Death on West End Road

by Carrie Doyle

  “And what about Holly?” Antonia asked.

  “Holly doesn’t strike me as someone smart or skillful enough to murder someone in broad daylight and get away with it. Plus, she was with Russell. They gave each other alibis.”

  “What about Pauline’s boyfriend, Dougie?” asked Larry. “He sounds like a real jerk, if you ask me.”

  Alida laughed. “Mr. Lipper, you don’t mince words.”

  “Larry.”

  “Larry,” she responded in her velvety voice. She gave him one of her multimillion-dollar smiles before continuing. “Dougie was a bit of a buffoon. I only realized that in retrospect. At the time we thought he was fun and so cool and popular. But he was basically just a rich kid who had nothing going on. He smoked pot, he sailed, he golfed, and he partied. If you asked him what he was doing with his life, he would say ‘waiting until I’m thirty-five.’”

  “What does that mean?” Antonia asked.

  Alida turned toward her, a disapproving look on her face. “He received his trust fund at thirty-five. All he had to do was hang in there until then and he would have enough money to live very well for the rest of his life.”

  “Whatever happened to him?” Larry asked.

  “Oh, he’s around. But not much has happened to him. After Susie’s murder he was expelled from St. George’s for getting drunk. Then he somehow made it to Rollins College in Florida, until he was expelled for bad grades. He stayed down there, hanging out at his former fraternity. And he had a delightful scam going where he would ask his friends when they were arriving and what their suitcases looked like, and when their plane landed he would take their suitcases and they would then approach the airline and say that their luggage was stolen and, at the time, Orlando Airport would shell out $150 per bag, no questions asked. Then Dougie and the so-called victim would split the cash. That’s how he survived for years.”

  “Pathetic,” said Larry.

  “Yes. After Pauline he dated a series of rich girls who subsidized him. Then I suppose he ultimately turned thirty-five and received his inheritance. I did hear that he married a stripper at one point. But maybe that was a rumor. I believe he still hangs out at the Dune Club in the summer, chugging Southsides.”

  “This guy sounds like a world-class loser,” Larry said.

  “Pretty much. But you see, that’s why I don’t think he would have killed Susie. She wasn’t rich enough or pretty enough to capture his attention at all. Susie wasn’t threatening and was perfectly happy to disappear when Pauline and Dougie wanted to be alone. And I don’t think he would have harbored a secret crush on her. Dougie had two types of women he desired: the very rich girls who helped him out and the promiscuous type. Susie was neither.”

  Antonia pressed on. “But then if it wasn’t Russell or Dougie, who did you suspect, Alida? Was there ever someone you thought suspicious?”

  Alida shifted her feet and resituated herself in her chair. “It’s hard to say because now I’m not sure what I noticed at the time or what I read about the case . . . it all sort of blends. You have to understand, for years afterward, people were coming out of the woodwork to tell you their theories. Then, fortunately, my modeling career took off and people forgot about my relationship to Susie. I was lucky; I was able to move on. But sadly for Pauline, she’s always been associated with Susie’s death. She has lived under a cloud of suspicion since that day in August.”

  “Did you ever think she did it?” Antonia asked.

  Alida turned and gave her a stern look. “Not for one second. Pauline is innocent.”

  “Then who?” Larry asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  Antonia eyed Alida carefully. She was clearly intelligent, extremely articulate, and well-educated. It seemed unbelievable that she would have no theory whatsoever as to who killed her friend.

  “Not anyone?” Antonia asked in disbelief.

  “Everyone was a suspect.”

  “Were you?” asked Larry.

  “I probably was,” she confessed. “But I had no reason to kill Susie. And I’m not a killer.”

  “Then who did you think did it?”

  “I think it was a transient. Someone came up off the beach, or was walking around the road, maybe bike riding, and they tried to rape Susie but got spooked so they killed her.”

  “Brilliant,” Larry said with reverence.

