I pocketed the tag from the suitcase, and before closing it I felt along the satin liner to see if I’d missed anything, but the interior was clean. I closed it, then stood it upright. Underneath, stuck in the space between two wide floorboards, was an envelope. Only a small portion was visible. I tried to pull it out but couldn’t get enough of a grip. My nails were clipped short because of all the woodworking, painting, and staining I did on my projects for my Cottages by the Sea clients. I tried once more unsuccessfully, then tried again. “Ouch!” Instead of the envelope, I came up with a huge splinter that protruded from my pointer finger. Blood gushed as I pulled to remove it. But only the tip broke off, leaving a good portion wedged under my fingernail. I was no stranger to pain, but this was up there in my top ten.
Now it was a question of woman against envelope. I was determined to get the darned thing out. I opened a few suitcases, trailing blood as I went. Finally, I spied some rusty tweezers and used them to remove the envelope from between the floorboards. I’d had half a mind to use the tweezers on the remaining part of the splinter but knew I hadn’t had a tetanus shot in the last decade. Stowing the envelope in my pocket, I pulled the string to the light and crawled out, backing straight into Santa Skeleton, causing a clattering of bone against bone. When I stood, the skulls on the bookcase next to me grinned at my theatrics. I felt like I’d just been on a trip to another dimension, one beyond the twilight zone.
I booked it out of the attic and flew down three flights of steps like I was being chased by the specters of Dr. Blake and Arden Hunter. When I reached the first floor I ran into, literally, Willa and Dr. Lewis. They’d been in a passionate embrace until I body-slammed them and they went catapulting backward onto the hall carpet.
All I could think of to say as I lifted my chin from Willa’s back was, “Oops.” There were a few uncomfortable minutes before Willa and I got up. We both pulled Dr. Lewis to his feet. He wouldn’t hear of me apologizing for tackling him to the ground like I was a Giants linebacker.
Dr. Lewis was polite, and instead of getting upset that the blood from my finger with the splinter ruined his shirt, he spoke calmly, with a steady voice. His bedside manner instantly put me at ease. “Come,” he said, “let’s take care of that finger right away.”
I followed him and Willa to the kitchen, where Willa fetched a first-aid kit and handed him a pair of tweezers. I noticed a slight tremor to his hand.
“Stress,” he explained.
“Understandable. I seem to have gotten blood on your shirt.”
He looked down at a spot near his pocket and shrugged it off. “No worries, my dear.”
“I know how to get it out,” Willa said. “Ms. Barrett just needs to spit on the stain and it will come right out.”
“Say what?” I wasn’t about to spit on someone.
“It’s true. My mother taught me,” Willa said. “Greg, hand me your hankie.”
He did.
She held it up to my mouth and they both looked at me.
“Go ahead,” Dr. Lewis prodded.
“I spit into the hankie, which was just as wrinkled as Dr. Lewis’s shirt. The man needed a woman in his life or a good dry cleaner. Perhaps Willa planned on filling the first role.
Willa patted the moistened part of the hankie on the stain, explaining, “The enzymes in your saliva break up the stain, but it can’t be someone else’s saliva, only the person whose blood it is. Of course, hydrogen peroxide works just as well or immediately soaking it in cold water.”
After all the talk of blood, there was an awkward pause. I told them that Elle was waiting for her phone and I’d better get going, then took off for the drawing room.
Instead of walking in, I lingered outside the open French doors, seeing if I could do some lip detecting. I shimmied behind a fake potted tree and peeked in. The person facing me was Langston. I made do with what I got and was able to decipher most of what he was saying, something to the effect of, “Why wouldn’t the police let us go? Mr. & Mrs. Winslow has nothing to do with what happened to your husband, Mrs. Nightingale. Not to sound callous—at first, I’d thought he’d mouthed jealous—but you, the housekeeper, and his partner are the only ones with ties to the man. I’ve only met him a total of three times.”
Elle came toward me from behind the staircase, coffeepot in hand. “What are you doing?” she whispered. “Where’s my phone?”
“Shhh, no need to get in a tizzy, I have it right here.” I handed it to her.
