Manor of Dying

by Kathleen Bridge

  There were voices coming from the end of the hallway. The receptionist told me the third door on the right was the bathroom, and that left two other doors I could peek into. It was becoming a pattern, me faking the need to use the bathroom. It hadn’t worked the first time at Nightingale Manor, I hoped it would this time.

  The first door I passed was open. It looked to be an upscale version of a doctor’s examination room. The second door was closed. I quickly turned the knob and slid inside, making sure to close the door silently. Dim light came through a small window near the ceiling. I went to a large glass desk and turned on a small lamp. Pay dirt! I was in the deceased doctor’s office. Five framed photos of Sabrina were arranged on his desk. That was my first clue. Another clue was a line of photos on a shelf behind the desk. They showed Dr. Blake arm in arm with famous celebrities and politicians. I had no idea what I was looking for. A threatening letter exposing a blackmailer? A datebook? I riffled through the drawers, knowing datebooks were an archaic tool because most people used their phones to store appointments. Plus, I still saw black fingerprint dust on the front of the drawers and top of the desk, meaning if there had been anything, the police would have found it. There was a photo of Sabrina and Dr. Blake on the steps leading up to Nightingale Manor. I took it down. The grounds surrounding them were amassed with hydrangeas, azaleas and lilac bushes bursting with vibrant spring color. Something was different about Sabrina. I realized what it was: she looked ten years older than she did now. Maybe I should consider getting some work done. After all, age thirty-four was approaching. Sabrina’s hand was grasping her husband’s forearm and she had a grimace on her face. Maybe that’s why she looked older? I followed her gaze and spotted a teenage boy in the woods where one of the dogs had found the rag doll. I quickly swiped the photo from the frame and stuck it in my back pocket. I had a theory the boy was Willa’s son.

  As I went to stick the frame back on the shelf, I heard voices coming through the radiator on the south wall of the office. I crept closer, reached in my bag and put my hearing aids up to full volume. One quiet, unassuming voice definitely belonged to Dr. Lewis. The other voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t figure out who was talking.

  “I don’t see how the lawsuit has anything to do with my partner’s death?” Dr. Lewis said.

  “We’ve ruled out the patient suing the practice as having killed Dr. Nightingale, however we learned something interesting from her,” the other baritone voice said.

  I leaned in closer, scorching the tip of my right ear on the radiator. Covering my mouth, I stifled my whimper.

  The other voice continued, “It seems that it was you, Dr. Lewis, who she remembers seeing wearing a surgical mask when she came out of surgery. We also know from the woman’s lawyer that you’ve recently been diagnosed with a condition that precludes you from performing surgery. Did you kill your partner because he planned on telling the world about the surgery? A source told us your malpractice insurance wasn’t paid up. You would be ruined either way. I would say that’s a pretty strong motive for murder.”

  Dr. Lewis didn’t answer. After a few seconds of waiting, I got up from my crouched position. Still holding the pictureless frame, I went back to the shelf and shoved it behind a photo of Dr. Blake and former First Lady Hilary Clinton. The frame tipped sideways, starting a domino effect. Two of the pictures flew off the shelf, hit the corner of the filing cabinet and crashed to the floor. The sound of shattering glass was amplified by my hearing aids. Or so I thought.

  I held my breath, waited a few seconds, then set them back in the order I remembered. Then I kicked the broken glass under the bottom of the shelf.

  The door flew open, and who should walk in? The Incredible Hulk, Chief Pell from the Suffolk County PD.

  “Ms. Barrett. Fancy meeting you in a dead man’s office.”

  He and Dr. Lewis stepped inside.

  “What’s she doing here?” Even though he was visibly upset, Dr. Lewis kept his voice at an even keel.

  “I’ll be asking her that myself. Would you like to accompany me to my car, Ms. Barrett? Unless, Doctor, you want to charge her with breaking and entering?”

  I took the brochure from my back pocket and flashed it in front of Chief Pell’s crimson, angry face. “I’m here for a consultation for this.” I was happy to have the brochure as an alibi. Weak as it might be.

  Chief Pell took it from me and read the cover. “Implants for your derriere, Ms. Barrett. How amusing and frivolous at the same time. I would have never guessed you went in for this kind of stuff.” He winked, then put his hand on my elbow to guide me out. “Well, Doctor? What will it be?”

