A Design to Die For

by Kathleen Bridge

  Frank hadn’t been formally charged, and until he was, I didn’t want to take any chances that Vicki was holed up somewhere, waiting to pounce on Jenna.

  It was only a ten-minute drive to the rental Jenna and Roland had called home while they were renovating Enderly Hall. The exterior of the beach house was on the modern side with lots of floor-to-ceiling windows on the second level. I’d been to the house once before and knew that the bedrooms were on the first floor and the great room and kitchen/dining area on the second level. I hadn’t needed to use Jenna’s key because the door was unlocked. I went inside and made a beeline for the master bedroom, knowing if Vicki was staying here, that would be the one she would choose.

  When I stepped through the open doorway, my mouth flew open. What a mess. All the drawers were open and the bed unmade. Vicki had been in a hurry. I did a quick scan for anything left behind. I didn’t find a thing except for a pink hairclip. I searched the other three bedrooms, but they looked untouched.

  I went up the curving wood staircase to the second floor. The space, with its pitched open-beamed ceiling, reminded me of a loft apartment you mind find in Soho. The only difference was that a Soho loft didn’t look out to a white sandy beach and the Atlantic Ocean. I could only imagine the view on a clear day. Literally. Because now all I saw was torrential rain streaming down the windows and sudden flashes of lightning.

  The upstairs looked untouched. Not even a dirty dish in the sink. Like me, Vicki must not be a cook. The fridge only had an unopened bottle of pink champagne (what a surprise) and something furry in a plastic bag that might, at one time, have been a piece of cheese. There was nothing to be found tying Vicki to Roland’s death.

  Defeated, I went downstairs and grabbed the things Jenna needed from one of the bedrooms that had been turned into a designer closet. I took one more look around the master bedroom and remembered I’d almost forgotten to check the small trash can in the bathroom, something my father had taught me when discussing some of his cases—not to mention, also shown on every cop/detective show on TV when detectives were looking for clues to someone’s whereabouts.

  Instead of digging through the trash, I took out the bag lining the wastebasket and tied it off. I’d take it with me and look at it later. I ran out the door, locked it and put the key back under the urn. It was two forty, soon everyone would be arriving at Enderly Hall.

  Everyone but Vicki Fortune, that is.

  Chapter 30

  Nate and Kuri were seated next to each other on the great room’s sofa. When I’d pulled through Enderly’s gates, they’d followed behind me in Nate’s black Infiniti. Elle had texted me that something big had come up, but she would try to make it by three thirty.

  Jenna was in the armchair by the fire, and I’d chosen to sit on the window seat with its mullioned windows that looked out toward the gazebo. It had stopped raining, but the fog and mist remained, the sky still dark and threatening.

  When the doorbell chimed, I shot up and said I’d get it, thinking Elle was arriving earlier than expected. I wanted to make sure Elle didn’t say anything to upset Jenna; she always meant well, but like Jenna, Elle could be an alarmist.

  It wasn’t Elle. It was Freya, who had brought her sister Emma, who was in a wheelchair. “Hurry, come in, it’s nasty out there,” I said as Freya pushed the wheelchair through the open doorway. “How did you get up the steps?” I asked. “You should have called on the intercom, someone would have come out to help you.”

  Freya looked down at her sister and said, “Emma can walk with assistance, but only for short distances. Meg, I’d like you to meet my sister, Emma.”

  Emma looked up at me, her pale blue eyes almost ghostly, matching her pale skin. She reminded me of an elfin fairy, or a similar ethereal creature. Her left hand was bent at the wrist, her fingers cupped inward, close to the waist of her floral cotton dress. I would guess she was in her mid-twenties, at least fifteen years younger than Freya. Emma extended her right hand and said with much effort, “I Em-ma Po-ost.”

  “Nice to meet you, Emma Post.” Then I said to Freya, “Everyone’s in the great room.”

  I followed behind them. Freya went over to Jenna, apologizing for bringing Emma and explaining that her sister’s caregiver had been called in for jury duty, adding that all she needed was a quiet place where she could leave her with a stack of adult coloring books and markers. “You love your coloring books, don’t you, Emma?” she said, glancing down at her sister with love.

