“You could have phoned.”

“I’m one of those holdouts who doesn’t have a phone in the car. Sorry. I never was much good at playing the Boy Scout. And I’ve interrupted your dinner.”

“It’s okay. It was just a sandwich. Would you like something?”

“No, thanks. I’m on my way. Maggie, knowing how Nuala felt about you, I think I have a sense of how special your relationship with her was.”

“Yes, it was special.”

“If I may give you one bit of advice, it’s to heed the words of the great researcher Durkheim, on the subject of death. He wrote, ‘Sorrow like joy becomes exalted and amplified when leaping from mind to mind.’”

“What are you trying to tell me?” Maggie asked quietly.

“I’m distressing you and that’s the last thing I want to do. What I mean is that I suspect you have the habit of hugging grief to yourself. It’s easier if you are more open at a time like this. I guess what I’m attempting to say is that I’d like to be your friend.”

He opened the door. “I’ll be back Friday afternoon. Double lock the door, please.”

He was gone. Maggie snapped the lock and sank into a chair. The kitchen was suddenly frighteningly still, and she realized she was trembling. How could Earl Bateman have thought she would be grateful to him for appearing unannounced and surreptitiously trying the lock?

She rose and with quick, silent steps ran through the dining room into the dark front room and knelt at the window to look out under the fringe of the shade.

She saw Bateman walking down the path to the street.

At his car, he opened the door, then turned and stood for a long moment, staring back at the house. Maggie had the feeling that even though she was surely hidden by the dark interior of the house, Earl Bateman knew, or at least sensed, that she was watching him.

The torchlight at the end of the driveway shone a pool of light near him, and as she watched, Bateman stepped into the light and gave a broad wave of his hand, a farewell gesture clearly directed at her. He can’t see me, she thought, but he knows I’m here.

When the phone rang at 8:00 A.M., Robert Stephens reached with his left hand to answer it, while his right maintained a firm hold on his coffee cup.

His “good morning” was a trifle curt, his wife of forty-three years noted with amusement. Dolores Stephens knew that her husband did not appreciate early morning phone calls.

“Anything that can be said at eight can wait until nine,” was his axiom.

Usually these calls were from one of the senior-citizen clients whose taxes he handled. He and Dolores had come to Portsmouth three years ago, looking to retire, but Robert decided to keep his hand in, as he put it, by taking on a few selected clients. Within six months he had all he could handle.

The hint of annoyance disappeared quickly from his voice as he said, “Neil, how are you?”

“Neil!” Dolores exclaimed, her tone immediately apprehensive. “Oh, I hope he’s not going to say he can’t make it this weekend,” she murmured.

Her husband waved her into silence. “The weather? Great. Couldn’t be better. I’m not taking the boat out of the water yet. You can get up Thursday? Wonderful. Your mother will be delighted. She’s grabbing the receiver. You know how impatient she is. Fine. I’ll call the club for a two o’clock tee-off.”

Dolores got on the line and heard the amused voice of her only child. “Aren’t you impatient this morning,” he said.

“I know. It’s just that it will be so good to see you. I’m so glad you’re able to come. And you will stay till Sunday, won’t you, Neil?”

“Of course. Looking forward to it. Okay, gotta run. Tell Dad his ‘good morning’ sounded more like ‘go to hell.’ He still hasn’t finished that first cup of coffee, huh?”

“You got it. Bye, dear.”

The parents of Neil Stephens looked at each other. Dolores sighed. “The one thing I miss about leaving New York is having Neil just drop by anytime,” she said.

Her husband got up, went over to the stove, and refilled his cup. “Did Neil say I sounded grouchy when I answered?”

“Something like that.”

Robert Stephens smiled reluctantly. “Well, I know I’m not all sunshine early in the morning, but just now I was afraid the call was from Laura Arlington. She’s all upset. Keeps calling me.”

Dolores waited.

“She made some serious investments that haven’t worked out, and she thinks now that she’s getting a big run-around.”

“Is she right?”

“I think she is. It was one of those supposedly hot tips. The broker persuaded her to invest in a small high-tech company that was supposed to be bought out by Microsoft. She bought one hundred thousand shares of stock at five dollars a share, convinced she’d end up with a big profit.”

“Five hundred thousand dollars! What’s it worth now?”

“The stock was just suspended from trading. As of yesterday, if you could sell it, you’d get eighty cents a share. Laura can’t afford to lose that kind of money. I wish to God she’d talked to me before she got into that one.”

“Isn’t she thinking of going into the Latham Manor Residence?”

“Yes, and that was the money that was going to pay for it. It was just about all she had. Her children wanted her to get settled there, but this broker convinced her that with this investment she’d not only be able to live at Latham but have money to leave her kids as well.”

“Was what he did illegal?”

“I don’t think so, unfortunately. Unethical perhaps, but probably not illegal. Anyway, I’m going to talk it over with Neil. That’s why I’m especially glad he’s coming up.”

Robert Stephens walked to the large window that overlooked Narragansett Bay. Like his son, he was a broad, athletic-looking man. At sixty-eight, his once-sandy hair was now white.

The water in the bay was quiet, almost as still as a lake. The grass behind the house, sloping down to the water, was starting to lose its velvety green. The maples were already displaying clusters of orange, copper, and burgundy leaves.

“Beautiful, peaceful,” he said, shaking his head. “Hard to believe that six miles from here, a woman was murdered in her own home.”

He turned and looked at his wife, effortlessly pretty, her silver hair knotted at the top of her head, her features still delicate and soft. “Dolores,” he said, his tone suddenly stern, “when I’m out, I want you to keep the alarm system on at all times.”

“Fine,” she agreed amiably. In fact, she had not wanted her husband to realize just how deeply that murder had shaken her, or that when she had read the paper’s graphic account, she had checked both her front and back doors, and, as usual, found them unlocked.

Dr. William Lane was not especially pleased by Maggie Holloway’s request for an appointment. Already irritated by his wife’s aimless, nonstop chatter over the lunch table, and behind in completing the ever-increasing load of forms the government required of him as director of Latham Manor, he found the thought of another lost half-hour galling. He regretted now having agreed to it. He couldn’t imagine what she needed to talk to him about.

Particularly since Nuala Moore had never signed the final papers committing her to move to the residence. She had completed all the forms for entrance, had taken her physical, and, when she started to seem hesitant, he had taken it upon himself to have the second bedroom of the available suite stripped of the carpeting and furniture to show her how easily it would accommodate her easels and art supplies and cabinets. But then she called and simply said she had decided to keep her house instead.

He wondered why she had changed her mind so suddenly. She had seemed the perfect candidate. Surely it wasn’t because she fantasized that the stepdaughter would come live with her and wanted to have a place for her to stay?