Death on Windmill Way: A Hamptons Murder Mystery

by Carrie Doyle

  Of course, she was also concerned about the inn. She was working her butt off and it was getting to her. It had been the right move to hire Soyla. Perhaps if Antonia trained her well enough, she could assume more of the breakfast baking and at least give Antonia some time off to focus on other things. But the money issues were frightening, and made her feel out of control. She’d have to make cutbacks, and that made her stomach turn.

  Antonia was also worried about the intruder. As she glanced around her apartment in the daylight, she wondered if there was anything else that had gone missing that she didn’t notice. It still made her shudder to think that someone had sifted through her personal belongings. She felt violated. Who had been there? What did they want? Had they been searching for something, or hoping to find her there to kill her?

  And last but not least, the murders were haunting Antonia. She had sniffed around, snooped here and there, and yet she had basically come up with nothing. Everyone was a suspect. Although the police did think Biddy had been murdered, that could be entirely unrelated to Gordon’s death. So then she was looking at two separate murders. And she had no more answers now than she did three days ago. She was so weary from the tension that she almost believed she should just let the police handle it and forget everything. But that was easier said than done. Especially if she was possibly the next target.

  Suddenly, Antonia glanced at her watch, remembering that she had agreed to accompany Liz to meet the Mastersons, the couple looking for a caretaker. She had only fifteen minutes to get ready. She banged down her coffee mug on the counter and rushed to dress. With dismay she realized that there just wasn’t enough time in the day.

  * * * * *

  “The houses around here are gorgeous,” said Antonia to Liz, as she steered her old Saab down Ocean Avenue. They were in the estate section of town, referred to in recent years by brokers as “Georgica area” because of Georgica Beach, which was on one end of it. Antonia drove down this street every morning when she went to Main Beach, but she never got enough of this view. Now that the leaves were dropping, the thick bushes were becoming more penetrable and she could actually see inside the properties and catch a glimpse of the previously hidden houses.

  The houses that are “south of the highway” in the Hamptons are amongst the most coveted in the world. Old Montauk Highway cut through these villages, slicing the property values into two distinct camps: southern properties could run in the multi-millions per acre for property value alone, and northern properties went from the hundreds of thousands to the lower millions, depending on size. Southampton had a much larger “south of the highway” area relative to East Hampton so although still very expensive, it was more accommodating to demand. And in addition, unlike East Hampton, the golf clubs in Southampton were north of the highway so they did not eat into the residential availability. East Hampton had a golf club as well as the large Hook Pond eating up much of its ‘south of the highway’ acreage.

  “I know, East Hampton is the prettiest town in the world,” agreed Liz.

  “I mean, look at this house,” said Antonia. She pointed to a large white three story Georgian Revival, with black shutters and columns. It was set in the middle of a meticulously landscaped yard, the grass that shade of neon green that it becomes in the fall—morphing from the emerald hue it wears in summer. “I always think of the Great Gatsby when I see that house. It is so impressive.”

  “Yeah,” said Liz quietly.

  “You don’t agree?” asked Antonia.

  “I do, but…”

  “But?”

  “That’s actually my house. I mean um, my parents’,” admitted Liz sheepishly.

  Antonia turned and stared at her intern, her jaw dropping in surprise. “Really?”

  “Yes,” said Liz, embarrassed. “I mean, they bought it a long time ago, before East Hampton became all trendy. It was a total wreck, they had to fix it up a lot.”

  “Wow. It’s amazing. Smart buy.”

  “Yes,” said Liz.

  Antonia could see Liz squirm out of the corner of her eye so she dropped the subject. When Liz came and asked for a job Antonia had no idea that she was from a fancy background. She was so low-key and quiet and unassuming. Also, there was no pretension or attitude that gave her away. And now it turned out that Liz’s country house was worth about twenty million dollars? It was crazy. Here she was with all that money, and yet the girl showed up for work early every day. Not to mention that she didn’t parade around in expensive clothes. Antonia had never seen her wear anything with a logo, or carrying a trendy handbag. She was mostly clad in jeans or cords and wore turtlenecks or long sleeved shirts. Her brown hair had a simple cut—hanging straight to her shoulders with bangs across the top. She wore no visible makeup—not that she needed it, she had that creamy unblemished skin that young women are blessed with. She was pretty but in that wholesome all-American way. It just goes to show you, thought Antonia in amazement. You never know who’s working for you!

