AT NINE O’CLOCK in the morning Decker’s phone alarm went off.
He sat up in the driver’s seat of his rental, yawned, and looked around.
He’d arrived at the nursing home around six in the morning, parked on the street, and settled down to catch a few hours of sleep. He drove to a nearby McDonald’s, cleaned up, and changed into fresh clothes in the bathroom. He ate a breakfast sandwich and downed a cup of coffee.
He drove back to the Glenmont Senior Living Center and went inside.
The lobby was large and inviting, with sunlight blazing in through numerous windows. The whole place looked fairly new. It had comfortable seating areas with upholstered chairs, a large reception desk of polished wood, and wallpaper with a soothing flower-and-vine design.
An efficient-looking young woman was seated at the front desk. She looked up as Decker approached.
“Can I help you?”
He pulled out his creds and badge and held them up. “FBI. I need to speak with one of your patients.”
“We call them residents,” she said, eyeing his badge. “Can I ask what this is about?”
“I’m investigating a series of murders in Pennsylvania. It’s come to our attention that one of your residents, Stanley Nottingham, may have known one of the victims when he lived in New York.”
“I think I need to get my supervisor.”
“Do what you have to do, but don’t keep me waiting long. I’m on a deadline.”
She hurried off and came back less than a minute later accompanied by a tall, stout man with thick dark hair. He wore a pinstripe suit along with an important expression.
“I’m Roger Crandall, the executive director. What seems to be the issue?”
Decker explained why he was here.
“Don’t you need a warrant or something like that?” asked Crandall.
“No, I don’t. Mr. Nottingham isn’t a suspect or a person of interest. But he could be a material witness in a murder investigation. And I have every right to talk to him.”
“I think I might have to call the company lawyer on this. Can you come back another time?”
In response Decker took out his notebook. “Is that Crandall with two l’s? I’ve seen it spelled with one and just want to make sure.”
“It’s with two. But why are you asking?”
“My boss at the FBI gets pissed when anyone misspells a name on the arrest warrant.”
Crandall took a step back. “Arrest warrant? For me!” he added shrilly. “Why?”
“Well, you’re the one obstructing justice, aren’t you?”
“I don’t believe that I am.”
“I already told you that your resident is not a suspect or person of interest. He has no criminal liability. But he may be a material witness. And you will find that the FBI has a right at any time to speak to a material witness. But if you won’t let me do so, then you are committing a federal crime, which, by the way, has a five-year minimum sentence in a federal penitentiary.” He eyed the man’s natty attire. “And for what it’s worth, you look better in pinstripes than you would in an orange jumpsuit.”
Crandall gazed stupidly at Decker for a long moment and then said, “I’ll take you to Mr. Nottingham myself.”
Decker made a show of tearing the page with Crandall’s name on it out of his notebook, wadding it up, and tossing it into a nearby wastebasket.
“Thank you for your cooperation.”
As they walked down the hall, Decker said, “What can you tell me about Nottingham? I understand he came here recently.”
Crandall nodded. “That’s right. Usually the family will be instrumental in having a loved one come here. We all get old, and when you can’t take care of yourself, well, sometimes it’s hard to admit it. But Mr. Nottingham was different. He didn’t have any close family, but decided he could no longer live by himself. So he came here of his own accord.”
“How’d he find out about your place?”
“We get a lot of people from New York. We’re just over the state line, so if they do have family it’s an easy trip for them to come and visit.”
“I understand he was in the fashion business.”
“Yes. He worked for several of the big fashion houses. He’s very nice. Seems well educated.”
“How’s his health?”
“We really can’t give that sort of information out, but I can tell you that he has the sorts of problems one would typically associate with a person of his age.”
“Okay, but I meant is he lucid?”
“Oh, oh yes, there’s no problem there. At least not yet.”
They stopped at a door. The name STANLEY NOTTINGHAM had been written on a slip of paper and inserted in a brass holder screwed to the door.
“Well, here we are.”
Crandall knocked. “Mr. Nottingham? Stanley, can I come in? It’s Mr. Crandall.”
A deep throaty voice answered in the affirmative and Crandall opened the door. He and Decker stepped in.
Stanley Nottingham was sitting in a chair next to a bed. He was tall and cadaverous, with a fringe of white hair encircling his head. He wore a pair of thick black glasses. He had on what looked to be silk polka-dot pajamas.
A tank of oxygen was parked in one corner.
On the walls were large framed black-and-white photos of a variety of models on the catwalk.
“Stanley, this is—” Crandall paused and said to Decker, “I’m sorry, what was your name again?”
“I’m Amos Decker, Mr. Nottingham. I’m with the FBI.”
Nottingham, who had been slouching in his chair and looking immensely bored, immediately righted himself and sat up straighter. He looked positively delighted by this development and clapped his hands together.
