A Design to Die For

by Kathleen Bridge

  We stepped inside the attic and I moaned, “Nirvana! Attics are definitely my thing. Especially ones that take up the entire third floor of a mansion-sized cottage.”

  “To each his own,” Morgana said, looking around. “I’m not a fan of old, dusty cobweb-crusted stuff.”

  “Cobweb-crusted? Oh, the dustier the better. Plus, it’s what’s found under the dust that’s important.” I wasn’t an expert on antiques like Elle was, but I knew what surrounded us—the leftovers after Jenna had furnished the first two floors of Enderly—weren’t shoddy second-class citizens. More like antique royalty.

  Furniture from every century was scattered around the space, Elizabethan, Byzantine, Art Nouveau, Roman, just to name a few. “Amazing,” I said, scanning the space.

  On the southwest corner, hidden behind a tall gold Japanese folding screen, I saw the bamboo footboard to a queen-size bed. Jenna and Roland’s makeshift bedroom. The folding screen butted up to a door that opened to a balcony with spiral steps leading up to the cupola. In my mind, another design feature cementing the fact that Sanford White, the Gilded Age tastemaker, had been Enderly’s architect, owing to the fact another Stanford White cottage in Southampton had the same design. I hadn’t had to decorate the third-floor balcony because no one was going to be allowed in the attic for the showhouse.

  In the attic’s northwest corner was a section filled with dead animal taxidermy. I supposed the word dead was a redundant adjective to use with the word taxidermy, but in this case, some of the animals looked ready to pounce and drag me away in their openmouthed saber-toothed jaws. Birds, lions, tigers and bears . . . oh my! Some had disintegrated into unrecognizable mats of hair, skin and sawdust. Ick.

  Morgana had the opposite reaction. “Wow! Someone was a big game hunter,” she said, moving toward the decaying zoo. “Did you know that Teddy Roosevelt was stationed at Camp Wycoff in Montauk during the Spanish-American War?”

  “Yes. Him and his Rough Riders, recovering from yellow fever.”

  “Maybe Teddy was friends with Ms. Eastman’s family? That would explain all these,” Morgana said, patting a wildebeest on the nose, the ends of his tusks sharp enough to open a can of soup.

  “Not beyond the realm of possibilities,” I answered.

  Morgana seemed quite intrigued by the zoological graveyard and went over to a brass tub filled with an assortment of antlers. Some of the antlers were mounted to pieces of wood, some loose. In season, Morgana and her brother Jack went bow-and-arrow deer hunting in the county park next to Montauk’s Deep Hollow Ranch. A tough former Brooklynite, I’d never seen Morgana get squeamish about anything, including gory horror movies. Hunting the same way the Montaukett Native Americans had, with a bow and arrow, seemed a more humane way to thin out the overpopulation of tick-carrying deer compared to when a rich Hamptonite brought in a planeload of African lions and set them loose. A true story. Not well publicized for obvious reasons.

  Personally, I couldn’t kill any live creature, not even a spider. It might have had something to do with my favorite childhood book, Charlotte’s Web. If I found one inside my cottage, I would capture it under a glass on a paper plate and free it outdoors.

  “Oh, my, you’ve got to see this!” Morgana exclaimed. Her head was hidden behind the lid of an open steamer trunk.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Something creepy? A clue to Roland’s killer? You never answered me about the gun. Was Roland also shot?”

  I cautiously stepped toward her. The attic’s spooky vibes, the heads scattered here and there, along with what might be in the trunk had me on edge. Not my usual M.O. If it wasn’t for the slight grin on Morgana’s lips, I might have hesitated. When I came up behind her, I peered over her shoulder, expecting to see human remains or dozens of shrunken heads.

  Instead, the crate was filled with old mid-century Playboy magazines. I burst into laughter. Nothing like a little comic relief to lighten the mood. “Those look like some oldies,” I said. “Did you know if there’s a December 1953 issue, the first one with Marilyn Monroe, it’s probably worth ten thousand dollars or more?”

  “I’m not going to even ask how you know that.” She closed the trunk’s lid and stood. “We better get going. I don’t want to be up here when the team arrives. It’s not like we’re doing anything illegal because I’m your police escort. But like we agreed, it’s better to keep things aboveboard.”

