by Carrie Doyle
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
About the Author
More Hamptons Murder Mysteries
1
Antonia Bingham sat in the library of her inn and stared in disbelief at the woman across from her. Their conversation was so absurd that Antonia caught herself checking for hidden cameras or, at the very least, a group of friends to pop out from behind the sofa shouting “April Fools!”
She knew it wouldn’t happen. First of all, it wasn’t April. It was summer in the Hamptons: a beautiful Thursday afternoon in late July, warm but not hot, with a relentless blue sky and nary a cloud. Secondly, Antonia’s life had been taking such strange turns lately that her reality was no longer what one would call normal. Just a couple of months ago she had discovered a dead body, which had led to two more dead bodies and the eventual arrest of a serial killer. It was heady stuff, and fairly traumatic, especially since Antonia had been caught in the middle of it all and ended up in Southampton hospital.
Antonia didn’t want to think of that now. She had only recently put it behind her in an effort to be “done with murders,” a phrase she never imagined she would utter. She was feeling much better, and was finally able to walk without the wobbly assistance of a cane. Now that it was summer—the busiest season at the Windmill Inn, when everyone came out in droves to tan and dine and play in the Hamptons—Antonia needed to focus and manage. Unfortunately, Pauline Framingham had other ideas.
“Well?”
“I guess the obvious question is, why are you coming to me?” asked Antonia.
“Why would I come to you to solve a murder?” asked Pauline. She took a sip of sparkling water before carefully wiping her lips with a linen napkin. Antonia noted that she left no trace of a lipstick stain, though her lips were richly colored. Pauline either has naturally amazing lips, or she has discovered the world’s best lipstick, Antonia decided.
“Isn’t it obvious? You just solved a murder.”
Antonia almost smiled. “Yes, but that was accidental. I happened to find a dead body. I almost ended up dead myself.”
“But you didn’t, did you? And you found the killer. My best friend was killed. Bludgeoned to death with a tennis racket on my tennis court, and I want to find out who did it.”
Her harsh tone was somewhat unnerving, and Antonia shifted uncomfortably in her seat before responding.
“Why not go back to the police?”
Pauline scoffed. “They didn’t solve it the first time, and twenty-seven years later, they couldn’t even figure out who killed Warner Carruthers. You did.”
Antonia had her own reasons not to like the police, yet still she felt compelled to protest. “That doesn’t mean . . .”
“Bottom line is, I was their number one suspect. I was lucky I was seventeen at the time and had the best lawyers in New York City working overtime, because otherwise I’d be sitting in some Pennsylvania ladies’ prison with a three-hundred-pound girlfriend who has flabby thighs and split ends. I don’t think it would suit me very well.”
Antonia couldn’t even conjure up the image, and frankly didn’t want to. “Well, what about a private detective?”
“We used them back in the day. They were useless. Just took our money and then came back to my father and said it was me. It was always me. Everyone wanted me to be the killer. It was as juicy as a made-for-TV movie. Susie, the blond, preppy ‘girl next door.’ Me, the dark brunette, the spoiled, rich heiress. Best friends turned enemies. I supposedly found out Susie was fooling around with my boyfriend and killed her in a jealous rage. That story has everything: money, greed, beauty, and evil, but that’s just it: it was a story. It had everything but the truth. It was, frankly, a load of horse crap. I did not kill Susie. And you can be certain my boyfriend would not have fooled around with her behind my back.”
Antonia watched Pauline carefully. She was a striking woman of forty-four, with hazel eyes and long silky, dark hair. Antonia guessed Pauline had probably always been called “handsome” rather than “pretty,” yet with age her beauty had increased. Perhaps that had a little to do with the fact that she was enormously wealthy—her family was still the largest shareholder in the multibillion-dollar pharmaceutical company her grandfather had founded—and had access to high-quality maintenance. But Antonia didn’t really believe that; Pauline didn’t look pinched or pulled or overly Botoxed. Instead, Pauline’s beauty emanated more from the way she carried herself: she was confident and poised and had superb posture. Not to mention cheekbones that you could slit your wrist on and perfect grooming. Antonia felt the need to sit up a little straighter every time she glanced at her and wished her own dark wavy hair was not quite such a tangled mess.
“You could try a private detective again. I’m sure they’re a lot better now than they were twenty-seven years ago.”
“I could. But look, I did my homework before I came to you. You may have this nice little façade going of the charming little innkeeper who lives a celibate life baking and cooking at her award-winning restaurant. I can almost see you in thirty years with a bun on the top of your head and kittens nipping at your checkered apron. But I know underneath it all you are one shrewd woman, and you know this town as well as anyone who grew up here. You have your ear to the ground. People come and go at your inn all winter long—locals, summer people, weekenders. You must hear and see things that no one would believe. And people trust you. They like you. You’re a local, but you’re also an outsider, a Californian. I’ve even heard that our local movie star came to visit you in the hospital—”
Antonia felt herself blush. How did Pauline know about Nick Darrow?
