“I could think of worse places.”
“I can’t leave Mabel and Elle’s. I can’t leave Sag Harbor. I can’t leave Maurice. And I most certainly can’t leave you, Megan Elizabeth Barrett.”
“I’m so relieved.”
Elle gave me a questioning look.
“I’m relieved. From the way you’ve been acting, I thought you or your detective fiancé had a terminal disease or something.”
“Might as well have,” Detective Shoner said, shaking his head.
“Now, hold on a minute. I’m not making you choose me or Manhattan,” Elle said, putting her napkin to the corner of her leaking eye. “I support your promotion, it’s just . . .”
“I told her I can come here on the weekends. My job is as a liaison between the press and the DA’s office. Monday through Friday.”
I felt like I was the mediator in a divorce hearing; one looked at the other, then back at me, waiting for me to proffer my solution. “I’m sure you’ll work it out. Manhattan’s only a hop skip and a jump away.”
“Yeah, off-season,” Elle said, her cheeks flushing under her freckles, making them stand out even more on her makeup-less face. “In the summer it’ll take him six hours to get to Sag Harbor.”
“It’s not set in stone. Ms. Barrett is right. We’ll work it out,” he said.
That was the first time he’d ever said I was right. Even though I had been numerous times in the past. Much to the dismay of his male ego.
Molly came toward us carrying a tray. Saved by the food.
She placed my chowder in front of me and I took my open palms and fanned the aromatic steam wafting off the bread bowl closer to my nose and inhaled. “Thanks, Moll. Smells heavenly.” I took my spoon and dipped just the tip of it in, then brought it to my mouth and blew. Then I swallowed.
Molly looked on, holding her breath.
“Curry,” I said. “Delish. That was a nice surprise. Love the sweet and savory components.”
“Bingo! It is curry. You sound like your father. I guess you wouldn’t be surprised whose suggestion the curry was?”
“Hmmm.”
“Your father. He was in last fall and told me he loved the recipe and suggested a touch of curry. He was right. It really elevates it to another level.”
My foodie snob father, I thought. I stuck my spoon in the thick chowder again and took a large spoonful. “Amazing. I hope he didn’t insult you with his suggestion?”
Molly laughed. “Are you kidding? Every time it goes on the menu it’s our best seller.” She glanced at Elle and Detective Shoner, who’d also ordered the soup.
Molly put her hands on her hips and smiled. “Will your father be here for Christmas?”
“No, he’s going to Colorado to visit Sheila’s family.”
“Well, if you talk to him, ask if he made the last recipe I emailed him. We’ve become foodie pen pals.”
“Promise.”
A server came up to Molly and whispered something in her ear. “Small emergency,” she said to us. “Seems we have at least three a day.” She gave me a quick peck on the cheek and said, “Enjoy, everyone.”
“Oh, we will,” Elle said, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a colorful handwoven napkin also made by the Shinnecock tribe. Detective Shoner gave Molly a thumbs-up, his mouth full of chowder. Then Molly followed the harried server toward the kitchen.
After we finished our soup, Molly sent over a plate of eggnog fudge. Two minutes later, not a morsel remained.
“I can’t believe I’ve never been here before. I’ll sure be back soon, Ms. Barrett,” Detective Shoner said.
I figured it was now or never to take advantage of everyone’s lifted spirits. “So-o-o, Detective Shoner, how’s the Nightingale investigation going? Have they arrested anyone yet?”
“That’s it!” Elle said, clanking her spoon against her apple-green earthenware mug filled with cocoa. The next table looked over. She lowered her voice, but her brown eyes blazed. “I insist from here on out, you call Arthur, Arthur. And you,” she said, turning her head, “call Meg Meg. Not Ms. Barrett.”
“Okay. Okay,” we said at the same time.
I threw up my hands in surrender. “It’ll be tough, but I’ll really try. If we’re on a first-name basis, Arthur, does that mean I’m privy to what you know about the murder? After all, if we do have to go back to Nightingale Manor we should know who’s in the PD’s crosshairs.
His neck turned red, then the rosy hue traveled up to his cheeks.
