by Carrie Doyle
Antonia held it with both of hers. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you. I was wondering if we could talk for a minute?”
“Of course.”
“I appreciate it. I know it’s very early but I’ve been up for hours and I have to get back to Connecticut.”
Antonia led him into the sitting room and closed the door. Soyla brought in coffee and pastries but Mr. Caruthers didn’t touch anything. He sat down in the armchair with his body erect and his hands holding on tightly to the arms, like the Lincoln Memorial. Before he spoke, Antonia experienced a split second of panic that he was there to accuse her of manipulating Paul Brady by pretending she was acting as an emissary on behalf of the Caruthers family. But one look at Mr. Caruthers alleviated her anxiety. His face was awash with pain, frustration and anger, the simmering emotions so palpable that Antonia could feel his distress.
“Warner looked like you,” she said, breaking the silence.
“Yes, he did, didn’t he?”
“Same eyes.”
He nodded.
“I drove up this morning. I came alone; my wife didn’t make the trip. She’s…not taking it very well, as you can imagine. But the police needed to talk to us, so I came.”
Antonia nodded sympathetically. “Of course.”
“It’s very strange. They asked me if Warner had any enemies. I’m afraid I could tell them very little. You think you know someone, your own son, and yet they have a life that you know nothing about.”
Antonia nodded. She could tell Mr. Caruthers wanted to talk, and she was prepared to listen. He continued, nervously fondling the arms of his chair as he spoke.
“The police told us that we weren’t allowed in the Mastersons’ house until the toxicology reports were back, but I was hoping they’d make an exception. I’d like to figure this out myself. But I’m afraid they’re holding firm on this one.”
“It must be very frustrating.”
“Right, right.”
He crossed his legs. His left foot remained on the floor, tapping softly as if to an imaginary beat. “I know it’s their policy and they have to wait to make sure that there was no foul play. But I think that in this case the situation is obvious. No one wanted to kill my son, Miss Bingham. I’m certain he fell in that bathtub. He was probably drinking…I respect police protocol but it seems a little silly…”
Antonia nodded. “I will absolutely make sure that when the house is unsealed I will retrieve Warner’s possessions as quickly as possible and return them to you.”
He looked up startled. “Oh yes, thank you. I didn’t even think about that…”
Silence filled the room. She could tell Mr. Caruthers was restless but she didn’t know how to help him. He was engulfed in sorrow of the sort that no one can penetrate. When Antonia’s mother died of cancer when Antonia was only ten she felt as if the wind had been sucked out of her. And when her father died, it was more traumatic. She experienced panic attacks for months. But it seemed so wrong to bury a child. So heartbreaking.
“When is the funeral?”
“Saturday. We have to wait for his brother to return from Australia. It takes Morgan awhile to get his act together. But he’ll make it.”
“That’s good.”
Again, they descended into quietude. Antonia felt as if she was an actor in a dress rehearsal where no one knew their lines. Each sentence came out stilted and weighted, as if they were clumsily stumbling their way through.
Mr. Caruthers glanced around the room before returning his gaze to Antonia. “I’m not here to place the blame on anyone. My son is dead and there is nothing I can do about it. I told the Mastersons they don’t have to worry about a lawsuit. Even if they were liable, and I know in this day and age, everyone is, I would never pursue that path. That’s not how we are.”
“That’s very nice of you. I’m sure they are very grateful.”
“I suppose I just have…questions. That’s really why I’m here. Not about what happened, hell, I don’t even really want to know what happened. More about Warner’s final days; I heard he was causing a lot of problems with his documentary. The whole thing was ill-advised, if you ask me. But Warner was not the kid you could talk to on things like that. He was headstrong. Chip off the old block, I suppose…”
He stared off into space. Antonia prayed he would not cry. That might unleash her own floodgates. She waited a beat before speaking.
