“I have a videotape of him. There were security monitors at the last house he left. I showed the ferry captain the video and he confirmed he’s the same guy. One less suspect to worry about.”
“And then there were four,” I said. “Sabrina Nightingale, Langston Reed, Willa Sullivan, and Dr. Greg Lewis. Am I right?”
He didn’t answer. Even though this case wasn’t under his jurisdiction, he was playing things close to the vest. As in bulletproof vest.
After the ferry docked and we were directed down the ramp, Elle said from the backseat, “No more murder talk. Focus on the road. Look for black ice.”
“Yes, Mother,” Arthur said, pulling onto the narrow two-lane highway that followed the east side of Shelter Island.
“Meg, tell me more about your Patrick Seaton? Any romantic meetings?” Elle asked, not too coyly. “Any discussion about Mr. & Mrs. Winslow?”
Arthur grinned at me. “Your Patrick Seaton?”
“I told you,” Elle said. “The screenwriter for the miniseries is Meg’s mysterious neighbor who used to leave her sad classical poetry verses on the beach.”
“It does sound familiar.”
I hadn’t told Elle about the poetry book club both Claire and Georgia were pushing me to join. When it came to pushy, especially relating to my love life, Elle wore the golden crown. “I thought the script was marvelous. Patrick really captured the feel of the pre–World War Two time period, even mentioning the rise of Adolf Hitler and unrest in Europe and Japan. But the best part was how he’s developing Lara Winslow’s character. Not the norm for the 1930s. Patrick made Lara Winslow the true detective in the series. In this case the Mrs. is the brains and the Mr. more the eye candy.
And what eye candy that Dillon King is!” Elle moaned from behind them. “I’m glad Mr. Seaton still has Lara dressing in the glamorous styles of the day.”
“Brains and beauty,” I added.
“Hey, watch it! What am I, chopped liver?” Arthur asked, sticking out his lower lip.
“You know you’re the love of my life . . . I wouldn’t say eye candy, you’re more like a caramel machiatto—a taste of dark espresso topped with whip cream.”
“Get a room,” I said.
Arthur swerved, avoiding a branch in the middle of the road, and we all went sliding.
“What was that!” Elle screeched. “A dead animal, a body?”
“Just a branch, my love.”
“No more chitchat. Concentrate, Arthur.”
“Yes, ma’am, your wish is my command.”
The island seemed stark and cold with its leafless trees and snow-covered terrain. Even though the temperature in the Lexus was near eighty, a chill set into my bones. Twisting my body around to face the backseat, I said, “I really think the series is going to do well. I just hope it gets produced. After reading the script we have a better idea of the setting and it will be easier to see what props we need. I’m glad we already went through the Christmas decorations. I assume the murder weapon will be supplied by Felicity’s prop department. I don’t know where we would find one of those at Nightingale Manor.”
“Meg!” Elle scolded. “I’m sure we won’t have to find that prop at Nightingale Manor.”
Finally, up ahead, I saw the low stone wall designating the boundaries of the Nightingale estate. We passed between the stone pillars and I glanced at the gatehouse. There was movement in the gabled window on the second floor. “Stop! Someone’s inside the gatehouse!”
“And why is that of importance?” Arthur asked, coasting to a stop.
“I thought it was unused. Who would be inside? The day we found the body, after we were freed from the elevator, I went to get Elle’s phone. When I looked out the window there was a light on at the gatehouse. It was that same window.” I pointed.
Elle tapped me on the shoulder and I turned to read her lips. “Didn’t Felicity tell us that the Nightingales were moving to the gatehouse when the crew came to stay in the main house?”
“Yes,” I answered. “But the production company, actors and crew aren’t scheduled to come until the end of January.”
“I think we should worry more about Felicity being alone with Langston than who is in the gatehouse,” Elle said.
“You’re right. Sorry, Arthur, we better get to the house.”
He gave me a weird look, then pulled away and we snaked up the long drive. I knew I’d seen a curtain flutter in the above-mentioned window but kept it to myself.
