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Summary
Summary
"Set in Newport, Rhode Island, in a world of old money and proud names, Moonlight Becomes You has at its center Maggie Holloway, an independent young woman who has put personal tragedy behind her and become one of the fashion world's most successful photographers." "Accompanying her date to a party in Manhattan - a kind of family reunion for the Moore clan of Newport - Maggie is reunited with a woman who had once been her stepmother and who remains one of her fondest childhood memories." "Nuala, now widowed, invites Maggie to visit her in Newport, and when Maggie readily accepts, Nuala plans a dinner for a group of friends so they can meet her long-lost stepdaughter. But when Maggie arrives, she finds Nuala dead, the victim of an apparently random break-in and robbery." "Maggie is heartbroken at the loss and further stunned when she learns that, only days before her death, Nuala had changed her will and left her charming Victorian house to her stepdaughter, the only proviso being that Maggie occasionally visit an old friend, Greta Shipley, who lives in Latham Manor, an elegant retirement home in Newport." "It is when she accompanies Mrs. Shipley to the cemetery to visit Nuala's grave, as well as those of other friends Mrs. Shipley has recently lost, that Maggie discovers that something is wrong. Using her skills as a photographer to aid her in uncovering the secrets hidden on the gravesites, she soon realizes that Nuala's death may not have been a random killing at all but rather part of a diabolical plot conceived by a twisted and unfeeling mind."--BOOK JACKET.Title Summary field provided by Blackwell North America, Inc. All Rights Reserved
Author Notes
Mary Higgins Clark was born in the Bronx, New York on December 24, 1927. After graduating from high school and before she got married, she worked as a secretary, a copy editor, and an airline stewardess. She supplemented the family's income by writing short stories. After her husband died in 1964, leaving her with five children, she worked for many years writing four-minute radio scripts before turning to novels. Her debut novel, Aspire to the Heavens, which is a fictionalized account of the life of George Washington, did not sell well. She decided to focus on writing mystery/suspense novels and in 1975 Where Are the Children? was published. She received a B.A. in philosophy from Fordham University in 1979.
Her other works include While My Pretty One Sleeps, Let Me Call You Sweetheart, Moonlight Becomes You, Pretend You Don't See Her, No Place Like Home, The Lost Years, The Melody Lingers On, As Time Goes By and Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry. She is the author of the Alvirah and Willy series, which began with Weep No More, My Lady. She is also the co-author, with her daughter Carol Higgins Clark, of several holiday crossover books including Deck the Halls, He Sees You When You're Sleeping, Santa Cruise, The Christmas Thief, and Dashing Through the Snow. She writes the Under Suspicion series with Alafair Burke. In 2001, Kitchen Privileges: A Memoir was published. She received numerous honors including the Grand Prix de Literature of France in 1980), the Horatio Alger Award in 1997, the Gold Medal of Honor from the American-Irish Historical Society, the Spirit of Achievement Award from Albert Einstein College of Medicine of Yeshiva University the first Reader's Digest Author of the Year Award 2002 and the Christopher Life Achievement Award in 2003.
Many of her titles have made the best sellers list. Her recent books include All By Myself, Alone, I've Got My Eyes On You, and You Don't Own Me.
