It was none of my business, but my heart sank just the same. I realized the crux of my problem. I was mourning Cole one minute, then attracted to Patrick the next. I mentally pinched myself. I loved my solitary life. Who needed a guy to complicate things, tell you what to do, promise things and never come through. I am woman, hear me roar! Then I looked over at Patrick and all my brain came up with was a weak meow.
“Uh, sure, Ashley,” I said with forced enthusiasm. “How about I come by next week? My hands are quite full with the showhouse.”
“Showhouse?” Ashley asked, raising a perfect brow and looking over at Patrick. “The new Montauk Designer Showhouse?”
In mama bear mode, Elle said proudly, “Meg’s doing all the exterior spaces at Enderly Hall and the interior of Shepherds Cottage.”
“How perfect,” Ashley chirped. “I heard about the Stanford White cottage on Hamptons TV. Even managed to get an invite to the cocktail party, didn’t we, Patrick?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” he said.
Ashley put her hand on his arm. “Patrick hates when I drag him to these Hamptons events. But if he wants to sell his next book, we have to hit the publicity trail. Whether he likes it or not.” Then she turned to Elle. “I’m sorry, have we met?” She extended her hand, “Ashley Drake.”
Elle seemed starstruck. “Yes, we met briefly last New Year’s Eve at Claire’s.”
“Of course,” Ashley said, adding a huge white-toothed grin, “now I remember.” Not even the fog could diminish her beauty; hazel eyes sparked under thick dark lashes, pink flushed her cheeks and a few stray sections of glossy dark brown hair escaped a loose chignon, giving her a tousled, just-got-out-of-bed look. I glanced at my reflection in the plate glass window of Bookworks. My shoulder-length blonde hair was in tight ringlets from the humidity, springing out horizontally. Instead of a just-got-out-of-bed look, my hair resembled Frankenstein’s bride’s after waking from the dead and getting zapped with a few bolts of lightning.
Ashley winked at Elle. “If we let these poetry geeks go on and on about their dead poets, we could be here all day. And I think it’s starting to drizzle.”
“You’re right,” Elle said.
Patrick handed Ashely a bag from Bookworks and bent to pick up the blanket chest.
“Let me get the other end,” I said.
He didn’t protest. “I’ll walk backward. Just give me a warning if I’m going to bump into anything.”
“Promise. I’ve got your back. Like you had mine.” After my words came out, I giggled. A schoolgirl’s giggle. An embarrassing giggle.
“This sucker is heavy,” he said as we started walking, “you have a body in here?”
“Nope. Just an antique blanket chest for Shepherds Cottage.”
“Do you know the history of Shepherds Cottage?” he asked.
“As much as I could find out.”
I thought he was going to mention the cottage’s connection to Gardiners Island and Captain Kidd or Witch Goody Garlick. Instead he said, “I’ve been told Walt Whitman stayed in Shepherds Cottage when he was invited onto Gardiners Island in the early 1850s.”
“Really? Long Island’s very own poet laureate? This month’s dead poet? I had no idea. Isn’t that around the time he wrote Leaves of Grass? ‘Resist much, Obey little.’”
“Is that your credo?” he asked, his face blurred in the mist but still extremely handsome.
“Hmmm, kind of. I try.”
Elle and Ashley were following behind, my best friend singing my praises and telling Ashley how she wouldn’t be sorry she’d decided to hire Cottages by the Sea to decorate her new place. I didn’t hold an interior design degree or belong to any top-notch guild, but I still considered myself an interior decorator, drawing on my years of experience at American Home and Garden magazine, an unhealthy obsession with home décor magazines and blogs, along with a passion for creating cozy nests using one-of-a-kind vintage décor.
“Tree!” I called out to Patrick.
“Tree?”
Bam! The corner of the blanket chest hit the trunk of an elm. Patrick didn’t lose his grip, but I whiplashed backward, then forward, the wind knocked out of my lungs from where chest met chest.
“Oh, that tree,” he said, laughing. “You okay?”
That was the second time in a few minutes that he’d asked me that. After I righted myself, I apologized for not giving him a better warning, blaming it on the fog. As we resumed walking, a crack of thunder sounded.