  Antonia made a right on Lily Pond Lane.

  “This is my favorite street,” said Liz, clearly relishing a change of topic.

  “I agree. It’s spectacular. I love that no two houses are alike. It’s the juxtaposition that appeals to me. If it was just all those shingled mansions it would be monotonous.”

  “I know. I’m not that into modern houses, but when there is only one or two of them, they definitely jazz up the landscape.”

  “My antiques would never fit in there, but they are certainly more low-maintenance.”

  “Agreed,” said Liz, before pointing to the right. “It’s this one here.”

  Antonia put on her blinker and turned into the gravel driveway. The Mastersons’ house was beautiful. It was a sprawling shingled mansion that appeared to keep unfolding like a hundred year old piece of origami. The house was replete with blue shutters, a wrap-around porch, a gambrel roof, brick chimneys, and a large solarium attached on the north side. It loomed in the center of what must be at least two sprawling acres, shaded by ancient trees. A gracious circular driveway cut a discreet motor path through the pristine grass, with every pebble restrained by a two-inch metal border. It didn’t look unlike most of the traditional houses in East Hampton except that everything was on a giant scale; rendering it larger and grander than any Antonia had been in before.

  “Lovely,” said Antonia as they exited the car.

  “I know,” concurred Liz.

  23

  To her tremendous relief, Joan and Robert Masterson were also lovely. In retrospect, Antonia had to admit she had been nervous. This was her first job interview since she was a teen; she had always been her own boss. She wasn’t quite sure how she would handle being questioned about her ability to do anything, and had even prepared defensive answers for the imaginary interrogation that she thought she might face. Fortunately, Joan and Robert abstained from the Spanish inquisition. They were able to have a very nice chat and reach an agreement quite faster than Antonia had expected.

  Antonia did not know many people who came from old money, but the ones that she had met all shared similar qualities. They tended to dance around questions rather than ask them outright, suggest things rather than insist upon them, and there was always a very subtle subtext that Antonia didn’t realize until after the conversation had ended. Everything was shrouded in a politeness and an openness that was genuine, and yet she realized that despite the reserved tone, they were always able to get their point across.

  The Mastersons had ushered Antonia and Liz into the cavernous living room that was big enough to accommodate three separate seating areas. The décor was tasteful but a bit tired—faded chintz chairs and sofas, skirted round tables covered in enamel framed pictures of their children on the beach, antique consoles with drawers that were a bit warped from the damp, and large plants set in Chinese pots. The color scheme was pastels—periwinkle, rose, sunshine and lime. The
wallpaper was a bleached out blue and white stripe. The walls were dotted with colorful impressionist style oil paintings that hung in thick brushed-gold frames. The beamed ceiling was low enough to make the room feel cozier than it would have with a double-height roof. Antonia felt comfortable at once, and could imagine retiring there after a huge Thanksgiving meal to drink Cognac and dazedly watch the flames flicker in the fireplace.

  They offered Antonia and Liz hot apple cider accompanied by ginger snaps, which Liz declined but Antonia accepted. After the perfunctory “getting to know you,” which was basically where Antonia spoke her business resume out loud, the Mastersons explained their needs. Their caretaker of dozens of years had retired and they were seeking someone to check on the house twice a week, and be available to open it up to any servicemen or deliveries on a needed basis. It was fairly straightforward and Antonia knew she was up for the task. Pretty much a monkey with a lobotomy could do it, Antonia thought, but of course, didn’t say out loud. There was no talk of money, for which Antonia was grateful. It would have been a little awkward to discuss it in front of Liz and besides, she had no idea what a caretaker would make. She’d been dreading that they might ask her to throw out a ballpark figure of what she thought she would deserve, in which case she would be struck dumb. Thankfully, the Mastersons said early on that all of the formalities are run through Robert’s office, and it would be a woman named Cindy who she would deal with for all official transactions.

