A Design to Die For

by Kathleen Bridge

  “So, what do you think about the paranormal investigators lurking beyond the gates at Enderly Hall?” Elle asked as we passed the Hooker Mill Windmill, telling us we were entering East Hampton.

  “That’s one thing we know Jenna believes in,” I said, “ghosts.”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t sell those ghosthunters short. Have you ever watched any of those paranormal shows on TV? They have all this modern digital equipment that can sniff out a ghost in no time. They use soundwaves or lasers, or something along those lines.”

  I gave her the look. “No, I haven’t watched any. You should have seen Jenna during last year’s Montauk Point Lighthouse Week. After the caretaker told us the tale about Abigail, the lighthouse’s resident ghost, who supposedly also haunts Turtle Hill Bluff, I thought Jenna was going to faint. I had to run down one hundred and thirty-seven steps to the museum gift shop and fetch her a bottle of water, then run back up another hundred and thirty-seven more to give it to her. At that point, I’m the one who needed the water. As for Captain Kidd haunting Shepherds Cottage, Jenna told me she’s seen lights flickering inside when she and Roland were working at the main house. And now we know the story about her grandfather.”

  “Don’t forget the guy her grandfather shot,” Elle added.

  “All these ghost stories should help ticket sales for the showhouse. However, I’m not really worried about ghosts. I’m worried more about flesh-and-blood husbands.”

  “Sag Harbor has their own legends and ghosts. But there’s something about a lighthouse ghost that’s so appealing. Picturing Jenna’s dead grandfather—with money stuffed in his mouth—not so much. Tell me about Montauk’s Abigail,” she said as we entered the charming village of East Hampton with its white clapboard shops and New England feel.

  “You know what,” I said, “let’s wait and go on the lighthouse tour together. As part of the tour, the caretaker will tell you all about it.”

  “What the heck!” Elle screeched, slamming on the brakes.

  A huge white dog, barely visible in the mist and fog, bounded in front of the pickup. Our heads jerked forward, then backward. Our seat belts saved us from cracking our heads against the steering wheel and dashboard.

  “I could have killed it!” Elle murmured, visibly shaken. “Was that a sign? Maybe we should take Jenna more seriously. I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to pull over and put a call into Arthur. How do we always seem to get in these situations?”

  Her guess was as good as mine. I knew one thing: I was shaking harder than my fat cat Jo after she saw a mouse. Even I couldn’t be one hundred percent sure whether what had passed in front of the truck was a real dog or some ghostly canine specter out of the pages of a Stephen King novel. And coming from me, who never had a one-on-one encounter with a ghost, that was saying a lot.

  Now, who had the overactive imagination?

  Chapter 3

  “Don’t worry, if it starts to rain, you know me, I have plenty of tarps to protect the blanket chest,” Elle said, opening the door to Grimes House Antiques.

  Elle took a couple steps then stopped short. I stumbled into her, hitting my chin on the top of her head. “What the heck!” I yelped, almost decapitating my tongue. Elle’s phone clattered to the floor. As she lurched forward to grab it, she lost her footing. I grabbed her by the hood of her jacket to keep her from smashing into a mahogany tea cart topped with a full service of blue and white china. Based on all the small placard signs the owner had spaced around the shop, You break it, you buy it!, it was a good thing I’d saved Elle from buying it.

  Elle didn’t feel the same way. “Why’d you do that!” she said, choking, her hand at her neck.

  “I saved you from disaster. Next time, give a girl a warning before you put the brakes on to read your phone.”

  Elle picked up her phone and whispered something under her breath. I pointed to my ear to remind her to speak louder, which she did. “Arthur answered. Said he’ll look into things with Roland Cahill. He’s also contacting someone about the ghosthunters hanging outside Enderly Hall’s gates.”

  “Great,” I said with little enthusiasm.

  “Meg Barrett, you sound disappointed. Jenna has enough to deal with.”

  “I’m not disappointed,” I said. “I’m happy Arthur is putting Roland Cahill on his radar, but you’ve got my interest piqued about how those ghosthunters go about their otherworldly investigations.”

  “Are you serious? We don’t want anyone hanging around Enderly to add to Jenna’s stress.”

