by Carrie Doyle
The South Fork Farm was only about twelve minutes from the inn. Antonia often visited the collective farm down the road, but mostly in the summer, and hadn’t been out this way in a few months. The sun was beginning to cast its shadow across the rippling grass and as dusk was approaching, Antonia slowed her car. Late afternoon and early evening were the time when deer chose to run in a pack into the middle of the street and get hit by oncoming traffic. Antonia wanted to avoid that.
When she paused at a stop sign, she glanced at the houses to her right. They were modest and close together, shaded by thick trees. She glanced into the driveway in one and saw Ronald Meter standing next to his Mini talking to a guy, gesticulating wildly as if they were in a heated discussion. She squinted. The guy looked familiar; where had she seen him before? She craned her neck to get a better look and then suddenly the car behind her honked. She jolted. Ronald and the guy turned their heads in her direction. As soon as she locked eyes with Ronald, fear flashed across his face and he quickly turned away from her. That was odd, thought Antonia. Was he trying to hide from me?
After cruising some time, she saw South Fork Farm’s stand up ahead and turned on her blinker. There were three cars parked in the makeshift lot; weekenders, no doubt, stocking up on produce on their way out from the city. Antonia pulled in next to a dusty Lexus SUV and turned off her ignition. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror and saw that the lack of sleep and stress were definitely catching up with her. There were light red rims on her eyelids and puffy bags gathering under her eyes. Lovely. She whipped out a lip gloss from her bag and spread some on, plumping up her lips with a shade that L’Oréal called “Luscious” before exiting her car.
A man and woman in their late thirties, dressed head to toe in black athletic gear (her tiny frame coated in spandex lululemon; his wiry body clad in Prada, judging by the abundant logos) were frantically heaping bunches of kale into their basket while their two young children haggled for their attention. Antonia watched them as they squeezed, sniffed, and scrutinized every vegetable in the various bins. The intensity they displayed making their selections instantly gave her anxiety, but she found herself fascinated by their exchange.
“Bruce, these eggplants are good. Not too much bruising,” said the woman.
Her husband came and held up the eggplant to the light.
“Right here, there’s a dent,” he said, dumping it back into the bin.
“What about this one?” asked the wife, holding up another.
The man looked at it, then shrugged. “What are you going to make with it?”
“Caponata?”
“Too much sugar.”
“I can puree it. I saw an eggplant puree recipe in the Times.”
He nodded. “Okay, but I’m doing a butternut squash puree also.”
“We can puree them both. Maybe do a puree cleanse this week instead of a juicing?” she asked.
“I’m juicing this week. You can puree. I need to juice. It’s all about the cleanse.”
And so on…
Antonia realized she was staring and moved toward the counter. New Yorkers were a funny breed, in her opinion. They were so tightly wound and usually in a rush. She admired their energy but sometimes found it too much to take. East Hampton was “the country” to them, and yet many were unable to shake their city attitude when they came out here. You’d see them zipping around the curvy roads in their SUVs, clamoring to get to wherever they needed to go as fast as possible. This bothered many of her local friends. She’d heard that one of the latest “tricks” the locals were pulling on the weekenders/summer people was to drive the speed limit, which was twenty-five miles per hour. This (pardon the pun) drove the summer people crazy. They’d start flashing lights and honking, desperate to force the cars in front of them to speed up, to no avail.
The farm stand was so charming and quintessential that it could be the set of a movie, thought Antonia. On a long wooden table shielded by a roof overhang were various baskets of glistening (and yes, some bruised) produce, “spilling” out of bins. As it was October, that consisted of many root vegetables and squashes—shiny purple onions, dusty beets, butternut squash, waxy yellow-and-blue fingerling potatoes. Alongside them were rows of apples in every varietal—Macoun, Granny Smith, McIntosh, Gala, and Fuji. On the far end of the table were bunches of wildflowers in rich colors arranged in vases, already carefully assembled in a manner that made it appear as if they had just been picked. The owners of farm stands had long become hip to the fact that it was all about marketing, so they also repackaged berries and imported plums and other fruits that were unavailable and blended them in with local wares by putting them in their own rustic packaging. (Most people didn’t even realize that strawberries were no longer in season here after mid-June.) Artisanal maple syrups, jams, and chocolates lined the shelves behind the counter, and off to the side of the stand was an entire wheelbarrow filled with pumpkins and gourds of various sizes.
And where would a farm stand be without baked goods? Many farmers didn’t bake their own; instead they offered pies from the Blue Duck Bakery and Tate’s chocolate chip cookies. But at South Fork they had a stack of lemon and poppy seed bread tied up in white parchment paper with a blue ribbon and bags of homemade oatmeal raisin cookies and cinnamon drops in cute gingham wrapping.
