Death on West End Road

by Carrie Doyle

“In case you’re hungry,” he proposed.

  “Thanks.”

  Dougie took a large swig of his beer before pulling off the sunglasses that had been hanging on the lapel of his shirt and blowing on them. He grabbed the edge of his shirt to wipe them before wrapping them around his eyes.

  “It’s bright today.”

  “Yes,” Antonia concurred. “Not a cloud in the sky.”

  “I love summer. Best time of the year,” he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs.

  “It’s great, but I also love fall. The colors are spectacular.”

  “Yeah, I suppose.” He leaned forward, selected a cracker and smeared a glob of the neon cheese across it. Antonia caught a whiff of his aftershave, which smelled of peppermint. “Everyone leaves in the fall and everything dies, so I’d rather summer.”

  “True.”

  Just as Antonia wondered how long they would have to make this inane small talk, Dougie got down to business.

  “So, Susie Whitaker, huh?” he asked rhetorically, before popping the cracker in his mouth. He rubbed his hands together to disperse any renegade crumbs.

  “Yes. Pauline asked me to look into it.”

  He shook his head and cocked an eyebrow. “She just loves to stir things up, doesn’t she?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Ah, you know Pauline.”

  “Actually, I don’t really . . .”

  He rolled his eyes. “She gets bored. Or she’s pissed at someone. Then she causes a scene. But she’s always very clever about how she orchestrates it. Has others do her bidding and then sits back and acts as if she had nothing to do with it. But she loves to make people squirm. It’s a shame, you know. She would have been a good CEO. She’s Machiavellian.”

  Antonia was surprised. Not by his assessment of Pauline but by how candidly forthcoming he was. She had expected someone more reticent and less voluble. But Dougie appeared completely blasé about sharing all of his thoughts.

  “So it’s your opinion that she’s having me look into Susie’s murder because she’s bored or angry at someone?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know particulars, but I know that Pauline relishes drama and attention. Always has, always will. She’s a total narcissist.”

  Before Antonia could press him, Dougie waved at a friend who was passing on his way down to the beach and exchanged some passing chitchat. Antonia took a sip of her drink, which was surprisingly bad, though she was unclear as to what country club fare should taste like. She was a bit disarmed by Dougie’s statements, and unsure how to proceed. She was working for Pauline, and he was Pauline’s friend—ex-boyfriend—so she felt odd allowing him to bash her, but on the other hand, there were things she had to find out.

  “Tell me about Susie and Pauline’s friendship,” Antonia inquired when Dougie’s friend had departed down the walkway to the water.

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Well, how about you describe what you can remember about Pauline and her friends back then?”

  “Lots of drama. Girl drama. Not only with Susie and Pauline but also with Alida and all their other friends. Girls that age fight all the time and are best friends the next minute. You know, Susie was a nice girl, actually. She tried very hard to be a good friend to Pauline. And she was. But I think toward the end she kind of got fed up. You can only be someone’s whipping boy—or girl—sorry, so much. And Pauline could be harsh to her. Pauline is high maintenance and was a total bitch that summer. We actually broke up a few times.”

  He stopped to take a sip of his beer.

  “Did you break up because she was high maintenance or was there another reason?”

  He chuckled. “Well, for one, I thought she was cheating on me. In fact, I’m pretty certain. But whatever, it was a long time ago.”

  “Who do you think she was cheating with?”

  “That tennis pro, Scott whatever. All the girls loved him. Very convenient because he was shacking up in Pauline’s guesthouse. I caught her coming back from there more than once. She denied it, said she was just retrieving a tennis ball that went over the fence, but I don’t buy it. I actually asked Susie about it.”

  “And?” Antonia asked eagerly.

  “One night, a bunch of us were down at the cabanas having a bonfire and we were all hammered, and Pauline and I started going at it. And I called her on her bull—told her I knew she was cheating. I said I was sure Susie knew and asked her to confirm. Yeah, kind of bad that I dragged Susie into it, but I was drunk and pissed, and Susie looked scared. She didn’t deny it right away, and Pauline went crazy on her, calling her a liar and a white trash chaser.”

  “White trash chaser?”

