Death on Lily Pond Lane

by Carrie Doyle

  After flicking on her iPod and allowing Stevie Nicks’ voice to fill the silence, Antonia backed out of the inn’s driveway and headed east on Route 27, towards the center of East Hampton village. She promised herself to make this as quick a trip as possible. She would have a brief glance at the Felds’ house, everything would be okay, and she could return to bed.

  Antonia passed the graveyard dotted with headstones dating back to the seventeenth century. She remembered that the first time she’d visited the town she’d been struck by the fact that the cemetery was front and center, boldly marking the dead. In California, cemeteries were tucked away and hidden. Here it was part of the mosaic of the town. Antonia often saw tour groups being led through and children doing grave rubbings with their teachers. She liked the fact that the past was integrated with the present. Somehow it was comforting. But tonight she had a quick flash of Warner being lowered into a grave and it made her recoil. She pressed on the pedal. She passed Mulford Farm and other historic buildings with expansive yards where fairs and antique shows were held throughout the year. The village green, a broad lawn where cattle once roamed freely when East Hampton was a farming town, was now on her right followed by Guild Hall, the cultural performance center where she often attended plays with Joseph. She was looking forward to summer’s upcoming schedule. In fact, she was looking forward to everything summer.

  What had bothered Antonia most about living in California was that nothing ever seemed to change. It was like the movie “Groundhog Day” where every day is exactly the same. It was hard to punctuate memories when the sun is eternally shining and people are always doing exactly the same things. There was something to be said about the hardship of the seasons. Winter, when the village green was blanketed by snow and the trees were bare, was for hibernation. It meant what little free time Antonia had was spent doing cozy reading at the library, sampling restaurants where she could never secure a table during the high season, and the occasional stolen trip to Buckskill Skating rink where everyone plopped inside for hot chocolate and marshmallows by the fire afterwards. There was also a lot of downtime, and waiting. January and February were particularly quiet. Most businesses closed during those months because it made more financial sense to shut down during that time. The land was gray and dark, the days very short; on the plus side, her fewer customers came earlier and drank more. But all this had made Antonia all the more appreciative when spring arrived. It had still only been her first full winter there so there was the novelty effect. She wondered if that would change if she were here for several years.

  Antonia glided down Main Street. Most of the storefronts were empty, having been closed for the winter. The “For Rent” signs had come down and it looked as if some of the “pop up stores”—boutiques like Hermès and Michael Kors that opened exclusively in the summer—were starting to stock their shelves again. At this late hour, the shiny boutiques stood idle, the expensive clothes and jewelry in their windows ignored. The town was dead.

  Antonia put on her right blinker and turned down Fithian Lane, a one way street near Citarella. She drove to the stop sign and made a right and then a left onto Egypt Close. Down the block, she pulled into the Felds’ driveway. The house was dark.

  “Well, let’s do it,” Antonia said, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel.

  The Felds were amongst the first people Antonia had met in East Hampton. An energetic couple in their mid-fifties, they were fine dining and travel enthusiasts, much like Antonia. They had been introduced at a wine tasting at Morrell’s and hit it off after debating the merits of South Fork versus North Fork wine. Impressed by Antonia’s knowledge and wit on the matter, they invited her to join their wine club, which was filled with an eclectic group of foodies and connoisseurs who instigated emphatic debates. When the Felds discovered she had taken on the job of looking after the Mastersons’ house they asked her to check on their house as well, and paid her much more than she deserved.

  Antonia opened the car door and made her way up to the slate path. The Felds’ house was smaller than the Mastersons’, and could not have been more different structurally. They had employed a modern architect to “reimagine” a country barn. They used the actual oak frame from an 18th century structure in Pennsylvania, and attached a modern silo cylinder with a conical roof. The house’s windows were large-paned and enormous. A giant red front door, huge enough to allow cattle to enter if ever the need arose, loomed in the front exterior like a rosy red mouth on a twenties film siren. Antonia glanced at the offending potted plant and slid it even further away from the house. There, that would take care of it. She dusted off her hands and unlocked the door and paused on the threshold. Silence and a rush of stale air greeted her.

  Antonia quietly entered. The alarm started beeping and Antonia quickly entered the code on the panel to silence it. She decided to follow her usual route, as if it was just another day of checking to make sure everything was in place. She flicked on the overhead light in the front hall. The downstairs was almost completely one large open space, making it very easy for Antonia to ascertain that nothing was amiss. Exposed oak beams crisscrossed the ceiling and flowed down to the stained cherry wood floor. The centerpiece of the room was the large fireplace with a river stone mantel on the north wall. The furniture was mission style; simple wooden chairs that were more function over comfort (she knew this first-hand because every time she sat in one her ass hurt) and square tables. The simplicity highlighted the various wall hangings, ceramics and sculptures from the Felds’ impressive collection of works from the Arts and Crafts Movement. It wasn’t exactly Antonia’s taste, but she appreciated their commitment to it.

