“Well, Trina.” I stuck my nose a little higher in the air. “There is something you could help me with. You see, I was supposed to meet my friend here, Sabrina Nightingale. I’d been so busy getting my twin toddlers, Harry and William, ready for school and the time got away from me. Those boys take after their father, that’s for sure.”
“Oh, dear. I’m new here but I do know who your friend is. I’m afraid there was quite a scene about a half hour ago. The police were here and everything was quite chaotic. It seems there was someone posing as a client who turned out to be a newspaper reporter.”
“That’s terrible,” I said, almost choking on my water.
“He took pictures of your friend and Anthony had to call the police. Beauty Bar protects their clients. It’s just awful about her husband’s murder. Just goes to show you, one minute you have it all, then the next minute it’s gone.” She clicked her fingers in the air.
“Indeed,” I said, nervously glancing at my watch, waiting for the real Mrs. Starling to walk in and call me out. I stood and said, “I really can’t wait. I must be off . . . twin stuff to do.” It sounded lame, but she didn’t seem to notice, too upset I was leaving.
“Oh, you can’t leave. Anthony will have a fit.”
“Have no worries, my dear. If he asks, tell him there was an emergency at the boys’ academy.”
She looked relieved.
“One more thing,” I said, heading to the door.
“Yes?”
“What did the police do about the reporter?”
“They just escorted him out and Mrs. Nightingale called a friend to pick her up. Between you and me, Mrs. Nightingale didn’t seem herself when she walked in. I guess it’s normal considering what she’s been going through. She must be on some strong meds. Didn’t remember her appointment was for next week.”
“Did you happen to see who picked her up?”
She hesitated for a moment and I thought she was going to catch on to my masquerade as one of the Real Housewives of the Hamptons. Instead, she leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “I was out in the back, having a cigarette. Bad habit. It was that other doctor from the show her husband starred in. She seemed quite relieved, her eyes rolled back in her head and she fell into his arms in a near faint.”
Dr. Lewis to the rescue, I thought. I thanked her and gave her a twenty-dollar tip. She tried to refuse it, but I insisted. Still playing my part, thinking I’d just purchased a very expensive bottle of water. However, the information about Dr. Lewis had been priceless. I left without anyone in the front room the wiser.
It seemed deceased Dr. Blake’s partner, Dr. Lewis, was involved with both Willa and Sabrina. The plot wasn’t just thickening—it was coagulating.
Chapter 17
After returning from Southampton, I rapped on the front door of Little Grey. Through the window I saw Claire padding toward me barefoot, her toes pointed ballerina style. She opened the door, her face young and dewy like she’d just spent time over a pot of boiling water. “Are you sweating?” I asked, stepping inside as she held the door open.
“I’m experimenting with a new type of yoga that touches upon all four natural elements, fire, water, earth, and wind. Experimenting being the key word, seeing I almost scalded my face with steaming sage-scented water.
The front room looked completely different from the first time I’d walked into Little Grey. Then, the word dilapidated hadn’t even covered it. With Claire’s son-in-law’s permission, I’d hired my go-to construction guys to plaster the walls, repair the staircase and unearth a second fireplace in the dining room that had been hidden behind a piece of 1970s paneling. A new fireplace mantel had been created by the owner of Montauk Woodworks. Billy used reclaimed wood from old fishing trawlers and had done a wonderful job making the second mantel a perfect match to the one in the living room.
Owing to the knowledge that Claire leaned toward minimalist and eco-friendly design, I’d risen to the challenge of decorating Little Grey. In return for my decorating services, I’d been thrilled my payment wouldn’t be in cash. Instead, her son-in-law had told me that all the items in the attic, some over a hundred years old, were mine for the taking. What didn’t go in my cottage could be stored in Elle’s carriage house and used in future Cottages by the Sea projects.
Before she’d moved in, Claire and I had communicated via email about every room in the house. She’d shipped things from her Northern California home that she wanted me to incorporate into Little Grey. Her esthetic, if I could coin it in a few words, would be Natural Coastal Décor—bringing elements from outside inside. She’d loved the storyboards I’d sent her, and when she’d walked in the front door for the first time, she told me it was like coming home. In my opinion, there was no better compliment than that.
