“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.
Chapter 46
When he returned from New Jersey, arriving back before dinner, Decker was as un-Decker-like as it was possible to be.
He assisted with all tasks, set the table, helped serve the food, talked to Jamison’s sisters and to Frank Mitchell’s grieving parents and siblings, offering condolences and truly listening.
Afterward, as the others went off to a nearby motel where they were staying, Jamison cornered him in the kitchen, where he was loading the dishwasher after clearing the table.
“Are you feeling okay?” she said, her look a worried one.
He placed the last pot in the dishwasher, dropped in a detergent pod, hit start, and closed the door before turning to her.
“I’m just trying to help out, Alex.”
“I know. That’s sort of what I meant. It’s just not... you know?”
“You mean it’s just not like me?”
She looked embarrassed but did not correct him.
“You must be rubbing off on me, Alex.”
“Is that a good thing?” she said quietly.
“Must be. People seem to like me better now than when I lived in Ohio.” He fell silent for a few moments. “I know I’m awkward in social situations. And I know I have something in my head that makes me unable to say what I want to say in certain situations. Like when people need, I guess, comfort. But just because I don’t say it, doesn’t mean I’m not thinking it.”