by Carrie Doyle
“How is your wife, Hector?”
He nodded and answered in his thick Guatemalan accent. “She’s good. She has a new job, only part time, she stays home with the kids a lot.”
Antonia nodded. “That’s great. Nice people?”
Hector shrugged. “Yeah, nice.”
Antonia nodded again. “Well, so, did she like working here at the inn?”
A brief flicker of anxiety flashed across Hector’s face. “Yes, she like. But then, you know, Mr. Gordon was not so… Well, it didn’t work out.”
“I heard what happened, Hector. But I also heard that your wife said it wasn’t true. What was her side of the story?”
Hector’s eyes darted around and he hesitated. Antonia could see the wheels turning in his mind. She wanted him to trust her, because she could just instinctively tell that he was an honest and decent man, the way she could tell a ripe peach from a mealy one.
“Soyla, that’s my wife, she work hard for Mr. Gordon. That’s okay. She do the sheets, the bedrooms, the bathrooms, and the living rooms. She work from seven in the morning until eight at night for three years. Then one day a guest say that she missing gold hoop earrings. She say Soyla take them. Soyla didn’t take them, I promise you, Mrs. Antonia. We are Christians, we go to church every Sunday, we no drink, no smoke, no drugs. Soyla never took the earrings. But they missing…”
“Gordon accused her of stealing them and fired her?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
“Were you mad?” asked Antonia.
Hector blew air out of his mouth in a deep sigh. “Yes, but I no quit because I need this job, Mrs. Antonia. It’s a good job. I work all year here, not just summer.”
“Did you ask him to hire her back?”
“I tried talk to Mr. Gordon but he no listen.”
“Did you try to talk to anyone else?”
“Well, Mr. Ronald was already fired, so it was just Barbie who help Mr. Gordon, and she no care.”
“She didn’t try to help you?”
He shook his head. “She said she would talk to him, but I don’t think so. And I didn’t want to ask her again.”
“Was Barbie nice to you?”
“She fine,” he said in a tight voice. Antonia could tell he was holding something back.
“Did she do something to you?”
Hector glanced longingly at his shovel and Antonia could tell he wished he were not having this conversation. She wanted to reassure him, tell him everything would be okay, but of course after a man like Gordon treated you and your wife like that, it was wise to be hesitant.
“I don’t know. Maybe she…”
“She what?” prodded Antonia.
“Someone say, maybe she took the earrings. After the guest leave, maybe one week later, Barbie wore new gold earrings. She said she got them for her birthday, but I don’t know. The woman who lost them say they were gold with little blue stones on the bottom. These were the same.”
Pieces were beginning to fall into place for Antonia. She shook her head. “That’s bad.”
“Yes. And she also…well, I heard she said she had some things stolen from her room, and the hotel. She blamed Soyla for that also.”
“Barbie did?”
“Yes.”
“Like what?”
“She said she no find a red scarf and some shoes. Oh, and she was mad about a pair of small dishes she couldn’t find. They had seashells on them, and they were in the parlor.”
“She was missing all that?”
“She say.”
“Do you think she was telling the truth?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you think she killed Gordon?”
Hector gave her an astonished look. “What? No, Mr. Gordon had a heart attack. I found him over there…” he pointed to the other side of the lawn.
“But maybe it wasn’t a heart attack.”
Hector was again amazed. “I think it was heart attack.”
Antonia didn’t want to press it. Instead she changed the subject. “Hector, have Soyla come talk to me. Maybe we can find her a position at the inn again.”
Hector’s face brightened. “I will, Mrs. Antonia. Thank you!”
This Barbie is tricky, Antonia thought to herself as she made her way back to the inn to prepare for dinner service. Definitely more to her than meets the eye.
