Death on Windmill Way

by Carrie Doyle

  But the sad truth was that she was overweight. And at the rate she kept binging on everything bad for her, it was only going to get worse. She sighed and went to her room and sat on the edge of her bed. Yet another full-length mirror on the opposite side of the door didn’t allow her to escape her image (why did she have so many mirrors?). She watched as her tummy popped out over her elastic waist. Muffin top, bread belt, cheese gut, whatever you wanted to call it, she had it. Antonia had tried diets from time to time. But they really only lasted a week at most. And forget juicing, that was absurd! She needed to crunch her way through her day and exercise her pituitary gland or else she wouldn’t survive. Okay, perhaps she would survive, but the fact was, what fun was life without food? It was her main source of joy. She loved eating it, shopping for it, preparing it, and feeding people. It was her whole life. Her relationship to it was unhealthy, but doesn’t everyone have a vice?

  Yes, she would like to be ten to fifteen pounds thinner. But she did not want to make sacrifices to do so. And if this hampered the possibility of a romantic life, so be it. Antonia had tried that before and it hadn’t worked. She’d had a boyfriend in high school whom she had worshipped, and that had ended on a bad note. And then she had married Philip, and he had turned out to be a monster. She just wasn’t good at love. It wasn’t her thing. But she was good at food. So let that be her thing. It only took a few minutes for Antonia to convince herself of it. Deep down she knew she was taking the easy way out, but she believed that sometimes that was the way you had to take to protect yourself.

  After running a brush through her hair and changing into a clean denim shirt, she went back to her kitchenette. The box from the L.V.I.S. was still sitting on the corner, its miscellaneous contents enticing her like a giant question mark. She had to think through what to do with them. If they were indeed Barbie’s, had she just donated them to the thrift store and then accused Soyla of stealing them in order to have her fired? If that were the case, why? She probably could have just told Gordon that she thought Soyla was a bad cleaner. Why would she have to ruin her reputation? Or perhaps someone else like Ronald had stolen the goods and donated them to the L.V.I.S.? But then what was the point? There were too many outstanding questions that would have to wait, because right now her services were needed in the inn’s kitchen.

  But instead of heading straight there, Antonia decided to pass through reception to pick up her messages and swing by her office to make sure everything was running smoothly. The buzz of activity gave her some much-needed adrenaline. When she had first looked at the inn, Antonia had been dismayed by the reception area. She had pictured an old-fashioned nook at the base of the grand staircase, with a wooden counter where a pleasant person would greet guests and offer them tea while their rooms were being set up. She wanted old England, comfortable and inviting. Instead, Gordon had ripped out the original built-ins (and ripped out Antonia’s heart when she found out that they had been there for over a hundred years before he did so—did he have no shame?) and put in a modern white Formica desk with sleek silver stools. When she asked the real estate agent what in the world he had been thinking, he said Gordon had tried to modernize the inn. But since when did “modernize” meant “tacky-ize”? Needless to say, those were the first to go. Antonia had scoured the internet and found the contents of an old inn in the Cotswolds that were on sale. She had the glossy walnut reception desk shipped over and then she tucked it in neatly under the staircase, where it fit snugly. Atop it she put a burnished forest green leather blotter and a silver cachepot filled with black felt-tip pens and two brass lamps with green silk shades. There was always a basket of seasonal flowers next to the silver bell that guests would press for service. Today, an orange vase held cherry brandy bi-colored roses, burgundy mini-carnations, butterscotch daisies, and red Asiatic lilies. Next to them, Antonia had placed some small pumpkins and gourds to celebrate the season.

  Behind the desk, Antonia had an antique postman’s cubby that she individually marked for each room. Guests generally didn’t stay long enough to receive mail, but she would have Lucy type up any of the day’s activities around town, weather information, and the dinner menu and place copies in each guest’s box every morning so that they felt like they had some correspondence. Above the desk, Antonia hung a wooden sign that spelled out in white cursive Enquiries, and above that was a vintage brass clock that needed to be constantly wound. Fortunately, ten feet away, Antonia placed a large grandfather clock that ticked grandly and loudly and kept beautiful time.

