Death on West End Road

by Carrie Doyle

  Could it be because Pauline was so rich? Until Antonia had moved to East Hampton (she hated to say “the Hamptons”—so tacky) she had never met super wealthy people. Well, that wasn’t completely true; during her catering days she had done events for affluent vintners and some of the wine-country crowd. But this was on an entirely different level. A lot of people who summered in East Hampton had more money than small Latin American countries. Or even big Latin American countries. But in the three years since she had moved here, she had consorted with rich, even very rich people at benefits for Guild Hall or the Group for the East End. They had even dined at her restaurant. And now, for the most part, she was used to people with money, which was almost absurd. Her father would have had a good laugh at that.

  Could she be intimidated because Pauline was “old money” as opposed to “new money,” more to the manner born? That couldn’t be it either. Antonia had a side job as a caretaker where she looked after the Lily Pond Lane home of the Masterson family. Her duties included checking on the house when they weren’t there and being present for any deliveries or maintenance. Robert and Joan Masterson were very old money. Someone had told Antonia that Robert’s family had come over on the Mayflower and Joan was a Daughter of the American Revolution, which was apparently a big deal in society. Or at least it used to be. But the Mastersons were very nice, and Antonia never felt intimidated by them.

  It was Pauline herself who was daunting. That could be because Antonia had suspected her of a different crime, or maybe it was because she had been suspected of killing her best friend, but Antonia didn’t think that was the reason either. Pauline had this aura around her—this confidence and entitlement coupled with—the word popped into Antonia’s head as she passed Steven Spielberg’s house—ruthlessness.

  * * * * *

  “Wow, what a beautiful house,” mused Antonia as she was led through the spacious pale green living room with windows facing the Atlantic Ocean. There were several clusters of furniture upholstered in pastel colors with floral throw pillows, a skirted corner table with an abundance of framed photographs, and an impressive oil portrait above the marble fireplace mantel of an elegant woman sporting a large diamond and sapphire necklace.

  “It’s a teardown,” said Pauline without a lick of emotion in her voice.

  “A teardown? No way,” Antonia disputed as she glanced around.

  The enormous weather-beaten, gray-shingled house loomed on the dunes with a large expanse of newly mowed lawn in front of it. It was one of those iconic beach houses, probably a hundred years old, that no doubt had been referred to as a “cottage” back in the day. There were no frills—well, that is if you didn’t count amenities such as a tennis court, a saltwater pool, an outdoor shower, a guesthouse, a spectacular view of the ocean, as well as probably multiple bedrooms and as many baths. In the era of shiny new McMansions all attempting to emulate such original beauty, it was stunning to see inside the real thing.

  “Of course it is,” said Pauline. She diverted her attention from Antonia momentarily to ask her uniformed maid to bring the iced tea to the sunroom. She then returned her focus to Antonia.

  “Why do you say that?” Antonia asked peevishly.

  Pauline gave her a slight condescending smile that made Antonia feel self-conscious. She worried that she would start perspiring and wished she had not worn her gauzy shirt, which would immediately show any sweat marks. Pauline, on the other hand, looked fresh in her neatly pressed tennis whites with her dark hair slicked back in a swinging ponytail. Although she was in her mid-forties, she was as fit as a teenager with toned and tanned hairless legs and arms and a flat stomach.

  “In this day and age, everything out here over twelve years old is a teardown,” Pauline said with strained patience. “The people with money have no loyalty to history, they just want convenience. You can’t blame them, really. It’s no longer fashionable to have Jack and Jill bathrooms, everyone wants ‘en suite.’ They want to feel like they’re in a hotel. And this house has low ceilings—there’s no charm in that, they all want cathedral. Not to mention we don’t have a basement, so they would have to lift up the house and dig under it, and at that point why bother . . .”

  “Do they really need a basement?” asked Antonia naively. “Seems as if you have enough storage space.”

