Death on West End Road

by Carrie Doyle

  * * * * *

  Alida Jenkins was the first person Antonia reached out to because she thought Alida would be the hardest to pin down, but the opposite turned out to be true. When Antonia called and introduced herself, Alida had told her that Pauline had said she would be calling and there was no time like the present so why didn’t they meet now? As soon as breakfast service came to a conclusion, Antonia did just that. Unfortunately, she had to bring company to Alida’s.

  Larry Lipper, in exchange for putting her in touch with Chester Saunders, had demanded that he be present for any of Antonia’s interviews. She had attempted to rebuff him, but he held firm. An arrangement between Antonia and Larry had been brokered: she had guaranteed him the exclusive story rights, had promised to allow him to participate in some of the interviews (she could decide which ones at her discretion), while he had agreed to use his police contacts to ascertain any pertinent information. Antonia couldn’t help feeling as if she were making a deal with the devil.

  “Thank God we’re interviewing someone hot,” Larry remarked from behind the wheel of his jazzy new BMW convertible. Larry had sold the film rights to the series of articles he’d written about the serial killer in East Hampton, which had provided some cash flow. That the movie might never be made was a sore spot for him. That Nick Darrow would play him remained his confident belief.

  “Must you be so superficial?” Antonia scolded. Antonia hated being a passenger in Larry’s car—he always drove too fast and passed people and spun around corners—but he had insisted. She assumed that his love of being behind the wheel was a deeply Freudian and phallic need, so she didn’t bother fighting him.

  “Whatever. Seeing Alida Jenkins in the flesh will be very helpful to me. I hope she wears something skimpy. Man, I wore out that Sports Illustrated bathing suit issue she was on the cover of.”

  “You’re vile,” sniffed Antonia.

  Their interactions always devolved into such prurience. He definitely didn’t bring out the best in Antonia, and she hated that about him.

  “I’m not vile, I’m a hot-blooded man.”

  Antonia couldn’t see his eyes behind the mirrored lenses of his aviator sunglasses, but his chin had about two days’ worth of stubble and he was very tan. For a fleeting second Antonia thought he looked semi-attractive but then she remembered who he was.

  They were cruising on Route 114 headed into Sag Harbor, the whaling hamlet where Alida had a house. Antonia thought it was somewhat ironic that Sag Harbor—long described as “Least Hampton”—is actually the only East End village situated in two Hamptons. About three-fifths of the village, including Main Street, the Old Whalers’ Church, the Whaling Museum, and other noted landmarks, are in Southampton, while the remaining two-fifths, including the bay front and the high school, are in East Hampton. Despite the geographic tug-of-war, Sag Harbor has maintained its unique character for most of its three-hundred-plus-year life span. But in the past few years it did seem to Antonia as if the outside world had suddenly discovered Sag Harbor and the secret was blown. As Larry edged closer to town, the traffic thickened.

  It made sense to Antonia why it was so popular these days. Sag Harbor’s history is a full one. Among other things, it has been a whaling port, a writer’s colony, a historic African-American community, a stop on the Underground Railroad, a summer residence for a United States president, and a reference in such iconic novels as Moby-Dick and Jaws. The village is picturesque, with houses situated on small leafy lots reminiscent of New England and a business center devoid of the chain stores that can be found in every other town and strip mall in America. The town leaders were struggling to contain the tsunami of development that was accosting the town. Antonia hoped they would be successful. Overdevelopment was the scourge of the East End and would be its ultimate demise.

  “I talked to some people at the paper who remember the case. They said all roads lead back to Pauline Framingham. She was always suspect Numero Uno. But they had no evidence.”

  “Maybe they had no evidence because she didn’t do it and that’s why they never solved the case,” Antonia said with confidence. “I won’t make the same mistake.”

  “Look at you, Bingham. All bulled up on yourself. I like it.”

  11

  Alida Jenkins’s house was located on one of the most sought-after streets in the Sag Harbor historic district. Sitting prominently on a hill, the late-1800s shingled home had white trim and a large front porch with several seating arrangements. The lots in Sag Harbor Village were small—whereas you might live on a two-acre plot in the village of East Hampton, in Sag Harbor that was extremely rare. Antonia estimated that although Alida’s was one of the bigger properties, it was probably situated on only three quarters of an acre, give or take a few feet.

  “Nice pad,” Larry said after they had parked on the street in front and commenced climbing up the series of stone steps situated in the lawn. “I’ll be very happy here.”

  “I’m sure you will,” replied Antonia. “In your dreams.” She glanced around the yard. “Beautifully maintained property. I like how they kept a lot of the big evergreens and ferns. Nowadays all you see is boxwoods, no one has anything else.”

  “Because of the deer. They eat everything,” Larry said. They had finally reached the front door, and he pressed the bell.

