Death on Lily Pond Lane

by Carrie Doyle

  “I love you too, Marty,” shouted Kendra before returning her attention to Antonia. “Who was Warner?”

  Kendra crinkled up her pug nose and waited for a response. A small gold stud protruded from her left nostril. Antonia wondered for the hundredth time why Kendra would want to draw attention to the least attractive feature on her face.

  “A guest at one of the houses I look after.”

  “How’d he die?”

  Antonia paused. “It looks as if he slipped.”

  “That’s a good way to go,” Marty exclaimed. “He can’t complain.”

  “Well he was only twenty-five!”

  “Ya win some, ya lose some,” Marty barked.

  Antonia shrugged. She felt as if in a daze. She walked over to her mise-en-place and glanced around the kitchen. “So, everything is running smoothly,” said Antonia, eager to change the subject.

  “What are you talking about? I’m in the goddamn weeds here!” snapped Marty.

  Antonia knew that Marty’s grumblings meant nothing and the kitchen was under control. She wondered sometimes if her presence was superfluous. That was good to know; if anything happened to her, everything would carry on. Antonia rolled up her sleeves and went to work, zoning out their banter. For the next two hours she methodically peeled shrimp, simmered broth and chopped vegetables. Flashes of Warner lying in the bathtub danced in her head. She thought of Larry’s information that Warner was reviled. And there was the peculiar fact that Warner was in Eleanor’s bathroom. What was he doing there? As far as she knew, he had used the guest bathroom provided for him. It was so strange.

  At five o’clock Antonia put down her knives.

  “Break time,” she announced.

  Kendra and Marty went outside for cigarettes while Soyla kept working. Antonia could never get her to take a break; the woman had more energy than anyone she had ever met.

  Antonia set off to meet her friend Joseph in the parlor. As with most of the inn, the cozy parlor was royal blue with burnished mahogany paneling. Over the past few years, Antonia had returned the antique windows and door fixtures to mint condition, reupholstered plush armchairs of varying sizes in batik and ikat fabrics, and refurbished the bathrooms with imported Moroccan tiles and converted marble top sinks. Her vision was to create a British style country manor with a modern twist, and as a result, she amassed a collection of mostly English antiques—dressers, sleigh beds, writing desks—as well as rare leather-bound books to adorn every room. Antonia’s accountant had desperately tried to reign in her spending but to her it was the little details that mattered most: the rare hand-cut crystal vases with fresh flowers; the gold-framed maps of Long Island from the 1900s that lined the stairs; and the brass and crystal lamps that graced every table in the dining room. She wanted people to feel like they were at home.

  And to Joseph Fowler, it was in fact home. He was the permanent tenant of the two-room suite on the second floor that was accessible by a private elevator. The sixty-four year-old widower was an author of some renown, whose historical fiction was intensely research-based and literary. A dapper gentleman, always impeccably groomed and donning custom fitting blazers and a bowtie, he was Antonia’s closest confidante.

  “Here are the print-outs,” said Joseph, motioning to the stack of papers on the antique side table. “I started in as soon as I received your email. I’m sorry you had to spend all that time there.”

  “So am I. But thank you for pulling these articles. Anything good?” said Antonia, plopping herself into a chair next to the open window. She picked up the papers.

  “Google comes through every time.”

  “I know it works for you, but it just sends me down the rabbit hole every time I search for something. I’ll go on to look up a new recipe for crepes and the next thing you know I’m on a page reading about some obscure French artist. I don’t know how that happens.”

  Joseph sat patiently while Antonia read. This morning, while she had waited to be interviewed for the zillionth time by the police, she had sent an email to Joseph asking him to do a little research for her.

  “Looks like it’s not uncommon for people to fall to their deaths in bathtubs,” said Antonia. “Did you find any lawsuits?”

  “You’ll see there were several. Usually, it’s people suing hotels because they didn’t have the proper matting, things like that. There is the possibility that the Mastersons could be open to a lawsuit if Warner’s family is the litigious sort.”

  Antonia put the papers down and leaned back in thought. “That’s what I was worried about. And it looks from these papers as if there is precedent.”

  “You look like you need a drink.”

  “A drink? Heck, I need an IV rack of alcohol hooked up to my veins. But I’ll get it.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  Joseph, who was mostly confined to a scooter due to the side effects of a childhood bout with polio, slid himself off his chair and on to his scooter. He buzzed over to the bar and poured Antonia a full glass of red wine. He handed it to her and she took a big gulp. He slid back into his chair. Antonia knew he liked to be active, so she never tried to protest when he did things for her.

  “Better?”

  “Infinitely.”

  She closed her eyes and felt the soft cushion behind her head.

  Joseph watched Antonia carefully. “There is another article that I found.”

  “I’m sure you did.”

  “An interesting one,” said Joseph.

  Antonia opened her eyes.

  “Don’t taunt me. Bring it on.”

  Joseph held a sheet of paper in his hand.

