by Carrie Doyle
Emboldened, Antonia continued. “And I’m so sorry about Warner, I’m not sure if you were close but,” she paused hoping that Paul would interject the status of his relationship with Warner at this point. When he didn’t, she continued. “Anyway, I take care of their house and I wanted to make sure that you didn’t leave anything there, or if there is anything that you need…”
Antonia’s voice trailed off.
“No, man, thanks,” said Paul, wiping a lock of greasy hair out of his eyes. “I’m just like, totally freaked out. Drowning my sorrows right now with my lady.”
Antonia glanced at his lady, who nodded in accordance. “It’s pretty whacked,” she concurred.
“You can say that again,” interjected Genevieve. “Antonia’s the one who found him.”
Antonia turned and glared at Genevieve. She hadn’t wanted to divulge details regarding the discovery of his body. It might take them away from the information that she wanted to gather from Paul. “Sorry I didn’t introduce you, this is my friend, Genevieve Turner.”
Genevieve stuck her hand out and Paul and his girlfriend shook it limply. He did not take the opportunity to introduce his “lady.”
“You found him?” said Paul, shaking his head. “I’m so glad it wasn’t me, man.”
“You would have totally freaked out,” said Paul’s girlfriend with a snort. She took the moment to drain her glass. Antonia noticed that she had several earrings in each ear, including a small dangling Mickey Mouse in the left lobe next to a skull and crossbones stud.
“Yeah, I don’t do well with blood. Makes me barf man. I’m really squeamish, if you can believe it.”
Antonia stared at the sleeve of tattoos going up his wrist. He was obviously not squeamish around needles.
“Well, there wasn’t much blood. But I’m sure you don’t want to hear about that. He was, after all, your friend?” She purposely posed it as a question.
Paul took a sip of his beer. “Only just met him but he was a cool dude,” said Paul. “Quality peeps.”
The bartender approached and Genevieve and Antonia ordered drinks: A margarita for the former, a glass of cabernet for the latter. They slid up onto the barstools.
“Paul, listen, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” Antonia queried.
Before Paul could respond, his girlfriend interrupted, her eyes narrowed to slits like a snake.
“Why? Are you the cops?”
“Do we look like the police?” asked Genevieve, slightly offended.
“No, but then neither does Mariska Hargitay,” said the girlfriend.
“But Mariska Hargitay isn’t a cop, she just plays one on TV,” retorted Genevieve.
“Same thing,” shrugged the girlfriend.
“We’re not the police,” Antonia said firmly. “We are friends of Warner’s family, you can call Sergeant Flanagan to confirm…”
Paul waved his hand and announced firmly: “No need to call the cops.”
Antonia gave him a quizzical glance. He shrugged with a guilty face. “We’re not into law enforcement is all.”
“They suck,” added the lady friend. She punctuated the air by pointing her purple fingernail at them.
“I hear you,” said Antonia. “But I’m here on another matter. This is obviously a very big tragedy for the Caruthers. They have asked me to piece together Warner’s final moments. They have a lot of unanswered questions.” God, she was getting good at this white lie stuff.
Paul drained his beer. “Alright,” he said.
The lady friend still glared at Antonia, who shifted in her seat awkwardly. There was something menacing about the girl’s gaze, a sort of take-no-prisoners look.
“Before we get all somber, how about we buy you guys another round of drinks?” asked Genevieve.
Paul brightened. “Cool.”
Antonia gave Genevieve a grateful smile. She winked in return.
“Alright,” conceded the lady friend, as if she was doing them a giant favor.
As Genevieve placed the order and began flirting with the bartender, Antonia attempted to win the girl over.
“I’m really okay. Ask anyone. I have a restaurant in town, I own an inn…”
The girl perked up. “The Windmill Inn? That’s you?”
Antonia smiled. “Yes, you’ve heard of it.”
