“Jenna’s vision was to recreate how the interior might have looked in 1699, the same time period of Captain Kidd’s historic landing on Gardiners Island, where he’d buried his treasure. It’s said that he warned the Gardiner family that if they touched it, they would pay the highest price. Only it was Kidd who’d paid the highest price.”
“You’ve gotta love a good treasure story,” Elle said.
“Exactly.” I bent down to grab one side of the blanket chest. “Can you help me bring this to the bedroom?”
“Of course,” she said, reaching for the other end.
Ten steps later, we went through the open doorway to the bedroom. At five foot seven, my head barely cleared the top of the threshold. I’d read somewhere that the average height of a man in the seventeenth century was around five foot four, which explained the cottage’s low ceilings.
We centered the chest in front of the bed.
“Pretty snazzy for a sheepherder’s cottage,” Elle said, referring to the fourposter bed that took up most of the room.
“Tell me about it,” I moaned. “I only had enough room left for a candlestand table and that small dresser that I got from your shop. The bed’s the only piece of furniture that came with the cottage from when it was delivered in 1900 from Gardiners Island. Jenna said it originally came from the Gardiners’ manor house. How it ended up in Shepherds Cottage is a mystery. I got rid of the mattress and added a cotton feather topper from a catalog. It’s not like anyone will be sleeping on it.”
“Especially if the cottage is haunted. The bed’s beautiful. The hand-carved spindle posters and legs were made on a lathe, quality craftsmanship for the time period,” Elle recited in her Sotheby’s voice.
“Instead of slats to hold the mattress there are ropes. I even found an old key tied to the frame. Not sure what that’s for.”
“That’s one mystery I can solve,” Elle said. “The key is to tighten the ropes if the mattress starts to sag.”
“Of course. I should have thought of that.”
“You’re learning, my little Americana grasshopper,” she said, smiling. “Seriously, you’ve done a magnificent job.”
I was pleased by her compliment as I took two folded quilts from the end of the bed and placed them in the blanket chest, letting the corner of one peek out before closing it.
A few minutes later, after I showed her the other small room, Elle said, “Well done, Meg Barrett. And you didn’t even need help from little ole me.”
“Good thing I let you drag me to Colonial Williamsburg that time,” I teased.
She laughed. “You mean the time you didn’t want us to veer off the Virginia junk-pickin’ trail in order to see some boring, fake colonial village. The same place where I had to physically pull you away from the blacksmith’s shop, where there was that muscular reenactor, all shirtless and oozing muscles, wearing a leather apron, and who you said looked like, if I might quote you, the dark, brooding actor who had played Ross Poldark on PBS?”
I grinned. “Not true. I wasn’t interested in him; just how to form a horseshoe the old-fashioned way.”
“Horseshoe, my . . .”
“Okay, okay.” I threw my hands in the air. “I surrender. You win. Colonial Williamsburg was an amazing experience.”
Elle headed for the doorway. “Unless you need me,” she said, reaching in her handbag and removing her keys, “I better head back to Sag Harbor. Maurice has his little league game to coach, although I don’t know how those boys will be able to see each other in this fog.” Maurice was Elle’s full-time salesperson at Mabel and Elle’s Curiosities. “And I have a pine breakfront to wax,” she added. “Wait until I show you the before and after pics. Maurice has been putting things on a photo app with their price and selling them before they can even make it from the carriage house to the shop,” she said, grinning.
“Hey, I’d like a preview of your treasures before you send them out to the masses.”
“I think you have enough of your own fixer-uppers in the carriage house. It seems your assigned half is piled high with projects. But yes, I will give you a heads-up. Only because you’re planning my engagement party, bestie.” She gave me a quick hug and I followed her back into the main room.
Putting her hands on her hips, Elle did another scan of the room. “How perfect is that cauldron from Grimes House? A perfect pairing, along with that crude broomstick leaning against the hearth. Now all you need is a docent dressed as the witch from Hansel and Gretel to tell the tale of Goody Garlick.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “Hey, you said you’d tell me about her.”
