We got out and fought our way up the front steps. As I reached for the intercom button, Elle grabbed my wrist. “Maybe it would be smarter to head back to the dock and wait for the ferry?”
“And run out of gas, sitting there for three hours?” That shut her up.
As I reached again for the button of the intercom, the door opened. Felicity stood in front of us dressed in layer upon layer of clothing—turtleneck, pullover sweater, cardigan sweater, fleece pants and fleece-lined boots. She motioned us inside, pressing a finger to her lips, shush-style. Loud male voices echoed down from the high-ceilinged foyer. I recognized one as Dr. Blake’s.
“You have no room to criticize me for unpaid bills, knowing what I know, partner. If I tell her lawyers about your little secret, that will be the end of your career forevermore. Don’t make threats you’re not willing to carry out, Doctor.” Dr. Blake’s voice was deep with a raw edge, sending goose bumps up my spine. His tone reminded me of a towering male substitute teacher I once had in elementary school, who’d asked, “I don’t know, Megan, can you go to the bathroom? Are you able? Is everything in working order? Or do you think the proper way to ask would be using the word may?” The whole class had laughed as I’d hurried out of the room. Afterward, I had to write the word may fifty times on the blackboard.
“Come this way,” Felicity whispered. We left our boots at the front door, wondering if we shouldn’t have entered through the servants’ door. Felicity led us through the grand foyer and into a back hallway. She opened a closet door and we handed her our coats.
After we were safely out of earshot of the arguing from the drawing room, Felicity said, “I’ve been waiting for you. Couldn’t stay in that room with them for one more minute.”
I thought I’d dressed appropriately in a long-sleeve white T-shirt and red wool cardigan, but it was so cold, I swear I could see my breath when I asked her, “I recognized Dr. Blake’s voice. Who else is in there?”
“Dr. Blake and his partner at the practice are the ones arguing. They’re being sued, and their malpractice insurance has expired. It was Dr. Blake’s job to keep it current, and he hadn’t. I’ve met his partner, Dr. Lewis, before. As sweet as they come. Not today.” Felicity laughed but it wasn’t a ha-ha laugh, more of a nervous laugh. “I’m not a gossip, it was really uncomfortable. That’s why I snuck out and waited at the door.”
“There are a lot of cars parked out front,” Elle said. “Anyone else here from Mr. & Mrs. Winslow?”
I could tell Elle had forgotten her fear about the storm and was focused on the chance of meeting more actors from the series.
“Yes, the show’s producer, Jeremy Prentice, and Langston Reed, our director. I could tell they wished they could escape the room like I did. Between you and me, I think Mr. Prentice was unhappy with the location Langston chose to film the series. Our lead actors, Zoe and Dillon, must have complained.”
Maybe someone found out about the murder and the fact the mansion had once been a mental hospital? I knew Langston had many quality films to his credit and was a big supporter of local Hamptons charities. It was surprising the lead actors in the series would complain about the location. I said, “When Elle and I met the two leads, they seemed genuinely happy with the Nightingale estate. I even overheard them talking about how nice it would be to be incommunicado from the paparazzi and other voyeurs that came as the price of being famous. I know the pups, Murphy and Max, loved the open outdoor spaces.”
Elle wore a pout. “Tell me they aren’t going to change location.”
“Thankfully, no,” Felicity answered. “At least that was confirmed before Dr. Blake’s partner showed up and the fireworks began. Earlier, Dr. Blake begged our producer to use the estate, even lowering the agreed-upon rental fee.”
It seemed the Nightingales didn’t want to jeopardize their contract with the production company, especially if they were being sued and needed the money. I couldn’t guess how much they’d be paid for use of the estate, but I’d bet it was a bundle.
Felicity motioned us to follow her. “Whatever we find to use on the set has to be inventoried, assigned a value, then a percentage of the value will be added to the location fee.”
“Looks like we lucked out,” Elle said. “First Fidelity Mutual is paying Meg and me for doing the inventory, and the producers of Mr. & Mrs. Winslow are paying us for helping you stage the rooms before filming.”