A middle-aged woman stood behind the counter ringing up an older man. Black roots were bleeding into her yellow-blond hair, and Antonia sensed it had been quite some time since she had visited a beauty parlor, judging by the color and her frayed ends, which splayed out across the edge of her ears in a jagged cut. She wore thick black eyeliner under her pale blue eyes, and most of her face was freckled and blotchy from sun damage. She wore a heavy Irish sweater under a puffy vest, and shapeless Lee jeans. Her manner was perfunctory and she emitted that “end of the day” vibe when all you want to do is get home and take a hot bath. Antonia waited for the man to collect his change and goods before she approached. Another quick scan of the premises revealed the jars of honey next to the register.
“Can I help you?” asked the woman after the man in front of Antonia had paid. She had a strong Long Island accent.
“Yes, I’d love two jars of honey, please.”
“What size?”
“Oh, let’s go for the big ones,” said Antonia with a smile.
While not rude, the woman was definitely all business. Antonia watched as she scooped up two jars with her rough, callused hands and put them in a brown paper bag. She punched numbers into the ancient register before glancing up at Antonia.
“Twenty-two dollars.”
Antonia gulped. “Wow, who knew honey was so expensive?”
The woman’s expression didn’t change as she took Antonia’s money. “It’s organic.”
“Now what does that mean, organic? I keep hearing that, but I would assume all honey is organic, right?”
“Not so. A lot goes through China and they add sugar to it. We have our own bees here so we make it ourselves.”
Antonia’s heart sung with the opening. “You have your own hives?” she asked, playing dumb.
“Yup,” said the woman. She handed Antonia her bag, and gave her a farewell expression. But this was Antonia’s chance.
“So, where do you keep your hives?”
“By the farm, down there.”
She motioned behind her, and Antonia glanced through the field to the farmhouse in the distance. A tractor stood idle next to it.
“Interesting. I’ve never seen a beehive.”
Before the woman could respond, a young woman, wearing tight jeans tucked into camel-colored boots and a long gray sweater over a concert T-shirt came from the back and stood behind the counter.
“Mom, do we need more turnips?” asked the young woman.
Even if she hadn’t addressed the woman as mom, Antonia could see the family resemblanc
e at once. The girl was still young and fresh and carried that rosiness that youth possess, but she was a carbon copy of her mother. The skin on her face was gently freckled and had none of her mother’s sun damage, and her blue eyes were animated, her features still sharp and not slackened. She wore her flaxen hair straight to her shoulders, and had on a striped hat like the one Antonia had recently seen on the cover of a J. Crew catalog, and couldn’t believe it was back in fashion.
“No, but we do need more carrots,” said the woman.
“All right, I’ll go in a minute,” said the daughter.
Antonia wanted to return the topic to the beehives but at that moment the New York couple came up with their multiple baskets and placed them with a thump on the counter.
“All ready?” asked the woman behind the counter.
“We think so,” said the New York woman. “Although give us some of that honey, also.”
The woman turned her attention to them and Antonia was left standing idle with her brown bag of honey. She waited a minute, but the New Yorkers were firing a million questions at the woman so she knew it would be awhile. Instead, she walked over the dirt path to the edge of the field and stared at the farm, which was about three hundred yards away. The farmhouse was white, clapboard, shutterless, and definitely due for a paint job. Smoke was trickling out of the redbrick chimney and lights were on in the downstairs rooms. Next to the house was a large barn, unpainted and sagging, with the big doors flung open. A tractor and other farm equipment were scattered around the entrance. Antonia could see beyond there was a low building that almost looked like a greenhouse. Maybe that’s where the hives were? She’d have to ask Soyla to give her more details on what went on there.
Antonia was at a loss now as to what she should do. Just as she was debating her next move, she saw the daughter leave the shed and start to walk in the direction of the farmhouse. This was Antonia’s chance.
“Excuse me?” asked Antonia.
The girl stopped and turned. “Yes?”
“Um, I just bought some of your honey. I heard it’s delicious, and I was wondering if there was anything I should know about it?” She was grasping.
The girl looked confused. She sunk her hands into the deep pockets of her long cardigan. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, um, well, it’s organic, right?”
“Yeah.”
“So, anything special about the methods in which you make it?”
“I wouldn’t really know about that. My uncle, Frank, is the beekeeper but he’s not here now.”
“Does he ever have seminars? Or you know, classes on how to make it?”
The girl smiled at the ridiculousness of Antonia’s question. “No, not really.”
“Oh. You see, I had a friend who was trying to buy a beehive. Do you ever sell yours?”
She shook her head. “Naw. In fact, my uncle buys beehives. It’s a good business these days. Then he rents them to some of the other farms and lets his bees pollinate their fields.”
Antonia could tell the girl was being polite but really trying to get on with her carrot errand, but Antonia didn’t want her to go.
“I guess honey is more popular than ever. Must be a demand.”
“Yeah, you’re not the first to ask.”
“I’m not?”
“No,” said the girl. She gave Antonia a look as if to say, Can I go now? but Antonia pressed forward.
