by Carrie Doyle
For the rest of the afternoon, Antonia took on the more laborious and less-rewarding tasks like filleting the fish, butchering the meat, and peeling the shrimp. She knew she was being a little masochistic, but it felt good to get down and dirty and stab things. By the time dinner service commenced, Antonia’s hands felt as if they would fall off. If she had to ladle one more scoop of gravy onto the roast chicken and mashed potatoes, she thought she would scream. So it was a relief when Glen came into the kitchen and told her she had a friend who was asking for her. Marty and Kendra were only too eager to have her leave the kitchen, so she realized that her bad mood was rubbing off on everyone. She had to make a note to try to contain her problems and not let them affect everyone around her. That was no way to run a business.
“Hey, girlfriend! So glad you came out. Please come sit with us for a bit!”
Even though she had seen her yesterday, Antonia felt a rush of joy at seeing Genevieve. No one could cheer her up like her old friend. She wasn’t sure what made them click, but there was something about Genevieve that was so lighthearted and fun, and it amused Antonia to death. Gen had been there in her darkest days with Philip and was always a source of beaming light. Maybe it was because she was the polar opposite of Antonia, so irresponsible and scattered, that the friendship worked.
Tonight, Genevieve was, as usual, dressed to the nines. She had on a glittery gray sequined blouse underneath a black velvet dinner jacket. Her dark hair was slicked back into a tight ponytail and she wore dramatic eye makeup that quite honestly, looked a little crazy in Antonia’s opinion. Antonia never went for that intense eyelinered look that was so popular in fashion magazines. It looked absurd on her. But some people could pull it off. Just like the approximately seven thousand gold bangles running up and down both of Genevieve’s arms that reminded Antonia of Egyptian mummies. She worked them as well as she worked the large gold necklace so tightly coiled around her neck that looked to Antonia as if it could strangle her.
Genevieve was seated in the banquette next to a very young-looking blond man (teenager?) who was wildly underdressed in a blue V-neck T-shirt and jeans. His baby face was tanned but smooth, not a wrinkle to be found, and he seemed so young that at first Antonia wondered if Genevieve was babysitting, but when she saw her put her hand on his knee, she prayed that wasn’t the case or else Genevieve was headed to the clink. It was all very Lifetime movie, in Antonia’s opinion.
“Antonia, this is Ty. Please meet.”
Antonia held out her hand to shake but Ty gave her the peace sign instead.
“What’s up?” he asked. His teeth were white but a bit crooked and he had the slightest, tiniest, hint of blond mustache under his lip but nothing on his chin. His jawline was weak, which was a shame, because it was as if God himself had sculpted the top of his head but then got tired and quit in the middle, rendering him gorgeous at first blush but then kind of average and pinched when you studied him.
“Nothing, just work.”
Antonia sat down across from them. Genevieve gave her one of her “I can’t believe how lucky I am” looks and Antonia rolled her eyes.
“Dinner was awesome,” said Genevieve. “We had the fun menu. I totally loved the potato chip fried chicken with peas n’ cheese mash. That was so yummy.”
“I’m glad you liked it. Kendra created that dish.”
“Who’s Kendra?” asked Genevieve, taking a sip of her Cosmopolitan.
“For the umpteenth time, she’s my station chef!”
“Oh, right. Well, she’s talented.”
“I know.”
“That cereal dessert was rocking,” said Ty in his slow surfer drawl. He drained the contents of his beer mug. “I could have eaten that all night.”
“Thanks,” said Antonia. She folded her hands in front of her and tried not to be judgmental. This guy was too easy of a target. “So, Ty, what do you do?”
He swept a piece of blond hair off the side of his face and gave her an earnest look. “What’s my job or what’s my passion?”
“Both, I guess,” said Antonia. She refused to look at Genevieve because she knew Genevieve would be sending her imploring glances.
“Yeah, well, I work in the pool industry in the summer, through the season really.”
