by Carrie Doyle
“What the hell is this?” she demanded.
“This is a party, Barbie. Have a drink, dinner will be solved shortly. I mean served.”
Barbie peered around the room, taking in each of the other guests with her eyes. “Unbelievable. You are one piece of work, Antonia.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t play that innocent game with me. You told me you found the missing will. Was that all a lie to get me here?”
“Everything will be explained, Barbie…”
“Oh, no you don’t. I can’t believe I fell for it! Do you or don’t you have the will?”
Antonia took a deep breath. She knew Barbie was going to be the toughest guest to convince to stay. And the most important. “Barbie, I don’t have it at this moment…”
“I’m out of here,” said Barbie.
She turned and began thundering toward the door. Antonia trotted after her.
“Please, Barbie. It will be worth your time to stay.”
Barbie scoffed. “Yeah, right.”
“Trust me,” said Antonia with desperation.
Barbie stopped abruptly and turned around. Antonia practically walked right into her.
“Trust you? Tell me why I should trust you.”
Antonia’s mind raced. “Didn’t you care about Gordon at all?”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Well, tonight all of the outstanding events surrounding his death will be answered.”
“I think we all know how Gordon died.”
“True, true. But remember, you say you were supposed to inherit everything. What if we can prove that is true?”
“If you can prove that, tell me now.”
An elderly couple entered the front door, bringing a gust of wind with them. Antonia paused to greet them and directed them toward the dining room. Connie was at her post and Antonia could tell she was eavesdropping, even though she kept her eyes averted and was pretending to write something down in the message book. The grandfather clock in the front hall ticked softly and the din from the dining room was floating down the hall.
Antonia was stalling. She had to keep Barbie there. She spoke in a hushed tone. “I can’t right now, but—”
Barbie rolled her eyes. “Geez, this gets better and better. I am out of here.”
Barbie put her hand on the front door knob and slowly pulled it open. Antonia pressed against it and slammed it shut.
“What the—?” asked Barbie.
“You’re not leaving,” said Antonia sternly.
“Oh really?”
“If you leave now, you will be arrested and thrown in prison. You should stay and at least try and defend yourself.”
Barbie glared at Antonia, who in turn glared back.
“You’re bluffing,” she said finally.
“Am I?” asked Antonia. “When you walk back into that parlor, and you will, look at every waiter in the room. Every single one of them is an undercover officer, carrying a concealed weapon. If you leave now, they’ll just come and arrest you. So why not listen to what I have to say, have a wonderful dinner, and give yourself a chance to explain your side of the story.”
Barbie hesitated. It was all Antonia needed. She turned and began walking back toward the parlor.
“Let’s go,” she commanded. Barbie followed.
Antonia glanced at the expectant faces when she entered the parlor. She was met with a full range of expressions ranging from worried to angry to excited.
“Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served.”
32
The guests were just settling into their chairs when an attractive young woman in her early twenties appeared on the threshold of the door. She wore a diaphanous dress that didn’t leave much to the imagination. She scanned the crowd indifferently, her eyes dancing from one person to the next without any sense of recognition or emotion. Antonia immediately rushed over to her and began whispering something. The girl nodded in concurrence before following Antonia to the table.
“I’m not sure if you all know Jennifer, but she will be dining with us tonight,” announced Antonia.
“She sits next to me,” said Larry, rising and pulling out the empty chair next to him. “Hi, I’m Larry.”
Lucy gave Antonia a quizzical look, but she just smiled in return. There were sure to be surprises tonight. Even Joseph didn’t know everything. There were some murmured hellos to Jennifer, but mostly curious looks as she slid into a seat between Larry and Antonia. Larry immediately began bending her ear, explaining that he was a hotshot reporter for the East Hampton Star and that Nick Darrow was a personal fan who had followed him around for a week to understand the ins and outs of the newspaper industry.
Close up, Jennifer was less pretty than she had appeared at a distance. Her long thin hair was very blond, but overly processed, which rendered the ends brittle and uneven, as if they died on her shoulders and dissolved into a mass of split ends. She had blue eyes and clear skin but her face was slightly puckered as if she had just eaten something sour, and her dainty features were all slightly smashed together in the center of her face. She overcompensated for her small eyes by applying ample makeup in bright blues and pinks, which cheapened her slightly. But she was thin, had youth on her side, and sizeable cleavage.
“Hey, I know you,” said Naomi, who had carefully watched Jennifer’s progression into the room. She was across the table, unfolding her napkin onto her lap.
Jennifer turned from Larry and gave her a wan smile. “Nice to see you.”
Naomi appeared to be about to say something but then stopped herself. Her eyes remained on Jennifer’s face and she squinted slightly, before looking down. Antonia and Joseph exchanged glances.
A waiter came and began pouring the water, followed by another waiter who was offering white or red wine. Antonia watched as Barbie studied each waiter suspiciously, her eyes tracing their dinner jackets for any bulging weapons.
“Well, this is just so nice,” prattled Sylvia. “I am so happy to be here tonight. Len and I were thrilled to receive an invitation. What is your connection to Antonia?”
She had addressed Hector, who was seated to her right. His look was pained.