  Dr. Lewis looked at me with his kind eyes. “I’m sorry. We’re closing the office for a little while. I’m sure you understand. Leave your info at the front desk and I’ll let you know when we reopen.”

  “I take that as a no? You’re not pressing charges?” Chief Pell said, a definite edge to his voice.

  “Of course not,” Dr. Lewis answered, shocked. The deep eggplant-colored circles under his eyes told of many sleepless nights.

  “Let’s go, Ms. Barrett,” Chief Pell said in a thundering baritone that made both Dr. Lewis and me startle.

  I shook his hand off my elbow and left the office ahead of him, walking calmly down the hall and into the waiting room. I’d always admired the chief. He was a straight shooter and had been awarded many commendations. But just because I admired him didn’t mean he could put his hands on me. I felt him behind me, then he passed me and held open the door leading outside. I walked out, chin held high, brushing off the malicious grin the pretty receptionist had given me as I’d passed. Maybe she should be on the authorities’ suspect list.

  Once outside, I said, “What can I do you for, Chief?”

  “It’s not unusual, Ms. Barrett, to find you snooping around a crime scene. That’s more than par for the course, but you might want to be a little more circumspect.”

  “I didn’t see any crime scene tape. I was just curious.”

  “I’m sure you were, Ms. Barrett. And clumsy.”

  “Call me Meg.” I grinned, showing him my pearly whites.

  “Okay, Meg. Detective Shoner assured me that you, the set designer and his fiancée have an iron-clad alibi for Dr. Nightingale’s murder. If that’s the case, what are you doing snooping around my investigation? This one doesn’t concern you.”

  “Don’t get mad at Arth . . . Detective Shoner. I went rogue.” I bent my head and looked down at his large feet. He must have to get his shoes special ordered online. “There’s a chance Elle and I will continue to work on the miniseries. We’ll feel better when someone is arrested. And seeing we have an insider’s connection, you can be sure I’ll share everything with the police.”

  He raised an eyebrow, looked down, raised his hand, then quickly lowered it, as if he wanted to pat me on the head like I was an errant puppy, then reconsidered.

  “Did the pen have Dr. Blake’s blood on it?” I asked, batting a few eyelashes and looking up at him.

  “Stay out of it, Ms. Barrett. We’ve got it covered.”

  “Meg. Will do,” I chirped.

  As he walked away, I thought, Nobody puts Baby in the corner.

  Chapter 20

  Montauk’s small downtown area was quiet, a shell of itself compared to when the invasion of the summer people descended on Memorial Day. The volunteer fire department had decorated the small downtown area with colorful lights, the streetlamps were wreathed in holiday greens with large red bows. Snow had started to accumulate on the sidewalks and rooftops and was still falling as I got out of the car and headed toward Old Man and the Sea Books.

  I felt lighter now that Detective Shoner knew everything about the murders, old and new. I’d stopped in East Hampton on my way back from Southampton to see if there were any steals at the Pink Ribbon Thrift Shop, not that I needed anything with all my fixer-uppers waiting in Elle’s carriage house, not to mention the truckload of furniture arriv
ing on my doorstep tomorrow morning and boxes packed in my guest bedroom. I’d just needed the distraction after getting caught in Dr. Blake’s office, which had been followed by a phone call from Cole when he told me Christmas didn’t look good. He promised to come for New Year’s Eve. Seeing he was always willing to travel to me, instead of me going to him, I couldn’t get upset. After I’d booked the job at Nightingale Manor, all of Cole’s and my plans for the holidays had to be rearranged. Now I wasn’t sure what my future held when it came to Mr. & Mrs. Winslow. Or Cole.

  The steady wind chafed my cheeks and I wrapped my scarf higher on my face, wishing I’d chosen the heavy wool scarf my father had given me last Christmas instead of one of my handknitted holey ones. Glancing toward the end of the street, I saw a sliver of the steel-gray Atlantic. The seas were rough and the whitecaps on the waves foretold of the winter storm inching its way toward us. After listening to the weather report this morning, I’d felt relief knowing I wouldn’t be on Shelter Island when the storm hit sometime tomorrow night or early Monday morning.