Bestselling suspense novelist, Mary Higgins Clark died on January 31, 2020 at the age of 92.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Pretty photographer Maggie Holloway begins Clark's latest (after Silent Night) lying in a coffin buried in a grave, pulling desperately at a string that leads to a bell with no clapper. How she got there is the essence of a convoluted tale of a ritzy Newport, R.I., retirement home whose well-heeled residents seem to die with alarming frequency, leading to high-profit turnover of their apartments there. Latest to shed her mortal coil was Maggie's much-loved stepmother, a fact that led intrepid Maggie to take an unwise amount of interest in the deaths-and also to question why several of the graves seemed to have little funerary bells on them. As usual with Clark, there is a stalwart admirer whose love does not immediately speak its name, and a surfeit of suspicious characters, including a scholarly funeral nut, a shady investment broker, a venal lawyer, a drunken, inept doctor and a nosy nurse. There's some fun in the sprightly Newport oldsters, and the many scenes and characters are shifted around smoothly and with a practiced hand. The bells gimmick seems no more than that, however, and the book is light on thrills-though there's nothing to put off Clark's myriad fans. Major ad/promo; Literary Guild main selection; Reader's Digest Condensed Books selection; paperback rights to Pocket Books; author tour. (May). (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
Professional photographer Maggie Holloway revisits the best part of her childhood after she runs into her former stepmother, Nuala Moore, at a Manhattan party. Nuala seems edgy, but Maggie never finds out why, for only days into their reunion, she finds her beloved Nuala murdered. Maggie is the unexpected inheritor of Nuala's Newport home, for which Maggie receives curiously generous, even overpriced, offers from several parties. Nuala had at one time planned on selling the property in order to move into a ritzy retirement home but had suddenly and without explanation changed her mind only days before her death. When Maggie also decides not to sell the property, she becomes the one squeaky cog in an otherwise well-oiled machine of fraud, murder, and deception. At Maggie's side are two suitors: the wealthy Liam, who suddenly begins paying more attention to her after Nuala's death, and the seemingly indifferent Neil, a kindhearted investment banker. Clark has written a clever story with interesting characters, particularly Liam's macabre, death-obsessed cousin, Earl. Though this is not her finest book, Clark's popularity will surely put Moonlight on the lists. (Reviewed April 15, 1996)0684810387Mary Frances Wilkens
Kirkus Review
The arresting opening tableau--a young woman buried alive in a satin-lined coffin--is a perfect image for the sleekly cushioned menace Clark dispenses in her 13th novel (Silent Night, 1995, etc.). Flashback 20 days to the night photographer Maggie Holloway meets her long-ago stepmother, Nuala Moore, and Nuala invites her to visit her place in Newport. Before Maggie's arrival, though- -and, more crucially, before Nuala can carry out her plan to move into the nonpareil Latham Manor Residence--Nuala is killed and her house ransacked, and Maggie finds to her astonishment that Nuala's will leaves the Newport house to her. Why would anybody want to kill an inoffensive old lady like Nuala? Well, somebody might be trying to pick up her house for a song (somebody like Nuala's attorney Malcolm Norton or shady broker Douglas Hansen); or somebody might be after the fat deposit the next applicant for Nuala's new suite would have to pay Latham Manor (somebody like incompetent director Dr. William Lane or nosey nurse Zelda Markey); or somebody might need to shut Nuala up about her knowledge of several other suspect deaths, with another still impending, of Latham Manor residents (whoever may have helped those residents into the great beyond); or somebody might be just a little obsessed with the whole subject of death (somebody like wild-eyed funeral expert Prof. Earl Bateman). As usual in her recent work, Clark ends up tying all these threats in together, so that the land grab, the nursing-home deposit scam, the investment fraud, the sinister messages sent by a series of funeral bells, and the Latham Manor murders all turn out to be the work of a single diligent soul, who (don't forget) has the same wicked designs on Maggie as on Nuala. About average for Clark's G-rated thrillers, as if you were counting--with enough material on funerary customs to make you resolve to live forever. (Literary Guild Main Selection; author tour)
Library Journal Review
More scary stuff from one of America's best-known suspense writers. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
