by Carrie Doyle
“I can assure you it’s delicious,” said Joseph defensively. Antonia loved that he was protecting her.
“Yeah, whatever, give me the flank steak,” he said, handing his menu to Glen. “Easy on the onions, and extra shoestring potatoes. I like them crispy, not greasy. And forget the mixed greens that accompany it. I gave that crap up long ago.”
Glen threw Antonia a look of disgust and recoiled. She could only imagine the conversation in the kitchen when Marty received the order.
The busboy came and placed a large basket of fresh baked bread in front of Larry and he dove for the sourdough. He smeared a large slab of butter on his piece before shaking on enough salt to cause a heart attack. He shoved it into his mouth with relish.
“God, I need this!” he said with his mouth full.
Antonia summoned all of the niceness in her body to interact with Larry. “So, what happened tonight that kept you? Because I was really waiting with bated breath.”
“I knew you were, Antonia. You were like a dog in heat this afternoon.”
That was too much for Joseph. He started to protest, but Antonia stopped him.
“I couldn’t get any of the information you begged me for today about the former owners of this joint. As soon as you left, I heard a call on my scanner about a possible crime and so I had to cover it.”
“Oh, really? What happened?” asked Antonia, hoping to erase the sound of dog in heat that was still ringing in her ears.
“It was a total waste of time at the end,” Larry said, a large slab of white bread bobbing around his tongue. “But you know how it is here. Someone dies, and if it’s not straightforward like they were dying for months, it’s as if it’s the first time that anyone has ever died in this town and it gets the ‘suspicious’ treatment. The police get called. I get called. You know, because I’m the press and they always want the press there.”
“Who died?” asked Joseph.
“This old lady.” He glanced at Joseph and gave him the up-and-down. “You know, in her seventies. She doesn’t show up for breakfast with her friend at John Pappas’s Diner, the friend is worried, goes over to her house, sees the lady slumped on the floor. Lo and behold, the woman was dead.”
“What really happened?” asked Antonia.
“They think it was late at night, the woman went to make herself a cup of tea. Turned on the gas, it didn’t go on all the way, you know, old range, woman was tired, forgot and went to bed. The windows were all shut—you know how old people like it super hot—and then she inhaled all that gas and croaked.”
“How awful!” said Antonia.
Joseph’s eyebrows furrowed with concern. “Who was this ‘old lady’ as you call her?”
“I don’t know. Some woman named Elizabeth Robertson.”
Joseph’s mouth dropped. Antonia gave him a curious look.
“What is it, Joseph?”
Antonia could see his Adam’s apple bob as he gulped. He took a sip of water and finally spoke. “You mean, Biddy Robertson?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
Antonia felt the blood drain from her face. She and Joseph exchanged shocked glances.
“Another innkeeper,” whispered Antonia.
“Poor Biddy,” said Joseph.
7
Antonia had retreated as soon as she could to her tiny ground-floor apartment and changed into the soft flannel pajamas that had been with her since college. Her apartment was snug and cozy, consisting only of a bedroom, a living room with a kitchenette, and a bathroom. It suited her perfectly as it was low-maintenance and compact and faced the back, which afforded a pretty view of the gardens. She had thrown her heart and soul into decorating the inn—scouring East Hampton and all the neighboring towns for antiques, spending hours on the internet searching for the few things that she didn’t find at Ruby Beets, Mecox Gardens, Hildreth’s, or Rumrunner—but her own rooms were decorated with less vision, erring more on the side of comfort than style.
The living room consisted of a white, plush, squishy, oversized sofa with matching armchairs, the type that an elderly person might sink so deeply into that they’d need the Jaws of Life to escape. There was an upholstered ottoman that served as a coffee table, a sideboard cluttered with pictures of her parents, grandparents, and since she was an only child, some snaps of her cousins and their children, with close friends thrown in for good measure. A wall of built-in bookshelves was stocked with a variety of tomes as well as miscellaneous objects like a set of crystal candlesticks that had belonged to her parents, a ceramic lion, two floral cachepots that held dried boxwood plants, board games (Scrabble, Clue, and Trivial Pursuit circa 1990), and a box of tissues. The books were an eclectic assortment based on Antonia’s whims. She was a phase reader—for a few months she’d read nothing but mysteries, followed by a few months of self-help, then cooking, and then books on angels and near-death experiences. This was all reflected in her personal library. She had also managed to hang onto all of her dog-eared copies of Saveur, Food & Wine, and Gourmet magazines, which held court at the top of the shelves.
