by Carrie Doyle
Antonia fondled the knife in her hand. She raised it slightly, prepared to use it.
“I see your feet in the mirror. Who’s there?”
Suddenly, the legs started moving down the stairs. Antonia watched the body form in the reflection of the mirror. The footsteps pounded in unison with her heartbeat. Finally, Bridget’s face came into view. Antonia brought the knife down and hid it in her bathrobe pocket.
“Bridget!” exclaimed Antonia. “You scared me.”
Bridget’s hair was back in a ponytail, and she wore no makeup or jewelry. She was dressed in head-to-toe black.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t want to wake anybody.”
“That’s okay,” said Antonia, her shoulders relaxing. She walked towards the stairs and met Bridget on the bottom. It was then that she noticed Bridget’s large suitcase next to her.
“Sorry, this thing is heavier than I thought,” said Bridget. “I tried to carry it but then I had to drag it down.”
“Are you leaving us?” asked Antonia, her eyebrows arched in a manner that displayed both surprise and consternation.
“Yes, unfortunately, I have to go,” said Bridget before adding, “I spoke to the woman at the desk the other day. I said I may have to check out quickly and gave her all of my credit card details for additional charges.”
Antonia studied the suitcase. It was awfully large. It must have been the cause of the thumping. “I’m sorry you have to leave us like this. You can’t wait until morning?”
“No.”
They stood in an uncomfortable silence. Bridget gave her a somewhat defiant glance, prompting Antonia to blurt out the first thing on her mind.
“I just have to ask you. I know you said you didn’t know Warner Caruthers. But I saw you talking to him when you checked in. It didn’t seem like it was the first time. Are you sure you didn’t know him?”
There was a brief pause before a flicker of recognition came across Bridget’s face.
“That was the guy who died?” asked Bridget with surprise. “Yes, then, I did meet him. I was totally lost trying to find my way here and I asked him for directions outside of the Dune Club. He said he was heading over here to pick up some keys and I could follow him. That was it. I’ve never met him before or seen him after. Except when I was pulling my luggage in and he was leaving.”
Antonia was stunned. She actually believed Bridget was telling the truth. “You weren’t his girlfriend?”
“What?” Bridget was surprised. She shook her head. “No.”
Antonia was at a loss for words. She should have handled this more gracefully. Interrogating witnesses was all about having a plan. She clearly failed that one.
“Oh. Well, then, let me help you with your bag.”
Bridget gave her a strange look. “No, that’s okay. I can do it myself.”
She moved her body in front of the suitcase to bar Antonia from touching it. When she saw Antonia’s expression, she attempted a smile. “Thanks anyway.”
There was nothing more Antonia could say. She could try to barricade the exit, but that would be both insane and useless.
“I’ll hold the door for you, then.”
“Thank you.”
Bridget picked up the suitcase, an obvious effort judging from the grimace on her face. Antonia glanced down and saw that her knuckles were white. She wondered why she didn’t want any assistance. Instead of protesting, she turned and unlocked the back door and held it for her. A burst of damp, chilly air came wafting in.
“Well, good luck to you. Come back and visit us again.”
Antonia noticed Bridget falter, as if she wanted to say something. Her eyes were sad. But instead of talking, she quickly turned and dashed down the steps. Antonia was tempted to run out and question her but a voice in the back of her head commanded: Let her go.
Friday
18
Antonia did what she always did when she’d had a rough and sleepless night: made herself a kick-ass breakfast. It was a riff on a dish she’d had at the Regent Beverly Wilshire Hotel in L.A.: scrambled eggs with lobster and truffled hash browns. It had the beautiful medley of salt, grease and carbs. It took her two minutes to devour it. After baking a few batches of peach muffins for the guests at the inn, she left the kitchen with Soyla running the show.
Antonia debated whether or not she should head out to the beach for her morning walk, but she still felt too raw to be face-to-face with Nick. Fortunately, the bridal party that was staying at the inn for the weekend arrived early and demanded Antonia’s attention. Antonia accompanied them upstairs to settle into their rooms. Wedding parties were good business but high maintenance. Tensions ran high and expectations even higher. It wasn’t five minutes before Antonia found herself enlisted by the maid-of-honor to stuff fourteen goody bags. Antonia was on her hands and knees tying red ribbon bows when Connie told her Larry Lipper was downstairs to see her. For once, it was a relief that he had come calling.
“Larry, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I thought I’d brighten your day, hot stuff.”
Antonia smiled. “Somehow I doubt it. Let’s step into my office.”
Moments later Larry had his feet up on Antonia’s desk and was reclining in the chair across from her. He had been pumping Antonia for more information about Warner, trying to glean what she had learned over the past few days, but Antonia remained evasive.
“What have you discovered, Larry.”
“I’m only telling you stuff to get your mind pumping. A connect the dot thing. Like I say something and it might remind you of something…”
“Got it.”
“Okay, this theory of Warner having a girlfriend is picking up. He was apparently at Rowdy Hall last week and left with some chick.”
“How do you know that?”