Moonlight Becomes You Friday, September 20th 1 I HATE COCKTAIL PARTIES, MAGGIE THOUGHT WRYLY, wondering why she always felt like an alien when she attended one. Actually I'm being too harsh, she thought. The truth is I hate cocktail parties where the only person I know is my supposed date, and he abandons me the minute we come in the door. She looked around the large room, then sighed. When Liam Moore Payne had invited her to this reunion of the Moore clan, she should have guessed he would be more interested in visiting with his cousins-by-the-dozens than worrying about her. Liam, an occasional but normally thoughtful date when he was in town from Boston, was tonight displaying a boundless faith in her ability to fend for herself. Well, she reasoned, it was a large gathering; surely she could find someone to talk to. It was what Liam had told her about the Moores that had been the factor that made her decide to accompany him to this affair, she remembered, as she sipped from her glass of white wine and maneuvered her way through the crowded Grill Room of the Four Seasons restaurant on Manhattan's East Fifty-second Street. The family's founding father--or at least the founder of the family's original wealth--had been the late Squire Desmond Moore, at one time a fixture of Newport society. The occasion of tonight's party/reunion was to celebrate the great man's one hundred fifteenth birthday. For convenience's sake, it had been decided to have the gathering in New York rather than Newport. Going into amusing detail about many members of the clan, Liam had explained that over one hundred descendants, direct and collateral, as well as some favored ex-in-laws, would be present. He had regaled her with anecdotes about the fifteen-year-old immigrant from Dingle who had considered himself to be not one of the huddled masses yearning to be free but, rather, one of the impoverished masses yearning to be rich. Legend claimed that as his ship passed the Statue of Liberty, Squire had announced to his fellow steerage-class passengers, "In no time a-tall I'll be wealthy enough to buy the old girl, should the government ever decide to sell her, of course." Liam had delivered his forebear's declaration in a wonderfully broad Irish brogue. The Moores certainly did come in all sizes and shapes, Maggie reflected as she looked about the room. She watched two octogenarians in animated conversation, and narrowed her eyes, mentally framing them through the lens of the camera she now wished she had brought. The snow white hair of the man, the coquettish smile on the woman's face, the pleasure they were obviously taking in each other's company--it would have made a wonderful picture. "The Four Seasons will never be the same after the Moores are finished with it," Liam said as he appeared suddenly beside her. "Having a good time?" he asked, but then without waiting for an answer, introduced her to yet another cousin, Earl Bateman, who, Maggie was amused to note, studied her with obvious and unhurried interest. She judged the newcomer to be, like Liam, in his late thirties. He was half a head shorter than his cousin, which made him just under six feet. She decided there was something of a scholarly bent reflected in his lean face and thoughtful expression, although his pale blue eyes had a vaguely disconcerting cast to them. Sandy haired with a sallow complexion, he did not have Liam's rugged good looks. Liam's eyes were more green than blue, his dark hair attractively flecked with gray. She waited while he continued to look her over. Then, after a long moment, with a raised eyebrow, she asked, "Will I pass inspection?" He looked embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I'm not good at remembering names and I was trying to place you. You are one of the clan, aren't you?" "No. I have Irish roots going back three or four generations, but I'm no relation to this clan, I'm afraid. It doesn't look as though you need any more cousins anyhow." "You couldn't be more right about that. Too bad, though, most of them aren't nearly so attractive as you. Your wonderful blue eyes, ivory skin and small bones make you a Celt. The near-black hair places you among the 'Black Irish' segment of the family, those members who owe some of their genetic makeup to the brief but significant visit from survivors of the defeat of the Spanish Armada." "Liam! Earl! Oh, for the love of God, I guess I'm glad I came after all." Forgetting Maggie, both men turned to enthusiastically greet the florid-faced man who came up behind them. Maggie shrugged. So much for that, she thought, mentally retreating into a corner. Then she remembered an article she had recently read that urged people who felt isolated in social situations to look for someone else who seemed to be even more desperate and start a conversation. Chuckling to herself, she decided to give that tactic a try, then if she ended up still talking to herself she would slip away and go home. At that moment, the prospect of her pleasant apartment on Fifty-sixth Street near the East River was very attractive. She knew she should have stayed in tonight. She'd only been back a few days from a photo shoot in Milan and longed for a quiet evening with her feet up. She glanced around. There didn't seem to be a single Squire Moore descendant or in-law who wasn't fighting to be heard. Countdown to exit, she decided. Then she heard a voice nearby--a melodic, familiar