“Years ago, Willa worked at the practice as Dr. Lewis’s and Dr. Blake’s RN. That was before Dr. Blake thought of bringing high-profile celebrity clients to Nightingale Manor to convalesce, guaranteeing they’d be far away from the prying eyes of the press. He convinced Willa to move here with her son and be his private nurse and housekeeper. I don’t know exactly when Sabrina came into the picture, but from what we just heard it sounds like five years ago.” Felicity laughed. “I think we might have a whole new miniseries to film.”
“Something to replace Bungled,” I said.
Felicity gave me a knowing look.
“Willa seemed excited about the filming,” Elle said. “She must be getting a good stipend for working on the set. And, as you told us, Dr. Blake and his wife will be staying in the gatehouse. It would be a shame if Willa left before filming even started.”
Felicity looked alarmed. “I sure hope she doesn’t leave. I better go talk to her. Convince her she’s indispensable. Plus, I know Jeremy will be very upset if she leaves. We’d need to hire Craft Services at the union rate. Our producer is very frugal, probably why he’s one of the richest men in the industry. You guys go on ahead. I’ll meet you up there.” She slid open the gate and went in the direction of the kitchen.
Once again, I closed the gate, then pushed the button for the third floor, noticing that under the button for the first floor was an unmarked button. It must be for the basement. I shivered and wondered what it must have felt like for former Nightingale Sanitorium patients to descend to the bowels of the mansion on their way for shock treatment, or worse yet, a lobotomy. Like Arden Hunter . . .
Chapter 8
Our cage shook and we started our ascent. When the elevator finally reached the attic level, the doors opened. Elle stepped out and I followed with the tea cart. It rattled down the long carpeted hallway, the sound jarring in the eerie silence. The six electric sconces that lined the hallway had been left on. Their low-watt candelabra bulbs cast little light, adding a spooky ambiance, perfectly fitting for the attic of a sanitorium.
There were two doors for us to choose from. Elle opened the first door and flipped the light switch, illuminating a small bathroom with just a toilet and pedestal sink. The mirror over the sink was shattered, little fissures traveling across the surface like the threads of a spider’s web.
“Wonder if the plumbing’s in working condition?” Elle asked.
I was too excited about what might lay behind the next door to answer. I left the cart in the hallway and jogged to the door.
“Hey,” Elle called after me, “not fair!”
“You got the first door. This one’s mine.” I turned the glass doorknob and walked in.
Someone had left two floor lamps on. Elle came and stood next to me. In the dim light we saw a single set of small footprints stamped on the dusty floor. Felicity had told us she’d been up here before us. It appeared that no one else had entered in decades. I rubbed my eyes to find what appeared to be a hologram of my recurring attic dream. The attic’s depth and breadth were that of Noah’s Ark. Every junk picker’s and antique connoisseur’s happy place. Including mine.
“And to think,” Elle said, adding a whistle, “they had to transport all this stuff by ferry or boat.”
I pointed up to the buttressed ceiling. Hanging from a beam on long chains were three Tiffany dragonfly lamps. Yes. Three. All in different shades of colored glass. Even under eons of dust, they seemed to glow. Having worked at Sotheby’s in their Americana division prior to coming to American Home and Garden magazine, Elle had given me a crash course on all things Tiffany when we’d inventoried Caroline Spenser’s legendary collections at her Hamptons estate. I also learned from watching Antiques Roadshow how to spot a fake Tiffany lamp. “Those seem to be the real deal.”
“Looks like it to me,” she whispered, as if afraid she’d wake the other goodies before we got to them.
Next to me was a lacquered bar cart topped with a chrome cocktail shaker in the form of a dumbbell.
Elle followed my gaze. “Definitely in our Mr. & Mrs. Winslow wheelhouse.” She moved next to the traveling bar and ran her finger through the dust on the shaker to reveal shiny chrome. “Amazing. It’s from the Jazz Age. Deco. I’d guess around the early thirties. I sold a similar one in my shop for twenty-six hundred dollars and it didn’t even have a chrome stand like this one does.”
“Wow. Can’t you picture suave Jack Winslow shaking a cocktail while holding a roomful of suspects captive as they waited for the great reveal? Wonder if the miniseries will have as many references to booze, like they always show in hard-boiled detective films?”