10
Monday
Antonia was in a grumpy mood when she pulled her weather-beaten Saab into the small parking lot that abutted the L.V.I.S. It was her own darn fault; she had psyched herself up and inevitably was disappointed. This morning she had risen early, a skip in her step, and dressed carefully. She wore a long red-and-blue paisley Ralph Lauren skirt that she had bought using Genevieve’s discount, her emerald green turtleneck sweater, and silver earrings that she’d purchased in New Mexico. Her one nod to comfort was her beloved UGGs. Despite the early hour, she’d put on some makeup and taken time to brush her long dark hair. She looked good, maybe too fancy for a walk on the beach, but not inappropriate.
And of course, all for naught, because Nick Darrow was nowhere to be seen on the desolate beach. Antonia felt silly to have expected him; what were the chances? But nonetheless, she had been fantasizing about another exchange with him. She had even planned to invite him to her restaurant if it came up naturally. When she interacted with attractive men, she had a habit of blurting out non sequiturs. She once met a guy in a bar who told her he was an accountant and she immediately asked him if he liked crab cakes. It was as if she couldn’t control herself, like Tourette’s of the heart. But with Nick, she’d secretly rehearsed a few possible conversations with him in her mind, just so she wouldn’t appear needy, celeb-crazed, or talk about how she had bad luck and loved bread. She would stay away from politics, gossip, and murder (so she wouldn’t get worked up) and thought a safe topic would be dogs, since he had two and clearly loved them. She had never owned a dog, but she thought they were cute. She had a cat growing up and liked cats, but she refused to have a cat now that she was single and middle-aged. It was just too cliché. Even Genevieve said it would be slamming the door on a future of romance. Not that she was searching for romance exactly, but she didn’t want to slam any doors.
So after pacing up and down the beach for half an hour, being humped by an overeager bulldog whose owner was too distracted by her Starbucks venti latte and iPhone to drag him away, and watching two brave surfers take on the roaring waves, Antonia had called it a day and left. She stopped back at the inn to help with the morning service, but when she found herself barking orders at her line cooks, she decided it was better to remove herself from the situation. She wolfed down a chocolate banana muffin and a mug of milky coffee and set off. And now here she was at the L.V.I.S. and she had no idea why but she felt like she needed to learn more about Biddy Robertson.
The Gardiner Brown House, home of the Ladies Village Improvement Society, was built circa 1740 and now listed on the National Registry of Historic Places. It was a large, two-story shingled house (plus attic) with white trim, framed by well-manicured bushes along the front. A giant American flag fluttered in the breeze atop the enormous flagpole in the front yard. The L.V.I.S. was the oldest organization in East Hampton and began in 1895 when twenty-one housewives came together to water down the dusty streets and clean up the railroad station. Since then, the group, composed of volunteers, had maintained and preserved historic landmarks, parks, ponds, greens, and trees as well as done community outreach to better the town. Without these ladies, East Hampton could have ended up looking like the Jersey Shore boardwalks.
Antonia zigzagged up the wheelchair ramp on the side entrance and entered the Bargain Box. She was instantly confronted with the distinct musty smell of old books, worn clothes, and antiques that may have sat in an attic for several decades before someone got hip to
the fact that they could receive a tax write-off by donating them. The thrift store was located in a series of small rooms that fed into each other. The ceilings were low, with large rectangular overhead lights emitting unflattering brightness, and the walls were mostly white, with the exception of a few that were the color of faded sunshine. An inordinate number of windows made the place feel less claustrophobic than it could have. The store was extremely well organized, and every attempt was made to market the donations in a user-friendly way. Antonia couldn’t help but thinking of the old adage One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
After walking by shelves filled with a variety of vases, porcelain figurines, Venetian goblets, and decorative china plates, Antonia hooked left into the main room where the register was located. Two women stood behind the counter in front of a bulletin board that reminded people not to talk on their cell phones and gave them all sorts of information about the guidelines to donating. The women were conversing in hushed tones. The first was in her early sixties, with thin white-blond hair that curled in an upward flip above her shoulders. She had pale skin with the faintest hint of rouged cheeks, and thinly arched, light eyebrows. She dressed demurely and had on a pearl choker, pearl earrings, and a white button-down blouse under a black cardigan, over which she wore a green apron, as did her companion. She was a classic faded beauty who, Antonia could tell, had been very pretty as a younger woman. The name tag on her apron said LINDA. The second lady, whose name tag said ANNEMARIE, was older and wore her white hair in an unstyled pixie cut. She had the husky voice of a smoker and the yellow-stained teeth to confirm it. The green apron fit snugly over her Easter-egg-blue sweater and her low-hanging ample breasts were making an effort to burst out of the front but instead were flopping out to the sides. She had on gold dangling earrings that softened her somewhat harsh, birdlike features. Antonia walked closer and pretended to be perusing the basket of leather gloves that were by the register. She had a feeling from the solemnity of their voices that they might be talking about Biddy, and bingo, she was right.