The house dated from the end of the nineteenth century, around the same time as the famous Grey Gardens in East Hampton and had the same architect, Joseph Greenleaf Thorpe. The wall between the dining room and living room had been taken down and the wide-plank floorboards sanded. The open layout was simple but had a rustic elegance. Claire had also sent a sofa and love seat on the moving van from California. I’d commissioned new slipcovers in a natural off-white cotton-duck fabric that set off the gleaming wood end tables and coffee table Claire inherited from her parents. They were made by George Nakashima, the famous American woodworker who fashioned pieces of furniture from large slabs of wood. The tables had smooth, polished tops and natural uneven edges. On top of the coffee table Claire had placed a copy of Nakashima’s memoir, The Soul of a Tree, which talked about the time he was in an internment camp for Japanese-Americans during World War Two, the same place he learned the craft of woodworking. I knew from Elle and her time at Sotheby’s that a Nakashima table could sell in the ballpark of thirty to eighty thousand dollars. I also knew, even though Claire barely survived on her small income, she would never consider selling them. Just like I’d never sell anything that had belonged to my mother.
“Come into the kitchen,” Claire said, interrupting my thoughts, “I have the kettle on, and a Christmas fruitcake sent from my sister in London for us to devour. I know as a rule most of your younger generation hate fruitcake. But hold your opinion until you taste Melanie’s.”
“I never met a fruitcake I didn’t like. I’ve been told by my father that when it comes to eating, I’m an old soul. Pot roast, one-dish casseroles, even Welsh rarebit are some of my favorites. As long as I don’t have to cook or bake it, I’ll eat it. Brussels sprouts excluded.”
Claire smiled, then led me through the dining area with its long wooden table and rustic chairs. One thing that hadn’t been changed were the Tiffany fruit and grapevine windows near the ceiling. Afternoon light in shades of pale green, mauve, buttercream and violet streamed down on us.
“Sit,” she said, “I want to hear everything. I guess there’s a disadvantage to not owning a laptop, and I only get nine television channels and rarely watch anything but PBS. My pay-as-you-go phone is all I need, along with the local Montauk newspaper, where I’ve yet to see any bad news. Even the paper’s police blotter is as mild as milquetoast.”
That’s because you weren’t here when I found a skeleton in a bungalow at the Falks’ estate, only a mile down the road, I thought. Let Claire keep the illusion that all in the Hamptons is just what it seems. Because for the most part, it was.
Claire had been stunned when I’d shared what had gone down on Shelter Island. “So, are you sure that you and Elle are in the clear?” she’d asked. I told her I was, in a very unconvincing tone. Then I told her about the police station and meeting the woman from Bungled who’d filed a lawsuit against Dr. Blake.
Unlike Claire, I watched television. When I’d returned home from Windy Willows, I’d put on the local Hamptons television channel to find they’d been doing a retrospective on Dr. Blake Nightingale, including that the estate had once been a mental asylum. They’d also shown old black-and-white images of the actresses Arden
Hunter and Marian Fortune, along with clips from Bungled featuring the woman, Pauline, I’d just met in Southampton. Soon the world would know about the two murders, decades apart. The only thing the news circuit hadn’t mentioned was the way Dr. Blake was killed because it hadn’t been released.
I sat on a cushioned banquet bench original to Little Grey. It followed the curve of the multipaned bay window with a view of the ocean. Claire brought over an earthenware coffee mug filled with hot water and a lemon slice. She didn’t drink coffee or tea, attesting to hot water and lemon’s cleansing properties. Keep it simple was her answer to most things. A motto I tried to adhere to after moving to Montauk from Manhattan. Besides a few murders here and there, it’d been working.