  The front door swung open and Alida Jenkins stood on the threshold. It took an embarrassing beat for Antonia and Larry to respond. Antonia had been in the presence of beauty, but she quickly realized that it was nothing compared to Alida Jenkins—she was a whole other level of gorgeous. Alida had a perfect angel’s face in the shape of an oval. From her flawless dark skin to her beautiful eyes with thick black lashes (the kind that most woman have to glue on), she was stunning and possessed the sort of haunting beauty you can’t look away from. It wasn’t only her face that was enviable; she was tall and thin with endless legs, perfect breasts, and an amazing butt. Even now, clad in a gossamer emerald green tunic over a damp bikini, with her hair slicked back in a bun, she was the epitome of regal magnificence. It was no wonder that she had been one of the top-earning models of all time.

  “Hi! You must be Antonia and . . .”

  “Larry Lipper,” he said, thrusting out his hand so abruptly that their hostess took a step back before recovering and offering him her palm. Alida Jenkins was about a foot taller than Larry, and Antonia was amused to spy Larry standing on his tiptoes in an effort to look distinguished. Nice try, she wanted to mutter under her breath.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Alida said. “Please come in.”

  They both followed her through the front door quietly, which was uncharacteristic for Larry. That’s when Antonia confirmed to herself just how smitten he was with Miss Jenkins.

  “I was swimming with my children . . . it’s so hot today, don’t you think? They’re still out by the pool, so let’s go in here.”

  Although the exterior of the house was antiquated and old, the inside had been completely renovated and gutted, achieving a somewhat startling modern loft-like look behind the traditional frame. Walls had been removed, and the downstairs was open plan with a family room that melted into a living room that melted into a dining room—the only separation between designated sections was the two-sided slate fireplace. The remaining walls were a light creamy gray, the large-planked caramel wood floors were mostly barren except for some sisal area rugs, and the furniture was definitely modern—probably Scandinavian, Antonia conjectured. The art was scarce, but lining the staircase were some colorful collages and prints that, from Antonia’s untrained eye, appeared to be African, as well as portraits of Alida from her modeling days.

  Alida led them to the farthest part of the house, which was a sitting area, and invited Antonia to sit down on the white sofa, while she curled herself up into a sheepskin chair with her manicured toes tucked under her. Atop the coffee table was a tortoiseshell
tray hosting a variety of water bottles—Poland Spring, Evian, Vittel, Arrowhead, and Volvic.

  “Please help yourselves to water. I wasn’t sure what kind you drank.”

  Antonia could see Larry use all of his self-control to refrain from making the kind of snarky comment he would normally dispense if he wasn’t so bowled over by Alida’s looks. In an effort to keep his tongue in check he grabbed a bottle of Arrowhead, cracked the top, and gulped it down.

  “Thank you so much for taking the time to meet with us,” Antonia said.

  “No problem,” Alida replied, staring at them penetratingly. Her eyes were disarming, endless pools of depth, revealing little about what she was feeling. Not unlike her friend Pauline, Alida appeared totally self-possessed and completely in command of her environment.

  Antonia shifted in her seat. She couldn’t help feeling completely unglamorous in Alida’s presence. “As Pauline explained, she has asked me to look into Susie’s murder.”

  “Yes, and she told me to be as forthcoming as possible,” Alida said.

  “Great.”

  “You’re very brave to do this.”

  “Why do you say that?” Antonia asked.

  It was only a flicker, but Antonia saw something dark pass behind Alida’s eyes. She wasn’t sure what it meant. She was about to press Alida on it when Larry interrupted.

  “I realize how difficult this must be for you to discuss. You can cry if you want to,” he blurted before adding lamely, “we won’t judge.”

  A hint of amusement flashed across Alida’s face before instantly vanishing. “Thank you,” she murmured softly.

  “Do you mind telling us anything pertinent or any of your reflections or thoughts . . .”

  Alida sighed deeply. “It’s been so long, and I feel as if I have talked about this so many times that I’m not sure what I really remember or what I think I remember, do you know what I mean?”

  “Totally,” Larry said supportively.

  Alida gave him a small smile, flashing perfect white teeth. “We were all very close—me, Susie, and Pauline. You know, when you attend an all-girls school for thirteen years as I did, you experience a fluidity with friendships, an ebb and flow if you will, where you attach yourself to one group of girls and then, a few years later, you discover another group. I wasn’t really friends with Susie and Pauline until about seventh grade. That was after I quit the gymnastics team and . . .”

  “Wait one second,” Larry interrupted.

  Both Alida and Antonia turned toward him.

  “You were on the gymnastics team?” Larry asked.

  “Yes, why?”

  Larry shook his head with wonder. “You must be so flexible.”

  Antonia glowered at him. “Larry, please, let’s not interrupt.”

  “I’m sorry,” Larry said. “But it’s just amazing. Is there nothing you can’t do?”

  Alida endowed upon him a smile that one would give an insane person. “There’s a lot I can’t do . . .”

  “I doubt that,” Larry said with his usual confidence.

  “Larry, let’s return to Alida’s story without interruption,” Antonia reprimanded. She turned to Alida. “Sorry about that.”

  “No worries,” Alida said. “Where was I?”

  “Gymnastics,” replied Larry at the same time as Antonia said, “Seventh grade.”

  “Right,” Alida concurred.

  Antonia was mortified. It was now clear to the supermodel that she was dealing with amateurs.