There was no time for anything but hurrying to Elle’s truck before the deluge hit.
A few minutes later, after quick farewells to Patrick and air kisses from Ashley, we put the chest in the bed of Elle’s truck and hit the road.
By the time we reached Amagansett, the rain had stopped. The sky was still hazy but brighter than what we’d left behind in East Hampton.
“Well, that was an interesting encounter,” Elle said. “What do you think? Any chance you and Patrick might become more than just pen pals in the sand.”
“Eyes on the road. Don’t want to run over any ghostly white dogs.”
“You’re incorrigible. Are you worried Ashley and Patrick are dating? Even if they were, Ashley’s not his type. You are.”
“Did you see that ring on her finger?”
“Pshaw. It didn’t look like an engagement ring. Very unusual though. Exotic.”
I glanced out the window thinking of Patrick and Ashley. And Cole. “Elle! Pull over!”
“What! Why?”
“Just park. We just passed Jenna’s husband, Roland Cahill in front of the Cantina with his back facing the street. He was gesturing widely and angrily to someone in front of him.”
From years of putting up with my antics, I was happy Elle did what she was told and stopped the pickup.
“Look,” I said, “it’s Kuri he’s talking to. I wonder what’s going on?”
“Who?”
“Kuri Shui, one the decorators for the showhouse. She also works at Klein and Associates with Roland. Jenna says she’s an amazing interior designer with tons of credentials. Roland’s not happy with her aesthetic. Let’s mosey over and check it out.”
“Mosey? What about the blanket chest?” Elle asked. “It might start raining again.”
“It’s safe. Plus, it’s lasted a couple centuries, and it’s wrapped well. A few more minutes or drops of rain won’t hurt it. Stop being a killjoy.”
Elle put her foot on the gas and coasted into a spot in front of Hampton Chutney. “I don’t know if this is the right thing to do. You and I both agreed that we thought Jenna was exaggerating about Roland trying to kill her. What’s the point of stalking him?”
“We aren’t stalking. The point is, she’s our friend. In case we’re wrong, we need to keep an eye on him. Even Rita thinks he’s a bad egg. I never cared for the guy, but for Jenna’s sake I’ve been tolerating him while working on the showhouse. Oh, the stories I could tell . . .”
“Tell me. Tell me,” she said, clapping her hands like a toddler. “I need something to keep my mind off my fiancé’s minimalist texts. I ask him what he’s up to and he always replies with stock two- or three-word answers. If I hear another I’m fine. All’s good. Call you later. Love you, I’m gonna scream.”
“The last one wasn’t bad.”
“I want to hear about Roland. I only know the good things Jenna has told me. Up until today, that is.”
“I’ll tell you after we check out the scene across the street. If you don’t want to come, that’s cool. You can wait here.”
“I’m coming. You know you need me as your wingwoman. People tend to trust me when I tell a fib. You, on the other hand, they seem to steer away from.”
“Must be your trusting Bambi eyes and freckles.”
“Funny. More likely it has to do with your Hamptons rep of always finding dead bodies.”
We looked at each other in recognition that Jenna Eastman might be our next dead body. Not if I had anything
to do with it, I thought, glancing back toward the street. “Look, Roland has a hold of Kuri’s wrist.” I watched Kuri pull away. Then she spat some words I couldn’t make out by lipreading. It must have been something along the lines of Get your huge mitts off my delicate wrist or else.
Before Elle could protest, I leaped from the truck and bounded toward the pair. Behind me, I heard the driver’s door to the pickup slam and Elle shout, “Wait!”
Now she’d done it. Both Roland and Kuri looked toward us.
So much for sneaking up on them.
Chapter 5
“Ms. Barrett, fancy meeting you here. Done with the cottage and outdoor spaces already? We only have one more day until the cocktail party.” Roland Cahill stuck out his wide chest cock-a-doodle-do style. “And in my opinion, everyone except Freya seems too laid-back about it. Including my wife.” Roland looked down his long nose at Kuri, apparently including her in his chastising.
