Manor of Dying

by Kathleen Bridge

  “Please call me Dr. Blake. I’m sure my family’s treasures are safe in your hands.” He gave her a smile, but when he looked over a me, it faded.

  I averted my gaze. There was an awkward silence. Again, Elle came to the rescue. “And you must be Mr. Prentice. I’m Elle Warner, and this is my partner in crime, Meg Barrett,” she said, laughing.

  Jeremy gave Elle a weak smile, then looked across the attic to where Langston was perusing an old leather journal he’d pulled out from the shelf under the skulls. “Langston, I need to speak to you about something of the upmost importance. Give me a call as soon as you get home.”

  Had the show’s producer just learned about the old murder and didn’t want any stigma attached to the miniseries? Or, like his director, did he already know about it?

  Langston placed the journal back on the shelf and picked up one of the skulls. He held it in the air, examining it like he was in a Shakespearean play . . . Alas, poor Yorick! For a minute, I didn’t think he was going to answer his producer. Finally, he put the skull down and said, “Fine, Jeremy. I’ll call you as soon as I reach Bridgehampton.”

  “Don’t forget,” Jeremy said, “this was your idea for a location. Felicity, can you please step out in the hallway for a minute? I need to talk to you and Nightingale.” He sounded like a stern high school principal. For some reason, I didn’t think it would be a good idea to get on his bad side. Jeremy Prentice might have dressed in a down-to-earth pedestrian style, but something about the sharp way he took in his surroundings and the way he glared at Langston made me want to morph into the shiplap walls. Before leaving the attic, Dr. Blake glanced my way. His hypnotic amber eyes caught mine. I glanced away. He would always win in a staring contest.

  After they left, I glanced over at Elle. She had a stricken look on her face. I didn’t think it had to do with the miniseries’s rude producer, but more to do with the weather outside. Also, hearing that the snowplow wouldn’t be coming back wasn’t a good sign.

  I recalled the downtrodden look on Felicity’s face when she’d left the attic, trailing behind Jeremy and Dr. Blake with her head down. She hadn’t appeared happy and I realized how hard it must be to work on something of this scale. When the rest of the set department arrived with the crew and the actors at the beginning of January, things would be easier, making me more resolute for us to help her as much as we could.

  Felicity reentered the room, her cheeks flushed either from the cold or embarrassment. Langston went up to her and whispered something I didn’t hear. She laughed and said, “Let me walk you to the elevator.” Langston thanked her. At least it seemed she and the director had a good relationship. I could tell by the way Langston compatibly put his hand on her shoulder, talking softly in a father-like manner as they left the room.

  “We need to listen to Mr. Prentice and get downstairs,” Elle told me. She began organizing the top of the tea cart. “I’m going to take the cart to the bathroom and rinse the cups. I’ll meet you and Felicity at the elevator. No dawdling, Meg Barrett.”

  Once I had the attic all to myself, I rebelled against Elle’s directive to hurry. Plus, I knew Langston was taking the elevator, and it moved at a snail’s pace. It might be awhile before it returned. I sidled up to the storage space next to the attic boneyard, moved an old machine on wheels whose function I could only guess at and didn’t want to know, then opened the small closet door under the eaves. Getting down on my knees, I stuck my head inside. It was too dark to see much of anything. I got out my phone and tapped the screen for the flashlight function.

  In front of me were at least two dozen suitcases in all shapes and sizes. I pulled one toward me. It was an oldie. The caramel-colored leather had started to peel and crack. It had a worn hangtag with a name and date, followed by a six-digit number written in script. The date was 1950. I pushed it back inside and went to grab another. I heard Elle screech from the hallway, “Meg! We’re waiting for you!”

  I quickly closed the door and stood. The discovery of the suitcases caused an empty feeling in the pit of my stomach. Had the suitcases belonged to patients of Nightingale Manor Sanitorium? The ones who’d checked in but never checked out? Their families and loved ones anxiously waiting for them to be “cured” so they could come back home, but never would?

  “Another time,” I said to Santa Skeleton. He gave me an evil grin. I must have been on his naughty list. I scurried out of the attic—not quite as excited about it as when I’d entered.

