Death on Windmill Way

by Carrie Doyle

“How long did you work at the inn?”

  “We worked here five years.”

  “Oh,” said Antonia, who made a mental note to scratch Soyla and Hector off the list of crossovers who worked for both Biddy and Gordon. She returned her attention to Soyla.

  “From what I have heard from various sources, you were a good worker. Now I know that Gordon Haslett was a tough boss. And I know there were some accusations. But I would like to hear from you what happened exactly.”

  Soyla began her story. Her English was much better than Hector’s but she spoke so softly that Antonia had to crane her neck to hear her. She told how she worked at the inn for three years without problem, but then one day a guest had lost some earrings and accused Soyla of stealing them. Gordon ended up firing her. It was all information that Antonia had heard, but she wanted to watch Soyla carefully as she told it.

  “I would never take anything, Mrs. Antonia. I promise you. I am not like that. I saw many things in the rooms that I could have taken. But I would never. It is not me. It is not my religion. I just can’t believe Mr. Gordon thought that I took it!”

  Antonia could see tears welling in the corners of Soyla’s eyes. She handed her a tissue. Soyla wiped her eyes fiercely, as if angry that they had betrayed her, and shook her head. “Most of all I feel shame.”

  “I’m sorry about that. And I just want you to know, I do believe you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But do you have an idea of who you think did steal the earrings?”

  Soyla hesitated. She glanced at the door and then quickly back to Antonia. “I don’t know…”

  Antonia sat up straight. “Please, Soyla. It’s important to me. I need to know.”

  Soyla looked down at her pocketbook as if it held the answer. Antonia waited. Let her do the talking. Don’t speak. Antonia used all of her self-control to pipe down. She knew the only way to prompt Soyla to talk was to be patient. Not one of Antonia’s strong suits, but she had to try. Finally, Soyla broke the silence.

  “Some people thought it was Barbie…but…”

  “But?”

  “One day we were looking for a pair of cuff links. A guest said they were missing. They were blue with pink whales on them. I was looking. The ladies I work with were looking. Ronald, Mr. Gordon, everyone. And I found them…”

  “Where?” asked Antonia, breathless.

  Soyla spoke very softly. “They were in Ronald’s office. In his drawer. I didn’t go there to check, but Mr. Gordon needed the stamp for the inn and he asked me to go get it in Ronald’s office. I opened his desk drawer and the cuff links were there.”

  Antonia sighed deeply. She had sort of hoped to rule Ronald out as a thief and now his name was back in the ring. Ugh, would she ever find out the truth?

  “Did you ask him about them?”

  Soyla shook her head. “I went to Mr. Gordon and I asked him to come with me. I said I wasn’t sure which stamp he wanted. He was not happy but he came. When I opened the drawer, he saw the cuff links.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He just looked at me, and said thank you. We both understood.”

  “And what happened after that?”

  “I went home, so I don’t know.”

  “Was that when Ronald was fired?”

  “No, because I was fired first. Maybe he gave Ronald one more chance, I don’t know.”

  Antonia twisted a piece of hair between her fingers. Something wasn’t adding up. “It’s possible that someone else put the cuff links in Ronald’s drawer.”

  Soyla nodded. “Yes.”

  “Did you ever suspect Ronald of stealing from guests?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Soyla, shaking her head. “He was always so busy. And also, it was mostly ladies’ stuff that was stolen, except for the cuff links. Why would he want that?”

  “True.”

  They sat in silence as Antonia considered everything. Did Barbie frame Ronald? This question seemed to keep popping up. The answer was, she didn’t know. If only she had a time machine and could zap herself back to see what really happened.

  Eventually, Antonia changed the conversation and returned to the topic of Soyla’s employment.

  “As you know, we currently have a cleaning staff.”

  “Yes, my cousins Rosita and Angela.”

  “I didn’t realize that! Yes, they do a great job.”

  “Yes, they are very good.”

  “The thing is, the inn is struggling right now, to be honest. And I just had a discussion with Lucy, who is now our manager, about ways to cut cost. The sad fact is, I’m not really in the position to hire anyone right now.”

