Murder in Montauk

by Carter Fielding

  “Sit anywhere you’d like. I’ll be with you in a minute.” The single waitress spoke over her shoulder as she carried an armload of omelets, farmer’s breakfasts, waffles, and French toast to a table on the back porch.

  “Let’s see if we can find a table overlooking the dunes,” Whitt said as she surveyed the options.

  There was an interesting mix of customers to be found in this area, especially as it neared the off-season. This year, the Indian summer had been warm enough for beach time during the day but cool enough in the evenings for the firepit. As a result, there were surfers, overaged hippies, a couple of model lookalikes, rich soccer moms, off-duty investment bankers, and local regulars, all crammed into the space for second coffees, post-drop-off smoothies, or hangover munchies.

  A large table was clearing as Finley and the crew made their way to the back. A quick wipe down later, and they were seated and looking at menus.

  “You need a wipe, Mama?” Finley held out a pack of Wet Wipes.

  “Thank you, dear!” Mama pulled two wipes from the package, using one for her hands and the other to wipe the table in front of her.

  Whitt let them all order and settle in with their coffees before recounting the several things they could do over their four-day vacation.

  “I want to get some shopping in while we’re here,” Whitt said. “I am sure Mama will join me. Mooney, you in? We can leave Finley at a café with a book, and she’ll be fine.” She looked over at her sister and smirked good-naturedly. She knew that what she said was true. As much as Whitt wanted to shake her sister out of her funk, she knew that if left to her own devices, Finley would crawl out of it herself—probably faster than if she were forced out.

  “That’s fine with me,” Finley said, “but I think I might take advantage of this gorgeous scenery to shoot rather than stick my head in a book. I can read at night.”

  After a few moments of comfortable silence, Whitt looked devilishly at Finley and asked a question that almost always led to a game: “Who do you think did it?”

  Finley replied with a wolfish grin.

  This was to be the beginning round of the Murder Game, a story-building pastime that the sisters had regularly played as children when they accompanied their parents on holiday or business trips overseas. The object of the game was to incorporate their fellow travelers into macabre scenes of murder and mayhem, much like a live game of Clue. It was not unusual for the girls to giggle through breakfast after seeing guests that had engaged in sordid affairs, shady dealings, and drunken drama during their bedtime round of the game the night before.

  “Did what?” Mooney asked innocently.

  “You girls should quit!” Mama looked at Whitt reproachfully, narrowing her eyes in an attempt to nip this unbecoming behavior in the bud. But Whitt’s smile said she wasn’t backing down, and she knew her sister would stand with her.

  “Who was murdered?” Finley asked quietly.

  “Murdered?” Mooney choked out, her face in tormented surprise.

  “No one was murdered, dear,” Mama explained. “These two are playing a silly, very warped childhood game. Please ignore them.”

  Mooney listened as the sisters continued as if nothing else had been said.

  “The woman in the green sundress. Attractive, but she needs to be knocked off, if for no other reason than to get her out of that unfortunate dress. That putrid-looking color does nothing for her skin tone, and the style is not flattering. Does she not have a mirror?” Whitt said under her breath.

  “How did she die?” Finley was meticulously dissecting the elements of the murder and pointedly interrogating Whitt to construct a plausible scenario.

  “Poison. No visible signs of foul play. No incriminating fingerprints on the glasses. Seemingly, no enemies. No unusual smells or behaviors. She was just found dead in her reading chair.”

  “Makes one want to give up reading,” Finley quipped, tucking into a Greek omelet oozing with spinach and melted feta. “Did she live by herself?”

  “Girls, stop this! Not over breakfast. It is enough to turn my stomach!” Mama cried.

  “Sorry, Mama. We’ll quit.” Finley stared at her plate before turning to her sister. She winked. This ain’t over, baby sister. I will figure it out before bedtime.

  “Do you have brothers and sisters, Mooney? I can’t recall Finley mentioning any,” Mama asked.

  “No, ma’am. I’m an only child—so these sibling dynamics are intriguing.”

