by Carrie Doyle
“Okay, just let me know when you will be sure,” said Lucy. “Otherwise, I am currently examining more cost-cutting ways. Perhaps we switch to paper napkins in the restaurant.”
“Paper napkins?” Antonia wanted to faint. “No, no, no. We can’t do that.”
“We have to examine all of our options. The money is flying out the door, Antonia. And not coming in.”
Antonia felt nauseous. She decided she had to change the subject. “Lucy, on another note, can you tell me who worked here when Biddy Robertson owned the inn?”
Lucy squinted, again with disapproval. Antonia had a feeling Lucy enjoyed needling her about cutbacks. Bookkeepers could be so humorless. “You want a list of every employee?”
“No, only those employees who worked here for both Biddy and Gordon.”
Lucy jumped up with such vigor that Antonia was startled. She hadn’t expected that response. Lucy went over to the file cabinets and bent down to the ground so that her entire skirt pooled around her on the floor as if she were a dancer in a Broadway musical. She pulled open a drawer and flicked through various files with mechanical precision. Finally, she pulled out a folder that had one of the longest labels Antonia had ever seen—all broken into subdivisions based on year, month, employee list, etc.—and handed it to Antonia.
“This should help you. It’s the list of employees that remained with the inn the first year after Gordon purchased it from Biddy.”
Antonia took it and opened it. “Wow, thanks. So thorough.”
Lucy gave her a look as if to say, what did you expect? “I believe the only person who is still here is Samuel, the dishwasher.”
“Ronald Meter worked for both of them,” said Antonia, pointing to the list.
“Yes, he did.”
Antonia scanned the rest of the spreadsheet. That was the only name that stood out to her. Samuel, the dishwasher, was for all intents and purposes deaf and made little effort to interact with the rest of the staff, so she could hardly imagine him having any reason to murder anyone.
“Antonia, may I ask, what you are looking for exactly?”
“I have no idea. I just think there has to be a connection. Someone who worked for both Biddy and Gordon killed them.”
“Why?”
“I haven’t gotten there yet,” confessed Antonia.
Lucy gave her a puzzled look. “You are just conjecturing.”
“You could say that.”
Lucy glanced down but Antonia could still see the amusement in her eyes. She clearly thought Antonia was on an insane bender, wasting her time. Well, thought Antonia, you may be right; but without the creative thinkers in this world, all that would be left would be the number crunchers like you. Take that! Antonia wanted to snap, but restrained herself. She knew deep down she was being defensive.
“I do have some proof that something happened, but I can’t disclose it right now,” said Antonia.
Lucy nodded, but again Antonia could decipher skepticism. Antonia realized she was being childish. She didn’t have anything to prove to Lucy. Who even cared if Lucy thought she was on a wild goose chase? It was her wild goose chase.
“I hope you can figure it out,” said Lucy. She reached across her desk and made sure the two sheets of papers on her desk were perfectly aligned. Antonia glanced at one and saw that it was a mortgage form from Bridgehampton National Bank.
“That’s not for us, is it?” asked Antonia.
Lucy glanced down at the paper as if seeing it for the first time. “No, they just constantly solicit the inn. Gordon was their best customer. He had it leveraged to the max.”
“I guess I’m realizing just how much a money pit an inn is.”
Lucy gave her a thin smile.
“Okay, well, time to start dinner service.”
“All right now,” said Lucy, making no sign that she regretted Antonia taking her leave. She took out a sheet of white paper from under her desk and placed it on top of the letter from the bank. Antonia wondered if her OCD made her hate to look at anything offensive.
* * *
Later that evening, another unsettling occurrence transpired. Glen—who was already in one of his moods—came into the kitchen to complain that not only had they run out of bev napkins, but also his key to the storage closet wasn’t working. Although he was always prone to histrionics, tonight he was especially dramatic and worked up, due to the fact that he had two last-minute cancellations. Rather than deal with his prima donna behavior, Antonia took off her apron and left the kitchen to retrieve the napkins herself. Glen “protested” a bit, but she had little interest in engaging in a longer dialogue so she ignored him and brushed by him and out the door.
The storage closet was located off the hallway under the staircase. It was actually quite a large walk-in closet that had been used as a waiting area for footmen back in the day. Antonia went into her office first to retrieve her keychain and then backtracked to return to the closet. Her key turned the lock with no problem. She left her key in the lock so that she could secure it easily when she was done and pulled the light cord to illuminate the room. Although early efforts had been made to keep the storage area organized and neat, in the haste to open the inn, items had been thrown inside with little regard to system. Stacks of paper towels, extra blankets, light bulbs, miscellaneous tools, towels, toilet paper, cleaning supplies, copy paper, printing cartridges, and DVDs were stacked up in a jumble. Antonia waded her way forward to the racks by the back, certain that was where she had last seen the napkins.
