by Carrie Doyle
“I am really sorry, I can’t believe it. I’ve never been in an accident,” the woman rambled on, her solemn eyes troubled.
“Me neither.” Antonia looked at her again. “You seem like the law-and-order type.”
“I am,” insisted the woman. “I’ve never even gotten a speeding ticket! Oh dear, so how do we do this? We exchange insurance cards. Oh look, here comes a policeman. We can ask him.”
“Don’t worry, please. It was my fault.”
“But it’s always the fault of the person who bumps into you.”
“Not if the first one is a bad driver. Look, don’t worry about it. There’s barely a scratch.”
The officer walked over to them. He looked about fifteen years old and had chubby cheeks that his grandmother probably still squeezed and hair like a Boy Scout. “What seems to be the problem, ladies?”
Antonia could imagine that he probably practiced that line in a mirror every night before he went to bed. Where did they find these kids every summer to patrol the village? Starting Memorial Day it was like some hive burst open and spawned all of these teenagers running around in fake police outfits, handing out parking tickets and attempting to control traffic. There were just too many, and they were mostly clueless.
“We’re fine,” Antonia said to the cop. His nametag said c. horton. “Just a little tap, Officer Horton.”
Antonia could see his face deflate and his childish blue eyes turn down on the corners. He had probably been dreaming of writing up an accident report. Well, he could save his ink.
“Are you sure?” the woman asked. She bent down to look at the bumper of Antonia’s car. “There’s no damage? I felt a thrust.”
“My car is fine.”
“Okay, ladies, we need to file a report,” the officer insisted, eager to interject himself and his authority into the conversation.
“No need, we’ll be on our way,” Antonia replied.
“Here’s my contact information, in case you change your mind,” she said, thrusting a crisp business card into Antonia’s hand. “Thank you so much for being so understanding.”
“And thank you for being understanding,” Antonia said. She shoved the card into her handbag and turned to look once again at White’s, just in case.
* * * * *
“I heard you were out here,” Antonia said as she walked through the garden to the Adirondack chair where Joseph sat reading a book. “No library today?”
He took off his reading glasses and laid them on the arm of his chair. “The weather is too beautiful. I couldn’t bear to lock myself up and miss this glorious day.”
He motioned toward the turquoise sky, where thin puffs of white cloud streamed like smoke from a small pipe. The sun was shining hard, and the air was warm and enveloping. Everything from the trees to the grass and flowers seemed to shimmer.
Antonia plopped into the chair next to him. “I know what you mean. Sometimes I forget to stop and appreciate all this beauty.”
Joseph gave her a long sideways glance. He tucked his bookmark into his book and laid it aside. “Everything okay?”
She nodded. “I’m a little rattled. I just got into a fender bender.” She put her hand up to prevent him from speaking. “I’m fine. The woman was nice, not even a dent on my car. I made a snap decision to go right, she didn’t see my blinker, it was basically just an accident in every sense of the word.”
“But you’re okay?”
She smiled. “Yes, just mad at myself.” She turned and looked at him. “I was being silly. Chasing a ghost. I have to really remember not to make bad decisions.”
Joseph did not know about her crush on Nick Darrow, but he was astute enough to understand that she was referencing her kamikaze love life. “As long as you’re okay.”
“I am,” she shrugged.
They sat in silence for a minute before Antonia finally broke it and updated him on her meeting with Kevin Powers.
Joseph listened carefully, peppering her with questions after she was done, and providing information of his own. “I did have a chance to go through the archives and look up all the press surrounding Susie’s murder. I made copies and left them for you in your in-box.”
“Thank you! That’s so helpful. Anything interesting?”
“Not really. Mostly the lack of progress on the case. So much was initially written on the murder—it was covered in all of the New York papers—but then it fizzled out.”
“People lose interest.”
Joseph cocked his head. “Sometimes,” he conceded. “But I believe there is a voracious appetite for any small detail when it is such a high-profile and salacious murder, as this was. Usually there is a trajectory as the discovery continues. The police release bits and pieces to encourage witnesses to come forward and also to warn the killer that he or she hasn’t quite gotten away with it. But that didn’t really happen here. Every article was a rehash of the information that was initially dispensed. It’s as if the police had no idea which way the investigation was going.”
“Maybe they were keeping their cards close to their vests?”
“I would doubt it. There was such a wave of criticism against them as it was, that it would not have been worth it. People were calling the police completely inept; there were editorials deriding them.”
“But how could it be that they didn’t discover anything? Surely the killer left clues? What about forensic evidence such as footprints and bent grass or something of the sort?”
“Nothing was ever mentioned. Pauline Framingham found the body, so her lawyer argued that any sort of DNA or evidence linking her to the victim was inadmissible on those grounds. Pauline and Russell Framingham both entertained frequently at the tennis courts, so you have a location that saw a lot of people coming and going. Kevin Powers had just weeded the courts that morning, so the presence of his DNA could be explained. Overall, I believe the biggest conundrum to the case was motive. Why did someone kill Susie? No one has been able to answer that question. And until you have the motive, you are unable to find the killer.”
