by Carrie Doyle
“How drunk do you mean?” asked Antonia, who was placing a sprig of parsley on the striped bass lightly sauced with lemon caper butter.
“Three sheets to the wind,” said Glen with obvious disapproval. “And loud as all get out. So is her friend, who laughs like a hyena. They came in and didn’t even wait for me to seat them, but proceeded to the bar as if they owned the place and then sat at the stools. I had been saving the stools for the Felds, who had called earlier and very graciously asked me to reserve them. They were going to a play at Guild Hall first, and would be late. So when I asked Barbie to move, she refused, which her girlfriend found hilarious. Now what shall I do with the Felds? They’re good people. I don’t want to piss them off.”
The Felds were lovely people, Antonia agreed. She had met them the previous summer at a wine tasting at Morrell’s and they had hit it off. They promised to be her first customers when she opened the restaurant and they lived up to their word. They’d been very supportive to her ever since, sending business her way. She knew that was why Glen liked them, but in addition, she knew they tipped him heavily.
“Let me see what I can do about it,” said Antonia. She wiped her hands on a dishrag and took off her apron.
“Look, I can get rid of them myself. I just don’t want to cause a scene. I already have a taxi waiting outside.”
“No, it’s okay. I can do it.”
The restaurant was full. Every table was busy, with a small group waiting to be seated. Through the throng at the bar, Antonia spotted Barbie and her friend swilling glasses of chardonnay, and next to them sat an open bottle on ice. Barbie was clad in a form-fitting Lycra dress, pale blue with silver zigzags running horizontally in an even pattern, except by her cleavage where they went a little haywire and mushed together. Antonia’s mother would have described Barbie’s friend as “rough.” She was a bottle blond with thin hair and dark roots. Her face was hollow with eyebrows plucked into obscurity and sallow skin despite her best efforts with a bronzer, blush, and eye shadow. She had squeezed herself into a sequined top and skintight jeans that only illuminated the fact that she should not be wearing formfitting clothes. Antonia knew the type; everything about her screamed drinker and trouble.
They were talking loudly when Antonia approached, and seemed either oblivious or indifferent (most likely the latter) to the fact that they were the noisiest guests in the dining room. Antonia saw Barbie acknowledge her presence out of the corner of her eye, but she continued to drain her wineglass.
“Hello, Barbie,” said Antonia.
Barbie turned and gave her a drunken smile. “Antonia! My successor. Come, I want you to meet my friend Lena. We’re having a little ‘girls’ night out.’” She made fake quotation marks with her fingers to emphasize her point before continuing. “Thought we’d hit the inn to check out the scene but hey, it’s not a really rocking place anymore. I feel like I’m in God’s waiting room. I mean, the average age is like, dead, you know?”
“This place used to be a blast!” Lena said accusingly. She then hiccupped loudly. This caused a series of hysterical giggles on both her and Barbie’s part.
“Come join us!” said Barbie, motioning to the stool next to her, which was currently occupied by an elder gentleman in his fifties, sipping a glass of scotch. “You don’t mind moving, do ya?”
The man looked perplexed but before he could respond, Antonia jumped in. “That’s okay, no need. I’ll stand over here.”
“Suit yourself!” said Barbie. She then glared at the man and leaned in to Lena and said in a loud theatrical whisper, “That man is so rude! He should give up his seat to a lady.”
The man made a motion to rise, but Antonia stopped him, apologized profusely, and asked the bartender to buy him a drink. She then went to the other side of Barbie and Lena and leaned in. “Ladies, I have to ask you to keep it down. I’m very glad you came here tonight to have a drink, but as you can see it’s a quiet crowd, so I would appreciate it if you could respect that and just keep it down a bit.”
“What?” asked Barbie.
Now that she was closer, Antonia could see that Barbie’s eyes were filmy with that glazed look of someone who has had too much to drink.
“I’m just asking if you could keep it down a little.”