As I sipped my hot water, I looked around the kitchen. It was barely recognizable from the first time I walked in. Back then it had been a bad 1970s dream with black and silver-foil wallpaper and black appliances. The only thing that had given me hope when thinking of the kitchen’s renovation was the large window over the double farm sink, affording Claire a panoramic view of the Atlantic while scouring her potatoes and carrots. Duke and Duke Jr. had installed new kitchen appliances and a butcher-block center island made from recycled wood. They’d also stripped the kitchen cupboards down to their natural grain and had taken off all the cupboard doors, creating open shelving where Claire stored her handmade pottery and dishware she’d been collecting for decades, crafted by Northern California artisans. The shiplap walls were painted a creamy off-white.
“Wow. Double wow,” Claire said, handing me a plate with a slice of fruitcake. “I feel sorry for the Bungled woman—a testament to the evils of reality TV. What that doctor did to her wasn’t right.”
“I agree. Speaking of wow. You’re right, this fruitcake is amazing. I’m sure my dad would love the recipe.”
Claire had been invited to Thanksgiving dinner and she and my father had gotten along famously. Claire even got along with my father’s wife, Sheila. I still had a few qualms about the woman my father had recently married. I knew she had a good heart, and my father was happy. What more could I ask for? She just wasn’t my mother. I owed it to my father to keep my mouth shut if I had any misgivings. Just like he’d done when I’d been engaged to Michael, the cheat. Detective Jeff Barrett always let me make my own decisions, letting me learn from my mistakes. And boy, did I learn from Michael. At the thought of Michael and his wifey, I told Claire about the filming location of the miniseries most likely switching to Windy Willows in Southampton.
Claire didn’t see it the same as I did, even though she knew who lived at Windy Willows. She sighed. “What a godsend. Now I don’t have to worry about you being in that house of terrors. I doubt you’ll see your ex-fiancé or his wife. After all, it is winter.”
A few hours ago, when Langston, Elle, Felicity, and I had walked into the foyer of the Gone with the Wind–style plantation mansion belonging to the Whitney family, I’d wished I’d brought a sage smudge stick to light so I could clear out the bad mojo. Most of the floor-to-ceiling windows in the first-floor rooms were covered in heavy velvet drapery, making it feel like we’d entered a funeral home. My fingers had itched to yank them open to let in the sun. “It was obvious after going from room to room,” I told Claire, “following the director and Windy Willows’ housekeeper, that Felicity and her crew would have to bring a semitruck’s worth of furniture and décor. There was barely a stick of furniture left in the whole place. The only useful things were the built-ins from the mansion’s original floorplans. We didn’t go to the third floor, because the housekeeper said that’s where the family stayed when they were in the Hamptons.”
Claire added more hot water to my cup. “Look on the bright side, you’re still part of the crew.”
“You’re right. Again,” I said, grinning.
“The rumors you heard must be true that Whitney Publications is in financial ruin.”
“Seems so. The mansion itself has been in the Whitney family for generations, along with the formal gardens that in spring are on the Hamptons Garden Tour. The location will be perfect for filming the miniseries.”
“Good, then you’ll be away from Nightingale Manor and I won’t have to worry or call your dad.”
I blew her a kiss, feeling lucky that of all the people who could have moved next door, it had been Claire. I stood and my napkin fell to the floor. I bent to pick it up. When anything fell to the floor from my table, Jo would be there on the ready, acting more like a Fido than a feline. I spied a second napkin under my chair. I grabbed it and noticed it had writing on it. I smoothed it out on the table and read Claire’s beautiful script.
Sullen Grace
Joyous Pain
Splintered Calm
“Been looking for this?” I asked, handing the napkin to Claire. “New poem you’re working on?” Claire had a penchant for writing lines on whatever surface was nearby. I’d read Emily Dickinson did the same, especially when baking in her Amherst kitchen. She would jot lines down on flour sacks, chocolate wrappers—whatever was handy.
Claire laughed as she glanced down at the napkin. “I don’t remember writing this. Must’ve been during one of my middle-of-the-night trips to the fridge. A little oxymoronic, don’t you think?”
