Death on Windmill Way

by Carrie Doyle

  “Milk or sugar?”

  “Just milk, thank you.”

  Antonia gave him a generous portion before reaching for the other dish on the tray. “Would you like some honey?”

  Ronald hesitated. His eyes met Antonia’s. “No, thank you.”

  “There are some mini-muffins in the basket as well.”

  “I’m all set.”

  She handed him his cup and gave him a curious look. “I love a good pot of tea. Actually, I also love a good mug of coffee. I’m an equal opportunity caffeine drinker.”

  “Oh, me too.”

  “I will take it in virtually any form. I try to lay off the soda, but I’ve been known to imbibe. It’s impossible to go to a movie and eat popcorn without soda. Ditto a slice of pizza. Although red wine will work with that. But soda is better. The only thing I really steer clear of is Red Bull. I’ve never even tried it; it just sounds disgusting to me. I suppose I have my standards. It’s the same with wine. I love wine, but would never drink it out of a box. I think we all know deep down when we have to control our addictions.”

  Ronald had been holding his cup to his mouth, blowing softly as she spoke. He took a sip and firmly placed it back down in the saucer. It made a clanking noise.

  “I apologize,” he said.

  “No worries.”

  Ronald twisted uncomfortably in his chair and Antonia made a mental note to entertain tall visitors in the sunroom or parlor.

  “Antonia, I came here today because I wasn’t truthful with you the other day.”

  Antonia arched her eyebrows and gave him a quizzical look. He glanced down, as if very uncomfortable with what he was about to confess, and sighed deeply.

  “As you were leaving, you asked me if I had a beehive in the backyard.”

  He peered up at her and waited. She held her breath. Was this going to be a confession? She wished she had one of those buttons underneath her desk that she could press and record everything. She had never assumed she would need one, seeing as this wasn’t the Oval Office, but of course you never knew. Now that she was involved in a possible murder case, she was way behind the eight ball. She wondered if one day she’d have to put a little room behind a mirror so that police could watch from the other side, undetected…

  “Yes, I did,” she prompted.

  “Well, I’m sorry I wasn’t truthful. The fact is, it is a beehive.” His eyes gave her an imploring gaze.

  “Oh? Well, I’m not sure why you would hide that?” she said, playing dumb.

  “I know, it seems silly. They are legal, for Lord’s sake. But you see, well, you didn’t know me before…”

  He trailed off. Antonia stepped in. “No, we just met.”

  “Right. Well, I used to be a large man. I mean, I am a large man now, but I used to weigh a lot more. I’m not sure if any of the gang here told you, but I lost one hundred and eighty pounds.”

  “No!”

  “It’s true. I’m the ‘Biggest Loser’ at my church. Although I hate that title. Problem was, I always had a sweet tooth, and I ate all the time. I gobbled up everything! I’m from the South, and we liked it fried, breaded, and sugarcoated. But then I found out I had diabetes, and I had to cut back. My doctor warned me, my pastor warned me. So I did. I cut out all sugar and the like. Began to exercise, which is a hoot!”

  He paused, evidently conjuring up the image of him exercising in his brain. It didn’t seem so absurd to Antonia, but then she didn’t know him before. He continued. “Well, then. I do have a vice. I adore honey. Lord, how I adore it. I didn’t set out to have a beehive, it just sort of happened. I kind of inherited it. And they make the most delicious honey in the world! I promise you, it is my one vice. I just can’t quit it. And sitting here, staring at that sweet little dish of honey that you have on that tray is making me, well, all of my self-control is holding me back from drinking it. So there, that’s my dirty little secret. And I am sorry I lied.”

  He stared at her with a guilty look, more apt for someone who had skinned her cat than someone who told a fib about owning a beehive. Hey, whatever floats your boat, thought Antonia.

  “Ronald, I appreciate your honesty. Thank you for telling me the truth. But I just wonder why… You didn’t lie about anything major. You don’t have to answer to me, so why come tell me this?”

  He nodded as if he had known she would ask him that. “I mentioned my pastor to you. I’ve gone through things in recent years, had some issues, and I have turned to my faith more and more. And this was burning on my conscience, so I talked to my pastor who advised me to speak to you. I just want honesty in my life. Clarity. Sobriety. I’m trying to be a good person, not to succumb to any vices or temptations.”

  “Wow, I think that’s great. I should take a page out of your book. Everyone should.”

  “Oh, I hope I’m not preaching. Different things work for different people, that’s what my mama always says.”

  “She sounds smart. I quote my mom also.”

  “Mother knows best to this day,” laughed Ronald.

  Antonia removed the dish of honey as well as the mini-muffin basket and asked Connie to dispose of them somewhere far away. Antonia and Ronald finished their tea without any temptations, and had a pleasant chat about a variety of topical issues. Her impression of him was that he was a nice man, but attempting to live his life in a way that might not be organic to who he was. It was almost as if he had been subjected to an intense amount of therapy recently, the type that started off being very beneficial but then became a little bizarre and self-indulgent. In addition, his pastor seemed to be very influential on him. At least it sounded like he was pushing him toward goodness. It did make Antonia wonder how dark it had been for Ronald before this pastor. Was this religious inclination new, say, post-murder? Had Ronald been an angry enough person to kill Gordon?

