“I was happy,” Langston continued, “that he didn’t sit down to complete my interview. He just nodded his head at the Southampton detectives, and they left the room. A few seconds later both officers came back inside. The older of the two told me I could leave, and by older I mean about nineteen. Later, in the hallway I overheard one of the officers tell his partner there was a new development. Have no idea if it has anything to do with Blake Nightingale’s case, but whatever it was, it caused Mrs. Nightingale to cry. I saw her through an open doorway talking to the same giant in the blue uniform, your Chief Pell. It’s surreal about Nightingale’s death. The way he was killed was something from a horror movie.”
I couldn’t help but butt in. “Did anyone mention the old murder?” In my head, I heard my cop father’s voice telling me to take it easy. Knowing Langston lied yesterday about not knowing anything about Nightingale Manor’s past or the old murder made me wonder if before becoming a movie director he’d been an actor.
Instead of answering, he totally ignored my question and instead addressed Felicity. “I’ve got good news. I just talked to Jeremy and he found another location for us to film. At least for the first episode. I’m scheduled to go check it out in an hour. Even though my opinion won’t carry much weight because I’m in the doghouse for picking Nightingale Manor in the first place.
“Like me, I’m sure the authorities have asked all of you to remain nearby until they have a suspect in custody. I always spend Christmas in the Hamptons, so it shouldn’t be much of a hardship, although I do hope they catch this fiend. What about you, Felicity? I have room at my place if you want to stay until the production schedule is reexamined?”
I think we were all relieved at the mention of a new location and the idea the production wouldn’t be moving out of the area. It would’ve been a tough call on my part if they’d decided to stay at Nightingale Manor to film. Serenity was the order of the day. I had a cottage to decorate and maybe a poetry book club to join. I could tell by Felicity’s tight-lipped smile and lack of dimples she was conflicted about Langston’s invitation, knowing he was one of the main suspects in the murder, motive or not.
Elle stepped in. “Oh, Felicity’s all set. She’s staying with me in Sag Harbor.”
Felicity relaxed her shoulders and smiled. “Where have they chosen for the new location?”
“A place called Windy Willows. It seems the owner of the place, just like Blake Nightingale, is in desperate need of cash. Jeremy likes his bargains. We have to lock it in before they change their mind.”
“Windy Willows,” I squeaked.
Langston turned and asked, “You know it?”
“Never been there.” I hadn’t, but I knew whose family owned it. Windy Willows was the family estate of my ex-fiancé Michael’s ex and current wife, Paige Whitney. Paige’s father, Matthew Whitney, not only owned Windy Willows in East Hampton but also Whitney Publications. Whitney Publications was the parent company of American Home and Garden, the magazine where at one time I was editor in chief. If Mr. & Mrs. Winslow filmed at Windy Willows, it was doubtful I’d run into Michael and Paige off-season. They were probably off somewhere in the West Indies at some swanky winter resort. Just the thought of running into Paige, though, brought the Barrett welts to the surface, heating my face and neck. I unwrapped my scarf, knitted by yours truly, and put my hand on Langston’s arm. “Did I hear you calling Sabrina’s name a few minutes ago?”
If he thought I was a nosy Nellie, he didn’t let on. “Yes. She almost attacked me about keeping the production at her estate. I told her it was out of my hands. She was quite upset. I thought it over and wanted to tell her that perhaps we could rent some of the 1930s items from Nightingale Manor and use them in the new location. But now that I think about it, I better wait and touch base with Jeremy until after we see the interior of Windy Willows. If its contents don’t fit our time line, then perhaps we’ll want to bring in a couple truckloads of 1930s furniture, art, and knickknacks from the Nightingale estate. Jeremy likes to stick to his budget, so it might make everyone happy. Including Mrs. Nightingale. She also asked again for a walk-on part if everything falls through. What are your thoughts, Felicity?” he asked.