  Looking her straight in the eye, I asked, “Well, was Roland shot with Jenna’s gun?”

  “We are getting in some sticky-wicket territory here.”

  “Nod your head if he was.”

  Morgana kept still, until I broke the silence. “Okay, then. I agree. We should get moving. I have to bring Jenna’s overnight bag to the yacht club.”

  I advanced toward the corner of the attic, where Jenna and Roland’s makeshift bedroom was, remembering that I needed to collect Jenna’s sleeping pills from the bedside table.

  Once past the screen, I turned toward the bed. My mouth opened but nothing came out.

  I felt Morgana behind me. “Holy dog ears!” she screeched into my left hearing aid.

  In the center of the bed, covered by a white down comforter, was the outline of a body.

  Who could it be? Everyone was accounted for. Apparently not. We both stared, looking to see if the figure under the covers was breathing and ready to pop up like a jack-in-the-box.

  There was only dead quiet.

  Morgana hesitated for only a second, strode to the side of the bed and pulled back the covers.

  Looking up at the ceiling with dead glassy eyes was the head of a huge white polar bear.

  In its mouth was a wad of paper bills.

  Could things get any stranger?

  I had a feeling they could.

  Chapter 17

  I slipped out the back door and onto the Enderly’s wide veranda and sat on a Victorian chaise that faced the invisible ocean, waiting for Morgana. She’d had to stay inside where there was wifi in order to send Chief Pell the audio interviews, as he’d requested.

  After finding the polar bear rug in Jenna and Roland’s bed, I’d filled Morgana in on how Grandpa Eastman died—on Enderly’s beach with hundred-dollar bills stuffed in his mouth—adding the story of the trespasser Grandpa had shot and paralyzed. When we’d come down from the attic and entered the kitchen, we’d been met by three CSI teams. Morgana had filled them in on what we’d found in the attic and had pointed out the bloody sand on the kitchen floor. Afterward, they’d scattered into three groups, each team taking a floor.

  Now, as I reviewed the past couple of hours, I couldn’t help but feel spooked. Maybe there were such things as ghosts and curses. Ghosts of dead animals, grandfathers, trespassers and husbands. Curses by dead pirates. The night was calm, unlike the pounding of my heart while I waited for Morgana. The temperature had dropped ten degrees from when I’d gone out to see Roland’s body and I couldn’t stop my teeth from chattering. My jacket was in the car, but I was too exhausted, mentally and physically, to move. As my father liked to say, Move a muscle, change a thought, in other words, take action to get yourself out of a mental slump. I supposed instead of a polar bear rug we could have found a bloody severed horse head like in the movie The Godfather. Instead of the image of Ben Franklin on the hundred-dollar bills, the C-notes in the polar bear’s mouth featured Mr. Moneybags from a vintage game of Monopoly.

  Were Roland’s death and the surprise in the bed related? If so, what was the message? Roland wasn’t a relative of the Eastmans, only through marriage. Was someone trying to scare Jenna by mimicking her grandfather’s death?

  Too many questions. Not enough answers.

  I was saved from my brain exploding when Morgana stepped out onto the veranda. “You ready to go?” she asked.

  “Never more so,” I said, jumping up from the chaise and moving toward the steps. Before stepping down, I glanced toward the ocean. The fog was as thick as ever, and I recalled Carl Sandberg’s famous poem, no
ticing in this case it didn’t look like our fog’s little cat feet had any intention of moving on.

  Morgana came up behind me. She said something I couldn’t catch, then grabbed my elbow. Through the mist we saw a moving light in the direction of Shepherds Cottage.

  “I’m going after them,” she announced.

  “Not without me you aren’t.”

  We advanced as stealthily as we could in the fog, our feet making crunching noises on the stone and shell path. As we moved toward the ocean, a repetitious pounding splintered the still night. When we reached the entrance to a boxwood maze, I grabbed Morgana’s elbow and led her inside, whispering, “I have a way we can sneak up on them.” I took my phone from my pocket and turned on the flashlight function. Morgana took hers off her belt. We were invisible behind the dense hedges, the reason I’d chosen it as our way to sneak up on whoever was out there.

