sat at her dressing table, brushing her hair as a torrent of words poured from her lips.

“These days are so trying, aren’t they? Everyone just loved Greta Shipley, and she was one of our charter members. You know, that’s two of our sweetest ladies in as many weeks. Of course, Mrs. Rhinelander was eighty-three, but she’d been doing so well-and then, all of a sudden, you could see her start to fail. That’s the way it happens at a certain age, isn’t it? Closure? The body just closes down.”

Odile did not seem to notice that her husband did not respond. It didn’t matter; she continued anyway. “Of course, Nurse Markey was concerned about that little spell Mrs. Shipley had Monday night. This morning she told me she spoke to you about it again yesterday.”

“I examined Mrs. Shipley right after she had that spell,” Dr. Lane said wearily. “There was no reason for alarm. Nurse Markey brought up that episode only because she was trying to justify the fact that she’d been barging into Mrs. Shipley’s apartment without knocking.”

“Well, of course, you’re the doctor, dear.”

Dr. Lane’s eyes flew open with sudden realization. “Odile, I don’t want you discussing my patients with Nurse Markey,” he said sharply.

Ignoring the tone of his voice, Odile continued, “That new medical examiner is quite young, isn’t she? What was her name, Lara Horgan? I didn’t know that Dr. Johnson had retired.”

“He retired as of the first. That was Tuesday.”

“I wonder why anyone would choose to be a medical examiner, especially such an attractive young woman? But she does seem to know her business.”

“I doubt if she’d have been appointed if she didn’t know her business,” he responded tartly. “She stopped in with the police only because she was in the neighborhood and wanted to see our layout. She asked very competent questions about Mrs. Shipley’s medical history. Now, Odile, if you don’t mind, I really must get some sleep.”

“Oh, darling, I’m sorry. I know how tired you are, and how upsetting this day has been.” Odile put down the brush and took off her robe.

Ever the glamour girl, William Lane thought as he watched his wife’s preparations for bed. In eighteen years of marriage, he had never seen her wear a nightgown that wasn’t frilly. At one time she had charmed him. No longer, though-not for years.

She got into bed, and at last the light went out. But now William Lane was no longer sleepy. As usual, Odile had managed to say something that would gnaw at him.

That young medical examiner was a different cut from good old Dr. Johnson. He had always approved death certificates with a casual wave of his pen. Be careful, Lane warned himself. In the future, you’ve got to be more careful.