“A quick synopsis. Once upon a time, Goody Garlick’s husband worked on Gardiners Island. Lion Gardiner, owner of the island and founding father of East Hampton, also the father of the woman who accused Goody of witchcraft, knew his daughter was out of her mind from an illness when she accused Goody of witchcraft. After Goodwife Garlick was exonerated, Lion Gardiner took care of both Goody and her husband until their deaths. I’m pretty sure the Garlicks lived in East Hampton, though, not in Shepherds Cottage, but the romanticist in me likes to think they did. It’s a much better picture than Jenna’s unsound grandfather living in here. Maybe I should let my paranormal investigator buddy Mac inside, so he can use some of his gadgets to look for trapped spirits needing to pass over to the other side.” I hummed my version of the Twilight Zone theme song.
“Now I have the heebie-geebies,” Elle moaned, wrapping her arms around herself. “Let’s continue the ghost discussion when we go to the lighthouse. Now that the ghosthunter crew has been evicted from Enderly, I bet they mosey down the highway to the lighthouse to visit your Abigail.”
“You mean Montauk’s Abigail,” I said as she blew me a kiss, then went out the open door.
I called after her, “Be careful driving in this ungodly weather.” All I could see as she walked away were her vintage red high-top Keds. “Text me when you get there.”
She called back, “You’re not usually a worrier. What’s got you so mushy and motherly?”
“Mushy? Me? Motherly? Never. Now scat!”
I closed the door against the cold and damp, then glanced around the interior of the cottage. Suddenly I felt isolated. What was up?
I’d never been one with any psychic tendencies. Did I detect a premonition of doom?
Maybe. No. Just a long day.
I tried to shake it off like a dog drying off after a dip in the ocean.
But couldn’t.
Chapter 8
Satisfied the cottage was good to go, I padlocked the only door, then followed the path toward the main house. Earlier, after looking at the tracking app on his phone, Roland had told us that Jenna was at Enderly. When Elle and I pulled up, we hadn’t seen her navy Range Rover, just Vicki’s pink minivan with her Veronica’s Interiors logo, a black Infiniti sedan, Freya’s BMW, and my Woody Wagoneer.
The air carried with it a chill that belonged to November, not May. Halfway to the main house, I looked to my left and saw movement inside the gazebo. Through the haze, like something from a romance movie, I saw the silhouettes of two people in an embrace. I crept closer, not because I was a voyeur, more that I was positive one of the figures was Jenna. If the other person was Roland, then apparently they’d made up.
Only the man wasn’t Roland. It was the architect Nate Klein, Roland’s new partner, the owner of Klein and Associates, and Kuri’s boss.
Was Nate just comforting Jenna? Perhaps she’d told him her suspicions that Roland was trying to kill her. Or were they an item?
Not wanting to get caught spying, I turned and walked toward the main house. Out of the fog, I saw Vicki appear. She called out, “Hello. Who’s there? This fog is ridiculous.”
“Meg. Meg Barrett,” I answered when she was only a few feet in front of me.
“Hard to tell what’s what in this crappy weather,” she said in a loud voice. “I saw that Nate’s, I mean, Mr. Klein’s car is parked in the circle. I need to ask him a que
stion about the back parlor, to see if my choices match the architecture of the room. My jackass of a former stepfather isn’t happy with my choices. If Mother was alive, she’d never let him talk to me like that.”
Jenna had told me that Vicki’s deceased mother had only been married to Roland for a short time, and when she’d been alive, Veronica’s Interiors had been a top Manhattan interior design company, which was no longer the case.
“I’ve forgotten, Meg, what’s your role here?” Vicki asked, barely taking a breath between words. She was wearing a pale pink trench coat with its collar up, a fuchsia scarf at her neck. The few times I’d seen her at Enderly, she’d always worn some shade of pink.
Feeling protective of Jenna’s privacy, I wanted to keep Vicki from seeing her with Nate. I stepped closer, giving her no choice but to take a step back. “I’m the local decorator,” I said. “Cottages by the Sea. Remember? I gave you my card.”
“Of course, you’re Jenna’s little friend. The girl who’s furnishing that lean-to shack over yonder.” She waved her heavily gold-braceleted wrist in the direction of Shepherds Cottage.
I kept my temper about the lean-to comment.