  Last month, when Jenna gave me a tour of the grounds, she’d told me the story of how at age five she’d gotten lost inside the maze. Her parents found her asleep at the base of a fountain with a statue of Eros. Jenna said she’d thought Eros, with his raised bow and arrow, would protect her. After rescuing her, Jenna’s parents demanded that Jenna’s grandfather open up six exits—in case any other child wandered in and got lost.

  I’d been a little disappointed at her story. I loved a good maze. One with a single entrance and exit. But now, I was thrilled. Because I knew exactly which way to go to get closest to Shepherds Cottage.

  When we reached the opening, I turned off my light and whispered, “Follow me.” Morgana clipped her flashlight onto her belt, then grabbed on to the fabric at the back of my dress and we stepped out from under a trellised arch into the murky night.

  We listened and looked ahead. The pounding had stopped. The cottage was dark.

  Now what were we supposed to do?

  Morgana answered my question by drawing her gun. We slowly advanced forward, then stopped fifty feet from the front door of Shepherds Cottage. Our patience was rewarded. The cottage door burst open and a figure holding a flashlight, wearing a black hoodie and pants, bolted in the direction of the beach pavilion.

  Still holding her gun, Morgana took her radio off her belt and shoved it in my hand. “Call dispatch for backup. I’m going after them.”

  After she charged off, I found myself staring down at the radio, wondering if I should pretend to be Morgana by adding a Brooklyn accent while chomping on a piece of gum. No time for that. I pushed the button on the side of the radio and said, “This is Meg Barrett, Officer Moss is in pursuit of a suspect, send backup to Enderly Hall. The pavilion near the steps to the beach. And hurry it up!”

  There was static on the other end, and I couldn’t make out what was being said because of my hearing loss. I pushed the button again and shouted, “Hurry! Officer Moss in danger. Go to Enderly Hall’s beach pavilion.” Then, instead of running for the front gate where patrol cars were still parked or to Enderly Hall in order to recruit the teams of unarmed CSIs, I went to the open door of Shepherds Cottage, reached inside and flipped on the light switch.

  And felt like crying.

  All the work. All the precious antiques and reproductions were scattered everywhere, most splintered in pieces. Even the large sideboard had been tipped over. Items weren’t just lying on the floor, it looked like they’d seen both ends of a hammer. Pottery and glassware were shattered into thousands of pieces. Even a few of the floorboards had been pried up. I stepped inside cautiously, not wanting to disturb any evidence.

  Then I moved to the bedroom and surveyed the carnage. It had also been tossed. It took everything I had not to rescue some of the priceless objects in the room. The feather mattress to the ornate four-poster bed had been pushed up against the wall, revealing the supporting bed ropes that were tied to the bed’s frame. Deep slash marks in the mattress oozed feathers, some still floating in the air, signaling that this must have been the last room the perpetrator ransacked before running out.

  All I could think about was how brazen an act it was to be searching for something while there was still a strong police presence on the grounds.

  I checked the cottage’s other room. It was also a mess. What had they been looking for?

  “Meg, Meg!” Morgana called from the main room.

  “In the bedroom.”

  She joined me, out of breath, spewing out two-word sentences: “Got away. Took stairs. Lost them. Foggy beach.”

  “Them? There was more than one?”

  “No. Just don’t know if it was a male or female.” She glanced around. “What a mess! Any idea what they were looking for?”

  “Not really. But this is where Jenna’s grandfather lived at the end of his life.”

  “Well, you’ve done more than your share today. We can’t go through anything tonight. I order you, as my deputy, to go home. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  I relaxed my shoulders. “Aw, I’m your deputy?”

  “Not literally. How about my informant.”

  I joked, “Informants get paid under the table, don’t they?”

  She smiled. “Now you’re pushing it.”

  Frankly, I’d had enough. Items that Jenna and I had spent months looking for were broken beyond repair. Even the blanket chest’s top that came from Grimes House Antiques had been ripped off its hinges, its contents dumped out and the wood split from someone using the claw at the back of a hammer. Someone looking for a false bottom?

  I yearned for my cozy chair by the fire and the company of my fat cat. Then I remembered I had to go to the yacht club and drop Jenna’s bag that I’d packed, while a snarling, bodyless polar bear had looked on.