  After tea, Antonia toured Ronald around the downstairs of the inn. He was suitably impressed with the changes, and extremely flattering. Antonia was such a sucker for that, especially since she had poured so much time and effort (not to mention money) into every change and upgrade. He particularly appreciated how she had restored the original millwork, most of which had been stripped out. Antonia had scanned through all of the photos and archives of the inn to ascertain what it had originally looked like. She spent hours at the East Hampton Library searching for anything that would be helpful. Then she had worked with an architect to recreate the crown moldings on the ceilings, the wainscoting along the walls in the front hall and public rooms, and to reproduce mantels that resembled the originals. Ronald was the first person to articulate how much of an effort it had been.

  They were in the sunroom when Liz came to find her. She wore an apron over her white chef’s pants, and had her hair back in a ponytail, which made her look younger than her years.

  “Sorry to bother you, Antonia, but the vegetable delivery is in and Marty wants me to confirm the mushroom order with you.”

  “Okay, sure.” She turned to Ronald who spoke before her.

  “Oh, don’t worry about me. I’m on my way anyway. Just will pop out and say hello to Hector. I’m so glad you kept him on.”

  “Yes, he does a wonderful job.”

  “Well, thank you so much for the tea and company. You’ve done beautiful things with the inn.”

  “Thank you,” said Antonia.

  They shook hands.

  17

  Wednesday

  It rained all day Wednesday. Not just rained, but teemed. When Antonia’s morning alarm sounded, she reached for it with excitement, ready to bound out of bed and prepare for her beach walk with (hopefully) Nick Darrow. But she was dismayed to see the wet drops furiously pounding against the glass panes, forming streams of water that rushed down to the ground. She rose and surveyed the yard from the window, but it was futile. Pools of water had already formed on the lawn and
the walkways were slick. No one in his or her right mind would be walking the beach that morning.

  With dismay, Antonia returned to her bed and curled up in her cozy comforter. As she stared at her ceiling, she thought to herself that this must be the first time in her entire life that she was disappointed to forgo exercise and remain in bed. Geez, what men can do to you! And of course, once again she had to remind herself that she was being silly. Nick Darrow was probably just a friendly guy who had no interest in her other than in a neighborly fashion. He probably was nice to everyone, perhaps to sell movie tickets. Maybe he took that “one ticket at a time” approach.

  After breakfast service, there were enough tasks, chores, and concerns to keep Antonia busy for the next few hours. These days she felt as if she always needed to be in three different places at once. She knew she had to put in some time for clerical duties, but there was so much to be done in the kitchen with deliveries arriving and prep work to be done. She wished she could hire an extra person to help either in the office or in the kitchen but after Lucy’s stern dressing-down about costs, she realized it was not possible. She was also going to have to let the current staff know that starting the first of November, the restaurant would only be open four nights a week. Oh, she dreaded these management duties! If only she could just do the fun parts of owning an inn and a restaurant.

  At eleven thirty, Antonia made herself a little lunch and escaped to her office with a tray. She bit into one of her all-time favorite sandwiches—Saint-André cheese on a crusty baguette with sliced cornichons, cherry tomatoes, and Dijon mustard. The cheese had to be soft enough to be gooey and spread evenly on the bread, and the cherry tomatoes had to be chopped so they didn’t squirt everywhere when you bit into them. The sandwich also demanded lots of pepper and a hefty sprinkle of truffle salt. A slice of lemon in seltzer along with some vinegar potato chips accompanied it. Antonia was in heaven, practically moaning with satisfaction when her telephone rang. Reluctantly she answered.

  “Bingham, it’s Lipper.”

  The hunk of bread dropped down her throat like a ball of lead. If there was anyone who could ruin the moment, it was Larry Lipper.

  “Hi, Larry,” said Antonia in her fakest cheery voice. “How are you?”

  “Put November twelfth on your calendar,” he barked on the other end of the phone.

  “What’s November twelfth?”

  “There’s a Ross School benefit at Wölffer Vineyards. Billy Joel is headlining. I know you love him, so you’ll go with me.”

  “Wait, I do love him, but how did you know?”

  “You’re the type.”

  “Huh. Well, I’m not sure that date will work for me. It’s a Saturday night and the restaurant is open…”

  “My boss got a table. It’s free. You’ll be with me.”

  “Yes, see, it’s not really a great time…”

  “I thought you loved kids. Don’t you want to support them?”

  Antonia did not recall having any sort of conversation about children with Larry Lipper. “I do support kids, and I like kids, it’s not that…”

  “Blah, blah, blah. Look, enough with playing hard to get. You and I both know where this is going…”

  “Excuse me?” bristled Antonia.

  “We can play this dance, or we can cut to the chase. I like to cut to the chase…”

  “Larry, what are you even implying? Contrary to what you may think, I am not trying to facilitate a romantic relationship with you.”

  “Who said anything about romance?”

  Antonia was instantly embarrassed. “Oh, I thought…”

  “I’m thinking sexual relationship,” said Larry.