The girl nodded. She turned to Paul. “Aw, yeah, don’t you remember Warner went by there to get his keys? She’s cool.”
Antonia was happy she received the stamp of approval. Now she could start her interrogation. She knew she had to be subtle.
“Paul, I was…along with the Caruthers family…we were wondering, why was Warner still at the Mastersons’ house? He told me he was leaving on Monday.”
Paul shook his head. “Dude, I don’t know. He was leaving. He was going to head back to the city for a few days then we were going to recon in Southampton.”
“What time did you last see him?”
“I saw him in the late afternoon. He said he was grabbing his stuff at the Mastersons before hitting it.”
“Was Warner with his girlfriend?”
“He didn’t have a girlfriend,” said Paul. “He got play, but was uncommitted.”
Antonia hadn’t expected that answer. “Did he get play here, in East Hampton, I mean?”
Paul shook his head. “I don’t think so. But I didn’t know him that long. We met a few weeks ago, here, actually, and when he found out I was an expert with the camera he asked me to work with him ’cause his original guy flaked. I mean, we hung hard the past few weeks, in the trenches and all, and we’d have a few beers. I definitely didn’t see him with a lady.”
“Really?” asked Genevieve with skepticism.
“It’s not like he was Chris Hemsworth,” sneered the girlfriend. “I didn’t even think he was hot.”
“But what about a girl in a German car?” asked Antonia.
Paul shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t know anything about that.”
“Is it possible he had a lady friend?”
“Yeah, sure. But he didn’t mention it.”
“Were you with him every night?” asked Antonia.
“Pretty much,” said Paul. “Except Thursday. I went to the city. Had tickets to The Exterminators.”
“Is that a band?” asked Antonia.
“It’s a way of life,” he said solemnly. His lady nodded in accordance.
Antonia tried another tack.
“Was Warner drinking on Monday?”
Paul paused. “Naw, I mean, he had like three beers but no.”
“That’s not a lot for him?” asked Antonia.
Paul and his girlfriend laughed. “Three beers?” she asked.
“Three beers is nothing, Antonia,” said Genevieve, tapping Antonia playfully. “This one is such a prude!”
Antonia smiled. “How do you think he could have fallen, then? Was he clumsy?”
“Not particularly,” said Paul. “I think it was just one of those freak accidents.”
“My uncle got struck by lightning,” added the girl.
“That’s awful,” said Antonia. She decided to change course. “Tell me about the documentary. How did you find your subjects?”
“Warner would do research on each person and then find out what their hobby was and use that to entice them.”
“You mean he told each one a different story about what the documentary would be about?” asked Antonia.
“Exactly,” nodded Paul. “This one lady, total hottie, was way into horseback riding. Warner contacted her and told her he was doing a film about horses, and the world of showing, that sort of crap. She was totally game. And then once we got in the interview, Warner nailed her with his questions—like I said, he did his research—and she just didn’t have a clue.”
A woman? That was interesting. Antonia had not even considered that he would have included women in his documentary, but of course it made sense.
“What was her name?” asked Antonia.
Paul faltered. “Um…”
“Pauline Framingham,” his lady said firmly.
“Right.”
“Of Framingham Industries?” asked Antonia with an eyebrow raised.
“Yes.”
“No wonder she didn’t want the negative publicity,” said Antonia.
“Powerful family,” said Genevieve to Antonia. She wiggled her eyebrows for emphasis.
Framingham Industries was the largest privately owned pharmaceutical company in the country. The Framinghams were billionaires who had donated wings to dozens of museums and hospitals in New York and Palm Beach. Although they were not shy with putting their names on buildings, they shunned the press in general. It was possible the lawyer could have been working for her.
“Did Warner have any hesitation about doing this documentary?” asked Genevieve. “It’s kind of biting the hand that feeds…”
Paul glanced off in the distance. “Warner was from that preppy world, but he didn’t dig it at all. He was a serious filmmaker. He didn’t want to do some dumb documentary like The Real Housewives; he wanted to win an Academy Award. This was his exposé. He knew that he had to get everyone in the first time, because once it came out people wouldn’t want to participate anymore. And he was going to do it, dammit! For the common man, like every one of us! He was!”
