by Carrie Doyle
“Yes, I was the first responder to the scene,” he said solemnly and with an air of authority. “I arrived less than oh-five minutes after the call. But there was nothing I could do. He was already DOA.”
“Well, I’ve no doubt you would have done everything you could have,” said Antonia sympathetically. She patted his shoulder warmly. “But obviously there’s not a whole lot you can do when someone suffers a massive heart attack and dies before you get there.”
“Right,” said Matt, nodding, his face oddly empty of emotion.
“If it was a heart attack,” said Sylvia. She nudged her spoon into her husband’s crisp and took a huge bite for herself.
“Mom,” warned Matt, rolling his eyes. “Let’s not go there.” Sylvia shrugged and put her hand to her lips to block the view of food while she talked with her mouth full. “Didn’t you say, sweetie, that you thought he died of a bee sting?”
Matt squirmed uncomfortably. “Official cause of death was a heart attack.”
“Yes, but one that was brought on by a bee sting,” prompted Sylvia. She dove into her husband’s dessert for another bite.
“Yes, I did suspect that,” said Matt officiously. “He had a red welt on his cheek at the two o’clock position, and his face was inflamed concurrent with an allergic reaction. But that idea wasn’t pursued.”
“Why not?” asked Antonia, vaguely intrigued by this new information, gossip or not. She motioned for a busboy to refill the Powers’ water glasses.
Matt rolled his eyes. “The family didn’t want to. Didn’t want an autopsy. But it was December, and who gets stung by a bee in December?” He was indignant.
Antonia nodded. “I guess that is strange.”
“They thought I was an alarmist, being swayed by the whole reputation of the inn…” he continued.
“Um, Matthew…” his mother interrupted. She widened her eyes and shook her head.
Admonished, Matt abruptly stopped speaking. Sylvia shifted uncomfortably in her chair, and Len shoved a large bite of crisp into his mouth. Antonia glanced at each of them quizzically.
“What is the reputation of the inn?” she asked finally.
Matt looked past her at the wall. “Um, nothing, just an old superstition.”
“What’s the superstition?” pressed Antonia.
Sylvia sighed. “It’s nothing, just a silly thing. And we all know that old stories like that are nothing more than stories. Someone wanted to concoct a ghost story and that’s all it was.”
“But what was it?” asked Antonia again.
“I wouldn’t worry about it, dear,” said Sylvia in a cool, reassuring voice (one that she probably used on her third graders at the John Marshall School). “I tell you, it’s nothing.”
“You can’t leave me hanging!” Antonia said in a light voice, although underneath, her heart was racing. “Come on, now, help me out. I bought this place sight unseen eight months ago on the advice of my friend Genevieve. I moved all the way from Petaluma to East Hampton, a town that I had never stepped foot in. Then I poured every last penny I could to get it up and running. I have eight guest rooms and a restaurant, and a dozen full-time employees. I need to know every facet of the inn’s reputation so I know what I’m up against.”
Antonia blinked her long lashes several times and smiled brightly, in an effort to alleviate the panic she was feeling. Ever since she’d bought the inn, she had been experiencing moments of extreme nervousness and self-doubt, basically questioning her impulsivity. Had she made a mistake? Perhaps she should have been more suspicious of how quickly the sister of the deceased had accepted her low-ball offer. She had congratulated herself on a steal, but maybe she had been the one who was swindled? She wished she would have done more research, but she always became completely restless whenever she was in front of a computer. Honestly, she found the internet to be a colossal waste of time in regard to everything excluding searching for recipes or antiques. But perhaps if she had taken time to Google Gordon Haslett’s death, she wouldn’t be having this conversation.
The Powers family all glanced at each other uneasily. Finally, Len spoke. He held his fork in the air, indicating he would be brief so that he could return to his dessert.
“The story about the Windmill Inn is that the owners die under suspicious circumstances. Now, it’s just a story, makes the place more dramatic.”
“I actually think one of the previous owners conjured it up just to attract some business,” added Sylvia quickly. “I mean, I taught some of the kids of one of the owners, there was nothing there. Oh dear, now wait…”
She stopped speaking, as if remembering something.
“Well, is it true?” Antonia asked. “I mean, before Gordon Haslett, did the other owners die of suspicious circumstances?”
Sylvia and Len exchanged a look.
“Well…” began Sylvia. But she didn’t finish her sentence.
Len cocked his head to the side, as if he was thinking, and finally shrugged.
“It’s kind of true,” said Matt finally.
“Kind of?” asked Antonia. “What does that mean?”
“I guess it means yes. Some of the owners of the inn have died under suspicious circumstances.”
“Great,” said Antonia weakly. She needed a drink.
2
The Windmill Inn was finally quiet at midnight. The diners had almost all left by ten thirty, except for a last lingering couple who, judging from their body language, appeared to be on their third or fourth date. They stayed until eleven, after working out whether or not they would be retreating to their own homes or having a sleepover. Only three of the guest rooms at the inn were occupied and when Connie, the front desk receptionist, confirmed that everyone had retired for the evening, Antonia had locked all of the doors to the inn with the exception of the two in the kitchen.
