“Oh, my Lordy!” Willa exclaimed. “What a scare you’ve given me. I thought you were long gone on the ferry yesterday! Your coats were missing from the closet.” She backed up until she felt a chair. Then she sank into it, fanning her flushed face with her hand.
Glancing at Dr. Lewis, I saw concern on his face for Willa. He stood and went to her side. “Are you okay, Willa?” He spoke in a soft tone with lots of bedside manner. The doctor was the antithesis of his former partner in looks and it seemed demeanor. Where Dr. Blake had been tall and well dressed, sporting a ten-thousand-dollar Rolex, Dr. Greg Lewis was short. He wore baggy khakis and an oversized dress shirt. I wondered if he recently lost a lot of weight or bought his clothes from Goodwill. I wasn’t knocking shopping at Goodwill, especially after I’d once found an oil painting by a listed artist that worked perfectly in one of my client’s cottages. Due to his lined face, shaggy white hair and bushy eyebrows, I’d guessed Dr. Lewis’s age to be somewhere in the upper sixties. If Albert Einstein was still alive, I would have bet he and Dr. Lewis would have shared the same barber—or a pair of dull scissors. There was one feature on his face that stood out from all the others: his large beaklike nose, which looked sharp enough to open a can of soup. I gave him kudos for not getting a nose job, especially since he’d been the partner of a celebrity cosmetic surgeon and could’ve gotten it for free. I also understood Dr. Lewis’s looks must have been the reason he had such a small part on Bungled. Dr. Blake might have been a jerk in person, but he definitely had charisma onscreen.
“Dr. Blake is dead!” Felicity burst out.
“Dead? What do you mean dead!” Sabrina shouted.
Elle moved to Sabrina’s side and took her bejeweled hand in hers. “I’m afraid he’s been murdered.” Tears trailed down Elle’s face.
Sabrina didn’t shed one. Instead, she stood, almost knocking petite Elle over, and spat, “Who would dar-r-r-e kill my Blake!” She looked at each one of us full in the face, moving her head from left to right. Analyzing us like she was a human lie detector looking for a tell.
Wouldn’t the natural reaction be, How? Where? Even, Are you sure?
In her defense, I’d learned there was no natural way to handle death. I’d been known to laugh at funerals and cry at weddings. When Sabrina’s gaze met mine, I said, “Don’t look at us. Felicity, Elle, and I were trapped in that old elevator for the past twenty hours.”
Sabrina’s mouth opened, then she sat back on the sofa, defeated, realizing what everyone else was thinking.
Someone in the room might be a cold-blooded killer.
Chapter 12
It was funny how even after a night spent in the dark elevator of a former insane asylum, and then discovering a body killed the same way Arden Hunter was murdered almost seventy years ago, we still had an appetite.
Willa removed the most amazing version of shepherd’s pie from the oven. It was the best I’d ever tasted or smelled. She backed it up with a croque-en-bouche that rivaled the one my father made each Christmas. The name, when translated from French to English, was crunch in mouth. The pyramid of choux pastry balls held together with threads of spun caramel disappeared twenty seconds after she’d placed it on the kitchen table.
The cozy kitchen vibe was the polar opposite of the scene in the basement below us. We all needed showers and sleep but agreed we wouldn’t sleep for a second in Nightingale Manor. Someone who hadn’t been trapped in the elevator had murdered Dr. Blake Nightingale. I wondered how long he’d been dead and realized it would be hard for a coroner to tell because the temperature in the basement had been like a meat locker’s—or a medical examiner’s cadaver drawer.
I studied Willa, knowing I had to add her to our suspect list. Even if one of the others alibied her, they’d both be suspects. And if everyone said they were together during the window of death then this might turn into a Dame Agatha Christie murder mystery. Or a Sherlockian conundrum, the snowstorm turning Nightingale Manor into the locked-room scenario—a dead body with all the windows and doors bolted from inside. But there had been an open door leading outside . . .
Glancing at Willa scurrying around the kitchen, anticipating our every need, it was hard to picture her dragging Dr. Blake to the basement, strapping him to the hospital bed, then stabbing him with an ice pick. I’d done a cursory scan of his body and saw no other trauma, but I hadn’t turned him over. Obviously, whomever killed him wouldn’t have been able to use the elevator because we’d been inside. It was plausible he could have walked down to the basement on his own for some kind of assignation. But with whom? The billion-dollar question.
