“Wait! Hold on a minute,” I shouted.
Elle lowered her arm. “What is it now?”
“There’s someone, or something, lurking behind those bushes.” It wasn’t Roland waiting to attack his wife because when we’d left Amagansett, he was still on the street talking to someone on his phone. I’d assumed his lawyer.
“I’m getting out.”
“Meg, don’t be foolish. Let’s just get inside the gate and let Jenna and Roland deal with them.”
“If we open the gates, whoever they are can slip inside. And remember, Jenna claims Roland wants to kill her. What if instead he hired someone to do it for him?”
Before she could protest, I opened the door and charged in the direction of the shadowy figure I’d seen. For a lack of better words, I called out, “Who goes there?”
Through the bushes red and green lights blinked back at me. The lights moved to the left, then slightly to the right.
“I know someone’s there,” I warned, stepping closer. “Whatever those lights are, they’re giving you away.”
The shrubbery parted and a man stepped forward.
Wonder Woman–style, I put my hands on my hips and said with my sternest voice, “This is private property. Vacate or we will call the police.”
He didn’t answer, his face expressionless. The same couldn’t be said for all the gadgets hanging from straps around his neck. He stood about six-three, with short spiked, dark, almost black hair that matched his oversized black-framed glasses. He seemed as solid as the oak he was standing next to. For all my bravado, there was no way I would mess with him. Let Roland get him to leave.
Trying a different tactic, I said with a laugh, “You look like a lit Christmas tree. What’s all that stuff for?”
He didn’t answer. Instead he reached in his pocket, took out something and handed it to me, a business card that I could barely make out in the fog: Mac Zagan, Certified Scientific Paranormal Investigator with a phone number and web address.
It seemed I wouldn’t have to go surfing TV channels for paranormal reality shows. I had my own personal ghosthunter right in front of me. I dug in my shoulder bag and handed him my card.
He read, “Meg Barrett, Cottages by the Sea Interior Decorating. Ever worked on a haunted cottage? This area of Long Island has been around for centuries.”
I opened my mouth to say No ghosts, just a couple of skeletons and dead bodies, when a low voice filtered toward us from behind the murky foliage. I missed what had been said, but then a young guy with long beach-blond hair, who looked like he’d be more comfortable surfing a mile down the road at Ditch Plains Beach than investigating the paranormal, stepped into view.
“Hey, Mac. Frank’s arm is stuck between the bars of the wrought iron fence. He seems kind of new to this stuff. Are you sure he knows what he’s doing?”
Mac’s voice was deep. “No. I’m not sure. We’ll get him out. You’re right, I’m getting a feeling he’s not cut out for this work. This is the second time he has interfered with one of our scariest, (pause) most chilling, (pause) ghost encounters, (pause) yet.”
“Yeah, you mean like earlier at the Montauk Point Lighthouse. When we were down by the rocks and he claimed to have picked up infrared light anomalies of our two-hundred-year-old ghost Abigail, then slipped on a boulder and dropped your Powershot SX620 into the water?”
“He claimed (pause) that Miss Abigail, our spirit, (pause) grabbed his ankle,” Mac answered.
The blond guy stepped closer to us. “The dude doesn’t even know what crossing over means. Hope Sam’s back soon. Where’d you get him, anyway? Craigslist?”
Either they both didn’t see me standing in front of them or they thought I was an apparition. I didn’t protest, the conversation was quite interesting.
Mac’s face remained serious. “We must release him. I wouldn’t be surprised if some specter”— he raised a thick black eyebrow then glanced my way to see if I was enjoying the show—“had grabbed him from the other side of the fence. Our EVPs have been off the charts since arriving here.”
“What’s an EVP?” I asked, loving the way Mac’s loud voice made everything seem so intense. I had no problem hearing him.
“Electronic Voice Phenomena,” he answered. “We must go to him at once. You have a lot of unexplained light anomalies and shadow figures going on behind those gates, Ms. . . .”
“Barrett, Meg,” I answered. “I’ll come with you. I was in a similar situation once.” Before he could protest, I entered the wooded area that followed the front of Enderly Hall. It wasn’t raining, but the air was thick with moisture, the temperature dropping by the second.