“I wonder if it’s status quo for a big-time director to help stage the set. It would seem Felicity could handle it. Especially with our help,” I said.
Arthur parked in the front circle behind a Southampton Police cruiser, Langston’s Explorer and Felicity’s rental car. As soon as he turned off the engine we hopped out of the car and bounded up the cement steps like a trio of superheroes.
Only, once we got inside there was no one to save.
Yet.
Chapter 23
We found Felicity and a female officer, introduced as Officer Hall, from the Southampton PD in the kitchen being catered to by Willa. It brought back memories from the first time I’d walked into Nightingale Manor’s kitchen and felt only cozy vibes and the promise of wonderful baked goods. Today felt very different.
Willa turned when we entered. She looked like she’d aged ten years since the last time I’d seen her. Her rosy cheeks looked ashen and her eyes dull. I could tell it was a chore for her to smile, but she did when she saw us.
“Girls,” she said. She raised an eyebrow when she glanced at Arthur. Elle introduced him as her fiancé and a detective on the East Hampton Town PD.
Willa’s mouth formed a small O. “It’s a sad state of affairs. I was just telling Felicity that last night when I gave my notice, Mrs. Nightingale insisted I stay on at Nightingale Manor and I agreed. I’m very worried about her. I don’t think she’s slept since her husband’s death and she’s on so many antidepressants and sedatives. They just don’t seem to be working.”
“Is she here?” I asked, because no one else did.
“No, she must have left early in the morning. I myself have been sleeping late. The coffee’s on a timer, and I know she had a cup before I came down to the kitchen. Detective, I hope they’re close to finding who did this to Blake. I know it would bring us all peace. This is a big place to be rambling around for just the two of us.”
Before he could answer, I said, “Felicity, is Langston here?”
“I haven’t seen him,” she answered.
Elle and I had pointed out Langston’s Explorer to Arthur when we’d parked.
Trying not to let Willa, who was still a murder suspect, notice the Barrett blotches sending pinpricks of heat to my neck and cheeks, I said, “Felicity, we better get crackin’.” I put my arm around Elle’s shoulders. “This little lady wants to leave before any precipitation begins.”
Elle laughed a fake laugh, then said, “The calm before the storm. Ha, ha.”
As soon as Felicity stood, Elle grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the kitchen and into the hallway. I followed.
Arthur remained inside with Willa. He didn’t have an excuse to leave like we did. We were, however, followed out by Officer Hall. I told the officer a brief synopsis of what was going on and asked if she wouldn’t mind going to look for Mr. Reed, who was possibly at the gatehouse. She hesitated at my directive but must have figured that since I came in with Detective Shoner, I had some position of authority. Even if I didn’t.
When the officer left, Elle said, “Let’s move into the drawing room. We can talk and work at the same time.”
Felicity looked from my face to Elle’s. “I’ve only known the two of you for a little while, but something squirrelly is going on. I can tell.”
Elle giggled, but it came out more like she was choking on a chicken bone. I walloped her back with the palm of my hand as we moved into the foyer and then the drawing room.
“Something’s different here than befor
e,” I said. Empty cartons were scattered in the corners of the mammoth room, labeled with the words Drawing Room.
Elle walked to the center of the Aubusson rug. “I know what it is. The mansion isn’t freezing.”
There were about ten pieces of furniture with yellow sticky notes attached to them designating they would be going on the truck. Felicity or Langston had chosen the exact items I would have after reading the script and knowing the time period. I had to wonder where Sabrina was. It seemed she’d want to be here with Langston. Unless he already promised her a walk-on part.
“Thanks to Willa, we have heat,” Felicity said. “Her son is scheduled to come here tomorrow. She told me she doesn’t want him to catch pneumonia. Per Willa, it seems Sabrina doesn’t care about the heating bill or much of anything lately.”
While Elle explained about Langston’s ties to Arden Hunter’s death through his great-aunt, I beelined it to the window and watched the officer walking toward the gatehouse. She reached the steps to the main entrance, and when she put her foot on the first step, Langston Reed exited. He held something in his hand that I saw him shove in his jacket pocket.