Paul stomped a fist on the bar. His lady put her long, purple-taloned hand on his shoulder and squeezed. Paul turned and gave her the longest most erotic kiss that Antonia had ever seen in public, before he picked up his drink and took a long swig. Antonia and Genevieve both squirmed in their seats during the awkward moment. Antonia broke the silence.
“I’m sure it would have been brilliant. Paul, do you have any idea what happened to the footage? Where would Warner have kept it?”
Paul gave her a curious look. Then he started laughing, as did his lady.
“What?” asked Antonia.
“Duh, I have the footage,” said Paul.
“He is the cameraman,” interjected his lady.
“What!” exclaimed Antonia, before remembering she had to play it cool. “I didn’t realize that. I thought it had gone missing.”
“Are you kidding? I’m like Mr. Organization. And this was our Golden Ticket. I would never screw that up.”
“Do you think we could come see it?” asked Genevieve quickly.
Paul turned to give his girlfriend a look. She whispered something in his ear and he whispered back. Clearly they were never given the memo that whispering in front of others was rude. Antonia waited. She noticed Paul’s girlfriend’s fingers squeeze his thigh. She prayed they would not be subjected to another pornographic interlude between these two slackers.
“Alright,” said Paul finally. “But only because you are part of Warner’s family.”
Antonia didn’t dare correct him.
9
Antonia followed Paul’s blue Chevy Avalanche as it turned right off of Route 27 onto Oak Lane. They drove a short distance down the street before taking a left onto Schellinger Road. Paul slowed his car in front of the third house on the right and parked in the driveway. Antonia parked her car on the road. A small white sign pressed in the grass said “Levicky.” A cluster of large bushes and one giant pine tree obstructed the view of the house.
Outside the air was cool. Antonia could smell the scent of barbequed meat wafting through the air from the neighbor’s yard, and her stomach let out a small grumble. It was almost dinnertime. Antonia and Genevieve followed Paul and his girlfriend through a gate in an unpainted wooden fence. The grass in the yard was an inch or two overgrown and there were large clumps of rose of sharon bushes along the sides that separated the land from its neighbors. From a distance, the tiny one-story house had appeared neatly kept but upon closer inspection, Antonia could see chipped paint on the gutters and rotting wood panels below the front steps. There was a small attempt at cheer in the manner of a large urn filled with geraniums that stood next to the front door. A miniature American flag was propped in the soil.
Upon entering they were greeted by the zealous barks and licks from a Cocker Spaniel named Marilyn Manson who was relentless in his effort to make friends. Genevieve, in particular, was not a dog lover.
“Cute dog,” said Genevieve flatly. Only Antonia could decipher that her voice was dripping with sarcasm.
“Thanks. Just watch your crotch. He’ll make it his new home,” warned Paul’s girlfriend.
“Great,” said Genevieve under her breath. She turned and gave Antonia an SOS look, which Antonia promptly ignored. Antonia was burning with anticipation to finally view the footage. What was in there that could be so important to the lawyer’s employer? This was her moment to find out, and if Genevieve had to get molested by a dog, so be it. Sometimes you have to take a hit for the team.
They were ushered into the living room and offered beer, which was delivered to them in two tallboy cans. Antonia and Genevieve sat on the sagging tan couch while Paul fiddled with his filming equipment.
Antonia glanced around the room. It was cluttered with miscellaneous furniture of varying sizes. A leather chaise stood in the corner next to a reading lamp and a stack of newspapers. There were two large glass fronted display cases. One held framed photographs of weddings and graduations, as well as baseball trophies, a signed baseball on a pedestal, and a signed Mets jersey. The other held a large collection of porcelain figurines, with bunny rabbits a heavy favorite. The windows were covered in a gauzy white fabric. The room smelled like stale cigarette smoke, its presence confirmed by the overflowing ashtrays that were on several coffee tables.