  Connie was chatting away with a middle-aged couple who had arrived two nights prior from Maryland. Sometimes Antonia worried that the loquacious front desk manager spent a little too much time gabbing with guests, but she hadn’t had any complaints. And this couple were very relaxed—they were repeat customers who had been guests at a wedding in East Hampton a decade earlier and had fallen in love with the town enough to make an annual pilgrimage. Antonia had been gratified when they told her that they could not believe the remarkable renovations that she had made, and Antonia was giddy with excitement watching their genuine amazement as she toured them around the public rooms. They had noticed every detail, and complimented her on all of her success.

  “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Winslow, how is everything with you?” asked Antonia.

  They were a thin, energetic couple who both had the trim sporty physique of long-distance runners. She wore her brown hair in a ponytail and his was short and sparse, but they were youthful and bursting with energy.

  “Super, thank you, Antonia,” said Mrs. Winslow. “We had a fantastic day. We picked up some goodies from Round Swamp and went out to the lighthouse in Montauk and had a picnic.”

  “I love Round Swamp,” exclaimed Antonia. “It takes every single ounce of strength I have to not go there every day! I would weigh four hundred pounds if I did!”

  “The cinnamon buns are pretty incredible!” said Mr. Winslow.

  “Incredible? They are a narcotic for the soul. I love cinnamon buns. But everything is good there. The peach raspberry pies? The mini berry muffins that you can just pop in your mouth? And the chocolate fudge cake is divine,” said Antonia, her mouth beginning to water.

  “We love the baked goods but the main courses are pretty super also,” said Mrs. Winslow. “I love their grilled shrimp kabobs. We picked up some of those and had some of their pesto pasta with peas and roasted brussels sprouts. It was so tasty.”

  “I’m jealous! But have you had their Mexican layer dip?” Antonia asked, raising her eyebrows.

  “Oh, I’ve had that,” interjected Connie from behind the counter. “That is dangerous.”

  “We haven’t tried that yet,” said Mr. Winslow.

  “My gosh, you are missing out,” said Antonia. “Now I’m not sure if it’s five-layer dip or seven-layer dip, but whatever it is—it’s a whole new level. There’s cheese, sour cream, beans, guacamole, salsa…yum. It’s a creamy, gooey mess. You just heat it up so the cheese is all melted and find one of those sturdy tortilla chips—not one of those pale white corn ones that crumble when you try and scoop up some salsa—but one of those thick ones that won’t break and can act like a spoon, and you just scoop up the hot dip. It has a little bit of spice, but it all melds so wonderfully together. I tell you, nirvana. You have not lived until you tried that!”

  Mr. Winslow turned to his wife. “We’re trying that tomorrow!”

  “For sure!” she agreed. “Wow, Antonia, you should be a food writer. I just ate an hour ago and I’m already hungry.”

  Antonia laughed. “I’m always hungry!”

  They chatted a bit more about food and Antonia reminded them that they could not possibly leave town without trying Pasquale’s homemade mozzarella at Red Horse Market, which was fortunately on their way out of town. “Like candy” is how Antonia described it.

  Before Mrs. Winslow headed up to her room, she stopped Antonia. “Oh, and I ju
st want to say it’s so nice to see Gordon’s girlfriend is still here.”

  Antonia was momentarily confused. “His girlfriend?”

  “Yes, I bumped into her yesterday.”

  Antonia realized she must mean Barbie. She was just happy that it hadn’t been the day prior when Barbie was tussling with Naomi. “Oh, right…”

  “I’m glad she’s still around. I mean, it doesn’t surprise me, because she once told me that her lifelong dream was to own an inn.”

  Antonia smiled brightly. She did not want to bad-mouth Barbie in front of a guest so she gritted her teeth. “Yes, well, we had tea yesterday.”

