by Carrie Doyle
“Yes,” said Barbie firmly.
Naomi glared at her.
“Naomi, didn’t Gordon die of a heart attack?” prompted Antonia.
“Yeah, right, whatever.” Naomi rolled her eyes.
Antonia was exasperated. “No, not ‘yeah, right, whatever.’ Did he or did he not die of a heart attack?”
“Yes,” said Lucy from behind. “Heart attack.”
Antonia didn’t shift her gaze from Naomi’s face. “Isn’t that so, Naomi?”
Naomi looked down at her tennis sneakers. They were very clean white Reeboks that she had worn every time Antonia had met with her. She took some time to answer, after taking several deep, relaxing breaths that looked more appropriate for a yoga class.
“The official cause of death was…a heart attack,” she said at last, glaring at Barbie, who still wouldn’t meet her eye.
Antonia felt her heart race. “What was the unofficial cause of death?”
Naomi finally glanced in Antonia’s direction. She gave her a small smile, her lips curling enough so that her thin top lip disappeared into the bottom. The look reminded Antonia of a defiant child forced to lie to a teacher.
“Heart attack,” Naomi repeated before adding, “but I’d bet my bottom dollar that this tramp here figured out a way to cause it.”
Barbie snorted. “Like I said, I wasn’t even here when he died. How could I cause a heart attack?”
Antonia kept her eyes on Naomi. “Why didn’t you tell the police if you suspected it?” asked Antonia.
Naomi rolled her eyes. “I wanted to make sure I could sell the inn. No one would have bought this place if they thought Gordon was murdered. That’s my official story and I’m sticking to it.”
4
The only way Antonia could persuade Naomi and Barbie to leave was to confiscate the cardboard box that they had been fighting over and promise to review the contents herself. After ascertaining to whom it rightfully belonged, she would personally deliver the box to her. It appeared to temporarily appease both ladies.
“What do you think?” Antonia asked Lucy, as they sat in her cramped office to regroup. Antonia immediately poured herself a cup of Earl Grey tea, which Lucy refused, and brought out a plate of coconut macaroons that were fresh out of the oven. As Antonia popped the third cookie in her mouth, she noticed Lucy watching her with a somewhat disdainful look. She slid the plate in Lucy’s direction but received a vehement shake of the head.
“Sorry, but I totally believe in comfort food,” said Antonia, wiping her fingers on her napkin before she took a big gulp of her milky tea. She grimaced slightly at the bitterness and spooned another large scoop of honey into her mug. “Anything bad or unpleasant and I dive for the pantry. Break my heart, pass the banana bread. Steal my money, serve me some buttered noodles!”
Antonia smiled but when Lucy did not, she became serious again.
“So, back to business. Can you tell me a little bit more about the personal history here? Because I am totally confused.”
Lucy smoothed her skirt and took a moment to gather her thoughts before answering. Antonia had noticed that she was always very precise. That and she had excellent posture. Even now while Antonia sat flopped in her chair, Lucy was on the edge of her seat, sitting erect. It made Antonia straighten up a little and reminded her of her mother who always used to admonish, “Sit up straight, shoulders back, head up, stomach in!”
“Well, as I’m sure you can tell there was never any love lost between Naomi and Barbie.”
Antonia waited, but when Lucy didn’t continue, she probed further. “Okay, so maybe they hate each other. But why would Naomi accuse Barbie of murder?”
“I’m not really sure.”
“But was there a suspicion that Gordon had been murdered?”
“I never heard that,” said Lucy, stifling a yawn. “Naomi is just being dramatic.”
“But she seemed to believe it.”
“People can believe what they want if they so choose. I could walk out of this room and say you punched me and even though there was no proof, many people would believe it.”
“True,” conceded Antonia, momentarily wondering if such a thought had actually crossed Lucy’s mind. “Do you think it’s because of the whole mythology of the inn?”
Lucy paused. “I only recently heard about that.”
“Really? But you’ve lived in this town your whole life, haven’t you?”
“Well, not really. I’ve been in East Hampton on and off my entire life; we moved away for a while. But yes, I consider myself a native. And I don’t really believe in all that gobbeldygook. I have better things to worry about.”
“That’s reassuring,” said Antonia. She took another sip of her tea while Lucy waited. She could tell Lucy was eager to return to work and was only humoring her boss, but Antonia wasn’t done.
“What do you think is in there?” Antonia motioned towards the disputed box, now sitting on the edge of her desk.
“Like I said to Barbie, nothing. I packed all those boxes myself. It was just scraps of paper that Gordon jotted things down on, flyers, junk mail. I went through absolutely everything twice and I know there was no will in there. I should have dumped it way back when. I’ll go through it again this afternoon. But it really should just be thrown out.”
“That’s okay, I can do it.”
“Are you sure? It’s no problem.”
Antonia shook her head. “I got it. I don’t understand, why was Barbie so hostile to you?”
With a tilt of her head, Lucy paused to consider this. “We got along fine when Gordon was alive, pretty much had minimal contact. I think she’s just bitter that I’m still working here and she’s out on the street.”
Antonia thought there must be more to it than that. “But those were some fighting words she threw at you.”
