Manor of Dying

by Kathleen Bridge

  “That won’t be necessary. Just find another room to do your research. You won’t find anything else in my office relating to your time period. We deserve our privacy.”

  I took off for the foyer, skidding on the tile, then stumbled into the drawing room.

  Elle looked at me like I had two heads. She had on her coat and her face was either red with heat or anger. I couldn’t tell which.

  “Sorry, had a hard time finding the loo,” I said, panting and bending at the knees.

  Willa, who’d been staring into the fire, still holding my coat, turned and brought it to me.

  “No worries, darlin’. But you gals better skedaddle. The ferry waits for no one.”

  After what I’d witnessed in the basement and meeting Blake Nightingale, I didn’t relish spending a night in the old mental asylum, antiques or not.

  Chapter 5

  As the four o’clock ferry pulled from the dock, I saw a relaxing of Elle’s shoulders.

  “See,” I said to a glum-faced Elle, “everything’s turned out okay and we made it onto the ferry. No problemo. And the roads weren’t that bad, either. I, for one, am looking forward to going back on Wednesday, even after my run-in with the owner.”

  She groaned. “He was just standing there? Looking down at you?”

  “I would say lurking. Definitely lurking.”

  “Wonder why he didn’t come into the drawing room to introduce himself? Do you think we’ll be fired? I hope you didn’t blow it. Then again, if it’s meant to be, it’s meant to be. I had a bad dream last night that snow was falling from my bedroom ceiling. Then the snow turned into tiny emerald-cut diamonds. Right before they reached my face, the diamonds turned into pieces of glass from a broken mirror.”

  “Mirror, mirror, off the wall . . . How could that be a bad dream? I could use some falling diamond dreams.”

  “To see snow in a dream signifies feeling alone, neglected, and inhibited. Sure, diamonds mean riches and good luck, but the idea that they turned to . . .”

  “Pieces of a broken mirror. Seven years of bad luck. Got it. Don’t need a dream dictionary for that one.”

  “Whatever. I just hope we still have a job on Wednesday.”

  Already on Elle’s bad side, I decided to keep mum about the exchange I saw between Dr. Blake and the director.

  “Aren’t we getting paid from two sources?” I asked. “First Fidelity Mutual and then the production company? So technically, we’ll only lose half if the doctor feels like kicking us out for me sneaking into his basement.”

  “There’s no us in this scenario,” Elle said. “Speaking of which. What the heck were you thinking!”

  “Oh my gosh!”

  “What?”

  “Look next to us.”

  Parked alongside Elle’s pickup was a black Mercedes. The person in the driver’s seat was none other than Dr. Blake Nightingale.

  “Who? I can’t see,” Elle squealed.

  “Dr. Blake.”

  “Duck. What if he sees you and tells us never to come back?”

  “I don’t think he’s paying much attention to us. Looks like he’s screaming at someone in the passenger seat and banging the steering wheel.

  “Do you think it’s about you?”

  “I doubt it. He couldn’t be that upset.” I was thankful it wasn’t snowing so the air was as clear as my vision. I watched Dr. Blake’s lips, praying I could make out a few words, but I could only see the corner of his mouth. Once, he turned his head toward me and I made out, “Not one penny.” Then I missed the beginning of his next sentence, but clearly saw him say the word blackmail before turning his head to his companion. All I could make out was that his companion was a female with long blonde hair and a perfect profile. Mrs. Blake?

  “He just said the word blackmail,” I told Elle.

  “You shouldn’t eavesdrop. And you better not let him see you.”

  I supposed Elle had a point. I laid on the seat, while Elle pulled her brimmed hat lower on her face.

  After ten minutes of silence, I said, “Am I being punished?”

  “No,” Elle replied. “But you should be. I want to enjoy our time at Nightingale Manor.”

  “So do I.”

  “Then let’s make a pact. No more snooping around.”

  “Gladly,” I said, thinking of Dr Blake’s ire. “So, who do you think is blackmailing the Nightingales?”

  “Meg!”

  “It was a joke.”

