She started the truck, and as I watched her pull away I thought, What have I just done?
Chapter 22
I turned off Embassy Street and pulled into the tiny parking lot of the East Hampton Town Police Department substation. I was happy Chief Pell had decided to keep it local. If he’d wanted, he could have directed everyone to trek out fifty-six miles to Suffolk County Police Headquarters in Yaphank.
Before leaving my cottage, I’d checked the internet for anything about the murder. So far, nothing. Why was Chief Pell keeping things under wraps? Maybe he wanted to charge onto Main Street atop his white stallion and make an arrest before the news got out. I couldn’t blame him for not wanting to face the press and explain that there’d been another murder in the exclusive Hamptons. Until we found out who killed Roland Cahill, I had to make sure Pell kept Jenna out of his crosshairs.
When I walked into the station, Morgana greeted me in a professional manner—almost as if we’d never met. I followed along, even though the only other person in listening distance was a young officer behind the counter who looked barely of drinking age and was playing with his Apple Watch. He hadn’t even looked my way when I’d passed by and walked over to Morgana’s desk.
The substation was so small there was only one main room with a counter separating the officers from the public. I assumed there was a bathroom, but there was no holding cell or metal detectors to pass through. Everything about Montauk was cozy, even their police station.
Morgana had my statement already written up on her laptop, the only thing she needed to add was where I’d been between the hours of ten and noon. I couldn’t remember my steps exactly, but I knew before ten I’d been busy adding the florist delivery plants to the verandas, porches, and gazebo. I’d checked the pavilion, and no one had been there, certainly not Roland. And the fairy lights had been lit when I’d left. I didn’t tell Morgana that I’d made another trip to the beach to look at Roland’s corpse, or about the extension cord rearranging, and I certainly wasn’t going to mention it now. I trusted Officer Morgana Moss but didn’t want her to have to compromise her new position at the department, or for that matter feel pressure to arrest me for disturbing a crime scene.
During the two-hour window of his time of death, I hadn’t seen any of the other decorators, not even Jenna. I assumed everyone had been inside, working on their allocated spaces. We’d all met in the kitchen at one for gourmet lunches that Nate brought in from Montauk Melissa’s food truck. The truck was parked a couple of miles down the shore from Enderly Hall, at nearby Ditch Plains Beach. Even my foodie-snob father made it a must-do stop when he came to visit. I told Morgana it would be easy for her to find out exactly when Nate picked up the food because the food truck had a surveillance camera. Sometimes, if the mood hit, Melissa would leave the truck unattended to go out surfing. If that happened, then everyone was on an honor system, leaving cash for whatever food or drink items they took. A couple of years ago, some rich summer kid from East Hampton stole all the money from Melissa’s till. He’d been caught by Elle’s fiancé, Detective Shoner, who talked Melissa into getting surveillance cameras. She had them installed, albeit reluctantly, seeing as Montauk was the kind of beach hamlet where everyone trusted their neighbor.
After Morgana printed my statement and I signed it, she slid a piece of paper across her desk, glancing over at the counter to make sure the young officer wasn’t watching us. He wasn’t. I picked it up to read it, but she gave me a stern look and shook her head no. I quickly stuffed it in my pocket, then stood up to go.
“One more thing. I need your prints.”
“They’re already on file with IAFIS.”
Morgana gave me a surprised look.
“Don’t ask,” I said under my breath as I headed for the exit.
As I opened the door and stepped out, I heard Morgana say in a motherly tone, “Hand it over, James. I guess I’ll have to put the watch in my drawer, next to your cell phone.”
I hopped in my car and looked around, waiting until a woman pushing a baby carriage passed before taking out Morgana’s note from my pocket. Written in what looked like doctor’s script was a short but to-the-point missive: Meet me outside the gates to Enderly Hall after sunset.
Of course I’d be there. After all, it was a police directive. What could go wrong? Only a million things. Especially if the past was any gauge.
I hesitated about how to destroy the note. Morgana’s paranoia was rubbing off on me. Should I swallow it? Burn it? But I didn’t have matches. Instead, I ripped the note into tiny pieces then dropped them inside my Yeti cup that still had a half inch of coffee in it. Then I closed the lid and shook the contents for good measure.
