Manor of Dying

by Kathleen Bridge

  “Doubt it. I had to do a lot of digging before I could find anything about it. Most likely the reason the current Dr. Blake didn’t change the name of the estate. Remember, Nightingale Manor Sanitorium was an exclusive, private asylum. From my research, back in the day it was very easy for relatives to commit their family members without their say and there was little hope of them ever returning home. Thankfully, times have changed.”

  “And procedures have changed, too,” Elle said. “No more lobotomies.”

  “True. Although shock therapy is still being used, sometimes with good results.”

  “Look, I see the dock. Hurry. Give me a quick recap of the murder so I can focus on other things, like meeting the actors playing Jack and Lara.”

  “At the beginning of the 1950s, two feuding actresses came to the asylum, Arden Hunter and Marian Fortune.”

  “Great-aunt Mabel and Edith Head did some of the costumes for the 1949 film The Flame and the Moth that they starred in,” Elle said. “I even have a dress from the movie.” Elle’s deceased great-aunt had been an assistant to the famous midcentury costume designer Edith Head. When Aunt Mabel passed away she left tons of clothing, sketches, and movie memorabilia to Elle.

  Excitement flushed Elle’s cheeks. “Aunt Mabel told me Arden Hunter and Marian Fortune loved to fight in front of the press but were really best friends on set. Like Bette Davis and Joan Crawford.”

  “Well, best friends don’t murder each other, do they? I wonder what went wrong?”

  “You know, on second thought,” Elle said, “keep the gory details to yourself. I don’t like the look of that sky. Let’s keep focused on our task at hand so we can catch the four o’clock ferry back to Sag Harbor.”

  “Don’t you want to know what happened?”

  “Oh, go on. I’m sure if you don’t, what my imagination could come up with would be worse than what really happened.” She let out a full-body shiver.

  “Dr. Tobias Nightingale was in the middle of Arden Hunter’s lobotomy, ice pick in hand, when Marian Fortune, also a patient, grabbed it from his hand and stuck it straight in Arden’s heart.”

  “How barbaric! What happened to Marian Fortune?”

  “She was sent to a state mental hospital shortly after, and the Nightingale Manor Sanitorium closed its doors for good.”

  “A lobotomy. That wasn’t common practice, was it?”

  “I researched it, President Kennedy’s sister Rosemary had one in the forties. The procedure quickly lost favor after numerous deaths and no proof it helped the patient’s mental state.”

  “Ugh. Time for a change of subject. Thankfully we’re pulling into shore. It seems crazy they’d pick the middle of winter to film a miniseries. And of all places, on an island. They must have a big budget.”

  “Now that the Hamptons season includes spring, summer and fall, it was probably the only time they could shoot without fanfare. Most other movies and series that film out here are also filmed in late fall, winter, or early spring.”

  “That reminds me. Did I tell you they want to use one of Cole’s yachts for filming in the early spring? I called him. He seemed skeptical but willing. I’m sure you can convince him. They’re offering a bucketful of cash for just a couple weeks of shooting.”

  “Cole doesn’t need money. He’s a Spenser. Remember?” Cole Spenser and I had been dating on and off for over a year, trying to keep our long-distance relationship going. I’d fly down to North Carolina when I could, and he would fly up to New York. Cole owned a company called Plantation Island Yachts. He refurbished vintage sailing yachts, many of which had won the America’s Cup, then brokered them to wealthy clients around the world. Usually, when one of his clients purchased a yacht, Cole and his first mate, Tripod, his three-legged dog, would hand deliver the yacht to whatever location the buyer desired.

  “Well, it will keep him nearby for at least a few weeks. Maybe he’ll pop the question and you can join me. We can plan our weddings together.” She flashed me her left hand, showing a dazzling engagement ring.

  Last month I’d met Detective Shoner at an estate jewelry shop on Madison Avenue and helped him pick out a ring for Elle. Elle would never go for something new, as proven by the assortment of costume jewelry brooches left to her by Great-aunt Mabel that she wore every day.

  “Cole and I are nowhere near that stage in our relationship,” I said. “Have you set a date?” I was trying to distract Elle from the now-thick flakes of snow whiting out our view.