Barbie threw her arm around Antonia. “Aw, come on now. Loosen up a bit, will you? This place is so stuffy now! No fun at all. When I was Lady of the Manor, this place was booming! We’d rock out all night!”
“Wasted Wednesdays were the best,” concurred Lena.
Antonia extracted herself from Barbie’s arm. “I’m sure it was, but we have a different approach now. We’re focusing more on fine dining.”
“Boo!” said Barbie. She banged her wineglass down on the bar with a thud. Antonia saw Barbie had left about half of her lipstick on the rim.
“Where are all the hotties? I mean, what’s up with the cheesy maître d’? How are you going to get ladies to come hang out at the bar with a guy like that?”
Antonia turned around and saw that Glen had hovered close enough to hear, a fact that was confirmed by the color his face turned. He glared at Barbie and stomped away.
“Barbie, please use discretion. That was really rude.”
“But true,” interjected Lena.
Antonia sighed. This would not be easy. “Look, ladies, I appreciate your business, but I have to say that I’m not hoping the restaurant will eventually turn into a pick-up scene. That’s not my goal.”
“Clearly!” said Barbie. “All the hard work I put into making this place a smash success has now gone out the window. I’ve had so many of our old customers say that the place has changed, and not for the better, mind you.”
This enraged Antonia. “Barbie, I think you’re being awfully rude.”
Barbie swiveled around in her chair and gave Antonia a fake smile.
“Rude is nothing compared to the way I’ve been treated. I devoted my life to this stupid inn—toiled away for the past five years, and then I get nothing, nothing in return! I have to move out. I don’t get any money for all my hard work. Did you know that? Today, it was official. I get nada. That bitch Naomi gets it all.”
“She’s so ugly too,” added Lena.
“Ugh, why did that fat bastard Gordon have to die? My life sucks now!”
“You seemed pretty happy with your boyfriend the other day,” muttered Antonia.
“Excuse me?” said Barbie in a loud voice. Other patrons at the bar glanced up.
Antonia gave her a defiant look. “I saw you with your boyfriend at the I.G.A. The one I heard you were seeing before Gordon died. So you can shed those crocodile tears all you want, but I’m not buying it.”
“How dare you?” said Barbie, she started to lunge for Antonia but instead lost her balance and fell off her barstool. She fell hard on her butt, her legs splayed open. Antonia took a step back while Lena reached down and tried to give Barbie a hand. She was also too drunk to help. Antonia motioned for the busboys to come and assist her. They hoisted Barbie up. Barbie dusted off herself and glanced around the room at the stupefied guests.
“I’m fine, I’m fine. These chairs are too damn rickety! You better watch out, Antonia, or you will have a lawsuit on your hands.”
“Follow me, please,” said Antonia.
“I’m not done with my bottle.”
“Yes, you are.”
Barbie appeared about to refuse, but then ran her eyes from Antonia to the two busboys next to her, who were ready to spring into action to defend their boss, if need be.
“Forget it, we’re leaving,” Barbie said to Lena. She grabbed her purse from the bar, pulled out a fifty and threw it next to her glass.
“I’m ready,” said Lena. “Let’s go somewhere fun.”
“I’ll escort you out,” said Antonia. “We ordered you a taxi.”
�
��No need,” said Barbie.
“Yes, need,” replied Antonia.
Most of the guests averted their eyes as the group filed out of the dining room in single file, although some customers made a point to give Barbie and Lena disapproving looks. The two ladies wobbled their way out, with a drunken gait, with Antonia and the busboys holding up the rear. Antonia followed them as far as the front door, which she opened firmly. Barbie took a step to leave before abruptly turning around and pointing at Antonia.
“You are not one to judge me, do you understand?”
“I’m not judging you,” protested Antonia calmly, “I am merely asking you to not make a scene at my inn.”
The look Barbie gave Antonia was nasty. “Oh, really? Then what was that ‘boyfriend’ comment all about? You don’t know anything about my relationship with Gordon! How dare you say that I wasn’t sorry he died? You don’t know anything. Gordon was no angel either, but that was between us. So go mind your own business and keep your righteous nose out of mine!”