I moved away from the window and looked around the room. There were about a dozen Deco pieces in the room, the rest were from the Victorian and Edwardian time period with a sprinkling of Art Nouveau. Exactly the furnishings and accessories Jack Winslow’s elderly great-uncle would have had in the 1930s. The detective couple’s walk-up on the lower East Side of Manhattan would be more Art Deco or traditional pre–World War Two.
I picked up a magnificent glass vase. Elle looked over and said, “Oh, my. We must bring that one to Windy Willows. It’s a signed Emile Galle cameo-glass hydrangea vase.” I brought it over to her and whispered, “I think Langston is on his way. It was him in the gatehouse.” Glancing at Felicity, I gave her a weak smile, which she returned. I could tell she didn’t know what to make of Langston being related to Marian Fortune. After all, they’d worked together on other projects and for all outward appearances he’d seemed most genial, especially compared to the show’s producer.
“We should definitely take that,” Felicity said. “I’ve put paper and bubble wrap in those boxes. There should also be a marker and a pad of paper inside to write down what goes inside. The boxes are already numbered and coordinated with the pad of paper.”
I took the vase to a box near the foyer, wanting to catch Langston when he came in. I had no idea where Arthur was. He needed to have a chat with Langston Reed. Keeping my mind busy, I slowly wrapped the vase like it was a living thing, afraid of breaking it after Elle had also added that the vase was worth somewhere in the forty-five-thousand-dollar range. I wondered if Sabrina knew the worth of the contents inside the mansion. What Willa said about Sabrina being overly upset about her husband’s death didn’t fit the Sabrina I’d witnessed in the past couple days. She seemed less concerned about her husband or even the value of a cameo vase and more concerned about getting a cameo role on the show.
I heard the front door open, then close. Things like doors closing had a vibration to them that I felt. It was true that when one of your senses was lacking, you made up for it with the others.
Langston appeared through the archway between the drawing room and foyer, stomping the snow from his boots and pant legs. When he peered in, I noticed his face was flushed and his eye’s bright, almost like he’d had some kind of awakening. He confirmed my thoughts by kicking off his boots and calling to Felicity, “I’m going to run up to the attic and see what decorations you’ve picked out for the holiday scene. No need to come. Stay here, I can handle things up there.”
Then he was gone.
Felicity looked flustered. Arthur came into view and she said, “Detective, Langston was just here and he—”
“I know,” he said, looking at Elle, “I was privy to his entrance.”
“Oh, Arthur.” Elle ran to him. “I thought you’d abandoned us.”
“I was in communication with the officer who saw him coming out of the gatehouse.”
I put the vase in the box and came over to them.
Arthur continued, “I’ve also been in contact with Chief Pell from Suffolk County. I told him everything about Mr. Reed’s familial connection to the old murder. He told me to take it easy when doing any kind of interrogation, apparently they’ve been friends for years.”
“But . . .”
“No buts, Ms. Barrett.”
Elle gave her fiancé a chastising look, I assumed because he called me by my last name.
Arthur walked over to where Elle sat and said, “Just stay put in the meantime. There’s no physical evidence that Mr. Reed killed Blake Nightingale. This is out of my jurisdiction . . .”
“But . . .” I said again.
He didn’t say anything, just put his hand up and continued, “We passed on the information about his ties to the old murder and we have to leave it at that. I’ve been promised Mr. Reed will be questioned, it just won’t be by me. We have to let it go.”
“I’m glad Chief Pell is vouching for him. Can’t have a better endorsement than that,” Elle said.
“What a relief,” Felicity added.
I would let them stay in their little bubbles, but I wasn’t about to let down my guard. I’ve learned too many times, you never knew what went on in someone else’s mind.