  It was not the first time that supposition had been put forth, and Antonia felt that it was a very safe answer. But she knew that she would not be drawing anything else out of Alida Jenkins, at least not today.

  12

  When they were safely out of earshot and had buckled themselves into the front seats of the car, both Larry and Antonia spoke in unison.

  “That wasn’t as helpful as I had hoped,” confessed Antonia.

  “I think Alida Jenkins just solved the crime of the century,” swooned Larry.

  They both turned to each other with disgust on their faces and said “What?” in unison for a second time.

  Once again, they talked simultaneously before Larry began shouting and Antonia became quiet. She was completely irritated. Larry was letting his libido get in the way of his brain.

  “I don’t know what it is with women. They are so damn competitive. Alida Jenkins basically hands us the murderer on a silver platter and you call her useless.”

  Antonia started to seethe. “I never called her useless.”

  “Whatever. ‘Not helpful,’ I think you said. That’s just bitchy for useless.”

  He started the car and thrust the reverse so hard that the car jolted backwards, smashing Antonia’s breasts against the seat belt. He whipped it into drive and revved the engine before taking off down the street.

  “I didn’t say she wasn’t helpful, I said that what we learned from her wasn’t helpful. Or at least as helpful as I had hoped.”

  Larry maneuvered the car to the left, narrowly missing two helmeted bikers in black spandex racing outfits with sponsors’ advertisements all over them. One of them gave Larry the finger. In return, Larry slowed down directly in front of them and turned on his rearview windshield wipers, spraying them with cleaning liquid. They skidded to the side and narrowly missed falling off their bikes.

  “You are evil.”

  “I hate bikers. They think they own the road. They don’t stop for stop signs, don’t obey the law. Ride in large packs rather than single file. I wish death upon all of them. No, you know what? I hate motorcycle people more. They can die first, then the bikers. Both spawns of Satan.”

  “Jeez, Larry. Tell me what you really think.”

  “I really think you’re in a tizzy because you know that I think Alida Jenkins is the hottest woman that ever walked the earth.”

  Antonia noticed a small spider crawling along the dashboard and took the opportunity to squash it with her finger. It felt mean to take her anger out on a helpless insect, but she figured better the spider than Larry. Although punching him in the stubbly jaw sounded really appealing just then.

  “Do you have a napkin? I have spider guts on my finger.”

  “In the glove compartment.”

  Antonia reached forward and opened the glove compartment. A cascade of Sour Patch Kids came flooding out, the various sticky neon candies spilling onto her lap and all over the floor.

  “Larry, what the hell?”

  “Be careful, Antonia. I suffer from low blood sugar and if I don’t have the Kids to fend it off, I become pretty nasty.”

  Antonia tried to gather as many as she could and stuff them back into the movie-theater-sized bag. Larry and his childish food. Well, let him die of diabetes, she thought as she jammed the gluey pieces together.

  “Please tell me why you think Alida Jenkins solved the murder.”

  “The bicycle rider coming in for the kill.”

  “You just think
that because you hate bikers.”

  Larry ignored her. “Or the beach walker. That’s who killed little Susie. Hey, do you think the person smashed Susie’s skull and then said, ‘Wake up, little Susie, wake up’?” Larry began to sing.

  “You are so insensitive.”

  “Touchy.”

  “I think it’s very convenient for Alida to put a drifter forth as a theory. Furthermore, I think Alida is withholding something from us.”

  “The only thing she is withholding from me is love.”

  “Maybe she’s the murderer.”

  “No way. She’s too hot. Killers are ugly. Remember that woman that Charlize Theron played in that movie Monster? She was hideous. No wonder she killed. I would kill too if I was that nasty-looking.”

  “I have absolutely no response to that,” Antonia said, throwing her hands up in disgust.

  Larry patted her on the knee. “Sometimes it’s better to be seen and not heard.”