  “I understand.”

  Antonia felt horrible. She hated to disappoint everyone. And it made her sad to think that Soyla had gotten all dressed up only to experience rejection. It was awful. “Where are you working now?”

  “I’m working at the South Fork Farm. Only part time.”

  “What do you do there?”

  “I do everything. I help with the food stand, I help clean, I help with the beehives…”

  “Excuse me?” asked Antonia.

  Soyla gave her an alarmed look, clearly terrified by Antonia’s new intensity. “I work with the bees…”

  “They have a bee farm?”

  “Yes,” said Soyla, not understanding Antonia’s wild interest. “They make honey.”

  Antonia’s mind was racing. Here was another link to bees. Soyla worked at a bee farm, Hector was her husband, his boss was stung by a bee… Was there a connection? Did she have to consider Hector a suspect again? “Soyla do you know who Biddy Robertson is, or was?”

  Soyla shook her head. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  She nodded. “Sorry, is it important?”

  Antonia shrugged. “No, not important. Don’t worry.”

  “Okay.”

  Antonia took a deep breath. It was time to conclude the meeting. Soyla got the hint and stood up. “Thank you for taking the time to meet me.”

  “Thank you,” said Antonia. “And if something changes, I will definitely call you.”

  “Yes.”

  As she was leaving, Antonia watched Soyla eye the issue of Cook’s Illustrated on her desk. Something about it gave her pause.

  “Do you cook?”

  Soyla smiled, and for the first time she appeared relaxed. “Yes, I like to cook.”

  “Are you good?”

  “I’ve never had training, but my family says I’m good. I cook for everyone. I love to cook.”

  “What do you cook?”

  Soyla smiled shyly. “I make my native dishes, but I also make pies and cakes.”

  Antonia sat back down as Soyla continued. Finally, Soyla resumed sitting, and for the next twenty minutes they compared recipes and cooking notes. She told Antonia her trick of roasting mushrooms before frying them to dry them out so they were not so watery. Antonia asked her what she made out of tomatillos, as Antonia had never had much luck with them. As they continued talking, their mutual excitement grew. Until finally Antonia wrapped up the conversation with the following question:

  “Soyla, how’d you like to help me out in the kitchen?”

  Soyla beamed. And all Antonia could think was how Lucy was going to kill her.

  18

  After Soyla left, panic set in. Antonia wanted to kick herself. She had acted totally impulsively. One minute, she’s regarding Soyla as a potential suspect or at the very least the wife of a potential suspect. Someone who has motive for murder and whom she learns over the course of the interview has access to beehives. Antonia is building the case in her mind, picturing Soyla handing off a purloined bee to Hector who in turn lures Gordon into the backyard and smashes it into his face (okay, the picture was a little fuzzy) and the next m
inute Antonia hires Soyla for a job the woman has zero experience doing, not to mention that Antonia is supposed to be cost cutting, not adding to the overhead she has to carry. Was she insane? Why not double the order for expensive linen napkins while she’s at it? Why not narrow the margins on alcohol?

  And yet, Antonia trusted her instincts about people. She had a good vibe about Soyla. She didn’t truly think she was homicidal, or that her husband was. The motive was way too flimsy. People didn’t kill just because they were fired, did they? And Hector probably appreciated his job; there would be no reason for him to put it in jeopardy, because if he killed Gordon, there was no job security. And the fact was, Antonia did need more hands in the kitchen. This would be a trial run; she had only hired Soyla for a probation period, so there was always an out. Antonia did not want to work herself up into a lather. She decided to focus on the positive.

  Liz was slicing lemons in the rear of the kitchen when Antonia entered. Lemons were an expensive luxury. People didn’t know how much lemons cost, and would toss aside the slices that adorned their diet cokes or their hot tea. That always killed Antonia, even more so now that she was counting every penny. Sometimes she just wanted to yell and say, “People, lemons are not free!” But that would be inane.