“That was—”
Pauline didn’t wait for her to finish. “I also know from recent events that you are one hell of a dogged snoop. And that is just what I need.”
Antonia was both flattered and offended. Basically Pauline was saying that she was nosy, but likably and successfully nosy. Since she had recently turned thirty-six, Antonia had come to terms with the fact that it’s important to know one’s self, and she couldn’t deny that there was truth to what Pauline said. Antonia was . . . curious, as she would prefer to call it. (She had been nicknamed “Snoopy” as a child. Not after the floppy cartoon dog, but for her tendency to eavesdrop.) Was it a crime that she liked to study people and learn as much as she could about them—particularly the guests at the inn? She’d found herself on dozens of occasions playing psychiatrist to various visitors who had come out East in search of something that they hadn’t found elsewhere. Antonia liked to help people; it was her nature. Still, her past two successes uncovering murderers had been flukes. Hadn’t they?
“Pauline, one thing you have to think about is, are you sure you even want to go there? It happened a long time ago. And I know Susie’s death was tragic, but there could be consequences to revisiting it. I hate to say it, but all the clichés come to mind: let sleeping dogs lie; don’t open that can of worms . . .”
Pauline glanced distractedly at the plate of coconut macaroons that Antonia had baked moments before her arrival. She hadn’t touched them. Neither had Antonia for that matter, and it was taking extreme willpower. That twenty pounds she had promised to lose by summer was still hovering around her middle, as resilient as ever. And the two months when she could barely walk because of her injured knee had certainly not helped her fitness routine. Antonia held up the plate and offered the cookies to Pauline, but Pauline shook her head. With a shrug, Antonia took a small one. Know thyself, she murmured inwardly, as if this excused it.
“I just learned that Susie’s mother is on her deathbed. She has less than a month to live. It is her dying wish to find out who killed her beloved only child. I would like to bring her some peace . . .” Pauline’s voice trailed off.
“That’s very sad.”
Pauline nodded.
“But . . . do you think the killer can really be caught? After all this time?”
“I think you could find him. Or her.”
Antonia thought of Susie’s mother. As an only child herself, Antonia could only imagine the anguish her mother would have experienced if she had been killed, and so young. It was too awful to think about. Maybe Antonia could help find the killer. She couldn’t do it alone, though. Perhaps with the help of her friend Joseph, who was a crackerjack researcher, and Larry Lipper, who was a good investigator, she might be able to uncover something.
“You know, you were one of my initial suspects last time, when I was trying to figure out who killed Warner,” Antonia said, taking another small cookie. She couldn’t help it; those chewy little drops of heaven beckoned.
Pauline laughed heartily—a husky, masculine laugh. “I’m sure.”
“No, really. I knew that he had burned you in his documentary, and I thought of you as a woman who would do what she needed to do to fix things.”
“I am,” Pauline said evenly. She held Antonia’s stare without flinching, and Antonia could sense hardness behind her eyes.
There was a pause. Antonia was warming up to Pauline. She was definitely haughty and a little vain, but she was a straight shooter. There was something refreshing in that. And now that Antonia saw a softer side—one that wanted to find the killer of her best friend in order to bring solace to the victim’s mother—that humanized Pauline. But Antonia had her inn to worry about.
“I wish I could help you, Pauline. I really do. But I don’t have time to look into this. Summer is my busy season . . .”
“Work during your hours off. You don’t have a family.”
“Right,” Antonia said, feeling slightly affronted, even though it was true. Antonia was quite content being on her own, but when it was pointed out to her, it stung. She would like to have children one day.
“Regardless, I need to work constantly during the summer. This is our busiest time of year.”
“I’ll pay you well.”
“I’m sure you would, but how could I accept payment? What would it be for? I don’t even have a P.I. license. My accountants would be all over me.”
“What’s the slowest month at your inn?”
“Excuse me?”
“What is the slowest month?”
“Um, I suppose February.”
“Then I’ll rent every room for the month of February, and that will be your payment.”
“Pauline, that’s very nice . . .”
“Don’t say ‘but.’ I don’t like that word. Besides, it would be silly for you to say no. You could use the income.”
She spoke the truth. Running an inn and a restaurant in a resort town that had only a three-month high season was expensive. Antonia loved it, but her savings had been whittled down to close to nothing.
A discreet glance at the grandfather clock against the wall revealed that it was almost five o’clock, and Antonia knew she was needed in the kitchen to prep the staff for dinner service. It was time to tactfully extricate herself.
“Let me think about it,” she told Pauline.
“Don’t fool yourself. You’ll do it.”
Antonia bristled. She did not enjoy being bossed around. But before she could interject, Pauline continued.
