Death on Windmill Way: A Hamptons Murder Mystery

by Carrie Doyle

  Larry leaned back further in his chair and put his feet on his desk so that now Antonia had worn, dirty black soles staring her in the face. He kept his gaze on her, studying her face as if he were registering her story. Finally he spoke.

  “How do you know Nicky?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Nicky Darrow. You said he sent you to me. How do you know him?”

  That was his takeaway from my entire story? Antonia thought. He wants to know how I know Nick Darrow? “I don’t know him actually. I briefly met him today.”

  Nick put his feet down and shifted in his chair.

  “He’s a great guy. You should really get to know him.”

  “I’m sure a lot of people would love to get to know him, as he is one of the most recognizable actors in the world. But I seriously doubt he’s on the lookout for new friends.”

  “We’re pretty tight.”

  “That’s great.”

  “Yeah, Nicky and I have done some serious damage in this town. That guy can out drink me and you won’t find many people who can do that.”

  “Really,” said Antonia flatly.

  “Yeah, but it’s not all party-party. Did he tell you how we met?”

  Antonia shook her head.

  “It was intense. He was doing a film where he played a reporter. He wanted it to be authentic, and you know, he was playing someone who covered the grittier stories. Not a big city reporter, that’s been done a zillion times. But someone like me who has to straddle being a member of a community that he has to report on when the people in it do bad things. So Nick followed me around for a week when he was researching the part. Did I tell you who his co-star was?”

  “No, you didn’t mention it.”

  Again Larry brought his feet back up to the table and nestled in for a chat. Antonia watched as his eyes drifted back down memory lane.

  “Kate Winslet. That is one ballsy lady. But you know, she has kids and is busy being a mom when she’s not working, so it was really Nicky and I hanging hard…”

  Antonia listened impatiently as Larry droned on about his contribution to Nick’s acting career. He began describing in detail how his incredible reporting skills were an inspiration for Nick, and how Nick even had some of the script rewritten to include actual anecdotes from Larry’s life. Antonia fervently hoped Nick had won an Oscar for the role, because having to tolerate this homunculus was going above and beyond his duty to his craft. Larry Lipper was an arrogant, boastful, self-aggrandizing person and she couldn’t wait to depart from his presence. She finally had to cut short his discourse.

  “I’m so sorry to interrupt and I would totally love to hear more about this, but I actually have to return to my inn to start dinner service. I’m gathering from your subsequent rambling that you were not impressed by my story about the note from Gordon about people who wanted to kill him and then the fact that he died. That’s fine. But I had hoped that perhaps there was something you might know about Gordon Haslett, or really any of the previous owners, I would be most grateful. But if not, I won’t waste your time any more.”

  Larry gave her an unctuous smile. “What? You don’t have time for a little get to know you, Bingham?”

  Antonia gritted her teeth. “I would like to chat with you, but right now I’m in a rush. I don’t mean to be rude, but just hoped you might have some quick information.”

  Larry abruptly pulled his feet off the desk and landed them with a thud on the floor. He leaned in towards Antonia, once again his eyes glued to her chest. “You’re attractive.”

  Antonia reddened. “Thank you.”

  “So what’s your damage?”

  “My damage?”

  “Your damage!” he said again in his singsong voice, spreading out his arms at the same time. “How did you end up in East Hampton? Everyone who moves here has a history.”

  “I’d argue that everyone has a history.”

  “Very funny. You know what I mean. A divorce, a layoff, an alcohol problem, financial problems, something that made you move here to get away from it all. Because this place is paradise for everyone three months of the year. And everyone else who sticks around beyond that is searching for a year-round paradise that doesn’t exist. So, what was your deal?”

  “My deal is that I like to keep my so-called history to myself, thank you.”

  Larry gave a gleeful smirk and banged his fist on the table. “I knew it, divorce!”

  Antonia stood up. “I’m sorry if I wasted your time. Thank you for listening.”

  “You didn’t waste my time. And you didn’t waste your time either. Because in…” he glanced at the watch clasped around his hairy forearm, “five hours you can seat me in the best table at your restaurant, buy me dinner and a nice bottle of wine, and I will give you all the information you need.”

  Antonia gave him a curious glance. “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean, I can help you. I’ll get you information.”

  She wasn’t sure how to respond. “Okay…”

  “Don’t look so serious, Antonia! I can tell we’re going to be good friends.”

  Antonia didn’t have the heart to tell him that she was absolutely sure that would not be the case.

  5

  Saturday afternoon tea was being served in the parlor and Antonia did a quick detour to check in before she headed to her office. Quite a few tables were full and Antonia greeted several guests, including Ruth Thompson and Penny Halsey, two older local ladies who had become a fixture every day at three pm. Antonia couldn’t help but feel proud as she surveyed the well-appointed room, which looked much less foreboding in the daylight than it had the night before. In her fantasies, this was exactly how she had imagined her snug inn would be. There was a roaring fire at one end, a smattering of antique tables, and plush seating that ladies of a certain age could sink into as they tucked into their scones with jam, served on real English china. At least aesthetically, it was a success. She did notice, with chagrin, that one of the bulbs needed replacing in the recessed light above the bay window, but if any of the guests detected it, they didn’t say anything. She made a mental note to replace it later.

