Manor of Dying

by Kathleen Bridge

  I went to the stack of storyboards stored inside a wooden wardrobe that Elle and I’d found at a flea market in Southampton and extracted one. I also grabbed the completed storyboard for my cottage and the nine-by-twelve artist’s portfolio from a basket on the floor filled with pages torn from home and garden magazines—one of my addictions, and an expensive one at that—drawn-to-scale renderings of furniture for each of my cottage’s seven rooms, plus photos printed off my laptop from numerous décor blogs and websites, along with photos taken at past Hamptons designer showcases. I was a bit obsessive when it came to home décor. I put everything in a wheeled collapsible grocery cart.

  On my way out, I passed a makeshift table I’d constructed from a salvaged hardwood door that I’d placed on sawhorse legs. Topping the table were an assortment of herbs crowning from vintage coffee tins and teal-glass Ball jars. Three pendulum, hard-hat grow lights hung from the glass ceiling—a little green to brighten up the winter landscape. Even though I was a terrible cook, I loved gardening and used my herbs to elevate my frozen or boxed meals to a palatable level. Foodwise, the winters were the toughest for me because Montauk Melissa’s gourmet food truck, which always parked at Montauk’s surfing beach, Ditch Plains, had closed for the months of December and January. I’d upgraded my indoor garden from last year to include different lettuces, arugula being one of my favorites with its distinctive peppery taste. I wasn’t a chip off the old block, like my father when it came to gourmet cooking. I had yet to redeem the birthday gift my father had talked my friend into giving me: cooking lessons from Pierre Patou, the chef at Montauk’s Pondfare. Maybe if I stalled long enough, the certificate would expire. My idea for a good recipe was like the one I used to make my tinted furniture stains: mix water and acrylic paint at a two-to-one ratio, brush the mixture on a sanded-wood surface, pat the surface with a paper towel to let the grain show through, dry it completely, then seal with a paste finishing wax.

  After I checked the timer for the heater and lamp, I locked up, remembering to put the key under the cricket. As I wheeled the cart, I sang, “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas,” realizing it was time to pick out a tree. I could smell the scent of pine already. All thoughts of murder at an old asylum on a secluded island faded with the thought of my first Christmas in my very own cottage, on my very own land.

  When I opened the cottage’s door, Jo was waiting in front of the fire with a sly look on her face. I left the cart on the porch and transported everything inside, leaning the two storyboards against the chair. I closed the door and put my hands on my hips, surveying the room. Sure enough, next to my knitting basket was the armless rag doll. I didn’t think she could look more forlorn than she had before. But I was wrong. Josephine the Great had gone after what little yarn hair was left on top of the doll’s head, leaving gashes in the thin cotton fabric. “No! No! Bad girl!” I said in a loud tone, then remembered the magazine article I’d read in the police station on disciplining your wayward children without using the word no. I had a feeling Jo was a lost cause as I watched her stretch and yawn. She always ended her yawns with a little squeak that I only heard when wearing my hearing aids. Then she curled in a ball on the rug in front of the hearth, her tail snapping a warning for me to back off.

  “Fine, be that way. Stay there. I’m the boss and get the chair to myself tonight.”

  She didn’t twitch an ear. I went to the kitchen, got a stack of four-by-six index cards, a marker and some cat treats from the cupboard. When I turned, Jo was sitting on my chair, sphinx-style. I anticipated her stealth move. “Vamoose!” I tossed the treats onto the carpet. Jo catapulted off the chair, fur floating in her wake.

  I quickly took a seat, brought the blank storyboard and a folding chair and leaned the board against the chair. Then I wrote down all the suspects for Blake Nightingale’s murder on the blank index cards. I put Dr. Blake’s name on the card in the center. If I’d been decorating an interior room for one of my cottages, the name of the room would go in the middle. I added Sabrina, Willa, Langston and Dr. Blake’s partner, Dr. Lewis. Now that I’d met her, also Pauline. Then I jotted down what I knew about each and tacked the matching card under my suspect’s name.

  Sabrina Nightingale: Dr. Blake’s wife. Having affair with Dr. Blake’s partner? Assume because no children she inherits, and claims not to have signed a prenuptial agreement. Try to ask Detective Shoner.