  * * * * *

  “Oh, hold on a minute please, she’s just walking in the door now,” chirped Connie from behind the reception desk. Her ear was pressed to the phone, and she quickly placed the caller on hold. Always ebullient, Connie was the perfect front line to welcome guests to the inn. She possessed a cherubic face with dimpled cheeks and the enthusiasm of a beloved cartoon character. She turned her attention to Antonia. “Are you able to talk? This woman has called three times but refused to leave a message.”

  “Sure,” Antonia said, taking the extension. She moved out of the way of the front door, where recent arrivals were spilling in with their luggage and took the phone to the front hall. “Hello, this is Antonia Bingham.”

  The voice on the other end of the phone was female and hesitant. “I wanted to ask you . . . about a guest you had. Recently. A young woman named Bridget Curtis.”

  “I remember her,” Antonia said. She had just been thinking about her! She was such an unusual guest—always staring at Antonia, almost as if she was spying on her. And she had left the inn abruptly in the middle of the night. Antonia had even suspected Bridget of murder, but that didn’t say a lot these days, when she viewed everyone as a suspect. “May I ask who’s calling?”

  There was a pause. “I’d rather not say.”

  “Okay . . . then how can I help you?”

  “What did she tell you?” the caller asked, her voice stronger and more forceful.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did she tell you who she was?”

  Antonia was puzzled. This woman was just as strange and cagey as Bridget had been.

  “I’m sorry, you’re going to have to tell me what this is in regards to before I answer any questions. I don’t generally give out information on my guests.”

  The woman sighed deeply. “I’m looking for her. It’s impor­tant. Do you know where she is?”

  Antonia pressed her back against the map of the East End of Long Island that adorned the front hall wall, making room for a bellboy pushing a cart laden with suitcases. “Listen, I don’t feel comfortable having this conversation.”

  “Because of what she told you?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. What do you mean, what she told me?”

  The line went dead.

  “Hello?” Antonia asked in vain. The woman had hung up.

  With a sigh, Antonia replaced the receiver and made her way to the office. She had been certain she hadn’t heard the last of Bridget, and now her suspicions had been confirmed. Who was this woman who had called and what was she worried about? What could Bridget have told her? And did this have anything to do with Antonia herself or was she overthinking it?

  At her desk, Antonia was excited to find an email in her in-box from her friend Sarah who owned French Presse, a gorgeous high-end linen store in Amagansett. The heading was ‘Is this Elizabeth?’ There was a picture attached of a pretty, dark-haired woman who looked to be in her early thirties. In the email Sarah had written that she knew this Elizabeth from yoga class and had told her she had an admirer; this Elizabeth was very excited to meet him as she had recently broken up with her boyfriend and was ready to find love. Antonia’s heart beat quickly. Could she have found Giorgio Leguzzi’s love? Was it only a click away on the Internet to cure someone’s lonely heart?

  Antonia went bounding up the steps and knocked rapidly on Mr. Leguzzi’s door. If her arm could twist around her body she would be patting herself on the back. The door swung open and Mr. Leguzzi, clad in a bathrobe with shaving cream on his face and a towel wrapped around his neck stood on the threshold.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked, his voice awash in concern.

  “I think I found her!”

  “My Elizabeth?” he exclaimed with excitement.

  “Yes! Come see.”

  Without even bothering to change or wipe away the shaving cream, Mr. Leguzzi thundered down the steps behind Antonia. Passing guests looked askance as he followed her into her office.

  “Where is she?” he mused, turning his head left and right.

  “No, she’s not here. But she’s here, on the computer.”

  Antonia pointed her finger toward the screen, where she had blown up the picture of Elizabeth. Antonia beamed with pride and was flush with success. Her mind immediately went to the wedding, Elizabeth and Giorgio walking hand in hand. Maybe they’d marry at the inn. They would make a toast to Antonia, who would be embarrassed and insist she had very little to do with it and it was all fate . . .

