by Carrie Doyle
In her sleepy haze, Antonia conjured up the image of Pauline Framingham’s circle of friends. Pauline would be the one in control—yanking her friends in the direction she wished. Alida and Dougie would be the two with their heads down, going along with whatever Pauline wanted. Susie was the one who had fallen down; she couldn’t keep up with the dancers. But then who was the fifth figure? Who was the man holding up the other side of the circle? Was he indeed a man in Pauline’s world? And was he the killer?
* * * * *
“This is my brother,” Pauline said matter-of-factly. “Russell, this is Antonia Bingham.”
They had converged in the front hall of the Framingham house and stood in front of an antique breakfront that hosted several bowls of shells of varying sizes and colors. Antonia quickly assessed her new acquaintance. Russell was a large man—perhaps six foot four, weighing about 250 pounds. His face was round and his head mostly bald in the middle, with the remaining brownish-gray hair shaved down to a quarter inch on each side. What were unique were his eyes. They were blue, unblinking, and extremely alert—as if an ophthalmologist had recently placed drops in them and they had transformed into the shape of cartoon saucers. His expression was both inquisitive and suspicious, his manner awkward and formal, and as Antonia would learn the more she conversed with him, he was without any social pleasantries. He was a strange combination of pompous, turgid, and offensive, and as blunt as a Dutchman.
“I’ve just been told that I am supposed to describe to you the murder that occurred at our home twenty-seven years ago despite the fact that you have no professional credentials or legitimate experience in the crime-solving profession. That my sister has chosen to hire an amateur sleuth is her business, but I would prefer that you know up front that I find your presence in this investigation absurd,” Russell announced after shaking Antonia’s hand.
“Russell . . .” Pauline began with exasperation.
Antonia waved her off. “No, no, he’s correct. I am an amateur sleuth, I’ll own it.”
Her attempt to deflect her anxiety with lightheartedness fell spectacularly flat.
“I’m glad.”
“Russell, we’ve been over this,” Pauline said tersely. “The police have done nothing. The private detectives did nothing . . .”
He turned and addressed her curtly. “They were encouraged to not do anything.”
A look passed between brother and sister, and a tension filled the air. Antonia wanted to prompt Russell to elaborate, but she thought it best to bite her tongue.
“Don’t be foolish, Russell,” Pauline said. “Of course our family did everything they could to solve the murder.”
Russell scoffed. “They did everything in their power to make it go away . . . but, that said, I have no problem with that. It was a terrible bore.”
Antonia raised her eyebrows. She had heard murder called many things but “a terrible bore”? That was a first.
“Look, Russell. Darling. I need ten minutes of your time to tell Antonia what happened. Then she can check you off her list and you can go on your merry way,” Pauline said in the same tone a teacher would address a naughty preschooler.
“Very well, then. Since my sister has an interest in the macabre, why don’t you accompany me down to the actual scene of the crime: the location where our innocent victim met her untimely demise. I have a tennis game in half an hour and I have allotted this time to practice my serve.”
“That sounds fine to me.”
Antonia followed brother and sister as they stepped off the porch and crossed the circular part of the driveway by the entrance. Antonia’s dusty old Saab was parked next to a vintage convertible Mercedes and a sleek black BMW. She gave her car a little tap on the hood as she passed it—her way of telling it to hang in there and hold its own amongst the fancier automobiles. She had an unnatural love for her car.
Once they had crossed the driveway, the large expanse of lawn spread out in front of them for about two acres, framed by privet hedges on both sides. Antonia marveled at the consistency of the dark green turf. In her yard at the inn, everywhere she looked there were patches of different grasses and weeds sprouting up in little leafy tufts. She had about twenty different varieties of grass competing for dominance. But at the Framinghams’ there was complete cohesion in every blade and every interloping scrabbly turfgrass or fescue rejected. Kevin Powers must have loved mowing this stuff back in the day, she thought idly.
The trio veered left toward the faded stone path that trickled through the thicket of beech trees running in a loose diagonal to the privet hedge on the western side of the property. It was a bright day, but as soon as they stepped on the path they were thrust into a shadowy darkness. Meager slats of light broke through the leafy branches that sloped downward toward them. They walked in silence, Russell leading the way. Antonia noticed that his tennis shorts were much smaller than was the current fashion, and his white polo shirt had sunblock stains around the collar. She surmised that he had probably owned this outfit for several decades. Pauline was dressed in her riding outfit, which complemented her fit and athletic figure.
The path came to an end at the tennis court, which was enclosed by a large chain-link fence covered in ivy. The door squeaked when Pauline opened it and they followed her inside, but not before Antonia glanced around at the area outside the court. There were large dense bushes—a tangled mass of branches and weeds—surrounding the entire court. When she peered to the right of the court, she could just make out the roof of the guesthouse. The impression she garnered was that despite being so close to the main house and the road, this area was quite isolated by virtue of the intense vegetation. There were little pockets where people could hide between trees and bushes. Places for a murderer to lurk.
