by Carrie Doyle
“Could be. They zeroed right in on her, that’s for sure. Old Tubby Walters was the chief of police back then. You didn’t know him; he retired a year later and moved down to Florida. A lot of folks thought he was paid off by the family, actually. Never solved the case and moved away. I don’t think so; he was an honest guy. I just think he was out of his depth. He was a local cop and this was Big City business. The Framinghams and their friends were Big City. Anyhow, I wait awhile, thinking maybe it’s just an accident, because, you know, the caller was so calm, and who would have thought murder? I wait, but then I hear the call for backup and detectives and a wagon and I know I need to head over there.
“You know, I didn’t spend that much time in that part of town, down by Georgica Beach. It’s pretty swank over there. And I pull on the road, and they’re all up at that house on the dunes, the Framingham house. I ask my buddies what happened and they say a seventeen-year-old girl is dead. Pummeled to death with a tennis racket. One guy said he’d never seen anything so gruesome, but I suppose that’s not saying a lot, he’d probably never caught a murder before. They said they were talking to the Framingham girl, but before they even got to her, the lawyer Tom Schultz arrived. He’s a powerhouse, to boot. To this day, I don’t know how they got him there that fast, but he was there by the time I was. She lawyered up and then that was that.”
“Was Pauline the only suspect?” asked Larry.
“She was the only one who was there at the time. Well, there was a tennis pro living on the property, Scott Stewart, but he was teaching at the club at the time, and people vouched for him. They looked at the housekeeper and the maid, but one was sixty-five years old and wouldn’t have had the strength to do anything like that, and the other was at the grocery store. Pauline had a brother, Russell, but he was on his boat at the yacht club, someone vouched for that. The only other people investigated were Pauline’s boyfriend, Dougie Marshall, and the landscaper, Kevin Powers.”
A lightbulb went off in Antonia’s head. She knew Kevin Powers, not well, but she was good friends with his brother, Len, and Len’s wife, Sylvia. Pauline had said that the person she suspected of killing Susie was a friend of Antonia’s. This must be to whom she was referring.
“Did you think either of them were good for it?” asked Larry.
There was a pause on Chester’s end. “I actually liked the brother for it. I thought there was something off about him . . . I’m not sure what.”
“But you said he had an alibi?” asked Larry.
“Yes, yes. But I don’t know . . . there was something not right about him. It felt as if he was hiding something.”
“Why didn’t they look at him harder?” pressed Larry.
“I think they were overwhelmed. The family lawyered up; they weren’t cooperating at all. Dougie Marshall was a degenerate, one of those snot-nosed spoiled brats. They would have loved it to be him. And Kevin, well, I never thought he could have done it. He was a lightweight. Surfed a lot, smoked a little weed, I hear he’s legit now, but, well . . . I think we got into a little bit of a class warfare on that one.”
“How do you mean?” asked Larry.
“Well, God forbid it’s a rich person who did it! It had to be a Bonacker: a local. At least that was the rumor the family was spreading.”
“Why would the brother—Russell—why would he have killed Susie?”
“I don’t know . . . maybe he fancied her. I’m not saying he did, but there was something there. Something I can’t pinpoint.”
“Got it.”
“But you know, I could be all wrong. Could have been Pauline Framingham, like everyone else thought. She was one cold gal.”
“You think a girl like that kills her best friend?”
“Yeah, that’s where it all fell apart. No real motive, not for any of them.”
“Anything wonky about the vic?”
“Naw. Everyone loved her. A pretty girl. I remember when her parents came down to I.D. the body. I was hanging around. They were shell-shocked. I’m haunted to this day by the looks on their faces.”
Larry turned off the recording.
“So what do you think? You got your work cut out for you, Bingham.”
“It’s very sad. Gosh, now all I can think about is her parents. And to know that her mom is so sick . . .”
“There are a lot of casualties around a murder, and not only the victim.”
“You’re right.”
“Are you ready to exonerate a possible murderer? Who is ‘cool as a cucumber’ when their friend gets whacked?”
Antonia cocked her head and stared at him. “I was interested in what Chester said about the nine-one-one call.”
“What, that she was calm?”
“No. Nobody knows how they’ll react when confronted with that situation.”
“What then?”
“Pauline Framingham said her friend had been cut. She didn’t say beaten to death or pummeled, she just said cut. That’s different.”
“What does it matter? It’s just semantics.”
“I don’t know . . . if she had killed her and intended to kill her, she would have said she was dead. I think it matters.”
5
Friday mornings in the summer were a whirling bustle of zest and activity at the Windmill Inn. There were new guests arriving—usually earlier than their appointed check-in time—who were eager to unpack and hit the beach as soon as possible. Then there were the reluctant departees, whose languid efforts at checkout always caused tremendous consternation to the housekeepers and front desk. Even when gently reminded that departure time had come and gone they would situate themselves in the public salons before reluctantly retrieving their belongings from their now overdue rooms.