Lucy’s face quivered slightly, and Antonia thought she might be embarrassed. “Perhaps I wasn’t as discreet as I should have been. I clearly came down on the side of Team Naomi whenever there were these kerfuffles.”
“Got it. So, what was Gordon like?”
Lucy shrugged. “Well, I knew him for a long time. Gordon was not a popular man. He alienated vendors, he would impulsively fire staff…One could say he was rude, mercurial and selfish.”
“Geez, doesn’t sound like the right personality to run an inn! This is a service business after all.”
“I know. It didn’t suit him. But sometimes he could be wonderful and fun. There was something oddly charismatic about him that made people want to please him. Almost mesmerizing.”
“Really? That doesn’t jibe with everything I’ve heard about him.”
“Well, no one is one-dimensional. I assume there were many layers to Gordon. But I wouldn’t really know, I kept my head down and did my work.”
“What was his relationship like with Barbie?”
“I tried not to get involved, I’m just an employee, and I do like to keep things professional…” Antonia felt this last remark was pointed at her and this line of questioning. Once again Antonia didn’t let her off the hook.
“But…”
“It was hard to avoid it sometimes. They fought like cats and dogs, always screaming at each other, breaking up, making up. Very toxic.”
“Bad relationship but nothing out of the ordinary, then?”
“Not really.”
“You dealt with the finances, the books. Do you think Gordon was going to leave his share to Barbie?”
Lucy hesitated a beat too long. “I don’t know…”
Antonia pounced on the opening. “Come on, Lucy. I feel like you’re holding back…”
Lucy glanced around the room, avoiding eye contact. Antonia could tell she was wrestling with some sort of internal debate as to whether she would spill what she knew. Antonia was certain she c
ould break her.
Finally, Lucy sighed deeply. Her face was troubled, her eyes distant. “I would prefer to let sleeping dogs lie, Antonia.”
“Ah, but they are not asleep. What do you know, Lucy?”
Lucy was quiet for an entire minute, perhaps waiting for an out, but Antonia didn’t bite. When she grasped that she was cornered, Lucy conceded defeat.
“I overheard a conversation Gordon had on the telephone. I don’t know who was on the other end. But he said that he was changing his will. And he wanted to make sure Barbie got nothing. It sounded like he had originally planned to give her everything, but he was so angry at her that he was cutting her out.”
“Why was he angry at her?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know for sure.”
“And not for sure?” Antonia prompted.
Antonia could practically see the wheels in Lucy’s brain turning. “I think she had another guy on the side.”
“Why?”
“I saw her around town a few times in odd places at odd hours with another man.”
“Who?”
“I think he may work at a liquor store. I vaguely remember that because of his shirt, I can’t remember what it said exactly, but I was left with that impression. Physically, he’s tall, handsome. Married.”
“Married?” asked Antonia, raising her eyebrows. “How do you know?”
“Gordon. Those last few months, he was trashing her. Said something about the man being married and that she’d end up with nothing if she pursued it.’”
This reminded Antonia of something. She almost mentioned it to Lucy, but decided to keep it to herself for now. Instead, she shifted directions.
“So you think he’d have left his share to Naomi?”
Lucy met her eyes and leaned in, as if she was revealing something she shouldn’t. “What Barbie said was true. Gordon was furious at Naomi. Claimed she was stealing money from him. If I told him she was on the phone, he’d slam it down. He even threw her out of the inn a week before he died.”
“So, he was feuding with both women.”
Lucy’s head bobbed in agreement. “Yes.”
“Then they both had motives,” announced Antonia with a shiver. “And this so-called tale of innkeepers’ untimely deaths might be true after all. I’m doomed.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
* * * * *
Antonia had been tempted to drive, but figuring that was very California of her, especially since it was only about three blocks, she opted instead to slip out of her Crocs, don her Uggs and amble east down Main Street, also known as Route 27. To be honest, Antonia found any sort of physical activity repellant in general, but since the extra ten pounds she had been carrying around on her 5’5” frame had now morphed into an extra eighteen pounds, she vowed to make walking her thing. She was half Italian (from her mother) and half English (from her father). But instead of inheriting her mother’s beautiful and smooth caramel complexion, she had her father’s white skin (she’d call it pasty, others referred to it as “peaches and cream”), and instead of her father’s slight, skinny frame, she had her mother’s wide hips. Oh well.
Although Antonia’s state of mind was frazzled and concerned, it was a glorious fall day and that she could appreciate. The leaves on the ubiquitous plane trees were the color of flames, pumpkins and gold, and when the wind blew, the leaves cascaded to the sidewalk like fireworks. The October sun dappled the various houses along the far side of the road, and Town Pond shimmered in the orangey light. Antonia was almost regaining her high spirits until she glanced at the cemetery, which prominently held court in the center of the village green. She couldn’t help but feel as if it were mocking her. No way, you won’t get me now, thought Antonia as she determinedly swung open the front door of the two-story, gambrel roofed shingled building that housed The East Hampton Star. I will not go down because of some stupid curse!
