Death on Windmill Way

by Carrie Doyle

  Antonia took a few more steps into her room. She quickly scanned her belongings. At first blush, it appeared that everything was as she left it. Yesterday’s clothes lay on the slipper chair in the corner; the shades were still drawn (why bother opening and closing when she was out of the house all day anyway?), and more crispy dead leaves had fallen off of the plant on the window ledge. If she had expected to see drawers left flung open and exploding lingerie from a burglar’s hunt through her belongings, she saw nothing of the type. In fact, there wasn’t anything immediately obvious that identified the fact that someone had been there. And yet, she knew she was right. Her eyes grazed every surface until they landed on the pile of magazines on the side table next to her bed. They had definitely been disturbed. Antonia always worked on New York magazine’s crossword puzzle before she drifted off to sleep, and she always put it back on the desk sideways before she clicked off the lamp. Now it was on an angle. It was so subtle that someone could argue with her that she was being insane, but she knew at once that it was not how she left it. You don’t all of a sudden change habits thirty-five years into your life.

  Antonia took a tentative step into the bedroom. She swallowed hard. She didn’t like to think of herself as a scaredy-cat, but she also didn’t like to think of herself as dead, the latest on the list of murdered innkeepers. She took one more step and then immediately dropped to the floor and yanked up the bed skirt. She held her knife up high, ready to stab, but fortunately, there was no one lurking underneath. Not wanting to waste time and stay in that compromising Twister position on the floor, she leaped up and ran over to her closet where she flung open the door. Summoning all her courage, she used her knifeless hand to push the clothes from one end of the closet to the other, the hangers scratching out in protest, until she ascertained with confidence that no one was in there. That left only the bathroom.

  Once again, Antonia took a deep breath and eyed the bathroom. The door was ajar. Could someone be standing in the tub, hovering behind the shower curtain waiting to reenact a scene from the movie Psycho? Possible. Better to find out now rather than later. Antonia walked briskly to the bathroom and flung open the door so that it banged into the toilet. She peered inside, first looking left and right. Nothing. But the pink, floral shower curtain was drawn shut and there was still a possibility of someone there. Antonia said a silent “Hail, Mary” before marching over the chunky pink shag bathroom rug to the tub and ripping open the curtain. She curled her mouth, ready to scream. Her heart was thumping so badly it may has well have jumped out of her body onto the cold porcelain. But she was lucky. No one was there. Her wide array of bath salts and bubbles stood untouched.

  Antonia didn’t realize she was holding her breath until she exhaled for a solid thirty seconds. Phew. She was lucky she hadn’t caught anyone. But now she had to find out who had been there and what they were after. Antonia opened every drawer and cabinet in the bathroom. Finding nothing awry, she retraced her steps into the bedroom. She spent some time going through the magazines next to her bed, searching for some clue. Had the intruder thought that Antonia put something in the magazines? Or had he or she been searching for something but decided to kick back and take a break reading a magazine on her bed before continuing on? Maybe the intruder had poisoned the magazine somehow? Perhaps by placing a giant tarantula in it? If this murderer worked with bees, there was no reason not to assume they worked with other killer insects. With her index finger and her thumb Antonia gently shook each magazine toward the floor. She was semi-expecting some lethal insect to fall out to the floor, but the only results were a floating ticker-tape parade of subscription renewal cards.

  Antonia leafed through her jewelry box and was relieved to find all of her heirlooms intact, safely tangled with several Mardi Gras beads. She opened drawers, went back into her closet, and even shook out the insides of her shoes, but found nothing. Then she hit the living room. Although she had adrenaline pumping in her veins, it was now almost midnight and Antonia was getting tired. The day had been long and filled with plenty of drama. Exhausted, she took only a cursory look at her bookshelves, barely flicking open copies of her cooking magazines. She ran her hands through the cushions on all the chairs but found nothing.