“I have been in contact with Paul Brady, the cameraman. He has the footage of the interviews Warner conducted. I am sure legally they belong to you. Would you like me to retrieve them?”
“Right, I hadn’t really thought of that…”
Antonia didn’t want to tell him that the interviews would probably end up on TMZ if Paul Brady had his way. “Unless you want him to continue on with the project.”
He shook his head. “No. I don’t want that documentary to see the light of day. If you can write down the contact info for the cameraman, I’ll have my lawyer send him a letter.” He paused before adding, “I don’t want to turn on the television one day and see Warner making a fool of himself.”
“I understand.”
“Too bad he wasted time on this.”
“Mr. Caruthers, was there another documentary that Warner was working on?”
“Not that I am aware of.”
“Had he done any interviews in New York or elsewhere?”
“I’m not sure. He was in California visiting friends before he came out here so I don’t think so. But I don’t know. I really tried to stay out of it.”
“I understand,” said Antonia. “I happened to watch some of the interviews that Warner conducted including the one with Sheila Black, Sidney Black’s ex-wife. It’s true it was incendiary, but it hardly contained new information that the tabloids hadn’t already picked up. I know that Sid Black was particularly enraged by the documentary, but there seems to be little reason for it. Did Warner ever mention anything to you?”
“No. He would never confide in me about that. He knew that I thought the whole project was junk. Such a waste of time. And you know what kills me? That’s his mark on the world. All that is left of him…”
He didn’t finish. Antonia felt very sorry for him.
“Mr. Caruthers, I agree that this documentary might have been controversial and perhaps not the sort of thing that you or I would watch, but I do know is that he truly believed with conviction that he had a role in exposing the hypocrisy of the upper classes in his attempt to defend the common man. Maybe he felt guilty that he was brought up with privilege and this was his way of atoning for it, but however he demonstrated it, he tried to make a mark for justice. I think that should bring you some comfort.”
Mr. Caruthers nodded. “Yes, yes it should.”
Antonia nodded. He abruptly stood up. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”
“It’s no bother at all.”
His eyes darted around the room and fell on the desk. “English Regency. I also collect it. That’s a nice piece.”
He walked over and ran a hand along the top.
“I bought it at Hampton Briggs Antiques in Bridgehampton.”
“Beautiful.”
They began to walk towards the door.
Mr. Caruthers thrust out his hand.
“Thank you for meeting with me. I appreciate your time. Warner said you were very helpful to him.”
“Me? I barely did anything. Just gave him the key.”
“Well, he specifically mentioned you. Antonia Bingham. Said you were very helpful.”
Antonia’s opinion of Warner shot up tenfold. Perhaps he was a better person that she realized. Or maybe he just thought of her as the ‘common man.’
* * * * *
The air was brisk and fresh and the sun was climbing up the sky when Antonia finally left the i
nn. She zipped up her fleece and walked over to her Saab. There were three cars parked next to Antonia’s. One was a rented silver Honda that belonged to a German couple who had checked in a few days prior. Another was a green Volvo station wagon with Connecticut plates that belonged to an older man and woman who were staying at the inn celebrating their anniversary. And the final car was a black 2010 BMW that belonged to Bridget Curtis. The staff parked their cars in the back lot around the corner. Parking was tight so Antonia encouraged employees to carpool.
Antonia was distracted with rehashing the events of the morning but suddenly stopped abruptly and turned around. Bridget drove a black German car. Len, the security guard at the Dune Club had seen Warner and a woman in a black German car. Antonia had seen them talking at the front door of the inn. What was the connection? Antonia realized she still hadn’t had a chance to ask Bridget about it. She put that on her ‘To Do’ list, which was now a dozen pages long.
When Antonia pulled into the Main Beach parking lot she noted that the surf was rough, the water a murky blue. She scanned the beach. Two women were walking with a small white Maltese. There were several surfers bobbing in the waves. Antonia noticed a man walking towards the jetty and her heart did a leap, but then she realized it wasn’t Nick. There were no dogs with him, and upon closer inspection this man was taller and thinner than Nick. What did she expect? He would have been there an hour ago.