The Star was a weekly paper that had existed for over a hundred years. Like most small town papers, it covered local politics, commerce news, business transactions, current events and sports. A large part of the newspaper was classifieds and real estate advertisements. The editorials were opinionated and often incurred spirited “letters to the Editor” and the sports coverage was a bit reverential, because all the stars were homegrown. Fortunately, the reviews of local restaurants were usually laudatory, and Antonia had already been featured in a glowing piece. Since then it was the only newspaper she read.
She was directed to a small office in the back, next door to the restroom that appeared to double for both men and women. After knocking briskly and being invited to enter, Antonia found herself in a disorderly mess of a room with framed posters of Bob Dylan adorning the walls and a random assortment of globes. At first they appeared to have been collected for a decorative effect but now looked more like a cluttered afterthought.
Larry Lipper had a chiseled jaw, a full head of salt and pepper hair that matched the two days worth of stubble on his cheeks, and thickly lashed, piercing grey eyes. He would have been considered remarkably handsome except for the fact that he was profoundly diminutive. Small in stature, with eyes bordering on beady, and small hands, small ears, and a small nose, Antonia found herself wondering if the old adage was true…but then stopped herself.
“Hello,” he said, giving her the up and down. His voice was remarkably deep for such a little man. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“Hi, is this a bad time?”
“No…”
She didn’t need further encouragement but continued on. “You don’t know me at all, but Nick Darrow referred me to you. I’m Antonia Bingham; I just bought the Windmill Inn down the street. Can I sit down? I am sorry to bother you, but I really need your help.”
“Whoa, hang on a second. Hang on. Did you just come from the city? You are talking way too fast for this town,” he said, leaning back in his desk chair and folding his arms behind his head. He threw her a bemused look. “You’ve got to slow down.”
“Sorry. I’m just a little worked up. I’m not from the city. Believe it or not, I’ve only been there twice, but maybe those three cups of caffeinated tea that I just had didn’t help.”
“What’s going on, Antonia Bingham?” he said in a sing-songy voice. “You do seem like a lady who needs a drink.”
“That could be true, although I don’t like to think of myself as a daytime drinker. I would never refuse if Bailey’s found itself into my afternoon espresso, but I don’t actively seek out booze in daylight.”
He glanced around the room and eyed a half finished bottle of whiskey on his window shelf. Next to it were two shot glasses that appeared sticky and used. He reached for the bottle but Antonia stopped him.
“No, really, that’s okay. I don’t need anything.”
“You sound like you do.”
“Really, I’m fine. I mean, alcohol-wise.”
He gave her a skeptical glance but put the bottle back in its place.
“Take a load off and tell me what gives.”
Antonia sat down but just as quickly rose and removed the spiral notebook that she had inadvertently sat on, and after glancing around at the mounds of books and stacks of papers on his desk, decided to place it on a bookshelf next to a Yankees mug and a Bart Simpson bobble head.
“I’ll just put this over here,” she said.
“Yeah, sorry about that. My work is pretty complicated, and I need a lot of books to keep it all accurate.”
“I’m sure.”
“So what about you? What can I do you for?”
“Well, as I said, I just bought the Windmill Inn. And now I’m hearing all these stories about it. Scary stuff. So, Nick Darrow suggested that I talk to you, that maybe you would have some ideas?”
“Nick Darrow suggested me?”
“Yes, he thought you could help.�
��
“Huh,” he said, scratching his chin idly. “What’s going on?”
“Well, you know Gordon Haslett, the previous owner? Was there any sort of ‘cloud of suspicion’ about his death, as they say? Because his girlfriend and sister were just at my inn and they were pretty angry. One even accused the other of murdering him, and I have reason to believe they both have motive. And, as they were fighting, I remembered something that I found when I first moved into the inn. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but now it is haunting me. Here, look at this.”
Antonia pulled out a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and unfolded it. When she had spoken to Lucy earlier it had reminded her of something, a note she had found. She was so happy that she had kept it and now presented it to Larry. He took it from her, scanned it, and then glanced up.
“I don’t get it.”
“No, of course, let me explain. I had an industrial cleaning service do a very thorough cleaning of the inn. But a few weeks ago I was opening the window, which is one of those old windows—very hard to open, gets stuck all the time. So I was exerting an inordinate amount of energy trying to get it open…”
“Maybe you should work out.”
“Thanks, yes, perhaps. And you should read Emily Post, but anyway, all of my pushing and heaving of the window caused the cross to fall off my necklace behind the radiator. When I reached down to retrieve it, I found this sheet of paper. I was distracted so I just glanced at it and tossed it into my bottom drawer. It is written in what I now know from other documents to be Gordon’s handwriting. See what it says? ‘I swear to god that B is trying to kill me.’ B trying to kill me! Gordon’s girlfriend is named Barbie. So he might have been referring to her! But then the weird thing is he said ‘that B’ not just ‘B.’ So he might have been referring to someone else and meant, ‘that B’ like the word that rhymes with witch, possibly referring to his sister. It seems like both women had something to gain from his death. So there is possible proof that Gordon Haslett knew that someone wanted him dead. So what do you think? I know, I’m rambling, but do you have any thoughts? Should I go to the police? I do try to avoid them at all costs.”