Recently widowed and nervous about living alone, Greta had gladly sold her home on Ochre Point, moved to Latham Manor, and felt she had made a good decision. As one of the first occupants, she had a select studio. Large, with a living area alcove, it accommodated all her most treasured furnishings. And best of all, when she closed her door, it was with the secure sense of not being alone in the night. There always was a guard on the premises, a nurse on duty, and a bell to summon help if necessary.

Greta enjoyed the companionship of most of the other residents and easily avoided the ones who got on her nerves. She also kept up her long friendship with Nuala Moore; they often went out to lunch together, and at Greta’s request Nuala agreed to give art classes twice a week at the residence.

After Timothy Moore died, Greta had begun a campaign to get Nuala to move to the residence. When Nuala demurred, saying she would be fine alone and insisting further that she couldn’t do without her art studio, Greta urged her to at least put in her application so that when one of the two-bedroom suites became available, she would be in a position to change her mind. Nuala had finally agreed, admitting that her lawyer was encouraging her to do the same thing.

But now that would never happen, Greta thought sadly, as she sat in her easy chair, the virtually untouched dinner tray in front of her.

She was still upset that she had experienced that weak spell at Nuala’s funeral earlier in the day. She had been feeling perfectly fine until this morning. Perhaps if she had taken time to eat a proper breakfast it wouldn’t have happened, she reasoned.

She simply could not allow herself to become ill now. Especially now she wanted to keep as active as possible. Being busy was the only way to work out grief; life had taught her that. She also knew it wasn’t going to be easy, for she would miss Nuala’s cheerful presence very much.

It was reassuring to know that Nuala’s stepdaughter, Maggie Holloway, would be visiting her. At the funeral parlor yesterday, before the service, Maggie had introduced herself and said, “Mrs. Shipley, I hope you’re going to let me spend time with you. I know you were Nuala’s closest friend. I want to make you my friend, too.”

There was a tap at the door.

Greta liked the fact that unless they had reason to suspect a problem, the staff was instructed to enter a guest’s room only when invited. Nurse Markey, however, didn’t seem to understand: Just because the door isn’t locked doesn’t mean that she is free to barge in at any time. Some appeared to like the intrusive nurses. Greta did not.

Predictably, before Greta could respond to the knock, Nurse Markey strode in, a professional smile wreathing her strong features. “How are we doing tonight, Mrs. Shipley?” she asked loudly as she came over and perched on the hassock, her face uncomfortably close to Greta’s.

“I’m quite fine, thank you, Miss Markey. I hope you are.”

The solicitous “we” always irritated Greta. She had mentioned that fact several times, but this woman clearly did not intend to change anything, so why bother? Greta asked herself. Suddenly she realized that her heartbeat was beginning to accelerate.

“I hear we had a weak spell in church…”

Greta put her hand on her chest as though by that act she could stop the wild pounding.

“Mrs. Shipley, what’s the matter? Are you all right?”

Greta felt her wrist being seized.

As suddenly as it had begun, the pounding slackened. She managed to say, “Just give me a moment. I’ll be fine. I just felt a little breathless, that’s all.”

“I want you to lean back and close your eyes. I’m going to call Dr. Lane.” Nurse Markey’s face was barely inches from hers now. Instinctively Greta turned away.

Ten minutes later, propped up on pillows in bed, Greta tried to reassure the doctor that the little spell she had had was completely past. But later, as she drifted off to sleep with the help of a mild sedative, she could not escape the chilling memory of how just two weeks ago, Constance Rhinelander, who had been here so briefly, had died of heart failure, so unexpectedly.

First Constance, she thought, then Nuala. Grandmother’s housekeeper used to say that deaths come in threes. Please don’t let me be the third, she thought as she drifted off.

No, it had not been a nightmare; it really had happened. The full reality of events of the past few days settled firmly in Maggie’s mind as she stood in Nuala’s kitchen, in the house that now, incredibly, was hers.

At three o’clock, Liam had helped carry her bags here from the Woodses’ guest room. He had left them at the top of the stairs. “Do you know which bedroom you’re going to use?” he had asked.

“No.”

“Maggie, you look ready to collapse. Are you sure you want to stay here? I don’t think it’s such a hot idea.”

“Yes,” she had replied after a thoughtful pause, “I do want to stay.”

Now as she put the kettle on, Maggie reflected with gratitude that one of Liam’s nicest qualities was that he didn’t argue.

Instead of objecting further, he had said simply, “Then I’ll leave you alone. But I do hope you’ll rest for a while. Don’t start unpacking or trying to sort out Nuala’s things.”

“Certainly not tonight.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

At the door, he had put an arm around her and given her a friendly hug. Then he was gone.

Feeling suddenly exhausted, moving as though it was an effort to put one foot in front of the other, Maggie had locked the front and back doors, then climbed the stairs. Glancing through the bedrooms, she saw immediately that the one Nuala had meant her to have was the second largest. It was simply furnished -a maple double bed, a dresser with mirror, a night table and rocking chair-and there were no personal effects around. The dresser top held only an old-fashioned enamel toiletry set: comb, brush, mirror, buttonhook and nail file.

After dragging her bags into that room, Maggie had peeled off her skirt and sweater, slipped into her favorite robe, and climbed under the covers.

Now, after a nearly three-hour nap, and aided by a cup of tea, she was finally beginning to feel clearheaded. She even sensed that she was over the shock of Nuala’s death.

The sadness, though, that’s another story, she thought. That won’t go away.

She realized suddenly that for the first time in four days she was hungry. She opened the refrigerator and saw that it had been stocked: eggs, milk, juice, a small roasted chicken, a loaf of bread, and a container of homemade chicken soup. Obviously Mrs. Woods, she thought.

She settled on making herself a chicken sandwich, slicing and skinning the chicken and using only a trace of mayonnaise.

She had just gotten comfortable at the table when she was startled by a rap at the back door. She spun around and was on her feet even as the handle turned, her body tense, poised to react.

She gasped with relief as Earl Bateman’s face appeared in the oval window that comprised most of the top half of the door.

Chief Brower theorized that Nuala had been surprised by an intruder in this kitchen, an intruder who had come in the back door. That thought, and the mental image it conjured up, ran through her mind as she quickly crossed the room.

Part of her worried if she was doing the right thing to even open the door, but now more annoyed than worried for her safety, she unlocked it and let him in.

The absentminded professor look that she associated with Bateman was more in evidence at that moment than at any time in the last three days.

“Maggie, forgive me,” he said. “I’m heading back to Providence until Friday, and as I got in the car, it occurred to me that you might not have locked this door. I know that Nuala was in the habit of leaving it unlocked. I spoke to Liam, and he mentioned that he had left you here earlier and thought you were going to go to bed. I didn’t mean to intrude; I thought I’d just drive by and check, and slip the lock myself if it wasn’t set. I’m sorry, but from the front of the house there was no sign that you were still up.”