I had time to kill before meeting Ashley at the cottage she planned to purchase. It was early afternoon, but I was still full from my breakfast. I knew I was overthinking things, but why would Ashley want my opinion about how to decorate the interior once she bought it? And why wasn’t I running over to comfort Jenna, as Elle had done? Could it be that in the back of my mind I still considered her a suspect in her husband’s death?
In order to kill an hour, I decided to go to The Old Man and the Sea Books. I needed to pick up the book we were reading about Walt Whitman. My heart did a small leap when I realized I was holding the next Dead Poets Society Book Club and Patrick would be attending. It’s not that we’d left things on a bad note, in fact it had been quite nice until Ashley showed up. All awkwardness from when I’d been caught holding the family photo had vanished and we were like a team of investigators from a prime-time cop show going over our board of suspects.
Not the type to wallow, I brushed off my fears and drove the quarter mile to Montauk’s only bookstore. The septuagenarian proprietor, Georgia, knew more about Montauk and the Hamptons than anyone. Maybe she could shed some light on Jenna’s grandfather and how his death could be tied to Roland Cahill’s murder. But when I parked in front of the white picket fence, covered in Georgia’s climbing peach-tipped roses, I saw there was a Closed sign in the window.
I got out of the car, my nose sniffing the air like a dog on scent. The Montauk Bakery’s door was open, yeasty smells escaping and mixing with the salt air. I was tempted to step inside for my weekly boule of dense sourdough bread. I always had them slice the loaf super thin so I wouldn’t feel guilty when I slathered layers of butter on top. Even though I was tempted to go inside, I was still stuffed from my meal with Patrick.
Opening the white picket gate in front of the bookshop, I stepped onto the red brick walkway that led to what had once been a fishing cottage. When I reached the door, I saw a handwritten note in Georgia’s neat printing taped to the brass mail slot: Gone to the opening ceremonies at the lighthouse, will open Monday at ten. Come see me and say hi, I’ll be at the Save the Seals table.
Disheartened and wishing I could go to the lighthouse instead of meeting Ashley, I went over to the bookshop’s large plate-glass window and peered in. Butting up to the front window was a wide rectory table stacked with recent bestsellers, along with books by local authors. On the far wall, two wing chairs flanked a small fireplace, embers still burning in the hearth. I must have just missed Georgia. Covering the walls where there weren’t bookshelves was art by local Montauk artists. Naturally, most were of seascapes.
My favorite spot in The Old Man and the Sea Books was the back room, where Georgia sold used books, some rare, but most well-loved and well-read. The bookshop was my favorite place to kick off my shoes, or boots, depending on the season, sip a cup of Earl Grey with a new (or old) book in hand, while ignoring whatever Mother Nature was doing outside its cozy walls.
As I pressed my nose to the window, I saw the tip of Mr. Whiskers’s silky, thick tail flick back and forth from one of the armchairs by the fire. He must have sensed I was there. I’d been the one to find him in a Dumpster behind the bookshop. Georgia claimed custody and Mr. Whiskers was now the bookshop’s official mascot. I’d babysat him once. Long story short, Jo w
as not the hostess with the mostest. I tapped the glass. Mr. Whiskers popped his head out from the chair, and I was able to read his lips when he meowed—Keep your fat beast of a feline away from me, forevermore!
I waved and blew him a kiss, then followed the bricks back to the sidewalk and headed south.
I knew exactly what I needed.
The bell jingled when I stepped into Fudge ’n Stuff. I ordered a double scoop of Barrett’s PBB ice cream, my own signature flavor that the owner made in one batch because she couldn’t stand me ordering three separate scoops of peanut butter, banana and brownie, then asking for one of her large mixing bowls to mix them all together.
As I walked out the shop’s door, I took my first spoonful and felt better already. So much for not being hungry.