Today he was dressed in his stock outfit of stonewashed jeans, black loafers, no socks, and a white open-collar shirt under a navy blazer. He reeked of expensive cologne. I guessed he was about six foot one, Patrick Seaton’s height. But that was where their similarities ended. Roland probably had fifty or more pounds on Patrick. His white hair was buzzed close to his scalp, military fashion, and he wore a pair of black Ray-Bans on top of his head. There hadn’t been any sun in days. When he turned his head toward me, I saw the reason for the glasses. Roland had a black eye. Well, more of an eggplant-colored eye. Day two of a good shiner.
Who walloped him? Jenna? A disgruntled client?
Roland placed his large hand on my shoulder and said, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about the way you arranged the sleeping porch . . .” Here it came. I moved back a step and his hand dropped to his side. “I’m happy with what you’ve done.”
Say what? “Uh, thanks,” I said cautiously.
“Actually,” he said, “Freya pointed out how much she loves your choices for all our exterior spaces. Maybe you should thank her. It might help to get your name known in the Hamptons. Play your cards right and she might put you on her show, Hamptons Home and Garden. When she contacted me about being on the team for the showhouse, she promised to spread the word about my contracting services.” He leaned in close, as if to whisper, then said in a super-loud voice that made me jump from the amplified sound in my hearing aids, “She also hinted she would arrange a meeting with a certain celebrity acquaintance who is looking to do a teardown of his 1920s cottage in East Hampton. I’m not allowed to disclose his name, but . . . I’ll give you a hint. His last name rhymes with sit.”
“And his first name,” I asked, taking the bait.
“Hmm, that might give it away. Oh, what does it matter. His first name rhymes with sad.”
Sad Sit. As far as I knew, the megastar actor he was alluding to didn’t hang out much in the Hamptons. Another sterling quality of Roland’s, he was a name-dropper. I’d bet it took everything he had not to disclose the star’s name. You’d think just the fact his wife was worth at least as much as the person he alluded to would make Roland less of a wannabe. Being a yearlong resident, I was cognizant of all the star-studded comings and goings by reading our local papers, especially Dave’s Papers. I liked a good celeb sighting as much as the next guy, reminding me of the time I was paying for my produce at the East Hampton Farmers Market and looked over to see . . .
“I’m sure I’ll be getting lots of star clients now that I’m with the most prestigious architectural firm in the Hamptons, Klein and Associates,” Roland boasted. “Right, Kuri?”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that, Mr. Cahill,” Kuri said, clenching her fists. Her black hair, stick-straight and angled to the shoulder, and her blunt-cut bangs complimented her small-featured face, giving her an exotic appearance. “I’m going to have a talk with Nate, then the firm’s lawyer, about your earlier, inappropriate behavior.” She began rubbing the red area on her wrist from where Roland had held it. Maybe Kuri was the black eye deliverer? If she wasn’t, by the look on her face she might go after the other eye.
“You talk to Nate, then maybe I’ll have a little discussion with your husband about your inappropriate behavior, Mrs. Shui.”
Roland’s threat seemed to quiet Kuri. Then he turned to Elle and asked brusquely, “Who are you?”
“Elle Warner. I worked with Jenna at American Home and Garden magazine.”
My dander was up, and I took a step toward him. “She also owns Mabel and Elle’s Curiosities in Sag Harbor, the same place Jenna found many items for the showhouse. I’m sure without Elle and her shop the showhouse wouldn’t be a success.”
He snorted dismissively. “How could it not be a success? The furniture and most of the accessories were stored in the attic, and they came straight from Stanford White’s warehouse. I’m sure, Ms. Warner, you’ve helped Jenna with a few pieces, but I don’t think you can take the credit for the success of the showhouse. That goes to Stanford White.”
Jerk. “And Jenna and the designers, and Elle,” I added.
He softened a little in his response. “You forgot to add my name to the list. If it wasn’t for me and my construction team and making sure everyone is on task . . .”
“And Nate’s architectural plans,” Kuri added.
Roland shrugged his shoulders. “There’s a difference between drawing up pretty renderings and actually doing the brick-and-mortar physical work.”