  When the business was out of the way, Joan Masterson appeared to visibly relax. She was an attractive woman in her mid-to-late fifties with fluttery bird-like energy that caused her to constantly move. She’d pop up and down to pass the cookies, retrieve more cider, open the window, and, it seemed to Antonia, seize any excuse to be in motion. Joan wore her wavy brown hair in a stylish short cut, and was chicly dressed in a button down pale blue shantung silk shirt with the collar starched up, and camel colored cigarette pants that accentuated her thin frame. Her demeanor was perky, her eyes a dancing hazel, and Antonia had a clear image of her standing across the tennis court in ready position, smiling while awaiting a serve, only to hammer back a killer drive.

  Robert was tall and lanky and looked every bit the WASP he was. His dark hair was thinning but he still wore it in a cut that would deny the growing presence of a bald spot. He had on tortoise-shell glasses over a face that still held echoes of youth. Antonia knew the type: he was one of those men that had always been handsome and turned heads but then one day suddenly looks old and it’s as if not only can he not believe it, but his body can’t either. He was a self-described athlete who played golf, tennis and sailed, and Antonia could imagine him years before on the lacrosse and soccer fields at Yale. He chuckled often, sometimes irrelevantly, and there was an air about him as if he had no idea why he was meeting with Antonia, and was perhaps slightly bored by the proceedings, but overall, appeared to be a decent guy.

  “Did Liz tell you that Joan and I celebrated the Millennium at the Windmill Inn?” asked Robert. He had completely interrupted his wife who was discussing the potential deliveries that Antonia might intercept.

  Antonia turned towards Robert, who was sitting on the far right of the sofa across from her, his body touching the edge. “No, she didn’t.”

  He nodded. “Yes, we went to…”

  Before he could finish Joan interrupted. “It was such fun! They had a costume party! Now we were all a wreck that day, I mean, weren’t you? Well, Liz, you were too young, but of course you must have been nervous, Antonia.”

  Without waiting for a response she turned to Liz. “They were predicting that all the computers would go off when it hit the year 2000 and that would set off explosions and rockets. It was very doomsday-end-of-the-world. I was in a panic, as were most people…”

  “Not most people, just conspiracy theorists and you,” said Robert, adding a chuckle at the end.

  “Not true. CNN was predicting the worst.”

  “CNN!” guffawed Robert. “A great source of news,” he added sarcastically.

  Joan ignored him and continued. “I was very stressed. I thought, this is it! People were storing things in their basements, and ordering gas masks on the Internet. Well, finally, we decided, if we were going to go out, we’d go out with a bang! The club was being renovated that winter so we said, what will we do? No one wanted to host; it’s too difficult to get a staff to work on New Years Eve, so we all decided to go to the Windmill Inn. They were having a champagne and caviar costume party and we thought, such fun!”

  “That does sound like fun,” agreed Antonia. “I would have liked to have seen that.”

  “You know what?” said Joan, popping up. “I have pictures of the night! Sandy Donaldson had gotten a new camera for Christmas, it was fancy for the time, not a telephone that is also a camera, just a one off, and she was happy to take pictures. She gave me a whole packet of them, which I put in a book. It might be fun for you to see how it looked back then!”

  “Joan, no need…” began Robert before fading off. Antonia supposed after so many years of knowledge, a spouse knows when another one is not going to listen.

  Joan went over to the large cabinet that was flanked by the two windows that looked out to the back yard and opened it. On the top shelf Antonia could see stacks and stacks of CDs and an ancient stereo system that would probably bring twenty dollars at a garage sale. The second shelf held rows of thick leather-bound maroon colored photo albums, with the date monogrammed on the spine in a gold font. Joan ran her finger along the row until she found 1999 and pulled it out. She flipped through the pages as she walked towards Antonia, before settling on a section in the middle and handing it to her.