  When Antonia reached reception Connie told her that she had a friend waiting for her across the hall in the library. Antonia found Genevieve deep in an armchair flipping through the latest issue of Cosmopolitan. Of course, the shelves behind her were lined with the classics from Shakespeare to Faulkner and every masterpiece that Antonia could think of when she compiled it, but that was of little interest to Genevieve. As usual, she was dressed to the nines, appearing as if she was straight out of a Ralph Lauren advertisement, which in a sense she was, as she managed the Ralph Lauren store in East Hampton and exclusively wore his label. Today, she had on a camel colored cashmere poncho over a cream cashmere turtleneck, and brown suede skintight pants tucked into chocolate leather boots. A few Native American style necklaces in silver and turquoise were draped around her neck, and she wore a very large aquamarine ring that engulfed her entire middle finger. At first blush, Genevieve was absolutely striking; she had olive skin; long, silky chestnut hair; enormous round green eyes, and was what one would call “a stick”—very tall and very thin. But upon closer examination, her features didn’t entirely mesh; the eyes were too close together, her forehead too broad; it was as if the spacing was off. She was, however, inherently sexy, which offset her physical shortcomings. Her immaturity was another unfortunate problem.

  “So, what gives? I thought you were chained to your inn. All those excuses that you can’t do anything, but then I show up on my lunch break to keep you company and find out you’re gallivanting around town,” said Genevieve, loudly flipping the page. “Ooh, I love these shoes,” she added, casting a disparaging glance at Antonia’s Uggs.

  “I’m sorry. I should be chained to my inn, in fact, I should be in the kitche
n right now working on the loin of pork with the green peppercorns, but I have totally abandoned Marty and Kendra for a wild goose chase.”

  Antonia sunk into the chair opposite Genevieve. She promised herself she would relax for five minutes, and only five minutes, before returning to work.

  “Who the hell are Marty and Kendra?”

  “My sous chef and station chef? You’ve met them ten times.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Genevieve. She blew a large bubble with her gum before popping it loudly and flipping the page of the magazine. “So, where were you?”

  Antonia filled her in on Naomi and Barbie and the curse and the trip to Larry Lipper. She chose not to mention Nick Darrow, knowing that it would lead to an entirely different conversation where she would have to field twenty questions just about his outfit.

  “The point is this is so not me, running around worried about a curse, or trying to find out if this guy Gordon was murdered. What do I care?”

  “Well, it is kind of you, but that’s not the point.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Genevieve rolled her eyes. She dropped Cosmo on the coffee table and picked up Vogue. “You’re kind of nosy. I mean, didn’t your parents nickname you Snoopy because you were always snooping around?”

  “I never should have told you that…”

  “Don’t get offended, it’s not a bad thing. I never would have known Steve was cheating on me if you hadn’t followed him to the bar that day.”

  “Sorry about that. But I knew the guy was a cad.”

  “You saved me years of heartache.”

  “Years?”

  “Okay, months.”

  “More like weeks, judging from your romantic history.”

  “Hey, watch it.”

  “How can I watch it when you are calling me nosy?”

  “It’s not a bad thing. What I mean is that you like to figure stuff out. I remember you used to be obsessed with your ex-husband’s cases. You were more of a detective than he was.”

  “I was better at it than he was. Nothing wrong with that,” sniffed Antonia.

  “Most of the time, no. But it’s not so great when you think that you are the only one who can do everything.”

  “I do not.”

  Genevieve cocked her head and raised an eyebrow. “Take the inn. You decorated it all by yourself; you’re the innkeeper, the head chef. A cushion rips, you sew it yourself. I’ve seen you with tools trying to fix the toilet, and pulling weeds out of the flowerbeds.”

  “Someone has to take responsibility.”

  “Okay, but what about trying to be superwoman? You do your own taxes. You try to play local matchmaker. You’re lobbying the town of East Hampton to reduce noise from the airport…”

  “I just…” Antonia began to protest but then stopped. It was true. “I guess you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right.”

  “Are you saying it’s a bad thing?”

  “No. I’m just saying that you’re thirty-five years old. Time to know who you are.”

  Antonia bit her lip. She could say the same thing to Genevieve. “I think I know who I am.”

  “Great. Then you know that you’re the type of person who will absolutely positively uncover a crime if there was one.”

  Antonia conceded that it was true. She was about to offer some explanation for it and psychoanalyze herself but as usual Genevieve’s attention was fleeting and she had already grown bored of the topic. Genevieve turned Vogue towards Antonia and held up a picture of an anorexic model leaping across a stream whilst clad in an absurd metallic jumpsuit. “Hey, would this look good on me?”

  “Everything looks good on you, it’s just a little ridiculous.”

  “I’m too fancy for this town.”

  “True. The same cannot be said of me,” said Antonia, glancing down at her prairie skirt.

  “That’s for sure. But you never listen to me. You just insulate yourself in all those damn layers of clothes. I promise you, if you made yourself sexy, you could find a man. You have great boobs.”