  Willa Sullivan: housekeeper/nurse, not happy with Dr. Blake before his death or Sabrina, his wife. Her son lived at Nightingale Manor until recently. Saw her and Dr. Blake’s partner in a passionate embrace.

  Langston Reed: director of Mr. & Mrs. Winslow, lied about knowing about the old murder and the fact the estate was a sanitorium, had verbal altercation with deceased before murder.

  Dr. Greg Lewis: Dr. Blake’s partner, upset malpractice insurance wasn’t paid. Having affair with both Willa and Sabrina?

  Pauline (find out her last name): Received botched cosmetic surgery performed by Dr. Blake on television show Bungled. Is suing the practice. Seems to have alibi. Was staying at a hotel in Manhattan at the time of murder.

  The Invisible Man or Woman: Revenge on the doctor for something he did, and also knew about Nightingale Manor’s past murder from the fifties. Left through the door leading out of the basement. NOT LIKELY.

  Something to do with blackmail, like Dr. Blake mouthed to his wife on the ferry?

  Before heading up to bed, I glanced at the names on the board, wondering if I shouldn’t have added Marian Fortune’s ghost on a card. “Jo, I think I’m losing it. Let’s go up, I don’t even want dinner.”

  At the word dinner, I got her attention. She’d already eaten but was always ready for seconds. When I’d first rescued her, she had a routine of sitting at the dinner table for her evening meal. All that changed when we moved into the new cottage. I hadn’t minded her company at the evening meal, but my father’s wife hadn’t been too keen on having a cat at the Thanksgiving table, good manners or not.

  I went to the cupboard and got out some peanut butter and put three spoonfuls in a small bowl then added some Sanders fudge on top. I figured the peanut butter’s protein would keep my stomach from growling and the fudge, sent by my father in my quarterly Detroit care package, which also included Vernors ginger ale and Win Schuler’s horseradish cheese spread and garlic bar chips, would just make it yummy. Then the two of us trudged up to the bedroom. It had been a long day.

  I placed the bowl of peanut butter on the crate that I used as a nightstand, waited until Jo plopped down on her side of the bed, gave her a few treats, ate my peanut butter fudge mixture, then went to the small bathroom, where I washed up and brushed my teeth. After changing into an oversized NYU T-shirt, I climbed in next to her, closed my eyes, did my nightly gratitude list and dropped off to sleep.

  I woke at two in the morning. Jo didn’t budge when I left the warm bed. I grabbed my thick fleece robe and slipped it on. Then I crept barefoot downstairs, my toes popsicles on the cold wood steps.

  Something had been bothering me and I knew the only way to calm my nerves was to go down to the beach and take solace in the ebb and flow of the serene waves. I needed to clear my head with a blast of icy salt air. I stepped into my boots, grabbed a flashlight, then went out the French doors to the deck. Pausing at the landing at the top of the steps, it hit me. Arden Hunter’s and Blake Nightingale’s deaths must somehow be related because of the empty suitcase in the attic with Arden Hunter’s luggage tag. It hadn’t been opened before Dr. Blake’s murder because I’d looked inside the closet before taking the cursed elevator. Whoever took the contents had to have done it in the time between when we’d gotten trapped in the elevator and when I’d gone back to retrieve Elle’s phone. None of the other suitcases were emptied.

  The only problem was, who had it been? And why?

  Chapter 18

  Saturday, late morning snow twirled down on us in light fluffy flakes.

  “Arthur, this is the one,” Ell
e said excitedly. “Cut it down. Cut it down,” she chanted.

  Detective Arthur Shoner wore a Burberry overcoat, cashmere scarf and kid leather gloves. Rubber Totes covered what I’d guessed were either his black or cordovan Gucci loafers.

  “Elle, are you sure?” His forced Grinch smile might fool Elle, but I could tell by the way he gripped the handsaw he wasn’t in the holiday spirit. I knew he would rather be sipping a scotch and soda, his feet warmed by the fire at Southampton’s farm-to-table restaurant, Home and Hearth. As would I. Instead of scotch and soda, though, I’d prefer hot chocolate. If Elle didn’t choose a tree soon, the lunch hour would be over by the time we got there.

  “Of course I’m sure, Arthur Theodore Shoner,” Elle said indignantly.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Theodore?”