  “You make us sound like some sort of science experiment!” Finley laughed, reaching for another slice of homemade sourdough bread. She broke a piece and smeared on a dollop of fresh blueberry jam.

  “It’s just that I never had anyone to banter with like you guys do. And this is the first time I have seen you two together.” Mooney sipped at her coffee, eyeing her friend over her cup as Finley closed her eyes and savored the bread and jam with a contented smile. She will survive this, but only if she opens up. Maybe Whitt can get it out of her.

  “Chaos in action!” Whitt grinned. “And we get even better once we get warmed up—and lubricated with wine…or bourbon. Then the minds and the tongues really get sharp!”

  “I know this is not over, so I won’t even pretend. But if you could refrain from playing this sick game over dinner, I would appreciate it,” Mama said, putting down her knife and fork and dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin. Much as she said the conversation would put her off her food, the empty plate where the eggs Florentine once was said something else.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Whitt looked modestly contrite before her voice regained its excitement. “If y’all have finished eating, let’s pay the bill and head off to the beach!”

  Two

  Finley followed the path that led to the Walking Dunes, an ecological anomaly that shifted the huge, domed mounds inland several inches each year, subsuming anything in the sands’ path. She had read about them in Whitt’s guidebook and was looking forward to seeing the tops of trees sticking out of the sand like decapitated skeletons in an eerie tableau.

  The rest of the crew had decided to take advantage of the warm weather to catch a bit of sun on the beach at the back of the house. A pleasant flat of firm sand that had the benefit of a fanned dune on one side to both block the winds and give some degree of privacy, the house’s beach still afforded an uninterrupted view of the expanse of the southern Long Island shoreline. Pristine, powder-light sand and blue-gray sheets of smooth water called to Whitt and Mooney. Even Mama had donned her suit and a coverup to enjoy the weather.

  Finley had taken a few shots of the three of them hamming it up on the beach—Mama and Whitt’s legs battling it out to see whose would be the longest, shapeliest, and most toned. For a woman of Mama’s age, she gave Whitt a run for her money. She could have been a professional model, given her height, slim build, and classic features, but instead went to culinary school in Paris just after college, when the strictures of a small Southern town grew too confining. It had been there that she had met Ry—Langdon Ryker Blake III—a handsome bear of a man with a cub’s kindness who had stolen her heart and never bothered to give it back.

  Instead, he married her and took her around the world as a military wife while he rose through the ranks. By the time he was in his early fifties, he had one star, but to everyone’s surprise, had no interest in sticking around to get his second. Mama had two kids by then and an idea for a design firm that Daddy could run while she tried her hand at writing cookbooks. So, they left Korea for Chevy Chase and settled down.

  “You guys are too cute! It looks like two skyscrapers and a darling little bungalow!” Finley chortled, her eye fixed on the camera display as her sister, mother, and best friend vogued. All three of the Blake women were tall. That was where her similarity to her mother and sister stopped. While they had classic features, Finley had inherited the patrician Meryl-Streep nose
that ran on her mother’s side of the family but had somehow skipped her mother. To that was added Helen Bonham-Carter full lips and large, doe-shaped eyes—in alligator green. As her grandmother had said, she was handsome in the British sense while her mother and sister were undeniably pretty. “Pose, ladies!”

  When the others had chosen their positions on the lounge chairs at the beach, Finley dropped her beach bag and grabbed her day pack and the camera. She stuffed a few extra lenses in a side pocket and struck off for the nature reserve that housed the mysterious dunes.

  Even though they were less than a half-mile from the house, the trek had taken her over forty-five minutes and one hundred-plus shots. In one area, she had stood for almost fifteen minutes, capturing the sand etchings created as the wind whipped the sand into different patterns. The serene palette of the sea-glass water, greige sands, verdant dune grasses moving in the wind had her mesmerized.