“It’s just odd how one minute you can be discussing sangria recipes and the next minute the person is dead. I mean, I know life is like that, but it is still odd,” said Linda.
Annemarie nodded. “I know. There are lots of people where you see it coming, but not with Biddy! Heck, I know she was seventy, but she was a young seventy. She swam in the ocean every day this summer.”
“And she was sharp as a tack. That’s why the whole leaving the kettle on seems strange to me.”
Annemarie sighed. “I agree. I didn’t even know she drank tea. She always had a cup of coffee in her hand. Maybe she drank tea at night? I like an occasional cup of chamomile to put me to bed.”
“I suppose.”
When they paused, Antonia moved over to another section so as not to incur suspicion. She had noticed other customers when she entered, but it appeared they had filtered into the neighboring rooms.
“Biddy’s son is coming down from Boston to make the arrangements.”
“He’s a wonderful boy. She adored him.” They paused.
“Those are darling, aren’t they?”
Antonia was so busy eavesdropping on their conversation that she didn’t even realize they had stopped and directed their attention to her. She was holding a pair of brown suede high heels in her hand that she would never have even thought to buy, but as the shoes were close to the desk where the ladies were gabbing, she had pretended to be totally enamored of them.
“Yes, very nice,” she said, turning around and facing the ladies. “I love them in theory, but unfortunately I think I’d fall down flat on my face if I were to wear them.”
Linda laughed diffidently. “They do take practice.”
“You’re still young, you should take advantage,” said Annemarie. “Hell, if I didn’t have varicose veins all over my legs, I would still be wearing my miniskirts. I loved my miniskirts. Believe it or not, Linda, I had great legs.”
“Oh, I believe it, Annemarie. You still have great legs.”
Annemarie turned back to Antonia. “Honey, take my advice. Wear what you can, while you can. It doesn’t get any better.”
She laughed heartily, one of those guttural, contagious laughs, and soon Antonia and Linda had chimed in. And then for no reason at all, they all laughed harder, and couldn’t stop.
“Sorry,” said Annemarie. “I apologize. We’re a little discombobulated here today. One of our colleagues, a friend, died two nights ago.”
Linda wiped the tears of laughter that had formed in the corners of her eyes and nodded her head. “Yes, I think Annemarie and I are just in shock. You know that wide range of emotions that has you going from one extreme to the other.”
“I understand,” said Antonia gently. “I have honestly found myself laughing at funerals. It sounds horrible but it’s just so stressful and emotional, you can have a hard time processing it.”
“I guess that’s why,” agreed Linda. “I don’t know quite what it is, but since Biddy died, I have felt completely frantic.”
Antonia nodded sympathetically. Here was her opening. “You were friends with Biddy Robertson?”
“Yes, did you know her?” asked Linda.
“Not personally. But I actually own the Windmill Inn now. How rude of me, I’m Antonia Bingham.”