Antonia was shaken when she returned to the kitchen. She had decided to bypass the dining room to avoid extending the drama with questions and glances. She abhorred it when she felt like she had lost her temper, and she definitely had when she mentioned Barbie’s boyfriend. There had been no need to sink to Barbie’s level and engage with the drunken woman. She should have stuck on topic and just gotten her out of there. But it did piss her off hearing all of Barbie’s little jabs about the inn. The place was low-rent and shabby when Antonia bought it. She had made it a spectacular inn and restaurant. Barbie should shut her trap, as far as she was concerned. Antonia could hear her mother’s voice in her head: “Why do you let her bother you?” And it was true; she shouldn’t care. From this day forward, she would attempt to have thicker skin.
A situation like this called for knife work. Antonia grabbed her sharpest knife and a bunch of scallions and started chopping them as furiously as she could. It was almost the end of dinner service and lord knew they didn’t need chopped scallions, but Antonia needed to cut something and better to attack the onions than a person. She could always bag them and save them for scallion pancakes in the morning. Or perhaps make a nice beef stew. She’d recently come across a recipe that she wanted to try that included dark beer, Dijon mustard, chunks of potatoes, carrots, and parsnips. It sounded delicious. She let her mind wander over flavor combinations.
The staff knew enough to leave Antonia alone until she calmed down. They were also busy with their dessert orders, and Marty finally had a chance to take a break. Antonia chopped and thought through what Barbie had said. So according to her, Gordon had at least one—or maybe many—lovers. That was interesting. And yet it made sense. Antonia had heard rumors, confirmed by Barbie tonight, that the restaurant at the inn used to be a big party scene. There had even been murmurs that there was a small population of “swingers” in East Hampton, so maybe Gordon and Barbie ran with that crowd?
“Antonia, here are the numbers for tonight,” said Glen, interrupting her reverie.
Antonia put down her knife, removed her onion-cutting gloves (no tears for her), and took his paper. She glanced up, a smile on her face. “Wow, this is incredible.”
“Yes, I know. We did well tonight,” beamed Glen. “If not for the little tiff with that hussy, it would have been a perfect evening.”
“I’ll say,” said Antonia. “And did it work out with the Felds?”
“Yeah, I gave them Joseph Fowler’s table. He didn’t show up tonight.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Didn’t call either.”
“Hmm, that’s odd.”
“A lot of people went to Guild Hall tonight. Maybe he did too.”
“Could be.”
“But come on, Antonia, turn that frown upside down! Let’s not focus on the negative, this was a fantastic night,” said Glen.
“You’re right,” agreed Antonia. “Maybe time to open some champagne? I think we all deserve a glass.”
20
After shutting down the restaurant and returning home, Antonia could tell at once that someone had been in her apartment. Nothing was out of place, nothing was stolen, and there was no rabbit boiling on the stove, but the air was thick with someone else’s scent. It wasn’t distinct enough that she could place it, but she could identify that the odor wasn’t organic to her living quarters. And besides, the energy of her abode had shifted. Antonia would admit that that sounded weird and New Agey, but it was true. She believed you could definitely sense when other people had been in your space and this was one of those moments.
She’d returned to her apartment at about eleven thirty and, as was her norm, flung off her shoes into the coat closet (to be straightened up later) and walked over to the fridge to pull out a bottle of wine before retrieving a glass from the cabinet. (On weekdays she usually put on the kettle for a cup of herbal tea, but as it had been a tough week, she deserved a glass or two of cabernet sauvignon—always from California.) Antonia indulged herself with a steep pour, took a large gulp, and leaned back against the counter to savor the fruity flavor. It was a robust red that contained hints of blackberries, licorice, and cherries, and it was tasty. After a second swig she paused and that was when it hit her. Her home had been violated.