  Then she spotted it. The cardboard box that Barbie and Naomi had been fighting over! It was resting on the chair in the corner, pretending to look unassuming, but Antonia knew better. She walked over to it and peered inside. This was it! It had definitely been disturbed. Whereas Antonia had left all of the miscellaneous sheets of papers and notes scattered around in the mess she had found them, whoever had been in her house and organized them. It was subtle, very subtle. Everything wasn’t exactly lined up evenly, but things were stacked now one on top of the other, and nothing was upside down or haphazardly arranged. The intruder had been interested in this box, for sure.

  Antonia picked it up and walked over to the coffee table where she placed it next to the television remotes. She sat down on the sofa and peered in. The musty smell of old cardboard filled her nostrils. She began slowly sifting through the contents again. There was no doubt in her mind that Barbie or Naomi had been the one to break in to her apartment. They both had motive, and she even had proof that Barbie had been at the inn last night. In addition, Antonia had been too lazy to change the locks, so it was possible that both women had the key still, which is why there were no signs of a forced entry. So whoever was in the apartment had searched for something in the box and was disappointed not to find it. When they didn’t find it, they thought perhaps Antonia had removed it, so they searched all the obvious places where she may have taken a seat to peruse it further. It all made sense. Now she just had to narrow it down.

  Even though she had already dissected the contents of the box and read through everything with a fine-tooth comb, she began pulling things out. Her eyes once again scanned the catalogs and pamphlets, as well as the notebook, which she casually flipped through until the last page where Gordon had written to Lucy about firing Ronald Meter. Nothing jumped out at her as having been displaced. She removed everything from the box and placed it in a Leaning Tower of Pisa stack on her coffee table next to it. She glanced at it idly.

  Then something dawned on her. She quickly unstacked the top layer, removing the jumble layer by layer until she was able to extricate the notebook safely. She felt like she was playing Jenga. She flipped open the notebook again to the last page. Nothing was there. She opened the book and shook it, but nothing fell out. She was positive she had put the other note that she had discovered in her office—the one that Gordon had scribbled that he thought “that B” is trying to kill him—next to the note to Lucy about firing Ronald, “that beast.” But it wasn’t there. Antonia went through the notebook again but didn’t find it. Then she started once again, sifting through the contents one by one, opening every page, every catalog. It wasn’t there. The intruder must have discovered it and taken it with them. But why?

  Antonia leaned back on the sofa to think. Did it mean that Ronald Meter had been in her apartment? It was possible that he had a key; he had been the manager after all. Was he so worried about this note? It didn’t really mean anything. Or was it Barbie? Barbie had been upset that her quest to get part of Gordon’s estate was definitely over and she lost. Maybe she knew that it was the end of the road once she had snuck into Antonia’s apartment to see the will really wasn’t in the box? Man, Antonia realized, it could even have been Biddy if she weren’t dead. She probably had a key. Ugh, everything was confusing. Antonia felt her eyelids become heavy with sleep. She didn’t want to think anymore. She wanted to curl up in her bed and forget about this entire, wretched day. She’d definitely put the chain on her front door tonight, and make sure that she had a locksmith come in the morning.

  She trudged to the door feeling violated and dirty. Someone had been leafing around her things. Granted, the box wasn’t hers and that’s what they were after, presumably, but it still fe
lt awful to have someone come into her apartment uninvited. In fact, Antonia realized, the only person who had ever even been into her apartment was Genevieve. It was weird to think that she had never entertained there. Why would she? She had the inn. And who besides Genevieve would she invite inside? With a sigh, Antonia clicked the top lock and began to pull the chain across the loop when she suddenly stopped, and a wave of worry came over her. Something had just resurfaced in her mind, but she was so tired it had slipped away. Something else had been off about tonight, something other than being “robbed.” What was it?

  Then it dawned on Antonia: Joseph.

  21

  Joseph’s house was not even half a mile away from the inn. In a city, it was walkable. But at midnight in the country, Antonia was going to drive. It was basically two lefts, no stop signs, and voilà. She hoped it was a futile trip, but there was a little nagging voice inside her that told her it wasn’t.