It was Glen’s responsibility to shut down the restaurant for the night, but Antonia usually helped him out, since it was still early days. It was important for her to establish a hands-on approach from the get-go so the staff would know that she was firmly in control. And it was always important to keep track of the money. Other restaurateurs had told her that it was crucial to watch out for skimming, no matter how much you trusted your employees. They advised her to get a sense of how much was coming in so that she could sense if anything was going out that should not be.
Antonia and Glen went over the books, locked up the bar, and looked at the reservations for the following evening. While he ducked in to the office to print out the next day’s menu, Antonia went into the kitchen. Juan and Albert, the busboy/dishwashers, were just finishing up when Antonia went into the staff changing room to switch out of her high heels and into her Crocs. When she returned, they were leaving and she shut the back door behind them, pressing firmly to confirm the click of the latch. The staff had been having trouble with that door closing all the way; it was still warped from the summer heat. Often, it would blow wide open and bang loudly against the wall, startling anyone who was standing next to it.
When Antonia went back to the dining room, Glen had returned with a stack of printed menus, which he placed on the maître d’ stand. He turned off the lights and shrugged into his soft leather jacket. She walked with him back into the kitchen so he could exit from the side door. When he opened the door, a gust of wind came flooding in.
“Wow, it’s picking up out there,” said Antonia.
“Yeah. You’re lucky you don’t have anywhere to drive to get to your bed.”
“I know. Living at work does have its plusses.”
“Oh, I forgot to mention, Antonia. This guy from a local microbrewery came by tonight. I told him to come during the day since we don’t order during dinner hour.”
“Good idea. I’ll let Marty handle it. Goodnight, now.”
Marty was Antonia’s sous chef and he was a lot tou
gher than she; she liked to let him deal with the vendors. Antonia firmly shut the door behind Glen and twisted the lock. She turned and glanced around the kitchen to make sure everything was in place. The glasses were drying on racks on the counter and all of the prep stations were wiped down. The pots and pans were hung neatly on their pegs. It was difficult to believe that just an hour ago this place had been buzzing. Antonia flicked off the big overhead lights and walked toward the pantry to do the same. It was quiet now, with only the hum of the two industrial dishwashers making a fuss. Antonia heard Glen start his car, then watched as his headlights flicked across the darkened ceiling when he drove away.
Antonia walked back through the dimmed dining room for one last proprietary glance. She thought of all of the people who had come through the door of the inn over the last hundred and fifty years. Throughout much of the nineteenth century, the Windmill Inn had housed a tannery in the barn out back; guests stayed in the main building while their saddles were treated. Were any of their ghosts lurking there now? Antonia shuddered. All she needed was a headless horseman! She glanced around at the shadowed tables. Antonia had always thought that empty restaurants looked a little eerie, as if the ghosts of the people who had just dined there somehow dissipated into thin air. She wondered if she was particularly on edge tonight having just heard the news that Gordon Haslett’s death was somehow suspicious. Had previous innkeepers really met untimely fates? She pushed the thought out of her mind.
Instead of heading straight across the dining room to the small staff hallway that led to her apartment, Antonia made a right and walked toward the front door. While she had taken special care to sand down the floors in the dining room, the floors in the rest of the inn had been left more or less in their original state. Over the years they had buckled under the extreme seasonal oscillation between temperatures, and they were squeaky and uneven. Antonia had placed a few Oriental carpet runners along the way, but they did nothing to contain the noise, and tonight it seemed as if the floorboards creaked particularly loudly under her feet. The chandelier in the front hall was lit, but dimly. Its light was the only one that seeped through the other public rooms.
Antonia turned left into the parlor to make sure that the staff had straightened up before they departed. A few glowing embers amid the ashes were all that was left of the fire that had been roaring earlier. Her eyes darted around the room, straining to identify objects in the shadows. Although she knew that there was a seating arrangement with a sofa and two club chairs in the forefront of the room, they looked different in the darkness. Antonia walked over to the backgammon table against the wall and clicked on the bouillotte lamp. There was no need to completely shut down all of the light in the building. What if a guest was restless and came down to read? These things had to be thought through! Being a novice inn owner was challenging and Antonia was going on instinct. She just hoped that she would do a good enough job that the guests would return and would recommend the inn to friends. That was one reason she always solicited advice and impressions from her guests. She pulled the cord to light the bright bulb and all of the furniture in the room came into clear focus. There, she thought. Much better.
Antonia moved toward the chairs and picked up various pillows to re-fluff them. They didn’t really need it, but something was compelling her to remain in the room. She noticed that a book on Hamptons style had been left on the coffee table so she returned it to its place, sliding it into the shelf next to the fireplace. Antonia then straightened the side chairs that leaned against the wall and bent down to touch the soil in the potted plant to make sure that it was damp. They were all minor adjustments, ones that no one but a perfectionist would notice, but that’s what made Antonia a natural innkeeper.