  “No, I only got the ring a week ago. But I thought the walled garden at your cottage might be a perfect place for a May wedding?” For the first time since we’d driven onto the ferry, Elle wore a happy face.

  “Indeed, it would,” I said, grinning back at her.

  The ferry pulled to the dock on the south shore of the island. We waited until the ramp was lowered, then Elle drove off. I waved at Captain Chris, who stood onshore wearing a puffy down-filled parka, snowflakes gathering on his bushy white Fu Manchu mustache. He resembled a walrus as he tipped his captain’s hat in our direction, and we set out for Nightingale Manor.

  I gazed to my right at the water as lightning ripped open the dark sky. Thunder soon followed. Mother Nature seemed resolute in unloading everything she had.

  “Oh, no!” Elle screeched. “A sign. An omen. Should we turn around?”

  I looked behind us at the South Shelter Island Ferry pulling away.

  “Too late. At least the snow stopped falling,” I said in a hopefully upbeat tone.

  Concentrating on the slick road, Elle kept silent as we headed west along the shoreline. We passed by quaint restaurants and small shops, all closed for the season. I’d tried to distract Elle by telling her about the Shelter Island clambake I’d gone to with Cole and Tripod last summer. “Who would have thought a dog would love smoked oysters?”

  Dead silence. She kept her white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, her focus on what little there was to see of the narrow two-lane highway through the now-pounding rain. When we reached the entrance to Nightingale Manor the thunder boomed so loud the vibration traveled up my spine. I worried Neptune’s lightning-charged trident might zap the pickup into the bay.

  In retrospect, maybe Mother Nature had been giving us a warning . . .

  Chapter 2

  We turned onto the long drive that fronted Nightingale Manor, passing a small gatehouse that was still three times the size of my cottage. Elle had been right, Nightingale Manor looked nothing like it had in the online black-and-white photographs taken at the time of the murder. It seemed friendlier, except there was still something creepy about the numerous mullioned casement windows that made me wonder if at one time they’d been reinforced with steel bars. I counted four chimneys and numerous spires. The stone façade gave the mansion the look of an English manor house. Most of the homes and buildings in the Hamptons area, Shelter Island included, used early colonial architecture in the Federal style. I was sure Elle was right—in the spring the green landscape would soften the look of the cold stone building. For now, I tried to wipe out the old images of what the private sanitorium had looked like. Here I’d been trying to spook Elle about Nightingale Manor’s past and instead I felt apprehension about our upcoming assignment. It wasn’t the first time we’d be inventorying the contents of a Hamptons mansion where a murder had taken place.

  Elle pulled the pickup behind a black limo that was parked near the main entrance. As if by magic, the rain, thunder and lightning dissipated, leaving behind dark storm clouds. Someone must have been watching for us because the massive double-hung front doors opened, and a pair of black scotties ran onto the covered portico. They bounded by two huge cement dogs with empty flower baskets in their mouths, then they scampered down the stone slab steps and headed in our direction.

  “Aren’t they adorable!” Elle called out in glee. “They’re the dog actors for the miniseries. I met them the last time I was here.”

  Both dogs came to my side of the pickup an
d barked up at me, their tails wagging in concert.

  Elle said, “You go on ahead, I’ll grab the hanging bags and train case.” The hanging bags she mentioned held vintage evening gowns and the train case was filled with exquisite costume jewelry from the time period Mr. & Mrs. Winslow was supposed to take place. The production company had been the ones to contact Elle about helping after they’d hired the insurance company Elle occasionally worked for. First Fidelity Mutual paid it forward by telling the producers about Elle’s expertise with antiques and her vintage clothing and jewelry collection.

  “Sure I can’t help?” I asked.

  “Just wait at the door so I can run inside.”

  I got out and both scotties yipped and yapped in a welcoming chorus. All thoughts of mental asylums and murders vanished as I bent to scratch under each dog’s straight-clipped beard. “Are you guys twins?” I asked the pair.

  Someone spoke from behind me, but I couldn’t make out their words. I ripped off the knitted hat muffling my hearing aids. One of the dogs grabbed the hat from my hand and went prancing away toward the wooded area on the western side of Nightingale Manor. The sweeping lawn and bare magnolia and cherry trees were snow-free. But white blanketed the ground in the thicket of pines where dog number one had disappeared. “Drats!”