“Russell, please stop and talk for a minute,” Pauline commanded when Antonia stepped inside the court.
“Wait,” he snapped. He walked over to the back edge where there was a ball machine, and began dragging it toward the base line.
“You can see why I don’t enjoy having him around,” Pauline said.
Antonia didn’t respond. She’d never had a sibling, so she had no experience with internal familial squabbling. But she did know that it was smart to stay out of family fights, because blood is definitely thicker than water. While Russell set up his machine, Antonia took the time to walk around and examine the court. The hard court surface was paved a slate green, outlined by washed-out pale white lines. On the far end of the court was the gate that was close to the street. It was fastened by a thick padlock on an impenetrable chain.
“Fine,” Russell announced with exasperation. “I can talk for approximately four minutes.”
He marched over to where Antonia and Pauline stood and folded his arms like a petulant child.
“Thank you. I appreciate your taking the time—” Antonia began before he cut her off.
“No small talk. Waste of time. Begin.”
Antonia glanced at Pauline who rolled her eyes. “Okay, where were you when Susie was killed?”
“On my boat.”
“Alone?”
He sighed deeply. “Did you even bother to read the police reports? This is ridiculous . . .”
He began to protest, during which time Pauline began berating him. A fight ensued, and Pauline escorted her brother off to the side of the court. They argued heatedly, but finally he agreed to talk.
“Okay,” he said flatly. “What was your question?”
“Who were you with on the boat?”
“My girlfriend, Holly Wender.”
“I actually just met Holly,” Antonia said.
Antonia thought Russell’s expression might change or maybe he would show some sort of reaction, but instead he remained stone-faced, so Antonia pressed on. “She said she was with you the entire day. But was there a time you were separated that day? Maybe she took o
ff or you did?”
“I cannot recall with accuracy, but my memory is that we were together all day.”
Antonia cocked her head to the side, thinking. It was difficult to interview such a reluctant witness, and it was also awkward to do it with Pauline standing and watching with her arms folded and her faced contorted with irritation. It rattled Antonia. Not to mention that there was a ticking clock, which was emphasized by the fact that Russell kept glancing at his wristwatch. It reminded Antonia of the one time she had tried speed dating. She just had to jump in there and lay it all on the line.
“Who do you think killed Susie?”
Russell’s face remained unmoved. “I think it was Scott Stewart, the tennis pro.”
Antonia could barely hide her surprise. “Really?”
“Oh, Russell,” exclaimed Pauline. “Why would Scott kill her?”
“Don’t interrupt, Pauline,” Russell commanded.
This time, Antonia had to agree. “Perhaps it’s better if I interview Russell alone? In the interest of time . . .”
Pauline was about to say something but stopped. She walked down to the other side of the court, out of earshot. Antonia returned her attention to Russell.
“Why did you think Scott did it?”
“It was someone who knew Susie. It’s ludicrous to think that some stranger broke in and killed her. This is not a homicidal town. Or at least it wasn’t back in the good old days. The person who killed Susie wanted to kill Susie, intended to kill Susie, and waited for the opportune moment to kill Susie. The person who killed Susie wanted to frame my sister for killing Susie. It was not a fluke that she became the leading suspect in Susie’s murder. That is what the killer desired. Your investigation should not focus on who hated Susie. It should focus on who hated my sister.”
“And why did Scott Stewart hate your sister?”
“She rebuffed him. He made overtures, and she wasn’t interested. In retaliation, he watched from his perch in our guesthouse for the opportune moment to seize revenge. Kill Susie, blame Pauline. Susie was collateral damage. My sister’s the true victim. I do not say that with any form of sentiment by the way, it’s merely a factual statement.”
“But what about the witnesses that can attest that Scott was teaching at the time of the murder? I heard women at the Dune Club vouched for his presence.”
“They interviewed two women who swore he was there at the time. One of them is a known slut who had been having an affair with Scott. He pressured her to give him an alibi so he wouldn’t tell her husband. The other woman was there, but she had an incontinence problem and had fled to the bathroom for twenty minutes. I know that because a friend of mine was in the ladies’ locker room at the same time and said the scene was vile. The woman was washing her underwear in the sink and then using the blow dryer on her panties. It took twenty minutes. That’s all the time Scott needed to zip over here and make his kill.”
“Oh. Wow. Still, it seems a little bold . . .”
“Pauline was only gone long enough to fetch lemonade. How long does it take to go up to the house, retrieve the lemonade, bring it down? Five, ten minutes? That’s all you need.”
“I suppose you’re right.”