  Half of the shops in Montauk were closed during the winter months, including A Little Bit of Everything, the first stop for vacationing summer tourists needing to stock up on sand pails, shovels, kites, wave boards and sparklers for the Fourth of July. Lucky for me, Fudge ’n Scoops, on the corner of Edgemere and Elmwood, was open year-round. They didn’t just sell fudge and old-time candy, but also homemade ice cream. When I’d first moved to town I would ask for one scoop of fudge brownie, one scoop of banana, and a half scoop of peanut butter, then mix them together while Katie, the owner, looked on in amusement. After I gave her a spoonful, she’d added it to the menu—Barrett’s Banana Brownie Bombshell.

  I opened the gate on the white picket fence in front of Old Man and the Sea. The fence was draped with live pine garlands and small twinkling aqua lights. The bookstore had once been a run-down three-room fisherman’s cottage until Georgia turned it into her bookshop. I was relieved to see a lamp glowing through the frosted storefront window. The bookshop’s posted winter hours were from eleven to three, but sometimes Georgia stayed later. Lucky for me, this was one of those times. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees since our early afternoon at the tree farm and I knew there would be a fire in the hearth, the teakettle plugged in, and Mr. Whiskers ready to greet then ignore me. I wanted to pick Georgia’s competent born-and-bred Hamptons resident’s brain about film director Langston Reed.

  A bell jingled when I walked in. Georgia wasn’t alone. It was easy to figure out who was sitting in one of the wingback chairs in front of the hearth. Barb Moss’s signature beehive updo, reminiscent of Marge Simpson’s, crowned from the back of the wing chair. Barb and I became friends shortly after I’d moved to Montauk. She owned Sand and Sun Realty and had rented me my small oceanfront cottage. She’d also brokered the sale for the land my current cottage sat on.

  Barb jumped up, her hair not moving a smidge. “Meg! So happy to see you.” Her luminous green eyes always looked gleeful, like someone had just told her a funny joke. “How’d you know we were talking about you? You just missed Claire. She filled us in about what you’ve been going through. I’m so sorry, honey. Wish I could stay but the grandkids have descended for the weekend.” She came toward me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “My daughter and son-in-law are off for a ski weekend. Based on the last text from my better half, their vacation seems well deserved. Jack and I might need one when they come back to retrieve the little darlings.”

  Georgia, the proprietor of the bookstore who occupied the other wing chair, stood and went immediately behind the counter to fill my mug, adorned I heart NY, with hot water. Barb threw on her jacket, and as she passed by whispered, “Call me later. I want to hear everything.” Then I kissed her plump cheek and she whizzed out the door. Frigid air snaked its way inside as the door jingled shut.

  Wordlessly, Georgia extended my cup of hot water and presented me with a basket of tea choices. I chose an orange-spice herbal, which she opened then plunked in my cup. It was my job to go to the counter and add my desired amount of honey. “Put a bottle on my tab,” I called over my shoulder. Then I poured a generous amount of locally produced Lighthouse Honey into my cup, swiped a bottle off the shelf, and stowed it in my handbag.

  “What tab? Merry Christmas. Have a seat,” Georgia said, sitting back down in her chair and extending her stockinged feet toward the fire.

  Barb’s vacated chair was still warm and smelled like Chanel No. 5. I placed my cup on the table between us, slipped off my jacket, then kicked off my boots. Mr. Whiskers came from the back room, where Georgia kept used books. He sniffed my feet, then went to his cat cave on the shelf behind the sales counter.

  “Should I be insulted?” I asked Georgia. “I’m wearing clean socks?”

  “Mr. Whiskers isn’t a snob. Very pedestrian, in fact. You should see what he brought home from the garbage behind Chips and Fish last night. He only wants to know if Jo’s still in your life. He’s been quite enamored with her ever since you babysat him when Doc and I went on our triathlon weekend.

  Weather permitting, Georgia was a consummate athlete. She liked to bike to the lighthouse and back on most mornings. When she wasn’t biking, she was yoga-ing, tai-chi-ing, or Zumba-ing. Her brain was just as fit as her body. Sexagenarian Doc and septuagenarian Georgia had been dating for months and I wouldn’t be surprised if Georgia caught the bouquet at Elle’s wedding.