  When Glen had told Antonia that Joseph had failed to arrive for his dinner reservation, she had been so preoccupied with Barbie and her trashy friend wreaking havoc in the dining room that this news hadn’t really registered. And the fact that the Felds took his table and solved the problem of the occupied barstools had seemed like a happy and fortuitous solution to the problem. But now that Antonia had time to dwell on it, she realized that it was highly unusual that Joseph hadn’t shown up. First off, no matter what, she was certain Joseph would call to cancel if he couldn’t make it. She knew that from the bottom of her bones. It wasn’t like him to forget. He wasn’t disorganized or absent-minded. He was aware that Antonia was busting her butt to fill those tables, so no way would he ignore his reserved table. Although Glen had thought that Joseph had possibly attended the Guild Hall performance and it ran too late or he forgot dinner, Antonia was positive that wasn’t true. They had specifically discussed this performance and Joseph had said he had seen a recent revival of the play in Manhattan and was not going to attend the Guild Hall production. No, it didn’t make sense. Antonia hoped she was wrong, but she had a bad feeling that something had happened to Joseph.

  She had never been to his house but he had told her where it was, in the middle of Buell Lane, near Most Holy Trinity’s parking lot. She prayed he had a name sign because there were a cluster of houses right there, but if not, she would just glide down the block on the hunt for his car, which was an old Volvo station wagon.

  The night was very black, with a murky layer of filmy clouds that obscured virtually all the stars. The moon seemed to be half-assing it as well, burning on low wattage, just kind of hanging out in the sky waiting until his shift was over. The air was cold, and Antonia was cranking up the heat as much as possible, but it still took her old Saab several minutes to warm up. In fact, she usually arrived at her destination before the heat actually went on.

  A few cars glided along Route 27, mostly going west, but there was no activity whatsoever when she turned on to Buell Lane. She tapped her fingers impatiently on the cracked leather that covered the steering wheel. It was so wrinkled, it felt like chapped lips. The leaves fluttered in the wind, but the houses were mostly shrouded in darkness, except for the outdoor lights that hung over a majority of the front doors. On her left, the whiteness of the Catholic church cut a decisively sharp impression into the inky blackness. Its floodlights made it gleam as brightly as a Broadway theater. Antonia turned her head to the right when she passed the empty parking lot that was across from the church. She slowed her car down considerably.

  There were no lights on at the first house past the parking lot and no car in the driveway. Antonia drove slowly to the next driveway, carefully checking the entrances for name signs. She saw only numbers. She peered into the property of the second house and knew at once it was Joseph’s, even without spying the Volvo parked deep in the driveway. It just reminded her of him. It was a nineteenth-century traditional Victorian: two stories, shingled, with white trim. The tall and narrow windows were flanked by long black shutters, and there was a wraparound porch with white wicker rocking chairs and tables. Dozens of neatly cut-back hydrangea bushes bordered the house, and through the darkness Antonia could see that the rest of the property featured ancient trees and andromeda bushes.

  Antonia pulled in and put her car in park. Although the front rooms were dark, there was a light on in the back that allowed her to see the shadowy furniture through the window. Was Joseph awake? She glanced at her watch. It was late, past midnight. He did say he was a night owl, though. For a second, she wondered if she was being crazy, driving to his house to check on him. But something told her, in absolute terms, that she was not. She exited her car with determination. She crunched over the driveway pebbles and walked up the creaky porch steps to the front door. It was the sort that had a window on top so she peered inside, cupping her hands around her eyes for a better look. In the faint light she could make out a large grandfather clock and a fruitwood table that held a dish of keys and some mail. Antonia took a deep breath and debated whether she should knock or ring the doorbell. She chose the former.

  She pounded gently, but then grew bolder and knocked harder. She waited, her breath curling in the cool air. She took a moment to glance behind her, but her view didn’t go past the thick hedge that lined Joseph’s front yard. There was no response. Emboldened, Antonia pressed the doorbell and was greeted by the sound of an old-fashioned ding-dong that was popular in sitcoms. She waited, her eyes glued to the window, expecting to see Joseph glide toward the door in his scooter.