I thought back to yesterday and Willa’s argument with Dr. Blake’s wife, along with knowing Felicity had to convince Willa to stay for the filming of Mr. & Mrs. Winslow. You would think my lack of sleep and the trauma of our discovery would stop me from grilling, or should I say lightly sautéing, the kind-faced housekeeper. “Willa,” I asked as nonchalantly as possible, “where was everyone when the power went out?”
Elle threw me one of her looks. Maybe she hadn’t grasped the situation—or maybe she had and didn’t want me to tick off whoever killed the doctor.
At first, Willa acted as if she hadn’t heard me. She went near the fire and picked up a snoozing Tabitha and cuddled her in her arms. Then she whispered something into the cat’s twitching ear, brought her to the table and sat down. It seemed all the composure and sunny disposition we’d been witnessing in the past hour had been a shield, because she broke into hiccup-like sobs, tears flowing as if from a geyser.
Felicity jumped up and handed Willa a box of tissues. Elle gave me another look, similar to the last one, only this time, knowing I could read lips, she mouthed—Now look what you’ve done!
After a few minutes, Willa stopped crying. She stroked Tabitha’s back in short frenetic strokes. I was worried the fluffy thing might need some Rogaine to replace the flying fur.
“I apologize,” Willa said, still sniffling. “It’s just . . .” She looked at each of us. “Well, you know.”
We shook our heads in the affirmative.
Continuing, she said, “When the power went out I was at the bottom of the main staircase, cleaning the foyer floor from Hector’s snowy boot prints. I waited a few minutes for the generator to start. But it never did. Blake called to me from the drawing room to get candles and flashlights ready. As if I wouldn’t think about it.”
Which meant Dr. Blake had been killed in the hours following the power outage, when we were in the elevator. That left a lot of time for one of the others to have killed him. Then I remembered the wounded animal howl we’d all heard. Was that when he’d been stabbed with the ice pick?
Willa stopped for a minute and looked down at the tabby, then continued, “After the power went out, I hurried to the butler’s pantry to get everything together.”
“Was anyone else in the drawing room with Dr. Blake when it went out?” I asked gently. “And who’s Hector?”
“Yes, Dr. Lewis and Sabrina were there. I don’t know where Mr. Reed was. Hector is a sometime handyman who works over at Sylvester Manor as their gardener/yardman. A couple hours earlier, he’d come to the door saying he’d plowed the front circle and wanted to see Blake to give him his bill. It was past due.”
“Did he see Dr. Blake?” I asked.
“No. I didn’t want to bother him, especially after what happened earlier when I became Blake’s scapegoat. So, I took the bill from Hector and said I would give it to Blake when I saw him.”
She didn’t elaborate on the “what happened earlier” and must not have known we’d overheard her arguing with Sabrina about the practice’s unpaid malpractice insurance.
“How about Jeremy,” Felicity asked. “Was he here when the power went out?”
She continued, “No. When I went to retrieve Mr. Prentice’s coat from the closet and saw your coats were missing, I assumed you’d all left for the ferry. That’s why we were all in shock when you walked into the room a
little while ago. Before leaving, Mr. Prentice seemed visibly upset about something and had me confirm that I’d remain at Nightingale Manor for the duration of the filming. He even asked if he brought a contract to that effect, would I sign it. I told him I would. When I opened the door and saw all the snow and ice, I tried to talk him into staying, but he refused, saying his Range Rover could make it through anything.”
Elle was listening, wide-eyed. “Oh, I hope he did.”
“So,” I asked, “how long after he left did the power go out?”
“I would guess about ten minutes. I remember saying a prayer he would make it safely to the North Ferry. After the outage, I was pretty busy getting everything ready. I apologize for not knowing you were still here.”
“I’d brought the coats up to the attic,” Felicity said, “in case the space heaters didn’t do their job.”