“Swimming or billiard?” interjected Antonia.
“Swimming,” said Ty, nodding his head solemnly. “You know, opening at the beginning of the season, cleaning throughout, closing at the end.”
“And how’s that for you?”
“Mellow. I can rock it with my headphones on, so it’s like, no prob. Pretty straightforward, I would say.”
“Ever find anything interesting or unexpected in a pool?”
“Naw, usual crap. Leaves, toys, mice, bugs, nothing sexy.”
“Got it. No floating bodies,” joked Antonia.
“Naw, not yet,” Ty answered with all seriousness.
Antonia smiled. “And in the off-season? What do you do then?”
She could see Genevieve fidgeting out of the corner of her eyes, squirming. Genevieve did not like to engage in any sort of intense exchanges with the men she dated. She preferred to take them all at face value. Ty didn’t seem to care; he gave Antonia the smile of a Cheshire cat.
“That’s when I live out my passion. I follow the waves.”
Of course, thought Antonia. “Where do you follow them to?”
“Wherever they take me. Where the ride is the most badass. Hawaii, South America, wherever.”
“That sounds nice.”
Antonia wanted to proceed with her line of questioning but Genevieve interrupted. “Okay, enough third degree. Ty and I are here to have fun. Any update on the murder sitch? Shall I be planning your funeral?”
“Ha ha, very funny,” said Antonia. She felt the stress creeping back into her body. “Nothing to report.”
Genevieve squinted and studied Antonia’s face.
“I’m glad. And I hope you dropped it. You have to stop looking for trouble. You’re like a pig sniffing for truffles. Life is great, you’re happy, but you feel the need to bring problems to yourself. Let it go,” advised Genevieve.
“I’ll try.”
“Don’t try. Succeed.”
Genevieve definitely had her mantras that Antonia suspected came from feminine hygiene commercials and the like, but actually tended to be prudent. She should succeed in making herself happy. Why the heck was she snooping around trying to solve murders that may not really be murders?
“Dude, what murders?” asked Ty.
“Antonia thinks the previous innkeeper was offed.”
“Seriously?”
“No, no, Genevieve is just teasing you,” insisted Antonia. The last thing she wanted was to perpetuate the inn’s reputation as a place of death.
“I never thought of East Hampton as dangerous as South Central, but, dude, this place is seriously sketchy these days.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Genevieve incredulously. “There’s basically no crime here.”
Ty wiped a piece of hair out of his eyes. “Don’t you remember that someone stole my phone off the beach when I was riding the Ws?”
“Okay, but you were practically asking for it. You left it on a rock on the jetty. Someone probably thought it was lost.”
“Yeah, well, if they’d have looked out in the ocean, they would have seen me.”
“Whatever.”
Ty bristled at being blown off. “Okay, and then like, the other night, my sister heard this bang in her backyard. Someone was climbing over her garbage cans.”
“And?” asked Genevieve.
“She yelled out and said she had a gun. Saved her own life. The intruder ran away.”
Genevieve and Antonia exchanged skeptical looks.
“Maybe it was an animal?” asked Antonia finally.
“Where does she live?”
“Northwest Woods. And no, it wasn’t an animal because she saw someone running away, and then get in a car and drive off.”
“Did she call the police?” asked Genevieve.
“Naw. She’s kind of the type who likes to take the law into her own hands. She’s waiting for them to come back.”
“What did she think they were after?”
“She collects vintage birdhouses. They’re super valuable.”
Antonia nodded. “Were any stolen?”
“Naw,” said Tyler.
“She was lucky,” said Antonia. Only Genevieve detected the amusement in her eyes.
“Totally.”
Soon Ty grew bored of the inquisition and started to make sounds about going home, which made Genevieve nervous, so Antonia took her leave. She found Joseph finishing up his dinner and went over to join him.
“You weren’t here yesterday. I was worried,” said Antonia lightheartedly. She sat down across from him and motioned for the waiter to bring her a glass of wine. Time to relax.
