Maggie Holloway is unsatisfied with the explanation for her former stepmother's death, and when the residents of a nursing home begin dying suddenly and inexplicably she becomes suspicious. It is only later that she realizes she herself is a target for a twisted killer.
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Yes, you can access Moonlight Becomes You by Mary Higgins Clark in PDF and/or ePUB format. We have over one million books available in our catalogue for you to explore.
I hate cocktail parties, Maggie thought wryly, wondering why she always felt like an alien when she attended one. Actually Iām 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 Manhattanās East Fifty-second Street. The familyās founding fatherāor at least the founder of the familyās original wealthāhad been the late Squire Desmond Moore, at one time a fixture of Newport society. The occasion of tonightās party/reunion was to celebrate the great manās one hundred fifteenth birthday. For convenienceās 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, āIn no time a-tall Iāll be wealthy enough to buy the old girl, should the government ever decide to sell her, of course.ā Liam had delivered his forebearās 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 womanās face, the pleasure they were obviously taking in each otherās companyāit would have made a wonderful picture.
āThe Four Seasons will never be the same after the Moores are finished with it,ā Liam said as he appeared suddenly beside her. āHaving a good time?ā 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 Liamās rugged good looks. Liamās 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, āWill I pass inspection?ā
He looked embarrassed. āIām sorry. Iām not good at remembering names and I was trying to place you. You are one of the clan, arenāt you?ā
āNo. I have Irish roots going back three or four generations, but Iām no relation to this clan, Iām afraid. It doesnāt look as though you need any more cousins anyhow.ā
āYou couldnāt be more right about that. Too bad, though, most of them arenāt 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 āBlack Irishā 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.ā
āLiam! Earl! Oh, for the love of God, I guess Iām glad I came after all.ā
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. Sheād 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 didnāt seem to be a single Squire Moore descendant or in-law who wasnāt fighting to be heard.
Countdown to exit, she decided. Then she heard a voice nearbyāa 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 restaurantās 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 Nualaās name.
Maggie noticed Liam passing on his way to hail another relative and grabbed his arm. āLiam, that woman on the stairs. Do you know her?ā
He squinted. āOh, thatās Nuala. She was married to my uncle. I mean I guess sheās my aunt, but she was his second wife, so I never thought of her that way. Sheās a bit of a character but a lot of fun. Why?ā
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 fatherās 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 Maggieās father, āOwen, for the love of heaven, sheās just a child. Stop correcting her every minute.ā Nuala, who was always saying, āOwen, 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 sheās good. . . . Owen, sheās not just playing in mud. Canāt you see sheās trying to make something out of the clay. For heavenās sake, recognize your daughterās creativity even if you donāt like my paintings.ā
Nualaāalways so pretty, always such fun, always so patient with Maggieās 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. Maggieās 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 didnāt look it.
Their eyes met. Nuala frowned, then looked puzzled.
Nuala had told her that her name was actually Finnuala, afterthe legendary Celt, Finn MacCool, who brought about the downfallof a giant. Maggie remembered how as a little girl she had delighted in trying to pronounce Finn-u-ala.
āFinn-u-ala?ā she said now, her voice tentative.
A look of total astonishment crossed the older womanās 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 Maggieās memory. When she was eighteen she had discovered the scent was Joy. How appropriate for tonight, Maggie thought.
āLet me look at you,ā Nuala exclaimed, releasing her and stepping back but still holding Maggieās arms with both hands as though afraid she would get away.
Her eyes searched Maggieās face. āI never thought Iād see you again! Oh, Maggie! How is that dreadful man, your father?ā
āHe died three years ago.ā
āOh, Iām sorry, darling. But he was totally impossible to the end, Iām sure.ā
āNever too easy,ā Maggie admitted.
āDarling, 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 medie...