  Mr. Leguzzi squinted and then moved closer to the screen, so close his face practically touched it. He stared for what seemed like a long time before pulling back and giving Antonia a sad look.

  “No. It is not her.”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “Si. This Elizabeth is very beautiful, but she is not mine.”

  Antonia deflated and felt acute disappointment. “Really? Are you sure? Maybe take another look.”

  He shook his head. “My Elizabeth’s face is imprinted on my soul. I would know her in a sea of millions. This Elizabeth, while very beautiful, is not my love. I thank you for trying.”

  “I understand,” Antonia said, more disappointed than he. She had to bite her tongue not to ask him if things didn’t work out with the first Elizabeth would he be willing to meet the second one? She was very pretty. And available. But Antonia knew that would be inappropriate. “I’ll keep looking.”

  “You have my utmost gratitude.”

  “I want you to have a happy ending.”

  13

  The rest of the weekend tumbled by and disappeared as quickly as a case of Wölffer rosé at a summer ladies’ night. Between the demands of the restaurant and the booked-to-capacity inn, Antonia was busy with work and had little time to devote herself to her extracurricular sleuthing. This did not please Pauline, who sent her a flurry of emails reminding her that Susie’s mother’s death was imminent and she didn’t have time to waste. Pauline definitely knew how to push Antonia’s buttons. In the other emails she gave Antonia both Dougie Marshall’s contact information as well as the heads-up that her brother, Russell, was heading to town on Tuesday, and therefore she was instructed to make time to meet him on Wednesday. Yes, ma’am, thought Antonia after she read that one. Pauline was a woman who certainly didn’t take no for an answer.

  On Sunday night, after the last dinner guests had departed and the team had broken down the kitchen, Antonia checked her phone and found a message from Genevieve, instructing her—more like demanding—that she stop by Cittanuova for a drink so that she could have a chance to catch up with Victoria, Genevieve’s sister, whose departure to her home in suburban Chicago was imminent. Antonia was tired to the bone, but she did want to ask Victoria about her childhood friend Holly, Russell Framingham’s girlfriend. Perhaps Victoria would be able to fill in some blanks. It took all of Antonia’s rem
aining energy to pull on a pair of white Capri pants and throw on a beaded turquoise tunic and haul herself to town.

  In the past, she had been indifferent to her appearance and chose comfort over looks. But lately she found herself making more of an effort when she had to run into town. It was probably because of Nick Darrow. No, it was definitely because of Nick. Even though she knew he was far away, there was always the off chance that he would return to East Hampton and she would bump into him, and she wanted to at least give the appearance that she regularly made some sort of effort. Not that she was going after a married man—she would never do that. But he played an integral part in her fantasy life, and therefore she had to look the part.

  Cittanuova was located on Newtown Lane and was a chic Italian-style trattoria that was open year-round and often attracted a lively bar scene. When Antonia entered, she immediately noticed Giorgio Leguzzi sitting at one of the white tables on the front patio with his back to the row of hedges that protected customers from the foot traffic. He was nursing a cappuccino, and there was a bottle of white wine cooling in crushed ice on the stand next to him. Antonia spied two wineglasses and place settings on the table.

  “Mr. Leguzzi! How are you this evening?”

  He immediately stood up and gave her a little bow and kissed her on both cheeks. His appearance was equally as dapper as her previous interaction with him. He was clad in a crisp button down and a white linen blazer over pressed pants. “Hello, my friend, please call me Giorgio,” he said in his thick Italian accent.

  Antonia smiled. “Giorgio. It’s a beautiful night. Are you enjoying your stay?”

  “I am,” he said. “Would you like to join me?”

  “Thank you so much, but I’m actually meeting some friends. But it looks as if you are not alone. Did you find . . . er . . . Elizabeth?” Antonia asked with hope.

  Mr. Leguzzi shook his head. “No. But I have not lost the confidence. I will be here every night, and I wait. She will come, I am sure of it.”

  “I am sure she will as well.”