During the time it took him to set up the footage they learned that Paul’s girlfriend was named Heidi Levicky and before she came out here to help Paul and Warner with the documentary, she worked at a store called Top Shop in lower Manhattan while she pursued her dream of becoming a professional DJ. This was her parents’ home that she “crashed at” when she was in town on the weekends “moonlighting” at CVS, but for the most part she lived in Chinatown. She and Paul (Brady) had been together for three years, and Paul had taken a summer program at the New York Academy of Film, before quitting because “it was all bullshit and he was better than that.” He was “at the right place at the right time” when he met Warner which Heidi took as “a sign.” They both had believed that this documentary with Warner would “score him a studio deal big time; Scorcese style.”
“Okay, ready?” asked Paul finally, as a hazy image came on to the widescreen plasma TV. Antonia had noticed in life that no matter how financially challenged people were, they never skimped on televisions.
Finally, the footage came into focus. Antonia leaned in eagerly. This was her chance to see what was so important to the man with the briefcase. Alternatively, she had to find out what was missing that he had expected to find. Perhaps that is what held the answers.
The screen showed a sprawling perfectly manicured lawn with a large Tudor-style mansion hovering in the distance. Suddenly, a figure stepped on to the screen.
“Is that Warner?” whispered Genevieve.
“Yes,” said Antonia. It was eerie to see him alive. He began to speak, motioning behind him.
“Here you have the home of a favorite member of society’s old guard, Mr. Edward McKinley Hamilton III. A man who is respected for his expertise on family lineage and the history of New York society. Do all of his so called friends…” Warner punctuated the word friends my making quotation marks in the air—“know that his so-called prestigious family is full of Nazis and racists and former slave owners, wait a minute, cut, cut.”
“What’s wrong?” asked Paul’s voice off camera.
“I wan
t to wait until that lawnmower stops.”
Warner walked off the screen. Antonia shuddered. Every part of the video felt sad and strange, especially the details: The fact that Warner was wearing jeans and a T-shirt; his ebullience in regards to his project; his aborted mission to renounce the millionaires who were part of the landscape from whence he came. Now he was dead. Part of a past that would never have a future.
The camera cut out and then reappeared. This time, Warner was seated in paisley armchair next to a roaring fire. He now wore khakis and a yellow ribbed cashmere sweater that made him appear very young. His hair was neatly brushed and he held an earnest expression on his face. Across from him sat a distinguished looking older man in a blue blazer and red ascot. He had thinning white hair meticulously combed back from his forehead. His eyes were watery blue with the glossy sheen that often accompanies old age. His skin was almost translucent. His tall frame perched on the edge of his chair in a complete upright position. Antonia felt there was something vaguely familiar about the man.
“That’s Edward Hamilton,” said Paul. He took a pack of cigarettes out of the breast pocket of his shirt and pulled two out of the pack. He put them both in his mouth and lit them with a green plastic lighter, before handing one off to Heidi and exhaling a long stream of smoke.
“He looks like a cliché,” whispered Genevieve.
She was right, thought Antonia. An ascot? It was absurd. He was like a baby lamb walking into a lion’s den with that outfit. Warner would have him for lunch.
“So, Mr. Hamilton, tell me exactly what you do,” began Warner. His voice was tentative, definitely not as confident as he was when he was standing outside the house.
“I’m a philanthropist,” said Mr. Hamilton in a firm voice.
“A philanthropist,” repeated Warner. “So what does that entail?”
“I was fortunate enough to be born into a privileged family. I consider it both an honor and a duty to give away part of my fortune.”
“Whom do you give it to?”
“Hospitals, museums, the arts. Our foundation donates to a variety of charitable institutions.”
