by Carrie Doyle
“Yes, but you must resent all the crowds coming in and taking over,” insisted Carl. “I mean, doesn’t it drive you crazy to have all these tacky hordes of people come crashing in every summer? On their cell phones, with their shopping bags, grabbing lattes at Starbucks! This town is like a suburb now.”
“They’re my bread and butter!”
“Of course..”
“No, but I do like the energy they bring. It can get very quiet here in the winter,” said Antonia. “In fact, it’s a little trick I have. I like to think of the summer crowd as the flowers that have bloomed. Eventually they will fade away, but we can just enjoy them while they are here,” said Antonia.
“I admire your attitude but can’t find it in myself to agree,” said Carl. “Nor can my grandmother stand it. She says the town has gone to hell in a handbasket. Had she known, she would have bought up more houses just to keep all these people away. They never should have expanded the Long Island Expressway,” said Carl.
“It’s funny, most of the people I know who lament the development are summer people,” noted Antonia. “I mean, of course I want to preserve the integrity of the town. And I too, don’t want the land gobbled up by all of these redundant houses. I would like to see the farmland sustained, and I have been working hard with the Historical Society and the Peconic Land Trust to preserve what we can. But I don’t feel any more ownership of East Hampton than the people who are only here for one season a year. They pay taxes also.”
“Not the renters,” said Carl with a touch of disdain.
“True, but a lot of people own houses.”
Genevieve could see that both Carl and Antonia were becoming slightly heated, so she tried to veer the conversation in a different direction. “Your grandmother sounds like a hoot. I’d love to meet her some time.”
“You will, of course,” said Carl firmly. “She used to split her time between here and Florida, but this year she didn’t make it down. She’s getting old. That’s why I moved back here, to help her out.”
“That’s really nice of you,” said Genevieve, stroking his arm. She looked suddenly alarmed. “Wait, did you check on her? What if there is a killer on the loose in her neighborhood? You have to make sure she’s okay!”
“I did. I stopped by early this morning. She’s fine. In fact, she’s so determined to be independent that she insisted that I stop looking in on her. Told me she has a very large social calendar and could I please make an appointment next time.”
“She sounds like a character,” said Antonia.
“To say the least. As feisty as they come. But strong as an ox. I told her I would wait several days before I returned. And call first.”
“But what about the guy who killed Warner? He could be roaming around the ’hood stalking his next victim!” exclaimed Genevieve.
“Genevieve, you have an active imagination,” said Antonia.
“But, how do you know I’m not right?”
Antonia sighed deeply and shook her head. “I don’t. But I wouldn’t worry so much. I don’t think Warner was murdered.”
“Don’t be so sure,” said Genevieve wiggling her eyebrows.
Carl returned his attention to Antonia. “Are the Mastersons in town?”
“No,” said Antonia, shaking her head. “After the police got a hold of Warner’s parents, they called to inform them, and then I briefly talked to Robert Masterson afterward. He was pretty devastated. Warner was like a son to him.”
“That’s awful.”
“The police think murder,” Genevieve stated confidently.
“The police haven’t made any statements yet as to what they think it was,” said Antonia, her patience draining. “I think they’re not drawing any conclusions until they receive the autopsy results.”
“But it’s murder for sure.”
Antonia shook her head. “Genevieve.”
“It’s true. It’s because of the documentary.”
“Ugh, you sound like Larry Lipper.”
“I have proof. You remember my friend Tanya?”
“Vaguely…”
“Well she is a personal assistant to Edward Hamilton, this rich old guy. Tanya told me that Warner convinced Mr. Hamilton to participate in his documentary and then totally made fun of him and accused him of all sorts of stuff. She said Hamilton was furious, mad as hell. He is all about protecting his family image.”
“That doesn’t mean he’d murder him, Gen,” said Antonia with a weary smile.
“I agree, but what if he uncovered a dark secret that someone didn’t want exposed? Something so bad that murder is the only option? Warner created a shit show the past two weeks. People kill for less.”