“Who has asked?”
“I don’t know, other farmers.”
“Oh, anyone else?”
She shook her head. “I don’t really know. We don’t keep track.”
“Oh,” said Antonia. “Sorry, I’m really nosy, I know. I just had a friend who had a bee and I thought she bought it here.”
“Bought one bee? No, we don’t do that.”
“Okay, all right. Sorry to waste your time.”
The girl turned away, but then seemingly remembering something, turned back to Antonia.
“You know, there was one thing…” she began.
“What?”
“Well, and this was like last year, or maybe longer, this one woman came and asked if she could buy a bee. She was really weird. We said no, so she just bought some honey.”
“Do you remember at all when this was? Could it have been December of last year?”
The girl pulled out her bottom lip and began chewing on it. She tapped her chin with her fingers as she did so. Antonia supposed this was her way of thinking hard. Finally, she spoke.
“Yeah could be. We shut down the stand after Thanksgiving so I remember it was closed, and she came to the door of the house. Yeah, now that I think of it, I remember she kind of commented on our lawn decorations. We go all out at Christmas. We have one of those blow-up nativity scenes, really cool.”
“Oh, that’s awesome,” said Antonia, trying to humor the girl. “And she liked it?”
“Um, actually no. I think she was kind of snotty or whatever, because she sort of mentioned it without saying she liked it.”
“Maybe she’s the Grinch.”
The girl laughed. “Yeah.”
“So, then what happened?”
“So, I let her buy the honey…”
“She paid with a credit card?”
“Yeah, she did. We used to take cash only but these days cash is like an endangered species. We had to switch over. My uncle was pretty steamed about that. All the taxes, etc.”
“I know. Killer. So then what?”
“I rang her up and then, like, way later, I went to the farmhouse to get more of something, and she was, like, there, hanging around the beehives. She said she was just looking, and I told her she couldn’t be there. But then, like, the next day, my uncle said he could swear one of his girls was missing—he calls them his girls. The bees I mean. I don’t know if they’re girls or not, but that’s what he calls them.”
Antonia felt her heart fill with excitement. “Do you think she stole it?”
The girls shrugged. “Dunno. But it was weird.”
“What did she look like?”
“Kind of average.”
“Blond? Brunette?”
“Blond, I think…”
“Thin? Fat?”
The girl looked at the sky as if there was a picture of the bee thief in it. “She wasn’t fat. But she wasn’t thin…you know, she was kind of stacked.”
“You mean big boobs?” said Antonia with a smile.
The girl giggled and held the back of her hand to cover her mouth. “Yeah. I only noticed because my brother was there and he was like ‘Wow, that woman has huge you-know-whats.’ They were so big, they looked kinda fake.”
“That’s funny,” said Antonia, feigning laughter. “Very funny.”
But Antonia didn’t think it was funny at all. Humor was not what she was feeling. Antonia’s alarm bells were going off big time. Because the girl’s description matched Barbie to a tee.
“Do you think you have a copy of her credit card receipt?”
The girl looked suddenly suspicious. “Wait, why do you want it again? I thought you were asking about your friend…”
“I was, I was. Just want to make sure it’s her.”
The girl had lost all confidence in Antonia. She glanced worriedly at the barn then back at the farm stand. “I should go.”
“Right, right. I’m just trying to get the honey for my friend who was here. I’m not crazy, but she’s very particular and I wanted to make sure it’s the right place. Here’s my card, please take it. If you find her receipt, please let me know. I think she paid with a credit card from the Windmill Inn. I own it now. I just want to make sure.”
Antonia pushed her card into the girl’s face. She stared at it, before shoving it into her back pocket. “Okay,” she said. “Gotta run.”
�
�Thanks, you’ve been really helpful!” said Antonia.
The girl scurried away. With sadness, Antonia realized she’d never hear from her. Antonia needed to tighten up her cover stories in advance. There was no way she’d make a good undercover spy at this point.
26
Despite the conversation ending in failure Antonia was buzzing over the fact that Barbie had most likely taken the bee from the farm stand. This girl was basically an eyewitness placing her there. So now all Antonia had to do was prove that Barbie had stolen the bee and used it to kill Gordon. Ha! Easier said than done. Even if Barbie was at the farm stand that day, it was so long ago that it was unlikely the girl or her Uncle Frank, the beekeeper, would be able to say for sure that Barbie had stolen a bee. Antonia had to think. There had to be a better way. Another problem was that if it were Barbie who killed Gordon, why would she kill Biddy too? There was no motive between those two.
The sky had already gathered into darkness by the time Antonia returned to the inn, and the lights were twinkling inside in an inviting manner. The outside air was fresh and brimming with an autumn medley that consisted of fireplace smoke, grilled steak, apple cider, and ocean mist. Antonia stopped by her office to collect any messages before rushing to change for dinner service. There was a small scribbled note in Lucy’s handwriting on top of her desk.