  “Don’t get your poodle skirt in a bunch.”

  “However, I am glad you might be open-minded to the idea,” she added.

  “I’m not open-minded, just curious about their equipment and claims of scientific proof.” I put quotation marks in the air around scientific proof.

  “One day, Meg Barrett, you’ll have to admit, not everything’s in black and white.”

  “Yes, Mother. Oh, I believe in gray. But I believe that evil only comes from human beings, not ghosts, spells, or pirates’ curses.”

  The shop owner, Rita Grimes, stood behind an antique wood-and-glass general store counter to the right of the door. Instead of an old brass cash register, as expected in the quaint circa-1840s shop that had once been a pharmacy, Rita was tapping at a modern touchscreen monitor without even looking at it. Which told me that she’d been listening to our conversation.

  “Hey, Rita,” Elle called out. “How’s biz?”

  “Hello, Ms. Warner,” Rita said.

  What was I? Chopped liver? Rita gave me a dismissive look, her round tortoiseshell glasses magnifying her brown, almost-black eyes. As usual, Rita’s thin lips were superglued into a frown as she walked toward us.

  Once I’d made the mistake of trying to bargain with her over a brass spyglass for one of my Cottages by the Sea clients. That would never happen again. Rita had snatched the spyglass out of my hand and pushed me out the door. Later, I smoothed things over by bringing her a few items I’d scored at an estate sale in Bridgehampton. With the cash she’d given me, I was able to purchase the spyglass at full price. Since then, I think she tolerated me. Now, looking over at Elle and Rita exchanging Hamptons double-cheek air kisses, I knew Rita and I would never be besties. But a girl could always hope.

  After they broke away from their little lovefest, Rita pointed and said, “There it is. A New England pine blanket chest.”

  I walked over to a small alcove and ran my hand over the smooth wood. “It’s perfect. Any chance you’ll tell me what Jenna paid for it?”

  Putting her hands on her small hips, Rita shook her head in the negative. Her dark hair was sprinkled with threads of gray and pulled back in a tight no-nonsense bun. Her no-nonsense bun matched her no-nonsense personality. Not usually the chatty type, she surprised me when she said, “I overheard you talking about ghosthunters. Do you believe a whole bunch of them, dragging all kinds of equipment, came in here looking for any antiques relating to East Hampton’s Witch, Goody Garlick? Like I would keep something from 1642 in my shop. I sent them to the East Hampton Library.”

  Elle laughed. “Goody Garlick? What kind of name is that?”

  “Goody was a generic name used by colonists when identifying married women; first names were rarely used when addressing the commoner. It’s short for Goodwife. The story goes that the daughter of East Hampton’s founding father, Lion Gardiner, delirious on her deathbed, accused Goody Garlick of putting a spell on her and making her ill. Goody was sent to a witch tribunal in Connecticut, because at the time East Hampton was part of Connecticut. Goody’s witch trial was decades older than any from Salem. Hence, she was thought to be one of the first accused witches in American history.”

  “What happened to her?” Elle asked.

  “Oh, they let her go,” Rita said.

  “So, what did you tell the paranormal investigators?” I asked, already knowing the history of Goodwife Garlick.

  “Well, Ms. Barrett, I told them to leave and ne
ver come back again. One guy had some machine hanging from a strap around his neck and was waving a wired wand over items at the back of the store. He stopped at an old yarn winder. The machine gave off clicking noises like a metal detector. You’d be surprised at how many people think antiques have some sort of supernatural connection to their deceased owners. When my elite clientele and their decorators step inside my shop, they demand privacy. I don’t need anyone scaring them away.”

  I opened my mouth to ask Rita if she’d ever felt anything unusual with any of her pieces. She must have read my mind because she snapped, “You better get that piece out of here before it starts raining. I don’t think Ms. Eastman will be pleased if that happens. Especially knowing what she paid for it.” With that, Rita turned and went into the back room.

  When she was sure Rita was out of earshot, Elle said, “I wanted to hear the rest of the witch story.”