voice, one that spurred sudden, pleasant memories. She spun around. The voice belonged to a woman who was ascending the short staircase to the restaurant's balcony area and had stopped to call to someone below her. Maggie stared, then gasped. Was she crazy? Could it possibly be Nuala? It had been so long ago, yet she sounded just like the woman who once had been her stepmother, from the time she was five until she was ten. After the divorce, her father had forbidden Maggie to even mention Nuala's name. Maggie noticed Liam passing on his way to hail another relative and grabbed his arm. "Liam, that woman on the stairs. Do you know her?" He squinted. "Oh, that's Nuala. She was married to my uncle. I mean I guess she's my aunt, but she was his second wife, so I never thought of her that way. She's a bit of a character but a lot of fun. Why?" Maggie did not wait to answer but began to thread her way through the clusters of Moores. By the time she reached the stairs, the woman she sought was chatting with a group of people on the balcony level. Maggie started up the stairs but near the top paused to study her. When Nuala had left, so abruptly, Maggie had prayed that she would write. She never did, though, and Maggie had found her silence especially painful. She had come to feel so close to her during the five years the marriage had lasted. Her own mother had died in an automobile accident when she was an infant. It was only after her father's death that Maggie learned from a family friend that her father had destroyed all the letters and returned the gifts that Nuala had sent to her. Maggie stared now at the tiny figure with lively blue eyes and soft honey-blond hair. She could see the fine skein of wrinkles that detracted not a bit from her lovely complexion. And as she stared, the memories flooded her heart. Childhood memories, perhaps her happiest. Nuala, who always took her part in arguments, protesting to Maggie's father, "Owen, for the love of heaven, she's just a child. Stop correcting her every minute." Nuala, who was always saying, "Owen, all the kids her age wear jeans and tee shirts. . . . Owen, so what if she used up three rolls of film? She loves to take pictures, and she's good. . . . Owen, she's not just playing in mud. Can't you see she's trying to make something out of the clay. For heaven's sake, recognize your daughter's creativity even if you don't like my paintings." Nuala--always so pretty, always such fun, always so patient with Maggie's questions. It had been from Nuala that Maggie had learned to love and understand art. Typically, Nuala was dressed tonight in a pale blue satin cocktail suit and matching high heels. Maggie's memories of her were always pastel tinted. Nuala had been in her late forties when she married Dad, Maggie thought, trying to calculate her age now. She made it through five years with him. She left twenty-two years ago. It was a shock to realize that Nuala must now be in her mid-seventies. She certainly didn't look it. Their eyes met. Nuala frowned, then looked puzzled. Nuala had told her that her name was actually Finnuala, after the legendary Celt, Finn MacCool, who brought about the downfall of a giant. Maggie remembered how as a little girl she had delighted in trying to pronounce Finn-u-ala. "Finn-u-ala?" she said now, her voice tentative. A look of total astonishment crossed the older woman's face. Then she emitted a whoop of delight that stopped the buzz of conversations around them, and Maggie found herself once again enfolded in loving arms. Nuala was wearing the faint scent that all these years had lingered in Maggie's memory. When she was eighteen she had discovered the scent was Joy. How appropriate for tonight, Maggie thought. "Let me look at you," Nuala exclaimed, releasing her and stepping back but still holding Maggie's arms with both hands as though afraid she would get away. Her eyes searched Maggie's face. "I never thought I'd see you again! Oh, Maggie! How is that dreadful man, your father?" "He died three years ago." "Oh, I'm sorry, darling. But he was totally impossible to the end, I'm sure." "Never too easy," Maggie admitted. "Darling, I was married to him. Remember? I know what he was like! Always sanctimonious, dour, sour, petulant, crabby. Well, no use going on about it. The poor man is dead, may he rest in peace. But he was so old-fashioned and so stiff, why, he could have posed for a medieval stained-glass window . . ." Aware suddenly that others were openly listening, Nuala slid her arm around Maggie's waist and announced, "This is my child! I didn't give birth to her, of course, but that's totally unimportant." Maggie realized that Nuala was also blinking back tears. Anxious both to talk and to escape the crush of the crowded restaurant, they slipped out together. Maggie could not find Liam to say good-bye but was fairly sure she would not be missed. * * * Arm in arm, Maggie and Nuala walked up Park Avenue through the deepening September twilight, turned west at Fifty-sixth Street and settled in at Il Tinello. Over Chianti and delicate strips of fried zucchini, they caught up on each other's