  He didn’t answer, just gave me one of his penetrating gazes. His large dark brown eyes under lush brows had a way of seeing through you, making him a good detective, but not always an ally. Even if his fiancée was my best friend. Admittedly, there were mitigating circumstances in our relationship, owing to his skewed perspective. In his mind, I was always butting in to his murder investigations. I saw it as helping find a few killers here and there before another murder transpired—namely, mine. It was a double-edged sword that he had no authority in Blake Nightingale’s death because the murder fell under Southampton’s jurisdiction, not East Hampton’s. It still wouldn’t stop me from “butting in” to whatever he was privy to.

  “Elle, this is the fifth one you’ve chosen then changed your mind on,” he said, obviously at the end of his patience level. “Speak now, or forever hold your peace.”

  “It’s perfect, Arthur!” Elle cooed. “I’m sure. This one is it.”

  He rolled his eyes, winked at me, then crouched in front of the seven-foot Douglas fir. I had ulterior motives for hurrying our tree odyssey along. I looked forward to picking his brain over lunch. If he wouldn’t share anything, I’d enlist Elle to find out what she could on her side.

  The temperature was in the mid-forties. I unzipped my down jacket, removed my scarf and put it in my pocket. “Can we get on with it? I’m cold and hungry,” I whined. “I’m not fun to be with when I’m cold and hungry.” I wasn’t really cold, but I was hungry and wanted to tug at Elle’s nurturing heartstrings.

  So far, Elle’s tree had passed the smell test, the full-branch test, and the perfect-height test. I’d found my perfectly imperfect tree three minutes after the tractor pulling our wagon dropped us at the edge of the tree farm. I had a penchant for choosing trees no one else wanted. My father coined them my “Charlie Brown” trees. Last year, Jo had destroyed my Charlie Brown tree, knocking it down every time I set it up. That was until I had the brilliant idea of getting Jo her own tree. I’d found a fake one, unopened, still in its box, at a recent estate sale for only five bucks. I planned putting Jo’s tree on my screened porch, hanging assorted catnip-stuffed toys from the branches and spraying it with pine air freshener. Then I would release the beast and let her go to town. Hopefully, she’d leave my tree alone.

  “Okay, Elle. Here we go,” he said.

  Finally.

  “Stop-p-p-p!” Elle screeched. “I see a nest.”

  Sure enough, near the top of the tree was a birds’ nest.

  “I’m sure those birds have long since flown the coop,” he grumbled. “Ms. Barrett found her tree as soon as we stepped off the wagon. Once you put all your junk on it, you won’t even notice a tree underneath.

  “Junk?” she asked, visibly miffed.

  Oh, boy.

  Elle’s cheeks flushed pink, along with the tip of her ears where they were sticking out behind vintage faux-fur earmuffs. “I’ll have you know my collection of German glass ornaments was featured more than once in top home and garden magazines.” She stuck out her bottom lip.

  He left the saw on the ground and came to her, then pulled her into his arms. While they cuddled, I went to the tree and gently lowered the branch with the nest, peeking inside. “No eggs.”

  “Even so, I can’t take this tree. They’ll be back in the spring, their home destroyed, and I’ll be to blame,” Elle said, stepping next to me.

  I tapped her on the shoulder. “Look behind you.” An overloaded wagonful of tree shoppers dressed in Santa hats and garish holiday sweaters were coming toward us caroling, “Oh Christmas Tree.” It felt like we were on the set of It’s a Wonderful Life.

  Thinking of movie sets, I nudged Elle. “Heard anything more from Felicity?” Elle had called last night about the decision to go ahead with filming Mr. & Mrs. Winslow at Windy Willows. She’d also told me there was a good chance they’d be using items from Nightingale Manor for the interior.

  “All I know is, I don’t plan on going back to Nightingale Manor anytime soon,” Elle said, a stubborn set to her jaw.

  “I wouldn’t mind going back, but after they arrest Dr. Blake Nightingale’s killer. I’m still banking on it being one of the four not in the elevator with us.”

  Elle’s head snapped in my direction. “I assumed Felicity would go alone, make her choices, then send them on to Southampton. Our job would be to inventory as we unpacked the boxes. I would like to eliminate Langston Reed as a suspect. You do realize we’ll be working with him at Windy Willows and he’s one of your four.” Her brow furrowed, and she looked up at the nest.