  Pauline looked at her as if she were insane. “You have to have a basement in this day and age for your media rooms or kids’ playrooms or especially if you want central air—a perk we don’t have. For us, it was always fine to use the ocean breeze to keep us from overheating. But apparently that is not de rigueur these days.”

  “But there’s so much charm in these old houses . . .” Antonia protested.

  “Who cares about charm when you pay sixty-five million for a house?”

  Antonia’s eyes widened and Pauline continued.

  “I’m not trying to be gauche, we both know how much this type of house would fetch. And I am most likely low-balling. The one on Further Lane went for one hundred and twenty-seven million and that was also a teardown.”

  “I don’t know . . . this house has style.”

  “Style is ephemeral. This house has quirks, and people don’t have patience for that anymore. We have a dozen bedrooms of varying sizes, but buyers want a uniform size. They don’t want the staff on the same floor, so they either stuff them in newly built rooms in the basement or outsource them. My neighbors, who bought their house for twenty million ten years ago before promptly tearing it down, rent a house for their chef and housekeeper in the Springs.”

  “The world is really changing. I happen to love quirkiness . . .”

  “Clearly,” said Pauline. “But quirky means forcing yourself to adapt to something uncomfortable and inconvenient and spinning it to make it sound charming.”

  Antonia opened her mouth to protest but Pauline continued. “Quirkiness works for me here because it’s a habit. I’m used to this house. It’s the repository for my childhood memories, my mental garbage can. When the third step on the back stairs creaks, it reminds me of sneaking out when I was fifteen. I like the fact we haven’t dug our power lines underground because I quite enjoy losing power during a hurricane. It reminds me of Hurricane Gloria when I made out with Henry Johnson for the first time. But someone new who doesn’t have these memories will care less about them. They want their own.”

  “I suppose . . .”

  “At the end of the day, it’s irrelevant, because I’m not planning on selling, now or ever.”

  “That’s great.”

  Somehow, Antonia felt as if she had been dressed down by a teacher. She followed Pauline in silence until they arrived at the sunroom. Antonia realized she had seen this house from the beach many times on her early-morning walks. It was surreal to be on the opposite side, staring out rather than in.

  The sunroom was not fancy or in any way impressive except for the wall of windows and screen doors that afforded a spectacular 180-degree view of the beach. There was a beadboard ceiling and shingled interior walls awash in white paint. The décor consisted of white chipped cane furniture with sagging cushions in faded green, white, and pink chintz—a somewhat sad pattern of fat peonies and roses. The floors were a milky cream tile overlaid with a small natural-colored sisal rug and a glass-topped coffee table atop that. There were some bleached wood-framed prints of plants and flowers adorning the walls and an endless collection of jars of varying sizes housing sea glass—no doubt collected from the beach below—on every surface. It was a WASPy paradise and smelled faintly of mildew.

  Pauline motioned to a rickety armchair that appeared to be the least comfortable seating option in the room for Antonia to place herself on, while opting for the sofa herself.

  Antonia wedged her frame into the seat as gracefully as possible but couldn’t help but feeling that the chair was meant for a child, not a grown woman.

  “I
talked to Mrs. Whitaker last night and she was so heartened that you have decided to help us find Susie’s killer,” Pauline said.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “It really means a lot to her. It’s very sad because she’s so sick, but she’s still totally lucid. And she still talks about Susie as if she just left the room.”

  “That’s heartbreaking.”

  “I know. The nurses say she is holding on in order to get an answer . . .”

  They both sat in silence for a minute. Antonia studied Pauline, who looked distraught. Surely she couldn’t have murdered her friend if she’s this despondent, Antonia mused.

  Suddenly, Pauline’s manner changed and she was at once all business. “I need you now to sign all these documents and then we can commence.”

  She motioned to a pile of legal contracts that Antonia had not noticed upon entering.

  “What are these?”

  “Nondisclosures, payment agreements, liability waivers.”