  Twenty minutes later we drove down the ferry’s ramp. On Sag Harbor’s Main Street, there was no mistaking what holiday was around the corner. The charming New England storefronts were adorned with greenery and white twinkling lights. The wreathed and ribboned lampposts looked like they’d walked off the front of a Christmas greeting card. Last week, Elle and I had attended the holiday festivities in Sag Harbor. Santa had arrived to a cheering crowd of waiting children trailing wish lists. He hadn’t come by sleigh and eight prancing reindeer. Instead, he rode on the back of a Sag Harbor Volunteer fire truck that dropped him off by the windmill near the bay. There had been the tree and menorah lighting at the foot of Long Wharf, along with carolers dressed in nineteenth-century garb. Steaming cups of hot chocolate were passed out by local high school students raising money for their spring sports programs. Elle had even gotten an autograph in front of the Bay Street Theater from one her favorite movie actresses who was playing a female Scrooge in a new-millennium version of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. For the most part the Hamptons were empty of celebrities in December and January. Occasionally, the winter holidays brought back a small flock of Manhattanites who yearned for a white Christmas out their frosty window instead a dirty, charcoal-gray slushy one.

  The lighting of my beloved Montauk Point Lighthouse was slated for tomorrow, and I couldn’t wait to partake in the festivities. Cole promised he’d try to make it. He was as excited as I was about viewing the ceremony. It was a ritual he remembered as a child, growing up in nearby East Hampton. I was all for tradition and I was more than ready to decorate my own, finally my own, cottage with heirloom, vintage, and artisanal decorations. This time, I half believed Cole would make it because he’d sent me of photo of his plane ticket to LaGuardia. He was still in the doghouse for missing Thanksgiving. My father and his wife, Sheila, had traveled by car from Michigan. A gourmet home cook, my father had prepared a fried turkey and fixin’s worthy of any Michelin-star chef. My contribution had been doctored-up Stove Top stuffing with fresh herbs from my windowsill and pumpkin ice cream—I just added canned pumpkin pie filling to top-shelf vanilla ice cream. It would have been the first time my father and Cole met.

  Sadly, my father and Sheila wouldn’t be able to make it for Christmas because they planned to visit Sheila’s relatives. Not afraid to admit I was a terrible cook, I’d already made reservations for Christmas dinner at my favorite Montauk eatery, Pondfare. I’d invited Elle and her fiancé, Detective Shoner. Also promising to attend was Doc, my father’s retired coroner friend and my surrogate uncle, and Doc’s lady friend, Georgia, the owner of Old Man and the Sea Books. Now that I’d met Felicity, if she didn’t already have plans to fly home for the holidays, I’d add her to the mix. I voiced my idea aloud to Elle.

  Elle, who was driving at a slug’s pace toward Mabel and Elle’s Curiosities, said, “It’s a great idea. This is only the second time I’ve met her, but I felt a rapport immediately. I think she shares our passion for vintage décor.”

  “We are a passionate bunch, aren’t we?” I grinned at the thought.

  After Elle turned onto Sage Street, we pulled into the driveway in front of her carriage house. She put her hand on my arm. “I think we need to talk about what happened at Nightingale Manor. If you have any qualms about working there, I’m sure I could turn things over to Maurice.”

  “Why? Because I was spooked by a hospital bed with bloody restraints?”

  “Bloody what!”

  “Just kidding. But our Dr. Blake reminds me of The Ab
ominable Dr. Phibes.”

  She gave me a look that after all our years of friendship should have been patented. “That’s who Dr. Blake looks like? Vincent Price?”

  “No. But he sure sounds like him. And when you think of it, the movie and its follow up, Dr. Phibes Rises Again, fits the scene in the basement.”

  “You and Dr. Phibes!” she said in exasperation. “Granted, both movies are hilarious, but I don’t think you should compare Dr. Blake to a deranged fictional Dr. Phibes until we get a chance to know him better.”

  “True. Now that I think about it, both movies had great Deco sets. Maybe we could get some ideas for staging Mr. & Mrs. Winslow? The movies were cult favorites when I attended NYU. Just like we did with the movie The Rocky Horror Picture Show, we’d watch Dr. Phibes then throw things at the screen. The items thrown were related to the imaginative way Dr. Phibes killed the doctors responsible for his wife’s death. Let’s just say, once, my roommate brought a sausage she’d taken out of its casing.”

