There was a knock at the door, and Mrs. Bainbridge commented, “That will be the lunch tray.” She raised her voice, “Come in, please.”

It was Angela, the young maid whom Maggie had met on her earlier visits. She greeted her, then got up. “I really must run along,” Maggie said.

Mrs. Bainbridge rose. “I’m so glad you stopped in, Maggie. Will I see you tomorrow?”

Maggie knew what she meant. “Yes, of course. I’ll be at the funeral parlor, and at Mrs. Shipley’s Requiem.”

When she went downstairs, she was glad to see that the foyer was empty. Everyone must be in the dining room, she thought as she opened the front door. She reached in her pocketbook for her car keys and inadvertently hit the bell. A muffled ringing sound made her grab the clapper to silence it.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls, Maggie thought as she walked down the steps of Latham Manor.

Dr. Lane, Neil Stephens, and his father concluded their tour of Latham Manor at the entrance to the dining room. Neil took in the hum of conversation, the animated faces of the well-dressed seniors, the overall ambiance of the beautiful room. White-gloved waiters were serving, and the aroma of freshly baked bread was enticing.

Lane picked up a menu and handed it to Neil. “Today the main course is a choice of Dover sole with white asparagus, or chicken salad,” he explained. “The dessert choices are frozen yogurt or sorbet, with home-baked cookies.” He smiled. “I might add that this is a typical menu. Our chef is not only cordon bleu, but also a dietary specialist.”

“Very impressive,” Neil said, nodding appreciatively.

“Neil, we tee up in thirty minutes,” Robert Stephens reminded his son. “Don’t you think you’ve seen enough?”

“More important,” Dr. Lane said gently, “do you feel that you might recommend the available suite to your clients? Without meaning to pressure them, I can tell you that it won’t last long. Couples especially are attracted to the large units.”

“I’m going to speak to my clients on Monday when I get back to New York,” Neil said. “The place is most impressive. I’ll certainly send them the prospectus and recommend that they come up and look over everything for themselves.”

“Wonderful,” Dr. Lane said heartily, as Robert Stephens pointedly held up his watch, turned and began to walk down the corridor to the front door. Neil and Dr. Lane followed. “We like having couples here,” Dr. Lane continued. “Many of the guests are widows, but that doesn’t mean they don’t enjoy having men around. In fact, we’ve had several romances develop between single guests.”

Robert Stephens slowed and fell into step with them. “If you don’t settle down soon, Neil, maybe you should put in your application. This place may be your best chance.”

Neil grinned. “Just don’t ever let my father move in,” he told the doctor.

“Don’t worry about me. This place is too rich for my blood,” Robert Stephens declared. “But that reminds me. Doctor, do you remember receiving an application from a Mrs. Cora Gebhart?”

Dr. Lane frowned. “That name is familiar. Oh yes, she’s in what we call the ‘pending file.’ She visited here about a year ago, filled out an application but did not want it activated. It’s our practice to phone someone like that once or twice a year to see whether they’re nearer to a decision. The last time I spoke to Mrs. Gebhart, I had the impression that she was seriously considering joining us.”

“She was,” the elder Stephens said shortly. “All right, Neil, let’s be on our way.”

Neil tried calling Maggie once more from the car phone, but he still got no answer.

Even though it was a beautiful day and he played excellent golf, Neil found the afternoon unconscionably long. He could not shake the ominous feeling that something was wrong.

On her way home, Maggie decided to pick up groceries. She drove to a small market she had noticed near the wharf. There she gathered the makings of green salad and pasta pomodoro. I’ve had my fill of scrambled eggs and chicken soup, she thought. Then she saw a sign for freshly prepared New England clam chowder.

The clerk was a weathered-faced man in his sixties. “New here?” he asked affably, when she gave him her order.

Maggie smiled. “How can you tell?”

“Easy. When the missus makes her clam chowder, everyone buys at least a quart.”

“In that case, you’d better give me a second pint.”

“Got a head on your shoulders. I like that in young people,” he said.

As she drove away, Maggie smiled to herself. And another reason for keeping the house in Newport, she thought, was that with so many senior citizens around, she would be considered a youngster for quite a while to come.

And besides, I can’t just sort out Nuala’s things, take the best offer for the house, and walk away, she told herself. Even if Nuala was killed by a stranger, there are too many unanswered questions.

The bells, for instance. Who would put them on those graves? Maybe one of the old-guard friends does it on her own and never dreamt anyone would notice them, she acknowledged. For all I know, she thought, there may be bells on half the graves in Newport. On the other hand, one of them is missing. Did whoever it was change his or her mind about leaving it?

Pulling into the driveway at Nuala’s house, she carried the groceries around to the kitchen door and let herself in. Dropping the packages on the table, she turned and quickly locked the door. That’s something else, she thought. I meant to call in a locksmith. Liam would ask about that tonight. He had been so concerned about Earl showing up unexpectedly.

One of Nuala’s favorite expressions ran through Maggie’s head as she searched for a phone book: Better late than never. Maggie remembered how Nuala had said it one Sunday morning when she came running out to the car where Maggie and her father were already waiting.

Maggie hated to think about her father’s response, so typical of him: “And better still, never late, particularly when the rest of the congregation manages to show up on time.”

She found the phone book in a deep kitchen drawer, and smiled at the sight of the clutter beneath it: Xeroxed recipes, half-burned candles, rusty scissors, paper clips, small change.

I’d hate to try to find anything in this house, Maggie thought. There’s such a jumble. Then she felt her throat close. Whoever ransacked this house was looking for something, and chances are he didn’t find it, an interior voice whispered to her.

After she left a message on the machine of the first locksmith she called, she finished putting away the groceries and fixed herself a cup of the clam chowder, which at first taste made her glad she had bought more than she’d intended. Then she went up to the studio. Restlessly her fingers reached into the pot of wet clay. She wanted to go back to the bust she had started of Nuala but knew she could not. It was Greta Shipley whose face demanded to be captured-not really so much the face as the eyes, knowing, candid, and watchful. She was glad she had brought several armatures with her.

Maggie stayed at the worktable for an hour until the clay had taken on an approach to the likeness of the woman she had known so briefly. Finally the surging disquietude had passed, and she could wash her hands and start the job she knew she would find hardest: the task of sorting out Nuala’s paintings. She had to decide which to keep and which to offer to a dealer, knowing that a majority of them probably would end up in a scrap heap, cut out from their frames-frames some people would value more than the art they had once enhanced.

At three o’clock she started going through the works that had not yet been framed. In the storage closet off the studio, she found dozens of Nuala’s sketches, watercolors, and oils, a dizzying array that Maggie soon realized she could not hope to analyze without professional assistance.