  Chapter 9

  Felicity and Elle were at the elevator waiting for me. I hurried inside, ready for Elle to give me the third degree. She remained silent. I looked from her face to Felicity’s. “What’s up? You two look like you’ve lost your best friend. But you haven’t, ’cause here I am. Ta-da!”

  They remained sullen. Felicity closed the accordion gate, then turned to me. “I just told Elle what Jeremy told me. They still plan on shooting the pilot episode here, but they might change things up and move to another estate after that.”

  “They can’t do that, can they?” I knew of course that they could do it. “I thought this estate was supposed to be where the couple moved after Jack was left everything in his great-uncle’s will?”

  “I really don’t know what’s going to happen. We’re in such early stages and I’m lucky Jeremy shared any information with me. He said they might have the script rewritten. Jack comes to visit his great-uncle for Christmas and then he’s murdered, and of course Jack is the lead suspect because he inherits his estate. Instead of moving in for the next episode, they buy a new mansion, making filming at Nightingale Manor a one-episode shoot.”

  It was obvious the Nightingales were in financial difficulty. Dr. Blake wouldn’t be pleased, that I could tell. Not my worry, I told myself as Felicity continued.

  “Usually the set designer is the last to know what’s going on. I guess I should be thankful Jeremy told me that much. We’re to keep working as planned. Langston promised to get ahold of the new script if there is to be one. In the meantime, I have the script for at least the first episode. I’ve gone through and made notes in the margins with some ideas of props we need, inspired by the rooms and dialog.”

  No one responded, as we were each lost in our own thoughts. Mine centered on seeing screenwriter Patrick Seaton showing up to go over the script he wrote, rewriting it for a new location.

  “Is there any chance we can see the script?” Elle asked. “It would make good bedtime reading and then we’d have a better idea of how to edit the items as we inventory.” She gave me a nudge, knowing I would love to see Patrick Seaton’s teleplay.

  “Of course.” Felicity reached inside her duffel bag and pulled out a rolled sheaf of papers. Then she handed it to Elle. “If you want, you can bring it back tomorrow. And if you wouldn’t mind, make a couple copies for you and Meg. But don’t let anyone else see it. I would be in the doghouse for sure if Langston found out.”

  Elle took it. “No problem. How exciting. It will also help me see the costume changes, in case there’s anything I left at home that might work for Zoe’s character.

  Felicity smiled. “That would be wonderful, Elle.”

  “Great. We better get going, I don’t want to get stuck here overnight in an old insane asylum where a murder took place.” Elle realized what she’d said and looked at me. “Oops.”

  Felicity pushed the button for the first floor. After the doors closed she turned to Elle and me, put her hands on her small hips and said, “Murder? Insane asylum?”

  After giving Felicity a brief synopsis of the old murder, I tried to spin it in a more positive light. “It gives the place more color, don’t you think?”

  I waited for her to moan and complain, as Elle had done. Instead she said, “A sad tale. But that was almost seventy years ago. I never would have guessed this had once been a mental hospital. I suppose that’s a good thing.”

  “I think it was more of a boutique hotel–type sanitorium. A celebrity hideout,” I explaine
d.

  The elevator started to move, the pulleys grinding as we made our descent.

  “I think we should forget about murders and crazies and concentrate on getting back to the mainland alive,” Elle said. “And back to our other subject, if Mr. & Mrs. Winslow is moved to another location in the Hamptons, it’s not that big of a deal, is it?”

  “You have no idea,” Felicity said. “It will mean I have to set up two different sets and we might need to call in a staging company from Manhattan, when everything we need for the proper time period is right here under our noses. Plus, everyone from crew to actors planned on staying here. A nice affordable hotel in the Hamptons, even off-season, will really cut into our budget.”

  The brass floor indicator over our heads moved lower toward the number two. The cab stalled for a second, then continued. The overhead lamp flickered like it had when we’d taken it up to the attic.

  Suddenly, we jerked to a stop. Between floors.

  Elle squealed, “Oh, no!”