  She ascended the steep wood stairs to the balcony of the great room and made her way through the three bedrooms with en suite baths. The beds were sturdy and plain, with wooden headboards and antique quilts in rich geometric patterns neatly tucked around the mattresses. There was nothing to distinguish the master bedroom from the additional bedrooms with the exception of a large bookcase filled with a carefully curated pottery collection.

  By now, Antonia probably knew the Mastersons’ and the Felds’ houses better than they did. To her, it wasn’t as if the life was extinguished when the denizens left town. The houses were their own entities. It sounded strange, but she had come to understand the rhythm and pulse of them better than anyone.

  She wandered back downstairs before stopping to check on the back door by the kitchen. She confirmed that the door was locked. A glance around the kitchen revealed nothing out of the norm. Antonia glanced up at the gabled skylight. The murky blackness obscured all vision of the sky.

  With a sigh of relief, Antonia walked back to the front door. Perhaps it was because she was approaching from a different angle, but this time Antonia noticed that something was under the doormat. As she grew closer she could see that it was a manila envelope. With curiosity, Antonia picked it up. She thought it might be one of those real estate newsletters that agencies stuff into mailboxes or shove under their door alerting them to the latest sales in their neighborhood. The Felds would have no interest in that. It wasn’t sealed or even closed, so Antonia felt little remorse pulling out the pages inside.

  She felt herself grow weak as she read the contents.

  “Oh my God!” she said, extending a hand to steady herself, and ultimately leaning on the closest object, which was the shoulder of a large statue of a Native American in full regalia. Hopefully his fierceness would rub off, since the envelope did not contain a real estate listing. Not at all.

  Antonia pulled out her cell phone. She prayed Joseph would still be up.

  “Am I waking you?” she asked when he answered.

  “Of course not, my dear, is everything alright?”

  Antonia filled him in on the alarm that led her to the Feld’s before disclosing the contents of the manila envelope. “I thought it was a real estate listing, one of those things that they slide un
der your door when a house in your neighborhood is sold…”

  “Hmmm…I don’t think they do that in East Hampton,” said Joseph.

  “I know. That should have been my first clue, but I wasn’t thinking. They did it all the time in L.A. But that’s beside the point. Inside the envelope was…” She paused.

  “Antonia, are you still there?”

  “Yes. It was a dossier. About me.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It’s...” she hesitated. “It’s a file on me. They have everything. Medical files. Do you remember the time I told you about when I was in the hospital as a teenager?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, that’s in there. How did they find this all out? That was supposed to be sealed.”

  “It’s hard to keep anything secret.”

  Antonia gulped. She didn’t even want to think of that part of her life. Joseph was the only person who knew about it, and they never discussed it. It was all devastating. She continued flipping through the file.

  “There’s so much about Philip. The articles on what happened at the end of our marriage…” Her voice broke. She hated to think about the violent last night where everything came to an end. “And there’s more. There are current pictures of him. Coming out of what must be his house. It’s so creepy. I don’t want to be reminded of any of this!”

  Joseph paused before answering. “You think it’s the lawyer? The man with the briefcase?”

  “I don’t know. But my instinct says yes. If his ‘employer’ is powerful enough, he can buy anything.”

  “This is very troubling.”

  “I know.” Antonia paused to flick through the current photos. Philip looked the same—tightly wired and tense. Only slightly older. But still mean.

  “Well, you can find anything out on the Internet, as we well know.”

  “I guess,” said Antonia. “But I had Philip’s last name then. And I didn’t go out much during my marriage, because remember, I was a virtual prisoner. So, it’s not easy to find many people who knew me. The scary thing is that Warner has been dead only twenty-four hours and they already have all this stuff on me in order to blackmail me.”

  “If it is the lawyer,” said Joseph.

  “You think it’s someone else?” asked Antonia, her voice rising. “That’s even scarier.”

  “No, don’t worry. It’s probably him. Of course you can’t prove anything; couldn’t even go to the police if you were so inclined. But don’t worry. If that man comes calling again, I want to be there.”

  “What do you think he expects to do with all this? It’s not something I want out there but it’s not like I’m hiding it. It wouldn’t change my mind or make me take money to keep this a secret.”

  “I think he probably wants to show you he’s in control. These are serious people you’re dealing with.”

  “Great.”

  “We can handle them. Now, it’s time to come home and have a good night’s sleep.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll watch for your car lights.”

  “Thanks, Joseph.”

  Antonia pulled out of the Felds’ driveway aggressively and made a left onto Egypt Lane. Where she first felt alarm, now she felt anger. What could be so important about Warner’s footage that someone would want to destroy her life for it? And why did they think she had it? Antonia shuddered. She hadn’t seen the envelope when she was on her way in, and she thought it was because of the angle of the door as it opened. But what if it hadn’t been there? What if the lawyer had followed her and slipped it under the door when she was upstairs? She shuddered.