Joseph dabbed his chin with his napkin and didn’t meet her eye. “Yes, I couldn’t make it yesterday.”
“I’m just teasing you. Of course you don’t have to come every night. I know there are other restaurants out there. I’m not jealous!”
Joseph reached down into a worn brown leather satchel and carefully pulled out a manila folder that he held in his knotted hands. He placed it on the table and slid it toward Antonia.
“What’s this?” asked Antonia, flipping it open.
“After we heard about Biddy Robertson, I couldn’t shake her from my mind. I was in the library yesterday and decided to do some research.”
Antonia scanned the article from the East Hampton Star that Joseph had printed out for her. It was the police blotter from six years prior. Underneath an item about a Friday report of youths smoking in the Waldbaum’s parking lot there was the following mention:
The owner of 15 Treetop Lane, Elizabeth Robertson, accused her neighbor Naomi Haslett of placing a dead raccoon on her doormat. Haslett denied the allegations, and as there was no proof, no arrests were made. Police advised the two women to stay away from each other and call them if there were more problems.
“Wait, Naomi and Biddy are neighbors?” asked Antonia with astonishment.
“Were neighbors,” Joseph corrected. “According to the Recorded Deeds section of a later issue of the Star, Naomi sold her condo four years ago.”
“Wow. Was there anything else about this raccoon?”
He shook his head. “No more mentions of their conflict.”
“Obviously they hated each other if Biddy would think that Naomi put a dead raccoon on her doormat.”
“Agreed.”
“That’s also pretty disgusting. You’d definitely have to be a certain type of person to use road kill as an act of retaliation.”
“Absolutely,” said Joseph. He took a sip of his sherry.
“Oh, Joseph, what to do now?” lamented Antonia. “I spent the entire afternoon and evening thinking that I had to stop focusing on this ridiculous theory and return my attention back to my inn and restaurant that are clearly struggling! And just when I want to get out, you pull me back in!”
“I’m sorry, my dear, I did not mean to distract you. I thought it necessary to provide you with all the information I had at hand, but it doesn’t mean you have to do anything about it. Remember, the police are already looking into Biddy Robertson’s death as a possible homicide. So I am certain that they found this information and are interviewing Naomi Haslett.”
“I guess, but for some reason I feel responsible. At least to look into the possible Gordon murder side of things. Clues and weird coincidences keep popping out at me.”
Antonia filled him in on all of the recent revelations. There was her discovery of Gordon’s note that referred to “firing that B,” her meeting with Ronald Meter and the possible beehive in his backyard, the sighting of Barbie and her boyfriend, the box of stolen inn items that she reclaimed at the L.V.I.S., and her interview of Sharon. Did it all add up to something or was it a whole lot of nothing?
“There are definitely a lot of unanswered questions,” conceded Joseph.
“That’s for sure. But I think at this point, I realize I’m way out of my league. I’m of the mindset ‘Don’t quit your day job.’”
Antonia sighed deeply and drained her wineglass. Joseph paused and pensively played with the edge of his spoon.
“I also read up on bees yesterday. Fascinating creatures. I didn’t know much about them other than what a nuisance they can be when you want to have a beach picnic in early September. But then, I’m not having many of those in my current invalid state.”
“Oh, please.”
“It’s true, dear. But yes, bees are interesting. Did you know there are nearly twenty thousand species of bees? And that’s just of the known variety. The actual number is probably higher. Bees are found on every continent in the world except Antarctica.”
“That makes sense. Where there are plants, there are bees.”
“True. It’s actually amazing how much humans rely on them. It’s estimated that one third of the human food supply depends on insect pollination, most of which is accomplished by bees, especially the domesticated European honey bee. What is frightening is that over the past four decades we have seen a rapid reduction in the number of bees, especially in the United States.”
“Why?”