  “Yeah, she was always ragging on Susie’s boyfriends. I don’t even know if they were boyfriends, I never met them, but the guys she hooked up with.”

  Kevin Powers, Antonia thought. “And then what happened?”

  “Pauline told Susie she had to find somewhere else to sleep that night and left.”

  “Where did Susie sleep that night?”

  “No idea. Probably Alida’s or somewhere. I took off.”

  “And how long was it before Susie was murdered.”

  “A couple of weeks maybe. Definitely August. Things are always crazy in August.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, people have been together all summer—boozing too much, partying, playing eighteen holes a day—total hedonism. Don’t get me wrong—I love it. But let’s be honest, that can make people look for problems where they shouldn’t, and if they don’t find them, they cause them. My mother has this saying, that at the end of the summer, it’s time to drain the bathtub. When you arrive in East Hampton in June, the bathtub is empty. You have no worries, no petty feuds, no problems. But slowly all summer the bathtub starts to fill up, and by Labor Day it’s time to drain it. That’s when everyone takes off. Then it’s time to go down to Palm Beach and start filling up that tub until we hit Aspen.”

  Antonia nodded, musing about what it would be like to have a life that was a constant migration from one wealthy enclave to another, the only worry being your back becoming sore from carrying around your golf bag.

  “That’s a good metaphor. Do you think someone took it a little too far and ‘drained the bathtub’ by killing Susie?”

  Dougie smiled. “Interesting theory. Not sure.”

  “There were rumors that you killed Susie. Or that Pauline killed Susie because you were having an affair with her.”

  He laughed. “Yeah, I heard that.”

  When he didn’t respond further, Antonia pushed. “Any truth to that?”

  “Did I kill Susie? No.”

  “Were you having an affair with her?”

  He looked at Antonia askance. “Did you see a picture of her?”

  “Yes.”

  He shrugged. “Not my type. Hey, listen, do you want a glass of wine? I have a bottle of rosé in daycare.”

  “What?”

  He motioned toward the bar. “Daycare. It means I opened one yesterday and they hold it and look after it for me until I need it.”

  “That’s okay,” Antonia said. She realized every time they became close to a serious question, Dougie changed the subject. She couldn’t let him. “Who do you think killed Susie?”

  “That’s the million-dollar question. I wish I knew. But I was playing golf that day.”

  “Do you think it was Pauline?”

  He sighed. “I don’t know. Pauline, yeah, she could freak out. She trashed my room one time when she thought I kissed Alida.”

  “Alida?” Antonia asked, her eyes widening. “Did you?”

  He waved his hand in the air. “Yeah, once, but we were both drunk.”

  “And that means it didn’t matter?”

  “In my boo
k. It was one of those things.”

  “How did Pauline find out?”

  “You know, not sure. Funny, Susie was there that night. Maybe she was a snitch after all.”

  “Would that have been enough for Pauline to kill her?”

  Dougie put both elbows on the table and leaned toward Antonia. “I’d love to say no, but I’m not sure. As I said, Pauline enjoys drama and power. She thrives on messing with people. It would be just like Pauline to hire you to investigate Susie’s murder when she did it herself. And I bet you signed all these legal documents saying that if it was her you couldn’t do anything about it.”

  Antonia’s face drained of color. Dougie noticed. “Oh, jeez. She did have you sign a bunch of stuff, didn’t she?”

  Antonia nodded. She fervently wished she had at least glanced at the small print, but Pauline had been so insistent.

  “You have to be careful with Pauline. She loves her lawyer, Schultz; the guy is her best friend. She always has people signing nondisclosures and stuff like that. Bummer. Question is, why is she messing with you? Did you double-cross her or something? Steal her guy?”

  All Antonia could do was take a deep breath. “I accused her of murder.”

  Dougie laughed. “Of Susie’s murder?”

  Antonia shook her head. “No. Someone else’s . . . oh boy, I’m a total idiot.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Take a number, you are only the latest Pauline Framingham plaything.”

  “Would she really go to all this trouble to seek revenge?”