The walls of the apartment were all painted a uniform petal pink, Antonia’s favorite color, and featured framed posters of Matisse and Van Gogh paintings from the Met and the Pushkin Museum, as well as a few watercolors of East Hampton that she had bought the previous summer at the Clothesline Art Show at Guild Hall. (She’d waited on line patiently a full hour before it opened.) A thick, creamy white, wall-to-wall carpet ran from the living room into Antonia’s bedroom, which was also a testament to comfort: its giant king-sized sleigh bed was adorned with an enormous white comforter and a surplus of pillows. Antonia loathed spending money on herself but she had two vices: expensive sheets and beauty products. Expensive sheets not because they were expensive, but because she adored the buttery softness that accompanied high thread count Egyptian sheets. Whatever those Egyptians were doing, she was incredibly grateful. And beauty products because she couldn’t resist any cream or solution that promised her fewer wrinkles, eradication of cellulite, softer skin, or any simple solution to battle the signs of aging. Her bathroom cabinets were bursting with jars and bottles of every size, shape, and fragrance.
When she had first purchased the inn, this space had, of course, been where Gordon and Barbie were living. The walls had been dark; leather furniture had been the dominant theme and the kitchen appliances and bathroom fixtures were broken. It was as if Gordon stubbornly resisted making this anything other than a functioning bachelor pad. There was no whisper that a woman had lived here with him. Now that lack of compromise on Gordon’s part resonated with Antonia. Had he been done with Barbie?
Antonia had the TV on with the sound muted and was busy sifting through all of the papers in the disputed cardboard box. She was drinking a glass of cabernet and nibbling on pecan toffee squares that her intern Liz had made that afternoon. Antonia was notably impressed with Liz, who had appeared on her doorstep four weeks prior, begging to work her ass off if Antonia taught her the trade. She had reminded Antonia of herself when she was young, possessing that naive dogged determination that makes you bold. Marty thought it was a waste of time and space letting Liz help out, but even he had recently muttered that she was “doing good,” which was high praise from him.
Antonia knew it was late and she should retire to bed, but she was absolutely jolted by Larry’s revelation about Biddy Robertson. Dead. The only other living Windmill Inn innkeeper was now out of the picture, and under suspicious circumstances to say the least! With everything that was recently revealed about Gordon, this had to be somehow linked. Joseph had reluctantly concurred with her, although Larry was not convinced. He had been insistent that he was on the scene of the crime, and being the crackerjack reporter that he was, would have been able to suss out if there had been any foul play at work. And despite Antonia’s protestations that it was too coincidental, especially as all this speculation about G
ordon’s death was arising this week, Larry held firmly to his belief that there was no motive and therefore no crime.
Antonia focused on the cardboard box, hoping that there might be some answers there. She leafed through a variety of menus for local East Hampton restaurants, a pamphlet for bike rentals, and a few postcards from satisfied guests, who promised to return to the Windmill Inn in the near future. There were some old Post-its with a few phone numbers jotted down, but nothing that piqued Antonia’s interest. Lucy was correct, it appeared to be just a pile of random papers that Gordon had shoved into a box rather than thrown away. The only promising thing seemed to be a spiral-bound notebook, the kind that every middle schooler receives, in which Gordon had jotted some notes on an inconsistent basis. If this was where Barbie was hoping to find the will, she would be disappointed.