I was flabbergasted. Sabrina Nightingale was concerned about a walk-on role in the miniseries the day after her husband was murdered? Shouldn’t she be more concerned about mourning her husband’s death or catching his killer—or even slightly worried she could be the killer’s next target? I know I wouldn’t want to stay at the estate after what happened.
“It might work,” Felicity answered. “I just don’t know if I’m ready to go back there until they find whomever killed Dr. Blake. How do we know Sabrina didn’t kill him? You sure you want her in the production?”
I agreed with her on that one. And by the frozen grimace on Elle’s face, I knew she also agreed.
He laughed. “You know showbiz, Felicity. Don’t worry, we can always cut her out when editing. I bet the same person who killed the doctor is the one who came in from that door leading outside. They’re probably long gone.”
“Hope you’re right,” Felicity said. “This isn’t the best start to what I thought was a fantastic premise for a series.”
“I agree,” Langston said wistfully. “But as you know from working on other projects, things don’t always go as planned.”
“True,” she answered, shaking her head. “But murder?”
“I tell you what. Why don’t we all go to Windy Willows together and check it out. I’ll wait in my car. I have a couple of phone calls to make.” He pointed to a navy Ford Explorer. “Then I’ll drop you back here. The estate’s not that far away.”
Elle spoke up for all of us. “Of course, we’d love to.” It was the first smile on her face I’d seen since the murder. “We’ll meet back here as soon as we’re finished at the station.”
I wasn’t quite sure how fabulous going to Windy Willows was. I said, “Why don’t you three go together. I’ll meet you there. I know where it is. I have something I need to do.”
Elle gave me a look and mouthed the word chicken. She knew all about who lived at Windy Willows. The good news about Langston’s invitation was it meant Elle and I would still be included in the production of the miniseries despite the murder and change of location. Plus, if I did run into Michael’s ex and current wife, the high-and-mighty Paige Whitney, she’d probably avoid me, not wanting me to know her family had fallen onto hard times and had to contract out the family manse. I had the advantage. For once.
Felicity also looked relieved. “Then we better get going to the police station. Langston, I’ll text you after we’re done.”
It looked like I’d be taking a trip to Windy Willows.
But before going, I planned to take a little side trip to Beauty Bar Salon and Day Spa.
Chapter 16
When we’d walked inside the small, almost quaint, Southampton Police Station with its amiable officers and designer coffee machine, I’d felt immediately at ease. I’d been chosen as the first person to be interviewed. The questions and answers had been kept short and there was no mention of Arden Hunter’s murder. Neither Chief Pell nor Detective Shoner had been in the room, just two young officers who seemed at a loss as to what questions to ask in a murder investigation. And rightly so. In the past couple of years there had only been one murder in East Hampton and two in Sag Harbor. It had been decades since the town of Southampton, which included Shelter Island, had to deal with a murder.
It was sobering when I realized I’d been involved in each one of those murders, not to mention some oldies but goodies. While one of the officers took notes, I was asked to give a detailed montage of what we’d done to keep busy in the elevator until we’d fallen asleep. I knew what they were up to. They planned on comparing our stories. Looking for holes in the narrative. They wouldn’t find any.
As the interview was winding down I thought I was in the clear until one of the officers asked if there was any way to pro
ve the three of us had been in the elevator for the entire time the power had been out. I said I didn’t think I could prove it, however, the others in the house—who didn’t have alibis, I wanted to say—could confirm they hadn’t seen us until we ran into the room and reported Blake Nightingale’s death.
There was an awkward lull, so I stood, ready to leave.
The younger of the two officers asked, “Is that it? Are you holding anything back?”
The pen! Oops. “I did pick up something on the morning we found the doctor’s body.” I reached in my pocket and took out the plastic bag holding the pen. I reached across the table and handed it off, happy to be rid of it.
He read the advertising on the side of the pen, “Nightingale and Lewis Dermatology. 104 Poplar Street, Southampton, New York.” He put the bag on the table. “Tell me where you got this and why you didn’t turn it in immediately.”