“Believe it or not, it’s still cheaper than renting everything for the set and having it shipped to the island. And we’re saving on not having to pay you guys union wages. Something I’m not supposed to know but I heard Langston and Jeremy discussing. And when I say we, I mean Prentice Productions. Now, let’s go get some coffee or hot chocolate to bring to the attic. Heat rises so I’m hoping it will be warmer up there. Maybe the Nightingales also forgot to pay the electric bill.” She smiled. “I’m dying to find items for the opening scene, which takes place on Christmas Day, 1935. Dr. Blake said the attic is where his family had been storing Christmas decorations since the turn of the last century. We plan on flying in a huge live tree by helicopter to decorate.” She rubbed her hands together, either in excitement or for warmth.
The damp and coldness from the drafty hallway left my bones and were replaced by a flush of heat that filled my veins after I heard the word attic. Attic equals treasure in an old house like this. Obviously, I couldn’t take anything home with me, but it would be a hoot to find treasures circa 1900 to 1940 that could be uncovered, dusted off, and seen on the set of Mr. & Mrs. Winslow.
“But what about the weather? Shouldn’t we be more concerned about that?” Elle said. She must have been worried. Elle loved a good attic as much as I.
Felicity shook her head. “I overheard Dr. Blake say he has a generator. So, no worries on that score. I plan on making the three thirty ferry to Greenport.” She pulled out her phone and looked at it. “We still have two good hours of work.” She tapped the screen and said, “Darn!”
“What’s wrong?” Elle asked, panic clouding her brown eyes.
“No wifi. Not surprising in this weather.”
A woman’s voice came from inside an open doorway next to them. “Girls. Come inside. You’ll freeze to death out there.”
Felicity laughed and called out, “Be right there, Willa.” Then she turned to us and said, “I don’t know where Dr. Blake found Willa, but she’s the best. Never seems put out when you ask for anything and always anticipates your every whim. I wouldn’t mind living in a mansion on a beautiful island with someone who’s as good a cook as Willa. It’s a shame she and Mrs. Nightingale don’t get along. Come, let’s get inside. There’s a fireplace in the kitchen that Willa always keeps stoked.”
I wanted to grill Felicity more on Mrs. Nightingale, remembering Monday on the ferry when Dr. Blake had been pounding the steering wheel and using the word blackmail. I’d looked online for photos of Dr. Blake’s wife and found quite a few of them attending social events in the area. The blonde woman next to him in the car on the ferry had been his wife, Sabrina. The doctor could be quite intimidating, and now to hear his wife didn’t get on with the housekeeper made me curious as to the type of woman he’d chosen to marry. It was none of my business, seeing I doubted we’d have contact with anyone but Felicity while we were at the estate. At least, I hoped that was the case.
When we entered the kitchen, Willa was standing in front of a double farm sink looking out at the winter scene. Unlike Monday, the snow was sticking, flying vertically and horizontally, depending on the wind gusts. She turned, arched her thick brow and said to Felicity, “You must be happy to escape the fracas in there. Dr. Lewis is a good man. I’ve never seen him in such a tizzy.” She went over to a large coffee urn and filled a thermal pitcher. I inhaled the rich scent of French roast. We all gravitated to a small fireplace in the corner of the room. In front of a blazing fire was a braided rug and two rocking chairs. All that was needed to complete the scene was either a dog or a cat, snugg
led on the rug. As if part of the movie set, a red tabby’s head crowned from a basket near the hearth. It looked us over, then snuggled back to sleep.
“Tabitha only leaves her basket to eat,” Willa said, going over and scratching the top of the cat’s head.
Another feline obsessed with food, I thought, thinking of Jo.
“Of course, at sixteen, she leads quite the sedentary life.”
There was a whistling up the chimney that my hearing aids picked up. It sounded like a wolf howling or the moaning of a ghost—Arden Hunter’s?
The room was huge, but at the same time warm and inviting. There was a square wooden table and chairs in the center and the walls showed exposed brick. Copper pots and pans hung from an iron rack over a professional-grade six-burner gas stove. The two large wall ovens looked like they were from the fifties or sixties. The refrigerator and dishwasher looked new. I couldn’t help but think that this kitchen would have been the only one serving meals to patients when Nightingale Manor was used as a boutique sanitorium. Willa was too young to have been around during the infamous murder, and depending on when Dr. Blake’s grandfather died, it was doubtful she’d met him. I couldn’t stop myself and said, “Willa, how long have you been working for the Nightingales?”