“The FBI?” He smiled broadly. “How exciting!”
Decker glanced at Crandall. “I’ll handle it from here, thanks.”
Crandall looked put off by this, but nodded curtly and left. However, he kept the door open.
Decker went over and closed it and turned back to Nottingham.
“Thanks for meeting with me.”
“Have we met before?”
“No.” He looked at the photos arrayed on the walls. “So, you were in the fashion business?”
“For about fifty years. I worked for all the big houses. Dior, Versace, Valentino, Calvin, Tommy. The list goes on and on.”
“What did you do there?”
In answer Nottingham waved his hand at all the photos. “I was a photographer. One of the best, if I do say so myself. I flew with Valentino on his personal jet. Giorgio had me on his speed dial. Hubert de Givenchy was a dear friend. Audrey Hepburn. Elizabeth Taylor. Jackie O. I photographed them all. The greatest moments of my life.” The man was absolutely beaming even though he had closed his eyes. When he reopened them and gazed around at the small confines of his room, the happy look faded.
He said, “But that’s not why you’re here, obviously.”
Decker drew up the only other chair in the room and said, “Bradley Costa?”
Nottingham screwed up his features. “Oh, Brad, yes, yes, of course.” He next looked perplexed. “Is he in some sort of trouble with the FBI?”
“No. Just following up some leads on a case. He was your neighbor back in New York?”
“That’s right. He bought an apartment in my building in SoHo. I’d lived there for decades. I sort of took him under my wing. He was a delightful person. Very handsome. He could have been a model, if you ask me. And smart. He was very successful. Worked on Wall Street.”
“And then he moved?”
“Yes, yes he did. That was very sudden. I was a little hurt, to tell the truth. He never even said goodbye. Here today, gone tomorrow.”
“You have an ancestor, Nigel Nottingham?”
The old man smiled. “Yes. The butler. He was my great-grandfather. Worked in a horrible place called, um, well, I can’t remember right now, but he labored away for an absolute miser there.”
“John Baron. The place is called Baronville.”
Nottingham snapped his fingers. “Yes, that’s right. In, what was it, Ohio?”
“Pennsylvania.”
Nottingham looked sadly at Decker. “In the last year my memory, which used to be razor sharp, seems to be leaving me. That’s one reason I came here. I…forget things. And I didn’t want to burn my building down by mistake.”
“No reason to be sorry. You’re doing fine. Was Costa interested in the Barons?”
Nottingham scrunched up his features once more. “Well, come to think, it was at a dinner party I threw a number of years ago. I remember because I had just been given an award by the fashion industry. It was one of those things you get for being around as long as I had,” he added with an embarrassed smile.
“What happened at the dinner party?”
“Well, it was after we ate and we were having port in my little room of photos. Brad picked up a picture from off a table and asked me about it. Well, it was Nigel. I told him all about him, or at least what my father and grandfather had told me. Nigel was born in England, Surrey, long, long ago and then immigrated to the United States. I’m not clear on how he made it to Baronville. But he became Baron’s butler. His son, Samuel, my grandfather, left Baronville as a young man and moved to upstate New York, where my father was born. My parents moved to Brooklyn after they were married, and that’s where I was born.”
“So no one in your family wanted to stick around Baronville?”
“Oh, God no. From what I remember being told, it was this dreary piece of dirt where they had coal mines and filthy factories and people were worked to death. My grandfather actually told me that he left because he hated the place. Wanted to get away as soon as he could. And he did. Thank God for that. I doubt I would have had the same career if I had been born and raised there.”
“What about Nigel?”
Nottingham thought for a few moments, tapping the chair arm with his long fingers. “That’s right. I remember now. He stayed on with the Barons until he died.” He paused. “In fact, I remember my grandfather telling me that he went back for Nigel’s funeral. It was actually funny.”
“What was funny? Not his father dying, surely?”
“Oh, no. It was funny because his father had died on the very same day that Baron did. The one who started the whole town and named it after himself.”
“They died on the same day? I didn’t know that.”
“Yes. Apparently they were the same age. Master and servant till the day they both died. Then who cares about titles and who has more money, right?”
“Would it surprise you to learn, then, that Brad Costa moved to Baronville?”
Nottingham slumped down in his chair. “Oh my God, you must be joking.”
“No, I’m not. In fact, he was murdered there.”
As soon as he said this Decker realized it had been a mistake.
Nottingham started having trouble breathing. He was gasping, grabbing his chest and pointing at something. Finally, Decker realized what it was.
The oxygen.
He quickly rolled the tank over and helped Nottingham get the nasal cannula inserted correctly. The elderly man drew several deep breaths and slowly calmed down.
