Death on West End Road

by Carrie Doyle

  Larry promised he would report back anything he discovered, although knowing him it would take many phone calls from her to find anything out. That was okay. She was also planning on placing a call to the hospital to find out how Dougie Marshall was doing. She prayed he would pull through; it would be awful to have something happen to him that had been indirectly caused by her. Maybe there was truth to what everyone said—that they were all just playthings being manipulated by Pauline to amuse her. What a sad life she has at the end of the day, thought Antonia. Alone, rich, and bored—a toxic combination.

  “Anything going on, Connie? Any fires to put out?” Antonia asked her receptionist.

  “Actually, surprisingly all is well,” Connie responded. “But Joseph is waiting for you in the library.”

  Antonia was certain Joseph was eager for her to download all of her recent findings, but she really didn’t have time right now. Just as she hesitated, Joseph scootered out of the library.

  “Antonia, I think you need to come in here, please.”

  His tone was strange.

  Antonia followed him without a word. The library was empty except for a woman with dark hair standing by the window, glancing outside, her back to the room. She wore a long floral dress reminiscent of the kind women wore in the 1940s, with puffy sleeves, which looked very chic. Joseph cleared his throat and she turned around.

  It was Bridget Curtis, the young woman who had recently been a visitor to the inn. She was extremely attractive, with long dark hair and big bright eyes, but there was something tense and skittish about her that made Antonia nervous. In fact, at one point she had considered that Bridget might be a killer. And the fact that she checked out of the inn in the middle of the night on her previous visit had only added to her mysterious demeanor. It was also strange that Antonia had recently received a phone call inquiring about what Bridget had told her.

  “Hello, nice to see you again,” Antonia said pleasantly. Rule number one as an innkeeper was to make everyone feel welcome, no matter how strange or awkward the person or situation.

  “You too,” Bridget responded brusquely. Then she turned toward Joseph and gave him an imploring look.

  “Why don’t you both sit down. I’m at an unfair advantage in my scooter,” he said, adopting a lighthearted tone.

  Antonia did as she was told. Bridget hesitated for a split second and then followed suit.

  “Are you back in town for long?” Antonia inquired.

  Bridget shook her head and folded her hands nervously. “No.”

  She turned toward Joseph. Antonia mused at their intimacy. How did they know each other?

  As if reading her mind, Joseph spoke, “I was reading some rather dull accounts of the Byzantine empire this morning when Bridget came in looking for you. She remembered me from last time she was here and knew we were close friends so she solicited my advice. I hope you will not be offended, Antonia, that Bridget was quite candid and informed me about her reason for returning to the inn.”

  A terrible sensation engulfed Antonia’s body and a knot began to form in the back of her throat. It was as if her sixth sense was telling her something bad was about to happen. Instead of responding, she glanced back and forth between Joseph and Bridget with wide, unblinking eyes.

  “Antonia,” Joseph began, after she remained quiet. “Bridget has something she wants to tell you that I imagine will be very difficult to hear.”

  “What is it?” Antonia blurted out finally. The tension was becoming powerful.

  Joseph gave Bridget an encouraging nod and she turned toward Antonia. As she spoke, she refused to make eye contact. “I’m your sister.”

  “What?” Antonia couldn’t process the words Bridget was saying. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, we have the same father . . .” Bridget’s voice trailed off and again she glanced over at Joseph.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I have proof,” Bridget said. There was a manila folder on the coffee table that Antonia had not even noticed. Bridget pushed it toward her. Antonia picked it up and scanned the pages. The pages in the folder were notarized and stamped and appeared completely legitimate. But how could this be? Her father had an affair? She couldn’t imagine. Her father had been madly in love with her mother. According to the document in front of her, Bridget was twenty-five years old. That would mean that her father had cheated on her mother when Antonia was eleven? She tried to think back to that time. She didn’t remember any sign of conflict between her parents. What did she remember about being eleven? She remembered that for her birthday she had received a purple sweatshirt with the number eleven printed in white. She wore it for the entire year, until it was completely threadbare and her mother was finally able to dispose of it. She had requested roast beef, potato pancakes, asparagus with hollandaise sauce, and angel food cake with hot fudge for her birthday dinner and had celebrated with extended family. The rest of the year was sort of a blur . . . she was sure she had rented horror movies with her best friend, Paige. She had been interested in a boy named Jesse. But what did she remember about her parents? Not much.

  “I can’t process these pages . . . my head is spinning.”

  “I’m sorry, Antonia, this must be a terrible shock,” Joseph said as he patted her hand softly. “I know how much you revered your father and mother. One of the most challenging aspects of growing up is to learn the foibles of our parents; it is very difficult to see them as human. But I think if you listen to Bridget, you will perhaps gain some clarity. And as traumatic as this is for you, it is also very hard for her.”

  Antonia felt her eyes well with tears. A few streamed down her face, and she brushed them away angrily. She didn’t want to cry. She felt furious at her father and stunned by the revelation; the last thing she wanted to feel was sadness. It would be too overwhelming.

  “I’m sorry, Antonia. I realize that you had no idea that I even existed.”

  Antonia shook her head.