  A young woman dressed in a long sweater and jeans and wearing round black glasses touched me on the sleeve. Her glossy blue-black hair was cut at an angle to just below her chin. Two dimples crowned when she smiled. “You must be Meg. I’m Felicity, the set designer. The pups don’t belong to me but came with their trainer, along with our producer, director, and the two lead actors who’re waiting inside.” She looked over to where dog number one disappeared. Dog number two sat patiently at my feet, looking at me expectantly through shaggy brows. I knew that look. My cat Jo had perfected it. Felicity extended her small hand and we shook. The dog’s stare remained focused on my coat pocket.

  “They’re brothers from the same litter, Murphy and Max,” she said. “They’ll be playing the Winslows’ dog, Whiskey.”

  “Like the Olsen Twins on Full House.”

  Felicity laughed.

  “How do you tell them apart?”

  “Max is the one with the red collar who ran into the woods. And this here is Murphy. He wears a white collar.”

  The dog yipped, sat on his haunches, and extended his front paws in a begging position. “I think Murphy wants a treat,” she said. “I’ve used up all the ones Bob, their trainer, gave me. Bob’s inside trying to find an unused room to use as a place for him and dogs to bunk down once the production company arrives.”

  “Will the entire crew and actors be sleeping here during filming?” I looked up at the cold stone mansion. There seemed to be enough room, that wouldn’t be a problem. And it would be easy to get to the quaint town of Sag Harbor and Southampton from the south ferry.

  “Yes. We’ll all be bunking here. I guess we could have done worse, although, fair warning, it’s awful cold in there. Even the interior of a castle where we once filmed in Cornwall for another series seemed toastier.”

  My mind immediately went to one of my favorite PBS series, Poldark. Cornwall had been calling to me since I’d first read my mother’s collection of Victoria Holt romantic suspense novels. To me, Montauk was a smaller version of Cornwall. Cole and I had a trip scheduled to England in the summer. It would be our first one together and we’d be bringing along his first mate, Tripod. He’d asked me a couple other times to go with him to deliver one of his vintage sailing yachts and I’d always been in the middle of a project. Knowing we were going to Cornwall, I had no problem blocking out my calendar for mid-July, the height of the Hamptons tourist season and the perfect time for escape.

  Felicity rubbed her hands together for warmth, her breath coming out in icy puffs. “The Nightingales will be staying in the gatehouse.” She nodded her head in the direction of the stone structure we’d passed on our way in. “But the good news is they’re leaving Willa Sullivan, the Nightingales’ housekeeper, at the main house to cater to us. It will be a lot easier than having craft services come to the island every day we’re filming.”

  Murphy tapped his paw gently against my shin, hope shining bright in his dark eyes. I reached into my coat pocket and took out a handful of fish-shaped treats. “You think it’s okay if I give him a cat treat?” I’d recently tried to take my twenty-three-pound Maine coon for a walk on a leash. Tried being the key word. Sedentary was Jo’s favorite position. Not even the lure of her favorite cat treats could get her off my porch.

  “I don’t see a problem. I better go get Bob to see if he can corral Max.”

  “He’s adorable,” I said.

  Grinning, she said, “Isn’t he?” I loved Felicity’s easygoing nature and could see that in the next few weeks we’d all get along. A crack of thunder made us jump. “Does Elle need help with anything?”

  I looked over at Elle, who was still inside her pickup, talking on the phone. Worry lines creased her forehead. The exhaust from her decades-old turquoise pickup spewed fumes of smoke into the frigid air, matching the color of Felicity’s lips. I said, “We’re good, Felicity. Get inside before you freeze to death.”

  “Okay. I’ll make sure Willa has some hot tea waiting for you. Come, Murphy. Let’s go find Bob.”

  The terrier looked at me, then Felicity, then back at me. I handed Felicity a handful of cat treats. “I think these might help get him inside.”

  Sure enough, as she walked away she dropped a trail of fish treats in her wake. Murphy followed, lapping up the treats with his cute pink tongue.