  “We’ll let you continue without interruption,” Antonia promised, glaring at Larry.

  “Okay. Well, we became friends in seventh grade and were pretty much inseparable until . . . Susie died.”

  She paused, and Antonia could see Larry was about to interrupt but she gave him her meanest look and he stopped himself. Instead, Antonia spoke.

  “What sort of person was Susie?” she inquired, taking Hercule Poirot’s procedures into account.

  “Susie? She was a great friend: supportive, kind, generous. One of the most surreal aspects of Susie’s death was that she was one of those people who you could totally visualize in the future. You could just see her married to some preppy guy and living in Greenwich with four or five kids and a golden retriever. She’d be running the PTA or the school auction or some committees, focused on family. She was never really a city person, and she never really had big aspirations, professionally that is. She wanted to be in love and get married and have a bunch of kids. She was lonely being an only child, that’s why she spent so much time with the Framinghams.”

  “Was Susie . . . temperamental? Quick to anger? Volatile?” Antonia asked, still trying to get a feel for Susie’s character.

  Alida shook her head. “No. She was very easygoing. A joiner, definitely not a leader. Although . . . perhaps her detractors would say she was a little cliquey. She enjoyed being part of our posse and was possessive of her friendships with me and Pauline. She wanted as much of our time and attention as possible.”

  Antonia took a second to process that. Larry jumped at the pause to insert himself.

  “Did Susie have a boyfriend when she died?” he asked.

  Alida shook her head. “She wasn’t really that lucky with guys . . . they all sort of thought of her as their ‘pal’ or their little sister. Susie was cute but she wasn’t really . . . sexy or mysterious. And she always had crushes on the wrong guys.”

  “Like who?” Antonia asked.

  Alida cocked her head to the side as if thinking. “Well, she was madly in love with Scott, the tennis pro who lived in the Framinghams’ guesthouse, but he was older . . .”

  “Did he know she was hot for him?” Larry asked.

  “Yes, she was like a puppy around him,” Alida said, bending down and taking a bottle of Vittel. She cracked it open and took a sip. “But he didn’t take her seriously. She was young, and he had it pretty good, living free at the Framinghams’. He would never have jeopardized that.”

  “Who else did she have a crush on?” Antonia asked.

  “Oh, you name it,” Alida said. “It wasn’t ever for very long. She would be into some unattainable guy and then on to the next.”

  “What about Russell?”

  Alida looked surprised. “You mean Pauline’s brother?”

  “Yes,” Antonia replied. “Did she have a crush on him?”

  “Um, have you met him yet?” Alida asked carefully.

  “No . . .”

  Alida took a deep breath. “He’s a little odd.”

  “How so?”

  “I don’t want to be unkind . . .”

  “Please be unkind,” Larry retorted.

  “It’s very important to our investigation that you be candid,” Antonia explained. “And please be reassured that we will be very discreet with all of the information we learn from you.”

  “I would appreciate it,” Alida said. “I don’t want to be quoted anywhere.”

  “We understand,” Antonia replied.

  Alida took a sip of her water before responding. “Russell completely lacks social skills. It’s almost like he has Asperger’s or something of the sort. There is something a bit off. And he has this inflated ego and very grandiose sense of self. We didn’t hang out with him at all. Pauline loathed him.”

  “What did he think of you and Susie? The posse, if you will?”

  “He didn’t really pay attention to us. He had a girlfriend, which is actually surprising because he was so odd, but she was also a bit odd herself.”

  “In what way?” Larry asked.

  “She was a . . . the word that pops into my head is ‘wannabe.’ She was always reinventing herself and her style. Pauline even nicknamed her Madonna—after the singer, not the Blessed Virgin. One minute she was dressing very provocatively, and the next she was demure. I think
there was an absence of self and she was very insecure. She made initial overtures to be friendly, but when Pauline rebuffed her she became very sarcastic and bitchy toward all of us. There was a lot of tension in the house. Pauline and Russell’s parents were absentee and formal. They were of that ‘children are to be seen and not heard but also preferably not seen’ generation. They traveled constantly, and when they were in town they were on the golf course all day. They didn’t appear to be particularly interested in their children.”

  “Do you think it’s possible that Russell, or even his girlfriend, killed Susie? Perhaps to set Pauline up?”

  Alida shook her head. “Of course, that was one of the theories. Every person attached to the case has been a suspect at one time or another, but I don’t think so. Russell seemed blithely ignorant of Susie’s existence. Even though she was a constant presence, she was one that he ignored. I told you there’s something off about him—antisocial. He paid no attention to us. And I don’t think he needed to kill Susie to leverage anything in the family . . .”

  “Maybe he had a crush on her?” asked Larry.

  Alida squinted as if she was considering the notion before dismissing it. “I doubt it. I didn’t see anything that would suggest that.”

  “But the police had their doubts about him,” Antonia insisted.

  “I know, and I can totally see that. But I believe it’s because he’s so strange. He always acted suspicious, and I assume he acted that way when they interrogated him about Susie. I’m sure he had no interest, no inclination, and no reason to kill her. She was a nonfactor.”