Moonlight Becomes You by Mary Higgins Clark Page B

unless it’s something you really want to do, but you mentioned that you wanted to collect the art supplies Nuala left here and, well . . . You see, we’re allowed to invite a guest for dinner on a rotating basis. I thought that if you don’t have any plans, you might consider joining me this evening.”
    â€œI don’t have any plans at all, and I’d enjoy it very much,” Maggie said sincerely. Then a sudden thought flashed through her mind, a kind of mental picture. The cemetery. Mrs. Rhinelander’s grave. Or was it? Somethinghad caught her attention there yesterday. But what? She’d have to go back. She thought it had been at Mrs. Rhinelander’s grave, but if she were wrong, she would have to revisit all the other ones they had gone to.
    â€œMrs. Shipley,” she said, “while I’m up here, I’m going to be taking some pictures around Newport for a project I’m working on. It may sound macabre, but St. Mary’s and Trinity have such a tranquil, old-world feeling about them, they’re perfect for my purposes. I know that some of the graves we left flowers on yesterday had beautiful vistas behind them. I’d like to go back there. Can you tell me which ones we visited?”
    She hoped the hastily assembled excuse didn’t sound too lame. But I am working on a project, she thought.
    Greta Shipley, however, did not seem to find Maggie’s request peculiar. “Oh, they are beautifully situated, aren’t they?” she agreed. “Certainly, I can tell you where we went. Have you got a pen and paper handy?”
    â€œRight here.” Nuala had left a small writing pad and a pen next to the phone.
    Three minutes later, Maggie had jotted down not only the names but specific directions to each plot. She knew she could locate the grave sites; now if she only knew what it was she hoped to find.
    *   *   *
    After hanging up, Maggie got out of bed, stretched, and decided on a quick shower to complete the wake-up process. A warm bath at night to put you to sleep, she thought, a cool shower to wake you up. I’m glad I wasn’t born four hundred years ago. She thought of the line she had read in a book about Queen Elizabeth I: “The Queen takes a bath once a month whether she needs it or no.”
    The showerhead, obviously an addition to the beautiful claw-footed tub, provided a spray that was needle sharpand thoroughly satisfying. Wrapped in a chenille robe, her still-damp hair in a towel turban, Maggie went downstairs and fixed herself a light breakfast, which she carried back to her room to enjoy as she dressed.
    Ruefully she realized that the casual clothes she had packed for the vacation with Nuala would not get her through her two-week stay here. This afternoon she would have to find a boutique or whatever and get herself an extra skirt or two and a couple of blouses or sweaters. She knew that dress at Latham Manor was a bit on the formal side, plus she had agreed to have dinner with Liam on Friday night, and that probably meant dressing up. Whenever she and Liam had been out to dinner in New York, he invariably chose fairly pricey restaurants.
    Raising the shade, she opened the front window and felt the warm, gentle breeze that confirmed that after yesterday’s chilly dampness, Newport was experiencing picture-perfect early fall weather. There would be no need for a heavy jacket today, she decided. A white tee shirt, jeans, a pullover blue sweater and sneakers were what she picked to wear.
    When she was dressed, Maggie stood for a moment in front of the mirror that hung over the bureau, studying herself. Her eyes no longer held traces of the tears she had wept for Nuala. They were clear again. Blue. Sapphire blue. That’s how Paul had described her eyes the night they met. It seemed a lifetime ago. She had been a bridesmaid at Kay Koehler’s wedding; he had been a groomsman.
    The rehearsal dinner