The chief’s questions were general, things like, “Was Mrs. Moore in the habit of leaving her back door unlocked?”

The Woodses told him that she always left it unlocked, that she even joked about forever mislaying the key to the front door, but she knew she could always sneak in the back.

He asked if she had seemed troubled recently. Unanimously they reported that Nuala had been happy and excited and looking forward to Maggie’s visit.

Maggie felt tears sting the back of her eyes. And then the realization came: But she was troubled.

It was only when Chief Brower said, “Now if you’ll just bear with us a few minutes more while my men ask you each a few questions, I promise you we’ll have you home soon,” that Irma Woods timidly interrupted.

“There is just one thing that maybe we ought to explain. Yesterday, Nuala came over. She had handwritten a new will and wanted us to witness her signature. She also had us call Mr. Martin, a notary public, so that he could make it official. She seemed a bit upset because she said that she knew Mr. Norton might be disappointed that she was canceling the sale of her house to him.”

Irma Woods looked at Maggie. “Nuala’s will asks that you visit or phone her friend Greta Shipley, at Latham Manor, as often as you can possibly manage it. Except for a few charitable bequests, she left her house and everything else she owned to you.”

It was obvious that Maggie Holloway was not satisfied with the theory that an intruder had murdered Nuala. He had seen that at the funeral parlor. Now at the Requiem Mass, he watched with narrowed eyes when she shook her head in disbelief as the priest spoke about the random violence that today claims so many innocent lives.

Maggie was much too smart, too observant. She could easily become a threat.

But as they filed out of St. Mary’s Church, he comforted himself with the thought that undoubtedly she would now go back to New York and put Nuala’s house up for sale. And we know who’s going to step in there with an offer before she leaves, he thought.

He was glad to note that Greta Shipley had been accompanied by a nurse when she arrived at the Mass, and then had had to leave almost immediately afterwards. Maggie would probably pay her a courtesy call at the residence before she took off.

He stirred restlessly. At least the Mass was nearly over. The soloist was singing “Here I am, Lord,” and the casket was being wheeled slowly down the aisle.

He didn’t really want to go to the cemetery now, although he knew there was no way out of it. Later. He would go there later… and alone. As with the others, his special gift would be a private memorial to her.

He filed out of the church with the thirty or so others who accompanied Nuala to her final resting place. It was the cemetery in which many of Newport ’s more prominent longtime Catholic residents were buried. Nuala’s grave was beside that of her last husband. The legend on the marble would soon be complete. Next to Timothy James Moore’s name and birth and death dates, her name and birth date were already inscribed. Soon, Friday’s date would be added. “Rest in peace” was already there.

He forced himself to look solemn as the final prayers were read… rather too rapidly, he thought. On the other hand, it was obvious that the dark clouds above were about to release a heavy torrent of rain.

When the service ended, Irma Woods invited everyone back to her house for refreshments.

He reasoned that it would be awkward to refuse, and besides, it would be a good time to learn exactly when Maggie Holloway planned to leave. Go away, Maggie, he thought. You’ll only get in trouble here.

An hour later, as the guests mingled and chatted, drinks and sandwiches in their hands, he was stunned to hear Irma Woods tell Maggie that the cleaning service had completed straightening the house and removing the mess created by the police when they had dusted for fingerprints.

“So the house is ready for you, Maggie,” Mrs. Woods told her. “But are you sure you won’t be nervous there? You know you’re welcome to continue staying here.”

Trying to seem casual, he moved closer, straining to hear. His back was turned toward them as Maggie said, “No, I won’t be nervous in Nuala’s home. I’d intended to stay two weeks, and so I shall. I’ll use the time to sort out everything, and, of course, to visit Greta Shipley at Latham Manor as Nuala requested.”

He stiffened as she added, “Mrs. Woods, you’ve been so kind. I can’t thank you enough. There’s just one thing. When Nuala came to see you Friday morning with that handwritten will, didn’t you question her? I mean, weren’t you surprised that she was so anxious to have it witnessed and notarized, so intent on having it done at once?”

It seemed to him that an eternity passed before Mrs. Woods answered, her response measured. “Well, yes, I did wonder. At first I just thought it was impulsive. Nuala had been very lonely since Tim died and was absolutely ecstatic that she’d found you. But since her death, I’ve been thinking that there was more to it than that. It was almost as if Nuala knew something terrible might happen to her.”

He drifted toward the fireplace, joining a group gathered there. He responded to their remarks, but his mind was racing. Maggie would be visiting Greta Shipley. How much did Greta know? How much did she suspect? Something had to be done. It could not be risked.

Greta. Obviously she was not well. Everyone had seen her helped out of church today. Everyone would believe that the shock of her friend’s death had contributed to a fatal heart attack. Unexpected, of course, but not really a surprise.

Sorry, Greta, he thought.

When she was still a relatively young age sixty-eight, Greta Shipley had been invited to a reception at the newly renovated Latham House, just rechristened the Latham Manor Residence. The new home for retirees was open and was accepting applications.

She liked everything she saw there. The house’s magnificent first floor included the grand salon and marble and crystal dining room, where the enormous banquet table she remembered from her youth had been replaced by smaller tables. The handsome library, with its deep leather chairs and cheerful fireplace, was inviting, and the smaller salon, which would serve as a television room, suggested shared evenings of companionable viewing.

Greta also approved of the regulations: The social hour would begin at 5:00 P.M. in the grand salon, followed by dinner at six. She was pleased that guests would be required to dress for the evening, as though they were dining in a country club. Greta had been raised by a stern grandmother who could wither with a glance the luckless individual garbed in inappropriate attire. Any residents not up to dressing appropriately would be served in their own quarters.

There also was a section set aside for long-term nursing care, should that be required.

The admission fee was steep, of course. It began at two hundred thousand dollars for a large private room and bath, and climbed to five hundred thousand for a two-bedroom suite, of which there were four in the mansion. And while the resident got full and exclusive use of the apartment during his or her lifetime, at the time of death, ownership reverted to the residence, which would make the rooms available for sale to the next applicant. Guests would also pay a maintenance fee of two thousand dollars a month, which, of course, was partially covered by Social Security payments.

Guests were invited to furnish their own quarters, but only with staff approval of what they chose to bring. The model studios and apartments were exquisitely comfortable and impeccably tasteful.