lives. For Maggie, it was simple. "Boarding school; I was shipped there after you left. Then Carnegie-Mellon, and finally a master's in visual arts from NYU. I'm making a good living now as a photographer." "That's wonderful. I always thought it would be either that or sculpting." Maggie smiled. "You've got a good memory. I love to sculpt, but I do it only as a hobby. Being a photographer is a lot more practical, and in all honesty I guess I'm pretty good. I've got some excellent clients. Now what about you, Nuala?" "No. Let's finish with you," the older woman interrupted. "You live in New York. You've got a job you like. You've stuck to developing what is a natural talent. You're just as pretty as I knew you'd be. You were thirty-two your last birthday. What about a love interest or significant other or whatever you young people call it these days?" Maggie felt the familiar wrench as she said flatly, "I was married for three years. His name was Paul, and he graduated from the Air Force Academy. He had just been selected for the NASA program when he was killed on a training flight. That was five years ago. It's a shock I guess I may never get over. Anyway, it's still hard to talk about him." "Oh, Maggie." There was a world of understanding in Nuala's voice. Maggie remembered that her stepmother had been a widow when she married her father. Shaking her head, Nuala murmured, "Why do things like that have to happen?" Then her tone brightened. "Shall we order?" Over dinner they caught up on twenty-two years. After the divorce from Maggie's father, Nuala had moved to New York, then visited Newport, where she met Timothy Moore--someone she actually had dated when she was still a teenager--and married him. "My third and last husband," she said, "and absolutely wonderful. Tim died last year, and do I ever miss him! He wasn't one of the wealthy Moores, but I have a sweet house in a wonderful section of Newport, and an adequate income, and of course I'm still dabbling at painting. So I'm all right." But Maggie saw a brief flicker of uncertainty cross Nuala's face and realized in that moment that without the brisk, cheerful expression, Nuala looked every day of her age. "Really all right, Nuala?" she asked quietly. "You seem . . . worried." "Oh, yes, I'm fine. It's just . . . Well, you see, I turned seventy-five last month. Years ago, someone told me that when you get into your sixties, you start to say good-bye to your friends, or they say good-bye to you, but that when you hit your seventies, it happens all the time. Believe me, it's true. I've lost a number of good friends lately, and each loss hurts a little more than the last. It's getting to be a bit lonely in Newport, but there's a wonderful residence--I hate the word nursing home--and I'm thinking of going to live there soon. The kind of apartment I want there has just become available." Then, as the waiter poured espresso, she said urgently, "Maggie, come visit me, please. It's only a three-hour drive from New York." "I'd love to," Maggie responded. "You mean it?" "Absolutely. Now that I've found you, I'm not going to let you get away again. Besides, it's always been in the back of my mind to go to Newport. I understand it's a photographer's paradise. As a matter of fact--" She was about to tell Nuala that as of next week she had cleared her calendar to allow time to take a much-needed vacation when she heard someone say, "I thought I'd find you here." Startled, Maggie looked up. Standing over them were Liam and his cousin Earl Bateman. "You ran out on me," Liam said reprovingly. Earl bent down to kiss Nuala. "You're in hot water for spiriting away his date. How do you two know each other?" "It's a long story." Nuala smiled. "Earl lives in Newport, too," she explained to Maggie. "He teaches anthropology at Hutchinson College in Providence." I was right about the scholarly look, Maggie thought. Liam pulled a chair from a nearby table and sat down. "You've got to let us have an after-dinner drink with you." He smiled at Earl. "And don't worry about Earl. He's strange, but he's harmless. His branch of the family has been in the funeral business for more than a hundred years. They bury people. He digs them up! He's a ghoul. He even makes money talking about it." Maggie raised her eyebrows as the others laughed. "I lecture on funeral customs through the ages," Earl Bateman explained with a slight smile. "Some may find it macabre, but I love it." Excerpted from Moonlight Becomes You by Mary Higgins Clark All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
Table of Contents
| From Chapter Nine |
| Except for that uptight art director, it had been a good week, Maggie reflected as she turned off Route 138 in Newport. Both photo shoots this week had turned out exceptionally well, especially the one for Vogue. |
| But after the meticulous attention she had to give to noting how the camera was capturing every fold of the astronomically priced gowns she was photographing, it was a distinct joy to put on jeans and a plaid shirt. In fact, with the exception of a blue silk print blouse and matching long skirt she planned to wear tonight for Nuala's dinner party, everything she had brought to wear on this vacation was quite casual. |