“Come on,” said Antonia.
Antonia had what she called a ‘Genevieve filter” which meant that everything Genevieve said had to be taken with a grain of salt. Although not intentionally deceptive, she was dramatic and often exaggerated for effect. Talking with her was often like playing a game of telephone, where if you told her a story, by the time it got back to you it would be completely distorted.
To Antonia’s surprise, Carl concurred with Genevieve. “I think Genevieve’s theory is entirely possible. You hear of all those people killing themselves because something they have done has been exposed, some secret life, that could also translate to murdering someone. I don’t know if what happened to Warner was murder, but I’m sure the police are looking good and hard at those people who participated in the documentary.”
Antonia didn’t want to conjecture anymore upon Warner’s death, especially now that a nagging feeling was growing inside Antonia. She thought of the man who had just offered her money for the tape. Did he work for Edward Hamilton? To what extent would his mysterious “employer” go to obtain it?
Fortunately, the conversation drifted to Carl’s background. He’d had an interesting life from the sound of it. He had done everything from working as a trader on the Asian stock exchange to captaining a private sailboat for a Russian oligarch. He explained that he wanted to see as much of the world as possible, have as many adventures as he could, before returning home and starting a family. And he definitely alluded that East Hampton might be his final stop, although not his current “shack” in Springs. He mentioned several times that it was temporary until he found his “dream house.” Carl chose his words carefully, speaking with such proper diction that Antonia was sure he had been well educated; he gesticulated languidly with his long fingered hands to emphasize a point. He was nice enough, but Antonia wasn’t sure exactly what to make of him. He was definitely a snob and uptight. How that would mesh with Genevieve’s character was beyond her. But on the other hand, maybe it was better than the usual slackers that Genevieve seemed to attract.
Carl and Genevieve were wrapping up the story of how exactly they met (at a bar; he was celebrating his return to town; he bought her a drink. Not much to tell in Antonia’s opinion, but as they were in the giddy throes of new romance she kept a smile plastered to her face) when they were interrupted.
“Excuse me, sorry to bother you.”
Antonia wasn’t sure what she would expect when she turned around but certainly not the chunk of manhood that she found herself face to face with. In a strangely primal experience that was not the norm for Antonia, she noticed his scent first. It was musty and clean, like soap and other things she couldn’t possibly place. But whatever it was, it hit her like a ton of bricks. The tall and muscular man looming over her had close-cropped reddish hair and nicely lashed green eyes. The two-day growth of beard enhanced the intense masculinity that he exuded.
“Can I help you?” asked Antonia.
“I had to meet you while I had the chance. I’m Sam Wilson.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Antonia Bingham.”
“I know; your reputation precedes you.” He broke into a smile.
Antonia was surprised. “Oh?”
“Yes. You’ve managed to charm some of the toughest critics around. Most importantly for me, my two buddies Jack Palmer and Stephen Henderson. They have been raving about your food ever since they came here. I’m also in the biz; out here helping my cousin open a restaurant. Palmer and Henderson said I couldn’t leave town without coming here.”
He was referring to two well-known chefs who had been guests at a wedding at the inn the week after Thanksgiving. It had been one of those magical nights where everything in the kitchen had gone spectacularly well, and Antonia was euphoric. She had no idea that she was cooking for two James Beard award winners until they came into the kitchen and applauded her after the dinner.
“It was the candied bacon jam,” said Antonia.
“The candied bacon jam?” repeated Sam, raising his eyebrows.
“It was a last minute thing. I added it to the local bay scallops. The pairing, along with the side of bitter greens, was a complete success.”
Sam smiled. “That must be it. Bacon always seals the deal.”
“It had me at hello,” said Antonia, with a smile.
“Would you like to join us?” asked Genevieve.
Sam’s eyes broke away from Antonia’s as if it was the first time he noticed that she was not seated alone.
“No, I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said quickly. “I just had to meet this lady. Unfortunately, the kitchen was already closed by the time I arrived, so I didn’t have a chance to sample the food. But meeting you is even better. You’re a rock star.”