Antonia flipped through page after page and felt as if she was gathering more information into what sort of person Gordon was and why his inn had not been very successful. He kept a sporadic account of things that he needed to order for the inn that were neatly detailed, as well as lengthy, delineating everything from toilet paper to light bulbs to candles. But on each list, there were only one or two essentials crossed off, implying that the other desired items were still outstanding. It was the same with his to-do lists. He’d written about his plan to fix the leg of a chair in the parlor, or to repair the ripped headboard in room 3, but once again very few of those things had checkmarks against them. It was totally consistent with everything she had heard about Gordon. He was capable of large bursts of activity and enthusiasm but after an initial bold effort, he failed at follow-up.
It wasn’t until Antonia reached the last page of the notebook that she felt a rush. There, in Gordon’s unmistakable handwriting, was written in all capitals:
LUCY—HAVE RONALD METER’S SEVERANCE PACKAGE READY. I AM FIRING THAT BEAST TODAY.
Antonia ran over to her hall table and picked up the scrap of paper that she had retrieved earlier. She held it up. I swear to god that B is trying to kill me. That B. That beast.
Antonia paused, her eyes gliding from one to the other. Finally, she slid the scrap of paper into the notebook and slapped it shut, before replacing it in the cardboard box.
Ronald Meter was the former manager who Gordon had fired. Why had he fired him? She couldn’t remember. But things were starting to piece together. It was time to visit Ronald Meter. Her alter ego, Snoopy, had reared his ugly head. It was time to investigate.
Sunday
Nick Darrow was on the beach as usual on Sunday morning but this time he was in conversation with a young couple, so Antonia merely waved. Disappointed, she cut her walk short and had ample time to make breakfast before setting out to Ronald Meter’s house, which was situated at the end of a cul-de-sac near Accabonac Harbor in Springs, one of East Hampton’s many hamlets. Springs was renowned for the Jackson Pollock–Lee Krasner museum, which was located in their former house, and where they had spent many years painting. The sign that led into Springs read The Springs and, as it had become a trendy part of town in recent years—its proximity to the bay and picturesque clammers and fishing boats were a big draw—it had attracted all sorts of hipster New Yorkers who referred to it as “The Springs.” But that made the locals snicker. To them it was Springs; no fancy “The” preceding it. The school was Springs School, not “The” Springs School, they’d point out. But it was one more way to differentiate the locals from the interlopers.
Antonia felt somewhat presumptuous dropping in on Ronald Meter unannounced, but her fear of imminent death by a psychopath who hated innkeepers spurred her on. When she pulled into Meter’s gravel driveway, she took note of the large For Sale sign stuck in the grass. Hmm, Antonia wondered. Was there a reason Ronald was moving? Fleeing town, maybe? She filed away the thought as she exited her car. Antonia was quick to assess that Ronald Meter had done the best job possible with what was an ordinary, run-of-the-mill one-story shingled house. The shutters were painted a dark-pearl gray and the front door was a cherry red, with a shiny brass knocker centered on it like a smiley face. A row of neatly manicured boxwoods lined the sides of the house, and there was a well-maintained slate path leading up to the entrance. Beyond the house, she could see the bay in the distance, and the salt marshes, which were the most exquisite mosaic of purples, reds, and greens at this time of the year. It was by far the best-tended house that she had seen in the neighborhood. She glanced around to steal another glimpse of the neighbors’ houses and realized with disappointment that theirs were obstructed from view by the large thicket of trees. Unfortunately, Antonia realized that in the event that Ronald Meter did turn out to be a killer who enjoyed killing owners of the Windmill Inn, she was royally screwed. No one would see a thing. She patted herself down, fumbling through the pockets of her barn jacket for something to use as a weapon. Nothing but balled-up Kleenexes and the keys to her trusty Saab were available to her. She clasped the keys in the palm of her hand and tried to visualize stabbing someone in the eye with them. It wasn’t ideal. But hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.
When she creaked up the front steps, she heard a TV and through the window could make out a shadowy figure seated on the couch next to the door. This was it, Antonia thought. No backing out now. She took a deep breath of the brisk morning air. She was feeling that antsy lack of exercise gnawing at her. She couldn’t believe she actually missed exercising. Although was a walk on the beach really exercise? And maybe what she was really missing was the chance to run into Nick Darrow again.