I guessed I hadn’t handled that too well. “Okay, before you get angry, here are a few points about what makes this case different than the others Elle and I have been involved in. We have no connection to Nightingale Manor or Dr. Blake. With the exception of Langston Reed, I’d never met any of our suspects before going to Shelter Island.” Before he could respond, I hurried on. “I brought with me a list of things that need to be looked into. I have a copy for you, Det . . . Arthur.” I handed one over and Elle leaned in to read over his shoulder.
I looked down at my copy. I hadn’t written it as a ploy to overstep the competent job of the police, I actually sat for an hour in front of my laptop, wanting to get all my questions on paper so I could relinquish them and let them go to the powers that be. I knew if I didn’t share all my what-ifs, I’d lie awake night after night worrying someone else might die and I could have done something to prevent it. Plus, I felt in my bones that the old murder was somehow related to the new.
1. Is Sabrina Dr. Blake’s sole heir in the will? They had no children. When a newspaper reporter trapped her inside Southampton’s Beauty Bar, Dr. Greg Lewis came to her rescue and she supposedly swooned into his outstretched arms.
2. Why did Langston Reed lie about knowing about the old murder of Arden Hunter? What was he looking for in Blake’s office’s filing cabinets when Dr. Blake confronted him?
3. What did Willa have against Dr. Blake? He let her son live with them until Sabrina made him leave. Dr. Blake blamed her for not paying the malpractice insurance. She and Sabrina had fought. Sabrina accused Willa of having an affair with Dr. Blake that Willa didn’t dispute.
4. Dr. Greg Lewis was overheard threatening Dr. Blake on Wednesday after Dr. Blake threatened him. He was found embracing the Nightingale’s housekeeper, Willa. He also came to the rescue of Dr. Blake’s wife, Sabrina. What happens to the practice following Dr. Blake’s death?
5. Pauline, no last name, the person suing Dr. Blake for her botched cosmetic surgery, seems to have an alibi for Dr. Blake’s death. She also has Justin Margulies as her attorney, so she must’ve had a good case against him. Was she suing the practice, the show, or Dr. Blake himself?
Random questions: Does Arden Hunter’s murder have anything to do with Blake Nightingale’s death? What about the tickets in the rag doll and the suitcases that were opened in the attic during the time of Blake’s murder, plus the letter between the floorboards—any bearing on the modern-day murder? And the cause of death? The ice pick, or was he drugged first? Why would he lay on the hospital bed if not incapacitated—did the wound cause his death? And why were the lights on in one of the rooms at the gatehouse when I went to the attic to retrieve Elle’s phone after the power returned?
Was time of death around 2 a.m., when we heard the howling in the elevator?
When Arthur looked up from the page he said, “Was your dad giving you inside info on the case? And what’s all this business about a note and suitcases? Elle told me about the tickets in the doll. I still don’t see how it would have anything to do with the murder of Dr. Blake Nightingale.
I told him no, my father hadn’t given me any info. Then I explained about the tickets, the suitcases, and the argument between Langston and Dr. Blake. Too late, I realized by Elle’s wide-eyed stare, I should have taken the detective aside to have him read my musings.
After taking it all in, he folded the paper and put it in his jacket pocket. Then he threw down his credit card and said, “Lunch is on me, lad
ies.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say? I think it would be nice if you could clear up anything you know, or any suspect we can eliminate.”
“We, Meg Barrett?” Elle scolded. “Let Arthur and the Southampton PD, along with Suffolk County, handle things. It has nothing to do with us. You did a good job with your list and turning in the pen to the Southampton PD. Let it rest and we’ll get on with doing things we love. Like furnishing your cottage tomorrow so you can decorate for Christmas.”
Elle was right. Tomorrow morning, Duke and Duke Jr. were scheduled to bring everything from my storage locker to the cottage. I would let go of everything and everyone on the list with one exception. Langston Reed. I didn’t cotton to working with a killer no matter what the perks. Instead of one day at a time, I thought, eliminate one suspect at a time. Once he was in the clear, I would breathe easier about working at Windy Willows.
