When Maggie first awoke on Friday morning, she squinted at the clock and saw that it was only six. She knew she probably had had enough sleep, but she wasn’t yet willing to get up, so she closed her eyes again. About half an hour later she fell into an uneasy sleep in which vague, troublesome dreams came and went, then faded altogether when she woke up again at seven-thirty.

She arose feeling groggy and headachy and decided that a brisk, after-breakfast walk along Ocean Drive would probably help clear her head. I need that, she thought, especially since I’ve got to go to the cemeteries again this morning.

And tomorrow you’ll be at Trinity Cemetery for Mrs. Shipley’s funeral, an interior voice reminded her. For the first time, Maggie realized that Mrs. Bainbridge had said that Greta Shipley was being buried there. Not that that made a difference. She would have gone to both cemeteries today no matter what. After spending so much time going over those photographs last night, she was anxious to see what was causing the odd glint she detected on Nuala’s grave.

She showered, dressed in jeans and a sweater, and had a quick juice and coffee before she went out. Maggie was immediately glad she had made the decision to take the walk. The early fall day was magnificent. The sun was brilliant as it rose in the sky, though there was a cool ocean breeze that made her thankful she had reached for her jacket. There was also the glorious sound of the crashing waves, and the unique, wonderful scent of salt and sea life that filled the air.

I could fall in love with this place, she thought. Nuala spent her summers here when she was a girl. How she must have missed this when she moved away from it.

After a mile, Maggie turned and retraced her steps. Looking up, she realized that only a glimpse of the third floor of Nuala’s house-my house, she thought-showed from the road. There are too many trees around it, she told herself. They should come down or at least be trimmed. And I wonder why the end of the property that would afford a drop-dead view of the ocean has never been built on. Could there be restrictions against building there?

The question nagged at her as she finished her walk. I really should look into that, she thought. From what Nuala told me, Tim Moore bought this property at least fifty years ago. Haven’t there been any changes in building restrictions since then? she wondered.

Back at the house, she paused only long enough to have another quick cup of coffee before she left promptly at nine. She wanted to get the cemetery visits over with.

At quarter past nine, Neil Stephens stopped his car in front of the mailbox with the name MOORE painted on it. He got out, walked up the path and onto the porch, and rang the bell. There was no answer. Feeling like a voyeur, he went over to the window. The shade was only half drawn, and he had a clear view into what seemed to be the living room.

Not knowing what he was looking for, other than for some tangible sign that Maggie Holloway might be there, he walked around to the back and peered through the window in the kitchen door. He could see a coffeepot on the stove, and next to the sink a cup and saucer and juice glass were upturned, suggesting that they had been rinsed and left to dry. But had they been there for days or only minutes?

Finally he decided he had nothing to lose by ringing a neighbor’s bell and inquiring whether anyone had seen Maggie. He received no response at the first two houses he tried. At the third house, the doorbell was answered by an attractive couple who appeared to be in their mid-sixties. As he quickly told them why he was there, he realized he had lucked out.

The couple, who introduced themselves as Irma and John Woods, told him of Nuala Moore’s death and funeral, and of Maggie’s presence in the house. “We were supposed to visit our daughter last Saturday but didn’t go until after Nuala’s funeral,” Mrs. Woods explained. “Just got back late last night. I know Maggie is here. I haven’t spoken to her since we got back, but I saw her go for a walk this morning.”

“And I saw her drive past about fifteen minutes ago,” John Woods volunteered.

They invited him in for coffee and told him about the night of the murder.

“What a sweet girl Maggie is,” Irma Woods sighed. “I could tell how heartbroken she was about losing Nuala, but she isn’t one to carry on. The hurt was all in her eyes.”

Maggie, Neil thought. I wish I could have been here for you.

The Woodses had no idea where Maggie might have gone this morning, or how long she would be out.

I’ll leave her a note to call me, Neil decided. There’s nothing else I can do. But then he had an inspiration. When he drove away five minutes later, he had left a note for Maggie on the door, and he also had her phone number tucked securely in his pocket.

Remembering the curious questions asked by the child who had wanted to know why she was taking pictures at Nuala’s grave, Maggie stopped at a florist’s and bought an assortment of fall flowers to place on the graves she intended to inspect.

As before, once she passed the entrance to St. Mary’s, the welcoming statue of the angel and the meticulously kept plots seemed to impart a sense of peace and immortality. Veering to the left, she drove up the winding incline that led to Nuala’s grave.

As she stepped from the car, she sensed that a workman weeding the gravel path nearby was watching her. She had heard of people being mugged in cemeteries, but the thought passed quickly. There were other workmen in the area as well.

But given the fact there was someone so close by, she was glad she had thought to pick up the flowers; she would rather not seem to be examining the grave. Squatting down next to the plot, she selected a half dozen of the flowers and laid them one by one at the base of the tombstone.

The flowers Greta Shipley had placed there on Tuesday had been removed, and Maggie quickly consulted the snapshot she was holding to see exactly where she had detected the glint of some metal-like object.

It was fortunate she had brought the picture, she realized, because the object she was looking for had sunk more deeply into the moist earth and easily could have been missed. But it was there.

She looked swiftly to the side and realized she had the workman’s undivided attention. Kneeling forward, she bowed her head and crossed herself, then let her folded hands drop to the ground. Still in the posture of prayer, her fingers touching the sod, she dug around the object and freed it.

She waited for a moment. When she glanced around again, the workman had his back turned to her. With one motion, she yanked the object up and hastily concealed it between her joined palms. As she did this, she heard a muffled ringing sound.

A bell? she thought. Why in God’s name would anyone bury a bell on Nuala’s grave? Certain that the workman had heard the sound as well, she got up and walked quickly back to her car.

She laid the bell down on top of the remaining flowers. Not wanting to stay another minute under the scrutiny of the watchful maintenance worker, she drove slowly in the direction of the second grave she wanted to visit. She parked in the nearby cul-de-sac, then looked around. There was no one nearby.

Opening the car window, she carefully picked up the bell and held it outside. After brushing off the loose earth that clung to it, she turned it around in her hand, examining it, her fingers holding the clapper to keep it from pealing.

The bell was about three inches high, and surprisingly heavy, not unlike an old-fashioned miniature school bell, except for the decorative garland of flowers bordering the base. The clapper was heavy too, she noticed. When allowed to hang freely, it no doubt could make quite a sound.