It was a fact that Roland hadn’t done any physical work at Enderly. He’d hired outside contractors to do the repairs, including my go-to team of Duke and Duke Jr. They’d renovated the pavilion at the top of the cliff, along with erecting a new gazebo based on Nate Klein’s architectural plans.
There was an awkward silence while Kuri and Roland exchanged dagger eyes. I broke it with, “We had lunch today with Jenna. She told us about her accident.” I wanted to warn him that we had our eyes on him.
Roland turned his head in my direction, then refused to meet my gaze. “What accident?” he asked a little too innocently. “Oh, that. I think Jenna has overexaggerated what happened. You know how she is. But I’m keeping an eye on her, don’t you worry.” He took his phone from his blazer pocket and tapped the screen. “Looks like she’s back at Enderly. Snug as a bug in a Persian rug,” he said, laughing at his own pun.
Not so safe and sound, I thought. Especially if what she said was true, that he was driving the car that caused her to jump to the side of the road. “We better get back to Enderly ourselves,” I said. “I have a few things to add to Shepherds cottage, then a little finessing in the morning and I’ll be ready for tomorrow’s opening-night cocktail party.”
“Well, at least someone is on task.” Roland looked at Kuri. “And you will be too, won’t you, dear, after you implement the changes I’ve dictated.” Roland looked at me. “Ms. Barrett, you have the most amazing blue eyes. With your fair looks and blonde hair, I bet you have some Scandinavian blood in you. My mother was Norwegian. Add a few pounds in the right places and . . .”
Luckily, just as I was getting ready to slap him, Kuri broke in, “I told you, I’m not changing anything. Jenna and Nate agree. And I’m not your dear.”
“I know what needs to be done. Nathaniel has no clue.”
I wanted to say, What do you know about interior decorating, you’re a contractor? Instead I said, “Stanford White was not only an architect like Mr. Klein but also an interior decorator. He traveled all over the world collecting one-of-a-kind objects to furnish his Gilded Age clients’ homes. Rosecliff in Newport, Rhode Island, is only one example.”
Roland scowled at my history lesson, then added a rebuttal. “I’ll have you know that in my career I’ve staged many model homes.”
Kuri stepped between me and Roland. She looked Jenna’s husband up and down, totally unafraid of his imposing stature. Her dark brown eyes showed fury, not fear. “Jenna also agrees with my aesthetic. She’s shown me photos from the early 1900s of my assigne
d rooms and I’ve recreated them to her specifications, even adding some contemporary touches. She also told me only this morning that I need to listen to her directives, not yours. And staging small, two-bedroom tract houses and tiny condos is not the same as what I do for Klein and Associates. Remember, I’m not a decorator, I’m a designer. There’s a big difference between the two.”
Roland’s ruddy round face got even ruddier. “I know the difference. You design the space with built-ins and furniture placement. But what we need for the showhouse is a decorator. The space has already been designed by Stanford White himself. Oh, I’ll have a word with my wife,” he said through gritted teeth, “and perhaps someone else you might not want me to contact. Better get going, Kuri. I’m doing a walk-through tomorrow and I better not—”
A young man in a black hoodie who I hadn’t even noticed approach us tapped Roland on the shoulder. “Sir, I think you dropped something.” He held a white envelope in his hand. “That’s if you’re Roland Cahill?”
“Yes, I’m Roland Cahill, but I . . .”
The guy in the hoodie shoved the envelope into his hand. “Then Roland Cahill, you’ve been served.”
I smiled inwardly at the stunned look on his face, remembering that Rita Grimes had told us her number-one best customer (I would never be in that honored slot, Jenna maybe) said Roland’s had numerous past lawsuits. The guy was really turning out to be jerk.
I just hoped he didn’t turn into a murderer.
Chapter 6
The ornate iron gates were closed as we approached Enderly Hall; the tips of the arrow-shaped spires were lost in the fog and mist. I passed Elle my key fob with the attached remote Jenna had given me to open the gates. Elle slowed the pickup to a crawl, then stopped under the stone and crushed-shell-covered archway that housed a silver security keypad. Holding the remote, she raised her hand and aimed it in the direction of the keypad.
A Design to Die For Page 4