She took a charger out of her pocket and plugged it under a reflectory table. Once it came on she changed the greeting to say where we were. I was confident her fiancé detective would be knocking at Nightingale Manor’s door any second. Especially now that I noticed through the window by the front door that the snow had stopped falling.
“Why were you hiding behind a tree?” Elle asked. “Let’s get inside. Don’t you think it’s important we keep track of everyone? One of these people could be the lunatic that killed Dr. Blake.”
We walked in and found Sabrina standing near the floor-to-ceiling windows, waiting for rescue. Willa, Felicity and Dr. Lewis entered and took seats flanking the hearth. For a moment we were all silent.
The realization Sabrina’s husband had been murdered must have finally sunk in because Sabrina asked, more like demanded, we remain together, even for bathroom visits. If Sabrina hadn’t suggested that we stay together until the police arrived, then Elle or I would have, especially after my visiting the attic and finding the murdered actress Arden Hunter’s empty suitcase, along with the knowledge that Willa and Dr. Lewis were romantically involved.
Minutes ticked by like hours. Finally, Dr. Lewis took things in hand, insisting we follow him to the basement to view his partner’s body. All for one, one for all.
We trudged out of the drawing room and into the hallway, following behind Dr. Lewis like we were in a funeral procession, a dirge echoing in my head. When we reached the basement stairway, Dr. Lewis held the door open. Sabrina, who was second in line, said, “Please, you go first, Greg, I might faint at the sight.” As we went down the stairs, I was the only one who noticed the blood-spattered pen on the fifth from the bottom step. Using what I hoped was a slight-of-hand move, I took a clean tissue from my pocket, swiped up the pen, and stuck it up the sleeve of my jacket. I reasoned it was better that I took it instead of Dr. Blake’s killer.
When we reached the body, we all watched Dr. Lewis turn Blake Nightingale’s body on its side to see if there were any other wounds besides the ice pick protruding from his chest. As we’d stood around the hospital bed, Agatha Christie’s And Then There Were None came to mind. Perhaps if the characters in the book had stuck together things would have turned out differently. Just to be safe, as we were leaving the basement, I quickly snapped a dozen photos on my phone to share with Doc, my surrogate uncle and former Detroit PD coroner.
That’s if I ever got out of the house alive.
• • •
Back in the drawing room, after taking a long swig of brandy, Sabrina said, “I think it would be prudent of you, Dr. Lewis, to share your findings on the cause of my husband’s death.” We were huddled around the fire. All eyes were fixed on Sabrina’s face.
No one answered Sabrina’s stupid question. She said, visibly upset, “Well, I hope everyone noticed the door and cement steps leading outside. Someone could have come in and killed him, then left out that door. It doesn’t necessarily mean my Blake was killed by one of us. How about that ugly woman and her phony lawsuit? I bet we’d find she might have snuck in and killed my Blakie.” She then turned and sent Felicity, Elle and me a formidable accusatory look. “And even though the three of you claim to have been stranded in the elevator, how do we know you aren’t in it together?”
I blurted out, “What would our motive be? I’ve only met Mr., I mean Dr. Blake, twice, Elle just met him yesterday, and Felicity, well, why would she want to kill him knowing her job as set designer depends on filming at Nightingale Manor
?” I looked around at the faces of our killing pool and didn’t see any blinking neon signs pointing to whodunnit. And, for the life of me I couldn’t see how a murder that happened over sixty years ago had anything to do with Blake Nightingale’s murder. However, there had been an obvious connection because Blake had been killed the same way Marian Fortune had killed Arden Hunter.
I couldn’t wait to leave the estate and dig into the murder and any connections there might be from a distance. The key words being from a distance. The elephant in the room was not only who knew about the old murder, but what the killer’s message was in using the ice pick.
Dr. Lewis cleared his throat. “It seems obvious he was killed with an ice pick, however, until the medical examiner does a full tox screen and removes his clothing, we won’t know if he’d been drugged first or has other injuries.”