“Ah, here is my tennis date. Now our conversation has come to a close.”
Antonia glanced over at a scantily clad blond who had entered the tennis court shyly. Her breasts were the size of watermelons and bursting out of her tiny Lululemon tennis outfit. She was garish and tacky, and Antonia could see Pauline bristle at the sight of her. It didn’t make sense to Antonia. How did Russell attract these women? He was so unappealing. Ah yes, Antonia remembered. Money was always an aphrodisiac.
* * * * *
“I know Russell is very rude, but you seem like you can handle that behavior,” Pauline said as she escorted Antonia to her car. Antonia surmised this was Pauline’s version of an apology.
“He was fine.”
“What did he tell you?” she asked with curiosity.
“He said he thinks Scott did it because you rebuffed him.”
“He’s always thought that.”
“Is it true?”
“That I rebuffed him? No. We were friends, that’s all.”
Antonia eyed her carefully. They were still walking so she only saw Pauline’s expression in profile, making it hard to read. “Some people have told me you had a relationship with him.”
Pauline laughed. “Never. Scott wasn’t my type.”
“Can I ask, who is your type?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean . . . I know you were dating Dougie. But some people suggested that you were not, let’s say, madly in love with him. And maybe you were seeing someone else?”
“Who are these ‘some people’ that are saying that?”
“I don’t know if I should say.”
“I’m paying you to say.”
“True . . .”
Pauline shook her head. “You know what? Don’t tell me. I can guess who it was. It’s not significant. Dougie was my boyfriend, but we were teenagers and neither of us was very faithful. But there was nothing of consequence to report. Dougie thought he was very discreet, but it’s impossible to pull the wool over my eyes. I knew what he was up to.”
“Did he have a fling with Susie?”
Pauline smiled slightly. “No. Never.”
“Was Susie dating anyone?”
“No.”
Antonia stopped walking and stared at her. “Would you tell me the truth? I am, after all, working for you, trying to solve this murder . . .”
“Of course I would tell you the truth,” Pauline insisted. “This is not a game for me. Do you think it is? Would I really take the time to go to my lawyer and have him draw up legal papers?”
“I guess not,” Antonia said with uncertainty. She didn’t want to contradict Pauline, but she knew Pauline was lying. Pauline knew Susie was dating Kevin Powers.
Pauline squinted. “I think it’s time that the person who did this pays. Someone got away with murder. And that person is probably toying with someone else right now. Manipulating them. Maybe the killer hasn’t killed again, but the killer could be inflicting damage and pain on other victims. And having fun with it.”
“And you still think that person is Kevin Powers?”
Pauline shrugged. “Kevin Powers?”
“Yes, the other day you said it was Kevin Powers.”
“I don’t recall saying that.”
“You said your parents thought that.”
“I don’t recall that.”
Antonia thought she was going crazy. Fortunately, she had her phone in her pocket. She pulled it out and clicked on the voice recordings. She had marked Pauline’s interview but, oddly, she could not find it.
“Let’s hear it.”
“Um . . . that’s so strange, I can’t find your interview.”
Pauline nodded. “I thought so.”
“That’s so weird . . .”
“I don’t know what you were talking about.”
Antonia was confused. Had she accidentally erased the recording after she listened to it with Joseph? She didn’t think so. But truthfully, she couldn’t rule it out. She didn’t want to think that someone had picked up her phone and toyed with it. She didn’t even have a passcode, so it would be easy enough to do. But would someone really do that? She was actually quite careless with her phone and didn’t have it on her at all times, especially when she was in the kitchen. But this was bizarre.
“Well, in any event, was it Kevin?”
“Probably not.”
“Okay, well then, who?”
“I hired you for a reason, didn’t I? You need to find out.”
“Right,” Antonia conceded. “By the way, Mrs. Whitaker left me a message last night. Thanking me fo
r helping but begging me to hurry.”
“I told you, Antonia. We have very little time left.”
“It was depressing. I can’t imagine her pain.”
“We’ve all been suffering. This is what I imagine purgatory is like—a suspended reality, a holding place. I need the truth to come out. I need to move forward with my life.”
“I know. I’m doing my best.”
“You need to do better than that,” she said sternly.
“Do you think you could give me Mrs. Whitaker’s number? I’d love to call her back.”
“The woman is literally on her deathbed, there’s no way,” Pauline protested, before adding in a softer tone. “I have something for you in the front hall. I think you’ll find it interesting.”
18
Susie’s pink-and-white-striped diary burned a hole in Antonia’s purse the entire drive home. She felt as if she had just been endowed with the Pentagon Papers or some explosive documents that would shake up the world. How the hell did Pauline have Susie’s diary? Was that even legal? And could the clue to Susie’s murder be written in this long-forgotten girlish tome? Antonia sure as hell hoped so.