  She had turned to photography as a way to pass the time without having to talk to anyone while she was staying at her parents’ house, just after she got back from Morocco. People asked too many questions, especially southern people—questions she either wasn’t ready to probe herself or questions she didn’t have the answers to. In either case, there were some things she still wanted to avoid right now. And when she was behind the camera lens, people stayed clear, gave her space, and talked in hushed, reverent tones. She found she liked the silence and so adopted the camera as a shield.

  “Where’d you get to, missy?” Mama asked when Finley arrived back at the house. Although Mama was now under the sun umbrella, it didn’t look like Mooney or Whitt had moved from where she had left them. But knowing that both were careful sun babies, she surmised that they were on their third or fourth rotation. She pictured them as chickens on a spit and tittered.

  “What’s so funny?” Mooney looked up, peering over her sunglasses. “You were gone a long time. Find anything interesting?”

  Finley leaned down and kissed her mother’s forehead before heading over to the lounge chair that held her things.

  “Did I have you guys worried? Sorry. I lost track of time.” She pulled off her t-shirt and shorts and lay across the lounge chair in her bathing suit with her camera on her belly. “Take a look. Some unusual sights!”

  Finley held the camera over for Mama to see as she scrolled through some shots.

  “You certainly are developing a very discerning eye,” Mama said. “I’d love to blow some of those up for your Daddy’s office. Maybe he’ll put a few in Lannie Willis’s new beach house.”

  “I appreciate your support, Mama, but these are hardly good enough to be framed, much less used in someone’s design.”

  “I beg to differ,” Mama said.

  Mooney held her hand out, reaching for the camera. “Let me see.”

  She waited until Finley reluctantly passed the camera over.

  “These are fantastic.” She quickly moved through the frames, returning periodically to ones that caught her eye. “I agree with your mom. You have a hell of a good eye.”

  The phrase caught Finley in the chest. She leaned back, quiet for a while, thankful that no one was paying attention to her. Get a grip. He’s gone. Accept it. But she couldn’t. That was what Max had said when he’d first seen her photos: “You’ve got a hell of a good eye, girl.”

  Mooney wouldn’t have known. She knew of Max, but she didn’t know him. And never would. He was gone.

  “Finley! Finley? Earth to Finley!” Mooney was holding out the camera and, from her tone, had been for some time. Her face expressed a mix of concern and questioning.

  “Sorry. I was daydreaming.” Finley reached for the camera and put it in its case before dropping it into her beach bag.

  “So, what are we doing for dinner?” Whitt had finally come to life, raising her head and directing the question at no one in particular. “I am getting hungry.”

  “I made us a reservation for the Bungalows at Gurney’s,” Finley said. “I figured we could do drinks there and then decide on dinner. But if you’re hungry now, we can cancel it.”

  “No, that sounds like a plan. I am sure they have noshes that we can order.” Whitt pulled on her cover-up and started for the house. “Can we be ready in twenty minutes?”

  “You really must be hungry, dear,” Mama said. “I can be ready by then.”

  As Mama and Whitt headed inside, Mooney held back while Finley put on her shorts and t-shirt, watching her every move for greater insight.

  When none was revealed, she asked, “You okay?” Mooney’s eyes never left Finley. “You seemed a bit quiet for a moment there.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Just get a little day-dreamy sometimes.”

  “It might help if you shared the burden, you know. We all love you.”

  “I know. Not just yet, though. But soon. I promise.” Finley realized she had started to cry. “Damn. Where did that come from?”

  “From me prying too much.” Mooney had taken Finley in her arms while she cried, her body wracked with sobs by now.

  “I am so sorry. I thought I had it under better control.” Finley quickly wiped her face on her towel. “Don’t let Mama see.”

  “You did have it under control—until I pried. You even laughed a few times today.” Mooney touched her friend’s arm gently. “I am the one who should be sorry.”

  “You ladies coming to dinner?” Mama called from the house. “You had better hurry. Whitt and I are going to beat you!”

  The Bungalows turned out to be loft-like buildings set in the dunes on the expansive Gurney’s property. Originally a wooden lodge that offered massages and saunas to visitors from the city who weekended in the sleepy fishing village that was Montauk, the spa had become an upscale mega-complex with multiple options for guests.