I still had an hour and a half to kill before meeting Ashley, so I walked both sides of Montauk’s small downtown, window shopping while eating my ice cream. As I passed the plate-glass window of Catch of the Day, with its sign Wanted: Piano Player who can Shuck Clams, I saw them. Nate Klein and Kuri were sitting in a booth, snuggled together in deep conversation. I know Kuri saw me, but Nate hadn’t. Kuri quickly looked away, then whispered something in Nate’s ear.
Pretending I hadn’t noticed them, I rushed past the window. Just because they were together didn’t mean they were an item. Maybe they had met up when signing their statements at the Montauk substation. Roland had threatened Kuri with telling Kuri’s husband about something she’d done. Was that something a someone? And even if she was stepping out with Nate, what did that have to do with Roland’s murder?
After finishing my cup of ice cream, I threw it in the bin outside Rockin’ Retro, smiling at the sign in the window that said they would be opening next Friday. Rockin’ Retro was one of my favorite shops in Montauk. They sold fun reproduction memorabilia gift items from the thirties to the eighties, including old-school candy like Dots, Milk Duds, licorice whips and my favorite mints, Coward’s Violets. At the thought of the mints, I recalled Cole loved the way they made my breath . . . Enough.
I walked slowly back to my car thinking about Kuri, and how she told Morgana that she got along fine with Roland Cahill. A lie, witnessed by yours truly.
With still a half hour to kill before meeting Ashley, I got inside my car and put the address she’d given me into GPS. I would get there early and do a little background research while I waited for her.
There was one person in particular I wanted to learn more about—ghosthunter Frank Holden.
Chapter 23
I sat in my car, looking toward the exterior of the cottage Barb had found for Ashley. It was stunning. The views alone were worth a cool million. Patrick’s publisher was one of the big five, possibly number one, but I didn’t think publicists got paid enough to have a summer cottage like the one before me. Ashley probably had family money. One more feather, more like diamond, in her gold tiara.
The cottage Ashley planned on buying was made from new construction but was meant to look like it had been there for decades. It was set on top of a hill surrounded by pines. Each side of the house had a second-floor balcony. The balcony facing the north looked toward the Block Island Sound and Lake Montauk; to the south was the Atlantic; to the west, Fort Pond, and to the East a glimpse of the Montauk Point Lighthouse.
I’d learned all this because I’d found Sand and Sun’s listing on my phone, displaying dozens of interior and exterior photos. Most of the exterior shots were taken at sunrise and sunset. I’d been right about the million-dollar view. The cottage was listed for more than that.
With twenty minutes until Ashley and my appointed time, I typed “Frank Holden, Montauk” into the search bar of my phone’s browser. Nothing came up. Next, I went to my Long Island Newsday app and typed in his name again. The only thing that came up was a death notice listing Frank Holden as the only surviving relative of Norman Holden, longtime Montauk resident. I entered both Frank and Norman Holden into the search bar and bingo! “Holy moly!” Norman Holden was the man Jenna’s grandfather had shot, mistaking him for a trespasser. “Wow!” I said to the steering wheel. A coincidence? Or more? More was my guess. At the exact moment I clicked on an article about the trial, Ashley pulled up in a navy Range Rover.
Ashley got out of the car and came toward me. As she approached, a gentle breeze blew back wispy sections of hair that had escaped her French braid.
I put my phone away and got out of the car, then met her on the slate walkway.
“Hope I’m not late?” she asked, all sunny and smiling. She wore a cashmere aqua sweater that made you want to touch it, black leggings and black to-the-knee boots with gold buckles. The sweater looked store-bought. Probably from Sophia’s, the exclusive cashmere shop in East Hampton. Ashley’s sweater was quite different than the last knitting project I’d attempted after a few lessons at Karen’s Kreative Knitting in Montauk. My alpaca wool pullover ended up having one sleeve that covered my hand, while the other went to above my wrist. It was partially my churlish cat’s fault. We’d had a tug-of-war over one of the sleeves moments before Jo planned on burying it in her litter box. Bad cat! never worked, so I’d pretended she’d done nothing wrong. Big mistake. It took me a week to find where she’d dragged the other sleeve.
“I was early,” I said.