  Antonia gulped. “Um, I guess I’m not really prepared for this. Maybe I should have my lawyer look at it?”

  She did some mental math on how much her lawyer charged per hour and how much this endeavor would cost her. She had never thought about liability. Maybe she was putting herself in a precarious position. This was definitely above her pay grade, literally and figuratively.

  “Nonsense. I’m all for lawyers, believe me, I have a lawyer for every possible need, but I’m also a reputable person from a very wellconnected family. Let’s be honest here, my lawyers could crush your local lawyer. So just sign and let’s be done with it.”

  Antonia didn’t know how to respond.

  “You have to trust me for this to work,” Pauline prompted.

  “Well . . .”

  Before Antonia could finish her sentence, the maid entered with a pitcher perched atop a tray.

  “Ah, here’s Elsa with the snacks,” said Pauline with light cheer in her voice. She began pouring the iced tea into tall melamine glasses. The maid, who had a broad Slavic face and thin blond hair, looked to be in her late twenties. She asked Pauline if there was anything else and, when told no, left quietly.

  Antonia glanced down and saw that, in addition to drinks, there was a plate of Pepperidge Farm Milano cookies.

  Pauline caught her ogling them. “I had her bring treats for you as well. I know you have a sweet tooth, but I don’t do sugar. I’ll set us up while you sign.”

  7

  With the official business finished and Antonia still in doubt as to whether she had just signed away her inn or her firstborn child or both, Pauline was finally ready to begin discussing the past. Antonia pulled out a notebook from her handbag and began to take sporadic notes. She wasn’t sure if that’s what she was supposed to do. Should she be recording Pauline? She needed to go to private eye school; even an online seminar might help. Ask her anything about cooking or antiquing and Antonia was a pro, but this was out of her comfort zone.

  “Let’s see . . . where shall I start?” Pauline asked, smoothing her tennis skirt. There was a tiny blue whale folded between the pleats on the left side, and every time Pauline moved Antonia got the impression he was bobbing in a milk bath.

  “Well, why don’t you tell me how you knew Susie?”

  “Right. Contextualize, good idea. Susie and I met at Brearley. That’s an all-girls school in New York. She had been there since kindergarten, and I came as a new student in fifth grade. Prior to that, my family had been living in Europe, mostly London, but a few years in Belgium. My father was the ambassador.”

  “Really?” Antonia looked up. “I thought he was in the pharmaceutical business?”

  “He was, but this was a political appointment. He was a huge supporter of Ronald Reagan.”

  “Got it.”

  “Susie was very popular, always. She was a really supportive friend, very loyal, your victories were her victories, she was not competitive at all. She liked most people and wanted to be liked. I guess what some might call a people-pleaser. I suppose what others call a kiss ass.”

  Antonia raised her eyebrow as she glanced down and pretended to scribble something. Had Pauline said that with disdain or neutrality?

  “Don’t worry, this is nothing I wouldn’t have teased Susie about! We all did. Well, our posse. That’s what we called ourselves in later years, ‘The Posse.’ It was me, Susie, and our other best friend, Alida Jenkins.”

  “Alida Jenkins . . . isn’t she a model?”

  “Yes. The top-earning African-American model of all time. She was always stunning.”

  “I know. I remember her ads for Calvin Klein. It’s funny, but I thought I saw her out here once . . .”

  “You probably did. She has a house in Sag Harbor.”

  “Really? I had no idea . . . that’s interesting.”

  “You’ll want to meet with her as well. To hear her thoughts on this whole sad affair.”

  The way she said “sad affair” sounded hollow to Antonia. Was it just her pat answer because she had been asked so much about Susie’s death? Or did she find it a nuisance?

  “Yes, I will definitely want to talk to her . . . to contextualize.”

  “Good.”

  Pauline took a sip of her iced tea. The sunflower that had once been etched into the side of the glass was vanishing from years of dishwasher use.