“I work here at the inn,” he replied.
“Oh, how wonderful! And what is it you do?”
“I’m the gardener.”
“I love flowers!” and with that, Sylvia was off on a tangent listing her favorite blooms, describing her beloved rosebushes, and asking questions to Hector which she did not pause to wait for the responses to. Antonia congratulated herself on the seating arrangement. Sylvia would do all the talking, which she adored, and Hector wouldn’t have to say a word, which she was certain was preferable to him. Ronald also couldn’t resist conversing about horticulture, so he chimed in on the conversation, which appeared to momentarily relax him.
The waiters returned with trays that they rested on the nearby stands. After removing the silver lids, they carefully placed bowls in front of each diner.
“What’s this?” asked Naomi with disdain.
She was staring at the small portion of fricassee of mushrooms and chives in front of her.
“It’s butternut squash soup,” replied Antonia.
“Where’s the soup?” sniffed Naomi.
“It’s here, Madam,” said a waiter. He poured a fragrant stream of creamy butternut squash puree on top of the mushrooms out of a small silver pitcher.
“How wonderful!” said Sylvia, clapping her hands together.
“Hmm, I smell truffle oil,” said Ronald.
“Fancy stuff,” commented Len, who was sitting next to Antonia.
“I hope you like it.”
“Can’t wait to dig in.”
The servers had placed two baskets of bread on the table and Lucy took one basket
and began circling it clockwise. Joseph took the other basket and circled it as well. Guests selected from pretzel, olive, and sourdough rolls. There were dishes of butter dappled with sea salt spread out around the table, which the diners also passed to each other. Soon everyone was busy chewing their bread or slurping up their soup and a temporary hush fell across the table.
Guests began sneaking looks at each other across the table, with some intentionally sending others nasty glances. At one point, Antonia saw Ronald glaring at Barbie, who gave him a defiant look in return. Later, Barbie was seen shooting Naomi a disdainful look. Soyla kept her head down, staring into her soup bowl. Larry continued to monopolize Jennifer with anecdotes about his career, and to Antonia’s eye, she didn’t appear to mind. She listened attentively as she ate her soup, her face unexpressive. She was a hard one to read, Antonia thought. She had a poker face. It had probably served her well.
Joseph began a languid conversation with Barbie about the full moon. He had purposely chosen a neutral topic to coax her out of her fury. Antonia watched as Barbie’s body language relaxed, and she became less defensive. Joseph moved on to astrology and it was as if he had hit the conversation jackpot because suddenly Barbie came alive and began chattering away. Joseph gave Antonia a wink from across the table.
Sylvia was winning the award for group cheerleader. She moaned with pleasure with every bite she took and kept prompting Len to confirm her belief that the food was “out of this world.” They both were working their way through the bread baskets at a furious pace.
Lucy snuck peeks at Antonia and raised her eyebrows as if wondering when the accusations would begin. She was experiencing the same impatient anticipation that Antonia and Joseph were feeling. But everything would happen in due time.
“May I?” a waiter asked Barbie, motioning the wine bottle in his hand to her glass.
“Yes, thanks,” she said, before returning to Joseph and continuing to lay out why she was a “true Scorpio.”
Antonia had made certain to tell the waiters to continuously fill the wineglasses and make sure the diners were fully lubricated. Ronald, Hector, and Soyla were not drinking, but everyone else was imbibing. It was ticking along as planned.
The second course was an option of New York strip steak with fried buttermilk onion rings and creamed spinach or sunchoke risotto with bordelaise sauce and black truffles. Most guests opted for the former, with the exception of Jennifer and Lucy.
“I’ve chosen a wonderful California cabernet to accompany these dishes, so everyone please have a taste,” said Antonia.
Everyone obediently brought their glasses to their lips and took a sip.
Dinner service continued, with the guests warming up a bit more due to alcohol consumption and their lessening fear that something bad was about to happen. It was all warm and snug in the room, with the fire raging and the candles flickering. A perfect autumn evening in East Hampton. Antonia had purposely chosen a particularly rich menu in order to make the guests sleepy and off their guard. Then she would strike.
When the dinner plates were cleared, the waiters brought dessert. Each guest was given a hefty portion of sticky toffee pudding with a rich caramel sauce, accompanied by dulce de leche ice cream. In addition, silver trays with pyramids of petit fours and homemade almond madeleines were placed in the center for guests to select from.
“Antonia, you have outdone yourself!” said Sylvia, raising her glass. “Cheers to a wonderful hostess!”
Everyone raised their glass in Antonia’s honor. She took the moment to run her gaze across every face in the room. Eleven sets of eyes stared back at her, and at least one of those eyes had planned murder. She knew it for certain now. She was in the presence of a killer. It was time to begin.
“Thank you all so much for coming. I am so happy to assemble this particular group tonight. It may seem very arbitrary, but there is a reason you are all here.”
“Aw, we thought it was because you liked us,” joked Len.
“I do like you, Len, and I’m glad you came. But I’m afraid there is a more serious reason that I have assembled this particular group.”
Antonia stood up. All of the heads swung in her direction. She began to walk around the table slowly, before pausing behind Joseph.