She turned her kind hazel eyes in my direction. After swiping a short auburn curl off her forehead, she said, “Fifteen years. Blake took pity on a single mother and gave me a job. I started here after his father passed away, before he married Sabrina.” Even though she spoke fondly of her employer, I noticed her hands clenched into fists and the light had left her eyes. I didn’t know if it had something to do with Blake or his wife, Sabrina.
Elle interrupted my thoughts. “We better get going up to the attic if we’re going to make the four o’clock ferry.”
“The attic?” Willa gasped, sucking in her full rosy cheeks. “Why would you ever want to go up to that dusty thing? Fair warning, I don’t clean up there. You better take paper toweling and a broom.”
Little did she know she was making the attic sound even more appealing.
Elle laughed. “No worries, Willa. Cleaning will be part of the fun.”
The housekeeper gave Elle a skeptical look.
“Has anyone ever told you that you look like Mrs. Padmore from Downton Abbey?” I blurted out before I realized that Willa might not take what I said as a compliment.
“You’re not the first,” she answered, smiling.
My shoulders relaxed. Willa filled a bucket with cleaning supplies and handed the bucket to Elle, saying, “Have at it.” She handed Felicity a wicker basket lined with a napkin and a slew of orange-cranberry muffins—her mother’s recipe, she told us. I was awarded a sterling silver tray upon which we placed our mugs and the large thermos. As I tried to balance the heavy tray, the mugs went sliding. “I’d make a terrible waitperson,” I said, righting the tray just in time.
“Oh, my.” Willa took the tray and placed it on the table. “I think I have a solution.” She went into the pantry and came out with a rolling tea cart. “Here. Place everything on the cart and then you can take it to the elevator. I don’t know what I was thinking.” She went to the Sub-Zero refrigerator and took out six large water bottles and placed them on the cart.
“Thanks, Willa,” Felicity said.
“You’re more than welcome. I’m looking forward to some activity in this old manse.” Glancing toward the crackling fire, she added, “Hold one sec. You might need something else.” She opened a door next to the pantry and stepped inside. A few minutes later she came out carrying two space heaters in her ample arms. “I’m sure you’ll need these.” She put the heaters at the bottom of the cart, then directed us to the elevator that would bring us to the attic.
The elevator was a couple doors south of the kitchen. When we reached it, Felicity pushed the button on the wall. Nothing happened. I’d seen a similar elevator in an old house Elle and I had inventoried in East Hampton. I stuck my fingers between the crack separating the two doors and pulled them apart. Voilà. In front of us was an old-school accordion-gate elevator cab. I grabbed the latch and opened the brass gate. Elle and Felicity walked inside. I followed with the tea cart.
“This is serendipitous. It looks to be of the same time period as Mr. & Mrs. Winslow,” Felicity said, getting out her cell phone and typing something. “What a wonderful place to shoot a scene.”
“Hope it doesn’t stop mid-floor,” scaredy-cat Elle answered in a shaky voice.
As if the elevator heard her, the light above our heads flickered. “If it did get stuck,” I said, “someone could climb inside from that hatch up there”—I pointed to the ceiling—“murder us, then escape with no one the wiser.”
Felicity put her phone away and grabbed the handle of the gate, then slid it across. A loud reverberating clank shook the cage. For a moment, it felt like we were in a jail cell. “Floor, please?” she asked with a laugh.
As Felicity went to push the button for the third floor, a giant stick figure of a woman passed in front of the gate. She backed up, then looked down at us. I felt like a caged bird as she peered in.
“Felicity,” she said in a clipped tone. “This must be the team you talked about. Where are you starting?” The woman was almost six feet tall. Her frame was on the emaciated side. Long, perfectly styled blonde-highlighted hair framed a heart-shaped face accented with high cheekbones and full lips. Her eyes were a light gray, framed with lush lashes that had to be fake.