I could tell she was excited about showing me the cottage. No matter what I thought of it, I wouldn’t burst her bubble. I’d learned long ago that home décor was a personal thing, and not to decorate the way I thought the cottage’s interior should be by ignoring my client’s wishes. That being said, I always managed to stick a few vintage or antique items inside even the most modern homes. It was my calling card, so to speak. If they wanted to toss them in the trash after I left, so be it.
Ashley linked her arm through mine and we strolled up the flagstone walkway like two childhood pals. Stopping at the bottom of the steps to the porch, Ashley said, “Thank you for coming. Patrick told me about what happened at Enderly Hall yesterday. Such a tragedy. If you want, we can reschedule. Was the guy who died a close friend?”
“More of an acquaintance. But his wife is a good friend.” I was happy that Patrick hadn’t told her Roland was murdered because it still hadn’t hit the news.
“Well, let’s make it quick then.” She used her left hand and pointed to the cottage. Her unusual ring with its amber stone caught a ray of sunlight like a beacon. “First impressions?” she asked, looking as if she was holding her breath. I had to wonder why my opinion seemed so important. She didn’t lack confidence and she didn’t seem the wallflower type—the complete opposite, more like an exotic hothouse orchid.
“I think it’s magnificent. And so is your ring.” I had to know.
“I’m so glad you like the cottage, you can thank your friend Barb for that. As for my engagement ring, it was purchased from a little fine jewelry shack after a day of deep-sea diving off the Great Barrier Reef in Australia. What a magnificent day we had. One I’ll always remember. Hurry. Let’s go inside. I can’t wait for your suggestions.”
There it was—the e word—engagement. I felt myself deflate, like I’d been stuck with the thickest and pointiest of needles, all hope evaporating in a single word.
We went up the stone steps, Ashley’s arm still holding mine tight, two sorority sisters on a fun romp. Not that I’d ever been in a sorority, but I was sure Ashley had.
If I could feel her excitement, did that mean Ashley could feel my disappointment? To cover for my blotched face (I felt the prickles of heat, I didn’t need to see them), I asked, “What does your fiancé think about the cottage?”
“Oh, he’ll go along with anything I want.” She put her hand around my shoulders. “Who needs men with it comes to interior design. Us girls can carry on, can’t we? I have a vision, hope you and I are on the same page. It has to be a melding of masculine and feminine styles; I was thinking modern cozy. If there’s such a thing,” she said with a quick smile. “We plan on living here together in
the summers until we make wedding plans.”
I couldn’t believe Patrick would live in such a modern home. How could he be willing to give up the ocean for hilltop views—even if they were magnificent? I could tell how. I was looking at the reason. The complete package. I fast-forwarded to the future. No more poetry quotes in the sand. No more chance meetings. No eggs Benedict at his handmade wood island. Who was I fooling? It didn’t matter; after they were married, I couldn’t have expectations on anything having to do with Patrick Seaton. And rightly so.
“Come,” Ashley said excitedly as she nudged me toward the front door. “You go first. I can’t wait for you to see.” She handed me the key with a tag on it from Sand and Sun Realty.
I took it, inserted it in the doorknob, and walked in.
• • •
Thirty minutes later we’d completed the tour and were standing in the marble foyer. The cottage had been staged using lots of glass, chrome, and dark fabrics. The masculine style wouldn’t be my first choice if it was my cottage. Thankfully, the photos I’d viewed online showed the space empty and I could see its potential. During the walk-through, I’d kept my comments neutral. If there was one thing I prided myself on, it was following my clients’ directives, not mine. Holding my breath, I asked, “If this is the look you’re going for after the staging company removes everything, I’ll try to copy the style and feel of the furnishings and accessories.”
“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “Way too stark and uncomfortable. That’s why Barb recommended you. She knew I would hate the way the owners had staged it. I think she used the word cozy when talking about your design aesthetic. I want a cozy little love nest. What would you do if this was your cottage?”
Ugh. The more I spent time with her, the more I liked her. I gave her my vision, even showing her photos from some of the cottages in the area I’d done.
A Design to Die For Page 15