  “There was a recent case about a bathtub that you may recall. It was all over the news. The wife of a police officer in the Midwest went missing, and the general conjecture is that he murdered her. Upon further investigation, they discovered that his previous wife had died in a bathtub. At the time it was ruled accidental, but when the next wife disappeared, they reopened the case. Turns out it was made to look like a fall. They charged him with homicide.”

  Antonia nodded and took a sip of her drink.

  “You don’t think he was murdered?” asked Joseph.

  Antonia stared at him. “I know for a fact that it couldn’t be true.”

  “Oh?”

  Antonia leaned towards him.

  “Joseph, I have a confession.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Antonia asked with faux exasperation.

  “It means that I know you very well. It is impossible for you to be a passive participant in any sort of drama. I’m certain you stuck your nose in somewhere you shouldn’t have.”

  Antonia frowned at him.

  “I resent that.”

  “Ah, but it’s true. What did you do now?”

  Antonia took a sip of her drink that placed it down hard on the coffee table.

  “I thought it was the right thing to do, but now I’m really scared.” She paused to look imploringly into his eyes before adding softly, “I took something from the crime scene.”

  Joseph looked nonplussed. “Proceed,” he said calmly.

  “A can of disinfectant.”

  Joseph arched his eyebrows questioningly.

  “I know, it sounds really bad. But let me explain.”

  Antonia rose and walked over to the fireplace. She poked the logs before retreating to the windowsill where she perched with her back to the window, wringing her hands.

  “So, I found Warner and then I called 911. All by the book, mind you, before you accuse me of anything. Well, you know how out here it doesn’t exactly take the police two minutes to arrive on the scene. So I went back to the bathroom to check on Warner. Obviously, I knew he was dead but it didn’t seem right to leave him up there alone. I stood there for maybe five minute
s. It was strange. It was so quiet and the room felt heavy with death. I stood there, taking it all in…”

  She glanced up at Joseph.

  “But then?’

  She smiled at Joseph. He knew her well. “But then my eyes fell on this can of Lysol that was lying on its side next to the bathmat, way back behind the toilet. It had clearly rolled there. And suddenly it dawned on me: Warner had probably slipped on the can, and that’s what had caused him to fall and hit his head! And my mind went crazy. Lawsuits. Liability. Then it dawned on me that Rosita would be the one who was blamed!”

  “Rosita?”

  “Our cleaner!”

  “Of course I know Rosita but why…”

  “She also cleans the Mastersons’ house. I got her the job!”

  “But if it was an accident, she wouldn’t be in any trouble…”

  “I would hope so. But you never know. We live in a litigious world. And Rosita has enough problems. She’s got this terrible ex-husband. Let’s just say I can identify with that. And she has some visa issues. I don’t want her to get deported or dragged into any sort of investigation. I think it would kill her. She could lose her job or even her kids, if things got really out of hand. Not that the Mastersons are like that, but you never know when something like this happens. And bottom line, I don’t want the Mastersons to have any problems either. They’re good people.”

  “So, you were trying to protect them?”

  She nodded. “I didn’t want there to be any blame other than he just slipped in the tub. At the moment I was thinking all this, I heard the sirens. Then I just sort of sprung into action. It was impulsive, but I grabbed the Lysol. And I went downstairs and put it in my handbag just as the police were pulling in the driveway. And when they asked me if I had taken anything, I said no. I choose to look at it as a white lie.”

  Joseph paused before speaking. Antonia knew his concerned look and thought he was about to deliver a verdict she didn’t want to hear but instead he surprised her.

  “Don’t worry, you did the right thing.”

  Antonia sighed audibly with relief. “You think so?”

  “Yes. It’s just a can of Lysol. I’m sure it means nothing that you took it. Totally inconsequential.”

  “Oh my gosh, I’m so glad you agree.”

  “A preemptive strike.”

  “Right. As you will recall, past faith in the justice system has never worked in my favor.”

  “I remember.”

  Once upon a time Antonia had trusted the police. Like everyone, she revered them, and regarded them as protectors and caretakers. That was until she married a policeman. Philip was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. She thought she had found someone to give her stability but instead he traumatized her. They had been married for five years, the last four of which were full of increasing abuse. His brothers in arms closed rank around him and were deaf to her pleas for help. One night he kicked her father when he tried to intervene on her behalf, and two weeks later her father died of the complications. After that, she realized nothing held her in California any longer, and with Genevieve’s prompting, she moved to the East Coast to start a new life and used the settlement that she won from him in civil court to purchase the inn. The only external trace of Philip was the scar he had caused above her right eyebrow, but there was much greater internal damage to her heart and soul.

  “I’m sure it’s over-compensation, but it took me a while to stand up for myself and I want to make sure I stand up for others.”

  “That’s what Margaret would have liked about you: your fighting spirit.”

  Margaret was Joseph’s late wife. After she had died of cancer, Joseph had been living alone in their house on Buell Lane. One night he had a terrible fall, which resulted in a trip to the hospital. At the urging of his son, who wanted to be able to keep an eye on him, Joseph had reluctantly been considering a move to the city when Antonia had offered him accommodation at the inn instead. Joseph had quickly agreed, and the arrangement worked out perfectly for both of them.