“It was on the basement steps, fifth step from the bottom. I originally saw it right after Elle, Felicity, and I were fleeing the basement after the elevator opened to, uh, Dr. Blake’s corpse. I left it there for forensics, but then later when Dr. Lewis insisted we go down together so he could examine the body, I decided to pick it up, in case whoever killed the doctor decided to do the same. Do you think those spots are dried blood?”
He ignored me while his partner continued taking notes. “We’ll have to see. Dr. Lewis, you say, wanted to look at the body? What did he discover?”
“Not much. He turned the body on its side but didn’t see anything besides, the, um, wound in the chest from the ice pick.”
“Did you touch the pen?” the one taking notes asked.
“No, I used a tissue to pick it up, then when I got home, put it in a baggie. You won’t find my prints.”
They appeared slightly impressed.
Before leaving the interview room, I was politely told to stay in the Hamptons area and not to inform any outside sources about the manner in which Blake Nightingale was murdered. I’d informed them that wouldn’t be a problem. I understood their thinking. There had to be a link between the old murder and the new. Then I was directed to the front lobby, where I waited for Elle and Felicity while sitting on a comfy sofa sipping a decaf coffee and watching the door for those entering and exiting the station. In the back of my mind I was on the lookout for the woman who was suing Dr. Blake for her bungled surgery. I was sure that Sabrina had voiced her theory on who killed her husband. I had no idea what the woman’s real name was, but last night I’d rewatched the Bungled episode on my laptop where she’d been featured post-surgery. Maybe it had something to do with my hearing loss and having to focus on a person’s lips when they spoke, but I don’t forget a face. I was sure if I saw her I would recognize her.
A woman walked into the station swathed in winter clothing. As she unwrapped her scarf mummy style, I was disappointed in her gray, almost-white hair and advanced age. No way was she the woman from Bungled. I picked up an ancient Parents magazine from the table next to me and pretended to be reading, peeking occasionally at the door. I wasn’t a parent, and at this point might never be, but I got hooked on an article titled “Stop Saying No and Still Get Good Behavior.” I planned on following a few of their tips for the next time Jo brandished her claws and refused to vacate my New York Times reading chair.
I moved on to the next article about how to clean smelly sneakers and almost missed her.
Little about her face resembled what she’d looked like on the post-surgery episode I’d seen. Her skin was tight and unwrinkled but there were lumps and crevices in all the wrong places, especially under her cheekbones, which reminded me of the skeleton in Nightingale Manor’s attic.
The woman hadn’t been coming in to the police station, she was being led out while yelling expletives at a female officer who kept a stoic face even though she had pinpricks of sweat on her brow.
Lucky for me, or so I thought at the time, a piece of paper had slipped from the screaming woman’s hand, landing inches away from me on the floor. I waited until the pair left the station, scooped up the paper, took a look at it, then ran out with it clutched in my hand. It was the perfect excuse to meet Dr. Blake’s unhappy guinea pig without making up one of my lame excuses. I wasn’t good at fibbing even though I’d been practicing my poker face for Elle’s assistant Maurice’s monthly poker game in Sag Harbor. Maurice told me my poker face resembled his cat before she regurgitated a furball.
“Excuse me,” I said, out of breath, reaching her just as she was putting a key in the lock of her Infiniti. The sun was still out, and the snow had melted, leaving small rivers draining into the sewers next to the curb. I leaped over, holding the paper in my outstretched hand. The woman must have thought I was going to assault her because she turned to me with her leg extended, kickboxing style. She was tall and solid, someone you didn’t want to mess with, especially after hearing the growl coming out of her strange-shaped lips. Apparently, another bungled thing from Dr. Blake’s surgery.
Before she could kick me in the jaw, I said, “You dropped this inside the police station.” I held out the paper and she ripped it out of my hand. She scanned it, then stuffed it in her jacket pocket. “They didn’t even make a copy, said they would do their own investigating. The buffoons!”
“I couldn’t help notice how upset you were leaving the station.” I kept my eyes downcast. “Are you sure you should be driving in such a state? I can call someone.”