  Bridget nodded. “I understand that . . . I wasn’t supposed to exist.”

  “I just can’t understand it. I always thought my parents had the perfect marriage. This is such a shock. Did my mother know?”

  “I don’t think so,” Bridget said.

  “That’s good. I’m glad she didn’t know.”

  “Look, I know I have totally rocked your world and you must feel awful. And I can say from the bottom of my heart, I am sorry. I’m sure you have an image of your father and the idea that he had an affair with my mother, well, I can’t imagine that it’s a good revelation.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “My mother is actually quite awful. I’m sorry to say that. Of course I love her, she’s my mother, but she enticed your father. My mother was—is, to a certain extent—a predator. She does not care if a man is married or not. She wants what she wants. She’s very beautiful and very manipulative. And she met Dad—your father—at work. She was a temp at his office. And they went to drinks, and all I am sure of is that it was a one-night stand that Alan was very remorseful about . . .”

  “Wait a minute, you knew him?”

  “He would visit from time to time. He wanted to make sure I was okay. I know, I know, this sounds bad. But the fact was, he knew my mother was nuts. She got him drunk, got pregnant on a one-night stand, then lorded it over him. She was no different from Glenn Close’s character in Fatal Attraction. She has done this repeatedly over the years; I also have three half-brothers, so I have a clear sense of who she is. Dad, um, Alan, begged my mother not to tell you and your mom. Remarkably, she never did, although I know a few times he had to stop her. It was only when she turned her attention to another man that your father was finally liberated from her craziness.”

  “Why didn’t my dad tell me? He lived ten years after my mom died. He could have said something . . .”

  “I think he felt terr
ible,” Bridget said. “He didn’t want to betray you.”

  Antonia shrugged. “That’s almost harder to hear . . . that he felt like he had to keep you a secret.”

  “Your father loved you dearly,” Joseph murmured.

  “I wish he had told me . . .”

  Bridget continued. “The last thing I wanted was to hurt you and bring this up. In fact, I debated whether or not I should even come . . .”

  “Tell her,” Joseph prompted.

  “Tell me what? There’s more?” Antonia asked.

  “Unfortunately. Look, I didn’t grow up near you, I actually grew up in San Luis Obispo. I knew nothing about you or your mother, and after our Dad . . . Alan . . . died, I never thought to investigate. I went to college in San Francisco and have been working there for some time in fashion as a freelance stylist. I work with magazines and local clients. I meet a lot of people. About a year and a half ago, I was at a bar in the Mission and I met a man. He was older, but very handsome and charming. We started dating. It was great at first, but he became increasingly controlling and aggressive. I thought of breaking it off, but he also made me paranoid and was able to manipulate me. Every time I was done with him, he would become very sweet and tender and apologize. He spoke about his evil ex-wife who had destroyed his life and his professional career and then left him to move to the Hamptons and open an inn . . .”

  Antonia gasped. “Philip.”

  Bridget nodded. “Somehow, no doubt through his police connections, your ex-husband Philip had discovered my existence. He played me from the very beginning. It was all about revenge toward you. I was so naive at first, I believed everything he said. He was the one who sent me here a few months ago to ‘spy’ on you. He had convinced me that you were planning on some new way to ruin his life. That’s why I came and was so strange. When I returned to California he was even more jumpy and frantic than usual. Not to mention violent. I finally had the wits to get out of there. I filed a restraining order and took off. The reason I came here this time was not to hurt you, Antonia, but to warn you. Even my mother told me not to do it—it’s like that saying, crazy knows crazy. That’s why she was calling to find me and stop me . . .”

  “The woman on the phone,” Antonia said softly.

  “Yes. I know she was worried and wanted me to walk away from all this. And I suppose I could have done that and sent you a warning letter without revealing myself, but it seems like if Philip could find out that we’re half-sisters, he can find out anything else. Someone is helping him. And I want you to be careful.”

  Antonia felt an accelerated sense of dread coupled with remorse. It was inevitable that Philip would insinuate himself back into Antonia’s life—it was too much to ask that she would be totally free of him. He had once said they were inexorably linked. She was foolish to believe that she could escape him. What terrified Antonia now was that he had done his research. Usually his brutality was abrupt and harsh. He was thorough in his efforts to ensure her misery, but he was not fastidious or calculated about constructing the circumstances. At least she had always assumed that much. Now she wasn’t so sure. Strange, because when they were married, Philip often distinguished between criminals whose murders were premeditated and those who committed crimes of passion. He aligned himself with the latter group and even expressed some admiration for those who “love too hard and are forced to do something about it when their heart is broken.” But now, it turns out, he was in the former group. All of his evil acts were premeditated. And now it appeared that some more were coming her way.

  “I’m really sorry that happened to you,” Antonia said, extending her hand and patting Bridget’s. “I’m sorry I’ve been unable to stop Philip and now he has attempted to ruin another life.”

  “Antonia, don’t be crazy! It’s not your fault.”

  “I know it’s not my fault. But I won’t put up with it anymore. I’m going to figure out a way to get him and put him away forever.”

  “I’m not sure it can be done,” Bridget said glumly.

