Moonlight Becomes You by Mary Higgins Clark

rooms available for sale to the next applicant. Guests would also pay a maintenance fee of two thousand dollars a month, which, of course, was partially covered by Social Security payments.
    Guests were invited to furnish their own quarters, but only with staff approval of what they chose to bring. The model studios and apartments were exquisitely comfortable and impeccably tasteful.
    Recently widowed and nervous about living alone, Greta had gladly sold her home on Ochre Point, moved to Latham Manor, and felt she had made a good decision. As one of the first occupants, she had a select studio. Large, with a living area alcove, it accommodated all her most treasured furnishings. And best of all, when she closed her door, it was with the secure sense of not being alone in the night. There always was a guard on the premises, a nurse on duty, and a bell to summon help if necessary.
    Greta enjoyed the companionship of most of the other residents and easily avoided the ones who got on her nerves. She also kept up her long friendship with Nuala Moore; they often went out to lunch together, and at Greta’s request Nuala agreed to give art classes twice a week at the residence.
    After Timothy Moore died, Greta had begun a campaign to get Nuala to move to the residence. When Nuala demurred, saying she would be fine alone and insisting further that she couldn’t do without her art studio, Greta urged her to at least put in her application so that when one of the two-bedroom suites became available, she would be in a position to change her mind. Nuala had finally agreed, admittingthat her lawyer was encouraging her to do the same thing.
    But now that would never happen, Greta thought sadly, as she sat in her easy chair, the virtually untouched dinner tray in front of her.
    She was still upset that she had experienced that weak spell at Nuala’s funeral earlier in the day. She had been feeling perfectly fine until this morning. Perhaps if she had taken time to eat a proper breakfast it wouldn’t have happened, she reasoned.
    She simply could not allow herself to become ill now. Especially now she wanted to keep as active as possible. Being busy was the only way to work out grief; life had taught her that. She also knew it wasn’t going to be easy, for she would miss Nuala’s cheerful presence very much.
    It was reassuring to know that Nuala’s stepdaughter, Maggie Holloway, would be visiting her. At the funeral parlor yesterday, before the service, Maggie had introduced herself and said, “Mrs. Shipley, I hope you’re going to let me spend time with you. I know you were Nuala’s closest friend. I want to make you my friend, too.”
    There was a tap at the door.
    Greta liked the fact that unless they had reason to suspect a problem, the staff was instructed to enter a guest’s room only when invited. Nurse Markey, however, didn’t seem to understand: Just because the door isn’t locked doesn’t mean that she is free to barge in at any time. Some appeared to like the intrusive nurses. Greta did not.
    Predictably, before Greta could respond to the knock, Nurse Markey strode in, a professional smile wreathing her strong features. “How are we doing tonight, Mrs. Shipley?” she asked loudly as she came over and perched on the hassock, her face uncomfortably close to Greta’s.
    â€œI’m quite fine, thank you, Miss Markey. I hope you are.”
    The solicitous “we” always irritated Greta. She had mentioned that fact several times, but this woman clearly did not intend to change anything, so why bother? Greta asked herself. Suddenly she realized that her heartbeat was beginning to accelerate.
    â€œI hear we had a weak spell in church . . .”
    Greta put her hand on her chest as though by that act she could stop the wild pounding.
    â€œMrs. Shipley, what’s the matter? Are you all right?”
    Greta felt her wrist being seized.
    As suddenly