Her long wavy chestnut hair was accented with copper highlights and pouffed and teased at the back of her crown, styled like an aging country western singer. Sweeping bangs covered half of her right eye. The color and texture of her hair seemed almost too beautiful to be real. But then again, Vicki lived in Manhattan. If you didn’t have a budget, like some, including me, you could find that special salon that would spray your hair with gold dust and chipped diamonds. But now that I thought about it, Jenna had told me that Veronica’s Interiors was nearing bankruptcy. Roland convinced Jenna to hire Vicki as one of the decorators. Maybe the man did have a soft spot in his soul that I’d somehow missed?
“I know they call Montauk ‘The End’ because of its location,” Vicki said, glancing toward the gazebo.
“Yes, the easternmost tip of Long Island.”
“Well, I think it’s isolating, and not as exciting as where I live in the Village. And what do they have in this one-horse town, about ten shops? Amagansett’s even worse.”
“But you’re staying on beachfront property, only steps from the ocean. It must be heavenly.” I knew the Amagansett cottage she was staying in was nothing to grumble about. But then, Vicki seemed a pro at complaining.
“Who would know with all this crappy weather,” she said, flipping her hair off her shoulder. “I’m just happy Roland has moved here permanently and won’t be interfering with my company anymore. Why my mother named him as chief operating officer when she was alive, I’ll never understand. Are you a member of ASID? I don’t remember seeing you at any of our Manhattan functions.”
“No. I don’t get to Manhattan much. I prefer to stay in Montauk.” ASID stood for American Society of Interior Designers. I didn’t correct her that I was doing more than just the cottage for the showhouse, and even though it was none of my business, the fact Roland had been chief operating officer of his dead ex-wife’s design company gave me a moment of pause. It sure bothered Vicki. I wondered if it bothered Jenna.
“You do know that Roland only married Jenna for her money,” Vicki said. “My mother was his one true love. Too bad Mother hadn’t felt the same way.” She smiled an evil grin. “Well? Have you seen him? Nate Klein?”
“No. Sorry.”
She turned and started toward the gazebo. I grabbed her elbow and spun her around to face the back of Enderly Hall. She tried to pull away, but I kept hold and said, “Safety in numbers. We don’t want to trip on something and not be on hand for tomorrow’s cocktail party.”
Vicki laughed. “You mean, and fall like Jenna did? She’s the clumsiest person I’ve ever met. I don’t know what Roland sees in her. She doesn’t hold a candle, design-wise or beauty-wise, to my mother. Did you know, before her death, for five years in a row, Veronica’s Interiors was voted by Architectural Digest as one of the top ten interior decorating firms in the country? My mother’s great-aunt was Sister Harris. Design runs in our genes.”
Since taking over her deceased mother’s firm, I hadn’t seen one mention of Vicki’s or Veronica’s Interiors in any home décor magazine. And I read them all. “That’s amazing. I’d love to see what you’ve accomplished inside.”
She stopped suddenly. “Do you think Nate’s checking things out at the gazebo? Don’t you think it turned out amazing? You know he was not only the architect for the restoration of Enderly Hall but also for another Stanford White house in Montauk. Resurrecting it from the ashes after it burned down.”
“No, I didn’t know that, but I do know he isn’t at the gazebo because I just delivered cushions for the benches that circle the interior.” A small white lie. I’d finished the gazebo décor two days ago.
“Oh, Jenna gave you the gazebo and the beach pavilion to decorate. I need to have a chat with her. I only got two lousy rooms to work on.” She stuck out her bottom lip. “And they certainly aren’t the cream of the crop, like that decorator nobody Freya Rittenhouse’s rooms. The woman’s not even a designer. But I have to play nice with her because of her Hamptons TV show. It’s not Freya’s fault anyway, I blame Jenna. She’s holding Roland’s relationship with my mother against me. Now I have proof. Giving the best spaces to not one but two unlicensed locals.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from pushing Vicki headfirst into one of the thorny hedges lining the walkway.
When we reached the back veranda, Vicki stopped and looked in the direction of the ocean. She squealed, “Nate! Oh, Nate, there you are. I have a design question for you.”