“The bartender told me. He said Warner was pretty wasted and obnoxious. He was sitting next to some guy, talking to him. Bartender couldn’t tell if they were together or not, but one minute they’re drinking together and the next, the guy tells Warner to knock it off or he’d take out his teeth. He said Warner was heckling some old man at the end of the bar.”
“Why?”
“Bartender didn’t know. He thought perhaps over the baseball game that was on TV.”
“Then what?”
“Well, as soon as Warner’s lady friend showed up, he split.”
“Hmmm…” Antonia wondered if Warner had been with Paul Brady.
“It was probably his cameraman he was talking to. You could ask him.”
“It wasn’t.”
“How can you be sure?”
“I’ve been doing this a long time, sweetheart. I know enough to print out a picture of Paul Brady from his website. Yes, this a-hole has a website. And the bartender said it definitely wasn’t him.”
“What did the girl look like?”
“Bartender said dark hair. Didn’t get a close look.”
Antonia thought of Bridget. Had she been telling the truth?
“What’s that look on your face?” asked Larry.
“What? Nothing.”
“I know when you’re withholding. Don’t you think I’m used to that look by now?” Larry cocked his head and gave her a skeptical look. His face was actually handsome, with a chiseled jaw, beautiful blue eyes and dark eyebrows. If only it wasn’t the cherry on top of such an obnoxious little package.
“Come on, I give you everything, you give me nothing.”
He was right. That was irritating. Antonia did owe him something. She’d give him this little nugget and then he could be on his merry way. “I talked to the pool guy again. He also saw Warner with a brunette.”
“Hot damn!” said Larry slapping his hand down on the table. “Details.”
Antonia filled him in on the little she knew. Larry started
whistling with glee, jumping around in his seat like an excited schoolboy. When she was done, he announced. “We need to find this chick.”
“How?”
“I need to lean on his friends. Hard.”
Larry’s phone rang. He answered with lightning speed and barked a hello. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright and dropped his legs to the floor.
“You’re kidding me!”
He listened for a few more moments, scribbled something down on his pad before adding, “I’ll be right there.”
He closed his phone and stared at Antonia. “Sheila Black was found dead this morning. Murdered.”
Antonia’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God!”
Larry’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “I’d say someone really doesn’t want this documentary to see the light of day!”
* * * * *
After Larry flew out of the office, Antonia suddenly remembered Francine’s call and immediately dialed her number.
“Black residence.”
“Francine? It’s Antonia Bingham.”
“Yes,” came Francine’s voice in a heady whisper. “Hold on one minute, please, one minute?”
“Sure,” said Antonia.
Antonia waited for what seemed like ten minutes but was probably more like two. There was a beep on the other line and she glanced at her caller I.D. and saw that it was Genevieve. She’d have to call her later. Antonia tapped her pen against her desk and inhaled two cookies and almost an entire cup of milky coffee before Francine finally returned to the phone.
“Sorry, Mr. Black was leaving.” Francine spoke into the phone as if she had her mouth pressed firmly into the receiver.
“Where’s he going?” asked Antonia with urgency.
“Out to his boat.”
Antonia shifted in her seat. She didn’t like this at all. “How is he acting today?”
“The same…”
“Is he nervous? Appear agitated?”
“Not more than usual.”
“Hmm…did he receive any calls this morning?”
“Calls?” asked Francine. “Not that I know of. Maybe his cell phone. Did something happen?”
Obviously, the police hadn’t contacted him yet about Sheila, Antonia concluded. This was perhaps a good thing. She could get more out of Francine.
“Doesn’t matter. Is everything okay with you? I know you called.”
“I feel a little bad saying anything.”
“It’s okay, Francine. It will be in the strictest of confidence with me.”
“Mr. Black is difficult, but he is a good employer.”
“I understand. But maybe you just need to get something off your chest? Is anything concerning you?”
“You said to call if I had anything…”
“Absolutely. Is everything okay?”
“Yes, everything’s okay. But Mr. Hamilton was here last night.”
“Edward Hamilton?”
“Yes. And I heard him talking to Mr. Black.”
Antonia leaned forward in her chair and rested her elbows on the desk. “Mr. Hamilton was there? Did they leave together?”
“No. Why? You’re worrying me.”
Antonia had to keep her thoughts to her self. Right now it was about control. Let Francine do the talking so she could pump as much information out of her as possible. “No, sorry to interrupt, go on,” she urged.
“I can’t remember the exact words. But they talked about Warner, the boy who took the film, and they said they were happy that he was gone. Mr. Hamilton laughed when he said that.”
“He laughed?”
“Yes. Sort of ‘ha, ha, now the boy is dead’.”
“Hmm…” said Antonia. Unfortunately, rejoicing at someone’s demise is hardly a confession of guilt. “What else did they say?”
“They said…” Francine faded off.
“What?” prompted Antonia.
“They said now that Warner is dead, they have to take care of the cameraman.”
“What do you mean?”
“I think they mean…something bad.”
“Like murder?”
Francine was quiet and Antonia was sure she could almost hear her nodding. “Francine, do you think they meant murder?”
“Yes,” whispered Francine.
