Lane indicated the leather chair in front of his desk. “Sit down, please.” He returned to his own chair. “I wish she’d wait a few days, but when Mrs. Shipley makes up her mind to do something… well, nothing changes it. I do think that both of her little spells yesterday were caused by her deep emotion over Nuala’s death. The two of them were really very close. They’d gotten into the habit of going up to Mrs. Shipley’s studio after Nuala’s art class, and they would gossip and have a glass or two of wine. I told them they were like a pair of schoolgirls. Frankly, though, it probably was good for both of them, and I know Mrs. Shipley will miss those visits.”

He smiled, reminiscing. “Nuala once told me that if she were hit over the head and then asked her age when she came to, she’d say twenty-two and mean it. Inside, she said, she really was twenty-two.”

Then as he realized what he had said, he looked shocked. “I’m so sorry. How careless of me.”

Hit over the head, Maggie thought. But feeling sorry for the man’s acute embarrassment, she said, “Please don’t apologize. You’re right. In spirit Nuala never was older than twenty-two.” She hesitated, then decided to plunge in. “Doctor, there’s one thing I must ask you. Did Nuala ever confide to you that something was troubling her? I mean, did she have a physical problem she may have mentioned?”

He shook his head. “No, not physical. I think Nuala was having a great deal of difficulty with what she perceived to be giving up her independence. I really think that if she had lived she eventually would have made up her mind to come here. She was always concerned about the relatively high cost of the large apartment with the extra bedroom, but as she said, she had to have a studio where she could both work and close the door when she was finished.” He paused. “Nuala told me that she knew she was a bit untidy by nature but that her studio was always the scene of organized chaos.”

“Then you believe that canceling the sale of her house and the hasty will she left were simply a last-minute panic attack of sorts?”

“Yes, I do.” He stood up. “I’ll ask Angela to bring you up to Mrs. Shipley. And if you do go to the cemetery, observe her carefully, please. If she seems in any way distraught, return immediately. After all, the families of our guests have entrusted their lives to our care, and we take that responsibility very seriously.”

Malcolm Norton sat in his office on Thames Street, staring at his appointment calendar for the remainder of the day. It was now entirely empty, thanks to the cancellation of his two o’clock appointment. It wouldn’t have been much of a case-just a young housewife suing her neighbor over a nasty dog bite. But the dog had a previous complaint against it-another neighbor had fought off an attack with a broom-so it was a foregone conclusion that the insurance company would be anxious to settle, particularly since the gate had been carelessly left open, and the dog allowed to run loose.

The trouble was, it was too easy a case. The woman had phoned to say the insurance company had settled to her satisfaction. Meaning I’m out three or four thousand dollars, Norton thought glumly.

He still could not get over the sickening realization that less than twenty-four hours before she died, Nuala Moore had secretly canceled the sale of her house to him. Now he was stuck with the two-hundred-thousand-dollar mortgage he had raised on his own house.

It had been hell getting Janice to agree to co-sign for the mortgage. Finally he had told her about the impending change in the Wetlands Act, and about the profits he hoped to reap in reselling Nuala Moore’s property.

“Look,” he had said, trying to reason with her, “you’re tired of working in the nursing home. God knows I hear that every day. It’s an absolutely legitimate sale. The house needs everything done to it. The worst possible scenario is that the new wetlands legislation doesn’t go through, which won’t happen. In that case, we take a renovating mortgage on Nuala’s place, fix it up, and sell it for three-fifty.”

“A second mortgage,” she had said sarcastically. “My, my, you’re quite the entrepreneur. So I quit my job. And what will you do with your new-found wealth, after the change in the Wetlands Act goes through?”

It was, of course, a question he was not prepared to answer. Not until after the sales had been completed. And that, of course, was not going to happen now. Not unless things changed. He could still hear Janice’s furious words after they got home Friday night. “So now we have a two-hundred-thousand-dollar mortgage and the expense we went through to get it. You march yourself right down to the bank and pay it off. I don’t intend to lose my home.”

“You’re not going to lose it,” he had said, pleading for time to work everything out. “I already told Maggie Holloway that I wanted to see her. She knows it’s about the house. Do you think she’ll want to stay in a place where her stepmother was murdered? Ms. Holloway will get out of Newport as fast as possible, and I’m going to point out that over the years I’ve been a big help to Nuala and Tim Moore without charging them my usual fee. By next week she’ll have agreed to sell the house.”

She had to agree to sell the house, he told himself morosely. It was his only way out of this mess.

The intercom buzzed. He picked it up. “Yes, Barbara,” he said, his voice formal. He was careful never to let an intimate quality intrude into their exchanges when she was in the outer office. He could never be certain that someone else had not come in.

From her tone of voice today, it was obvious to him that she was alone. “Malcolm, may I talk to you for a few minutes?” was all she said, but immediately he sensed that something was wrong.

A moment later she was sitting opposite him, her hands folded in her lap, her lovely hazel eyes averted. “Malcolm, I don’t know how to say this, so I’d better just plunge in. I can’t stay here. I feel rotten about myself these days.” She hesitated, then added, “Even loving you as much as I do, I can’t get away from the fact that you’re married to someone else.”

“You’ve seen me with Janice. You know our relationship.”

“But she’s still your wife. It’s better this way, believe me. I’m going to visit my daughter in Vail for a couple of months. Then, when I come back, I’ll find a different job.”

“Barbara, you can’t just walk out like this,” he pleaded, suddenly panicked.

She smiled sadly. “Not this minute. I wouldn’t do that. I’m giving you a week’s notice.”

“By that time, Janice and I will be separated, I promise you. Please stay! I can’t let you go.”

Not after all I’ve done to keep you! he thought desperately.

After Maggie picked up Greta Shipley, they made a stop at the florist’s to buy flowers. As they were driving to the cemetery, Greta reminisced to Maggie about her friendship with Nuala.

“Her parents rented a cottage here for several years when we both were about sixteen. She was such a pretty girl, and so much fun. She and I were inseparable during that time, and she had many admirers. Why, Tim Moore was always hanging around her. Then her father was transferred to London, and she moved there and went to school there, as well. Later, I heard she was married. Eventually we just lost track of each other, something I always regretted.”

Maggie steered the car through the quiet streets that led to St. Mary’s cemetery in Newport. “How did you happen to get together again?” she asked.

“It was just twenty-one years ago. My phone rang one day. Someone asked to speak to the former Greta Carlyle. I knew the voice was familiar but for the moment couldn’t place it. I responded that I was Greta Carlyle Shipley, and Nuala whooped, ‘Good for you, Gret. You landed Carter Shipley!’”