  Emma glanced up at Freya but didn’t smile. However, her cornflower blue eye lit up when Freya took out a book from a pocket behind the wheelchair and showed it to the room like she was an elementary school teacher introducing a new book at circle time. The coloring book was titled Exotic Birds.

  “This is your new book we got from East Hampton Bookworks, isn’t it, Emma? What’s this on the cover of your new book?” Freya asked her sister.

  “Bird,” Emma replied, the word bird coming out in four syllables instead of one. Emma resembled a bird, a canary with her yellow print dress, petite form, and fair hair.

  “What a wonderful subject,” Jenna said. “Of course Emma is welcome. Anytime. How about you take her into the study? Does she need to be sitting at a table?”

  “No,” Freya answered, “I brought Emma’s lap desk. The study will be perfect, I’ll be able to see her through the glass doors.

  Freya wheeled Emma into the study and we waited until she returned before discussing the future of the showhouse. Everyone agreed that Labor Day would be the best time. Freya, Kuri, and I agreed that we would present Jenna with our receipts for the things we’d brought in and she would reimburse us. Jenna told us she wouldn’t change a thing and looked forward to living among our choices.

  The subject of the trashed Shepherds Cottage was brought up. Jenna had contacted her homeowner’s insurance and they would be by first thing in the morning. Then with teary eyes, she told us that Roland’s ashes, per his will, would be sent to his family crypt in Queens, and his wake, sometime in the near future, here at Enderly Hall. “I just need some time to get things together. I don’t want the press to interfere with our celebration of his life and I’d also like to see justice for that fiend who murdered him. I hope you all understand.”

  “Of course we understand,” Nate said.

  Jenna got up from the armchair and faced us. “Do you think I’m making a big mistake, rescheduling the showhouse?” She wrung her hands together and pink flushed her cheeks. I couldn’t bear for the old Jenna to surface, second-guessing herself and playing the victim. “Who would want to come see a house where someone had been murdered?” she asked.

  A lot of people, I thought, but instead I said, “One day at a time, Jenna. We’re all here for you. I’m your neighbor, remember? Roland wanted the showhouse. Opening Enderly Hall to the public would be part of his legacy.”

  “You’re right, Meg,” she said, collapsing back into the armchair. “One thing that is going to change is I am removing anything Vicki put in her rooms for the showcase. Elle Warner is going to take over. Vicki never had a kind word for Roland or was appreciative of anything we’ve done for her. If it wasn’t for Roland funneling money into Veronica’s Interiors, the company would have folded years ago. Now that he’s gone, she won’t get a red cent from me.”

  I thought it was the perfect time to exit the room and find out what was keeping Elle. It had been a long day, and I’d been neglecting my chubby kitten, plus I had an ulterior motive of walking the beach toward Patrick’s cottage on the off chance he would see me and we could discuss all the new developments.

  “Can I get anyone something to drink? I’m parched,” I said, standing and heading toward the door leading to the kitchen.

  Everyone declined.

  “Freya, how about Emma. Can I bring her anything?”

  “Oh, that would be great. Just some water, no ice and a straw. Plastic or paper cup if you have.”

  Looking toward Jenna, who wa
s now staring into the fire, I realized I’d have to find the cups on my own. “Okay, I’ll be right back.”

  I found a stack of plastic cups next to a box of paper straws in a pantry the size of my kitchen. Everything was neat and organized, with enough staple ingredients to rival those shown on cooking competition shows. Jenna was a good cook, but I think half of the items were meant to be on display for the showhouse. The vintage aqua glass Ball jars that were filled with dried beans had come from Mabel and Elle’s. Open shelving held dinnerware in the Spode pattern that Jenna had been collecting over the years, enough to service a royal banquet at Kensington Palace. I took a cup and a straw, then walked into the kitchen, where I grabbed a bottle of water from one of the refrigerated drawers to the right of the double farm sink.

  Before pouring the water into the Emma’s cup, I sent a quick text to Elle: Where are you? We’re all leaving soon.

  She answered like her fingers had already been poised over her phone’s keyboard. Don’t go anywhere. I’m waiting for a call from Arthur. He said he has some important news to tell me. I’m scared. Need my friend. Be there in fifteen.