Nate Klein appeared through the mist like some handsome raven-haired duke from a Regency novel. He pivoted his tall, lean body as if to avoid us, then must have realized Vicki would chase after him no matter which way he turned.
I was just relieved he wasn’t with Jenna.
Nate nodded at me, then gave Vicki a short, clipped reply: “Can’t, Vicki. Need a word with Roland.” Then he turned toward the side path leading to the front of the house.
Again, I wondered if Jenna had shared with him that she thought her husband was trying to kill her. Was Nate a confidant or a lover?
“You know he’s single,” Vicki said, as if reading my mind. “I don’t know how Roland managed to worm his way into the firm. If I know Roland, he’s blackmailing Nate with something.”
The wind from the north picked up and with it came droplets of rain, reminding me I had a cozy cottage and fat cat waiting for me less than a mile down the shoreline. I took a step toward the path Nate had just taken.
Vicki grabbed my arm. “Well?”
I looked at her blankly.
“You said you wanted to see my rooms. I think you’ll be surprised and maybe learn a thing or two about design. Come on, let’s go. It’s nasty out here. My hair’s gonna frizz just like yours. Hey, do you mind videoing me when I show you my rooms? I want to post it on my blog.” She pulled a pink iPad from her shoulder bag and handed it to me. I had no choice but to follow her up the rear veranda’s steps.
“Did you decorate this porch?” she asked.
“Yes, all the outdoor spaces,” I said, happy about the way everything had turned out. The rear veranda was the same length as the front, the furniture similar, only I’d added four white slat rocking chairs, perfect for viewing the ocean on a warm summer evening, and a round table and four chairs to play cards or chess on. Vintage McCoy pottery urns, hanging pots and jardinières were scattered across its width, all in the same pastel teal hue and all sporting lacy ferns. Flowering shrubbery met the white railing.
She held the door open and said, scanning the space, “Simple. Not horrid.”
Not horrid?
• • •
Twenty minutes later, she was right. I had been surprised at her rooms. I was surprised Jenna let her set foot in Enderly Hall. At least Jenna knew what she was doing by giving her only a back parlor and a rear bedro
om suite to decorate. Luckily, the furniture wasn’t brought in by Veronica Interiors, it had come from Enderly’s attic, where Jenna had said her father and uncle had put all the valuable pieces when their father started his decline into madness.
Vicki’s spaces were filled with garish neon-colored accessories, along with rugs that looked like they’d spent a couple centuries being gnawed on by moths and creepy crawlers. Vicki had described the rugs as timeworn, but they were more like wormworn. The good news was, after the showhouse closed, it would be easy for Jenna to get rid of the accessories and floor coverings.
Originally, Jenna had asked me to decorate the library and study for the showhouse. Because of my commitment to Elle’s engagement party, plus getting things together for a client who would be coming out after Memorial Day to see my progress, I’d had to decline. I was trying to keep things simple since moving to Montauk. If I didn’t, I might as well be back in Manhattan with the rat race, and the biggest rat of all, my ex-fiancé and boss at American Home and Garden, Michael.
After I had fake oohed and aahed at Vicki’s exquisite taste, followed by a few—more like a baker’s dozen—of her interior decorating lessons, I was able to escape via the servants’ back stairway.
Once on the main floor I took the narrow hallway toward one of the rear exits.
“Meg, you all set for tomorrow night?” Freya Rittenhouse called out, coming toward me from the direction of the kitchen. Her silky blonde hair brushed her shoulders, and her face had a healthy glow to it that made her look like she’d just come from an exhilarating horseback ride on the beach. In other words, she looked like most of the women in their forties who were pictured at charity events in the Who’s Who newspaper, Dave’s Hamptons. She wore the usual Hamptons preppy uniform, consisting of an untucked white dress shirt, slim black ankle-length pants and black ballet flats. Completing the look were two simple pearl stud earrings and a single strand of pearls that hit just below her collarbone. Freya’s dewy face showed little makeup, just a touch of color to her lips and mascara, no eyeshadow. When I’d watched her local Hamptons Home and Garden talk show, I got the impression she didn’t laugh a lot, was always serious and intent as she quizzed her interviewee or gave tours of local Hamptons estates.
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