“Not at all. It makes me think. Like all the carefully chosen words you use in your poetry. ‘Splintered Calm’ really hits home after the past couple days.” Claire’s wrinkled napkin reminded me of the paper I’d picked up at the police station after poor bungled Pauline had dropped it. I hadn’t had time to take a photo of it. However, after she’d driven away, I did write down the few key pieces of information I’d seen on it: her address on Lily Pond Lane in East Hampton and the name and address on the paper, a boutique hotel in Chelsea, the Riverside Hotel and Spa. It proved she’d stayed there Wednesday and Thursday, giving her an alibi for Blake Nightingale’s time of death.
I stored away my questions for when I could talk to my ex-cop father. Then I realized he’d already hit the tracks, as in Amtrak, on a luxury holiday excursion from Chicago to Colorado Springs to see his wife’s relatives. Since he was a retired homicide detective, I’d told him if there were any Murder on the Orient Express–type shenanigans on board I was sure he’d be able to take care of them. Based on my past since I’d moved to Montauk, he’d told me he was more concerned about what trouble I might get into while he was gone. If he only knew the half of it—really a quarter of it . . .
“I can tell you’re thinking about the murder,” Claire said, placing her hands on her thin dancer’s hips. I have the perfect remedy.” She went to the kitchen drawer to the left of the sink and opened it. Then she pulled out a skeleton key tied with a faded green satin ribbon and waved it in the air.
“You’re right, Claire Post! Time to start filling my cottage with a few trinkets from the attic and unpack the boxes in the extra bedroom. And I need to send a text to Duke Senior.” I took out my phone and texted:
Time to go to my storage space and bring in the furniture and carpets. I’m ready to make my nest. Let’s try to do it before the next blizzard. Dinner at Pondfare for you and Jr. as an extra bonus. Text me in the morning. XO, Meg
“That’s my girl,” Claire said with a huge grin.
• • •
Two hours later, I placed the fourth box from Little Grey’s attic in the center of my great room. I’d been very selective, although it had been extremely hard to leave the rest behind. I knew the first rule of interior design: Don’t junk it up! Actually, it was more like what William Morris, the great twentieth-century leader of the Arts and Crafts movement, once said, “Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.” I’d been designing the interior of my bungalow for what seemed like forever and I had storyboards, magazine clippings and a large-vision journal to prove it. The ocean vista and my gardens outside needed to meld with the choices I made on the interior. Editing was going to be a problem.
After fee
ding Jo her dinner, I put on my jacket and faux-fur-lined boots and went out to the design office I’d set up in the glass summerhouse designed by Little Grey’s architect. In his original renderings that Elle and I found in a closet in a bedroom at Little Grey, Thorpe had called my summerhouse a folly. When I’d looked up the definition of a folly I found it was a structure built only for garden ornamentation that didn’t serve a practical purpose. Not the case for me. I not only used my folly as an interior design office but also as a great off-the-grid place to hide out.
Not needing a flashlight because of the full moon, I followed a path behind my walled garden through a dense thicket of trees. Looking ahead I saw the small lamp by my drafting table glowing behind frosted panes of glass. Relief set in. I hadn’t lost power during Wednesday’s blizzard, which meant the oil heater was also working. I extracted the key from under the Chinese cement cricket outside the double glass doors and entered.
Each time I walked in, I smiled.
Buried behind junglelike vegetation, I’d stumbled upon the summerhouse two Aprils ago when I’d first found out the Eberhardt property was for sale. Its broken panes of glass in the roof and walls hadn’t dissuaded me from the vision of its future metamorphosis. In the warmer months, I’d even spent time living in the summerhouse before my cottage got zoning approval. I had a penchant for small, cozy spaces, which was one of the reasons I decided to decorate small cottages in the area, not mega estates.
I’d furnished the summerhouse’s interior with items I’d found at local garage sales or on the side of the road. There was no better place to go trash pickin’ than the land of the Hamptons rich and famous during spring clean-out. My drafting table had been rescued curbside; all I’d had to do was buy a heavy-duty bolt from Hank’s Hardware to secure the tilted top and make it as good as old. The bar stool I used to sit at the desk came from my favorite Montauk eatery, Mickey’s Chowder Shack. It had been tossed outside, collateral after a bar fight between a pair of feuding fishermen too drunk to know what they were arguing about. All it had needed was a little wood glue.
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