Antonia’s pulse raced. She slid a plate of linzer torte cookies across her desk and selected the largest one, licking the raspberry jam with her tongue.
“Why do you think murder? They may have just meant, we have to take care of him, like talk to him, make sure he never makes the film, that sort of stuff,” she said with her mouth full.
“No, because they said they may need a gun.”
Antonia sat up in her chair. “A gun? Are you sure?”
“Yes. They said they would need a gun. And Mr. Hamilton, he said he had one.”
Antonia’s mind raced. If Hamilton and Black were talking about this last night, there was no reason to believe they didn’t hop over to Sheila’s and kill her.
“Are you sure, Francine? I mean, what were you doing when you heard them? Maybe they knew you were there.”
“No, they didn’t know. They were in the study and I was in the kitchen. But then I thought maybe I should hear them, because I remembered our conversation, and you said maybe the boy was murdered. I thought, maybe I can find something out. So I crept quietly, I am very quiet, and I pretended I was dusting something in the hall in case they found me, but they didn’t know I was there and I heard them.”
Antonia had a feeling Francine was the type who spent extra time perusing her boss’s file cabinets and medicine cabinet. She had that collector-of-information, a.k.a. snoop, vibe about her. Takes one to know one, Antonia thought guiltily.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, Mr. Black trusts me. I do feel a little bad telling on him…”
“Well, it is your responsibility to tell if you think he’s going to break the law.”
I’m such a hypocrite, thought Antonia. I should practice what I preach.
“I know what I heard. Mr. Black, he saying, ‘we have to take care of that little punk.’ He kept saying ‘little punk’ ‘little punk.’ And Mr. Hamilton, he said, ‘one down, one to go.’ And Mr. Black said, ‘I thought it would be easier. These kids today are so greedy.’”
“Wow, you have tremendous recall,” said Antonia, impressed.
“As soon as I heard them, I rushed into the kitchen and wrote everything down.”
“Make sure you hide your notes. Anything else?”
“They talked a lot about Mr. Black’s ex wife.”
“They did?” exclaimed Antonia. She tried to tone down her excitement. “What did they say?”
“He always says the same thing. He hates her.”
“Did he seem more passionate or angrier about her than usual?”
“No. It’s always the same.”
“Did he say he wanted to kill her?”
Francine paused. “I don’t think so. He just complains a lot about her. He hates that he has to give her all that money.”
Not anymore.
“Back to the gun, did they make it seem like they were really going to use it? Maybe just threaten Paul?”
“Who’s Paul?”
“The cameraman.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I think, yes. They said, they need a gun. They need to take care of it.”
It didn’t really make sense to Antonia. If they did indeed kill Warner, they did it in such a manner that no one would know. But a gunshot? There was no hiding that. Antonia tried to conjure up the image of Edward Hamilton and Sidney Black on a murdering spree. She pictured them crouched in the bushes, stalking Paul, Edward Hamilton’s ascot flapping in the wind. Something didn’t sit right with that. It would be too risky, and
their part in it too obvious. Now Sheila was also dead, though; it couldn’t be a coincidence.
“When do you think this will happen?”
“I’m not sure, but Mr. Black leaves on his boat on Monday.”
“Where’s he going?”
“He’s sailing down the coast. I’m not sure where.”
Suddenly, a thought occurred to Antonia. If they shot Paul, they could dump his body at sea. It would be a very convenient final resting place.
“Francine, try and keep tabs on Mr. Black’s movements, particularly if he says that he’s going to meet Mr. Hamilton. And let me know as soon as you think something is up. Call anytime.”
“Okay.”
When she hung up, Antonia kept her hand on the receiver. She wasn’t sure if she should call Paul Brady and warn him. She didn’t want to set off the alarms before she had solid proof. She took another bite of her linzer cookie. Flakes of powdered sugar flittered down on her shirt like fresh snow.
Something wasn’t right. If the lawyer was working for Sid Black and Edward Hamilton, why were they about to go and kill Paul Brady themselves? Wouldn’t they have him do it? And why Paul now? He had already offered to show them the footage that he had. Did he suddenly discover the missing piece? And now Sheila?
Antonia sat down and tried to make a chart of everything she knew. She put Warner’s name on one side of the column and Sheila’s on the other. She wrote down everyone who had a motive to kill Warner. The list was long. Under Sheila’s name, she wrote Sidney Black. She paused before writing Edward Hamilton under Sidney’s name. Why not? Maybe it was like that Hitchcock movie where they each agreed to kill the other person’s nemesis? Who knew? She stared hard at Sheila’s name on her list. There was something else, someone else, but she couldn’t quite remember. Who else should go there?
She started drafting other charts, putting down theories of murders. Each time she came to a roadblock, she balled the paper and aimed for her trash. Sometimes she was successful, other times it landed on the floor. Her office was becoming a mess. Suddenly, a knock on the door interrupted her.
“Come in.”
“Hi, Antonia. Can we talk?”
Nick Darrow’s hair was damp as if he had just showered, and he was wearing the emerald green turtleneck that she had once complimented him on. He looked fresh and clean and…movie star-ish.
