Mary Clark - Moonlight Becomes You

“I’ll tell you what I’d have done,” his father said immediately. “If I’d seen your mother in that situation, I’d have been right beside her, and I’d have put my arm around her. Maybe I wouldn’t have said anything, but I’d have let her know I was there.”

He looked at Neil severely. “I’d have done that whether or not I was in love with her. On the other hand, if I was trying to deny to myself that I loved her, or if I was afraid of getting involved, then maybe I’d have run away. There’s a famous biblical incident about washing the hands.”

“Come on, Dad,” Neil muttered.

“And if I were Maggie, and I had sensed you were there, and maybe had even wanted to be able to turn to you, I’d have written you off if you walked out on me,” Robert Stephens concluded.

The telephone rang. Neil beat his father to grabbing the receiver.

It was a police officer. “Sir, we found the vehicle you described parked on Marley Road. It’s an isolated area, and there are no houses nearby, so we don’t have any witnesses as to when it was left there, or by whom, whether it was Ms. Holloway or another person.”

At eight o’clock on Tuesday morning, Malcolm Norton walked downstairs from his bedroom and looked into the kitchen. Janice was already there, seated at the table, reading the paper and drinking coffee.

She made the unprecedented offer to pour him a cup, then asked, “Toast?”

He hesitated, then said, “Why not ?” and sat opposite her.

“You’re leaving pretty early, aren’t you?” she asked.

He could see she was nervous. No doubt she knew he was up to something.

“You must have had a late dinner last night,” she continued, as she placed the steaming cup in front of him.

“ Ummmm, ” he responded, enjoying her unease. He had known she was awake when he came in at midnight.

He took a few sips of the coffee, then pushed his chair back. “On second thought, I’ll skip the toast. Good-bye, Janice.”

• • •

When he reached the office, Malcolm Norton sat for a few minutes at Barbara’s desk. He wished he could write a few lines to her, something to remind her of what she had meant to him, but it would be unfair. He didn’t want to drag her name into this.

He went into his own office and looked again at the copies he had made of the papers he had found in Janice’s briefcase, as well as the copy of her bank statement.

He could pretty much figure what she must have been up to. He had guessed it the other night when he saw that crooked nephew of hers hand her an envelope in the restaurant he had followed her to. Seeing her financial records only confirmed what he had suspected.

She was giving Doug Hansen privileged financial information about applicants to Latham Manor so that he could try to cheat rich old women. Maybe “attempt to defraud” charges wouldn’t stick against her, but they certainly wouldn’t help her in this town. And, of course, she would lose her job.

Good, he thought.

Hansen was the one who made a higher offer to Maggie Holloway. He was sure of it. And Janice had tipped him off about the upcoming change in the law. They probably planned to raise the ante until Holloway sold.

If only Maggie Holloway hadn’t come on the scene and spoiled it all, he thought bitterly. Knowing he could make a killing on the house, he would have found a way to keep Barbara.

Make a killing. He smiled grimly. That was rich!

Of course, none of that mattered anymore. He would never buy the house. He would never have Barbara in his life. He really had no more life. It was over now. But at least he had gotten even. They would know that he wasn’t the empty suit Janice had sneered at for years.

He moved the manila envelope addressed to Chief Brower to the far corner of the desk. He didn’t want it to get stained.

He reached for the pistol he kept in the deep bottom drawer. He took it out and held it for a moment, studying it thoughtfully. Then he punched in the number of the police station and asked for Chief Brower.

“It’s Malcolm Norton,” he said pleasantly, as he picked up the gun in his right hand and held it to his head. “I think you’d better get over here. I’m about to kill myself.”

As he pulled the trigger, he heard the final, single word: “Don’t!”

Maggie could feel the blood that matted the hair on the side of her head, which was sensitive to the touch and still ached. “Be calm,” she kept whispering to herself. “I’ve got to be calm.”

Where am I buried? she wondered. Probably in some isolated spot in the woods where no one can possibly find me. When she tugged the string on her ring finger, she could feel a heavy pressure on the other end.

He must have attached the string to one of the Victorian bells, she reasoned. She ran her index finger up inside the tube that the string was threaded through. It felt like solid metal and seemed to be about an inch in diameter. She should be able to get enough air through it for breathing, she decided, unless it became clogged.

But why had he bothered with all this? she wondered. She was sure there was no clapper in the bell, because she would be able to hear at least some faint sound if there had been one. That meant no one could hear her.

Was she in a real cemetery? If so, was there a chance that people might visit or attend a funeral? Would she be able to hear even faintly the sound of cars?

Plan! Maggie told herself. You’ve got to plan. She would keep tugging the string until her finger felt raw, until her strength gave out. If she was buried where someone might pass by, then there was always the hope that the moving bell might attract attention.

She also would try to shout for help at what she calculated to be ten-minute intervals. There was no way of knowing, of course, if her voice actually carried up the tube, but she had to try. She mustn’t wear out her voice too soon, though, and not be able to attract attention if she did hear sounds of someone nearby.

But would he come back? she wondered. He was insane, she was sure of that. If he heard her shouting, he might cover the air vent and let her suffocate. She had to be careful.

Of course, it might all be for naught, she realized. There was a strong likelihood that she was buried in a completely remote spot, and that he was visualizing her clawing at the lid of the casket and yanking on the string the way some Victorians reportedly had done when they realized they were buried alive. Only those people had someone waiting to hear their alarm. Wherever she was, she was certain that she was completely alone.

At ten o’clock, Neil and his father sat tensely in Chief Brower’s office and listened as he soberly revealed the contents of Malcolm Norton’s suicide note. “Norton was a bitter and disappointed man,” he said. “According to what he’s written, because of a change in environmental laws, Ms. Holloway’s property is going to be worth a lot of money. When he made the offer to Nuala Moore to buy her house, he obviously was prepared to cheat her by not telling her of its true value, so it’s very possible that he got wind that she was changing her mind about making the sale to him and killed her. He might well have been searching the house, trying to find her revised will.”

He paused to reread a paragraph of the lengthy note. “It’s very obvious that he blamed Maggie Holloway for everything having gone wrong, and although he doesn’t say it, he may have taken revenge on her. He’s certainly managed to get his wife in serious trouble.”