  Antonia stared hard into her rear view mirror. Was the lawyer following her? Should she be concerned? There were no cars behind her but the thick darkness and the scarcity of streetlights made it difficult to see. In front of her, heavy fog rolling off the ocean spread out against her windshield and curled itself into the corners. The air was dense. Antonia slowed down, realizing she was speeding. Suddenly, she blinked rapidly. She thought she saw a figure walking along the road. It appeared that the person was dragging something. When Antonia approached, she saw a woman in a thin trench coat pulling a black suitcase. The woman glanced at Antonia stealthily and quickened her pace. Antonia was about to continue on, but reconsidered. She glanced at the clock on her dashboard and it said 12:23. She shouldn’t leave this woman outside in the middle of the night if there were people like the lawyer with the briefcase lurking around. Antonia rolled down the window.

  “Do you need a ride?”

  The woman looked startled. She quickly shook her head. “No, thanks, I’m just going to Spaeth Lane.”

  If she had been driving, or even walking in the daytime, Spaeth Lane was an acceptable distance. In the middle of a pitch-black night, it did not seem that close.

  “Are you sure? It will only take me two minutes to drive you.”

  The woman hesitated. She was pretty, Filipina, with a round, pretty face; approximately in her early thirties, her dark hair was neatly pulled back into a small knot. Antonia could see that underneath her coat she wore a black maid’s uniform, the very formal type that Antonia had only seen in movies that took place in grand manors. She looked tired, but was obviously unsure if she should accept a ride from a complete stranger.

  “I’m Antonia Bingham. I own the Windmill Inn, and I promise, I’m very safe. Although saying that makes me seem strange. Sorry. We can keep the windows down so you can jump out at any time.”

  The woman squinted, and walked closer. Antonia must have appeared harmless because the woman finally nodded.

  “Okay, if it’s no bother. Thank you.”

  “You can put your suitcase in the back seat.”

  The woman opened the door and placed her black roller suitcase inside. She sat in the passenger seat. “Thank you. My name is Francine.”

  “Francine, it’s really late to be walking around by yourself. Where are you coming from?”

  “I took the Jitney out from the City.”

  The Hampton Jitney was the commuter bus line that ran between Manhattan and the Hamptons. It was fancier than your average Greyhound, offering free magazines, beverages and snacks, as well as complimentary bestselling books during high season.

  “And no one could pick you up?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t call my boss. He would not be happy. I was to take a taxi but there were none. I can walk. It is a nice night and I sat so long on the bus.”

  Antonia noted that her boss must be a bit of a jerk if he let her roam around this late. She started driving slowly, for fear there were others like this woman walking down the road and she may hit them. She put on her left blinker when she reached the stop sign.

  “Do you live out here year round?”

  “No, I work in the city, but my boss is out here for a few weeks to put his boat in the water for the season. I came to help. I usually go back to New York on my days off. It was supposed to be Friday but yesterday afternoon my boss said, “Go, go!”, so I went. He had a private meeting at the house. I heard him talking. He did not want me there. But he wanted me back tonight. He’s going sailing tomorrow.”

  “Ah, a sailor. I know nothing about sailing. I like the idea of sitting on a boat for about ten minutes but then it makes me antsy. It’s not really my thing.”

  “Me neither. My boss loves it. He also plays golf. He wants to join the Dune Club but they won’t let him in. He’s trying very hard.”

  “It’s a difficult club to get into,” agreed Antonia. They were passing it now, although it was too dark to see the lush greens.

  “Yes. I know. My boss is very mad he can’t play there. He lives almost next door, and they won’t let him in. I don’t understand why. He has a lot of money.”

  Antonia smiled. “Money can’t buy everything.”

  “He
says his ex-wife is to blame.”

  “Bitter divorce?”

  “Yes. He left her for another woman. She was very angry.”

  Obviously, Francine was a chatty bird, thought Antonia. All too ready to spill her employer’s secrets. “That’s too bad,” said Antonia.

  “Yes, Mr. Black hates his ex-wife. I’m glad they don’t have kids.”

  Antonia felt as if she had received an electric shock. She turned to Francine. “Wait, who is your boss?”

  “I work for Mr. Sidney Black. He’s right there on the beach. Big house. Very famous house, it’s been in magazines.”

  Antonia’s jaw dropped. She looked at Francine aghast. “Sidney Black?”

  “Yes,” said Francine furrowing her eyebrows.

  “The guy who runs BBK?”

  Francine nodded. “You know Mr. Black?”

  “Yes, I mean, no, no. I just heard his name for the first time today. This is so strange.”

  Antonia’s mind raced and she tried to make sense of everything. What are the chances that she’d have Sidney Black’s housekeeper in her car tonight, of all nights? She had to think of how to proceed.

  “Francine, does the name Warner Caruthers mean anything to you?”

  “Warner?” repeated Francine. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Antonia felt a ping of disappointment. She tried another tack. “Did you hear anything about a documentary about rich people in East Hampton?”