“But Elle, you just told me this morning that there’s a chance we might have to go back to Nightingale Manor. I’d feel more comfortable going back if I knew what the cops are thinking.”
Elle turned to her fiancé. “She does have a point.”
Concern clouded his eyes. “I’ll be candid with the two of you. They have no top suspect, it’s too early. Southampton PD is following an angle of a homeless person who for the past couple of years has been sneaking inside boarded-up homes on Shelter Island during the winter. The handyman from Sylvester Manor saw him in the woods the day Mr. Nightingale was murdered. I don’t think he’s our man, though. Last year he left a note to the homeowners thanking them for letting him stay. The guy always includes a couple hundred-dollar bills along with the note. Other than that, everything’s in the preliminary stages. And I can tell you the coroner confirms time of death around two in the morning.” He looked at me.
I thought back to when Langston told us that when he was at the Southampton station he’d overheard there was a new lead. The wealthy vagrant must have been that lead.
Our waitperson came over and presented the check. Arthur grabbed it. He said, “I appreciate your intel, Meg. I promise to take it very seriously and follow up on every detail. Even the old murder. If the two of you do go back to the estate, I’ll send an officer with you. Elle’s safety is my utmost concern.”
“What about the coroner’s report? Anything unusual?” I asked, trying to keep the open lines of communication flowing.
“Nothing, except the wound to the chest.”
“How about the doctor’s will? Is Sabrina his heir?”
He wouldn’t make eye contact.
“Raise your eyebrow if I’m right?”
He did.
“And how about Willa’s son? How old is he?”
He turned to Elle and said, “We should get eighteen of those chowders to go.”
I liked playing this game. Willa’s son was eighteen. I didn’t want to push my luck with any more questions after he gave me one of his old “stay out of police business” looks. I wanted to say, how would a homeless person know enough about the old murder to strap Dr. Blake to a bed and kill him with an ice pick to the heart? I opened my mouth then closed it.
Don’t push it, Meg Barrett. Don’t push it!
Chapter 19
I left my Woody, with my rescued tree tied to the roof, parked in front of Home and Hearth, and strolled over to Main Street. Snow was falling but it was the kind of snow I welcomed: fluffy and light, the flakes so large I could almost make out their individual patterns. Elle and Arthur had left for Sag Harbor to put Elle’s tree in water, and I decided to do some peace-of-mind sleuthing.
Yesterday on my way to Beauty Bar, I’d passed Southampton Aesthetics, the former practice of Dr. Blake Nightingale and the current practice of Dr. Greg Lewis. I was curious about Dr. Lewis’s part in the practice. Wondering why he always seemed to be in the background on Bungled. Was he playing both Willa and Sabrina? And if so, why? I hadn’t been privy to Dr. Blake’s will, and probably wouldn’t be. Even with the malpractice lawsuit and loss of revenue from Bungled, I’d venture a guess the fifteen-plus acres that made up the Nightingale estate would sell in the double-digit millions. But where would that leave Dr. Lewis? If Sabrina was the only heir, that might give Dr. Lewis a reason to comfort her in her time of need. Willa, on the other hand, might just be an old friend. That was doubtful seeing the way I’d found them locked in each other’s arms. More like friends with benefits? And there was always the possibility Dr. Lewis was just a really great guy, like everyone kept telling me.
I approached the office. Over the door, a tasteful white wood sign, etched with gold script, read Southampton Aesthetics. The white clapboard shop on Main Street looked like the others surrounding it, as if it had been part of Southampton since it was established in 1640, when a Shinnecock Native American guide led a group of colonists to the perfect spot for a settlement. Southampton was the oldest and largest Hampton but didn’t become a summer destination for wealthy New Yorkers until the 1860s, when a doctor from Manhattan turned his wealthy friends onto the beauty and restorative nature of the unspoiled terrain.
