“Don’t touch her!”

At that moment the front doorbell chimed, and he remembered noticing that the table in the dining room was set for company. Approaching sirens announced that more squad cars were on the scene, and in the next few minutes the officers had managed to get the stepdaughter and other arriving guests into a neighbor’s house. Everyone was told not to leave until the chief had a chance to talk to them.

“Chief.”

Brower looked up. Eddie Sousa, a rookie cop, was beside him.

“Some of the folks waiting to talk to you are getting kind of restless.”

Brower’s lifelong habit of frowning, whether in deep thought or annoyance, furrowed the skin of his forehead. The cause this time was annoyance. “Tell them I’ll be over in ten minutes,” he said testily.

Before leaving, he walked through the house once more. The place was a mess. Even the third-floor studio had been ransacked. Art supplies were thrown on the floor, as though hastily examined and discarded; drawers and cabinets had been emptied. Not too many intruders who had just committed murder would have taken the time for so thorough a search, he reasoned. Also, it would seem obvious from the overall appearance of the house that no money had been spent on it in a long time. So what was there to steal? he wondered.

The three second-floor bedrooms had been subjected to the same search. One of them was tidy, except for the open closet door and yanked-out dresser drawers. The bedding had been turned back, and it was obvious the linen was fresh. It was Brower’s guess that this room had been prepared for the stepdaughter.

The contents of the largest bedroom were scattered everywhere. A pink leather jewelry chest, the same kind he once gave his wife for Christmas, was open. What was obviously costume jewelry was scattered on the surface of the maple lowboy.

Brower made a note to ask Nuala Moore’s friends about any valuable jewelry she might have had.

He spent a long moment studying the bedroom of the deceased in its disarray. Whoever did this wasn’t a vicious, common thief, or a drug-addicted burglar, he decided. He had been looking for something. Or she had been looking for something, he amended. Nuala Moore had apparently realized her life was in danger. From the look of things, his guess was that she had been running in an attempt to escape when she was struck down from behind. Anyone could have done that-man or woman. It didn’t require great strength.

And there was something else Brower noticed. Moore had obviously been preparing dinner, which suggested she was in the kitchen when the intruder arrived. She had tried to escape her attacker by running through the dining room, which meant the intruder must have been blocking the kitchen door. He or she probably came in that way, and since there was no sign of forced entry, the door must have been unlocked. Unless, of course, Mrs. Moore had let the intruder in herself. Brower made a note to check later whether the lock was the kind that stayed open once it was released.

But now he was ready to talk to the dinner guests. He left Detective Haggerty to wait for the coroner.

11

“No, thank you,” Maggie said as she pressed her index fingers to her temples. She vaguely realized that she hadn’t eaten since noon, ten hours ago, but the thought of food made her throat close.

“Not even a cup of tea, Maggie?”

She looked up. The kind, solicitous face of Irma Woods, Nuala’s next-door neighbor, hovered over her. It was easier to nod assent than to continue to refuse the offer. And to her surprise the mug warmed her chilled fingers, and the near-scalding tea felt good going down.

They were in the family room of the Woodses’ home, a house much bigger than Nuala’s. Family pictures were scattered on tabletops as well as on the mantel-children and grandchildren, she supposed. The Woodses appeared to be contemporaries of Nuala.

Despite all the stress and confusion, Maggie thought she had the others straight, the ones who were to have been the dinner guests. There was Dr. William Lane, the director of Latham Manor, which she gathered was a senior citizens’ residence. A large, balding man somewhere in his fifties, Dr. Lane had a soothing quality about him as he expressed his condolences. He had tried to give her a mild sedative, but Maggie had refused. She found that even the mildest of sedatives could make her sleepy for days.

Maggie observed that whenever Dr. Lane’s very pretty wife, Odile, said anything, her hands began to move. “Nuala came to visit her friend Greta Shipley at the home almost every day,” she had explained, her fingers gesturing in a come-hither movement as though inviting someone to come closer. Then she shook her head and clasped her fingers together as though in prayer. “Greta will be heartbroken. Heartbroken,” she repeated decisively.

Odile had already made the same remark several times, and Maggie found herself wishing she wouldn’t say it again. But this time Odile amended it with an additional remark: “And everyone in her art class will miss her so much. The guests who attended it were having so much fun. Oh dear, I didn’t even think of that until this moment.”

That would be like Nuala, Maggie thought, to share her talent with others. A vivid memory of Nuala giving her her own palette for her sixth birthday flooded her mind. “And I’m going to teach you how to paint lovely pictures,” Nuala had said. Only it didn’t happen that way, because I was never any good, Maggie thought. It wasn’t until she put clay in my hands that art became real to me.

Malcolm Norton, who had introduced himself to Maggie as Nuala’s lawyer, was standing at the fireplace. He was a handsome man, but it seemed to her that he was striking a pose. There was something superficial-almost artificial-about him, she thought. Somehow his expression of grief, and his statement, “I was her friend and confidant as well as her lawyer,” suggested that he felt he was the one who deserved sympathy.

But then why should anyone think I’m the one to receive condolences? she asked herself. They all know that I’ve only just met Nuala again after over twenty years.

Norton’s wife, Janice, spent most of the time talking quietly to the doctor. An athletic type, she might have been attractive except for the downward lines at the corners of her mouth that gave her a harsh, even bitter, expression.

Thinking about that, Maggie wondered at the way her mind was dealing with the shock of Nuala’s death. On the one hand, she hurt so much; on the other, she was observing these people as though through a camera’s eye.

Liam and his cousin Earl sat near each other in matching fireside chairs. When Liam came in, he had put his arm around her and said, “Maggie, how horrible for you,” but then he seemed to understand that she needed physical and mental space to absorb this by herself, and he did not take the place next to her on the love seat.

Love seat, Maggie thought. It was behind the love seat that they had found Nuala’s body.

Earl Bateman leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him, as though in deep thought. Maggie had met him only on the night of the Moore reunion, but she remembered that he was an anthropologist who lectured on funeral customs.

Had Nuala indicated to anyone what kind of funeral she would want? Maggie wondered. Maybe Malcolm Norton, the lawyer, would know.

The sound of the doorbell made everyone look up. The police chief Maggie had followed into Nuala’s house now came into the room. “I’m sorry to have detained you,” he said. “Several of my men will take your individual statements, so we will have you out of here as soon as possible. First, though, I have some questions I want to ask you as a group. Mr. and Mrs. Woods, I wish you’d stay, too.”