  “Too bad Josephine didn’t feel the same way about Mr. Whiskers. Had to keep her locked in my bedroom after the fur went flying,” I said, picking up my cup and blowing on the rising steam that scented the air. “Poor Mr. Whiskers still has a scarred ear to prove it.”

  Georgia laughed and took off a knitted hat in a snowflake design that covered her short gray hair. “Do I have hat head?” she asked. “I was just gonna close up, but I want to hear about your latest shenanigans. I’ll let Doc know to pick me up in a half hour.” She put on a pair of reading glasses and took out her phone, then typed a message.

  “I don’t want you to change your plans for me.”

  She looked up. “Why the panic in your voice? You haven’t filled Doc in on what’s been going on, have you? Or, I assume, your father either. Am I right?”

  “Well . . . Hmmm, right as rain. Where did that expression come from, anyway?”

  “Don’t try to deflect. It most likely came from the English, where it rains so much it’s just a normal fact of everyday life—a truism.” Georgia took off her reading glasses and put her phone away. “I understand. Doc can be a little overprotective when it comes to his surrogate niece. I’m surprised you wouldn’t want to pick his retired coroner’s brain like you’ve done in the past.”

  “Actually, I want to pick your brain about Langston Reed.”

  Her eyes opened wide and I saw she was up to the task.

  “From what Claire told us, I can’t imagine a reason Langston Reed would want to kill Dr. Blake. I don’t see a connection.”

  “So, you know both men?”

  “Never met the doctor, but Langston’s grandmother was a good friend of my mother’s. I haven’t seen him since he was a child, but I’ve followed his career. His family has been in the Hamptons for ages. Dr. Blake I only know from television.”

  “I knew if anyone knew about Langston, it would be you. Was his family wealthy, or is he a self-made man?”

  “I think his mother’s side of the family had some money. His grandmother, Bunny Fortune, was very involved in the arts. That’s how my mother met his grandmother, they were on the same Bridgehampton art committee.”

  “Say what!” My mouth dropped open. “His grandmother’s last name was Fortune? As in Marian Fortune?”

  Georgia leaned forward in her chair and looked at me. “Wow!”

  “Wow!” I said back. “Was Fortune her married name?”

  “I don’t think so, it was her maiden name that she took back after one of her divorces. You know the Hamptons High Soc
iety.”

  This was better than she thought. They might be getting closer to the connection between the old and new murders. “So, you know the story of the old murder committed by Marian Fortune?”

  “Of course. It’s been all over the news. But I surely didn’t know about it when it happened. Even though I grew up here, I would have been about a year old when the murder took place. I’ll admit after Claire came in, I did a little online research about the old murder. I do know Langston’s grandmother’s first name wasn’t Marian, it was Bonnie, but everyone called her Bunny. If you go into the Southampton Art Museum there’s a wing dedicated to her. Still don’t see how what happened in 1950 could be related to the doctor’s murder. Unless we’re talking about a ghost story?”

  Remembering that I promised not to disclose how Blake Nightingale had been murdered, I decided instead to tell her about the rag doll and my finds in the Nightingale Manor attic. I knew Georgia would keep quiet about the ice pick, I just didn’t want her to slip and tell Doc, my protector, who would most likely spill the beans to my father, ruining his holiday in Colorado. I did tell her about the argument between Dr. Blake and Langston. “I don’t know why Langston lied to us later when he said he didn’t know about Arden Hunter’s murder.”

  We chatted for a few minutes about things not related to the murder. I reveled in the normalcy of it all. Thirty minutes later, I stood. “I better run. Fat cat will be waiting impatiently for her dinner.” I finished my tea, loving the orange-honey flavor that had settled at the bottom of the cup.

  “Just leave your mug on the counter. I’ll rinse it out later with mine.”

  “Thanks, Georgia.”

  She turned her wise eyes on me. “Okay, scoot,” she said. “But before you go, I have something for you.” She got up and went to the section of books labeled Poetry and extracted a white hardcover and handed it to me. It was titled Robert Frost. Pictured on the cover was the proverbial forked road from his famous poem. Underneath the picture it read Including Discussion Questions.