With a look of dismay at all the clutter, Antonia promised herself that she would make it a priority to neaten up the place. Perhaps she should put Lucy on it. Judging by her office, she knew how to deal with clutter. Antonia saw the napkins on the bottom shelf of a rack in the corner. They were obstructed by three twenty-packs of Bounty paper towels. Antonia heaved the paper towels to the side and then moved deeper into the closet to retrieve the bev napkins. She bent over and grabbed three large packets. Just as she did so, the overhead light went out. Quickly, Antonia popped up and hit her head on the corner of the shelf.
“Ouch,” she said, rubbing her head.
The room was now completely black. Great. Antonia moved back toward the door, knocking down random boxes as she did so. She fumbled in the blackness. Her eyes finally adjusted and she could see strips of light from the side of the door. She instantly thought of Sharon Getz and became more sympathetic to her plight. It was unnerving not being able to see, to say the least.
When Antonia finally reached the door, she groped around for the handle, sliding her hands up and down. At last her fingers grasped it. She turned the knob and pressed. The door wouldn’t open. Antonia twisted again. But the door would not budge.
Antonia felt a wave of panic. She was not good with small spaces. Nor was she good with small spaces that were pitch black. She instantly felt claustrophobic. Antonia tried the knob again and again, pressing against the door and pulling it toward her, but it would not budge. It was as if it was locked.
Antonia reached up and tried to find the cord for the light, but she couldn’t see it in the darkness. She turned back toward the door and began banging on it, smacking it with one hand while trying it with the other.
“Hello? Hello? Anyone out there?”
Antonia was met with no response. She increased her yells, her voice becoming more shrill and desperate.
“Hello? Anyone!”
She banged and banged the door and began kicking it. Then she took a step back and lunged at it, hoping it would unstick. Nothing happened.
Antonia paused. She was sweating. She felt panicky. She had to calm down, as she was starting to hyperventilate. She thought she heard footsteps.
“Hello? Help! I’m locked in the closet!”
But there was no response. Antonia told herself to calm down. She would try again.
Someone had to come along. Antonia banged on the door again. Then she took one more step back and did a small run toward the door. Just as she did so, the door opened, and Connie was standing on the threshold. Antonia almost knocked straight into her.
“Antonia! Are you okay?”
Antonia was jubilant to have been released. “The door locked! I thought I was stuck.”
“Oh, that’s awful,” said Connie. “I just turned the key. It must have stuck.”
Antonia looked at the knob. Her key was still in there. “I don’t even remember closing the door.”
“Maybe the wind blew it shut?”
“Maybe.”
But Antonia was skeptical. How would the wind blow it shut? She turned around and pulled on the light cord. The light instantly went on. Why had it gone off before? Had someone pulled it off?
“Connie, did you see anyone around here?”
“Like who?”
“I don’t know…anyone who would lock me in?”
Connie’s face fell in astonishment. “No…”
“Sorry, probably nothing. I just got a little crazy in there.”
“Yeah, it’s scary to be locked in the dark.”
“You’re telling me.”
Antonia was disturbed for the rest of the night. Was there a ghost at the inn? A mean ghost who folded up her ladder when she changed light bulbs and locked her in the storage closet? Or was it someone else? Could it be someone who liked to kill innkeepers? Antonia shuddered each time she thought about it.
19
Thursday
Although the weather had cleared Wednesday afternoon and the sun had peeked out, the following morning the sky was a uniform bluish gray. There wasn’t any rain, but it appeared as if a shower was imminent. The air was heavy but still, biding time before it opened up to dump its contents out on the streets, like a balloon about to be pricked with a needle. The birds seemed to have gotten the memo, because there were thick packs of them flying west, squawking en route. Squirrels were dashing into thickets of trees, heading for cover.
Antonia’s slumber had been restless. She had nightmares about killers and ghosts and found herself waking up every other hour worried that she had heard something. She finally took her cell phone and pulled it under the covers with her so that she would have a shot at calling the police if someone appeared. As a result of her bad night’s sleep, she overslept the next morning and by the time she arrived at the beach, Nick was loading his dogs into his SUV, his walk finished. They had a brief chat over the weather before he politely begged off for a meeting. Antonia’s disappointment was so immense that she was tempted to turn around and get back into her car and forego the walk. Curling back up in her bed to catch up on her sleep was a nice temptation. But a glance down at her thighs propelled her onward. She was here; she might as well get some exercise. With her hands thrust into the pockets of her jacket and her jaw locked in defiance, she set out like a reluctant child being dragged by her mother to do something abhorrent. Antonia forced herself to march down to the jetty and then did an abrupt turnaround and marched back. That was sufficient for the day.
When Antonia walked from her car to the back entrance of the inn, she noted with dismay that there was a hole in the fence by the side yard. It couldn’t have been done during yesterday’s rainstorm and that meant only one thing: deer had breached the fence. She was irritated until she decided her revenge: she would put venison on the menu next week. Served with braised radicchio and red wine sauce, it would be delicious.
She walked out toward the backyard in search of Hector, in order to alert him about the fence in case he hadn’t seen it. She hadn’t yet had a chance to discuss Soyla’s new employment with him, either, although by now he probably knew.