  “How’s everything today?” asked Antonia.

  Liz gave her a brief rundown on what was happening. Marty was outside accepting deliveries, his little scale in hand, and no doubt haggling over every gram of fish and meat. The executive chef was usually the one who negotiated with vendors, but Antonia needed someone tough and no-nonsense to make sure that no one was ripping them off, and Marty was better at that than her. The margins are tight at any restaurant. Every ounce of meat counts, because that’s where the money comes from. She had been told that it was important early on to be tough with the vendors so they wouldn’t cheat her. And because she didn’t exactly have a tough personality, she had nominated Marty for the job. He adored arguing, complaining, and grumbling, so he was very well fit for the task.

  “You should have heard Marty yelling at the fishmonger,” laughed Liz.

  “Uh-oh, what’d he do now?”

  “He was blasting him about the striped bass. Said he’d get better quality at Petco.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Yes, and he refused the bluefish. Said it was garbage.”

  “What is he talking about? I can make a nice smoked dip out of the bluefish and serve it with a little crudité, yum.”

  “You better tell Marty before he scares them back to Montauk.”

  “Geez, what have I done?”

  “Actually, I wouldn’t worry, Antonia. I think that they respect him for it,” said Liz.

  “See, that’s why he is perfect for that job. I can be tough for a minute but then I buckle.”

  “Yeah, but they probably wouldn’t try to cheat you. You’re too nice.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  Antonia went and peeked out the window at Marty. He was talking to the fishmonger, but another man was standing next to him, a grin on his face.

  “Who’s that other guy?”

  Liz peered over Antonia’s shoulder. “That’s the guy from the local microbrewery. The one that wants us to sell his Summer Honey Ale.”

  The guy was in his mid-thirties with scruffy facial hair and greasy dark hair. He had on an army jacket and blue jeans. He was not bad looking but it occurred to Antonia that he might need to be boiled in a hot bath to disinfect. She wondered if Genevieve had caught a glimpse of this guy yet.

  “Is Marty giving him a hard time?”

  “Not yet.”

  “He is persistent. Maybe we should give him a shot.”

  “You’re a good person.”

  “I try to give everyone a chance.”

  Liz smiled. “I meant to mention it to you, Antonia, but friends of my parents are searching for someone to look after their house. It’s not a full-time job, but they live in the city and just want someone to open it up when there are deliveries, and basically make sure no one is robbing it. I thought you might know someone who was looking for that sort of work,” said Liz.

  “Hmm, let me think about that. Where is their house?”

  “Lily Pond Lane,” said Liz, sheepishly.

  Lily Pond Lane was the fanciest street in East Hampton, home to billionaires, rock and movie stars, and an entertainment lifestyle maven who did time in prison. The road, shaded by a promenade of Pollard Plane trees, ran between Georgica and Main Beaches, and half of the houses teetered on the dunes of the ocean. Sweeping lawns, manicured landscapes, and refined mansions were the norm. To Antonia, it was elegance at its greatest.

  “Oh, I love Lily Pond Lane,” said Antonia. “So gorgeous. Wow, it must be a beautiful house.”

  “It is,” said Liz. “And they’re really a nice family. The kids are teenagers, one in his twenties, and the parents—their names are Joan and Robert Masterson—aren’t out here as much as they want so they need someone to make sure everything is okay. They used to have a caretaker, but he retired to Florida.”

  Antonia felt the bristle of an idea. “It’s not a full-time thing, is it? I mean, could someone like me do it?”

  Liz brightened. “I think so. They just want someone to make sure it’s still standing. I don’t see why not.”

  “Hmm…maybe I could talk to them?”

  “Of course. I’ll set it up.”

  “Great.”

  If Antonia was able to supplement her income by looking after houses, she could reduce her current salary from the inn and use the money to pay for Soyla. Then Lucy couldn’t complain and everyone would be happy! The more she thought about it, the more excited Antonia became. The fact was, she walked Georgica Beach every morning anyway, so how hard could it be to pop in and check on a house after her walk? And it would be good motivation for her, in the dead of winter when she really had no desire to hit the beach, to force her to make the effort. Yes, this could be a jolly situation all around!