These were the moments when Antonia channeled her inner Camp Director, and she was in her element. She would stand at her post, next to Connie, who worked at reception, and Jonathan, the manager of the inn, and dictate, designate, and troubleshoot. After assigning early visitors the shiny blue bikes that the inn offered and providing them with maps and restaurant and beach information, she wished she had a giant whistle around her neck that she could blow to send them on their merry way until their accommodations were ready. And although she would have preferred to rebuke the guests who had worn out their welcome, she knew that she had to take it as a compliment that they were so entranced by her inn that they didn’t want to return home.
“How are you doing this morning, my dear?” asked Joseph Fowler, as he scootered past the desk en route to the front door.
Joseph, Antonia’s friend and lodger, had suffered from polio as a child and now walked with the assistance of crutches or zipped around on his shiny red scooter. A distinguished and handsome man in his early sixties, his appearance was always meticulous (he had a penchant for bow ties and dressing formally, regardless of the season—today it was a seersucker blazer over a pale yellow polo shirt with khakis) and his demeanor unflappable. He and Antonia shared a special bond; he reminded her so much of her late father and was always a supportive friend and adviser.
“Frazzled,” replied Antonia. “But managing.”
“Make sure you give yourself a break! Just because you feel better physically doesn’t mean the wounds have completely healed.”
He worried about Antonia’s health after her hospital stay. It was sweet. “I’m fine.”
“Pamper yourself a little! Head to the beach one day.”
“You sound like Larry Lipper,” said Antonia.
“Oh, then forget I said anything,” Joseph replied. He was not a big fan of Larry—he found him churlish and inappropriate—and he particularly despised the brusque and sometimes “disrespectful” tone Larry used when he talked to Antonia.
“No, I just mean he said I look too pale.”
“You look wonderful.”
Antonia smiled. They
didn’t make men like him anymore, Antonia mused. Always chivalrous and courteous, Joseph had all of the older ladies who came for tea contending for his attention.
“Are you headed to the library today?”
“Indeed I am. I ordered some recondite biographies on lesser-known Russian royals from a library upstate.”
“Sounds interesting. How’s the book going?”
Joseph’s historical fiction was critically acclaimed, and one of his books had been nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. All his books were set in the World War I era, with his latest taking place in Russia. “Slowly, as usual.”
“I’m sure it’s great,” Antonia said with certainty. “Hey listen, if you have time while you’re there, would you mind searching through some old copies of the East Hampton Star for me? Pauline Framingham asked me to look into the murder of her friend Susie Whitaker.”
Joseph raised his eyebrows. “Aha, just can’t stay away from murder, can you?”
“I want to . . . but now my brain is full with Susie Whitaker and I feel compelled to help find her killer.”
She filled him in on everything that had transpired between her visit with Pauline and Chester’s commentary. Joseph left with the promise that he would look into the back issues at the library. He was an incredible researcher so she knew he would have plenty of information assembled by dinnertime.
Antonia poked around the parlor and made sure that all of the breakfast fare had been cleared and the discarded newspapers returned to the racks against the wall or neatly aligned on the coffee tables. The staff had fluffed the pillows, and the furniture had been restored to its immaculate condition, no longer bearing the posterior indentations of the breakfast diners. One more survey of the room rendered Antonia satisfied. She was particularly enamored of the clusters of peonies on various tabletops, housed in delicate silver julep cups. At the end of the day, despite the financial burden and the hard work it entailed, she loved her inn and it made her truly happy. Life was about appreciating the small things, Antonia’s mother often said, and she was so grateful that she was now surrounded by love and beauty in a place she cherished.
Antonia headed into the kitchen and helped herself to a plate of plump blueberries and a banana nut muffin that was hot out of the oven. The moist treat practically melted in her mouth, and after adding one more to her plate, she made her way to her office. She was looking forward to a moment of quiet where she could enjoy a cup of milky English Breakfast tea with her meal. She couldn’t shake Susie Whitaker from her mind and she wanted to think more about how she would proceed in her investigation.
In the front hall, a man descending the stairs stopped her. He was in his mid-fifties, balding, with a thin black mustache impeccably groomed. He wore a neatly pressed pale blue shirt and a white linen sports coat over it and clutched a fedora in his long-fingered hand. Antonia noted that it was not the type of fedora currently favored by hipsters in Montauk but rather had the air of authenticity about it. He spoke with an Italian accent—her father would have remarked that he was “straight out of Central Casting”—and had an amiable face and pleasant demeanor that Antonia immediately responded to.
“Excuse me,” he began. Antonia noted that he said it more like Excusa me!
“Yes, can I help you?”
“Thank you. You are the owner of the inn, si?”
“Yes, I’m Antonia Bingham. Welcome.”
“Thank you.” (Again, more Thank-a you.) “I wanted to know your advice. Are you familiar with a woman who calls herself Elizabeth?”
“Elizabeth? Elizabeth who?”
“I don’t know her last name. Elizabeth.”
“Hmm . . . what does she look like?”
“She is about this high,” he said, indicating his height, “and she has dark hair and beautiful brown eyes. Bellissimo. Like a baby deer.”
“Ooh, don’t say that around these parts. People are not too fond of deer,” said Antonia.
The man gave her a quizzical look.