The surfer-looking dude took over the lead, stopping about five hundred feet from the front gate. A figure dressed in all black, who I assumed was the dunderhead Frank, was crouched near the wrought iron fence. His right arm, to above his elbow, was stuck between the rails of the fence.
Mac looked down at him and shook his head in annoyance. “Unless you tell me some entity yanked on your arm and that’s the reason my ten-thousand-dollar EVP meter is lying on the damp ground on the other side of the fence, then I’ll make you pay for any damages.” Mac bent next to him, grabbed Frank’s upper arm and yanked.
“Ow!” Frank howled, then he followed with a doozy of a curse word.
“You’ll dislocate his shoulder,” I said, reaching in my pocket for my trusty tube of Burt’s Bee’s Beeswax Lip Balm. “Allow me.” Mac got up and I crouched next to Frank.
I guessed Frank was in his fifties, but it was hard to tell in the gloom. He was thin as a rail—well, maybe not, or he would have been able to remove his arm. Stringy dark hair escaped from under his Yankees baseball cap.
“Does anyone have scissors or a pocketknife?” I asked.
“What the hell are you doing!” Frank said in a gruff and, I thought, very unappreciative voice.
A pair of scissors were put in my outstretched hand and I went to work cutting through Frank’s lightweight jacket and shirtsleeve. I reached the fingers of my left hand through the space between the bars and tugged on the fabric, leaving the trapped part of his arm bare. Then I took the cap off my lip balm and greased his arm on both sides, along with the two bars surrounding it. “Okay, you can tug on his upper arm.”
Mac did as he was told, and voilà! Frank’s arm came free. He collapsed on the damp ground and looked up at us. “My electrocardiogram was going off, so I stuck it through the gate for a closer reading. I swear, Mac, some spirit knocked it from my hand.”
“Electrocardiogram?” Mac didn’t bother hiding his annoyance. “Were you searching for the spirit’s (pause) heartbeat? They don’t have one. It’s a digital voice recorder, used to conduct EVP sessions. We’ve been over this. EVP, Electronic (pause) Voice (pause) Phenomena. Mr. Holden, you said you’ve been on many ghost adventures. I don’t think that’s the case.”
I was about to volunteer to go retrieve the EVP machine, curious about any disembodied voices it might have picked up, when I heard a male voice behind us: “Everyone stay where you are. And back away from Ms. Barrett.”
Chapter 7
After an East Hampton Town Police officer sent Mac and his abnormal paranormals away, I got back in the pickup and asked Elle, “Why’d you send for the cops? I was just learning how those ghosthunters work.”
She looked at me. “Are you serious? Tell me you’re kidding. You disappear with some big guy who steps out of the shrubbery like Frankenstein’s monster and I don’t see you for ten minutes. What did you think I would do?”
“I was fine.”
“Well, next time shoot me a text or something. Jeez.”
“Understood. Sorry.” I explained to her what went down, ending with, “And the officer wouldn’t even let Mac retrieve his lost EVP, saying it had fallen on private property.” I didn’t tell Elle what an EVP was, or that as soon as she headed home for Sag Harbor, I planned to search for it myself.
Once again, I handed her my ke
y fob. She aimed the controller at the keypad and pulled the truck through the gates.
Even in the doom and gloom, Enderly Hall looked welcoming in its whiteness. The architecture of the main house was a cross between Greek Revival, Colonial, New England Shingle, and Georgian, with a touch of Antebellum that was all cobbled together under a fish-scale roof. It had a pleasing cohesiveness. The combination of styles made me believe that Stanford White had been Enderly Hall’s architect. He was known for mixing centuries and traveling the world for inspiration. A wide eight-column front veranda wrapped around both sides of the mansion. I’d painted all the veranda’s wood floorboards a pale dove gray, added rugs, wicker furniture, tons of potted ferns and even a few small trees in baskets.
Whether it was Stanford White who designed Enderly Hall or someone else, it was an amazing structure. The icing on the cake was a circular cupola enclosed with eight six-foot windows and a circular balcony affording views of the lighthouse, ocean, and Block Island Sound.