I neared the door just as it was flung open from the inside. One step closer and I would’ve been knocked to the sidewalk and needed my own plastic surgery. Willa! I turned my head so she wouldn’t see me, but not before noticing her red face and clenched fists as she strode away, her short legs moving quickly toward an old Volvo station wagon. I waited until she was inside the car. Not once did she look my way. I hurried inside and entered a posh, elegantly decorated waiting room. An empty waiting room. With the murder all over the headlines, I wasn’t surprised. Near the end of the room was a small window. I expected a receptionist to be sitting on the other side, but no one was there. I walked over to the ledge in front of the window. It was filled with beauty brochures promising the fountain of youth. It was amazing how many options there were. I swiped one of the pamphlets just as a young five-foot-eleven amazon with perfect cheekbones and rich ebony skin came into view.
She slid open half of the window and said in a posh English accent, “My apologies, love. Have you been waiting long?”
“No,” I answered, realizing I wasn’t really dressed like one of Southampton Aesthetics’ usual patrons. I zipped my jacket to my neck to hide my favorite flannel shirt, washed about a billion times and about a billion years old.
The young woman didn’t seem to notice. Her eyes hadn’t met mine and her left hand was fidgeting with a letter opener, turning it over and over until I wanted to reach inside and wrench it out of her hands. The potential weapon in her hand reminded me of why I’d stepped inside; I wanted to talk or at least learn a little more about Dr. Lewis.
Almost a minute passed until she looked up. Her eyes were filled with tears and her lower, perfect lip was trembling. “I’m so sorry, I just got some really bad news.”
I grabbed a few tissues from a box on the ledge and handed them to her.
She took them and blew her perfect nose, which had a tiny diamond stud on the left side. “He can’t do that. Can he?” Somehow, she’d lost her English accent.
“Do what?” I asked gently, handing her another tissue.
“Shut down the office until he finds another partner. Dr. Blake promised me new cheekbone implants.” Her voice took on a whiny tone. “Now I’ll never make it to Milan.”
“Isn’t there another doctor here who could do it?”
She sniffled. “That old goat.” She looked over her shoulder. “That’s why he’s closing the office until he can find another partner. His hands shake so much he can’t even do a Botox inject—” She caught herself and finally looked me in the eyes and sat up straighter. “Did you want to make an appointment for a consultation? Just so you know, there’s a fee for the consultation and the doctor doesn’t take insurance.”
“You just said they were closing the office.”
“I didn’t say that. It’s temporary. I’m supposed to start booking for April.”
Was I in
a parallel universe? “Um, sure. Is there any way he could give me a quick consult? If I feel confident in his suggestions, I’ll wait until spring for my procedure.” I held up the brochure. “I want to do this.” I had no idea what this was because I’d picked it up randomly.
She looked at it and said in a snotty tone, “Just come back in the spring.”
All compassion I felt after her recent crying jag vanished. I didn’t appreciate her condescending attitude. It felt like I was in the Beverly Hills boutique Julia Roberts’s character walks into in the movie Pretty Woman. But I kept it together. “Can’t you just ask if I could have just a few minutes with the doctor? Don’t you think he would appreciate you trying to get business scheduled for when you come back to work. He’ll think you’re indispensable.”
“He’s with someone. Now, be on your way. I have to call my agent. I’m not waiting around ’til April, especially after the murder and the fact I haven’t been paid for the entire month of November or this month, either.”
“Oh, so you don’t need references? Okay, fine. I’ll leave.”
She looked torn. She put down her phone. “Don’t move, I’ll see if he’s free.”
I waited, looking at the art on the walls, all impressionistic in soothing beach colors. There was one spot where a large picture was missing. I would probably find it for sale in one of the art galleries in Bridgehampton.
She came back to her chair, sat, then glowered at me. Instead of filling me in, she picked up her phone and made a call.
I remained seated until she hung up, then I went to the window. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Can he see me?”
“No, I told you, he’s with someone.”
“Okay, I’ll leave.” I shifted from one foot to the other. “But do you mind if I use the, uh-h, potty?”
Potty? What was I, three?
She looked at me like she wanted me to prove I needed the bathroom. “Third door on your right,” she said grudgingly, then picked up her phone again. The door buzzed. It seemed strange to be buzzed into a doctor’s office like it was a high-security prison.
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