by Carrie Doyle
And now there was Biddy Robertson. If it turned out that she had indeed been murdered, the only reason to suspect that her death was linked to Gordon’s was because they both owned the inn at one point, and there was that strange “curse” on the Windmill Inn owners. There was also the box that Biddy had put aside to return to the inn. Could that be the reason she was killed? It seemed absurd. All of this information just seemed like a miscellaneous collection of facts that couldn’t support any theory.
And yet…there had to be something to it all. Why would the police now think Biddy was murdered? Obviously, they had information. Antonia had to agree with Larry and bet her booties that it wasn’t just what the blind lady thought she might have heard. And there was something odd about Gordon’s death, some sort of fuzziness that she couldn’t pinpoint. People who knew him were acting strangely.
Antonia turned right into Treetop Lane and drove down the bumpy road. A scattering of leaves still held firmly green, but the tupelos had turned a fiery red and the swamp maples were an orange-y maroon. The contrast between them and the yellow leaves of the hickories was dazzling. Some of the most impressive species of trees were in this area, with colors that matched those in the Appalachians. The trees were so thick that immediately everything darkened as if someone had turned off the light switch. Only cracked fragments of sun were able to make it through the heavy leaves. Antonia was not a fan of the woods; they made her claustrophobic. Besides, they were filled with roaming wildlife that made life unpleasant for humans. She would be happy to let the ticks have the woods, if she could have the streets, the farmland, and the manicured lawns. It was a fair trade, wasn’t it?
When she pulled into number seventeen, she found Larry Lipper leaning against his blue BMW, with a smug look on his face. The condo structure was composed of attached units and painted mustard yellow, with brown roofs, brown doors, and brown trim around the wide un-paned windows. Antonia wondered about the thought process of the person who chose these Howard Johnson colors. When has anyone ever purposely chosen mustard yellow for anything? Something about it said “reject color.” And to combine it with brown? She instantly thought of a uniform that a sad diner waitress might wear, in the middle of nowheresville, taking orders from sexist truck drivers. Yes, it was a stereotype.
“That’s your car?” Larry sputtered. “You kidding me?”
Antonia glanced back at her beloved blue Saab. “Yes, why?”
“It’s a piece of junk. They don’t even make them anymore.”
“It’s a good car.”
“No, it’s not. If it were a good car, they would still make it. This is a good car,” he said, pointing to his own.
“Whatever.”
“Do you know how they marketed Saabs? They called them ‘near luxuries.’ Come buy this ‘near luxury.’ That’s why they are out of business. Who the hell wants to buy ‘near’ luxury? You want to feel good about your car, like you’re getting the best thing out there. Not nearly the best. It was idiotic.”
“Well, clearly I fell for it.”
“We’ll need to talk about that,” said Larry, trying to put his arm around Antonia. She wiggled away. “I think you have low self-esteem.”
She changed the subject. “So this is Biddy’s?”
There was a small, unobtrusive sliver of yellow police tape blocking off the doorway. Other than that, there would be no reason to suspect possible foul play had occurred there.
“Yeah. The neighbor lives there, let’s go.”
“Hold on, I just want to peek in for a second.”
“What are you going to see?” asked Larry with exasperation.
“I don’t know, but I just need a sense.”
The white curtains were drawn shut on the large picture window at the front. Antonia cupped her hands around her eyes and pressed her face to the glass. She was unable to make out anything but shadowy pieces of furniture. She walked off the deck and around to another set of windows, but again, the curtains were shut. Oh well, so much for her sleuthing. She was hardly expecting to find a note from a murderer, but at least she thought she would try.
* * *
Sharon Getz was in her mid-fifties, heavyset with short brown hair and a neck full of wrinkles that splayed out across her chest like chains. Her eyes were big and brown and blinking, and if Antonia and Larry hadn’t known she was blind, they would have never guessed. Larry immediately pointed out this fact.
“You don’t look blind,” he told Sharon as she led them into her living room. She moved with ease and the same confidence that any seeing person might have.