  Then the light went out.

  Chapter 10

  It seemed my earlier comment about climbing out of the hatch at the top of the elevator for an easy escape was wishful thinking. Being the tallest at five foot seven, I’d gotten on Elle’s shoulders and tried to push it up. It didn’t budge. Then Felicity had given it a try. She’d determined the hatch was bolted in place from the other side. I wondered if it might have been a safety measure implemented years ago to keep sanitorium patients from escaping Nightingale Manor. It didn’t matter because I wasn’t too keen about what would happen if I did have access to the elevator shaft. I pictured myself shimmying up a steel cable to the third floor, the generator Willa had mentioned kicking in, and me getting electrocuted, or worse yet, crushed if it moved up instead of down.

  We’d eaten the rest of Willa’s muffins, but no one wanted to drink the remaining coffee or water in case we had to use the bathroom. Elle’s pickup and Felicity’s car would still be outside, so we’d remained hopeful of rescue. We had screamed and pounded. No one came. We’d tried sending text messages and emails from our phones, but there was no signal. The only smart thing I did, anticipating our cell phones dying, was to tell Felicity to change her greeting to say we’d gotten stuck in the elevator at Nightingale Manor, giving our address and ending with “We’re okay.” It was something my father had told me to do after the last hurricane hit the East Coast. Even if our phones were dead, when someone went to leave a voice mail they would hear our greeting. Elle, in her haste to leave the attic, had left her cell phone behind. I’d tried to reassure her that if Detective Shoner called her phone and didn’t get an answer, he would call mine.

  The first hour was spent naming places or things we wanted to see before we died. I listed a couple—Cornwall, the Northern Lights—but basically all I wanted was to see my small cozy cottage in Montauk and my kitty cat Jo one last time. We then moved on to our best-ever restaurant meal, which was a big mistake because at that point we were all starving. The conversation eventually switched to all the terrible things our exes had pulled over the years. Elle only had one ex and they’d parted amicably. Compared to Felicity’s and mine, he didn’t seem terrible at all. My cheating former fiancé, Michael, won the blue ribbon, especially after I told them about the time I found him in a compromising position with his ex-wife, who was now his current wife once again. I’d been invited to their big Hamptons wedding but hadn’t attended. It wasn’t because of Michael’s and my past, we seemed to have come to terms with that. It had to do with Byron Hughes, who I’d recently dated. I knew he’d be attending with my replacement and everyone’s favorite award-winning actress, Nicole Wolfstrum. Byron and I were still friends, but two exes at one wedding was a little much. Plus, Cole hadn’t been able to attend, per usual, because he was delivering one of his yachts to the other side of the world. For Michael’s and Paige’s wedding present, I’d regifted them an ice cream maker, still in the box from Michael’s and my engagement party. I hadn’t felt the least bit guilty giving it to them, seeing the Whitney family was one of the richest in the Hamptons. I was sure they owned everything money could buy, but I doubted they had an ice cream maker.

  While held captive inside the elevator, I kept reassuring Elle we would be saved, though as the hours ticked by, I began to doubt my own words. The longer the night stretched on, the colder the cab got. Thanks to Felicity we all had our coats. There were no emergency call buttons because the elevator was too old for such a modern convenience. The only noises we heard were Elle’s occasional sobs.

  At one point, Felicity had said, “Did you hear that? It sounds like the scream or howl of a wounded animal.”

  I had heard it and I could tell by the panic in Elle’s eyes when I’d shone my light on her face that she’d also heard it. “Probably the wind whistling up the elevator shaft,” I’d said, more as a comfort for myself than them. My teeth were chattering. Not from the cold—my down jacket kept me warm enough. The scream or guttural howl I’d just heard wasn’t from a draft. It was the shriek of a human in pain. Finally, somewhere around three in the morning we called it a night. I curled up on the floor in a fetal position, trying to reassure myself that even if Jeremy and Langston had left for their ferry, Dr. Blake, Sabrina, Willa, and possibly Dr. Blake’s partner, Dr. Lewis, would come to our rescue. Sleep hadn’t come easily. Shortly after my phone battery died, so did the batteries in my hearing aids. I’d reveled in the silence and finally fell asleep, my head resting on Elle’s left thigh.