“It wouldn’t take much to strap him down,” Langston Reed said. “Earlier, he’d finished a whole magnum of Dom Perignon that Jeremy and I had planned to serve to everyone to kick off the production of Mr. & Mrs. Winslow.” He glanced around and caught Felicity’s eye. They exchanged a look that only I’d noticed. It seemed improbable newlywed Felicity and Langston, one of her bosses, were having a fling. Then again, I still had a hard time picturing Dr. Lewis and Willa together because of their age difference. I checked Dr. Lewis’s left hand for a wedding ring. Nothing. Up until now, Langston had remained silent, following Sabrina’s directives and looking a little green around the gills when we’d traipsed down to the basement as if we were on a school field trip.
After five minutes of silence, I broke the ice. “How many of you know about the murder at Nightingale Manor?”
“What kind of idiotic question is that? We all do,” Sabrina said, standing up.
“Not your husband’s murder. Arden Hunter’s?”
She sat back down and gave me a piercing look. “That has no bearing on today.”
“I think the ice pick gives it bearing,” Felicity said. “Meg told me about it when we were trapped in the elevator. Langston, did you know that Nightingale Manor was a former sanitorium and an old-time movie actress was murdered here in the basement? The same way Dr. Blake was?”
Langston shifted uncomfortably in his high-back wing chair. “I had no idea. I would have never chosen Nightingale Manor as a location if I’d known.”
Liar, I thought. He gripped the arms of his chair like he was on a roller coaster waiting for the big plunge.
Dr. Lewis spoke up. “Blake had shared with me about the murder, and we agreed it wouldn’t do our practice any good to talk about it. Not that plastic surgery and psychiatry are related.”
Sabrina pointed a finger at me. “I don’t see your point, um . . .”
“Meg.”
“Meg. Anyone could look up that old story. I still say that woman that forced the cancellation of Blake’s show is to blame for his death. Her and her ambulance-chasing lawyer, Margulies.”
“Justin Margulies?” I knew him, and he wasn’t an ambulance chaser, more like a competent attorney well known in the Hamptons.
“I suppose that’s his name. Wait!” Sabrina shouted and ran to the snow-covered window. “I hear something! It’s gotta be a snowplow. Thank God.” Everyone stood. “Oh, no, you don’t,” she said, gritting her teeth. “Everyone stays put until the police arrive.”
Elle ignored her and ran into the hallway. She grabbed the door handle and opened the front door. We watched as an avalanche of snow buried her. She sputtered and flailed before I could reach her.
The snow parted like the Red Sea. A short man, pushing a snowblower and wearing a head-to-toe snowmobile suit, complete with helmet, came into view. He switched off the engine and hurried to Elle’s side. He picked her up and cradled her in his arms like in the famous last scene of the movie An Officer and a Gentleman, and carried her to the sofa in the drawing room. I didn’t have to wait until he removed the helmet to know who it was.
Relief set in.
Detective Arthur Shoner from the East Hampton Town PD was in the building and I couldn’t have been happier than if he was my very own fiancé, not Elle’s.
Chapter 14
After the pickup was unearthed from a gigantic snowdrift, we left for the ferry. As soon as I got in my car, I called Claire to make sure Jo was okay and fed. I had no idea if the rest of the people/suspects had to stay at the estate or were free to leave. And frankly, it wasn’t any of my business—unless I made it my business. Which knowing me, I probably would.
When I reached home, the first thing I did was run down the steps to the ocean. Well, maybe not run because the snow on the steps was so deep that halfway down my rear end became a toboggan and I landed face-first in the sand. It always amazed me that no matter how much snow accumulated offshore, the beach only got a dusting.
It was a homecoming nonetheless.
Once upright, I took deep inhales of the cold, salt-scented air and glanced toward the horizon. Thoughts of Nightingale Manor crept in with each incoming wave. I tried to push them out with each outgoing wave. I had nothing to do with Dr. Blake Nightingale’s death. Knowing Detective Shoner wasn’t allowed access to the case because he was on the East Hampton Town PD, I’d decided to let the Southampton and Suffolk County authorities take the case and run with it. In the meantime, I planned on staying put in Montauk. My touchstone.