Antonia continued. “Because they’re overpopulated. They eat all of the vegetation. They used to eat just certain plants, but now they’re eating everything from the yew trees to the hydrangeas. They’re destroying the ecosystem . . .”
She trailed off when she noticed confusion in his expression.
“But they are so cute, no?”
“Well, I suppose . . . but people are throwing up fences everywhere to keep them out. There’s just too many. It’s sad. They’re starving, and plants are dying. It’s lose-lose.”
She could tell that the man wasn’t exactly following, so she stopped herself. Sometimes her logorrhea got to be too much. “So, this Elizabeth? She has pretty eyes?”
The man’s face became awash with joy. “The prettiest eyes in the world. You see straight into her heart. The eyes that you cannot forget. At least, I cannot, and I am certain no one else could.”
“Wow! Sounds very special.”
“I met her here in East Hampton. It was in October. I was here for the Hamptons Film Festival. I am an investor in small films. I live in Milano.”
“How interesting.”
“It is. I met her at Cittanuova, the Italian restaurant in town. She was at the bar; I was at the bar. We discussed. She says this was her first time at the festival. She always comes to East Hampton in July and August. We talked and talked. And then she said it was time for her to go to her film, and she did not reveal her last name. I know only, Elizabeth. Now I have been thinking about her for all these months, and I decided I need to come back and see her again.”
Antonia was truly touched. She put her hand to her heart. “That is the sweetest story I’ve ever heard!”
“I hope it is not the ending of the story, but the beginning. I am going now to the offices of the Hamptons Film Festival to ask their information on people named Elizabeth. But I ask of you to think or ask your friends . . . maybe they know her.”
“I definitely will. Hmmm . . . I’m running through everyone I know now and drawing a blank. But I definitely want to help. What’s your name?”
“I am Giorgio Leguzzi. Here is my card.”
He produced a manila card from his black leather wallet.
“Nice to meet you. I’m going to spread the word and see if we can track down Elizabeth. I must know someone who knows her.”
“Grazie,” he said with a slight bow before leaving the inn.
Wow, Antonia thought. She wondered how it would feel to have someone cross an ocean to find you after meeting you just once. To be that lucky in love. That wasn’t even in her wheelhouse. She had sabotaged her last romantic dalliance by accusing the guy of being a murderer. That was probably a giant no-no in the rule book on how to land a man. She was no good at love or romance. Her ex-husband was a monster who had been physically abusive and had inadvertently caused the death of her father. These days, she spent her time pining over a married movie star who was her morning beach walk partner. Yup, she was definitely self-destructive in the relationship department. However, just because she was bad at romance in her own life, it didn’t mean that she couldn’t help others.
Antonia spent the afternoon sending out emails to local friends inquiring if they knew any charming brunettes named Elizabeth. It was these sorts of distractions that often derailed Antonia’s day, but brought her so much joy. One of the perks of owning an inn was connecting with the guests. And Mr. Leguzzi was so lovely, it was fun to help him. Of course, not all of the guests were receptive to help. She remembered that last month there had been an odd young woman named Bridget Curtis who had stayed at the inn. A skittish girl who had behaved strangely. Antonia had tried to help her but had been rebuffed. Oh well, Antonia told herself. You can only help those that want help. And maybe she would find Mr. Leguzzi’s love.
6
The air in East Hampton was redolent with the salty scent of the ocean
and the lush perfume of soil and flowering trees. The aroma of blooming privet and honeysuckle bushes was especially strong this summer. Not a day went by without Antonia feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude that she had ended up in this scenic, soulful, aromatic town. She had her best friend Genevieve to thank for that. If Gen hadn’t encouraged her to quit her life in California and join her on the East Coast, Antonia might never have discovered the beauty that awaited her. There was a reason artists had flocked to this town to paint—the colors were luminescent and poetic and the light was spectacular. What Antonia felt most of all was inspiration.
East Hampton is the easternmost town in the state of New York, and in Antonia’s opinion, the most beautiful. Sited on a peninsula, it is bounded by the Atlantic Ocean, Block Island, and three bays—Gardiners, Napeague, and Fort Pond. The town includes the village of East Hampton as well as the hamlets of Montauk, Amagansett, Wainscott, Springs, and part of the village of Sag Harbor. It was the first English settlement in New York State, though it had been populated by Native Americans for centuries.
An agrarian community for its first 250 years, East Hampton village’s design remains exactly the same as when the settlement was laid out in 1648. Which meant that the view from Antonia’s Windmill Inn, of church tops, windmills, historic houses, and the South End Cemetery—where Lion Gardiner, one of the first settlers, is entombed—was more or less the same view that prior generations saw for centuries. Antonia felt a sense of history and place whenever she stood on the grassy lawn in front of her inn.
Now, as she drove down Apaquogue Road toward Pauline’s estate on West End Road—dodging the clutter of joggers, bikers, and amblers—Antonia was filled with a mixture of anticipation and anxiety. There were no two ways about it: Pauline Framingham intimidated her. Antonia respected the fact that Pauline was forthcoming; it was refreshing. But the more time she had to think about Pauline, the more unnerved Antonia became. She tried to break it down in her mind. If she could decipher the root of it, she might feel better.