  “I can finish it for you, but it’ll have to be later. We better get this into the truck.” I didn’t want to let on to Rita that I probably knew more about the story than she did. In my research of Shepherds Cottage, I’d uncovered a lot of historical documents relating to the Gardiner family, Captain Kidd, and Goodwife Garlick. Rita had been right on one score—the East Hampton Library was a treasure trove of information.

  We each took a side and carried the chest toward the front door.

  “Tell me the rest of it when we get in the truck,” Elle said. “Sag Harbor had their own share of ghost stories, as you found out when you worked at the Bibliophile Bed and Breakfast, but I never heard of any witch stories.”

  I went to open the door to the street just as Rita came toward us from the back. She was taking baby steps and carrying a huge black iron cauldron. A witch’s cauldron? What were the chances? “Ms. Eastman called, she said you were looking for a cauldron for the hearth at Shepherds Cottage. Tell her she can stop by anytime to settle up.”

  We lowered the chest to the floor and I took the dirty black thing from her arms, my knees buckling from its weight. Rita was stronger than she looked.

  “Oh, and by the way,” Rita said, “a word of warning about Roland Cahill. My number-one best customer told me he was the worst contractor this side of Manhattan, and that there were multiple malpractice lawsuits against him, something to do with asbestos or lead poisoning. I can’t remember which. I don’t know how he got to be a partner in Mr. Klein’s architectural firm. Rumor has it they can’t stand each other.” Rita turned to Elle. “I’m telling you this because I care about Ms. Eastman, and I know you’re friends. The Eastmans have been in the Hamptons since the eighteenth century. I knew her grandfather before he went, uh . . . wherever he went in that mind of his for all those years.” Rita looked like she wanted to say more but held back.

  “Then you must know the story about his death at Enderly Hall,” I piped in.

  “I don’t gossip, Ms. Barrett,” Rita said, even though that was exactly what she’d just been doing. She spun around, added a “Humph,” then strode toward her office at the back of the shop.

  “Was it something I said?” I asked Elle, who was examining a piece of old mercury glass. “Let’s get outta here, before she takes back the blanket chest.”

  Elle nodded toward the cauldron in my arms. “Why don’t you throw that in the back of the truck. I’ll wait here. Then we can carry the blanket chest together. If it’s drizzling, bring the blue tarp from the storage box.”

  I shifted from one foot to the other, praying I wouldn’t need back surgery. “Okay, boss,” I said as she opened the shop’s door. “I’ll just toss this five-ton thing into the back of your truck.”

  Elle didn’t smile. I could tell she was thinking about what Rita had said about Jenna’s husband. Just because he was a shoddy contractor didn’t mean he was out to kill his wife.

  Did it?

  Chapter 4

  The rain held off, but it was still misty. Even though it was only two in the afternoon, the sky was as dark as if it was nightfall. When I finally reached Elle’s pickup, I worried the stitch in my side might be the start of a hernia. I quickly reached over the tailgate and lowered the cauldron onto the bed of the truck. The truck bucked from the weight. The I climbed onto the pickup’s running board and reached over to open the storage box. I removed the blue tarp, padded blanket and a couple of bungee cords. I didn’t know exactly what Jenna had paid for the blanket chest, but it must have been a lot. Enough to make it worth protecting.

  I took my time as I walked back to Grimes House, a reward for carrying the cursed cauldron. As I passed East Hampton Bookworks, I was reminded that I had to buy the next book for the Dead Poets Society Book Club. We were reading a biography on Walt Whitman, and I felt a tiny flutter in my stomach at the thought that I was holding the next meeting. Normally, it wouldn’t have been such a big deal because I’d finally finished getting the interior of my cottage exactly as I’d dreamed it would be. The problem with having the club meet at my place was it meant I had to supply the food and drink. The drink wasn’t an issue, but the food was. I wasn’t a cook by anyone’s stretch of the imagination. My gourmet home-chef father had been coaching me via video chat on how to make his tomato basil salmon. The recipe called for only five ingredients. Four too many, in my opinion. I wasn’t confident of my ability to pull it off. Good thing I had Montauk’s Pizza Village on speed dial.