  Detective Shoner advanced toward us. He said, “Sooo, Elle, what’s it gonna be? This tree?”

  “Yes, Elle. My stomach is growling,” I said. “Remember, for every tree you cut down they plant another. Look over there.” I pointed to a section of land where baby trees grew in neat rows.” The tractor pulling the wagon stopped three trees down from us. I picked up the saw and handed it to Detective Shoner. “Elle, you better make a decision on this tree before someone else snaps it from under your pert little freckled nose.”

  Elle scurried up to her fiancé. “Hurry, someone might steal my tree. Cut it down, Arthur! Cut it down!”

  • • •

  Thirty minutes later we arrived at Home and Hearth. It was one of those rare restaurants where when you walked inside you felt transported to another age. On either side of the dining room were two fireplaces. The smell from the burning white birch logs brought back memories of Michigan in the winter. Each Christmas my parents and I would travel four hours Up North to my grandfather’s house in Traverse City. There’d be snowmobiling and ice skating, then, following a meal of Great-aunt Helga’s schnitzel and noodles, we’d gather around the long wood table in the formal dining room for a game of Michigan Rummy, a combination of poker and rummy played on a colorful game board the size and thickness of a plastic tablecloth. Grandpa called the room the formal dining room but there was nothing formal about it, especially when all my aunts, uncles, and cousins gathered around. Under the table, my grandpa’s schnauzer Heidi would bite our ankles whenever we moved. We never thought of putting Heidi in another room. She ruled the underworld and we’d better keep our stomping feet in check. I smiled inwardly at the memory.

  Home and Hearth co-owner Molly Stevenson came toward us, menus in hand. She greeted us with a bright, cheery smile. Her gray hair was in a long braid down her back, her pale gray eyes sparkling in recognition when they met mine. Even though she was in her late sixties or early seventies Molly’s skin glowed with youth. Last fall, when we’d manned the silent auction table at a benefit for Harvest for the Hungry, she’d shared the history of her family-run restaurant. Home and Hearth had been farm-to-table way before it came into vogue. Like many of the early Hamptons settlers, the Stevensons had once been potato farmers. When half of their land was sold to developers they bought the restaurant in Southampton and continued to grow their own food. From a fruit, vegetable, dairy and egg standpoint they were completely self-sustainable.

  “Meg, so good to see you. I have a perfect table for you between the hearth and the tree. Come this way.” The rich wide-plank wood floors gleamed in the firelight. Even though it was
early afternoon, the sky outside was dark and light snow was falling at a steady pace, making me feel cocooned and warm, happy to be inside. Sprigs of pine tied with raffia hung from exposed wood pillars. The restaurant’s walls were adorned with handloomed rugs and shelves of pottery made by artisans from the nearby Shinnecock Native American Reservation. The Shinnecock tribe had been in Southampton for generations and were very active in the Southampton community.

  We embraced, and I introduced her to Elle and Detective Shoner, then she led us through the crowded dining room. Keeping to the organic theme of the restaurant, I saw that their Christmas trees were alive, resting in huge clay pots, ready for replanting in the spring. They were simply decorated with hanging pinecones, stringed cranberries and popcorn. After we sat, she handed out menus with the day’s specials. The menu changed from day to day. Creamy corn and butternut squash chowder in a bread bowl was the first special listed. I needed to look no further.

  After we ordered I tried to think of the best possible way to bring up the Nightingale investigation to Detective Shoner without sounding nosy. I opened my mouth to speak, but Elle beat me to it. “Arthur has something he wants to tell you. I can’t.” Her eyes watered, and she looked away. So, this was the thing making her so melancholy. I reached over and grabbed her hand, then looked at Detective Shoner.

  He cleared his throat and said, “I’ve been offered a promotion.”

  “Well, that’s great.” I looked at Elle. “Isn’t it?”

  She sniffled. “Tell her where, Arthur.”

  “Okay, I give. Where?”

  “Manhattan,” he answered.

  “And that’s bad? Why?”

  Elle snatched her hand away from mine. “Because when we get married, we’d have to move.”