Moonlight Becomes You by Mary Higgins Clark

slides he wanted. He sensed a tension betweenthe dead Nuala and the living Maggie. There was hostility to Maggie. She must be warned.
    He knew Nuala’s phone number from memory, and in the dim light of his museum office, he dialed it. He had just started to hang up when he heard Maggie’s breathless greeting. Even so, he replaced the receiver.
    She might think the warning odd, and he didn’t want her to think he was crazy.
    â€œI am not crazy,” he said aloud. Then he laughed. “I’m not even odd.”

Wednesday, October 2nd
24
    N EIL S TEPHENS WAS NORMALLY ABLE TO GIVE HIS TOTAL , undivided attention to the shifting tides of the stock market. His clients, both corporate and private, swore by the accuracy of his predictions and his strong eye in discerning trends. But in the five days since he had been unable to reach Maggie, he had found himself distracted when he needed to be attentive, and as a result, needlessly sharp with his assistant, Trish.
    Finally allowing her irritation to show, she put him in his place by raising her hand in a gesture that clearly said stop, and saying, “There’s only one reason for a guy like you to be so grouchy. You’re finally interested in someone, and she isn’t buying it. Well, I guess I should say ‘welcome to the real world,’ but the fact is, I am sorry and so I’ll try to be patient with your unnecessary carping.”
    After a feeble and unanswered “Who runs this place anyhow?” Neil retreated to his own office and renewed his memory search for the name of Maggie’s stepmother.
    The frustration from a nagging sense that something was wrong made him uncharacteristically impatient with two of his longtime clients, Lawrence and Frances Van Hilleary, who visited his office that morning.
    Wearing a Chanel suit that Neil recognized as one of her favorites, Frances sat elegantly straight on the edge of a leather club chair in the “client-friendly conversation area” and told him of a hot tip on an oil-well stock they had received at a dinner party. Her eyes sparkled as she gave him the details.
    â€œThe company is based in Texas,” she explained enthusiastically. “But ever since China opened to the West, they’ve been sending top engineers there.”
    China! Neil thought, dismayed, but leaned back, trying to give the appearance of listening with courteous attention while first Frances and then Lawrence talked excitedly of coming political stability in China, of pollution concerns there, of oil gushers waiting to be tapped, and of course, of fortunes to be made.
    Doing rapid mental calculations, Neil realized with dismay that they were talking about investing roughly three quarters of their available assets.
    â€œHere’s the prospectus,” Lawrence Van Hilleary concluded, pushing it at him.
    Neil took the glossy folder and found the contents to be exactly what he had expected. At the bottom of the page, in print almost too small to read, were cautionary words to the effect that only those with at least half a million dollars in assets, excluding their residences, would be allowed to participate.
    He cleared his throat. “Okay, Frances and Lawrence, you pay me for my advice. You are two of the most generous people I’ve ever dealt with. You’ve already given away a tremendous amount of money to your children and grandchildrenand charities in the family limited partnership, real estate trust, generation-skipping trusts, and charitable IRAs. I firmly believe that what you have left for yourselves should not be wasted on this kind of pie-in-the-sky investment. It’s much too high risk, and I’d venture to say that there is more oil dripping from the car in your garage than you’ll ever see spurting from one of these so-called gushers. I couldn’t with any conscience handle a transaction like this, and I beg you not to waste your money on it.”
    There was a moment