Sharon laughed. “I know. I’m legally blind, not totally blind.”
“What does that mean?” asked Larry.
“It means I have no peripheral vision but can see a small, pinprick-size amount. Shadows, colors, but not anything clearly.”
“Have you always been blind?”
“Yes, I was born this way. Please, sit down.”
Antonia and Larry sat down on a large white sectional couch in the cavernous living room. The ceiling was extremely high, with a massive skylight cutting through the center. Antonia instantly thought of what a pain in the neck it would be to clean it, and she could see from the filmy layer of dirt that it had been awhile. There were large screen doors along one wall that overlooked a terrace where a table and chairs stood, behind which was a brief strip of yard that led into woods. The living room spilled into a dining area, which then opened into a kitchenette with an island and two stools. The walls were all painted taupe, and the floors were a very blond wood that matched most of Sharon’s furniture. It looked to Antonia as if she had bought everything in an Ethan Allen showroom, in one go, as it all seemed to be part of a set. There was very little in the decor that revealed Sharon’s personality, which Antonia supposed was understandable seeing as she was blind. There were no books, no framed pictures, and the only artwork was a Van Gogh poster. In the corner on top of a cabinet a television was perched, one of the older ones that had a giant screen but was big and clunky, not like the newer thin plasma or high definition models that everyone seemed to have nowadays. Next to it stood a violin on a music stand.
After they politely refused her offer of water or coffee, Sharon sat down across from them, sinking into the swollen armchair. She wore black crepe pants and an oversized, shiny-red button-down shirt that flounced over the edge of her seat. Around her shoulders was a colorful scarf, more decorative than warm. Round gold hoops swung from her earlobes, and she had several thick gold rings with various semiprecious stones on her fingers.
“Are you married?” asked Larry, glancing around.
“Divorced,” said Sharon.
“Really?” exclaimed Larry.
“Yes, why?” asked Sharon with alarm.
Antonia threw him a look. “Yes, why, Larry?”
“It’s just odd for me to think blind people get divorced. I would think, you know, you need all the help you can get.”
“Larry!” admonished Antonia. She turned to Sharon. “I’m so sorry.”
Fortunately, Sharon was a good sport. “I know what you mean. I may turn a blind eye to some faults, but when a man cheats on me, I can’t turn a blind eye to that!”
“Good one!” said Larry.
Sharon turned to Antonia and winked. Or at least Antonia thought she did, how could she be sure? Maybe it was a blind twitch.
“See, even blind people have a sense of humor,” said Sharon.
“And even short people can be rude,” said Antonia before Larry could answer.
“Touché,” said Sharon.
“Okay, down to business,” said Larry. He whipped out a small, brown leather notebook, the type Antonia had seen reporters and detectives use in movies and not in real life.
“Don’t you have a digital recorder or something? It is the twenty-first century after all,”
asked Antonia.
“I’m old school, Bingham.”
“Right.”
He ignored her and instead turned to Sharon. “Tell me what you heard the night Biddy Robertson died.”
Sharon proceeded to tell them the same story that Larry had repeated earlier. The only embellishments were a few complaints about a dog that lived two units down and barked incessantly, and several gripes about the management company’s inability to clear the paths and fix the streetlight that stood in front of her condo, which had been out for several weeks now and was causing problems for Sharon’s guests. Larry was incredibly thorough in his questioning and Antonia was impressed, but the story remained the same. Sharon had heard goodbyes, footsteps, a car, then car, footsteps and a car again. She was friendly with Biddy but not very close, more like pleasant neighbors. Biddy rarely had company, except when her son from Boston was visiting with his children. She was also divorced, but she had an active social life that kept her away from home most evenings. She was a zealous volunteer, an avid bridge player, a film enthusiast, a fan of prix-fixe dinners, and a Guild Hall theater regular, according to Sharon.
“How could she afford all that?” asked Larry. “She lost the inn in foreclosure.”