Antonia sighed. “It’s true. I’ve talked to several people now and everyone seemed to like Susie. Pauline and Alida were her best friends. Kevin Powers was dating her. They all liked her. Only Holly was less than a fan, but I’m not sure Holly likes very many people. The question is, did she have a big enough beef with Susie to kill her? Was she worried Susie would tell Russell that Holly was having an affair with the tennis pro? Which we haven’t even confirmed but, so far, she’s the best I’ve got.”
“You still have a few more people to meet with. The brother, Russell; the boyfriend, Dougie; the tennis pro, Scott . . . am I forgetting anyone?”
“I don’t think so. Ugh, so much to do and so little time!”
“Any word on Susie’s mother?”
Antonia shook her head. “But I feel like it’s imminent, because Pauline’s emails have a sense of urgency. It’s so sad.”
“Just keep plugging along. You’re doing the best you can.”
“Let’s hope that one of the people I interview this week is the killer.”
Suddenly, the absurdity of her statement became clear to both of them and Joseph and Antonia descended into fits of giggles. It was so crazy that they were immersed in a world of crime and murder. If they had been asked two years prior if they thought there was a chance they would be in the midst of solving murder cases, they would have looked askance at the person asking them.
Antonia finally rose and wiped the corners of her eyes where tears of mirth had sprouted. “I have to start dinner service.”
“What’s on the menu for this evening?” Joseph asked. He adored hearing about all of Antonia’s delectable dishes, which changed often depending on season and availability of produce and proteins. Antonia relied on local farms, fishermen, and butchers to source the products for her kitche
n.
“We have a tasty sautéed chicken liver appetizer. Very delicious—the chickens are from Iacona of course, and Balsam provided the onions. I think you’ll enjoy that one.”
“Sounds divine.”
“There’s a lovely golden and red beet salad with both pickled and roasted beets matched with a lemony goat cheese and sugared walnuts. I have a peppered tuna tartar with wontons and avocado as well as a very nice kale Caesar, but I know you’ve not bought into that food trend yet.”
“Kale is for farm animals!” protested Joseph.
“Some day I will convert you,” laughed Antonia. “But in the meantime, for dinner I have maple syrup–coated pork chops with mashed purple potatoes, homemade cavatelli pasta with wild mushroom ragout, and steak frites. But I’m sure you’ll love the swordfish entrée. I prepared it Sicilian style with onions, capers, and tomatoes.”
“Done. And how will you satisfy my sweet tooth tonight?”
“Caramelized figs with local honey and mascarpone on a puff pastry crust? Or maybe homemade strawberry rhubarb pie with vanilla bean ice cream.”
“I can’t wait. Diet be damned.” He motioned to the vegetable garden next to them. “And start thinking of zucchini recipes! Another bumper crop this year!”
“Oh dear! Maybe we need to rent some rabbits!”
16
The conversation had been brief, the instructions simple: “Meet me at the club at two.”
Although she was now hip to the fact that there were many clubs in East Hampton, Antonia assumed Dougie meant the Dune Club. By all accounts, that was where he spent most of his time in the summer, and now Antonia had been invited to join him.
She had just sunk herself into a marvelously creamy coconut milk bath on Monday night—even going so far as to light candles, pour herself a glass of wine, and prop her computer on the ledge so that she could watch a cozy mystery serial from the Hallmark Channel that was now streaming—when her cell phone rang and she finally connected with Dougie. She never allowed her phone to go to voice mail; it was a luxury an innkeeper could not afford. Not to mention that she looked after two houses as a caretaker and, despite the fact that the owners were in residence for the summer and she did not have to make her weekly stops to check on them as she did in the off-season, she still considered herself responsible for their care and felt she had to be available lest they needed anything.
“Dougie Marshall here,” he had said. “Pauline says I need to talk to you. Let’s meet tomorrow,” he commanded before designating the appointed time.
That was how Antonia found herself driving on Tuesday afternoon toward the stately Dune Club. Whereas Southampton’s “South of the Highway” was mostly cleared of dense trees and consisted of houses and hedges, East Hampton was woodsier and dense with foliage and evergreens, with very little real estate south of the highway. That was why it was such a surprise when the Dune Club majestically appeared at the end of Dunemere Lane before it curved into Further Lane. Almost abruptly, the shadowy trees parted and gave way to a broad expanse of sky as the undulating hills of the championship golf course spread out on both sides of the road. Hook Pond, always a shiny azure hue (although recently plagued by a serious algae problem), unfurled between several holes of the course with only small wooden bridges spanning it to link the swaths of manicured grass.
In the distance, hovering on the edge of the dunes, was the grand clubhouse, a structure built in the style of an English manor. It was an impressive building, large and looming, with tangles of ivy crawling up toward its third floor and a circular driveway making a sweeping entrance. As Antonia drove closer, she felt as if she were heading toward Downton Abbey. She had been to the Dune Club before, but only in the dead of winter when it was closed for the season. Len Powers, who headed security, had given her a tour, and even though he worked there and had every right to escort her around, it had felt illicit, as if she were breaking some rule. Perhaps it was because the club itself was so out of her league. The members included not only the wealthiest but also the most pedigreed Americans, and there was even a former president who was a member.