  Mrs. Winslow nodded. “Well, I was worried when I heard the inn was sold that she wouldn’t be here, so I’m glad to see her. She was very helpful. Last time I was here, I lost a pair of earrings, I put them down somewhere when I was talking on my phone and I couldn’t for the life of me find them. I was so distraught, searched everywhere, and at last she found them in the parlor and brought them to me. I’m so grateful.”

  “How wonderful,” said Antonia.

  As she made her way into her office, Antonia’s mind was filled with Barbie. Was she just a garden-variety kleptomaniac? She had probably stolen Mrs. Winslow’s earrings herself and planned on selling them or wearing them but when Mrs. Winslow caused such a scene, she aborted her mission and tried to play the hero, Antonia conjectured. It was all so bizarre. But it was interesting that she had revealed it was her “lifelong dream” to own an inn. To what end would she have gone to fulfill such a dream?

  Antonia was planning on sitting down at her computer and Googling everyone from Barbie and Gordon Haslett to Larry Lipper but she noticed with dismay that her inbox was overflowing and demanded immediate attention. She lifted up the pile, flipped through, and was disappointed to see it mostly consisted of bills. It sometimes felt as if her inbox self-generated bills. She’d pay a round of them and then more would magically appear, as if someone had sprinkled a fairy dust that just serviced creditors. Antonia was trying to figure out how the electric company could be demanding so much money from her when Lucy entered her office.

  “Ah, finally. I need you to sign off on those so I can pay them,” Lucy said, a twinge of reprimand in her voice.

  Lucy remained in the threshold of the door, her arms folded. She was wearing a black-and-white mini-polka-dot dress with a cherry-red cardigan on top; she was one red, tied neck scarf away from doing the bunny hop. She wore very peculiar pointy black shoes that made Antonia think if she clicked them together Lucy may end up in Kansas or some far-off Midwestern state.

  “Yes, I suppose I’ve been avoiding them,” sighed Antonia. “Why does it seem like the bills keep coming?”

  “I have to pay them if we want to keep things moving along here.”

  Antonia leaned back in her chair, the foam inside the cushion flattening under her weight. “I know. Ugh, I just hate dealing with this part of it.”

  “Antonia, can I be frank with you?”

  “Of course.”

  “The inn is losing money.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think perhaps, you don’t understand the extent of things. I don’t mean to speak out of place but as your bookkeeper, and now manager, but I feel it is necessary to warn you that you are in a precarious financial situation. The inn has not yet been fully booked. Yes, we are steadily making progress, but we’ve never even had guests stay in the upstairs suite—and the restaurant is hemorrhaging money.”

  “I can’t understand how that is happening. I know we’re new, we’ve only been up and running for six weeks, but I thought that we had a bigger cushion than this.”

  “Your renovation costs were hefty. You had to carry all of your utility costs during that period, and pay the small group of employees that you chose to continue working here. The furniture and decor you chose were most definitely extravagant, as you are well aware. You insist on having the best of everything—soaps, towels, shampoos, food…”

  “If I want to be a high-end boutique hotel, I have certain standards that I need to adhere to…”

  “I don’t disagree. But how will it help you to be that certain type of hotel if you are bankrupt?”

  Antonia opened her mouth to protest but snapped it shut. As her mother always said, “Don’t kill the messenger.” It was perhaps a conversation that she needed to have. She knew deep down that she had been coasting and trying to avoid the entire financial component of running an inn and restaurant. Ultimately, she had to face the facts. The income from the stocks that her father had left her when he died generated a nice income for her, but it wouldn’t last forever if she kept selling them off to make payroll. She would have to figure something out.

  “So what are you proposing?” she said finally.

  “If we were prudent, we would shut down the restaurant,” Lucy said firmly.

  Antonia thought she would be sick to her stomach. A wave of nausea came over her. “You’re kidding.”