“You’ll have to ask the screenwriter, your tortured poet, the reincarnated John Keats, aka Patrick Seaton,” Elle teased.
I ignored her comment, even though it made for an interesting scenario. Me, strolling down Montauk’s shoreline, looking for writing in the sand on Patrick’s beach, then climbing the steps to his cozy little snow-covered cottage, knocking on the door, being greeted by his dog Charley, then asking him if there was going to be a lot of drinking going on in the miniseries he was writing . . . I screeched on the brakes in my addled brain. Patrick Seaton’s wife and daughter were killed by a drunk driver.
“Why’s your face so red? Thinking about Patrick? You naughty girl.”
I didn’t answer Elle and tried to steer the conversation in a safer direction. “Remember when we watched that Thin Man movie marathon at Maurice’s? The thirties time period of the films was the same as Mr. & Mrs. Winslow. I hope the Lara Winslow character is like Nora Charles. Nora could hold her own not only in the liquor department compared to her boozer of a husband Nick but also in the sleuthing. Female detectives were rare in film and literature back then. Nora wasn’t afraid of danger and was always a good sport, no matter what her better half was up to. Didn’t even blink a lush eyelash when some thug aimed a gun at her and called her a dame.”
“Great-aunt Mabel was a big fan of Myrna Loy, who played Nora Charles,” Elle said as she examined a set of chrome martini stemware.
“My father told me my Nana Barrett read hard-boiled detective stories. Not just by Dashiell Hammett, but by Raymond Chandler and Mickey Spillane too. And she loved Ross Macdonald. My dad has all her books in his study.”
“Might have had something to do with his becoming a homicide detective,” Elle added.
“Possibly.”
“You’ve got some role reversals going on in your family. Your gram read detective novels, and your gramps owned a restaurant. Maybe that’s why your dad went into the police force and he’s the best home chef I’ve ever met. What happened to you, Megan Elizabeth Barrett?”
“I can hard-boil an egg,” I said with a grin. “If not for moi, we wouldn’t have figured out what happened to Randall McFee last October.”
“It seems in all three instances of your hard-broiled detecting, you were as surprised as everyone else about whodunit. And, you almost got killed in the process.”
“Back to Mr. & Mrs. Winslow. I think Zoe will handle playing the female lead perfectly. Just hope they don’t decide to find another location.”
We heard a clattering and Felicity charged into the room, pushing the cart I’d left in the hallway. She paused, then bent over and grabbed her knees, gasping for breath. When she stood she gave us the biggest smile. “Think I’ve placated . . .” She grabbed a water bottle from the cart, chugged the whole thing, then said, “Willa into remaining, no matter what the Nightingales say or do to make her want to leave. Ran up the stairs . . . wanted to see the looks on your faces when you saw the space. Plus, I wanted to get away before I got embroiled in another spat between Dr. Blake and his partner. They were really going at it.” Sweat beaded on her forehead.
“At least you’ve warmed up,” Elle said. “Maybe that’s what we all should do, run up and down the steps to keep warm.”
“I grabbed our coats,” she said, motioning to the bottom of the cart. “After we pl
ug in a couple space heaters that should do it.”
“Seems like Dr. Blake attracts controversy.” I walked to the cart, grabbed my jacket and zipped it up. “What were they arguing about? The unpaid malpractice insurance?”
“I don’t think so,” Felicity said, going over to Elle, “this time it was Dr. Blake who seemed to be threatening Dr. Lewis with something. All I heard him say was, You make a stink about the insurance and I’ll tell our lawyer about your part in our little television drama. I took off before I heard any more.” Felicity picked up a stuffed toy dog from a built-in shelf. “Told you guys the attic was amazing. Look at this little guy, he’s the same kind of dog they’re using in Mr. & Mrs. Winslow.”
“It’s a Steiff,” Elle said. “Scotty, the black Scottish terrier.”
“He’d look adorable under the Christmas tree in the first scene,” Felicity said, excitement showing in her sparkling eyes illuminated by her glasses. She handed the stuffed dog to Elle.