  Antonia glanced up and stared at Bridget’s face. From the moment Antonia had met her, Bridget had felt familiar. Now she knew why. Antonia’s emotions were running rampant. She was disappointed and angry at her father for betraying her mother. She was sad that their marriage wasn’t the storybook marriage she had envisioned. It would be so hard for her to sift through her memories and reconstruct them. It was also a shame her father had never introduced Bridget into her life. But there was a small kernel of joy that would take some time to get used to. She had a sister.

  29

  After Bridget left Antonia’s emotions were all over the map, as if she was on the biggest hormone roller coaster of her life. Her world had just been rocked to the core and she had no idea how to digest it. So she did what she always did when she was emotional: she marched into the kitchen and opened the large double-wide refrigerator. Her eyes immediately went to the bowl of glazed strawberries marinating in twenty-year-old aged balsamic vinegar. She retrieved the bowl as well as a large jar of fluffy white whipped cream and wordlessly walked over to the counter where racks of sugar-coated biscuits were cooling. She took a plate and covered it with biscuits, whipped cream, and a generous portion of strawberries. Soyla and Kendra eyed her strangely—she had not responded to their salutations when she entered the room, which was totally uncharacteristic of her.

  “Antonia, you gonna work today?” Marty asked in a teasing tone.

  “Not sure.”

  “But it’s Friday. We’re swamped.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  She grabbed a knife from the drawer then made her way to her apartment with her feast, leaving her staff staring at her incredulously.

  Antonia used food in many different ways. She ate when she was sad; she ate when she was happy. If something bad happened, she used food as a treat to cajole herself out of her funk. If something good happened, she used food as a reward or to celebrate. Now, she sank herself into her sofa and began shoving forkfuls of strawberry shortcake into her mouth. It didn’t taste as good as it normally did. She kept thinking each bite would have a healing effect, but in fact, the sticky sweetness made her feel worse. Antonia put the plate down on the coffee table, curled herself into the fetal position, covered herself with her furry pink throw blanket, and cried.

  Antonia cried for her mother, who had been betrayed. She cried for her father, who was no longer the paragon of a faithful husband that she had thought he was. She cried for human weakness. She cried for the evil that Philip still wanted to inflict on her. She cried for Bridget, because it must have been lonely to grow up without a father and with a crazy mother. As she was on a hard-core crying jag, she decided to widen the periphery and extend it to others, so she cried for Susie, whose promising life had been extinguished at such a young age. She cried for Susie’s family and friends—even though she had no idea if any of them were guilty. It was only when Antonia found a small reason to cry for Larry Lipper that she stopped. Lucidity came to her. Sometimes you have to draw a line, and Larry Lipper was that line. After that, Antonia fell into a deep sleep, devoid of dreams.

  * * * * *

  “Jesus, Bingham, what the hell happened to your face? Did someone suckerpunch you? Your eyes are so pink and puffy you look like a prizefighter that’s gone twenty rounds.”

  Antonia sat up. Larry Lipper was standing over her. Darkness crept in through the window and Antonia felt totally disoriented.

  “What time is it?”

  “Relax, it’s six o’clock.”

  “Shoot, dinner service time.”

  Larry flopped down in the chair across from her. He held a giant Starbucks cup in his hand and took a swig.

  “I think by now we both know that your staff can deal without you.”

  “The sad thing is that’s absolutely true. Although maybe not sad, but sad for me that I’m redundant.”
/>   “Why are you so down in the dumps?”

  “Larry, what are you doing here? How did you get in?”

  “Joseph let me in. I told him it was urgent and I promised not to violate you. He’s a pretty good gatekeeper, I might add. But somehow he softened, even said it might do me good to talk to you. What happened, did you and Old Joe get into a fight?”

  Antonia rubbed her eyes. “It’s nothing of the sort.”

  “Jokes aside, Bingham. I can be a good listener.”

  “I don’t want to get into it now.”

  “If someone is messing with you, they have me to deal with. I may be small, but I’m tough. And I fight dirty—lots of biting and kicking in the groin.”

  Antonia smiled. “Thank you. I’ll be fine. Just tell me, what happened at Scott’s?”

  “Couldn’t find him.”

  “What do you mean you couldn’t find him?”

  “Wasn’t home.”

  “Are you sure it was the right address? Genevieve said Talmadge Lane.”

  “Yes, I’m sure. He was AWOL. The blinds were drawn. No car in the driveway. I asked the neighbor and she said she saw him and his gal pal pack up their car and take off early this morning.”

  “Did she happen to notice if the car was totaled?”

  “She said it looked fine to her. But that’s because it was a rental.”

  This spurred Antonia’s attention. “What do you mean?”

  Larry smiled gleefully. “I mean what I said, Bingham. You still asleep? The old broad said Scott showed up in a rental car this morning. She could tell by the plates. Then he packed up and took off.”

  “Where do you think his real car is?”

  “He’s either hiding it somewhere or it’s in a junkyard. No doubt it’s got serious damage from crashing into Dougie Marshall’s Mercedes. I asked my buddy at the police station, but he didn’t have any report of Scott Stewart’s car being stolen.”