  Ten minutes later, with the blanket chest swaddled between us, Elle and I walked in the direction of where the pickup was parked. It wasn’t surprising we hadn’t gotten a parking spot in front of Grimes House Antiques. Even off-season, East Hampton was the most popular of the Hamptons, with its tree-lined shaded streets and designer clothing, jewelry, and home goods shops, not to mention Michelin-star restaurants, coffee bistros, and gourmet markets.

  I loved East Hampton, and the other Hamptons, but I’d take my sleepy hamlet of Montauk over them any day.

  When we were in front of East Hampton Bookworks, my heel caught a raised section of the sidewalk. My feet give way, and before I could hit pavement, someone’s strong arms caught me from behind.

  A male voice whispered into my right hearing aid, “Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.”

  I recognized that voice. Strangely, in his arms, I felt as comfortable as I knew I would.

  “Keats? Byron?” I asked without turning my head

  “No. Confucius,” Patrick Seaton said, laughing. “Are you okay?”

  Elle and I lowered the blanket chest to the sidewalk. I turned to face not only Montauk’s most famous recluse author but also my former neighbor and current poetry pen pal in the sand. “I’m fine, thanks to you.”

  Standing beside Patrick with an amused grin on her face was Patrick’s book publicist. “Wow, that was like something out of a Hallmark movie,” Ashley Drake said through glossy lips that were the perfect shade of peach. “Patrick to the rescue.” She smiled in amusement, not jealousy. I’d only met her once at a New Year’s Eve party and had immediately liked her. In all honesty, I wished I hadn’t. Ever since moving to Montauk, when I first found melancholy verses of poetry etched in the sand next to my rental cottage, I’d felt a kinship with Patrick Seaton that bordered on attraction. But then, there had always been Cole . . .

  Patrick was a New York Times bestselling author of corporate thrillers. After a drunk driver killed his young wife and child, he moved to Montauk and lived in a solitary cottage on a cliff above the ocean. Based on our few meetings, the books he’d written, and the lines of poetry he left in the sand, I thought I had some insight into his soul. I recalled when I used to watch him walking the beach in front of my old cottage rental, head down, looking inconsolable.

  Recently, I’d seen a change in the way he carried himself and in his choice of words he’d left in the sand. The verses were more upbeat, bordering on sunny and downright positive. I wondered if Ashley Drake had anything to do with it.

  Admittedly, he and not Claire, my next-doo
r neighbor, friend, and a renowned poet, was the reason I joined the Dead Poets Society Book Club. But I would never tell Claire that little fact. It was too soon to think of anything romantic where Patrick was concerned. I was definitely on the rebound. However, there was a connection between Patrick and me that sizzled in the air whenever we met. I just didn’t know if he and Ashley felt that same connection.

  “Mr. Seaton!” Elle said. “Thank heavens you were there to catch Meg.”

  “Call me Patrick, please,” he said, running his long-fingered hands through his tousled dirty blond hair. The color of his eyes changed with his surroundings. Sometimes they were blue, sometimes green. Or, like today, a shade that matched the fog-drenched sky.

  Elle had met Patrick for the first time at Claire’s New Year’s Eve party, then again at the wrap party for the pilot episode of Mr. & Mrs. Winslow. When Elle had found out last December that Patrick was the screenwriter for Mr. & Mrs. Winslow, she’d said, “Wow! What are the chances?” Insinuating that Patrick and I were star-crossed lovers.

  It seemed the universe did keep bringing us together.

  I glanced over at Elle’s face. I could tell she was oiling her fixer-upper gears, and I wasn’t referring to vintage furniture fixing up. Now that she’d hit the matrimony trail, she was determined to drag me along with her.

  “Megan,” Ashley said, “I’m so happy we, or should I say Patrick, literally ran into you. I’ve finally found a cottage in Montauk that I would love to have your company decorate. I’d adore it if you’d come by before I sign the papers at Sand and Sun Realty with your wonderful friend Barb. By the way, thank you for that. It’s not on the ocean like Patrick’s”—she smiled at him—“it’s on Lake Montauk and there’s a hill view of both the ocean and the sound.” She waved her left hand in the air and I noticed an unusual ring on her finger. Her ring finger. An exquisite ring. A large amber cabochon topped a gold band resembling a filigree coral reef. I’d never seen anything like it. Had Patrick given it to her?