“I’m afraid he dates from the early fifties, not the right date for the miniseries. There were some made in the thirties, but I can tell by the eyes this one is much later. One of my customers collects Steiff. She already owns Scotty, but if you find a Steiff Titanic Mourning Bear, she’ll pay a pretty penny to add it to her collection. Only eighty-two were made and the last one at auction went for more than a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Wow! I don’t think that would fit in our budget,” Felicity said.
“I’m sure my customer wouldn’t mind loaning you her huge stuffed bear on wheels that I sold her a year ago. It even has a growler.” Elle placed Scotty back on the shelf and went over to the north side of the attic to a cupboard under the eaves.
“Growler?” I asked.
“It was actually a rattle they added to a tin box in the bear’s throat so when you shook him, he growled.”
“G-r-r-r-r! What fun. Better than a video game, I’m sure.” I went to join Elle at the cupboard door, excited by what we might find. “I know Teddy Roosevelt was the inspiration behind stuffed teddy bears after a cartoonist in the early 1900s drew a picture of Roosevelt letting a baby cub free because he said it was unsportsmanlike to shoot it.”
Felicity joined us and Elle pointed up at the three lamps. “We believe those are real Tiffany.”
“I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure they are,” Felicity said. “The attic is just a preview of the rest of the house.”
“That guy over there might fit in, too.” I pointed to my left. In the corner was a skeleton dangling from a metal stand. That wasn’t what gave me the heebie-jeebies, it was what was on the top of a double-tiered bookcase next to him—four human skulls. Lobotomies gone bad? It seemed the southeast corner of the attic stored items from when Nightingale Manor was a sanitorium. Human body charts hung from a hook on the wall. Under the quadruplet skulls were microscopes, Pyrex lab beakers, even a metal syringe with a huge plunger. It looked like it might be perfect to baste a fifty-pound turkey. Someone had placed a Santa hat on Mr. Skeleton. “Was that your handiwork, Felicity?”
She grinned. “Maybe . . . Dr. Blake told me his grandfather was a doctor. We can’t use any of it, because most of those medical items look like they’re from after 1940.”
“Aren’t skeletons timeless?” I asked, watching her closely for a tell that would let me know if she knew about the murder.
“You have a point.”
She hadn’t reacted, so I guessed she knew nothing about Nightingale Manor’s murky past. Which was just as well.
“First things first,” Elle said. “Sustenance.”
Elle went over to the cart and filled our coffee mugs, put some muffins on napkins, then handed them out. I found outlets to plug in the space heaters, hoping they were up to code. If not, I’d get fried and end up like Santa Skeleton. Felicity rooted through a closet packed with Christmas ornaments, oohing and ahhing as she uncovered more tissue-packed boxes. “Check out these babies,” Felicity said, showing us a cache of exquisite Victorian handblown glass ornaments.
After chugging down our coffee and under Felicity’s tutelage, we set up a grid system similar to what an archeologist might do on a dig site. I rolled up the beautiful twelve-by-twelve-foot Aubusson rug for a dustless space and then we placed items according to decade in their proper grid, combining anything prior to 1940 in the largest square.
“How big is the Christmas tree you’re bringing in?” Elle asked Felicity after we’d finished clearing the closet.
“Huge. It will go in the drawing room and almost touch the twenty-foot ceiling. So, a guesstimate would be just shy of that.”
After scouring the attic for every last Christmas-related item we could find, we perused our bounty.
Elle left to wash up. When she returned she said, “Meg, I think we should leave soon. Who knows how long it will take to get to the ferry. I couldn’t see much out the small bathroom window. Only white and the sound of ice hitting, along with a rattling wind so loud I thought the glass might crack.”
I glanced up at the fan-shaped windows under the pitched ceiling on the east and west ends of the space. We’d been so immersed in our work, we hadn’t a clue as to what was going on outdoors during the past two hours.
Felicity took out her phone and glanced at the screen. “We better get going. We can finish tomorrow.”
“Wish we could have gotten to that last set of closets under the eaves,” I said, “the ones across from the closets we’ve already pillaged.”
“Meg, we need to go now!” Elle ordered. “We’ll have plenty of time tomorrow. Remember, I have that appointment.”