  “Gross!”

  “Good times.”

  “You’re incorrigible,” Elle said, adding a laugh. “Now get out, before the weather changes. And call me when you get to Montauk.”

  I hopped out of the pickup and hurried to my Wagoneer. The smell of leather seats and the immediate warmth from the heater were a better welcome than my ancient Wrangler, which I’d said farewell to last September. My custom-created Woody Jeep Wagoneer had been purchased after I received a surprise windfall of cash. Currently, I was back to broke status, but happy as a Montauk clam in my new/vintage one-of-kind vehicle, which my father had hand-delivered direct from a factory in Detroit. My hometown.

  A few minutes later, I was cruising down dry roads on Highway 114, thinking about my encounter with Blake Nightingale. At the intersection of Montauk Highway and 114, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the forlorn-looking rag doll and placed it gently on the seat next to me. The doll reminded me of the velveteen rabbit my grandmother had given me as a child that still had a place of honor at the top of my bedroom closet. Missing ear and all. I doubted there were any children admitted to Nightingale Manor Sanitorium in its day. I also knew that Dr. Blake and his wife didn’t have children and he was an only child. I’d never admit it to Elle, but this was the one time I planned on letting the story of Arden Hunter’s death stay where it belonged—in the past. If the doctor didn’t fire me when we showed up on Wednesday.

  I made a pact with myself that I’d never go near that basement of horrors again.

  From my lips to God’s ears.

  Chapter 6

  Tuesday morning, a matted chunk of cat fur had found its way into my mouth. I grabbed a tissue off the bedside table and spit into it. “Ick! Josephine Eater Barrett!” The cat feigned innocence, but given her early morning disposition before mealtime, I wouldn’t have put it past her to have used her two meaty paws to stuff the furball into my mouth. When you owned a Maine coon you were in for a lot of cat hair. Everywhere. On every surface.

  Glancing at the clock, I saw it was an hour after feeding time. Jo never meowed at mealtime. Maybe she was cognizant I wouldn’t hear her nagging without my hearing aids. Instead, she gave me her one-eyed stare, because that’s all she could give, occasionally swatting me on the cheek. Her insinuation was clear. I was a lazy bum. Which I occasionally was. That was the price one paid for tranquility. Living and doing exactly what I wanted with no one looking over my shoulder. Except Jo.

  “All right. All right. Let’s go down for breakfast.”

  Jo moved up to my cheek. Instead of hitting it, she nuzzled it. It was rare that she showed affection and I reveled in it. I scratched behind her ears, then jumped out of bed. After putting on slippers and a fleece robe, I walked to the French doors that opened to my small Juliet balcony. Snow was falling in thick flakes, obscuring my view of the Atlantic. The thirty-six steps leading down to the beach were covered in white. It would be a slippery descent, but since moving in I hadn’t missed one day of walking the shoreline. And even though it was snowing, today would be no different. I could tell the wind was fierce because of the drifting snow and choppy waves, but I couldn’t hear it howling without my hearing aids. And that’s the way I liked my mornings—quiet and peaceful. Especially now that I owned my dream house and the land it stood on.

  Jo head-butted my shin. “Okay, let’s go.” I followed her wide rear down the narrow staircase, realizing this was the first time in a while I’d felt settled. I owned land, my cottage, and a business. I never once regretted leaving my old life in Manhattan, even though I’d loved working at American Home and Garden magazine. But I hadn’t loved the pressure of running a magazine owned by my former fiancé’s twisted ex-wife’s family, the Whitneys.

  It seemed, even though I was only thirty-three, I had the makings of becoming a Miss Marple–type spinster with my one-eyed cat, a basket of knitting by my New York Times reading chair, and an occasional murder investigation. Like Jane, I seemed to be a murder magnet.