Elle, Felicity and I were scheduled to go to the Southampton Police outpost in the morning to give our statements. When the ambulance and three police cars had arrived earlier, everyone had been taken to a small study off the drawing room and interviewed by a team of four shivering Southampton PD inquisitors. How many times I wanted to tell them what I knew about the old murder. But I kept my mouth shut. All I had was an armless doll, old train tickets and a name on a luggage tag. No doubt they’d figure it out themselves. Plus, Blake Nightingale wasn’t even born when Arden Hunter was murdered. If she’d been twentysomething when she was murdered, and Marian Fortune had been a similar age, that would make Marian somewhere in her nineties now. If she was still living. I couldn’t picture her in her walker dragging Dr. Blake to the basement and strapping him to a hospital bed. One thing for sure, whoever did the nasty deed knew about the murder and that Nightingale Manor was at one time a private sanitorium. It shouldn’t take the police that long to make a connection with so few suspects: Willa, Langston, Sabrina, Dr. Lewis and Jeremy Prentice. I’d included the show’s producer until we had definite proof that he’d left Shelter Island and was nowhere near Dr. Blake at the time of death. What would be Mr. Prentice’s motive? I was betting it was either Dr. Blake’s wife or his business partner. A sharp gust of wind paddled me from behind, making me realize that I was postulating again.
The waves were getting closer, and I was getting colder, but I couldn’t pull myself away from the shoreline. A lone gull dive-bombed my head, no doubt scavenging for something that wasn’t frozen solid to sink his beak into. Many a day and night I turned to the sea for answers and I always got them—Go slow, take it easy, steady as the tide. Live for today’s sunrise, not in fear of the next storm.
Wrapping my scarf around my face, I took off toward the lighthouse. When I reached a secluded section of the beach I found a large boulder to sit on. In twenty or so minutes the rock would be swallowed by the sea and me with it. The sun came out for a moment, then hid behind a cloud. The brief kiss of golden light gave me hope of a brighter future, not a continuation of the last twenty-four hours. A future that included furnishing my cottage with things from Little Grey’s attic, bonfires on the beach at twilight, hot cocoa with a dash of cayenne pepper on my deck and knitting. Yes, I, Meg Barrett, was finally getting the hang of knitting. Thanks to Claire, who’d talked me into taking lessons at Karen’s Kreative Knitting. I’d just completed the project I’d gotten as a gift for my birthday, a fluffy throw whose rows widened and shrunk in odd places but still looked good folded and draped over a chair, away from Jo’s errant claws.
The
wind was picking up, raw and unrelenting. I fumbled in my pocket for my gloves and only came up with one. I felt something else in my pocket and realized what it was. The pen I’d found on the basement steps still wrapped in a tissue. I’d forgotten to turn it in. Understandable with everything going on. I put my right glove on then searched my left pocket for the other. Not there. But the envelope I’d found wedged between the floorboards was. I’d not only forgotten about the pen but also about the envelope from the attic. I sat as long as I could before feeling the fingers on my left hand getting numb. I couldn’t wait to see Jo, knowing she would probably ignore me because I’d missed a few of her feeding times. I was sure she could go a month or two living off the fat stored in her huge belly. I stood, glanced once again toward the healing sea, then trudged west. Toward my beach. Toward Home.
As I walked, I thanked my lucky stars that the police had let Elle, Felicity, and me leave Nightingale Manor. Detective Shoner had vouched for us all. At first, he’d only planned on letting Elle and me leave, but after tons of begging from his fiancée, he’d included Felicity, provided she stayed local. Elle had insisted Felicity bunk at her house in Sag Harbor.
It was almost high tide, the waves encroaching closer to the twenty-foot cliffs. Halfway home I found a perfect piece of driftwood for writing in the sand. I grabbed it and continued on, the waves licking at my boots. In front of my cottage, I placed my hand on my hips and looked down. A blank slate. Now that Patrick Seaton’s and my new cottage were almost a mile apart, there’d been no more playing pen pals in the sand, trading lines from classical eighteenth- and nineteenth-century poetry. Even if no one else would read it, I needed to think of a verse that would anchor me after the tragedy at Nightingale Manor. I figured it was a cathartic way of journaling my feelings, then letting them go—washed away by the next big wave. I chose something by Keats, my favorite go-to poet:
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