She kicked off her shoes and made her way down towards the edge of the water. The sand felt cold and damp under her feet. Little pools of water had formed near the break and Antonia avoided them. The water was still frigid this time of year. The sky was blue and bright, but the sun was cold and hard. Gaggles of noisy geese dappled the skyline, eastbound. Antonia watched the waves crash and then recede. Two men were standing on the surf with fishing rods and a bucket.
Antonia let out a deep breath that was louder than she had expected. She couldn’t help it but she felt a surge of disappointment. She knew she was later than usual, but why couldn’t Nick have waited? In the past he had been late and she had dawdled until he finally came. Usually if he was away he told her in advance. Mostly, she was mad at herself for caring.
An image of Sam the Chef popped into her mind. He was definitely cute and they had really hit it off last night. He was so easy to talk to and comfortable in his own skin that it made her feel relaxed. She could imagine falling for him. But the negatives already had started to creep in her brain, cracking all images of fantasyland. The fact was Sam was young and transient. He was in town to set up his restaurant and then leave. She knew those types. Chefs were even more dangerous than actors. It was the hunger that drew them to their professions and that instilled in them an eternal quest to be sated, both by food and romance. She could see potential heartbreak written all over it. Not that her obsession with Nick made it any better, but at least she had come to terms with the fact that he was unattainable. Or at least she had tried to. The reality was that she had failed in that department as well. Oh, when was she going to learn? Antonia chided herself. She was a failure when it came to her love life. She was thirty-five and she still didn’t know better!
Upon reaching the jetty, Antonia turned around. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and saw that it was nearing eight o’ clock. Time to return to work. She walked towards the parking lot. As she approached, she noticed a figure standing near the dunes. The person was facing Antonia but was too far away for Antonia to make out whom it was. Antonia squinted. From a distance, and she couldn’t be sure, it looked like it was Bridget. It was definitely a woman, and she had long dark hair. Antonia quickened her pace. This would be a good opportunity to casually ask Bridget if she had known Warner.
Antonia started a light jog. She was definitely not used to exertion but she wanted to catch up with Bridget—at least, who she thought was Bridget. Suddenly, as if noticing that Antonia was about to get a better look at her, the woman turned quickly and stepped back into the parking lot, out of Antonia’s line of vision. Determined now, Antonia began to run. Huffing and puffing and cursing every cream puff she had ever eaten, Antonia made it to the parking lot. Her eyes scanned the area. No Bridget. No one. She reluctantly entered her car.
As Antonia cruised down the road, she decided to do a drive-by of the Mastersons’ house. She wasn’t allowed in but no one said she couldn’t stop by to check on it. She put on her left blinker to turn left on to Lily Pond Lane and had to wait until several cars and trucks passed. Already the roads were thickening with commercial traffic. Most of the gardeners and construction workers who serviced the houses in the Hamptons commuted from up island where the cost of living was cheaper. Their twice-daily commute that thronged Route 27 was nicknamed the “Trade Parade.”
Antonia let her car idle outside of the Mastersons’ driveway. The house was bathed in sunlight. If Antonia had expected it to seem inauspicious or nefarious, she was wrong; it looked as it always did, as did all of the neighbors’ properties. Around her there was movement everywhere. The hum of lawnmowers rang out behind her. The man with the Wheaten terrier was accompanying his dog on their usual morning walk. A white pick-up truck drove past Antonia and pulled into the neighbor’s driveway. Something occurred to Antonia and she turned to watch the man with the terrier as he grew closer. Her pulse quickened.
It was Edward Hamilton! No wonder she recognized him when she saw the footage! Here he had been right under her nose the entire time. Antonia quickly dialed a number on her cell phone.
Larry Lipper’s voice barked a demanding hello.