  “What else does she have to do? As I said, she’s bored. No husband, no kids, no job, and too much money. It works for some people—hey, I shouldn’t talk, people in glass houses and all—but Pauline is pretty smart. She should use her brain for something other than riding her horse. Maybe she is.”

  “Why do you think she never married?”

  He leaned back in his chair. “That’s been the subject of much speculation. She definitely had guys banging down her door. And no way is she a lesbian—I know that idea was floated, but I would know.”

  “Because you dated her?”

  “Yeah. She’s not,” he said brusquely.

  “So . . . she’s just celibate?”

  “Or very discreet.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe she got all hot in the pants about Susie having a white trash guy because she had one too.”

  “Scott? You think they’re still together?”

  Dougie smiled. “He’s still around. Teaches tennis at that club on the highway that anyone can get into. Cove Hollow Club. He had a good gig here, and he blew it up with his drinking. How the mighty have fallen. Karma.”

  It was strange to Antonia that Dougie had used the word “karma” in connection with Scott as Holly had in connection with Pauline. Maybe there was something to it.

  17

  Antonia had been tempted to head straight to the Cove Hollow Club to find Scott Stewart, but the practicalities of her full-time job as an innkeeper and chef could not be ignored. Already she had been remiss in her duties, leaving Kendra, Marty, and Soyla to fend for themselves in the kitchen, and Jonathan to manage any potential disruptions at the inn. In general, she was very fortunate to have a stellar staff who were entirely capable of performing without her, but the summer was very busy and there were still executive decisions that she needed to tend to. In order to do that, she had to push aside all replays of the conversation she’d had with Dougie and focus on dinner service.

  When she made it back to the inn, Connie informed her that the new custom bedsheets had arrived from Matouk, and Jonathan was upstairs in the recently vacated room eight, fitting them on the queen-sized bed. He had requested Antonia’s attendance as soon as she arrived.

  It had been an utter and complete pleasure for Antonia to decorate the bedrooms at the inn. She appreciated softness, cleanliness, and comfort above all else. The walls were a pale robin’s egg blue, the fabrics on the upholstered chairs and bench at the foot of the bed a mix of cream and periwinkle patterns and stripes. White billowy curtains (with blackout liners) adorned the windows and, unlined, framed the bedposts in an elegant canopy. The wood floors were mostly covered by a thick, white plush rug that guests could sink their bare feet into. She had decided not to clutter the rooms, instead leaving the side tables and dresser bare except for lamps and a charging dock, so that guests would have plenty of space to spread out their belongings. Owing to the antique nature of the inn, each room was a different size and shape, contributing to a quirky individuality.

  “Oh, they look beautiful!” exclaimed Antonia when she entered the room. Jonathan and one of their housekeepers, Rosita, were fluffing the new duvet over the new floral-printed sheets.

  “Brilliant, right?” Jonathan asked, rhetorically, in his soft British accent.

  “Pretty,” Rosita agreed.

  “I just love it. Well done,” Antonia said. “Now all I want to do is collapse on the bed and take a long nap.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  After spending a solid ten minutes admiring the sheets with Jonathan, Antonia exited the room on her way back to the kitchen. As she started to walk down the stairs she glanced into room six where the door was ajar. She could see Giorgio Leguzzi sitting on the edge of his bed, staring into space. Normally she didn’t bother her guests—oh, who was she kidding, she always interfered with everything and everyone—but she couldn’t stop herself from gently knocking on the door.

  “Hi, Mr. Leguzzi—Giorgio, I just wanted to check in and make sure everything is okay.”

  He jumped up abruptly and did a little bow. “Si, si, thank you for asking.”

  His face smiled, but Antonia could see sorrow in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry about the false alarm the other day.”

  He waved his hand in the air. “I am grateful you are helping me.”

  “I still haven’t heard back from some friends, maybe they know her.”

  He shook his head sadly. “I have not lost hope . . . but . . . I wisha I could meet her soon.”

  Antonia nodded. “Do you know anything about her other than that she’s here in the summer? Where she works maybe?”

