Cora Gebhart daintily finished the last of her meal. “Excellent,” she announced as she sipped at the chardonnay in her glass. Hansen had wanted to order a full bottle, but she had informed him adamantly that one glass at luncheon was her limit.

Douglas laid his knife on the plate and carefully placed the fork beside it with prongs turned down, European style.

Cora Gebhart sighed. “That’s the way my husband always left the silver on his plate. Were you educated in Europe as well?”

“I spent my junior year at the Sorbonne,” Hansen responded with studied nonchalance.

“How delightful!” Mrs. Gebhart exclaimed, and immediately slipped into flawless French, which Douglas desperately tried to follow.

After a few moments, he held up his hand, smiling. “I can read and write French fluently, but it has been eleven years since I was there, and I’m afraid I’m a bit rusty. En anglais, s’il vous plaît.”

They laughed together, but Hansen’s antenna went up. Had Mrs. Gebhart been testing him? he wondered. She had commented on his handsome tweed jacket and his overall distinguished appearance, saying it was unusual in a time when so many young men, her grandson included, looked as though they had just returned from a camping trip. Was she telling him in a subtle way that she could see right through him? That she could sense that he wasn’t really a graduate of Williams and the Wharton School of Business, as he claimed?

He knew that his lean, blond, aristocratic appearance was impressive. It had gotten him entry-level jobs with both Merrill Lynch and Salomon Brothers, but he hadn’t lasted six months at either place.

Mrs. Gebhart’s next words reassured him, however. “I think I’ve been too conservative,” she complained. “I’ve tied up too much of my money in trusts so my grandchildren can buy more faded jeans. Because of that, I don’t have a lot left for myself. I’ve thought about moving into one of the retirement residences -I even recently toured Latham Manor with that in mind- but I would have to move into one of the smaller units, and I’m just used to more space.” She paused, then looked Hansen squarely in the face. “I’m thinking favorably about putting three hundred thousand dollars in the stock you recommended.”

He tried not to let his emotions register on his face, but it was a struggle. The amount she mentioned was considerably more than he had hoped for.

“My accountant is opposed to it, of course, but I’m beginning to think he’s a fuddy-duddy. Do you know him? His name is Robert Stephens. He lives in Portsmouth.”

Hansen did know the name. Robert Stephens took care of the taxes for Mrs. Arlington, and she had lost a bundle investing in a high-tech company he had recommended.

“But I pay him to do my taxes, not to run my life,” Mrs. Gebhart continued, “so without discussing it with him, I’m going to cash in my bonds and let you make me a killing, too. Now that the decision is made, maybe I will have that second glass of wine.”

As the midafternoon sun bathed the restaurant in golden warmth, they toasted each other.

Maggie spent almost two hours at St. Mary’s and Trinity cemeteries. Funerals were taking place in some of the areas she wanted to photograph, so in each case she waited until the mourners had departed before taking out her camera.

The beautiful warm day ran counter to her chilling quest, but she persevered, revisiting all the graves she had been to with Greta Shipley, and taking pictures from every angle.

Her initial hunch had been that she had detected something odd at Mrs. Rhinelander’s grave, which had been the last they had visited. For that reason she reversed the order she and Mrs. Shipley had followed yesterday, starting with the Rhinelander plot and ending at Nuala’s grave.

It was at this final stop that a young girl of about eight or nine appeared and stayed nearby, watching her intently.

When Maggie finished shooting a roll of film, she turned to the little girl. “Hi, I’m Maggie,” she said. “What’s your name?”

“Marianne. What do you want to take pictures here for?”

“Well, I’m a photographer and I do some special projects, and this is one I’m working on.”

“Do you want to take a picture of my grandfather’s grave? It’s right over there.” She pointed off to the left, where Maggie could see several women standing by a tall headstone.

“No, I don’t think so. I’m actually done for the day. But thank you. And I’m sorry about your grandfather.”

“Today’s his third anniversary. He got married again when he was eighty-two. Mom says that woman wore him out.”

Maggie tried not to smile. “That happens sometimes, I guess.”

“My dad said that after fifty years with Grandma, at least he had some fun for two years. The lady he was married to has a new boyfriend now. Dad says he’s probably got only a couple years left.”

Maggie laughed. “I think your dad must be fun.”

“He is. Okay, I gotta go. Mom’s waving to me. See you.”

It was a conversation Nuala would have enjoyed, Maggie reflected. What am I looking for? she asked herself as she stared down at the grave. The flowers Greta Shipley had left were starting to wilt, but otherwise, this plot looked exactly like the others. Even so, she shot one more roll of film, just to be safe.

The afternoon passed quickly. Consulting the map on the passenger seat, Maggie drove into the center of Newport. Because as a professional photographer she always preferred to do her own developing, it was with real reluctance she dropped off her rolls of film at a drugstore. But realistically there was no other way. She hadn’t brought any of her darkroom equipment with her; it would have been just too complicated for so brief a trip. After securing a promise that her pictures would be ready the next day, she had a burger and a Coke at the Brick Alley Pub, then found a boutique on Thames Street where she was able to find two cowl-necked sweaters-one white, one black-two long skirts and a cream-colored tapered jacket with matching slacks. Used in combination with what she had, these additions to her wardrobe would take care of anything that might come up in Newport for the next ten days. And besides, she really liked them.

Newport is special, she thought as she drove along Ocean Drive, back to Nuala’s house.

My house, she amended, still surprised at the realization. Malcolm Norton had had an agreement with Nuala to buy the house, that Maggie knew. He said he wanted to talk with me, she reflected. Of course it has to be about the house. Do I want to sell it? she asked herself. Last night I’d have said, “Probably.” But now, at this moment, with that glorious ocean and this lovely, quaint town on this special island, I’m not so sure.

No. If I had to make up my mind right now, she thought, I wouldn’t sell it.