Once through the gates, I directed Elle onto the dirt road that led to Shepherds Cottage. She parked near the only door and we unloaded the blanket chest.
After we climbed the wood steps and placed the blanket chest on the porch’s plank floor, Elle asked, “Wait! Did you hear that?”
“No?”
“Sounds like something, or someone, was crashing through the wooded area behind the cottage.”
“Probably a human, or a ghost, most likely a deer,” I said, removing my keys from the handbag slung across my torso.
She laughed. “Definitely ghost.”
I inserted the key into the padlock on the door to the cottage, but the lock swung open without a twist of my key. “What the hey . . . I locked this myself. As far as I know, I have the only key.”
“You probably forgot, or Jenna has a spare,” Elle said, not too convincingly.
Elle remained at the door and I went back to the truck to get the cauldron. A thick ocean mist hung like a curtain beyond the bluff, blocking breathtaking ocean views. This close to the lighthouse, gorgeous sandy beaches had been replaced with boulders and smooth stones. Some called this part of the shoreline the Montauk Moors, the terrain found in novels like Wuthering Heights or Jane Eyre. I loved living in my oceanside community, but a few wrong steps on a foggy night and I could find myself tumbling to the rocks below.
My thoughts went to Jenna’s grandfather and how he’d been found exactly that way. Then I thought of Jenna’s accident with the car—dense fog might have been a factor. As for her grandfather’s death, he may have simply wandered off, lost his bearings and dropped to the beach. But what about the hundred-dollar bills that were stuffed in his mouth? Surely that was a warning of some kind. Something you might see on an episode of The Sopranos. Jenna said he’d lost his mind, which would also explain things.
I shook off my morose thoughts and went to grab the cauldron.
“Meg.”
I jumped at least a foot and turned to face Elle.
She laughed. “What’s wrong, did you think I was a ghost? Or ghosthunter? We have so many to choose from. Next time think before you run off with strange men.”
“I wasn’t worried you were a ghost, but you’ve gotta give a girl a warning if you’re sneaking up behind her. Especially a girl with a hearing loss.”
“Sorry. I called your name a few times but you were staring weirdly off in space. With your blonde wavy hair and that long white raincoat, I almost took you for Abigail, the Montauk Point Lighthouse ghost you told me about.”
I laughed. “I think I’m more spooked by that husband of Jenna’s, not any local ghosts or strange men. Roland Cahill’s a piece of work, isn’t he? I’m dying to know what was in that subpoena he got.”
“My impression is he’s very self-absorbed,” she said, shivering. “He didn’t even remember meeting me at his wedding. Seems a completely different person than the one I saw that night. Always doting on Jenna, never leaving her side. That must be the man Jenna fell in love with. I’m thrilled I called Arthur to look into him. I wonder if we should also have a talk with Morgana. She’s the one who sent the officer to save you.”
Officer Morgana Moss had been promoted from the front desk of the tiny Montauk substation of the East Hampton Town Police Department to a full-fledged Town of East Hampton officer. She was also the sister-in-law of my Realtor and good friend, Barb.
“Why didn’t you tell her about Jenna’s fears?” I asked. “If I talk to her, she’ll try to pawn off one of those adorable pups on me.” Morgana bred Maltipoos—Maltese/poodle mixes—and had been after me since the first day I met her to take one. I had a feeling my fat cat should remain an only child, not only for her sake but for the sake of any other poor pet I tried to bring into the household.
“Thought you would be better at explaining things. Plus, at the time, I thought your life was in danger. I’ll keep my fiancé in the loop. You can tell Morgana.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “As you wish. I’ll stop by after I leave here. Any subpoena would be a matter of public record. Maybe she could help us with that too.”
“FYI, Barb told me Morgana is pup-free for the time being. Taking a break from breeding to focus on her new position.”
“That’s a relief,” I said, nodding my head toward the cauldron. “Let’s get this inside, I’m looking forward to getting out of here and warming these old bones in front of a fire. My fire.”
“That sounds good. Let me help you.”
We grabbed hold of the cauldron’s handle Jack and Jill–style, then walked to the cottage and went inside.