  The wind rustled through the trees. In the distance she heard the cars passing along Route 27, but other than that, it was dead quiet. Antonia debated her next move. Was Joseph asleep and she was a nuisance? She was about to leave but she pressed the doorbell again. She waited. But nothing. No movement. Discouraged, Antonia turned and stepped down the porch steps. She stared up at the house. The weather-beaten shingles collected into a wavy pattern at the very top by the roof, with a beautiful diamond paned window centered in the middle. She wondered if Joseph even managed to get upstairs these days. He probably didn’t need such a large space.

  Undeterred by the lack of response, Antonia decided to walk along the side of the house. She went right, moving along the driveway that ultimately dead-ended into a garage. The side windows of the house were high and obscured by thick green bushes that hadn’t surrendered their leaves to fall. As she rounded the corner, she found the source of light, in a back room, presumably the kitchen. There was a metal ramp leading up to the back door, which Antonia walked up. She opened the screen door and peered into the window. She was correct; it was a kitchen, painted custard yellow with red trim along the cabinets. Her eyes scanned the old-fashioned GE refrigerator, past the stove and the sink. All of the appliances were a cherry red, as well as the dish towels that hung neatly on the oven door. Antonia felt a pang for Joseph. She imagined that his late wife, Margaret, had put so much effort into making the kitchen sweet and cute. It was so sad that she had died. Antonia moved her eyes to the left and then suddenly jerked them right. By the door to the kitchen, she could swear she saw Joseph’s crutch on the edge of the linoleum floor.

  Antonia tried the door. It was open. She walked in the kitchen.

  “Joseph?”

  “Here!” came his voice, weakly.

  Antonia ran through the kitchen and found Joseph on the floor in a narrow hallway that ran off of it. He had obviously fallen. Dried blood was on his head, and his crutches were askew and out of his reach. He attempted to sit up with difficulty.

  “Oh my gosh, Joseph, what happened? Are you okay?” Antonia rushed to help him.

  Joseph smiled weakly, but instead of sitting up, lay back down. His glasses were smashed on the floor next to him. His bow tie was crooked, but other than that he still appeared unrumpled and dandy in his blazer and cords.

  “I’m afraid I took a spill,” replied Joseph. “I’m not sure what happened. I was using my crutch
es and I must have slipped. The floorboards are old and uneven. I often catch myself. I should have been more careful.”

  “Joseph, how long have you been here?” said Antonia. She took off her scarf and wrapped it up in a ball and gently lifted Joseph’s head to put it on.

  “I don’t quite know,” said Joseph. “I think I passed out. What time is it now?”

  “After midnight.”

  “Oh dear, I’ve been here quite some time. I tried to shout a bit, but I knew that was futile. There’s no one about.”

  “Oh, Joseph. That’s horrible. Listen, I think you need to get checked out. I’m not sure you should sit up yourself. I’m going to call an ambulance.”

  “I don’t want to make a scene. But maybe you are right.”

  Antonia smiled and glanced into Joseph’s watery blue eyes. “It would break my heart if something happened to you, so we need to get you fixed up.”

  Joseph smiled. “Okay.”

  22

  Friday

  Antonia did not return home until four thirty in the morning. She accompanied Joseph to Southampton Hospital and waited until his son William arrived from New York. Fortunately, Joseph was fine and had only suffered minor bruising on his back and a contusion on his head that was fixed by two stitches, but the doctors chose to keep him overnight for observation. Joseph had tried to make Antonia leave, insisting he would be fine, but Antonia would have none of that. She hadn’t realized until now how important he had become to her in the short time she had known him.

  Instead of going to bed, Antonia decided to head to the kitchen at the inn and start preparation for breakfast service. She was tired to the core, and grateful that baking had become so rote that she could practically do it with her eyes closed. Today, she experienced none of the usual joy that sustained her as she measured and stirred. It was all about getting through it, her bed beckoning her. She waited until her morning team arrived at six, and then headed to her apartment to collapse. She was disappointed that there would be no walk on the beach for her, because she had been collecting amusing anecdotes to share with Nick Darrow as they walked along the coast. Now she’d have to wait another day to see him. She allowed herself to wonder if he had brought her coffee this time. She could almost taste the Dreesen’s doughnuts they had shared as she drifted off to sleep on her puffy down pillows.