  They arrived at their Bungalow just before sunset and settled around the firepit, which the staff had lit for them. The bottle of Billecart Salmon champagne that Finley had ordered—one of Whitt’s favorites—was perfectly chilled. A waiter stood ready to open it. Whitt scanned the appetizer menu quickly, made a few suggestions that were readily accepted, and then placed their order. Then she added in another bottle of champagne.

  The evening was picture perfect. Calm water gently rippled by a soft ocean breeze, the sky turning the color palette upside down as it faded from clear blue to shades of pink and orange and finally yellow before the large blaze that was the sun slipped below the horizon. A few evening walkers ambling, hand in hand, down the sandy stretch. The warmth of the bonfire easing out the fatigue of the day.

  “Ladies, we have the best of friends and family here, and I, for one, plan to celebrate tonight,” Whitt said, raising her flute in toast and taking a sip. “We can walk up the beach to the house if we get tipsy. We can eat dinner here or fill up on canapes. We can drink to every success and cry over every failure with abandon.”

  “What has you in such a good mood?” Finley was curious about her sister’s strangely animated state of mind. “We know you love your new job. Is there something else going on too? Maybe a new guy?”

  Whitt hesitated. God, don’t let me put her in a deeper funk, thinking everyone has a life but her. But I like him, and he called and said he misses me.

  “Maybe…” Whitt’s voice trailed off.

  “Are you going to tell us about him, or are we going to have to pull it out of you?” Finley asked, poking her mother in the ribs gently. “Mama isn’t getting any younger, and I am sure she would like grandkids. If it isn’t me, then it has got to be you!”

  “He’s just a guy I met a few months ago. Actually, Charlie introduced us,” Whitt turned to Mooney and explained. “Charlie is my best friend in Manila. Hunter plays in her band.”

  “Charlie’s in a band? How long has she been doing that?” Finley asked. “More importantly, tell us about Hunter!”

  “I didn’t tel
l you that Charlie’s lead singer and guitarist for The Raiders? She’s great. Powerful, bluesy voice and pretty good at ‘pickin’ the geetar,’ as Mama and Daddy would say.” Whitt took another sip of her champagne. “As for Hunter, he’s the bassist—and before Mama has an apoplectic fit, this is his hobby. He actually works at WHO. Other than that, not much to tell. It’s nice hanging out with him. We’ll see.”

  Finley smiled. Whitt was playing her usual coy, close-to-the-chest self. That the girl even mentioned him means she likes him—really likes him. Just because I suck at the love game doesn’t mean the game isn’t worth it. Damn, I am a romantic. That sucks more than being bad at it!

  By the time the appetizers came, they had finished the first bottle of champagne and were well into the second. Dinner at Scaparelli’s had been a nice idea that faded as the night wore on. They toasted Mama for her birthday and for having such great taste in men, namely Daddy. They toasted best friends who always have your back. They even toasted themselves for being great people and knowing how to pick their friends. The last toast was perhaps the most poignant: they toasted to life.

  ***

  Bright morning sunlight cut through the window shades, blinding Finley awake. She was surprised—she had actually slept. Or maybe she had just passed out. She was surprised that her head didn’t hurt. She could hear her mother in the kitchen making coffee. Finley checked the time. Ten o’clock. Shower water could be heard running in one of the other rooms, and Finley decided that would be a good first step this morning.

  Showered and dressed, she felt more human. Finley could remember the toasts and good-natured banter. More importantly, she could remember feeling safe, loved, cared for. Maybe this weekend was as much about her coming to grips with loss as it was a celebration of her mother’s journey through life.

  “How is everybody doing? And what are we doing today?” Finley poured herself a cup of her favorite Caffe Nero blend as the others slowly came into the kitchen. Mama was, of course, fully dressed and coifed. Mooney had showered but her hair was still wet. Whitt had just pulled a sweater over her silk pajamas, and Finley was somewhere in between, wearing a sundress but without makeup.