After we placed the cauldron on the wrought iron hook inside the cavernous brick fireplace, Elle surveyed the space and whistled. “What an amazing job you’ve done with everything!” Before coming to American Home and Garden as my Antiques and Collectibles editor, Elle had worked as an appraiser at Sotheby’s Auction House in their Americana division. Not letting her talents go to waste, she was occasionally called in to appraise the value of antiques and art for First Fidelity Mutual’s mega-wealthy Hamptons clients, sometimes letting me tag along as her paid assistant.
“With your guidance and counsel, of course.” I glanced around the main room to see if anything was missing. Nothing was missing, but I knew the drawer under the primitive server had been closed when I’d left this morning. I also noticed the slight odor of pipe tobacco.
“Was most of the furniture here when you came in?” Elle asked, walking over to the pine sideboard topped with a double-tiered rack lined with pewter plates and tankards.
“No. There was only one piece here when I started. I guess it makes sense, if Jenna’s grandfather was a hoarder. They would have had to empty the place out. Have you ever seen one of those hoarder shows? They’re awful.”
“I agree, we all need a little dignity when living with our idiosyncrasies. We don’t need our neuroses plastered all over the boob tube. One look at my carriage house and a shrink might think the same thing about us.”
I turned and looked at her. “Boob tube?”
“One of Auntie Mabel’s sayings.” Elle picked up a mustard-colored pie bird from the sideboard’s shelf and cradled it in her hands, then returned it to the shelf. “When Thomas Eastman had to move in here, maybe he brought the Stanford White papers with him.”
“Now you’re starting to think like a detective. Arthur will be proud when I tell him.”
“Doubtful. I’ve been warned not to get involved in any of your hijinks,” she said, then trailed her fingertips across the small rectangular farm table I’d just oiled. “I’m to be on my best behavior while he’s working in Manhattan and not let Ms. Barrett get me in any trouble. And you know what he means by trouble.”
“Nothing going on had to do with me or you . . .”
“Yet. Oh, there’s still time for hijinks, I’m sure. But you have done a wonderful job with the interior of the cottage. Everything looks so authentic for the time period.”
I beamed at the
compliment. “After the designer showhouse, Jenna plans on keeping Shepherds Cottage open to the public, making it a stop for school field trips. Jenna really cares about her family estate.”
“At the thought of Roland selling Enderly Hall and Shepherds Cottage, I think Jenna’s justified in her anger. I’ll bet a hundred bucks Roland doesn’t tell her about that subpoena. You should tell her,” Elle said, walking over to a primitive yarn winder.
“I should? I’m working here. You tell her. Her husband can’t convince Jenna to fire you.”
“She would never do that. And I have a feeling his bluster is worse than his bite.”
“I’m not so sure. Did you see Kuri’s wrist?”
“Enough of this depressing talk,” she said, clapping her hands. “Let me enjoy looking around, then I need to scat.”
“Yes, ma’am. The space is so tiny, your tour should take about five minutes. I don’t know how they did it back then. I would be claustrophobic. Here’s the main room, obviously,” I said.
In the main room was a primitive handmade wood table and rush seat ladderback chairs. A pine corner cupboard displayed white ironstone and an assortment of wood butter molds. Next to the cupboard was a New England spice chest that I knew wasn’t a reproduction, because Jenna had purchased it at an auction from Christie’s in Manhattan. The final piece of furniture next to the yarn winder was a pine dry sink. I’d placed an antique crock sporting a New York pottery maker’s mark in the dry sink. Inside the crock, I’d added a lush Boston fern, wanting to add a touch of green to enliven the low-ceilinged, cramped space. The plant was the only thing that differed from what you might find in an original late-1600s sheepherder’s cottage.
Elle walked next to the dry sink. She held up the crock to read the maker’s mark. “Wow, where did this come from?”
“Jenna found it at a shop in Bridgehampton. Paid five hundred for it.”
She turned it around in her hands, then searched the bottom. “Don’t tell her, but it’s a fake. A good fake.”
“It fooled me,” I said, disappointed. “But you’re right, Jenna has enough going on. And most everything from the time period Shepherds Cottage was first built is long gone anyway, and completely unaffordable.
A Design to Die For Page 5