“Come by my house tomorrow and I’ll give you all the background information and contact numbers. I won’t take no for an answer, at least until you look through what I have. I think you’ll be very interested in one of my main suspects.”
“Who’s that?”
Pauline stood up abruptly. “There was another reason I came to you. The fact is, I believe Susie’s killer is a friend of yours.”
“What? A friend of mine? Which friend?”
“I’ll tell you tomorrow. Seventeen West End Road. Be there at ten.”
2
Antonia did a walk-through of the inn’s marine blue parlor on her way to the kitchen. Tea service was winding down, and various seating sections were filled with guests of the hotel and locals who had popped in for a quick respite and were currently cocooned deep in the cushioned sofas. Formal tea caddies holding petite trays of miniature sandwiches, scones, and tarts were arranged on tables next to delicate china teapots and cups. The weekly service, held on Thursdays, was very popular, even in the summer months (where iced tea was also an option). It was one of the many warm touches that Antonia provided for her customers.
The Windmill Inn, a sprawling three-story Georgian structure built in 1840, was among the most recognizable buildings in the quaint village of East Hampton. Situated on Main Street (Route 27) it faced both the village pond and the village green and was within walking distance of the town’s shops, churches, and well-regarded public library. The inn was now, as it always had been, white-shingled with green shutters, and boasted eight guest rooms, one suite, two small apartments, as well as a restaurant that seated sixty-five, and several public common rooms. Antonia lived in the snug ground-floor apartment, located in the back of the inn with a pleasant view of the garden. The house contained one additional apartment that was situated on the third floor and faced east. Antonia’s friend Joseph Fowler, a writer of historical fiction whose wife had recently passed away, had taken up full-time residence there in the fall.
As with most old buildings, the Windmill Inn possessed charm and the enchanting coziness that is inherent in places full of history. The uneven stairs, squeaky floorboards, rickety antique elevator, and countless nooks and crannies in which to curl up and read a book were what people found most captivating. But the finickiness and constant maintenance issues certainly presented a challenge to Antonia and her team, as they were often called upon to fix one thing or another. She frequently felt as if she were hemorrhaging money just to keep the place afloat, especially in the winter months when there were fewer visitors. It was definitely a labor of love, especially the restaurant. Becoming a chef at her own restaurant had always seemed like a far-off dream, and now, even though the reality held financial pressure, she felt more at home here than she ever had in her previous life in California.
Antonia greeted a couple from Pennsylvania before being waved over by Penny Halsey and Ruth Thompson. The ladies were in their seventies and an integral part of the local fabric, with roots going back in the community for generations. Keenly inquisitive and witty, they never failed to cheer Antonia. Ruth was very tall and slim, and wore her white hair short in the style of a 1940s film star. Her features were elegant, from her long neck to her patrician nose and blue eyes. Penny was a bit plumper than her friend, with rosy dimples and eyes that curled up at the edges when she smiled, and today her gray bob was pulled back by a Liberty print head
band. Both women were intensely knowledgeable about what was happening in the village.
“We saw Pauline Framingham in here a moment ago,” said Penny, who was vigorously buttering a scone. “What’s that all about?”
Antonia smiled. These gals didn’t miss a trick. “She had some business to talk to me about.”
“Did she want to buy you out?” asked Penny.
“No, I’m not for sale.”
“You know the Framinghams own most of East Hampton, don’t you?” asked Ruth.
“I didn’t realize that. But there’s definitely an air of entitlement.”
“Yes, they bought up all the local real estate in the seventies. Which is why their beloved daughter got away with murder. Everyone was scared to death of them. Didn’t want to ruffle any feathers,” Penny said between bites of cucumber sandwich.
“That’s interesting,” Antonia said. That would explain why Susie’s murder was never solved, she wanted to add, but she refrained.
“I, for one, thought she was innocent,” said Ruth. “There was a tennis pro I remember. Lived in the guesthouse. I always thought it was him.”
“No, it was Pauline. The father covered it all up,” Penny insisted.
“If it was Pauline, the police would have got her. Our police are the best, and they would never have been bought off,” Ruth said.
Penny snorted. “I don’t know, Ruthie. Money can buy many things.”
“I’m not sure about that, Pen.”
“Why did you think it was the tennis pro?” Antonia asked.
“I don’t know, he just seemed rather, well, sketchy is the word, I suppose,” said Ruth. “I recall that he was the tennis pro at the Dune Club for years and lived with the Framinghams. They used to do that at the club, you know—have all the pros live in the guesthouses of the grand estates. And then all of the kids grew up and couldn’t afford their own houses so they moved into the guest estates and out went the pros to share houses in Springs. Now these old estates are bursting at the seams . . .”
“Interesting,” Antonia interjected, keen for more information. “And then, so, about this pro? What was his name?”