Antonia parked her car in the upstairs lot designated for guests and walked down the small path by the honeysuckle bushes toward the stairs. Since Dougie had given her no explicit details as to where to meet she had called Len that morning and asked if he had any idea and could clarify. He told her to meet Dougie at “the pit,” otherwise known as the snack bar area, and gave her directions. Because of Larry Lipper’s tactless behavior she decided she would exclude him from this interview as well. She didn’t trust him to behave himself in a fancy club. She would find some way to defend her decision when she told him.
Antonia hoped that she had dressed appropriately. She had donned her preppiest outfit—a navy and pink dress that she had bought on a whim when it was on sale—and accessorized with pearl earrings and gold flats. She had been told that there was a somewhat standard uniform of Roberta Roller Rabbit shifts and Jack Roger sandals for the ladies but since she owned neither this would have to do. The few female members who passed her on her walk were wearing golf shoes, skorts, and visors, so she figured she was safe.
The top of the stairs afforded a sweeping vista of the club and the Atlantic Ocean. Below, there was an Olympic-sized pool surrounded by clusters of chaises. Enveloping the pool and stretching out along the dunes were rows of weathered gray cabanas with yellow, blue, and white awnings. Each cabana bore a faded plaque with the name of the member who owned it. Beyond the pool on the edge of the beach was a giant yellow tent with blue tables and yellow chairs for dining. There was also an extended patio where diners could eat in the sun. That, Antonia surmised, must be the pit.
It was a gloriously sunny day, and most of the members appeared to be on the beach or in the ocean, where the surf afforded boogie boarders the chance to ride the waves. Antonia walked down the steps, clutching the silver-painted banister tensely, and scanned the crowd. Mothers were hovering over their toddlers in a small baby pool that was to the left of the larger pool, where older kids frolicked and splashed one another. Groups of women sat on chaises, chatting easily. Anyone who looked her way offered her a small smile as she passed and seemed friendly. She wasn’t sure but she felt as if they knew she didn’t belong, although maybe that was her own imagination. That was the thing about clubs, you felt as if you stood out if you didn’t belong.
When Antonia was closer to the snack bar she stopped and glanced around. There were a few tables filled with women dining off of blue plastic trays. At the front tables, children were stationed, licking ice cream cones, leaving globs of rainbow sprinkles splattered on the tabletops. There was a foursome of men who looked as if they had just stepped off the golf course. It was actually pretty quiet for a summer afternoon, which amazed Antonia. Wouldn’t there be crowds of people lining up to use all these spectacular amenities? Where else would they be?
She waited at the entrance, hoping that someone would either approach her or arrest her for trespassing, but no one did. (Where was Len when she needed him? Perhaps she was wrong to not bring Larry. She was paying for her arrogance.) She walked along the edge of the tent, craning her neck to see if anyone could be Dougie. Problem was she had no idea what he looked like.
On the far end of the tent there was a bar with a deck and a few tables. She saw a man with a thick thatch of dark hair, in his mid-forties, who was deep in an animated conversation with two other men. He was the right age, she thought, but he was clearly not on the lookout for a guest. Just as she was about to turn away from him, he held up his arm as if he was hailing a cab. Antonia caught his eye.
“Dougie?” she mouthed, because there was no way she was shouting his name across the entire club. He nodded then went back to his conversation with his friends. Antonia waded slowly through the various tables, to allow herself to assess Dougie as much as possible before they met.
He was not an
unattractive man. On the contrary, there was something appealing about him in an overgrown frat boy kind of way. He held himself in that insouciant and confident manner that so many men of privilege do. He was still fairly fit, although when he waved his arms to gesticulate a point, Antonia noted that there was a slight protrusion in the stomach area of his striped polo shirt, but nothing repellent, especially since he was broad shouldered and his arms were toned and tanned.
When Antonia finally approached, Dougie did nothing to acknowledge her, and she was immediately thrust into awkward social limbo. His two friends glanced up at her curiously, but Dougie seemed determined to finish the anecdote he was regaling them with and it wasn’t until it came to its natural conclusion (“You can see Rochester from here! Hahaha!”) that he finally turned his attention to his invited guest.
“You must be Antonia,” he said.
“Yes.”
His eyes looked as if they had seen a million hangovers and were now a glassy bloodshot hue with remnants of blue and gray peeking through the red. The reddened eyes were countered by his fiercely dark and thick eyebrows, arched in alertness. There was a softness around his chin and a few days’ worth of stubble, but he had a sharp and brazen look about him that many women probably found dashing.
There were introductions to the friends who immediately excused themselves and an offer of a beverage or lunch for Antonia, which she resisted until pressed several times when she finally acquiesced with a request for an Arnold Palmer. There was no waiter service so he disappeared briefly to the bar to fetch her drink and a beer for himself, before returning and placing both drinks on the table, as well as a dish of Ritz crackers and a plastic container of orange cheese in the most alarming Cheeto color she had ever seen.