  I glanced over at Elle, who was still on the phone. The thunder and lightning had stopped and once again snow started falling. I wore my thick down coat and faux-fur-lined boots that made me impervious to the cold. I was born and raised in Michigan, so I had a high tolerance to the cold. It didn’t bother me to stroll the beach in front of my cottage no matter what the weather. Especially when scouting out poetry etched in the sand. My former next-door neighbor, Patrick Seaton, was a bestselling author of corporate thrillers who’d moved to Montauk after his wife and daughter were killed in an automobile accident. It had been a year and a half since I’d first found his melancholy prose in the sand in front of his cottage. Soon after, I’d left my own verses for him to read. Last September, after I’d moved into my new cottage, a mile east of my old rental, we’d met face-to-face on the beach. It had been a slightly awkward moment because Cole had found us holding hands, looking into each other’s eyes. Since then, I’d only seen Patrick once at Old Man and the Sea Books. He’d been with his stunning-looking New York publicist, and it took him a moment before he recognized me. I guess I hadn’t made the impression on him that he’d made on me. I shrugged at the memory. What did it matter? I had Cole . . .

  My thoughts were interrupted by Max, who came crashing out of the woods like he was being chased by someone. Or something. He charged in my direction. Dangling from his mouth was something tan. It wasn’t my blue hat, and I prayed it wasn’t a defenseless bunny or squirrel. He stopped short at my feet and presented me with his find: a crude cotton doll with a stitched face wearing a stained apron. Soggy stuffing oozed from the area where her arms should have been. Max looked expectantly at me. “Uh-h-h, good boy,” I praised him. “Thank you.” I bent to pick the wretched thing up, then reached into my pocket and gave him a treat at the same time someone, who I assumed was Bob the trainer, called to the dog from under the portico.

  The pup scampered away, and I was left holding the unfortunate doll.

  Could it have belonged to a former Nightingale Manor Sanitorium patient? My hand trembled as I stuffed it into the large interior pocket of my North Face jacket.

  Someone had to rescue it.

  Chapter 3

  Elle and I were seated on a modern Deco-style sofa facing a fireplace big enough to throw a party in. Felicity had been right. As soon as we stepped inside the stone-floored foyer, a chill set int
o my bones, causing me to reflect that Elle and I would be spending a lot of time in this ice palace. No doubt the twenty-odd rooms were too expensive to heat. Too bad the wool sweater I’d been attempting to knit was months, maybe years, from completion.

  I thought a palace was a good description of the interior of Nightingale Manor. As far as twentieth-century insane asylums went, the place had a certain je ne se sais quoi. The furnishings were opulent, a mixture of Edwardian, Nouveau, and Deco. It was a marriage of styles that somehow worked. It would be the perfect late-1930s setting for Mr. & Mrs. Winslow. Of course, we’d only seen the grand hall, the dining room through an open doorway, and now the grandiose drawing room with its high ceiling and carved crown molding.

  Felicity entered the room, walking across the Persian rug with quick, energetic steps. She took a seat on a raw silk upholstered club chair and said, “Well, that seemed to go better than expected. Elle, what do you think?” she asked, her brown, almost-black eyes large behind her round-framed glasses. She was referring to the fitting session Elle had just had with the lead female actress playing Lara in Mr. & Mrs. Winslow. The goal had been to find the perfect 1930s gown for the opening scene in the pilot—Christmas with Jack’s family. Zoe Stockton and Dillon King had left Nightingale Manor minutes before. They seemed the perfect choice to play Jack and Lara. They had a chemistry that reminded me of famous screen legend couples like Katherine Hepburn and Spencer Tracy, Lauren Bacall and Humphrey Bogart, and Myrna Loy and William Powell. While watching them I’d thought I’d stepped back in time to the golden age of Hollywood. Elle hadn’t been shy about getting autographs and a couple of photos taken. Sadly, Elle and I wouldn’t be around when the actual filming began. Unless things changed and Felicity decided we were indispensable, demanding we become part of the crew. One could always hope.

  Murphy and Max and their owner and trainer had also left Nightingale Manor at the same time as Zoe and Dillon. Somewhere in the mansion were the director and producer, but we hadn’t met them. Felicity had told us they’d all come on the north ferry, which ran from the town of Greenport on the North Fork of Long Island to the northern top of Shelter Island.