Antonia stood up. “Let me please bring you something from the kitchen, I can’t let you leave without tasting the food.”
Sam put his hand up. “No, really. I will come back.”
“Then at least have a cookie,” said Antonia. She held up the plate in front of him and he smiled and selected one. He took a big bite.
“Delicious.”
Antonia sat back down.
“What kind of food do you cook?” asked Antonia, embarrassed at the attention.
“I like BBQ, spice, grease.”
“Sounds good, where can we get that?” asked Carl.
“It’ll be open this summer in the spot where the bagel store was.”
“I look forward to that,” said Antonia.
“Yum! We’ll all go,” added Genevieve.
Sam barely glanced at her. His eyes remained on Antonia.
“I’ll be back for dinner. For sure.”
Antonia hoped that was true. “Let me know and I’ll make you some bacon jam.”
* * * * *
After Genevieve and Carl called it a night, Antonia realized the dining room was empty, except for Bridget Curtis, who was still nursing her coffee. The room felt strange and eerie, as if the air had been sucked out. Antonia had been so distracted with her conversation about Warner’s death and then with that handsome chef Sam introducing himself that she realized she never had the chance to confront Genevieve about the note on her desk. Oh, well, maybe later. Antonia walked over to Bridget and put her hand on the chair across from her.
“How was everything this evening?”
“Great, thanks,” said Bridget quickly, not meeting her gaze. Antonia looked at her carefully. She was really extremely pretty, with long, dark hair and big, blue eyes. Antonia guessed she was in her early twenties.
“Are you enjoying your stay in East Hampton?”
Bridget was still not facing her, fumbling under her chair for her clutch. “It’s been okay.”
Antonia waited for her to continue, but when Bridget turned and looked up at her, she realized she would not. Bridget was staring at her carefully, her eyes both sad and confused. A split second passed where Antonia had a peculiar feeling.
“Is everything okay?”
Bridget hesitated but then smiled brightly.
“Sure, why do you ask?”
Antonia didn’t believe her but knew it wasn’t her place to say more. She was tempted to pull up a chair and ask Bridget to unload her problems, as she had done with many a guest in the past; but something about this girl held her at arm’s length. And with Antonia’s friends hinting about her nosiness, perhaps it was best not to meddle.
“I just wanted to make sure your stay with us is pleasurable.”
“Infinitely,” said Bridget.
Antonia locked eyes with her before glancing away.
“Well, good night then,” said Antonia.
Bridget looked away. “Good night.”
Antonia walked along the dining room, picking up used glasses, the rims stained with lipstick marks, and several napkins that had fallen on the carpet underneath the table skirts. When she pushed open the kitchen door, Antonia felt an odd sensation. She turned slowly. Bridget was standing at the other end of the room at the entrance, staring at her. Antonia was about to say something, but Bridget quickly hurried away.
5
Antonia nestled under her fluffy comforter and picked up the stack of papers that Joseph had printed out for her earlier. It was an Internet retrospective of the life and times of Warner Caruthers. According to Warner’s Facebook page, he had 843 friends and had graduated from Union College. He was a fan of Quentin Tarantino, The Onion, Hooters and Girls Gone Wild, and a member of Baba Booey (the Official Gary Dell’Abate Fan Club.) There were pictures of him and his friends with a pyramid of empty beer cans in front of him, as well as snapshots of him and bikini-clad girls on a beach somewhere. In one of his final postings he had ominously written: Something major is about to happen. If only he had known.
She scanned for clues that might tell her something about his death but there was nothing. But then what did she believe, that his Facebook page would explain why he was in Eleanor Masterson’s bathroom? Of course that was wishful thinking. Antonia tried to think back to anything Warner had said about Eleanor. There was nothing. She didn’t think they were a couple. Eleanor had been dating the same guy, Teddy, for three years and was madly in love (at least that is what she told Antonia when she met them over Christmas break.) And judging from the pictures it didn’t appear that Warner had any shortage of girlfriends. Had she missed the connection? Already Antonia was mad at herself for not picking up on the fact that Warner was causing problems in town with his documentary. Out of loyalty to the Mastersons, she might have tried to talk to him about it. She knew her powers of persuasion were very solid. Now it was too late.