  “Please. Why do you always want to give me a makeover? I’m happy the way I am.”

  “What about Larry Lipper? Was he hot?”

  “God, no! A vile man. And tiny.”

  “I met the hottest guy the other day. Okay, early twenties so I know that’s like, robbing the cradle for me, but he was so cute…”

  Antonia stared out the window as Genevieve droned on. She watched Hector, the gardener, winding the hose by the front porch. It then dawned on her she should ask him about Gordon Haslett. He had been the one that found him, slumped on the ground by the barn. Dead.

  “You’re not listening,” said Genevieve accusingly.

  “Huh?” said Antonia, jerking her head back towards her.

  Genevieve sighed dramatically. “Are you really so upset about this guy possibly being offed? See? That’s why I didn’t tell you.”

  “You knew?”

  “Everyone knew. But deep down no one really believes the story because it’s totally manufactured. All that bull about the gardener killing him because Gordon had fired his wife for stealing…”

  “Wait, what?”

  “Yes, it was the old, ‘the gardener did it in the solarium with the hoe’.”

  “I never heard the gardener mentioned.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know. Apparently, his wife worked at the inn as a maid and Gordon fired her for stealing a few weeks before he died.”

  “Really?”

  “Supposedly. Who knows?”

  Antonia turned and glanced again at Hector. He was small in stature, compact, but muscular and she knew for a fact, very strong. She watched as his muscles rippled through his shirt when he bent down. He wore his black hair in a short-cropped buzz cut and was always tidy and meticulously dressed, even when he had been working outside. From the first time they met, Antonia sized him up as hardworking and competent, and to date he had proven reliable and honest. He was a family man, proud and devoted to his wife and small children. Very proud. Would he have murdered someone to defend her honor? She didn’t think so. But maybe she didn’t know.

  “It’s just racial profiling,” said Genevieve dismissively. “Don’t worry about it. And anyway, if someone killed Gordon Haslett, I would like to personally thank him or her. He was a jerk and his dying brought you to East Hampton, so we’re all much better off!”

  * * * * *

  An hour after Genevieve left, an odd incident occurred that unnerved Antonia and once again gave her pause about her own mortality. She wasn’t sure if she was psyching herself up, but she was definitely flustered. She realized that perhaps there was something to the whole notion that innkeepers at the Windmill Inn were an endangered species.

  After the completion of tea service, Antonia had grabbed a stepladder and gone into the parlor to replace the bulb that was out above the window. It had been bothering her for an hour. The afternoon sun was drooping and the south-facing room was growing dark. Outside, the yard was already in deep shadow. Antonia had unfolded the ladder and pushed it against the window seat. It was rickety and when she pressed down on the first step, it heaved under her weight. She felt wobbly as she ascended; it was time for a new ladder. She climbed gingerly to the top and reached up to remove the old bulb. The ceilings were high in this room and Antonia had to rise on her tiptoes to unscrew the bulb. She wasn’t afraid of heights but it did feel precarious balancing on the narrow step while she reached skyward. It was a small exercise but it definitely reminded Antonia again how out of shape she was. Her arms felt as heavy as lead as they extended straight up to untwist the bulb. She made a mental note to buy some weights to work on her biceps.

  Antonia slowly worked her fingers around the edge of the bulb, turning and turning until the bulb was loose. She pulled it out but with such
gusto that she almost lost her balance and the bulb flew up in the air. Fortunately, her quick reflexes worked to her advantage and she caught it with both hands before it smashed to the ground. Antonia’s heart was thumping with the near miss and the exertion she had to use in order to complete the small task. She stepped off the ladder and put the bulb down on the console table. She glanced up. Perhaps it might be better if she stood on the window seat instead of the rickety ladder, she decided.

  Antonia removed her shoes and wiggled her stockinged toes. She took a new bulb out of its sleeve. Holding it in one hand she used the other to hoist herself on top of the upholstered window bench. She stared upwards towards the light. No, this would not do. The distance was too far and she would have to hold her body up at a ninety-five degree angle in order to replace it. It was physically impossible. She sighed deeply. Genevieve was right; she was such a control freak. She should cut her losses and ask Hector to come in with his large ladder and do it. But then she felt silly, what, she couldn’t even change a light bulb? It was like a joke, how many innkeepers does it take to replace a light bulb?

  She had an idea. The curtain rods were strong, she knew that. They were thick-brushed brass and when they were installed she had asked the contractor to make sure they were doubly secured because she was hanging very heavy damask curtains on them. She would step on the ladder and hang on to the rod while she replaced the bulb. Easy peezy.

  Antonia held the bulb in her hand and mounted the ladder. She grabbed on to the curtain rod and then hooked her arm underneath it so that she was basically hanging on it. She was aware she would look ridiculous to anyone who entered, but she didn’t care. She was focused on getting this done. Antonia had the bulb and she rapelled her weight away from the window so she was horizontal to the floor and began screwing it in. Her foot was beginning to slip off the ladder but it didn’t matter because she was so intent on the task at hand. She slowly twisted the bulb. Her back now was to the room, facing out the window. She heard someone come in, but she didn’t want to glance around for fear she would lose her balance.