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 The rigid schoolboy posture had been replaced by the comfortable stance of a man who was secure and at ease.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.”

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 step mother, 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?”