  He shook his head again. “We talked only little about work . . . that was the nice experience for me. At home, everyone wants to talk to me about work . . . I’m a . . . I don’t like to boastful . . . but I’m a big man in my city. With Elizabeth, she didn’t know who I was. We talked of films and theater and sunsets and travel. And architecture. Si, lots of architecture and design. She said she worked with design of the home, I think. But I am not sure. I did not want to spend time on profession, more on her as a person.”

  “So she’s possibly a decorator?”

  “I think possibly. But I looked at the computer, and I didn’t find her. There are many Elizabeths . . . Perhaps she is not.”

  “Now that I know she’s a decorator, I can reach out to some friends in that field . . .”

  Giorgio’s eyes grew bright. “Thank you.”

  “It’s no problem. I am not sure how much I can find out, but it’s worth a try.”

  “I would be most grateful.”

  Antonia turned to exit when he spoke once more.

  “You must think I’m crazy. But you see . . . my wife died. She died during the birth of our son twenty years ago. And I never thought I would feel love in my heart again. I never hoped I could see love. When I met Elizabeth, I knew I could feel again. That’s why I need to find her.”

  * * * * *

  Giorgio’s words stayed with Antonia the rest of the day. She robotically worked her way through dinner service, ignoring Marty and Kendra’s bickering. (Kendra had started fooling around with filters on Instagram, and it was a whole new time suck.) It felt relaxing to methodically peel and simmer and plate and immerse herself in her
culinary endeavors. This was how she used to escape when she was married to her monster ex-husband Philip. She was so fortunate that she’d had a catering business while she was married. She could push all of her problems aside and focus entirely on creating delicious food. It provided her with both a release and immense satisfaction.

  It was heartening to hear someone speak of love like Giorgio Leguzzi did. Love for his wife who had died and the prospect of new love. Antonia did not know if she would ever have that. She wished she would. It would be amazing to have that fluttery feeling about someone solid and available. It was the sensation she experienced when she was around Nick Darrow. If only she could rid herself of that and focus on someone else. She had met a cute chef named Sam earlier in the summer. But although she was attracted to him, it wasn’t the same as it was with Nick. With Nick, there was passion. That was enticing to Antonia. But, unfortunately, totally impractical.

  That night, there was a message waiting for Antonia on her landline when she returned to her pink-walled ground-floor apartment. She pressed play and an almost indecipherable voice came warbling out.

  “Antonia. It’s Barbara Whitaker . . . I want to say thank you so much for helping find Susan’s killer . . . It’s been my wish to have closure before I die. I don’t have much time, and now you’re my only hope. I thank you, dear. Now, no need to call back, Pauline said you are very busy and I don’t want to take you away from all your work. I cannot thank you enough.”

  Antonia shuddered. She was almost relieved that she hadn’t been home to take the call because she would have collapsed when she heard the sad elderly voice begging for assistance. She sat down on her sofa and pulled out the picture of Susie again. Tears splashed down onto her face and Antonia brushed them away. What had she promised? Could she deliver before it was too late?

  It was hours before Antonia finally fell into her enormous sleigh bed only to find herself unable to sleep. She had tried doing a crossword puzzle, which usually helped lull her into slumber, but that night it only bored her. Afterward, she attempted to read one of her favorite cozy mysteries, but her mind felt agitated, and she was having difficulty following the plot. At one a.m., after over an hour of restlessness, she forced herself to turn off her light and lie unblinking, focused on the ceiling. Images of Susie rolled through her mind. After tossing and turning, she found herself staring glassy-eyed at the framed Henri Matisse poster that hung on the wall near the bathroom. It was one of Matisse’s most famous works—titled Dance—and portrayed five naked dancing figures, painted in a vibrant red, set against a dark green and blue landscape. Antonia had researched the painting. It was said to reflect Matisse’s fascination with primitive art. In addition, the dancing nudes were meant to convey the feeling of liberation and hedonism. But instead of leaving a joyful impression on the viewer, Antonia felt there was a violence depicted in the painting and a sense of struggle. The dance didn’t appear effortless for all of the five figures. One had her head upright and was standing erect with her leg flung out. The man opposite her stood tall but was contorted uncomfortably. Two of the dancers had their heads down and arms awkwardly stretched. And the dancer at the bottom—a woman—looked as if she had been dragged by the others until she had fallen down.