  “Hmm. I guess you can’t see much of the inn. It’s mostly snaps of people, but you get the idea.”

  Antonia glanced at the pictures in front of her. A much younger looking Joan was elaborately dressed in a large jeweled ball gown complete with a corset. Next to her stood Robert who was wearing a Harvard football uniform. Just as Antonia suspected, he was ruggedly handsome.

  “What were you dressed as, Joan?” asked Liz who had come around to stand behind Antonia and peer at the pictures.

  “I’m Madame de Pompadour. I was going to be Marie Antoinette but Sandy was Marie Antoinette. I know it was a mix-up, but I clearly remember that I told her way in advance I was going to be Marie Antoinette. Oh well, what can you do. Madame de Pompadour is just as dramatic, and actually I had a better costume. Not to be competitive, but she waited until the last minute and I ordered ahead. You’ll see her on the next few pages when she finally had Hal take some snaps.”

  Antonia slowly turned through the pages as Joan pointed out her friends and explained all of their costumes to her, most of which were self-explanatory. Robert took the opportunity to go make a phone call. Antonia moved over to the sofa so that Liz and Joan could sit on either side of her to see the album without leaning in. Joan had been correct; little of the inn was visible. If Antonia didn’t know it so well, and hadn’t spent so much time studying every single window, she was sure she would not have been able to tell that it was her inn. But it was still fascinating for her to see pictures of it. Almost like one of those magazine ‘before and after’ collages. Now that it was so ingrained in her and she was so invested in it, Antonia felt as if it were a new boyfriend where she wanted to greedily sop up all of the information about life before her.

  “Oh look, there’s Len and Sylvia Powers,” said Antonia, pointing to a picture of her friends. They were dressed as Darth Vader and Princess Leia. They appeared much younger, and thinner, but their faces were flushed either by the heat or the free-flowing booze.

  “Look at the cute little Yoda with them,” said Liz, pointing to the corner of the picture.

  “I didn’t even notice him!” said Antonia. “That’s their son Matt. Wow, he looks so little there. He just celebrated his twenty-fifth birthday at the
restaurant.”

  “Right, I remember there were a few children there,” said Joan. “It was difficult for most people to find a babysitter that night. We were lucky, our nanny Sita came with us from the city. She watched the kids.”

  Antonia turned the page and scanned the pictures.

  “Wait,” said Antonia. She pointed to a picture on the lower corner of the right page. “Is that Gordon Haslett?”

  “Who?” asked Joan.

  “The former owner of the inn?”

  Joan squinted. “Yes, yes, it is. I didn’t remember his name, I’m sorry to say, but that’s him. He was the host that evening. A very exuberant man. That was actually a good thing for the occasion, he made it more festive. Almost made me forget that the end of the world was at hand.”

  Antonia carefully studied the photograph, which was close cropped so that it only featured the subjects from the waist up. Gordon was dressed as a gladiator. His helmet was open so you could see his face, and he wore printed armor over a red tunic. In one hand he held a sword and shield, and the other arm was draped over a woman in a mascot bunny costume. At least Antonia assumed it was a woman, judging from size and frame. She was about a foot shorter than Gordon, who Antonia knew had been over six feet, and the bunny was slight like a woman. But her face was totally hidden by her mask. On the other side of Gordon was Joan’s friend Sandy, with Joan next to her.

  “Who’s the bunny?” asked Antonia.

  Joan squinted at the picture. “Good lord, I can’t remember. I must confess I had a lot of champagne that night. The next day was a total blur. But in my defense, I didn’t think there would be a next day. But here, keep flipping through and maybe the bunny ultimately took her mask off.”

  “Oh my Gosh,” said Antonia when she turned the page. “There’s Larry Lipper.”

  “Who?” asked Liz.

  “He works at the Star. And of course he’s dressed as a cop. The guy covers the crime beat, fancies himself as a law enforcement adjunct. But I bet the real reason is he wants to carry a gun.”