I wasn’t surprised when Felicity said, “Mrs. Nightingale. We’re heading up to the attic to check for vintage holiday decorations.”
“Please, call me Sabrina. There isn’t that much of an age difference between us.” She laughed and waved her left hand. A huge emerald-cut yellow-diamond engagement ring and matching wedding band were on the ring finger of her left hand. On the pointer finger of her other hand was a ring encrusted with pavé diamonds forming a wave pattern, topped with a single South Sea pearl. Mikimoto, I assumed. Glancing at her perfect features and knowing she was a cosmetic surgeon’s wife, I’d gamble Sabrina Nightingale was older than Felicity. The only thing giving away Sabrina’s age were her crepey hands.
“Mrs. Nightingale. Sabrina. This is Meg Barrett and Elle Warner.”
Before we could respond with a nice-to-meet-ya, she said, “Well, carry on. I need to talk to Willa about something. Again!” She turned abruptly and clip-clopped down the hallway toward the kitchen in her red-soled heels. The strong scent of her perfume lingered, and I sneezed.
“Bless you,” Felicity and Elle said at the same time.
I took a tissue from my pocket and put it to my nose. A loud pounding made us all jump. It came from the direction of the kitchen. Shouting soon followed—Sabrina Nightingale’s and Willa’s. I had no problem hearing Sabrina yell, “One more time, Willa Sullivan! One more time and you’re outta here. No matter what my husband says. What you did today was unconscionable.”
Elle went to push the button for the third floor. I tapped her on the shoulder. When she turned, I put my finger to my lips and whispered, “Shush.”
After giving me an eye roll, she lowered her arm. Felicity leaned forward, her head tilted to the left, trying to catch the heated exchange. It seemed she was just as interested in Sabrina’s and Willa’s conversation as I was.
“How dare you add your two cents in front of Greg. If it wasn’t for you, he wouldn’t have gone off the deep end. How embarrassing in front of our director and producer. What are the chances I’ll get a walk-on role now?”
“I couldn’t stand to hear the lies,” Willa said in a loud but controlled voice. “I had nothing to do with the practice’s malpractice insurance lapsing. Wasn’t that boy-toy you talked Blake into hiring in charge?”
“You have a lot of room, talking about a boy-toy. You had an affair with my husband when he was much younger than you. Plus, Rob is gone, we have someone new. Not that it’s any of your concern. Keep to your housekeeping duties like a good
servant.”
“Blake and I are the same age, Sabrina. And it was one time. Way before you came into the picture.”
“Well, that’s the only reason he hired you. He felt sorry for you and your son. Then you betray him by throwing him under the bus in front of our guests.”
“Maybe you’re right. There’s nothing for me here. I know it was you who told Blake Donnie had to leave.”
“The kid’s eighteen. Time for him to leave the nest. Our nest. The kid was always underfoot, especially when we were entertaining.”
“You’ve had it out for Donnie ever since you came here,” Willa said, her voice a little lower than before, and I had a hard time making out the end of her sentence.
“What did she just say?” I asked Elle.
“Willa said Sabrina’s had it out for her son from the time she moved in five years ago.”
A few seconds later, I had no problem hearing Willa’s raised voice. “Now that that’s in the open, like the other thing, you’re right. There’s no reason for me to stay. You two deserve each other.”
There was a clattering of pans, then silence. Sabrina went barreling by us, calling out, “Greg. Greg. Can I have a word?”
I whispered to Felicity, “Who’s Greg?”
“Greg is Dr. Lewis’s first name. This is very concerning. Willa’s on contract to feed and take care of the cast and crew. If she leaves, it could be a deal breaker for us setting up production here.”
Elle waited until we no longer heard Sabrina’s high-heeled footsteps and asked, “Am I allowed to speak now? What do you think all that was about, Felicity?”
“All I know is what I overheard earlier. Dr. Blake blamed Willa for not giving him the bill for the malpractice insurance policy and she claimed she’d given it to him. Along with many other past-due notices. Willa told me during one of our chats that sometimes she’d filled in as office manager and nurse at the office in Southampton when they were short-staffed.”
“Nurse?” Elle asked, a puzzled look on her face.
Manor of Dying Page 6
