“But I think we can eliminate most of Newport by considering the fact that whoever killed Mrs. Moore, and then ransacked her house, could hardly help seeing the preparations she’d been making for a dinner party,” Brower mused.

“The table was set-” Haggerty began, then quickly closed his lips. He had interrupted his boss.

Brower’s frown deepened. “I was getting to that. So that means that whoever was in the house wasn’t worried that somebody might arrive on the scene any minute. Which means that it is a good chance the killer will turn out to be one of the dinner guests we talked to in the neighbor’s house Friday night. Or less likely, someone who knew when the guests were expected.”

He paused. “It’s time to take a serious look at all of them. Wipe the slate clean. Forget what we know about them. Start from scratch.” He leaned back. “What do you think, Jim?”

Haggerty proceeded carefully. “Chief, I had a hunch you might be thinking along those lines, and you know how I like to pass the time of day with people, so I did a little looking in that direction already. And I think I’ve turned up a few things that might be interesting.”

Brower eyed him speculatively. “Go on.”

“Well, I’m sure you saw the expression on the face of that pompous windbag, Malcolm Norton, when Mrs. Woods told us about the will change and the canceled sale.”

“I saw it. What I’d call shock and dismay, heavily tinged with anger.”

“You know it’s common knowledge that Norton’s law practice is down to dog bites and the kind of divorces that involve splitting the pickup truck and the secondhand car. So it interested me to find out where he’d get the kind of money he’d need to buy Mrs. Moore’s house. I also unearthed a little gossip about him and his secretary, a woman named Barbara Hoffman.”

“Interesting. So where did he get the money?” Brower asked.

“By mortgaging his own house, which is probably his biggest asset. Maybe his only asset. Even talked his wife into co-signing.”

“Does she know he has a girlfriend?”

“From what I gather, that woman misses nothing.”

“Then why would she jeopardize their one mutual asset?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. I talked to someone at Hopkins Realtors-and got their opinion on the transaction. Frankly they were surprised that Norton was willing to pay two hundred thousand for the Moore place. According to them, the house needs a total overhaul.”

“Does Norton’s girlfriend have money?”

“No. Everything I could find out indicated that Barbara Hoffman’s a nice woman, a widow who raised and educated her kids alone, and who has a modest bank balance.” Haggerty forestalled the next question. “My wife’s cousin is a teller at the bank. Hoffman deposits fifty dollars in her savings account twice a month.”

“The question then is why did Norton want that house? Is there oil on the property?”

“If there is, he can’t touch it. The section of the property on the water side is designated wetland. The buildable part of the lot is small, which restricts even enlarging the house much, and unless you’re on the top floor, you don’t have a view.”

“I think I’d better have a talk with Norton,” Brower said.

“I’d suggest having a talk with his wife, too, Chief. Everything I learned indicates she’s too shrewd to be talked into mortgaging her house without a very good reason, and it would have to be one that will benefit her.”

“Okay, it’s as good a place as any to start.” Brower stood up. “By the way, I don’t know if you’ve seen the background check we did on Maggie Holloway. It would appear she’s clean. Her father apparently left her a little money, and she seems to be very successful as a photographer, bringing down fairly big bucks, so there’s no money motive on her part that I can see. And there’s no question that she’s telling the truth about what time she left New York. The doorman at her apartment building verified it.”

“I’d like to have a chat with her,” Haggerty offered. “Mrs. Moore’s phone bill shows that she talked to Maggie Holloway a half-dozen times in the week before the murder. Maybe something Moore told her about the people she was inviting to the dinner would come out, something that might give us a lead.”

He paused, then added, “But, Chief, you know the thing that’s driving me nuts is not having any idea what Nuala Moore’s murderer was looking for when he or she ransacked that house. I’ll bet my bottom dollar that’s the key to this crime.”

Maggie awoke early but waited until eleven before she phoned Greta Shipley. She had been deeply concerned about how frail Greta had seemed last evening, and hoped that she had gotten a good night’s sleep. There was no answer in the room. Maybe Mrs. Shipley is feeling much better and went downstairs, she told herself.

The telephone rang fifteen minutes later. It was Dr. Lane. “Maggie, I have very sad news,” he said. “Mrs. Shipley had asked not to be disturbed this morning, but an hour ago Nurse Markey thought it best to check on her anyway. Sometime last night, she died peacefully in her sleep.”

Maggie sat for a long time after the phone call, numb with sadness, but also angry at herself for not being more insistent that Mrs. Shipley get a medical opinion-an outside medical opinion-to determine what was wrong. Dr. Lane said that all indicators pointed to heart failure. Clearly she had not felt well all evening.

First Nuala; now Greta Shipley. Two women, best friends, now both dead in one week, Maggie thought. She had been so excited, so happy to have Nuala back in her life. And now this…

Maggie thought of the time when Nuala had first given her a jar of wet clay. Although she was only six, Nuala recognized the fact that if Maggie had any particular artistic talent, it was not as a painter. “You’re no Rembrandt,” Nuala had said, laughing. “But just seeing you play with that crazy plastic clay, I have a hunch…”

She had propped up a picture of Maggie’s miniature poodle, Porgie, in front of her. “Try to copy him,” she had instructed. That had been the beginning. Ever since, Maggie had enjoyed a love affair with sculpting. Early on, however, she had realized that as satisfying as it was artistically, for her it could only be a hobby. Fortunately she also had an interest in photography-in which she proved to be genuinely talented-and so she had made that her career. But her passion for sculpting had never left her.

I still remember how wonderful it felt to put my hands in that clay, Maggie thought as, dry-eyed, she climbed the stairs to the third floor. I was clumsy with it, but I recognized something was happening, that with clay there was a connection from my brain to my fingers.

Now with the news of Greta Shipley’s death, something that still hadn’t really sunk in, Maggie knew she had to get her hands into wet clay. It would be therapeutic, and it would also give her a chance to think, to try to work out what she should do next.

She began work on a bust of Nuala but soon realized that it was Greta Shipley’s face that now filled her mind.

She had looked so pale last night, Maggie remembered. She rested her hand on the chair when she got up, and then took my arm when we walked from the grand salon in to dinner; I could feel how weak she was. Today she had intended to stay in bed. She wouldn’t admit it, but she was feeling ill. And the day we went to the cemeteries, she talked about feeling as if she was being waited on too much, as if she had no energy.

That’s the way it happened to Dad, Maggie remembered. His friends told her that, pleading fatigue, he had skipped a sched uled dinner with them and had gone to bed early. He never woke up. Heart failure. Exactly what Dr. Lane said happened to Greta.

Empty, she thought. I feel so empty. It was no use trying to work now. She felt no inspiration. Even the clay was failing her.