  “I bet she was an amazing woman.”

  Joseph’s smile faltered. It was still difficult for him to talk about Margaret, the loss still raw. He took off his glasses and wiped them carefully with his handkerchief before changing the subject. “What’s on the menu tonight? It’s prix-fixe night if I’m not mistaken? That always brings in the crowds.”

  Antonia felt the breeze picking up, causing the leaves in the yard to stir so loudly it sounded as if someone were walking outside the window. She rose and after giving a log one last poke, she turned and faced Joseph. Antonia and Joseph had a routine when they met for drinks before dinner. She would tell him what was on the menu, and he would interject his commentary. For her, cooking was a form of performance, and having a welcome audience made it all the more rewarding.

  “Come on, my dear, the show must go on,” he gently coaxed.

  Antonia smiled. He was right; not only the show, but also life must go on. She stood up, assumed a professional stance and began speaking in a very theatrical manner.

  “For our first course this evening, we have a choice of roasted red pepper soup with a lobster wonton; frisee and fava bean salad with pecorino cheese and pears; or warm Vidalia onion and pancetta tart…”

  “Did you make the soup yourself?”

  “Of course,” said Antonia with a smile. They both knew she made all of her dishes from scratch, so this was part of their shtick.

  “Then that’s what I’ll have.”

  “Very good.”

  “And the main course? Better be some red meat in there.”

  “We do have a filet mignon with potato leek gratin and sautéed mixed mushrooms…”

  “Delicious. Save me a piece…”

  “But for a gentleman who has been advised by his doctors to reduce his cholesterol intake, there is also a potato crusted Sea Bass with mixed spring vegetables…”

  “What is ‘mixed spring vegetables’? Did you open a bag from the frozen food section and dump them in?”

  “Of course not, what sort of an establishment do you think this is?” asked Antonia with mock horror. “We don’t do Birdseye here, sir. We have local asparagus and fava beans in a lemon sauce…”

  “Boring…”

  “And there is also the option of shrimp risotto with English peas and cherry tomatoes.”

  “Will the doctor let me have that?”

  “Just this once. Don’t forget that shrimp are high in cholesterol.”

  “But worth it.”

  “True,” said Antonia. “And I might add that the shrimp are very plump and sweet, as are the cherry tomatoes. You won’t be disappointed.”

  “Do I qualify for dessert?”

  “Berries and fresh cream?”

  “Or?”

  “Pear pithivier with caramel ice cream and toasted almonds?”

  “You’re getting warmer.”

  “Warm strawberry rhubarb pie?”

  “From scratch too?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Antonia. “Everything is from scratch.”

  “Then save me a slice,” said Joseph with a wide grin.

  Just before Antonia returned to the kitchen, Joseph handed her an additional stack of papers. He had done a full background check on Warner Caruthers.

  “It feels kind of morbid to look through them,” said Antonia with a shake of her head.

  “Just take them,” he advised and pressed them into her hand. “You may need to refer to them later.”

  4

  The dining room was more crowded than usual for a Wednesday night. All of the dozen freestanding tables were taken, even the least desirable one in the front next to the maitre d’s station, which suffered due to its proximity to the entrance and the kitchen. In addition, two of the four cobalt booths in the back of the restaurant were filled to ca
pacity and the eight barstools at the dark azure lacquered bar were taken.

  “We’re so busy tonight,” Glen, the maitre d’, whined on a trip into the kitchen. A tall, slightly angular fellow who Genevieve accurately described as ‘pointy,’ Glen was handsome but cheesy, with over-gelled luxurious black hair and a thick Long Island accent. “I mean, it’s great that we’re almost full, and I give myself full credit for suggesting these prix-fixe nights, but it’s a little too much with the skeleton staff we have off season.”

  “They’re not here for the food tonight, Glen, sorry to burst your bubble. Everyone wants to hear about the dead guy,” said Kendra.

  Antonia jerked her head up from her station. “You think that’s why they’re here?”

  “Are you kidding?” asked Kendra, wiping her brow. “A dead body in a mansion in the estate section of town is just too irresistible! People are here for the gossip.”

  “Well, they’re not getting any from me. First and foremost, Warner’s death is a tragedy. He’s not just a ‘dead body in a mansion.’”

  Although Antonia enjoyed being apprised of everything that was happening around town, she was, as a rule, disdainful of gossip. She liked to regard her own quest for news as more of an information gathering rather than something as meretricious as small town tittle-tattle. The truth of the matter was she was always eager to hear it, but parsimonious when it came to dispensing it. Perhaps that is why people confided their most personal things to her; they knew their secret was always safe.

  It was not until nine-thirty when Antonia was able to extract herself from dinner service. Before she headed out to the dining room she decided to run to her office to check for any messages. As soon as she entered her office she stopped short and inadvertently emitted a loud gasp.