Mary Clark: Moonlight Becomes You

In the car, he said, “Dad, why do I feel that Latham Manor is at the center of all this?”

“Maggie, you’re not calling for help, are you? That isn’t wise.”

Oh God, no! He was back! His voice, hollow and echoing, was barely discernible through the rain beating on the earth above her.

“You must be getting wet down there,” he called. “I’m glad. I want you to be cold and wet and scared. I’ll bet you’re hungry, too. Or maybe just thirsty?”

Don’t answer, she told herself. Don’t plead with him. It’s what he wants.

“You ruined everything for me, Maggie, you and Nuala. She had begun to suspect something, so she had to die. And it was all going so well, too. Latham Manor-I own it, you know. Only the outfit that manages it doesn’t know who I am. I have a holding company. And you were right about the bells. Those women weren’t buried alive, maybe just a little bit sooner than God intended. They should have had more time. That’s why I put the bells on the graves. It’s my little joke. You’re the only one who really is buried alive.

“When they exhume those women, they’ll blame Dr. Lane for their deaths. They’ll think it was his fault that the medicines got mixed. He’s a lousy doctor anyway, with a terrible record. And a drinking problem. That’s why I had them hire him. But your stupid interference does mean I won’t be able to call on my little angel of death to help the little ladies along to an early grave. And that’s too bad; I want the money. Do you know how much profit there is in turning over those rooms? Lots. Lots .”

Maggie shut her eyes, struggling to blot out his face from her mind. It was almost as though she could see him. He was crazy.

“I guess you figured out that the bell on your grave has no clapper, haven’t you? Now figure this out: How long will you last when the air vent is clogged?”

She felt a rush of dirt on her hand. Frantically she tried to poke open the vent with her finger. More dirt tumbled down.

“Oh, one more thing, Maggie,” he said, his voice suddenly more muffled. “I took the bells from the other graves. I thought that was a good idea. I’ll put them back when they bury the bodies again. Sweet dreams.”

She heard the thump of something hitting the air vent; then she heard nothing. He was gone. She was sure of it. The vent was packed. She did the only thing she could think of to help herself. She flexed and unflexed her left hand so that the string on her ring finger would keep the mud from hardening around it. Please God, she prayed, let someone see that the bell is moving.

How long would it be before she used up all the oxygen? she wondered. Hours? A day?

“Neil, help me, help me,” she whispered. “I need you. I love you. I don’t want to die .”

Letitia Bainbridge had absolutely refused to go to the hospital. “You can cancel that ambulance or ride in it yourself,” she tartly informed her daughter, “but I’m not going anywhere.”

“But Mother, you’re not well,” Sarah Cushing protested, knowing full well that to argue with her was useless. When her mother got a certain mulelike look, there was no point in further discussion.

“Who’s well at ninety-four?” Mrs. Bainbridge asked. “Sarah, I appreciate your concern, but there’s a lot going on around here, and I don’t intend to miss it.”

“Will you at least take your meals on a tray?”

“Not dinner. You do realize Dr. Evans checked me out just a few days ago. There’s nothing wrong with me that being fifty wouldn’t cure.”

Sarah Cushing gave up the argument reluctantly. “Very well, but you’ve got to promise me one thing. If you don’t feel well, you’ll let me take you to Dr. Evans again. I don’t want Dr. Lane treating you.”

“Neither do I. Sneak that she is, Nurse Markey did see a change in Greta Shipley last week and tried to get Lane to do something about it. He, of course, couldn’t find anything; he was wrong and she was right. Does anyone know why the police were talking to her?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, find out!” she snapped. Then in a quieter tone, she added, “I’m so worried about that wonderful girl, Maggie Holloway. So many young people today are so indifferent or impatient with old fossils like me. Not her. We’re all praying that she’ll be found.”

“I know, and so am I,” Sarah Cushing agreed.

“All right, go downstairs and find out the latest. Start with Angela. She doesn’t miss a thing.”

Neil had called on the car phone to tell Dr. Lane he would like to stop by to discuss the Van Hillearys’ interest in residing at Latham Manor. He found Lane’s voice curiously indifferent when he agreed to a meeting.

They were admitted to Latham Manor by the same attractive young maid they had seen before. Neil remembered that her name was Angela. When they arrived she was talking to a handsome woman who appeared to be in her mid-sixties.

“I’ll let Dr. Lane know you’re here,” Angela said softly. As she crossed the entrance hall to the intercom, the older woman came over to them.

“I don’t want to seem inquisitive, but are you from the police?” she asked.

“No, we’re not,” Robert Stephens said quickly. “Why do you ask? Is there a problem?”

“No. Or at least I certainly hope not. Let me explain. I am Sarah Cushing. My mother, Letitia Bainbridge, is a resident here. She has become very fond of a young woman named Maggie Holloway, who seems to have gone missing, and she is terribly anxious for any news about her.”

“We’re very fond of Maggie, too,” Neil said, once again experiencing the lump in his throat that now was threatening to undermine his composure. “I wonder if it would be possible to speak to your mother after we see Dr. Lane?”

Noting a look of uncertainty in Sarah Cushing’s eyes, he felt he had to explain. “We’re groping at straws to see if Maggie may have said anything to anyone, even casually, that might help us to find her.”

He bit his lip, unable to go on.

Sarah Cushing studied him, sensing his distress. Her frosty blue eyes softened. “Absolutely. You can see Mother,” she said briskly. “I’ll wait in the library for you and take you up when you’re ready.”

The maid had returned. “Dr. Lane is ready to see you,” she said.

For the second time, Neil and Robert Stephens followed her to Lane’s office. Neil reminded himself that as far as the doctor was concerned, he was here to discuss the Van Hillearys. He forced himself to remember the questions that he had intended to ask, on their behalf. Was the residence owned and operated by Prestige, or was it franchised by them? He would need proof of sufficient reserve capital.

Was there any allowance for the Van Hillearys if they opted to decorate and refurbish the suite themselves?

Both men were shocked when they reached Dr. Lane’s office. The man seated at the desk was so radically changed that it was like seeing and talking to a different human being. The suave, smiling, courteous director they had met last week was gone.

Lane looked ill and defeated. His skin was gray, his eyes sunken. Listlessly he invited them to sit down, then said, “I understand you have some questions. I’ll be happy to answer them. However, a new director will be meeting your clients when they come up on the weekend.”

He’s been fired, Neil thought. Why? he wondered. He decided to plunge ahead. “Look, I don’t know what’s been going on here, obviously, and I’m not asking you to explain the reasons behind your departure.” He paused. “But I am aware that your bookkeeper had been giving out privileged financial information. That was one of my concerns.”