The women made their introductions and briefly questioned Antonia about how her move to East Hampton was going and what the progress of the inn was. She answered in detail, hoping to make them feel comfortable and cozy with her so that she could eventually pepper them with uncomfortable and uncozy questions. After stretching out the conversation as much as possible and inviting them to dine at the inn, she wiggled the conversation back to Biddy.
“I have to be honest with you, and please don’t take this the wrong way because I am very sympathetic to your loss, but I’m a little nervous since all I’ve heard about for the past few days was how the previous owners of the inn died under suspicious circumstances.”
Both women looked at her with astonishment. Antonia reddened, instantly regretting that she had even mentioned the topic. Here they were mourning their friend and she was telling them how she was sad about it because of how it affected her. It was very tacky and very rude.
“I’m sorry, I just—”
But Annemarie cut her off before she could finish. “No, it’s not you. It’s absolutely strange! I had…I forgot all about that. I had heard that long ago and didn’t remember until you said it. What are the chances?”
Linda gave Antonia a worried look. “If that was true, I would think you would be concerned right now…”
“Well, to be honest, I am,” confided Antonia. “I mean, I know that it’s just an old rumor, I don’t even know what you would call it, folk tale? Lore? Myth? But whatever it is, it seems awfully coincidental.”
“Wait a second,” said Linda. “Biddy’s death was an accident. She died of gas poisoning. So when you say ‘suspicious’ circumstances, you just mean accidents and things that aren’t natural causes, right?”
“Right. I’m not implying anything sinister.” Antonia didn’t want to bring up murder.
“How did the last owner die?” asked Linda. She was twisting her pearl earring nervously. “I don’t remember hearing that was suspicious.”
“No, you’re right,” said Annemarie. “He died of a heart attack, I think.”
“Wasn’t he Naomi Haslett’s brother?” asked Linda.
“Yes,” interjected Antonia. “Do you know Naomi?”
“Not very well,” admitted Linda. “But we’ve run across each other’s paths at ARF events. We’re both dog lovers, and we both had Westies.”
“I see.”
“Linda has the cutest little Westie I ever saw,” said Annemarie. “Teddy. Just a doll.”
“My baby. I don’t know what I would do wi
thout him! He is just so wonderful. Sadly, Naomi’s dog, Jack, passed. I felt bad for her. She adored her baby as much as I adored mine. She was distraught. And then her brother died…” Her voice trailed off.
“Yes, that’s tough… Do they think his death is suspicious because he was so young? I think he was early fifties,” asked Annemarie.
“Yes, exactly,” said Antonia quickly. She wasn’t ready to lay down the whole murder theory with total strangers. “He was so young.”
Annemarie nodded. “Just a kid to someone my age.”
“Right. That’s why some people are thinking that his death was strange.”
Antonia watched as both women absorbed the idea. Finally, Linda broke the silence. “Well, I hope it was truly Biddy’s time to go. I hate to think that just because she briefly owned the inn, she died earlier than she should have.”
Annemarie nodded firmly in agreement. “That’s the important fact. She didn’t own the inn when she died, so it’s just a coincidence.”
“Agreed,” said Antonia.
Linda continued twisting her earring, staring off into space until Antonia finally saw her eyes focus. “You know what? It’s good that you’re here. There is actually a box here that is marked for the Windmill Inn.”
“Really?” asked Antonia with surprise.
“Oh, you’re right,” said Annemarie. “In the back.”
“Yes, I’ll go fetch it,” said Linda.
She disappeared into the back room. Annemarie gave her a warm smile. “Don’t worry about all this nonsense about the inn. It’s just drama.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Linda returned with an old box that had previously held seltzer, judging from the labels around the edge of it. It looked worn and musty and had probably been used to transport some kitchen items, thought Antonia, as it had stains embedded into its sides. Linda placed it down on the counter and before Antonia could glance inside, Annemarie peered down deep into it, sinking her birdlike nose as if she were a pelican grabbing a fish out of the water.