  Sometime later, Elle kicked out her leg, waking me as the overhead light flickered on and the elevator started moving. Wiping the drool off my chin, I shot up. Felicity checked her Fitbit for the time. It was noon. We’d been trapped in the elevator for nearly twenty hours.

  The three of us held hands as the cab slowly descended. We watched the dial on the floor indicator, holding our breaths, praying it would stop when it hit one.

  We were disappointed.

  The elevator continued past the first floor. We huddled closer. The cab stopped. The doors opened.

  In front of us was Dr. Blake Nightingale, strapped to the same hospital bed I’d seen on Monday when I’d snuck down to the basement.

  His pale blue button-down shirt was soaked in crimson. An ice pick was sticking out of his chest.

  We screamed.

  But not loud enough to wake up the dead.

  Chapter 11

  Since I was the only one with hands-on experience with dead bodies, I was chosen to confirm that Dr. Blake Nightingale was indeed dead. Wisely knowing not to contaminate a crime scene, the only thing I touched was the side of his cold, blue neck to verify there wasn’t a pulse. Next to the bed was a rusty metal cart with drawers. The middle drawer was open; inside was an assortment of surgical tools, something that might be found in Dr. Frankenstein’s workshop. And, no doubt, where the ice pick had come from.

  The temperature in the basement had to be in the upper twenties, and we realized why. On the opposite side of the room were cement steps. At the top of the steps was an open door. Light filled the doorway with such dazzling brightness that I had to turn away. When I turned back I saw what was going on. Outside, the sun reflected on layers of snow that had spilled onto a cement landing. Someone had either come in from outside or left through the door. Judging by the accumulation of snow, it must have been hours ago that the door had been opened. Was this the exit Blake Nightingale’s killer had taken? Or had the culprit opened the door as a red herring to throw off the CSIs? We didn’t have time to contemplate the scenario in case someone still hid inside, lurking behind a rusty electroshock machine or hiding in the bizarre bathtub contraption.

  “Let’s get the heck out of here,” Felicity shouted. We ran toward the open door leading outside but realized there was no way to get through the deep snow. With their short statures, Elle and Felicity would no doubt suffocate in a high drift.

  “This way,” I shouted, pointing to the door I’d peeked through on Mo
nday. I held open the door and they galloped through. I took up the rear. Five steps from the bottom of the stairs, something caught my eye. A pen. I told Felicity and Elle to hold up. They ignored me and ran up the flight of stairs like they were being chased by an apparition. Whose ghost, I wasn’t sure. Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, pick one, Dr. Blake Nightingale’s or actress Arden Hunter’s? I couldn’t blame the others for not waiting. I crept back down until I reached the step with the pen. I didn’t touch it in case it had prints on it and I didn’t have a camera to take a photo. The pen had advertising on it: Nightingale and Lewis Dermatology, then in small print, Free Consultations, with an address and phone number. The most disturbing thing about it was the area near the point, where I saw brownish red spots. Blood? Proud of myself, I left it alone for the powers that be and went scurrying after Elle and Felicity.

  Minutes later, we found Langston Reed, Sabrina Nightingale, and a man who I assumed was Dr. Lewis crowded around a crackling fire in the drawing room, joking as if they hadn’t a care in the world. There was a look of shock on their merry faces as we charged in. They froze in place like a flash mob getting ready to break into a choreographed dance. It seemed obvious they’d thought we’d left the estate the day before. Glancing out the windows facing the front of the mansion, I realized why. They were covered with thick sheets of ice, blurring the view outdoors. Even from an upstairs window, I knew Felicity’s car and Elle’s pickup would be buried under mountains of snow—erased from the landscape.

  Willa stood near the man who I assumed was Dr. Lewis, a teapot in hand. If someone hadn’t just been murdered, I could picture Tiny Tim walking in without his crutch, grasping Scrooge’s hand, Christmas pudding smeared all over his chin.