  “Earth to Meg. You okay?” Morgana asked. “I’m sorry. I know this was one of your projects for the showhouse, right?”

  Wordlessly, I handed her back her radio. She took it and gave me a quick hug. I’d never seen Morgana show emotion. But the hug said it all.

  I squeezed her back and we walked out the cottage door and down the path toward Enderly. We parted company on the back veranda, where I grabbed Jenna’s bag and headed for my car.

  As I walked, I thought things could have been worse. It could have been Jenna at the bottom of those steps. And Cole could still be lost at sea.

  But he wasn’t. Just lost to me.

  When I reached my car, I saw it was the only vehicle parked inside the gates. Beyond the entrance to the estate, I saw flashing lights atop two squad cars. It was surprising there weren’t any news cameras, ghosthunters or lookie-loos. It seemed that even if the news had hit about Roland Cahill’s death, it hadn’t made a big splash on the media circuits. In the Hamptons scheme of things, Jenna’s husband was a nobody. If it had been Jenna, an Eastman, that was another story.

  There was also the possibility that nothing about the murder had been leaked to the press. Unlikely, especially when I thought of the brazen way Chief Pell had gone about brandishing evidence like guns, cell phones and extension-cord garrotes.

  I opened my car door, tossed Jenna’s bag in the backseat and got inside. Shivering, I grabbed my jacket from the passenger’s seat. After I slipped it on, I felt a lump in the right pocket from the EVP ghost voice recorder. I laid it on the seat, retrieved my key from my handbag, which I’d hidden under the seat, then reached for the ignition. When I looked in the rearview mirror and caught my reflection, I knew what I had to do.

  Find ghosthunter Frank Holden’s cell phone. He’d been frantic about its whereabouts. Why? Maybe like me, he was too cheap to pay extra for cloud storage. The manic way he kept bringing up the loss of his phone made me suspicious. He hadn’t cared about the EVP instrument in my pocket, only his phone.

  For once, I appreciated the dense fog as I got out of the car and crept toward the area by the fence where I’d found the recorder. Turning on my phone’s flashlight, I got down on my hands and knees and searched the damp grass, probably ruining the Doris Day dress Elle had loaned me. But if my sleuthing helped Jenna, I kn
ew Elle would be all for it.

  Ten minutes later, I gave up. Bedraggled and exhausted, I got back in the car and headed to the yacht club. There’d been no sign of his phone. It would have to wait for daylight.

  Ten minutes later, Jenna met me in the yacht club’s restaurant, and we went up to Cole’s suite. I prayed my keycard would work. It did. After Cole’s exciting rescue, I doubted he’d had time to call the yacht club and bar me from entering.

  He had other things on his mind. Or should I say other people.

  Once inside the sitting room to the suite, the first thing Jenna did was to grab the bag I’d packed. She withdrew the prescription bottle and took two sleeping pills. After everything she’d been through, I couldn’t blame her for doubling up. I was just glad she didn’t triple up.

  Jenna told me of her time at the East Hampton station. It seemed everyone treated her well. Then she gave me a quick recap of her interview with Chief Pell and another officer from Suffolk County, confirming that Roland hadn’t been shot with her gun. But he had been strangled and they’d determined it was a suspicious death. After changing into her nightgown, she shed a few tears for Roland, then begged me to stay with her until she fell asleep. I tucked her in, then sat next to her on the bed, holding her hand until she fell, more like plummeted, to sleep. Then I tiptoed into the other room.

  Judging by her snoring, nothing would wake her. I was glad I hadn’t told her about the surprise visitor Morgana and I found resting its gigantic head on her pillow in the attic.

  Glancing around the sitting room, a great sense of unease descended, having nothing to do with the murder at Enderly Hall, more with the death of Cole’s and my relationship. I wished him well, I truly did. But the jealousy monster on my right shoulder posed the question, How long had Cole and his Billie been more than crewmates? I backtracked to when he’d first hired her. Three months ago. We were still trying to make it work. At least I was.

  I grabbed my jacket and the photo on the armoire taken last summer of Cole and me on one of his sailing yachts. Opening the sliding glass door to the balcony, I stepped out. Then I tossed the picture Frisbee-style into the cold dark water. The splash was an exclamation point to the end of our love affair.