Antonia stood still, the only movement was her eyes gliding along all of her possessions, taking inventory. Her television, laptop, and iPod were all accounted for in their place, and that pretty much was the extent of valuables that she possessed, although once she caught her breath she’d check in the jewelry box on her dresser. She didn’t own any expensive jewelry, but she had her mother’s diamond engagement ring and a few gold bands that had also belonged to her mother; both were of extreme sentimental importance to Antonia and she’d be distraught to lose them. Fortunately, her jewelry box was something of a tangled mess with all her beaded necklaces and costume jewelry all mashed together, so it was possible that a thief could miss the important stuff, or else be totally repulsed and give up.
She continued her scrutiny of the apartment. The throw pillows on the sofa remained askew in the position she had left them in the previous evening—even the shape of her body was still firmly squashed into her favorite cushion (she was too nervous right now to be dismayed by how large the imprint was.) Stacks of magazines, the cluster of mail on the kitchenette counter, the dirty, tea-stained mug in the sink were all where she left them. There was nothing she could pinpoint at this moment, but she was absolutely certain that someone had been in her apartment.
Suddenly a thought occurred to her. What if the person was still there? She could feel her heart beating through her shirt. What if this was it, she was about to be killed, and the murderer was ready to add another innkeeper to his or her scorecard? Should she call 911? She slid her body across the counter—never removing herself from its protective embrace as if that would somehow help her (absurd thoughts for a moment of terror)—and took hold of the phone receiver. She was about to dial, but then she stopped herself. What if it was nothing? What was she going to say to 911? Hello, I think someone might be in my apartment even though nothing is missing. It just smells different. It would be wonderful for business to have three squad cars come screeching into the inn’s driveway and wake all of the guests because Antonia had a feeling. No, she had to investigate it herself.
She slid a knife out of the block of wood that held a variety of implements of all shapes and sizes and congratulated herself for maintaining their sharpness on a regular basis. A set of good knives is always a great investment for all sorts of purposes, especially if they are in perfect working condition. The one she withdrew could fillet a cow in two minutes, so she was certain if she got the right angle on the intruder she could do major damage.
Summoning her courage, she took a deep breath and a step. She stopped. Perhaps she should give a warning first? Maybe a little shout out, like, “Hey, who’s
in here?” But that might give an intruder an unfair advantage. And what did she expect, that some voice would call out and say, “Hey, it’s just me?” No, surprise was the only thing Antonia had working in her favor right now. She glanced around the room. Fortunately, she had been naive when she arrived home and had whipped open the coat closet, so now she knew for certain that no one was lurking there. She hadn’t seen anyone at least, and it was a fairly narrow space, so unless Flat Stanley was alive and well, she could check that off her list. Antonia’s eyes moved down to the bottom of the sofa and armchairs. Even though they were skirted she knew the space between the floor and upholstered furniture was only about three inches and could only harbor a homicidal mouse. It would be embarrassing as all get out if that was the creature who ended up doing her in. That left the bedroom and bathroom.
Antonia clutched the knife close to her side and began gliding across her carpet stealthily. She felt as if she were crossing a river in a jungle, unsure of what would meet her on the other end. Truthfully, right now she would prefer lions and tigers and bears to a killer. She took such baby steps that it was at least a minute for her to cross the entire living room to the threshold of her bedroom. The door was open, as she had left it, and she had a clear view of the mirror that hung over her dresser. In the reflection she saw her bed, the pillows scattered across the headboard, and the cashmere throw neatly folded at the foot. Fortunately, there was no killer lurking in it. Antonia slowly pushed the door so that it hit the wall, just to ensure no one was standing in the miniscule space behind it. She stopped and listened, expecting someone to protest that they were being smashed, but heard nothing.
At this point she decided to raise her arm to a forty-five-degree angle, so that the knife was held aloft and all she had to do was start hacking if someone were to jump out at her. She’d seen all those horror movies where young, innocent women stabbed criminals like that. Although it dawned on her that pretty much every one of those women was overpowered and ended up dead anyway. She could still try to beat the odds.