| We're going to have such fun, she thought. Two uninterrupted weeks in Newport. Nuala and I really will have a chance to catch up with each other! She smiled at the prospect. It had been a surprise when Liam called to say that he would be at Nuala's tonight, as well, although she should have realized he spent a fair amount of time in Newport. "It's an easy drive from Boston," he had pointed out. "I go there fairly regularly for weekends, especially off-season." |
| "I didn't know that," she had said. |
| "There's a lot you don't know about me, Maggie. Maybe if you weren't out of town so much..." |
| "And maybe if you didn't live in Boston and use your New York apartment so little..." |
| Maggie smiled again. Liam is fun, she thought, even though he does take himself too seriously much of the time. Stopping at a red light, she glanced down and rechecked her directions. Nuala lived just off the fabled Ocean Drive, on Garrison Avenue. "I even have a view of the ocean from the third floor," she had explained. "Wait till you see it and my studio." |
| She had called three times this week to be sure there were no changes of plan. "You are coming, Maggie? You won't disappoint?" |
| "Of course not," she had assured her. Still, Maggie had wondered if it was only her imagination or was there something in Nuala's voice, an uneasiness that perhaps she had detected in her face the night they had dinner in Manhattan. At the time, she had rationalized that Nuala's husband had died only last year, and she was starting to lose her friends as well, one of the nonjoys of living long enough to get old. Naturally a sense of mortality has to be setting in, she reasoned. |
| She had seen the same look on the faces of nursing home residents she had photographed for Life magazine last year. One woman had said wistfully, "Sometimes it bothers me a lot that there's no one left who remembers me when I was young." |
| Maggie shivered, then realized the temperature in the car had dropped rapidly. Turning off the air-conditioning, she opened the window a few inches and sniffed the tangy scent of the sea that permeated the air. When you've been raised in the Midwest, she thought, you can't ever get enough of the ocean. |
| Checking her watch, she realized it was ten of eight. She would barely have time to freshen up and change before the other guests began to arrive. At least she had phoned Nuala to let her know she was getting off to a late start. She had told her she should be arriving just about now. |
| She turned onto Garrison Avenue and saw the ocean in front of her. She slowed the car, then stopped in front of a charming clapboard house with weathered shingles and a wraparound porch. This had to be Nuala's home, she thought, but it seemed so dark. There were no outside lights turned on at all, and she could detect only a faint light coming from the front windows. |
| She pulled into the driveway, got out, and, without bothering to open the trunk for her suitcase, ran up the steps. Expectantly she rang the bell. From inside she could hear the faint sound of chimes. |
| As she waited, she sniffed. The windows facing the street were open, and she thought she detected a harsh, burning smell coming from inside. She pressed the doorbell again, and again the chimes reverberated through the house. |
| There was still no answer, no sound of footsteps. Something has to be wrong, she thought anxiously. Where was Nuala? Maggie walked over to the nearest window and crouched down, straining to see past the lacy fringe on the partly drawn shade, into the darkness inside. |
| Then her mouth went dry. The little she could see of the shadowy room suggested it was in wild disorder. The contents of a drawer were strewn on the hooked carpet, and the drawer itself was leaning haphazardly against the ottoman. The fireplace was opposite the windows and flanked by cabinets. All of them were open. |
| What faint light there was came from a pair of sconces over the mantel. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Maggie was able to pick out a single high-heeled shoe, turned on its side in front of the fireplace. |
| What was that? She squinted and leaned forward, then realized she was seeing a small stockinged foot, extending from behind a love seat near where the shoe had fallen. She lunged back to the door and twisted the handle, but it was locked. |
| Blindly, she rushed to the car, grabbed the car phone and punched in 911. Then she stopped, remembering: Her phone was attached to a New York area code. This was Rhode Island; Nuala's number began with a 401 area code. With trembling fingers she punched in 401 -- 911. |
| When the call was answered, she managed to say "I'm at 1 Garrison Avenue in Newport. I can't get in. I can see someone lying on the floor. I think it's Nuala." |
| I'm babbling, she told herself. Stop it. But as the calm, unhurried questions came from the dispatcher, with absolute certainty Maggie's mind was shouting three words: Nuala is dead. |
| Copyright © 1996 by Mary Higgins Clark |