Sharon nodded. “Yes, but then her son started doing very well in his work, some sort of finance. He supported her.”
After Larry had exhausted all of his questions as to whether Biddy had any enemies (not that Sharon knew of); had been acting suspiciously (not to Sharon); had been unduly stressed (not to Sharon’s knowledge); or had been threatened (again, not to Sharon’s knowledge), Larry closed his little notebook.
“Why do you think this visitor might have killed her?” he asked finally.
“I can’t tell you exactly,” confessed Sharon. “It was just something about the footsteps. They didn’t seem natural…”
“Could it be that the person was trying to be quiet so as not to wake everyone in the complex?” asked Antonia.
Sharon shook her head. “No. It was almost as if someone was wearing shoes that didn’t fit. They were trying to be quiet but having a hard time walking.”
“But don’t you think it could have been an accident?” asked Larry. “Say a friend comes over, they have tea, friend leaves, Biddy forgets to turn off the stove, friend comes back because they forgot something…”
“But why didn’t the friend ring the doorbell?” asked Sharon.
“Or maybe it was someone else entirely. You said the streetlight was out in the front yard. It’s not that easy to see the unit numbers, and probably very difficult in the dark. Maybe someone unfamiliar with the complex was trying to go to another house and went to Biddy’s by accident. When they saw her number, they left,” said Antonia. She was proud of herself for this one, it was totally probable.
“Could be,” agreed Larry.
“But…” said Antonia. She could tell Sharon wasn’t convinced.
“It was the same footsteps. Trust me.”
“And then the next morning you woke up and smelled gas?” asked Larry.
Sharon nodded. “Yes. I have a good sense of smell.”
“That’s a nice consolation from the gods,” said Larry.
“Larry,” reprimanded Antonia.
Sharon smiled. “That’s okay. I’m a big girl. I know this one is a tease. How long have you been together?”
“Oh, we’re not together,” protested Antonia. “No way, no how.”
“Sorry, I just assumed,” said Sharon.
“It’s okay.” Antonia wanted to add that maybe if Sharon could see she would know that Antonia would never go for Larry, but she knew that would be rude.
“Although you are right to pick up on the sexual tension,” added Larry. “I can’t keep this one away.”
Antonia rolled her eyes, but declined to engage. “Sharon, is there anything else you can think of that may be important to us? Anything that Biddy had done or said lately that stands out? Any divergence from her usual routine?”
“Hmm…” began Sharon. “I’m straining to think of anything at all. She had started swimming at the rec center…”
“Uh-huh, anything else?” asked Antonia.
Larry swirled his finger around in a motion that meant Antonia should wrap it up but she pressed on.
“I was watering my flower boxes one day and she said she was heading off to Indian Wells for lunch with a former partner.”
“Partner? Who?” prompted Antonia.
Sharon shrugged. “I don’t know and I didn’t ask.”
“That’s all she said about it?”
Sharon furrowed her brow. “She said something that they’d worked together and I don’t know, I got the impression that it didn’t work out because when I told her to have a good time she said, ‘It will be interesting.’”
“‘It will be interesting?’” repeated Antonia.
“Yes.”
“What do you think that means?” asked Antonia.
“It means it would be interesting, Bingham. Geez, do we need to waste time on this?” interjected Larry.
Antonia shot him a dirty look. “I think it could be something.”
“Like what?” asked Larry.
“Like, I don’t know. Who was this person she had lunch with?”
“I couldn’t say,” answered Sharon.
“Can we move on?” asked Larry impatiently.
“Fine, anything else of importance?”
“I know she recently bought planters for the back patio.”
“Can we go now?” Larry whined.
Antonia glared at him. How could he call himself a reporter when he had so little interest in cultivating sources? Unfortunately, she could see it was futile to continue with him around. “Fine.”
After they said their goodbyes to Sharon, Antonia and Larry drove their cars to the end of the complex driveway and waited until they were far enough down the road to exit their cars for recon.
“Why did you rush me?” demanded Antonia.