  On her break, Antonia practically skipped to the front of the inn to find Lucy. She was perhaps a bit premature in assuming that the friends of Liz’s parents would hire her to watch their house and pay her enough money to make even a dent, but she preferred to think positively. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but her mother had always told her to look at the bright side.

  While Antonia’s office was located behind the reception area, keeping her in the loop on arriving and departing guests, Lucy’s was situated across the hall on the other side of the grand staircase. It had been her office since she was the bookkeeper, and although there was another office next to Antonia’s that was designated for the manager, Lucy had preferred to remain where she was and Antonia acceded. She’d use the other office for printers and some storage, until she needed it. Lucy’s door was usually kept tightly closed, as it was now, so Antonia was never quite sure if Lucy was in or not. Antonia knocked and was greeted by Lucy’s invitation to enter.

  If one of those shelter magazines decided to do a “before” and “after” shoot of what an office in an inn should look like, Antonia’s would certainly be chosen for the before picture and Lucy’s for the after. Where Antonia’s was bursting with papers, mail, books, magazines, files, and jumbled coffee mugs, all smashed together in a cozy mess on top of her antique desk, Lucy’s was absolutely pristine. First off, the entire room was white—including all furniture, shelves, and desk accessories. It reminded Antonia of a science lab in a highly classified biotech company. Not that she had ever been to one, but she had certainly seen them depicted on CBS crime shows. Secondly, there was not an errant paper to be found. One wall had drawers of filing cabinets (all white) that had swallowed every scrap of paper that Lucy had chosen to retain after processing her inbox. And speaking of the inbox, Antonia wasn’t sure it could ever be referred to as that because she had never ever seen anyth
ing “in” it, as if Lucy had a pathological need to immediately remove the “in” to “out.” Another thing that amazed Antonia was the fact that Lucy’s desk had no drawers. True, Lucy had a wall of filing cabinets, but even if Antonia had three walls of filing cabinets, she would need desk drawers. Where else would she stuff rubber bands, hole punchers, paper clips, old birthday cards from her mother and father, mailing labels, Chapstick, dental floss, stamps, earrings that she took off when she was on the phone and forgot about, instructions on how to use her camera, fabric samples, extension cords, knobs that had fallen off her antique desk, old key chains with old keys, deposit slips, blank Christmas cards, Pottery Barn catalogs and Paul Simon and Carly Simon CDs that she wanted to download on to her iPod? A desk without drawers was…a table. (Unless, Antonia supposed, you were an architect. But even their workspace was called a drafting table not a drafting desk.)

  However it obviously worked well for Lucy, who was Antonia’s most efficient employee. Antonia was thankful for her because she allowed Antonia to run around and do the fun stuff. That’s what teamwork was.

  Antonia found Lucy seated in her modern swivel chair, staring at her desktop, where an Excel spreadsheet was pulled up on screen. She gave Antonia a terse smile but behind her kooky glasses Antonia could see a flicker of irritation in her eyes, as if she disapproved of being interrupted.

  “Lucy, I just wanted to let you know that I am working on a plan that may allow me to reduce my salary.”

  When Lucy didn’t respond, Antonia continued. “Well, it’s not definite yet, but I may get another job, just a small job, and anyway, that could supplement my income and I could put more money back into the inn.”

  Lucy pressed her hands down on her pleated wool skirt. “How much would you reduce?”

  “Well, I’m not sure yet…”

  Antonia realized she had jumped the gun a bit, by already disclosing this news to Lucy. She hadn’t even met Liz’s friends yet. What was she thinking? What if it was only an hourly rate, like twenty dollars an hour? That really wouldn’t help her very much. So she checked on the house twice a week, two hours, that’s…forty dollars? And why did she suddenly feel like she was a lowly kindergartener being called into the principal’s office. Wasn’t she the boss? All of her inflated ideas about teamwork drifted away.