  After serving Jo breakfast and grabbing a cup of coffee and my cell phone, I went into the great room and struck a match to the waiting kindling. I’d had my handymen reproduce the flagstone fireplace and thick wood-plank mantel to match the one at the cottage I’d previously rented. I’d also made a few other changes to the structure of my bungalow copied from my old rental—like adding a balcony off the attic bedroom and tearing down the wall between the living room and kitchen. Sadly, the four-room rental cottage had been demolished last month to make way for a new mega beach house slated to break ground after the thaw. Throw out the old, bring in the new wasn’t a motto I adhered to. But then everyone had a choice on what resonated with them when it came to home design. When it came to personal style I made sure to follow my clients’ directives, not my own. However, a little bit of vintage or antique melded well with even the most modern of design. Adding one-of-a-kind items and art that couldn’t be replicated from an online catalog or a home goods store was one of the things I lived for.

  There was something I’d added to my cottage that hadn’t been in my rental—a hidden room. While Jo munched away in the kitchen, I padded toward the wall of bookcases in the great room and pressed against a small rectangular section of wood molding. Presto-chango, the bookcase opened, revealing a narrow room. I stepped inside, then placed my coffee cup and phone on the small table next to a thick-cushioned window seat. The window seat had been built into a bowed window, giving me 180-degree views. Morning magic included sipping coffee as I gazed toward the Montauk Point Lighthouse. When spring came, I changed my routine to sitting on the huge rocks jutting out from my beach at low tide, while gazing to the east at the sun rising out of the Atlantic. Life didn’t get much better.

  After pulling a velvet crazy quilt over my legs, I picked up my phone. Cole had left a voice mail that had been transcribed into words. The problem with the phone app for the hearing impaired was that things tended to get lost in translation. I didn’t think he’d called to say, “All kites are canceled.” I took a deep breath and shelved my disappointment when I read he wouldn’t be attending the holiday festivities at the lighthouse. And this time, Mother Nature was the only one I could blame. Breaking me from my woe-is-me thoughts was a loud pounding that vibrated the windows. If I’d been in the great room or the kitchen a light would blink when someone rang the doorbell.

  I trotted into the great room to find my neighbor Claire standing at the door with her pink nose pressed against the glass. I quickly opened the door and motioned her in. “Claire! What are you doing out in this weather?” Claire had moved into Little Grey last October and was clasping a handful of seaweed in her gloved right hand. “And what the heck’s with the seaweed?”

  “Kelp,” she said, frosty vapor billowing from her mouth. The deep green kelp matched the color of her eyes as she held it toward me. Her long, dark curly hair was mixed with strands of silver and glistened with melting snow.

  I grabbed her elbow. “Hurry insid
e before you freeze to death.”

  She stepped onto the plastic mat by the door and kicked off her boots. She switched the kelp from hand to hand as I helped her out of her thin raincoat. Then I draped it over the arm of my New York Times reading chair. No matter what the weather, she always wore one of her long gauzy skirts. Weighted down by a band of ice, the hem dragged to the floor.

  “I read the most wonderful thing about the healing properties of kelp when made into a poultice for your skin,” she said in her soft, lyrical voice. Then she pushed the slimy thing closer to my face and I caught a whiff of briny ocean. “Helps remove toxins and provides a moisture barrier for scarred tissue. Do you mind fetching a baggie I can put this in? I want to retain the seawater.”

  “No problem,” I said, scurrying to the kitchen, where I retrieved a Ziploc bag and brought it back to her. She dropped the kelp inside and closed the bag. The scars Claire talked about were on her right leg. She’d once told me matter-of-factly that in her twenties she’d gotten a ride home after a performance of The Nutcracker on her boyfriend’s motorcycle, they’d slid on a wet road and the bike had tipped over, trapping her right leg between the pavement and the tailpipe, causing third-degree burns. After she recounted the story, she’d picked up her long skirt and shown me the damage to her leg, saying, “So, my career at the San Francisco Ballet ended, and my true calling began.” The way she talked of the incident that had changed the direction of her life had been one of acceptance. Void of pity seeking.

  I remembered trying not to wince after viewing her scarred leg. Then she’d lowered her skirt and never mentioned it again. She didn’t have to. All I had to do was read her early poetry to learn about the pain she carried with her after that fateful day. The loss of her ballet career didn’t stop her from pursuing another. Claire Post was a renowned American poet. Her bound poetry collections had been reprinted and translated worldwide. Tiger by the Tail, the first book of poetry she’d published, in her late twenties, was still in circulation today.