Suddenly Antonia stiffened. What was that noise? She thought she heard something scratching. She paused and listened. There it was again! It sounded like fingernails scraping a blackboard. She strained her ear to find which direction it was coming from and waited. Her head jerked toward the back of the room, from where the sound was emanating. Taking a deep breath, she proceeded to the back, where there was another cluster of upholstered furniture with plush cushions that you could sink into underneath the bay windows. Antonia hesitated for a moment when she reached it, her knees bumping into the low coffee table. She glanced around apprehensively. She waited for the sound. Once again, there was the noise. Antonia paused. An image of swarming bees attacking flashed in her mind. Her stomach turned with nervous anticipation. She slowly turned her head, but to her relief, she realized that the noise she was hearing was only the wind slapping a branch from the birch tree against the window. She exhaled, suddenly realizing that she had been holding her breath.
This was so silly, she told herself. Why am I psyching myself up? Before she had heard the suspicious deaths rumor, she had been fine. In fact, she had been sleeping in this inn for six months and never felt frightened. She wasn’t a scaredy-cat; that wasn’t her thing. Hell, she had survived an ex-husband who’d used all of his energy to scare and harass her for years. So why was she freaking herself out now? Just because the Powers family had told her that the previous innkeepers had died suspiciously? It was absurd.
Antonia stood up straight and strode firmly out of the parlor. This was her inn. She was the boss! She walked toward reception and gave it a cursory once-over, and also glanced briskly inside the deserted library. No one was awake in the inn. There was nothing to give her pause. She made her way back down the hall toward her apartment, refusing to be disturbed by the shadows along the wall. She walked past the small antique elevator that was used to transport luggage or guests who needed assistance and peered through the glass. No one was hiding there. Antonia promised herself that she would not let this ghost story about the inn haunt her. She would not succumb to hysteria.
3
Saturday
East Hampton, renowned for its award-winning beaches, picturesque villages, and the ethereal light that had inspired some of the greatest American painters, is nestled on the tip of Long Island’s south shore, bordered by the Atlantic Ocean on one side and various bays on the other. Everything about the town is profoundly quaint: from the acres of farmland bursting with abundant crops to the shaded streets lined with windmills, shingled houses, and churches that actually look like churches. The center of the village is composed of two streets—Main Street and Newtown Lane—that meet in an L-shape, and are home to neatly kept and freshly painted one- to two-story storefronts. Since the end of the nineteenth century when the Hamptons became a resort community, summers have attracted the rich and famous, not to mention a chaotic number of tourists. But for all the glitz and fanfare, most of the time East Hampton feels like any other small town in America.
Antonia Bingham had never thought she would leave California. She was born and raised in Petaluma, and she’d assumed she would stay there forever. Why wouldn’t she? But Antonia hadn’t counted on the relentless abuse of her ex-husband, Philip. During their marriage she had been a virtual prisoner, and after she finally mustered up the nerve to leave him, Philip embarked on a tyranny of terror that made her life a living hell. Her pleas to the police went unheard. And, of course, that would be the case: Philip was one of them, a sergeant in the force beloved by his brothers in arms. Restraining orders, calls to 911, and reason didn’t matter. No one believed her and eventually, no one listened. Until one fateful day when Philip showed up at Antonia’s house and her frail father tried to intervene on her behalf. A kick to the stomach from Philip sent her father to the hospital where he died two weeks later from complications. Philip escaped jail time with an Academy Award–winning, teary-eyed, and remorseful performance in criminal court, but she won a restraining order and settlement against him in civil court. It was that money that she had used to purchase the inn, and the inheritance from her parents that she used to maintain it.
Her friend Genevieve, who had worked for Antonia’s catering business as a waitress
after a relationship with a vintner in Sonoma went sour, sold Antonia on East Hampton, the town where Genevieve’s family had rented a house every August. She talked of lush seasons, a town as charming as any Norman Rockwell painting, unspoiled vistas, sandy dunes rolling down to the edge of the blue Atlantic, and Antonia was sold. It was impulsive, but something drastic had to be done. She said goodbye to her parents who were buried side-by-side in the Calvary Cemetery, and made the opposite trip that her ancestors had made one hundred years ago when they set out for California. But in both cases, the Binghams were searching for the “promised land.”
* * *
“You’re a diehard too!”
Antonia turned around and then nearly gasped out loud. She couldn’t believe her eyes! It was Nick Darrow, the movie star, talking to her, Antonia Bingham, civilian. She knew he lived in East Hampton but she had not seen him until just now. And here he was, standing in front of her at Main Beach in all his handsomeness, two yellow labs frolicking at his heels, talking to her. And she was struck dumb.
“Excuse me?” she murmured, at least she thought she murmured, because she was too busy trying to control the blush that she was certain was creeping up over her pale, white cheeks. Damn her English skin! When she was embarrassed it was as if she paraded it on her face like a scarlet letter.
“I said you’re a diehard. Not many people are out on the beach at six thirty in the morning in late October. And I know this is not a one-off because I’ve seen you here the past three weeks.”
“You have?” she squeaked.
“Yes. Sorry that sounds creepy. I’m not a stalker. I’m Nick,” he said, thrusting out his hand.
Of course he was, she knew exactly who he was, but she also didn’t want to appear like a stalker. His handshake was firm, and his hands surprisingly warm on this brisk morning.