She found Hector standing in the back toward the fence, staring at something he held in his hand. He had dropped his rake next to him, and there were garbage bags full of leaves stacked in a neat row.
“Hey, Hector. Well, the bad news is the deer got in again, as I am sure you know. But I think the good news is that Soyla’s going to be joining us here at the inn again!”
Hector glanced up, distracted, his face confused. Finally he smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Antonia. Soyla came out to tell me. She’s very excited.”
“I think it will work out.”
As Antonia approached, she peered into his hands. “What have you got there?”
Hector furrowed his brow and glanced down. “I don’t know. I was raking in the back and I found it buried under the pile of leaves.”
Antonia peered closely. It was a small enamel box, white with a swirling blue font that spelled out monogrammed initials: ERV. Antonia scrutinized it carefully.
“What’s this?”
Hector motioned behind him. “I found it over there. I’m not sure how it get there, the fence is so tall. I don’t think someone would throw it over.”
“Have you seen it before?”
He shook his head. “No. I raked here before the storm and I didn’t see it.”
“May I?”
Antonia took the box into her hands and studied it. The R was bigger than the E and the V, which meant that it was the last name.
“Hmm…I wonder…” But then Antonia stopped herself. She didn’t have to wonder. Things were beginning to click into place. “Was it lying on top of the ground or buried?”
“It had a lot of leaves on top of it, but not buried into the ground.”
“Like someone put it there who wanted it to be found. Maybe not right away, but soon.”
Hector looked confused. “But why? It’s a nice box.”
“It is a nice box.”
And Antonia was ninety-nine percent sure that it was a nice box that had belonged to Biddy Robertson.
“Who would put it there?” Hector asked.
Antonia looked at him. She did not want to tell Hector that she now knew for sure what Naomi Haslett had been doing, lurking around in her backyard the other day. Bird watching, my ass. Disposing of evidence was more like it, thought Antonia. Actually, planting evidence was more like it.
“I don’t know. But do you mind if I hang on to it?”
Antonia returned inside and went to the mudroom off the pantry where the staff changed into their chef’s clothes. She put the box down on the bench and stared at it briefly. What was the significance of it? She had to think. Of course, she would have to turn it over to the police. And she’d have to tell them about Naomi. But did she have to do that immediately? No. As of now, there was no proof that it was anything other than a discarded item. She had no legal obligation to report something found on her property. There was no proof it was anything. Right?
Antonia tucked her UGGs underneath the bench where other assorted pairs of dirty shoes stood. She retrieved her Crocs as well as a clean apron from her cubby and sat down to put on the shoes. She stood and looped the apron around her neck before firmly tying the belt around her waist. Finally, she slid the box into the pocket of her apron and debated her next move.
No, she would not tell the police, she decided firmly. They were, in fact, the last people Antonia wanted to deal with at all. Not the East Hampton police (yet) but police in general. When her ex-husband, the cop, was making her life hell, his colleagues did nothing to help her. It had been scary how they all joined together and made her seem like a crazy woman. It was only when that final drastic series of events happened that a woman on the force finally took Antonia seriously. But by then it was too late. So what would propel her to enlist their help now?
It was odd to Antonia that she had been put in this position. She had always thought of herself as a reasonable, law-abiding person, who was not a hysteric by any means. But the contempt of the Petaluma cops had left a bad taste in her mouth, and now she was wary of any interaction with the police. She often found herself driving the exact speed limi
t so she there would be no reason to be pulled over. She would avoid jaywalking or any other sort of minor infraction that could put her onto their radar. She followed the letter of the law. And yet now, she found herself hunting down a possible killer, working in parallel to the police. She sighed to herself and supposed it made sense. She didn’t trust them to do their work, so she’d have to do it for them.
* * *
That night, dinner service was smooth except for two eventful occurrences: Barbie showed up and made a scene, and Joseph didn’t show up at all. Although initially it appeared to Antonia that the Barbie situation was more distressing, it was only later that she revised her opinion. The night itself would have been a total disaster if the restaurant had not made more money than any other evening so far.
The kitchen was busy, frantic really, producing food as fast as possible. But unlike the previous night, where staff grumblings abounded, tonight they were excited. They were finally hitting their stride, the restaurant was gaining momentum and clientele, and they were really getting the hang of it. Even Marty kept his bitching to a minimum, perhaps distracted by how many entrees he had to put out, but his commentary was definitely more of a background noise than a disruptive rant. Kendra was excited about the mushrooms they had procured, and had concocted a variety of salads to showcase them, dishes that were met with enthusiasm by the customers who couldn’t order them fast enough. And Liz was pleased with the added responsibility—tonight she was actually plating and cooking vegetables—more than a typical intern.
Glen was back and forth from the dining room, providing a running dialogue about who was there and sitting where, and describing in detail the many challenges a maître d’ faces on busy nights. At nine thirty he swung through the kitchen door, flushed and agitated, and announced dramatically to Antonia that a very intoxicated Barbie had shown up with a girlfriend to sit at the bar.