  I’m here. I’m sure it’s nothing.

  Boy, was I wrong.

  Chapter 31

  Before going back to the great room, I brought Emma her water, holding it to her lips while she drank. She didn’t say thank you, but nodded her head and smiled instead.

  “What a beautiful picture. You have a real talent.” I wasn’t just serving platitudes, her choice of colored markers for the peacock she was working on was spot-on. “When you’re finished, I think that could hang in a museum.” She gave me a puzzled look. “When you’re finished, I bet Freya will hang it on your refrigerator.” That brought a big grin.

  She carefully took four markers in her right hand and held them up to me. Her left hand remained stationary. “Do you want me to choose your next color? She nodded her head yes. I chose an iridescent royal blue. Emma put the other markers on the tray, and I handed her the marker. In a few deft strokes, she filled in the area around one of the peacock’s eyes in its tail. I had to wonder if she’d ever seen a peacock before. She must have because she’d gotten the color and shading exactly right. And there wasn’t one area where she’d gone outside the lines.

  “Do you need anything else, Emma?” She shook her head no. “I’ll leave your water then.” I placed the plastic cup in the cupholder on her lap desk and noticed the tube coming from her right ear. Freya had told me on Friday that her sister had cochlear implants. I tapped her on the shoulder, and when she looked up at me, I tucked my hair behind my ears and pointed one at a time to my hearing aids, then to her cochlear implant. I gave her a thumbs-up.

  At first, I didn’t think the fact that we were kindred spirits in the hearing department had registered. Then she put down her marker and reached for my hand and squeezed it. I squeezed back, fighting the scratchy feeling at the back of my throat.

  After she released my hand, I said goodbye and went toward the glass doors leading into the great room. I pulled the brass handle and opened the door. Just as I was about to walk through, Elle burst into the room. She was drenched from the rain, mascara trailing down her cheeks like she was an Alice Cooper groupie. She stood on the Persian rug, water dripping from her black raincoat.

  What could be so important that she wasn’t cognizant of the value of the rug?

  With her next words I found out.

  “Arthur called. They just found Vicki Fortune’s body at the bottom of a ravine nicknamed Massacre Valley.”

  Massacre Valley was a nickname for a Montaukett Native American site that butted up to Montauk Manor.

  “Is she dead?” Freya asked.

  “Yes.”

  Tough Kuri, who’d stood up for herself with Roland, looked panicked. She asked, “What does this mean? Is the killer coming after everyone who has something to do with the showhouse? Picking them off one by one, like in an Agatha Christie book? I thought the guy was in jail?” Kuri grabbed Nate’s hand. I saw him squeeze hers back, then she pulled her hand away and placed it on her lap. No one noticed but me.

  “He is in custody,” Nate said, locking his eyes on Kuri’s face. “He probably killed her before Chief Pell caught him last night.”

  I opened my mouth to correct him that it was Officer Moss who should get the credit, then thought better of it. If Nate and the chief were pals, nothing I said would change that. Morgana was right, we didn’t want to rock the already sinking boat when it came to communication with the Suffolk County Police.

  Jenna jumped up. Addressing Elle, she said, “Could it have been an accident?”

  Elle said, “No. It wasn’t an accident.”

  “How was she killed?” Freya asked.

  “Choked.”

  Jenna let out a little cry. “The same as Roland.” Then she promptly fainted into the armchair.

  Nate got up and ran to her, gently slapping her cheeks until she opened her eyes. “Jenna, you need to be strong. Vicki was killed by that same maniac they have in custody. He can’t hurt anyone.”

  Not necessarily true. I believed we had a different maniac we should be looking for.

  Vicki went missing sometime early Sunday morning. Mac Zagan said that Frank Holden had spent Saturday night in the lighthouse with the paranormal crew, only leaving when I showed up Sunday afternoon after meeting with Ashley and Justin at their future cottage. I didn’t speak up, knowing we would have to wait for the medical examiner to give us the exact time of Vicki’s death.

  If she was killed during the hours Mac said Frank was at the lighthouse, that meant he hadn’t killed Vicki. And if he hadn’t killed Vicki, what were the chances he hadn’t killed Roland.