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Why?” asked Antonia. She took a large bite of her sandwich and waited for him to continue his clumsy courtship.

  “Because I have more scoop about Biddy Robertson’s death.”

  Antonia tried to speak but her mouth was so full of bread and cheese and pickles that it all came out in a muffled bumble.

  “What the hell are you saying, Antonia? Did you swallow your sock?”

  Antonia put up her finger as if instructing him to wait, but comprehended that it was useless, as he couldn’t see her, so she chewed as quickly as possible and washed down her bite with some seltzer. She drank the seltzer so quickly that the bubbles burned the back of her throat and she proceeded to have a coughing fit.

  “Jesus, Bingham. You really turn on all the charm when a man tries to ask you out. I’m loving all the sounds you’re making,” complained Larry.

  “Tell me about Biddy,” Antonia garbled as soon as she could speak again.

  “Say you will go to the benefit with me.”

  “Biddy first.”

  “Benefit first.”

  It was a standoff. Antonia kicked herself because she knew she would lose. Curiosity always trumped self-respect in her book.

  “All right,” she conceded in her most defeated and dejected tone. “I’ll go. Now tell me about Biddy.”

  “And promise you’ll wear something hot. Show off your tits.”

  “Larry!”

  “Come on!”

  “I promise to dress appropriately. Now tell me about Biddy. And it better be good or else I won’t go.”

  “Fine. My buddy on the force told me that at first, when they went to her house it all seemed pretty status quo, just like a bad accident. She forgot to turn off the stove.”

  “Old news,” interjected Antonia.

  “Bingham, let me finish!”

  “Sorry.”

  “Then my buddy noticed something in the kitchen. There was an outlet by the floor against the wall. Nothing was plugged in. Didn’t appear as if anything had been there. But then the sun started pouring in and he realized—this guy is good—that there was a dust outline along the wall as if something had been plugged in there. Something the shape of a carbon monoxide detector.”

  “Interesting. But how could they know for sure?”

  “This is where it gets good. Biddy had some photos attached to her fridge. Her grandson had taken them. They were shots of Christmas last year. The family cooking in the kitchen—all that irritating junk people do together around holidays before everyone drinks too much and the backstabbing begins.”

  “You paint a lovely image of the holidays.”

  “I’m a realist. So sure enough, in one of those photos, Biddy is standing next to the refrigerator, and you can clearly see the outlet and the carbon monoxide detector plugged in. Someone removed it.”

  Antonia was stunned silent, which didn’t happen often. “Wow.”

  “Yeah. They got confirmation from the son that the old lady was really diligent about that crap. Had all sorts of alarms and everything ready.”

  “Do the police have any suspects yet?”

  “Not that they’re telling me about. But it will all come out soon.”

  “Larry, let me ask you this. Did you mention to your buddy anything about the inn or Gordon Haslett’s death? Did they think there was a connection?”

  “I sorta threw it out there but he laughed at me. And anyway, I agree, it’s a waste of time. But if you’re scared of going to bed at night for fear you’ll be the next one whacked, I can tell you my bed is warm and I got satin sheets.”

  “Why do you always have to make these references?”

  “You love them! Gotta go.”

  Antonia resumed munching on her sandwich and thought about what Larry had told her. Why would someone want to kill Biddy Robertson? From all accounts she was just an average, run-of-the-mill woman. The only motive that Antonia could think of was that she had once owned the inn. If the police didn’t take the connection seriously then it was up to Antonia to figure out why someone would want every owner of t
he inn dead, or else she would be next! She picked up her phone and dialed Lucy’s extension, but there was no answer and she remembered that Lucy said she was running to the bank to deposit some checks. It was time to compile a list of all the employees who had worked for both Gordon and Biddy. Maybe that was the connection? Antonia jotted down a few names that she could think of, but after getting nowhere she pulled out an old issue of Cook’s Illustrated to read as she finished her lunch. Then there was a knock on the door.

  Hector was standing on the threshold and next to him stood a petite woman that Antonia knew at once must be his wife, Soyla. She was approximately early thirties, thin, and neatly dressed in a jean skirt and a red-and-blue striped long-sleeved shirt with a V-neck. She wore small pearl earrings and a gold cross on a chain. Her black hair was pulled back neatly into a bun, and her eyes were big and prominent on her thin face. She appeared nervous, her hands fidgeting with the brown leather pocketbook that she wore over her shoulder.

  After apologizing profusely for interrupting her, Hector asked if it was a good time for Antonia to talk to his wife, Soyla. Antonia did her best to be effusively positive but despite that, Hector and Soyla still exchanged worried glances when he left the office to allow Antonia to talk to her in private.

  “Your husband does a wonderful job with the gardens here,” said Antonia. She smiled brightly.

  Soyla nodded. “Thank you.”

  Her voice was but a whisper. She sat upright on the edge of the chair that Antonia had offered her with her hands still clasped around her pocketbook as if someone might burst in and try and rip it from her arms.

  “I understand you worked at the inn.”

  Soyla nodded.

  “Did you know Biddy Robertson?”

  Soyla looked confused. “No.”