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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 nameSTANLEY NOTTINGHAMhad been written on aslip 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 fromhere, 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 aphotographer. 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. ElizabethTaylor. 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.”