  “Where was I?” Pauline asked, her eyes sparkling. Antonia noticed that they had changed color; they were more green today than hazel. Perhaps it was the blue sky and ocean being reflected in them.

  “You were telling me about your . . . posse.”

  “Ah yes, yes. The posse. Alida, Susie, and I were all best friends. In the summers, Alida would be at her family house in Sag Harbor, and Susie would come stay with me out here. Starting from when we were about thirteen. We would bike to town, hang out at the movie theater, buy ice cream at Sedutto, go riding at Swan Creek, spend our days at the club. There wasn’t a whole lot to do here back then, but it wasn’t crowded, which was nice. I used to have this little toy car, motorized; my parents got it for me from England. It went up to forty miles an hour and looked just like a VW bug. We used to drive up and down these streets. Once a reporter from the East Hampton Star snapped a picture and we were in the next issue under the headline ‘What is it?’ It was funny . . .”

  Her voice trailed off as if she was awash in memories. She glanced down at her hands before continuing. “I adored the town back then. And just before Susie died, we were at the age where we started going to the Talkhouse and Bay Street to hear bands. And of course dinners at Little Rock Rodeo followed by Snowflake. There were bonfires on the beach. Yes, the posse sure did have fun.”

  “Sounds like it,” admitted Antonia. “Didn’t Susie have her own country house?”

  “Not everyone has a country house,” Pauline rebuked.

  Antonia reddened with embarrassment. “I know . . . of course I know that, I’m sorry,” she sputtered.

  Pauline smirked. “But, yes, Susie’s family did have a second home. It was in Litchfield, Connecticut, which was terribly boring. She lived on a thousand acres with no neighbors in sight, and she was an only child with older parents so she went out of her mind. If she’d had horses, that would have been one thing. I would have been up there every weekend to ride—with or without her. But they didn’t have anything of the sort. Just a murky pond coated in algae and lily pads.”

  “Sounds terrible.”

  “For a teenager, yes. And I enjoyed having her here. I didn’t have a sister, only Russell, my older brother . . .”

  “Right, how much older is he?”

  “Three years older.”

  “Does he still come out here?”

  Pauline rolled her eyes. “Unfortunately . . .”

  “Oh . . . sorry for asking.”

  “It’s f
ine. It’s just difficult now that my parents are dead . . . sharing a house. It’s similar to a ship without a captain so there’s always mutiny.”

  “I see . . . is he married?”

  “Divorced. He has a daughter and a son who live with their mother in Florida. And there is always a revolving door of girlfriends. Younger and younger, with bigger and faker tits every time.”

  Pauline took a hurried swig of her iced tea, as if to wash the distaste for her brother out of her mouth.

  “And was he . . . did he hang out with you and your friends?”

  Pauline cocked her head to the side. “Not really . . . he was a bit of a nerd. He did have a girlfriend for a long time back then . . . Holly Wender . . . then they broke up. Funny, we were all glad when they broke up, didn’t care for her at all, but now she would be a godsend compared to the trash he brings home.”

  She looked as if she was going to continue but stopped abruptly. Antonia waited before finally speaking when it was clear Pauline wasn’t going to proceed. “Was he dating Holly when Susie died?”

  “Yes.”

  “But they weren’t at the house that day?”

  “Not at that time.”

  “You know, why don’t you just tell me about that day.”

  Pauline nodded. “That day. That day. It’s funny how one day in your life can be the one day of your life that defines you. On my tombstone it will say December 16, 1973—the day I was born—and then whatever day I die, and it might as well include August 23, 1990, as well, because that is the most notorious date in my life. The date that Susie died. And actually, I’m sure no one cares about the other two dates—my birth and my death. Because when it comes to me, it’s all about what happened to Susie and whether or not I killed her.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true . . .”

  “Isn’t it?” asked Pauline, staring carefully at Antonia. They stared at each other for what seemed to Antonia like a full minute. Antonia looked away first. “But I don’t care anyway,” Pauline continued. “My conscience is clear.”