Decker sat back, relieved. “I’m sorry, Mr. Nottingham, I shouldn’t have just dumped that on you.”
Nottingham took another series of deep breaths while he waved off this apology. He said slowly, “I have COPD. Damn cigarettes. Then the anxiety kicks in.”
“I take it from your reaction that you had no idea Costa moved to Baronville? Or that he was dead?”
Nottingham shook his head. “None. How did he die? You said murdered? How horrible!”
“The details aren’t that important, and I don’t want to upset you again. But he was murdered and I’m trying to find out why.”
“My God, poor Brad.”
“Do you have any idea why he would exchange a place in SoHo and a job on Wall Street for Baronville?”
Nottingham slowly took the cannula out of his nose and set it aside.
“About a week after I told Brad about Nigel and the Barons, he came back and asked me some more questions.”
“Like what?”
“You first have to understand a bit of family lore that was handed down from one generation to the next.”
“What sort of family lore? About the Nottinghams or the Barons?”
“Both, really. My grandfather told me about it when I was just a kid. You see, the original Baron, the one who started the town and everything, as I told you was a miserable old cuss. My grandfather lived in the servants’ quarters there growing up. He hated the place. And while he only had a few encounters with the elder Baron, he thought him an awful person.”
“If he was that bad, why did Nigel hang around?” asked Decker.
“Good question. However, I got a sense from what I was told that Baron didn’t actually treat Nigel badly. On the contrary, he seemed to treat him more as an equal.”
“That seems strange, treating a butler as an equal.”
“He was Baron’s age and Nigel started working for him before he built the big place on the hill. I’ve only seen pictures of it. What a monstrosity.”
“I’ve been there. It hasn’t aged well. But you were talking about family lore?”
“When Baron died, I’m not sure anyone else in his family was interested in actually working for a living.”
“They just wanted to sponge off the old man?”
“Yes. And that leads me directly into the family lore. Baron was cheap but he loved money, and was loath to let a penny of it go, if he could help it. He paid his workers next to nothing and never gave a dime to charity. He was rich beyond anyone’s wildest dreams and yet apparently it still wasn’t enough.”
“Sounds like a real peach,” commented Decker.
“Well, anyway, he also didn’t have a high opinion of his sons, who would be next in line to run the businesses. As I said, they weren’t all that interested. From what I was told, they loved spending money far more than making it.”
“That’s why the family eventually became poor,” said Decker.
“Did they? Well, well. And now comes the interesting part. The family lore part is that before he died, Baron hid a fortune somewhere at his home. And I mean an absolute fortune.”
“In what?”
“I don’t know. Jewels, rare coins. Cash. Negotiable instruments. Stocks. Bonds. But it would have represented a very large part of his fortune. It seems that he didn’t want his family to have it.”
“And you told Costa this?”
Nottingham nodded. “He was interested, I would say very interested, and peppered me with questions. I even showed him some of the old letters my grandfather and father wrote to me. I also had letters that Nigel had written my grandfather.”
“In the letters were there any clues as to where he might have hidden it?”
“None, at least that I could see. My grandfather and father speculated about it, but they didn’t know. And even if they did, what would it matter? They didn’t own the Baron property. They would have had no way to gain access to it to even search.”
“But presumably the Baron family would?”
“I suppose. And if they were becoming poor and thought there might be a fortune lying about? Well, I would look for it. I’m sure if my grandfather knew about the possibility of a hidden fortune, the Baron descendants would have as well.”
“I think they did look for it.”
“How do you know that?”
Decker was thinking about all the holes in the walls back at the Baron mansion. “Just something I saw.”
Nottingham sat up a bit in his chair. “Do you think Brad went to Baronville to look for the treasure?”
“I can’t come up with another reason why he would chuck his life in New York and move there. Do you think he did some investigating on his own before he left New York?”
“It’s possible, in fact even probable. Because we had many later conversations about it, and each time we did, Brad seemed to know things about the Barons that I hadn’t told him. So he might have been doing research on his own.” Nottingham suddenly looked horrified. “So, my telling him about this and his going there. I…I’m the reason he’s dead.”
“No, you’re not,” said Decker firmly. “People make their own choices, and they have to live with the consequences.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Nottingham said doubtfully.
“Would you happen to have any of the letters you showed Costa?”
“I would. Not in my room, but there’s a storage locker here where I keep my valuables. The letters are in a file in that locker.”
“I can make copies and put the originals back in the locker.”
“That’s fine.”
“Thank you for your time, you’ve been a big help.” Decker handed Nottingham a card. “If you think of anything else, give me a call.”
“Of course. And could you let me know how things end up?”
“I will.” Decker looked at the photos on the wall. “You were really a great photographer.”
Nottingham glanced up from the card and said, “Thank you. What are you going to do now?”
“My job,” answered Decker.