  Pretty darn good, I thought.

  It appeared Vicki and Roland’s killer might be in this room. The Barrett blotches started their ascent, and I had the urge to run out of the front door, pulling Elle and Jenna with me.

  Wait. If it hadn’t been Frank,. could I be wrong? Could Jenna have killed both her husband and Vicki?

  I hoped not. But just in case, I wouldn’t be inviting Jenna to stay with me. And until the real killer was caught, I planned to stay away from Enderly Hall. Let Nate, Jenna’s cousin, take care of her. Oops. Unless he was the murderer with the help of his adulterous girlfriend Kuri. Then there was Freya: if she was having an affair with Roland and something went south, she could be our killer. But why would she kill Vicki?

  Longing to leave, I stood up and said, “Nate, I’m sure you’re right.”

  Even though I knew—he was dead wrong.

  Chapter 32

  I almost collapsed liked Jenna had done earlier when I walked into my cozy, welcoming, serene—extra emphasis on serene—cottage. The first thing I did after taking off my raincoat was to light a fire. As if on cue, Jo got up from her favorite chair, which also happened to by my favorite chair, and rubbed her Maine coon body against my legs, sending up plumes of cat hair. I wasn’t fooled that she’d missed me. She just wanted to be fed.

  The next thing I did was go to the landline phone and check my messages. There were six from Cole, and zero from Patrick. Cole had also left messages on my cell phone that had been translated to text. They all basically said the same thing: We need to talk. I need to explain something. Blah, blah, blah.

  I deleted them all.

  Earlier, after the police arrived at Enderly Hall to officially talk to Jenna, and asking her permission to get entry to the beach rental that Vicki had been staying at, I’d pulled Elle aside and told her about Frank spending Saturday at the lighthouse and that he didn’t leave the park until around one in the afternoon on Sunday. She’d promised to pass it on to her fiancé. I was happy he would know about it because Morgana was out of commission until she was well enough to leave Southampton Hospital, and there was no chance I would tell Chief Pell.

  Then I’d had a thought. Morgana could let her fingers do the walking from her hospital bed. I called Morgana and told her abo
ut Frank’s possible alibi for Vicki’s murder. “Holy moly!’ she’d yelled into my ear. “I need to get out of this prison. There still might be a killer on the prowl!” I’d also asked her what Vicki had been choked with. Instead of an extension cord, she’d told me the killer had used one of Vicki’s pink scarves. I could tell by the hesitation in Morgana’s voice that she was starting to believe that Frank Holden hadn’t killed Roland or Vicki, but she also warned me that before doing anything, we would have to wait for the coroner’s report. Then she promised she would personally have a talk with Mac Zagan and also get ahold of footage from Montauk Point Lighthouse Park’s security cameras.

  There was nothing else I could do.

  Well, maybe something.

  After feeding Jo a dozen cat treats, because it was too soon for dinner, I grabbed my raincoat, ran out the French doors to my deck, then down the steps to the beach. I had one destination in mind—to see someone with the initials P.S. and talk over the latest developments.

  There was some good news as I followed the shore west: the rain, thunder and lightning had stopped, but a hazy mist remained. That was the best I could come up with as I looked toward the turbulent sea. The whitecaps and pounding surf were a mirror to my churning thoughts. I broke into a fast walk, worried Roland’s and Vicki’s killer might take advantage of the mist and my hearing loss to sneak up behind me before I could reach safe harbor. Safe harbor in the form of Patrick Seaton.

  I didn’t have to walk the mile to his cottage because up ahead I saw the outline of his tall body. He and Charlie were standing in front of the nature preserve where we left each other dead poets’ verses in the sand. I hurried toward them and was thrilled when Patrick smiled as soon as his eyes met mine. Charlie bounded up to me and licked my hand. I wasn’t sure if it was in greeting or because my hand still had the scent of Jo’s cat treats.

  “Fancy meeting you on a day like this,” Patrick said. In his right hand he was holding a thin piece of driftwood resembling a cane; its tip had a carved point. Next to him, written in the sand, was a single word—Who.