“That explains it,” Willa said, sitting a little straighter, obviously feeling better than a few seconds before. “It must have been terrible being locked inside. The generator was still out when I got the rooms ready for Greg and Mr. Reed on the second floor. We stayed in the living room in front of the fire until it was time for bed. We were all there, including Blake, even though Sabrina kept on him to go check why the generator wasn’t working.”
“Let me guess,” I interjected, “the generator’s in the basement?”
“Yes. But Blake didn’t go. He’s not the handiest when it comes to things like that. Dr. Lewis went, but he couldn’t get it going, either.”
Well, somehow Dr. Blake ended up in the basement.
We heard Sabrina’s heels clicking and clacking down the hallway. She entered the kitchen wearing a full face of makeup, dressed in silky loungewear more suitable for beachside on the Riviera than a freezing-cold mansion. “Langston, I mean Mr. Reed, wants to know if anyone got through to the authorities on their cell phones. The wifi is naturally out but we can’t understand why we can’t get a satellite signal. It’s imperative that we let the outside world know we’re okay. I mean . . . mostly okay.” She turned her pert nose in Willa’s direction. “Now that the power is on I think it would be prudent of you to whip up as many cooked meals as possible in case we lose it again. There is no way that generator should have gone out. When Blake brought the occasional patient here to recover from surgery we had to have the generator up to code.”
“Maybe Blake didn’t pay the gas bill,” Willa mumbled under her breath. If Sabrina heard her, she ignored it.
Sabrina snapped her fingers, inches from Willa’s face. “We need nourishment brought into the drawing room. Pronto! Felicity, maybe one of your girls could bring us some coffee and something sweet. It’s so important to keep Langston happy after the tragic circumstances of my loving husband’s death.”
Everyone heard Willa’s “Hmph!” after Sabrina said the word loving. Willa handed Elle a carafe of coffee, saying everyone already had cups. Then Willa turned to Sabrina, her pale skin in sharp contrast to the bright pink of her cheeks. “Don’t you want to go down and see him, Sabrina? You act like his death is of no consequence and that you’re oblivious to knowing one of our little party might be guilty of murder.”
Sabrina didn’t let us see her sweat. “I don’t believe he was murdered. I’m sure there will be a rational reason for his untimely death at such a young age. Plus”—she pointed at me—“you said that door leading outside was wide open. An intruder or vagrant might have come looking for shelter from the storm, Blake caught him and he was killed.” She swiped at her cheek theatrically. Her makeup stayed intact because there hadn’t been any moisture to dampen it.
Perhaps Sabrina was as good of an actress as Zoe Stockton. She of all people must know the history of Arden Hunter’s murder and how she’d been murdered with an ice pick. I observed her gestures, looking for a clue as to how she could remain so cold to the death of her husband. Maybe it’d been a relief. Or maybe she’d had a hand in it.
“What about these two?” She nodded her head at Elle and me. “What do we really know about them? I plan to hire a private investigator to find out what happened to Blake. In the meantime, do your job. Looks like no more favors from Blake for you, Willa Sullivan. You’re on your own. That ship has sailed. And I’m sure you’re wondering if we had a prenup. Well, we didn’t. Boo hoo.”
“Sabrina, I guess you don’t know,” Willa said. I could tell she was angry by the way she was arranging cinnamon rolls that were still warm from the oven. Half had come unrolled and resembled snails looking to escape the plate. “I’ve been hired by Prentice Productions to be housemother for the actors and crew during filming. I’m no longer under Blake’s control. And Lord knows, I was never under yours. And never will be.”
Sabrina must’ve been caught off guard because she didn’t have a good retort. She grabbed ahold of Elle’s elbow and steered her out of the kitchen. Elle looked back at me and mouthed, Go get my phone from the attic.
Chapter 13
I exited the kitchen, passing the cursed elevator, and went in search of the servants’ staircase that would lead me to the attic. Although I’d made jokes yesterday about Elle being a sissy and squeamish about anything related to the old murder, this new murder had me looking over my shoulder as I climbed the dimly lit staircase. No more elevators for me. I’d take the stairs for the next twenty years.