“We were getting nowhere,” snapped Larry.
“How do you know? Maybe she would remember something. What do you think of what she said?” asked Antonia.
“I think Bored Blind Lady.”
“Larry, you are the least politically correct person I know.”
“Thank you.”
“That’s not a compliment.”
“To me, it is.”
“Why do you think she’s bored?”
“I don’t know. Look, I want a murder as much as anyone. I’m dying for it. Do you know how awesome that would be for my byline? I already have the exclusive. It would just be a money machine for me. I’m talking book deals, and more! I could join forces with Nicky Darrow and do a movie. He’d play me, you understand. But this whole footstep thing is flimsy.”
“I guess. She did seem convinced, though.”
“I’m convinced I make great coffee, doesn’t mean it’s true.”
“Why Larry, that’s the first time I’ve heard you say anything self-deprecating!”
Larry ignored her. “The fact is, there has to be something that’s making the police sniff around. But I don’t think it’s coming from Sharon.”
13
Antonia went to her apartment to drop off her groceries from Dorothy’s Cupboard and the box of rejected items from the L.V.I.S. Bargain Box there. She placed all of her new condiments in her personal kitchenette cabinets, where they joined about one hundred other jars. One day she would have to host some sort of tasting party, appetizers and hors d’oeuvres only, where she could set out the plethora of chutneys, jams, and mustards she had been collecting and open up some crackers and biscuits to sample them. She slid four cheeses out of the bag and noticed that the two triple creams were drooping from being left out of a refrigerator. Ripe cheese, slightly oo
zing, was like the last temptation of Christ for Antonia, so she unwrapped them and opened a box of Carr’s crackers and quickly dug in. Majestic. Cheese and crackers were definitely on her Last Supper menu.
After taking a few nibbles of the harder cheese, she reluctantly rewrapped them all and placed them in her refrigerator. She washed her snack down with a glass of apple cider from the Milk Pail and wiped her hands with a dish towel. Even though Antonia’s apartment was in the inn, she actually spent very little time there, choosing instead to retreat to her office when she had a spare moment. For that reason, there was something decidedly unfinished about Antonia’s apartment, a little neglected. She glanced at the two potted plants on her windowsill with dismay. It never mattered that she followed the florist’s instructions to a T, she always killed plants. It was a personal failure in her opinion. She filled up a glass of water from the tap and poured it into the pots, and just as she did so, three dead leaves fell to the counter in protest. Antonia sighed. What was she doing wrong? Sunlight, check. Water twice a week, check. Loving glances from afar, check. It was not good to kill plants. Antonia believed in feng shui and it was crucial to have plants in your home. They symbolized life, and now she was killing them. She tried not to think of the larger implications, in the whole scheme of things.
Antonia went to her bathroom to freshen up her makeup. She wore little but felt it was necessary to at least maintain what she had on. She carefully reapplied mascara and put on a little blush. Her hands were beginning to crack from the cold so she squirted a shea butter cream into her palms and rubbed her hands together. The smell was pure divinity. She had just picked up the lotion at White’s Apothecary along with a new container of bath salts that she planned on soaking herself in as soon as she returned home from work. On her way out of the bathroom, Antonia caught a view of her profile in the full-length mirror and paused. She was instantly depressed. There was a definite thickening around her thighs, no doubt about it. And that little wheel of fat that she referred to as her “bread belt” was growing like an inflatable inner tube.
She turned to eye herself critically. The positives (and she always tried to focus on those) were that her hair was still a shiny, lustrous black. Not a gray had appeared (she hoped it never would) and her mane was thick and wavy. She did have some wrinkles on her face, but so far those were really more character-revealing and not something that should send her to a dermatologist’s chair. Her eyes were still a bright blue (her vision still perfect) and her teeth were remaining white due to the Crest Whitestrips that she faithfully applied (she had to battle the coffee and tea stains). Her breasts had not yet drooped, her upper arms didn’t have that hanging flab that women incur (no matter how fit), and she had no varicose veins.