Arthur sat in the corner of the room while we packed away things to take to Windy Willows. After we’d finished, I said, “Arthur, do you have any objection to me going over to the gatehouse and checking it out?” Something was bothering me, and I knew what it was: the light in the gatehouse that I’d seen from the attic after the murder.
“It was searched already. Knock yourself out.”
“Do you mind if I go, Felicity?”
“No, but Elle and I need to go up to the attic and see what holiday things Langston has chosen, then box them up. The truck for the furniture is coming soon.”
“I assume Detective Shoner will accompany you?” I asked.
Arthur looked up from his phone. “Of course.”
Elle came over to me and whispered, “Don’t be long.”
“I won’t,” I said, grabbing my coat off the chair. On my way out of the room I asked, “Felicity, is it normal for the director to take such an interest in the staging process?”
“It’s not unusual. Woody Allen had a say in all his movie interiors. I don’t think Langston is that hands-on as a rule. But I think he feels pressure to make things right with Jeremy and the other investors.”
I padded in my stocking feet to the mat by the front door and slipped on my boots. I glanced out the small window next to the double front doors; thankfully there was no precipitation, however sooty dark clouds had blanketed the sun. I checked my watch. We had an hour and a half until the time Elle wanted to leave for the ferry. Even though Arthur was our escort, him and his Glock, I didn’t want to dawdle.
But I did want to check out the gatehouse before we left the island.
Chapter 24
I ignored the charming décor and furnishings of the cozy gatehouse, something very unusual for me, and sprinted up the spiral staircase to the second floor. It took a few minutes until I got my bearings and found the room that I’d spotted from the attic on Thursday. It was the same room where I’d seen movement in the window when we’d pulled onto the grounds. It wasn’t a guest room, more like a storage room filled with items that looked like they might have belonged in someone’s mid-twentieth-century office.
There was a black Underwood typewriter missing its S key sitting on top of a metal desk in front of the room’s only window. Wood filing cabinets covered one wall. The other wall had built-in bookshelves filled with old newspapers, Rolodexes, staplers and other office odds and ends. Also on the bookshelves was a stack of framed diplomas. I pulled one out and saw Tobias Nightingale’s name written in old-fashioned pen-and-ink script on yellowed paper. It listed him as an intern at Kings Park State Psychiatric Hospital in 1939
. In my research into Nightingale Manor Sanitorium, I’d found references to Kings Park as being one of the first state hospitals to use prefrontal lobotomies on Long Island. It seemed that was where Dr. Blake’s grandfather had learned the tools of his trade—the tool being, of course, an ice pick. Next to the stack of framed medical certificates was a large metal box with an antique iron padlock, corroded with age. There wasn’t a key. Underneath the lock was a fine dusting of reddish powder, as if someone had attempted to yank on it and rust from the padlock had fallen to the shelf below.
“I didn’t know Mrs. Nightingale sanctioned the guesthouse contents to be used in our production?” a familiar male voice said from behind. I looked for a weapon but all I spied was an old single holepunch. I grabbed it. The only good it could do was to pierce someone’s earlobes with the hope it had been over ten years since their last tetanus shot. Gripping it in my hand, I slowly turned around.
It was no surprise that Langston Reed stood in the open doorway. What was surprising was the hammer he held in one hand and the sharp-edged chisel in the other.
I took a step backward toward the window, hoping someone in the main house’s attic, preferably someone with a gun, happened to be gazing out and saw me.
I took another step back.
Langston took a step forward.
Back.
Forward.
My tailbone hit the metal desk.
It seemed the jig was up. “I, uh, was sent here by Willa,” I stammered. “She said last night she’d noticed a light was on and wanted me to turn it off.” It sounded lame, and he must have thought the same, because once more he advanced toward me.
Unless I climbed up on the desk, there was nowhere else for me to go.
Chapter 25
Instead of pounding me on the head with the hammer or sending the chisel into my chest, Langston went to the metal box with the padlock. He put the chisel against the lock then brought down the hammer. “Damn!” he muttered. Then he tried again. This time the lock snapped open, and red dust made a small cloud in the stale air. He sneezed.
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