Maggie closed the car window, held the bell near the floor of the car and swung it. A melancholy but nevertheless clear ringing sound resounded through the car.

A Stone for Danny Fisher, she thought. That was the title of one of the books that had been in her father’s library. She remembered that as a child she had asked him what the title meant, and he had explained that it was a tradition in the Jewish faith that anyone stopping by the grave of a friend or relative would place a stone there as a sign of the visit.

Could this bell signify something like that? Maggie wondered. Feeling vaguely as though she were doing something amiss in taking the bell, she slid it out of sight under the seat of the car. Then she selected another half-dozen flowers, and with the appropriate photograph in hand, went to revisit the grave of another of Greta Shipley’s friends.

Her last stop was at Mrs. Rhinelander’s grave; it had been the photograph of this grave that most clearly seemed to show a gap in the sod near the base of the tombstone. As Maggie arranged the remaining flowers on the damp grass, her fingers sought and found the indented area.

• • •

Maggie needed to think, and she was not ready to go back to the house where there might be interruptions. Instead she drove into the center of town and found a luncheonette, where she ordered a toasted blueberry muffin and coffee.

I was hungry, she admitted to herself as the crusty muffin and strong coffee helped to dissipate the all-encompassing uneasiness she had experienced in the cemeteries.

Another memory of Nuala flashed into her mind. When Maggie was ten, Porgie, her roguish miniature poodle, had jumped on Nuala as she lay dozing on the couch. She had let out a shriek, and when Maggie went running in, Nuala had laughed and said, “Sorry, honey. I don’t know why I’m so jumpy. Someone must be walking on my grave.”

Then, because Maggie had been at an age when she wanted to know everything, Nuala had had to explain that the expression was an old Irish saying meaning that someone was walking over the spot where you would someday be buried.

There had to be a simple explanation for what she had found today, Maggie reasoned. Of the six burial plots she had visited, four, including Nuala’s, had bells at the base of the tombstone, each exactly like the others in weight and size. It appeared as well that one had been removed from the ground near Mrs. Rhinelander’s tombstone. So that meant only one of Greta Shipley’s friends had not received this odd tribute-if, indeed, that was what it was.

As she drained the last of the coffee and shook her head, refusing the waitress’s smiling offer of a refill, a name popped into Maggie’s mind: Mrs. Bainbridge!

Like Greta Shipley, she had been at Latham Manor since it opened. She must have known all those women too, Maggie realized.

Back in her car, Maggie called Letitia Bainbridge on the cellular phone. She was in her apartment.

“Come right over,” she told Maggie. “I’d love to see you. I’ve been a bit blue this morning.”

“I’m on my way,” Maggie replied.

When she replaced the phone in its cradle, she reached under the seat for the bell she had taken from Nuala’s grave. Then she put it in her shoulder bag.

She shuddered involuntarily as she pulled away from the curb. The metal had felt cold and clammy to her touch.

42

It had been one of the longest weeks of Malcolm Norton’s life. The shock of having Nuala Moore cancel the sale of her house, followed by Barbara’s announcement that she was going to visit for an extended period with her daughter in Vail, had left him numbed and frightened.

He had to get his hands on that house! Telling Janice about the impending change in the Wetlands Act had been a terrible mistake. He should have taken a chance and forged her name on the mortgage papers. He was that desperate.

Which was why, when Barbara put through the call from Chief Brower on this Friday morning, Malcolm felt perspiration spring out on his forehead. It took him a few moments to compose himself enough to be satisfied that his tone of voice would radiate good cheer.

“Good morning, Chief. How are you?” he said, trying to put a smile in his voice.

Chet Brower clearly was not in the mood for chitchat. “I’m fine. I’d like to drop over and talk with you for a few minutes today.”

What about? Malcolm thought, momentarily panicked, but said in a hearty voice, “That would be great, but I warn you, I already bought my tickets to the Policemen’s Ball.” Even in his own ears, his stab at humor fell flat.

“When are you free?” Brower snapped.

Norton had no intention of telling Brower exactly how free he was. “I had a closing at eleven that’s been postponed till one, so I do have an opening.”

“I’ll see you at eleven.”

Well after hearing the dismissive click, Malcolm stared nervously at the receiver he held in his hand. Finally he set it down.

There was a gentle tap on the door, and Barbara poked her head in the office. “Malcolm, is there anything wrong?”

“What could be wrong? He just wants to talk to me. The only thing I can imagine is that it has to do with last Friday night.”

“Oh, of course. The murder. The usual procedure is for the police to keep asking close friends if they might have remembered anything that didn’t seem important at the time. And, of course, you and Janice did go to Mrs. Moore’s for the dinner party.”

You and Janice. Malcolm frowned. Was that reference intended to remind him that he still had taken no action to legally separate from Janice? No, unlike his wife, Barbara didn’t play word games filled with hidden meanings. Her son-in-law was an assistant district attorney in New York; she had probably heard him talk about his cases, Malcolm reasoned. And, of course, television and movies were filled with details of police procedure.

She started to close the door again. “Barbara,” he said, his voice pleading, “just give me a little more time. Don’t leave me now.”

Her only answer was to close the door with a firm click.

• • •

Brower arrived promptly at eleven. He sat bolt upright in the armchair opposite Norton’s desk and got right to the point.

“Mr. Norton, you were due at Nuala Moore’s home at eight o’clock the night of the murder?”

“Yes, my wife and I arrived at perhaps ten after eight. From what I understand, you had just arrived on the scene. As you know, we were instructed to wait in the home of Nuala’s neighbors, the Woodses.”

“What time did you leave your office that evening?” Brower asked.

Norton’s eyebrows raised. He thought for a moment. “At the usual time… no, actually a bit later. About quarter of six. I had a closing outside the office and brought the file back here and checked on messages.”

“Did you go directly home from here?”

“Not quite. Barbara… Mrs. Hoffman, my secretary, had been out that day with a cold. The day before, she had taken home a file I needed to study over the weekend, so I stopped at her house to pick it up.”

“How long did that take?”

Norton thought for a moment. “She lives in Middletown. There was tourist traffic, so I’d say about twenty minutes each way.”

“So you were home around six-thirty.”

“Actually, it was probably a bit after that. Closer to seven, I should think.”

In fact, he had gotten home at seven-fifteen. He remembered the time distinctly. Silently, Malcolm cursed himself. Janice had told him that his face could have been read like an open book when Irma Woods had delivered the news about Nuala’s will. “You looked as if you wanted to kill someone,” she had said, a smirk on her face. “You can’t even plan to cheat someone without something going wrong.”