I knew she had an appointment, but I doubted the other party would make it during a blizzard. Elle just didn’t want to get stranded at Nightingale Manor. Neither did I.
A man’s voice boomed toward us from the hallway, “So, this is where you’ve disappeared to . . .” Langston Reed walked in, a huge grin on his face.
When I’d met him at the film festival, I’d immediately liked him. He was a big supporter of Hamptons charities and had been a pivotal figure in the creation of the film festival. I also knew his mega estate in Bridgehampton had been featured more than once in Architectural Digest. But after the exchange I witnessed between him and Dr. Blake in the doctor’s home office, I could see there might be a less amiable side to him.
Felicity bounded up to Langston. “We’re finding lots of good things for the pilot,” she said, spreading her arms in a sweeping motion to show him our handiwork.
“Fabulous,” he said, glancing around the space. His gaze stopped where the skeleton and skulls were housed in the corner. He walked toward them.
“Do you think we can fit a skeleton into one of our episodes? Halloween at Jack and Lara’s,” Felicity said, laughing.
At first, Langston didn’t answer. He went behind the skeleton and viewed the tattered pull-down chart of the human body. Then he turned to the bookcase and bent to the lower shelf and picked up the huge syringe, examined it, then tossed it back on the shelf like it was alive and ready to infect him with a deadly poison. “No,” he finally answered, “I haven’t read any scripts that might have the use of a skeleton. I suppose we could always add one.”
At the mention of a script, I once again thought about Patrick Seaton, my pen pal in the sand and Mr. & Mrs. Winslow’s screenwriter.
Langston kept poking around the area littered with mad-scientist odds and ends. Finally, Felicity said, “Langston, I’d like you to meet Meg Barrett and Elle Warner. They’ve been a great help.”
He looked toward us and smiled. “Ms. Barrett, you look familiar. Have you worked on any of my other projects?”
I went over to him and extended my hand. “Please, call me Meg. I think we were introduced at the international film festival. I was with Byron Hughes. This is my first time working on a set and I hope it’s not my last.” I flashed him my best smile, excited about what the future may hold. The Hamptons were notorious for being the perfect locatio
n for filming movies and television series.
“Of course. I rarely forget a face. A name, yes. And Ms. Warner,” he said, nodding in Elle’s direction, “I saw the photos of the items you brought for Zoe to wear. Perfect in every way.”
She giggled. “Please, call me Elle.”
A plump man in holey jeans and a fisherman’s sweater walked into the room, followed by perfect-postured, reed-thin Dr. Blake Nightingale.
Elle nudged me and mouthed, “That’s Jeremy Prentice, the producer.”
Jeremy seemed close in age to Langston, the show’s director, but instead of salt-and-pepper hair, his was pure white and pulled back into a short ponytail. The good doctor or bad doctor, depending on who you talked to, was dressed similar to when we’d met on Monday. He wore a baby-blue button-down oxford under his navy blazer.
“Langston, I’m leaving for the North Ferry,” the producer said, chewing gum as he talked. “The snowplow has come and gone, and I’ve been informed it won’t be coming back until tomorrow morning.”
From what Elle had told me, Jeremy Prentice was close to being a billionaire. He sure didn’t dress like one, then I remembered Felicity saying he was as cheap as they came.
“Nightingale,” Jeremy said, turning to address Blake, “you know we could have picked a million other locations for this project. Now that we’ve chosen your home for filming, I hope you’ll accommodate us by getting some heat in this monstrosity. I don’t want any union complaints. Any whisper of one and we’ll have to change the filming location. I’m sure you understand. Look at these people. They’re wearing their winter coats.”
I noticed Dr. Blake didn’t tell Jeremy to call him doctor. He kept his mouth closed like it’d been wired and gave us a dismissive gaze. Something about him rubbed me the wrong way. I wasn’t too enamored with Jeremy Prentice’s poor manners either, billions or not. He’d looked over at us without introducing himself.
Friendly Elle had no qualms about walking up to them. “Dr. Nightingale, it’s such a pleasure to meet you. You have an amazing home.” She extended her hand. “I’m Elle Warner, you have my assurance we’ll handle everything with the care it deserves. You have my oath.”
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