  Lucy pressed her glasses up closer to her eyes. “I’m not.”

  Antonia sat in stunned silence. Lucy shifted her weight in the door.

  “But…that’s my favorite part…” Antonia said weakly.

  “I think you need to make some hard decisions.”

  It would be a total heartbreak for Antonia to have to close her restaurant. During her darkest days, when she was suffering from the tyranny of her ex-husband, she used to imagine owning her own restaurant. It didn’t need to be ambitious or fancy, she just wanted to serve homey comfort food, all of her favorite things that she loved. It was the good dream, the dream that kept her going. If she had to shut down the restaurant, it would mean more to Antonia than just a failure. It meant that Philip, her ex, would have won. The money she received from him would be gone; all lost in the failed inn, and all that she would have is the nagging sense of failure. Cooking was the one thing that made Antonia happy. Feeding people. She had always loved it. And now, to close it down?

  “There has to be another option. We’re just gaining traction with the restaurant.”

  Antonia gave Lucy an imploring look. She could tell there was one side of Lucy that was sincerely enjoying this masochistic exercise. Lucy was probably one of those people who enjoyed breaking bad news to people. She’d hide behind her numbers, or statistics, or whatever, but she would wear that secret smirk that she was wearing now. She should have been an emergency room doctor next to a race-car track.

  “I knew you wouldn’t want to take this step just yet so I have a temporary solution. We are heading into winter, and everything will start slowing down. I don’t think you should keep the restaurant open seven days a week anymore. Starting next week, we should move to winter hours. Only Thursday through Saturday night. This will save on food costs. We can’t offer tea service every day…”

  “No!” the word leapt out of Antonia’s mouth. Lucy gave her a stern look and continued.

  “For now. Only offer it a few days a week. And I have composed a list of alternative vendors we can use for produce, sundries, and laundry. We have to reduce the fresh flowers around the inn, scale back on our waitstaff, and find more partnerships with local businesses who can bring more people into the inn.”

  She handed Antonia a spreadsheet. Antonia glanced at it with dismay.

  “Really?”

  “Antonia, I’m sorry but this all has to be done. Again, I don’t mean to overstep, but you don’t have experience running an inn. I’ve been in this business longer than you and I know what the costs are. We are struggling.”

  Antonia stared at the spreadsheet. It was like watching a horror movie; she saw how all of her money was drifting away. “Okay,” she said finally.

  She knew Lucy was right. It stank, but maybe if they did all this, they could generate some money and stay afloat.

  “Is that all?” asked
Antonia.

  “For now.”

  14

  Antonia was morose as she prepped for dinner service and everyone in the kitchen could sense it. Marty and Kendra made an effort to keep their bickering in check, and Liz assisted Antonia in silence. It was Monday night, and Antonia had instigated a “Fun Monday” prix-fixe, three-course meal, where everyone in the kitchen (including busboys and waiters) could submit an idea for an appetizer, an entrée, and a dessert, and the zaniest would make the menu. That usually led to a rowdier atmosphere in the kitchen, but tonight was subdued.

  “Liz, why don’t you make the special dessert,” said Antonia. She poured a measuring cup of maple syrup over a baked ham and started spreading it evenly with her brush.

  “Me?” sputtered Liz.

  “Sure. You came up with it.”

  “But…I’m just an intern.”

  “That’s okay. I think you’re up to the task. You probably have some idea how to make Cap’n Crunch cakes with bacon and candy corn ice cream or else you wouldn’t have suggested it.”

  Liz smiled. “I did make it once at home.”

  “Go on, I’ll help you if you need anything.”

  Liz gleefully went over to the pantry to gather provisions. Antonia couldn’t help but crack a smile. Liz reminded her so much of herself it was crazy! There was something so liberating about purely cooking the food you love. Maybe Lucy was right and she should just cut her losses. But instead of the inn, just do the restaurant. Here she was in her happy place, and she was unable to enjoy it because she was worried about money. It seemed absurd!