As soon as Antonia rang the doorbell, a dog started barking, and the figure rose and chastened him, before swinging open the screen door. Ronald Meter was a very tall man, at least six foot four, with reddish-gray hair and a matching goatee. His face was broad and expressive, but also friendly. Antonia put him in about his mid-fifties. It appeared to her as if he was either wearing someone else’s clothes or had recently lost weight. His ill-fitting khaki pants seemed to bunch up around his crotch area as if the brown braided belt he wore double looped around his waist was strangling them. He had on a light-blue button-down shirt, with a darker blue undershirt peeking through, and wore black leather sneakers. There was something awkward about him and his bulk, and rather than emitting an intimidating aura, he seemed more like a big oaf. Not unlike the dopey-looking golden retriever that sidled up next to him.
Antonia watched him size her up with curiosity, before giving her a warm smile.
“Are you here to look at the house?” he asked brightly. She detected a slight southern lilt to his accent.
“Um, no, actually. Sorry. I’m Antonia Bingham, I own the Windmill Inn. I’m sorry to barge in on you on a Sunday but I was hoping I could talk to you for a minute?”
He seemed momentarily deflated but then he recovered quickly. He started to say something, and Antonia could see the wheels turning but then he abruptly stopped.
“So you’re the one who bought the inn,” he said neutrally, but it still made Antonia pause. It was the second time in two days that someone had seemed to know more about her than she knew about them. It was a bit disconcerting.
“Yup, that’s me. Some may say the ‘crazy one who bought the inn.’”
Ronald laughed heartily. “Aw, I wouldn’t say that.”
He politely invited her inside, with a few disclaimers about how he was watching his morning cooking shows and apologies for the mess. He flicked off the plasma television (Rachael Ray was rolling chicken breasts in panko crumbs) that hung over the mantel and carefully placed the remote next to it.
She accepted his offer of a glass of water, if only to give herself time to assess his living quarters while he retreated to the kitchen. After discovering that everything was immaculate, she wondered what he would think of her apartment if this was his idea of a mess. Sure, there was a newspaper strewn on the waterfall Lucite coffee table, but other than that, everything was in order.
His decor was sophisticated and modern. He had two leather armchairs in the style of that famous Swedish furniture designer whose name was always a clue in crossword puzzles, but Antonia could never remember. The chairs faced a contemporary beige sofa that was flanked by two white lacquered side tables holding red gourd lamps. Two built-in bookcases bordered the mantel and Antonia could see that they held an abundance of expensive coffee table books, the oversize glossy kind that people often give as presents but rarely read.
Antonia took the opportunity to tiptoe over to the dining room to get a better look. It was also tastefully decorated. There was an open laptop on the dining table next to a pile of mail. Antonia glanced at the mail, which appeared to be mostly bills. The computer screen was in sleep mode and Antonia was just debating whether or not to “accidentally” press a button to see what Ronald was working on, when her snoop was interrupted.
“Here you go,” said Ronald, handing her a tumbler of water with a slice of lemon in it.
Antonia was startled. She turned around abruptly.
“You didn’t have to go to so much trouble,” said Antonia.
“It’s no trouble.”
He didn’t appear to notice her snooping and invited her to sit down in the living room. He set out two coasters on the coffee table before placing his own glass down. If he was interested in why Antonia was there, his polite manners restrained him from revealing anything. In fact, his graciousness and ease made Antonia feel as if she was an invited guest just over for a cup of tea. She could see why someone had tapped him to be manager of an inn. He was definitely a pro at hospitality.
They engaged in brief pleasantries about the weather before moving toward the topic of the inn. Antonia confided the trials and tribulations of redoing the place and getting it up and running, and Ronald commiserated. He sighed deeply when she delineated the construction woes and nodded encouragement. The fact was, Antonia found him totally pleasant and as mild as a pussycat despite his big size. There was daintiness to his hand gestures, and this coupled with the languid tone of his southern accent relaxed Antonia. She wondered if she was insane to think he might be a killer. She also wondered if she was totally insane to have put herself alone in his house if indeed he was a killer.