“It’s an accumulation of many different factors. The winter generally knocks off about twenty-five percent of them to begin with. There was a DNA-based virus that scientists discovered in 2010 that when coupled with a particular fungus proved one hundred percent fatal to thousands of colonies. Pesticides have played a great role in their eradication, as well as mites and the reduction of commercial beekeepers. In addition, urbanization is a problem. As we expand, wildflowers decrease and thus eliminate the food bees need to survive.”
“Leave it to the humans to mess things up. A pity on so many levels, but especially since I truly appreciate a community where the queen is the bigwig.”
“Agreed, my dear. And bees are revered in most societies. In ancient Egypt, the bee symbolized the lands of Lower Egypt, and the Pharaoh was referred to as ‘He of Sedge and Bee.’”
“But they are considered pests to a certain extent,” added Antonia.
“Well, actually that’s sort of a misnomer. It’s yellow jackets and hornets that are the ones that mostly bother us. And they are misidentified as bees. In fact, virtually all bee species are nonaggressive if undisturbed and many cannot sting at all. Unless you are allergic to bees, in which case a sting is fatal, it is actually humans who are more dangerous to bees than the other way around.”
Joseph paused to sip his drink. Antonia furrowed her brows.
“Would there be any way to know if Gordon was stung? And how would that have happened?”
“If we are proceeding with the theory that someone with knowledge of Gordon’s allergy procured a bee to sting him, then I conjecture that it would have been a honeybee. Someone could purchase—or steal—one from many of the commercial hives in the area, or purchase one on the internet, as they are the most popular and easiest to obtain. Or breed them, like that man you mentioned?”
“Ronald Meter.”
“Yes. The fact is, a honeybee rarely stings away from her hive, unless mishandled and treated roughly. If the murderer brought one to the garden, aggravated it, then somehow set it on Gordon, it would sting him. And a honeybee leaves a stinger inside the victim.”
Antonia considered this. “Then if that’s what happened to Gordon, the stinger may still be inside him?”
“I’m not sure what happens when the body begins to decompose.”
“Hmm, there’s only one way to kn
ow. What do you think, we try and exhume the body?”
“Oh dear, I hope it won’t come to that.”
“Me too,” laughed Antonia. “Plus, no one would allow us to do that just on a gut feeling. Especially if one of our major suspects includes the next of kin. Too bad. But how are we going to find out who killed him?”
Joseph took off his glasses and wiped them with his handkerchief. “I think you need to focus on Detective Work 101.”
“And what’s that?” asked Antonia.
“Who has the most to gain from Gordon being killed?”
15
Tuesday
The winter birds had arrived. The ospreys and the cormorants headed south, but the southern terns, the western kingbird, and the dickcissel had landed to set up residence. Despite the approaching winter months, and the promise of cold to come, the trees and dunes were still bursting with feathered life.
The morning air was brisk. Antonia had set out early for her walk in an effort to clear her head. The waves had thumped the shore violently overnight, and the tide had driven the water all the way up toward the edge of the dunes. The sand was wet and compact, and with every step Antonia took she cracked a piece of it underneath her.
The mansions that lined the coast were weather-beaten but defiant. Most of them had withstood numerous hurricanes, eroding dunes, infestation of the piping plovers, but they remained sturdy and grand, like true Yankee stock. She loved the dichotomy of an old shingled house with a gambrel roof and a wraparound porch that was perched next to a stark-white, modern Charles Gwathmey–style masterpiece with walls of windows and irregular angles. Each had its own personality. Celebrity maps weren’t sold in East Hampton but Antonia wished they were because it would be nice to have an idea of whom they belonged to. She knew the CEO of Starbucks lived in one house, and a newspaper magnate lived in another. President Clinton rented one every summer, too, and there was one supposedly in trust for a sixteen-year-old orphan. There were countless billionaires who had their homes on the beach, but others belonged to old East Hampton families whose bank accounts had been depleted and were now house-poor. What they all had in common was this majestic view of the Atlantic Ocean and instant access to one of the most pristine beaches in the country.