“It’s Antonia. Question. Where does Edward Hamilton live?”
“Hang on a minute, did you talk to the cameraman?”
Antonia didn’t have time to fill him in. “I did, but he said Warner didn’t have a girlfriend here. Didn’t know anything about a lady in a car.”
“Hang on, start from the beginning,” interrupted Larry.
“Larry, I promise I will call you later and fill you in on the details. I’m in a rush now and have an urgent question: where does Edward Hamilton live? And don’t pretend like you don’t know.”
“What do I get in return?”
Antonia sighed in exasperation. “A blow job.”
“Really?”
“No. Of course not. But you get to be a good person. Now tell me.”
Larry sighed. “He lives on Lily Pond Lane.”
Antonia nodded. “All coming together.”
“You think he offed Warner?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“I don’t.”
“Hang on a sec, my other line,” Larry demanded.
“Can’t wait. Goodbye, Larry.”
Antonia paused, her hands on the steering wheel. Should she stop Edward Hamilton and say something? This was her chance after all. Edward Hamilton was coming closer and closer. Antonia rolled down the window.
“Good morning!” she called out.
“Good morning,” he responded brightly.
“Out for a walk?” Antonia asked, before kicking herself for saying such a dumb and obvious thing.
“Yes, Samantha enjoys a brisk morning lap around the neighborhood,” he said, patting his dog. Samantha impatiently lurched forward, but Hamilton held her tight.
“I’m Antonia Bingham.”
She waited for his response. Would it ring any bells?
“Edward Hamilton,” he replied.
“I look after the Mastersons’ house. I’m not allowed in right now because of what happened, you know.”
Antonia watched Edward Hamilton’s face very carefully. He remained composed, his watery blue eyes blinked several times as if focusing, but that was all. If Antonia had hoped to see flashes of anger or fear she was unrewarded.
“Yes, I saw all of the police activity here the other day,” he replied.
“Sad, right? A tragedy.”
“Yes,” he said.
Samantha was becoming increasingly impatient, pulling forward, eager to continue her walk. Antonia tried to think of something else to say. “Did you happen to know…”
Before she could finish, Samantha pushed forward, yanking Edward Hamilton with her. “Sorry, I’m afraid we must keep moving,” he said.
“Okay,” said Antonia with disappointment. “Have a great day.”
Well, that was a failure, thought Antonia. Although what did she expect? Was she really going to ask him if he had killed Warner? Or put his lawyers on her case to find the footage? She tried to remember some of the tactics that she had gleaned from her ex-husband regarding interrogating suspects. She recalled that he had said to isolate a suspect. Well, that was impossible. Was she supposed to grab Edward Hamilton and shove him in her car and drive away? She was an overweight, 5’6” woman; she doubted she could have physically hoisted him into the car. That was for law enforcement, people who had guns and badges. Philip had also mentioned the clichéd good-cop-bad-cop theory. Of course, that wouldn’t have worked either, as she was alone. Other ideas were to have the suspect tell his side of the story and search for inconsistencies. Again, she failed on that front. She blamed the dog on that one. The only thing she had really done was to scan his face for signs of stress when she mentioned Warner. But Edward Hamilton had been a blank.
Antonia felt defeated. She had come to fancy herself as something as a sleuth, seeing that she solved a murder in the fall. But maybe that was just luck. She put her car in drive and began her journey home. As she passed the neighbor’s house she glanced in the driveway and saw the white pickup truck that had passed her. A man was pulling a large hose off the roof and one of those giant vacuums they use on pools. The pool man.
Antonia made a quick turn into the neighbor’s driveway. The pool man froze and glanced at her expectantly.
“Hi,” said Antonia, closing her car door.
He was in his mid-thirties, Latino, with a small mustache and a t-shirt emblazoned with the moniker Roselli Brothers Pools. She quickly surmised that he was not one of the Roselli brothers.