Antonia yawned and put down the pages on top of her nightstand. She contemplated finishing the New York Magazine crossword puzzle that lay half finished next to her, but decided against it. Instead, she flicked off the lamp and put her head down on her pillow. Almost simultaneously the phone rang. Startled, Antonia sat bolt upright in bed and fumbled for the receiver. A quick glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand indicated it was 11:45. Who was calling at this hour?
“Hello?”
“It’s Scan Security. Is this Antonia Bingham?” inquired a deep baritone voice.
Antonia shot up in bed.
“Yes.”
“You are listed as the contact person for the residence at 1111 Egypt Close. Can you please provide the password?”
“733.”
“That is correct. Ma’am, an alarm was activated in the zone one region, which is the front door.”
It was the Felds’ house. Antonia worked as their caretaker as well.
The security man continued. “We tried the 631 number on our call sheet but there was no answer. We sent a cruiser over but he did not see any sign of a break in.”
Antonia glanced at her cell phone, which was turned off. Bad.
“I’ll be right there.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. We’ve deactivated the alarm. The police believe a potted plant tipped over by the wind set it off. They have moved it out of the way
and secured the area.”
Antonia relaxed a little. “Okay, thank you.”
A potted plant was the culprit. That was unfortunate, especially because now the Felds would be charged $250 for the visit from the cruiser. Antonia felt guilty; she should offer to pay. Her cell should have been on. And shouldn’t she have noticed that the planter appeared unstable? Wasn’t that her job? She prided herself on being meticulous. With a sigh, Antonia rose and walked into the bathroom. It was her favorite room in her apartment because it housed the hundreds of creams, bath products, fancy shampoos and conditioners that she adored. Antonia was a sucker for any and all beauty products, particularly the “free with purchase” ones. She took a large clot of firming cream and began slathering it all over her legs, an attempt to utilize some of her nervous energy. The possible benefit for a stressful day was at least she’d get softer skin.
A sudden wave of anxiety shot through Antonia. First the Mastersons’ house; now the Felds’? Was there more to this than meets the eye? Was she just paranoid because of what happened this fall with someone she deeply trusted turning out to be a killer? She wasn’t sure. Antonia put down the tube of cream and marched out of the bathroom. She had no choice. She’d have to go check on the Felds’ house. After pulling on a cashmere sweater, a long prairie skirt and slipping on her Uggs, she was ready.
Antonia walked through her tidy pink living room and flipped on the light in the kitchenette. Her bag was on the counter. Antonia stopped. The illicit Lysol can was still inside. She had to deal with it. It was not exactly the thing she wanted to be walking around with. She opened the kitchen cabinet under the sink and placed it inside next to her a bucket full of sponges, dishwashing gloves and Windex. It would look right at home. After grabbing a fleece, she closed her door.
The backyard of the inn was empty. Antonia’s eyes fell on every corner but they revealed nothing out of the norm. The gusty, stinging air was a shock after the warmth of her cozy apartment. She rubbed her hands together. The wind was zipping though the maple trees and the branches were flailing in frantic little jerks. Antonia glanced up at the inn, but all the bedroom windows were dark with the exception of Joseph’s. He was a night owl, often working deep into the early morning hours. She was tempted to enlist him to accompany her, but she didn’t want to bother him. She knew he was on deadline for a manuscript. Her eyes moved across the other windows and stopped suddenly. She could have sworn she saw movement in one of the darkened windows. She did the math in her head and realized it was the one that Bridget was staying in. Antonia squinted but saw nothing. She must have been mistaken. Bridget had made her feel uneasy. The girl was troubled. She’d have to keep an eye on her.