“We are here tonight because I have solved the murders of Gordon Haslett and Biddy Robertson. Not all of you are going home tonight. Justice will be rendered.”
There was a collective gasp.
Then, in a dramatic bold gesture, two waiters shut the parlor doors with a bang and stood in front of them, folding their arms. They looked like soldiers guarding a crypt. No one could escape.
33
“What are you talking about?” asked Sylvia. Her mouth was full of sticky toffee pudding, but she couldn’t resist blurting out her question.
“Antonia, I’m not sure I follow. Why are we here?” asked Len. “And if this is murder, what about the police?”
“If you will all bear with me, everything will be explained in due time.”
“This is absurd,” snorted Naomi.
“Yeah, just tell us,” shouted out Barbie. “Why do we have to listen to this fairy tale?”
All at once, the guests started shouting and talking loudly. The crowd was excited and angry. Antonia brought her fingers to her lips and whistled. Everyone froze. Joseph spoke.
“Now, now, let’s all calm down. We can eat these wonderful desserts and listen to what Antonia has to say. We at least owe her that after this delicious meal,” said Joseph.
“But this is ridiculous!” snapped Barbie. “Antonia is no detective, so why should we listen to her lies?”
“You have no reason not to,” said Joseph sternly. “And if you believe that she will tell you lies and fairy tales, then what do you have to worry about? Just sit down and enjoy the show. All of you.”
The guests murmured their agreement. This was it. Antonia had to start. She was nervous, but she had no choice. It was time to bring justice to the dead. She cleared her throat, and put her hands on the back of her chair.
“I’ll start at the beginning. A year and a half ago I was living in California and my life was, well, not going anywhere. Then my friend Genevieve told me about this beautiful inn located in East Hampton, New York. It was a historic inn that was over a hundred and fifty years old. It was beloved in the town. But in recent years, it had become a little run down…”
“Hey, not true,” interjected Barbie. “This place was fine.”
“There will be time for rebuttals after I speak. Please refrain from commenting until I am finished,” Antonia admonished.
Barbie was not pleased. Lucy shot her a hostile look. “Antonia’s just being honest and calling a spade a spade.”
“Shut up, Lucy,” said Barbie. “No one wants your opinion.”
“You shut up.”
“Ladies, may I continue?” asked Antonia. “As you know, I purchased the inn. And things were off to a wonderful start. I was sad to hear about the death of the previous owner, Gordon Haslett, but I had been told he wasn’t the fittest man and had battled some health issues, so I thought nothing of his death in his early fifties. It was a sad footnote. But then last week things began to change…”
“Oh, I see why we’re here, sweetie,” said Sylvia in what she thought was a whisper but was more like a stage whisper. “It’s because we told her the place was cursed.”
“Shh!” commanded Lucy. She was sitting up stick straight, giving her complete attention to Antonia, like a nerdy teacher’s pet trying to incur points.
“Sorry,” said Sylvia meekly. She took several petit fours off the tray and put them on her plate, tucking into a cream puff.
“It’s true, you and Len were the ones to alert me to the history of the inn,” said Antonia. “Then I began my journey to investigate what really happened. And I came across some
wildly disturbing revelations. Gordon Haslett did not die of a heart attack. He died from a bee sting. But this was no accidental death. How many bees are out there, braving a frigid December day in Long Island? No, this was a perfectly executed plan. This was a murder, contrived by a cunning killer who had meticulously planned and organized for years. A killer who knew Gordon was allergic to bees, and knew it would bring on sudden death. And this killer is in this room.”
Again, the guests gasped. They looked at one another suspiciously. Antonia allowed the words to sink in. Then she continued.
“Biddy Robertson’s murder will be solved tonight as well.”
“Didn’t Naomi kill her?” asked Barbie.
“Hey, watch it,” said Naomi.
“But it’s true. Naomi’s been arrested for it,” said Barbie.
“I was questioned, not arrested. Big difference, moron,” sneered Naomi.
“Whatever. Antonia, I think you can just stop right now. The killer has been found,” said Barbie, pointing at Naomi.
Naomi appeared ready to jump across the table and throttle her.
“Let me run this show, Barbie,” said Antonia. “All will be revealed.”
Barbie frowned and took a sip of her coffee.
“Len and Sylvia Powers,” Antonia said, walking over and standing behind their chairs. They both glanced up, their mouths full of custard cream.
“Yes?” Len asked. But it came out more like “yef.”
“You were amongst my first guests at the inn, and I have been so grateful for how appreciative you’ve been.”
“Thank you,” said Sylvia.
Antonia hesitated. “You were also the first people to tell me just over a week ago about the history of the inn. I think, and I quote, you said, ‘The story about the Windmill Inn is that the owners die under suspicious circumstances.’ Isn’t that right, Len?”
“Yes,” he said, his wary eyes trained on her.
“Yes, it is. At first you were both reluctant to tell me about the inn’s history of deceased innkeepers, but then it all came spilling out. The curse, the ghost story, whatever it was. You had your son, Matt, with you. He was, conveniently, the first responder to the scene of Gordon Haslett’s death, was he not?”