Haggerty’s eyebrows raised. “Now, this is a lovely old house, so I hope you understand I’m not being denigrating when I say that this place must have buried treasure hidden in it. I hope you find it.”

“If there’s anything to be found here, I intend to unearth it,” Maggie said. “I’m not going to have any peace until someone pays for what happened to a woman I loved very much.”

As Haggerty got up to go, Maggie impulsively asked, “Do you know if it’s possible to look up some information at the newspaper office this afternoon, or is it closed on Saturday?”

“I think you’ll have to wait till Monday. I happen to know that because we always have visitors wanting to look through the old society pages. They get a kick out of reading about the fancy parties.”

Maggie smiled without comment.

As Haggerty drove away he made a mental note to chat with the clerk in the newspaper office on Monday and find out exactly what information Ms. Holloway was searching for in their morgue.

Maggie went back up to Nuala’s room. She was determined to get through the contents of the closets and dressers before she quit today. This is the room I should use for sorting, she thought as she dragged cartons full of things into the small third bedroom.

Nuala had always enjoyed having things scattered around that reminded her of special moments. As Maggie discarded seashells from the dresser tops, stuffed animals from the window seat, a stack of restaurant menus from the nightstand, and inexpensive souvenirs from everywhere, the inherent beauty of the rock maple furniture became apparent. I’d move the bed to that wall. It’s a better place for it, she decided, and get rid of that old chaise… And I’d keep all of Nuala’s paintings that she had framed and hung. They’re the part of her that I’ll never lose or give up.

At six o’clock she was going through the final item of clothing in the larger closet, a pale gold raincoat that had fallen to the floor. She remembered that when she had rehung Nuala’s blue cocktail suit the other day, the raincoat had been hanging precariously behind it.

As with the other garments, she ran her hand into the pockets to be sure nothing was in them.

The left-side pocket of the raincoat was empty. But when her fingertips explored the right pocket, they touched grit.

Maggie closed her fingers over the substance and removed her hand. Long shadows filled the room as she walked over to the dresser and turned on the light. A wad of dry dirt crumbled beneath her fingers. Surely Nuala didn’t put dirt in her pocket, Maggie thought. Surely she didn’t garden in this coat. It’s practically new.

As a matter of fact, Maggie told herself, I think they had this same coat in the boutique where I shopped the other day.

Uncertainly, she laid the coat across the bed. Instinct made her decide that she wouldn’t brush the rest of the dirt from the pocket now.

There was just one task left before this room would be cleared out completely. The shoes and boots and slippers that covered the floor of the larger closet had to be sorted through and categorized. Most would no doubt be discarded, but some might be worth giving to Goodwill.

No more for tonight, though, she decided. That’s tomorrow’s job.

It was time for the hot soak she had come to look forward to at this time of the day. And then she would get dressed for her dinner with Neil, something she hadn’t thought about much during the day but which she now realized she was looking forward to.

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.