I’d found an extra hearing-aid battery in the bottom of my handbag, so I only had hearing in one ear. Enough to hear the howling of wind and icy sleet hitting the window at the end of the third-floor hallway. Rubbing a spy hole with my coat sleeve, I pressed my nose against the frosted pane of glass. The sun had disappeared from when we’d been in the basement, and the entire landscape was covered in mountain ranges of white. In the distance, I saw that a light was on in an upstairs room of the gatehouse. As far as I knew, the gatehouse was unoccupied until it came time for Dr. Blake and Sabrina Nightingale to move in while Mr. & Mrs. Winslow was filming. Felicity had even told us that Sabrina wanted her entire bedroom suite and the contents of her huge walk-in closet transferred there when the time came.
So why was there a light on? I didn’t see any footprints in the layers of white. A moot point, since if someone had gone there during the storm, their tracks would have been covered with layers of snow by now. Maybe Jeremy Prentice hadn’t made it off the estate and had taken refuge?
Again, I reviewed the entire cast of murder suspects: Willa, housekeeper and nurse; Sabrina, wife; Langston, director of the miniseries; Jeremy, producer of the miniseries; and finally, Dr. Greg Lewis, Dr. Blake’s partner.
I jumped back from the window. Something moved behind the snow-laden pine trees in the thicket where the rag doll had been found.
There it was again. Something beige and alive.
A human?
What I saw wasn’t the boogeyman or Blake Nightingale’s ghost. It was a wide-eyed doe whose neck and head were the only things visible behind a bank of drifting snow. She glanced up at me, then, as if spooked, turned tail and leapt deeper into the woods. I couldn’t blame her for her instinct to run away from Nightingale Manor.
When I stepped into the attic and flipped the switch for the lights, all our previous work was illuminated. I’d forgotten how far we’d gotten after just a few hours of toil. Elle’s cell was on a window ledge. It was dead. I pocketed it and then felt the skeleton’s eye sockets aimed my way. The Santa hat that he’d been wearing yesterday was lying on the floor. Next to him, the door to the closet under the eaves was slightly open. I remembered latching it yesterday. Someone had been up here after we’d left, and it hadn’t been Felicity, Elle, or me.
I went to investigate. The wide floorboards creaked as I slowly made my way to the shadowy corner. Getting down on my knees, I switched on my phone’s flashlight and peered inside. Almost all of the suitcases were lying flat on the floorboards, not upright as I’d seen them yesterday. Most were open, exposing their private contents. I crawled inside and moved to the highest point, then st
ood and pulled a string hanging from the chain of a fixture with an exposed bulb. The space filled with soft light.
Even though the closet glowed brighter, the sadness and loneliness emanating from the suitcases filled the cramped space. I saw silver women’s vanity sets tarnished by years of oxidation. There where old Broadway playbills and other ephemera. A few suitcases had old bisque-faced dolls and stuffed teddy bears nestled inside flannel receiving blankets; others held men’s toiletries, straight-edge razors, Brylcreem hair dressing and shaving brushes. But the saddest of all were the family photos, mostly old cabinet cards in black and white or sepia. They were like eyes looking out after being shut away for so many decades. The suitcases must have belonged to former sanitorium residents who either left Nightingale Manor without their belongings—or as my melancholy mind guessed . . . never left at all. I remembered the old cemetery that I’d seen behind the estate’s gates. For some unknown reason, I got down on my knees and methodically closed all of the suitcases, not wanting to invade their owners’ privacy. All except one. The reason I didn’t close it was because it was empty. Had someone taken the contents? I pulled it closer, searching for any clue to its owner. Then I found it.
The old luggage tag at first glance didn’t display a name, initials or a series of numbers like I’d seen on the suitcases yesterday. I slid the oak tag paper from its sleeve and aimed my light on it. It was blank, but when I flipped it over, I saw A. Hunter written in script. Arden Hunter.
Arden Hunter never left Nightingale Manor with her suitcase because she’d been murdered.
Who’d been inside the closet? And what were they looking for? Was the carnage related to Blake Nightingale’s murder? And what happened to the contents of Arden Hunter’s suitcase?
These were all questions I was determined to find answers to. But first I wanted to get out of Nightingale Manor and back to my cozy Montauk domicile and my cranky fat cat. I needed to analyze things from a distance. A far distance.
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