She opened the car door, then sat sideways, facing me. Tears streamed at a rate almost as fast as the water streaming into the gutter. “I’m not used to people being kind since this,” she said, pointing to her face, “happened.”
I reached into my handbag, retrieved a few tissues and passed them to her.
“Mr. Margulies told me not to come alone. He’s out of town and won’t be back until tomorrow. I should have listened.”
I’d met the high-powered Hamptons attorney Justin Margulies on more than one occasion. If this woman was innocent of Blake Nightingale’s death, she was in good hands.
“It’s the first time I’ve been out in public. I’m not used to the press following me. Don’t know how they found out who I was. Everything was supposed to be kept confidential. But now with this murder, I’m afraid to wake up tomorrow and open the paper and see my ghoulish face on the front page, accused of murder.”
I tried to look like I didn’t know what she was talking about, and it must’ve worked because she continued, “I’m sorry. You were just being kind, returning this.” She pulled the paper from her jacket pocket and held it up. “It’s proof I was nowhere near the murder scene. I’m sure you read in the paper about the murder of the doctor who did this to me.” She pointed to a sunken area on her left cheek. “Have you ever heard of the television show Bungled?”
“It sounds familiar,” I said, not wanting to lie.
“You’re a very pretty woman with your lovely blonde hair and blue eyes. Don’t ever get surgery for cosmetic reasons. I did when I was eighteen. The doctor did a poor job and then I tried to correct it and look what happened.”
I thought about when I was younger and refused to wear hearing aids in middle school because of what all the other kids would say. How trivial it all seemed now.
A tear coursed down the woman’s swollen right cheek. “I better get back, my son will be worried about me. I apologize for the scene I caused in the station. I’m still in physical pain and had a hard time being questioned for something I plainly didn’t do.” She laughed. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you? Thanks again for giving this to me. It’s a photocopy, at least I listened to Mr. Margulies on that point.”
“Are you sure you’re all right to drive?”
“I’m sure. I only have to get to Bridgehampton. And it looks like the roads are better.” She extended her hand. “Thank you . . .”
“Meg,” I said.
“Pauline,” she replied.
After she got inside her car, I closed t
he door, then watched her pull away.
Even though I believed in her innocence, I took out my phone and typed in her license plate number. Then I walked the half block to the Beauty Bar Salon, where I’d seen Sabrina Nightingale run in.
As soon as I walked inside a young girl ambushed me. She handed me a bottle of top-shelf water and led me to a small room with cushy seats. I sat, and she nodded toward a split of champagne in an ice bucket and asked if I would like a glass. I looked at her name tag. “Thanks, Trina. I better not.”
“Of course, Mrs. Starling. I’ll be right back with a fruit and cheese board.” I decided to play along and let her think I was whoever Mrs. Starling was. I looked around the room. Soft classical piano music played in the background and the gentle mist from an electric atomizer filled the air with the faint scent of lavender. So, this must be what it felt like to be pampered Hamptons-style. I’d visited my share of top-rated salons when I’d been editor at American Home and Garden. However, it had been years since I’d been inside something this exclusive. I picked up a brochure and scanned the prices and saw the least expensive package was five hundred dollars for a cut and highlights, wash and blow-dry extra. I let Barb, my friend from Sand and Sun Realty in Montauk, cut my hair at her kitchen table. Then afterward we’d share a glass of wine on the front porch of her home overlooking Lake Montauk. I figured the money I saved not visiting a Hamptons salon would be better spent at an estate sale or flea market.
Trina came back inside and sat next to me. In her eyes was worry. “I’m sooo sorry, Mrs. Starling,” she stammered. “Anthony is running a half hour late. Please excuse me, it’s only my second week working here.” She pulled her upper body away from me, like she anticipated a slap.
“Okay,” I answered, still not technically impersonating anyone.
Trina seemed surprised I didn’t throw a hissy fit. “Anthony said I’m to give you whatever you need in the meantime.”
Manor of Dying Page 13
