Death on Lily Pond Lane

by Carrie Doyle

  The Windmill Inn was usually at its lowest capacity on Wednesdays so it was a good ‘maintenance day.’ The restaurant was closed after the buffet breakfast (which meant no dinner service) and the kitchen shut for an industrial-strength scrub-down. Rosita and her team dismantled all of the common areas and every available room for a thorough cleaning. All of the light fixtures and silver candlesticks were polished, Oriental throw carpets were removed and dusted outside, the floors were waxed, curtains and bed skirts steamed and any necessary repairs performed. Large deliveries from the farmers and alcohol purveyors were received in the first half of the day. The sheets and linens were sent out to the laundry in the second half of the day.

  Needless to say, it was Antonia’s least favorite day of the week. She would always rather be in the kitchen cooking or chatting with guests. Desk work wasn’t her skill set. She was a people person and a chef. She was definitely not meant to sit behind a desk. It had been torture for her during the slower months of January through March when the restaurant had only been open from Thursday through Sunday. (It had been a fiscal decision. Most of the restaurants in the Hamptons did the same during the winter months. The idea had actually been suggested to her by her former manager Lucy, who despite her flaws did have good business acumen. If she had only stuck to bookkeeping and managing and not murder, she might not be sitting in prison awaiting twenty-five years to life.)

  At twelve o’clock the front desk bell interrupted Antonia’s toils. As Connie, her front desk receptionist, was on her lunch break, Antonia was on call. She braced herself to greet the lawyer but instead found with relief that it was Bridget waiting at the reception desk. Once again Antonia was struck by how familiar she was. Maybe she was an actress? Her face was pretty enough, and she had that air of sophistication. She wore minimal makeup, which was already unnecessary, and simple jewelry. She had on a cream colored turtleneck and a long black cardigan that she held closed as if she was cold.

  “Can I help you?”

  She looked startled and turned abruptly to face Antonia. “Oh, yes, I wanted to make sure I didn’t have any messages.”

  “Let me check,” said Antonia with a pleasant smile. The front desk was a glossy walnut surface illuminated by a brass lamp with a green glass shade. Behind the desk was an antique post office cubby that she used to corral any correspondence for her guests.

  “We usually indicate phone messages by a red flashing light on the handset next to your bed, but sometimes people don’t want to leave a voice mail and want the actual human contact.”

  The girl didn’t respond.

  “Are you awaiting something in particular?” asked Antonia, glancing back at her.

  “Just checking,” said the girl.

  Antonia discovered the cubby to Room Six to be empty.

  “I’m not finding anything,” said Antonia. “I’m sorry.”

  Bridget’s face remained unmoved. “That’s okay.”

  “But I will make sure if someone calls to put it right through or try to track you down. Is there anything else I can help you with?” asked Antonia pleasantly.

  Bridget glanced at her evenly. “No, thanks.”

  And before Antonia could respond, Bridget quickly walked away.

  Suddenly, a memory jarred her. Last week, Warner had stopped by the inn to ask for another copy of the key to the Masterson’s house. He said he was sorry, but he had lost his copy. And she remembered that on his way inside he had stopped. Someone had stopped him. And he spent several minutes talking to that person, who was entering with her luggage. Bridget Curtis. They talked until she was led away to her room by Connie. What was the connection?

  “You look lost in space,” said Joseph.

  Antonia had been so consumed by her reverie that she hadn’t heard Joseph’s scooter approach.

  “I’m distracted. Come on into my office, I think it’s time for a break.”

  Joseph followed Antonia. She pushed the armchair across from her desk to the side, and moved various piles of magazines and coffee table books out of Joseph’s way. She took two blue mugs down from the shelf above the mini-refrigerator and with her instant kettle, made them each a mug of milky Earl Grey tea. After handing one to Joseph, she sat down at her desk and offered him the plate of savory muffins, roasted red pepper and feta, that she had left over from breakfast. He selected a small one, with Antonia taking a much larger muffin. She bit into the salty confection with relish. It was obviously a no-no in terms of her diet, but she tried to focus on the fact that it at least included vegetables, which added some nutrition.

  “Tasty. New recipe?”

  “Yes. Trying to branch out in my muffin making.”

  “Good idea. This one is a success.”

  “How’s your work going?”

  “Slowly as usual. I’ve spent the morning mired in hemophilia.’

  “Hemophilia? Why?”

  “I’m studying the Romanov family. Nicholas II’s son suffered from it. They always thought that would be what killed him. But alas, he and his entire family were slaughtered in the cellar of their house.”

  “Joseph! Please, that is so depressing,” said Antonia.

  “True. But I find the Romanov dynasty fascinating,” he insisted.

  Joseph had written six acclaimed books of fiction centered around World War I. The War That Changed Us was his most successful, having been nominated for a Pulitzer Prize and landing itself on the bestseller list for forty-three weeks. The others were just as acclaimed. It took him several years to research each book, a slow and methodical process that Antonia believed he enjoyed more than the actual writing.

  “I would so much rather focus on fictional murder that what’s going on right here,” sighed Antonia.

  “You’re right. Sorry to ask, but any news from the lawyer?”

  “No.”

  Antonia took a gulp of her tea.

  “Then you shouldn’t look so troubled.”

  “Joseph, do you think maybe I should just go to the police and do a full mea culpa and hand over the Lysol can? I’ll beg ignorance and that will be that.”

  She waited for Joseph’s response with the assumption that he would agree. His response surprised her. “You could do that...”

  “But?”

  “But, and before I say anything, please react with calm and grace.”

  She frowned. “What is it?”

  “I think you may have inadvertently taken an important piece of evidence.”

  “Why?”

  “You told me you took a Lysol can, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure about the brand.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “I ran into Rosita this morning. She was cleaning the downstairs powder room. I glanced at her bucket of supplies and noted what disinfectants she was using. It wasn’t Lysol…”

  “That doesn’t mean anything,” Antonia interrupted, waving her hand in the air. “We’re talking about the Mastersons’ house, not what she uses at the inn.”

  Joseph nodded his head in accordance. “I realize that. And I recall that you had told me several times that they only use organic products. Wasn’t there one day last winter when you were frantically trying to order some before Joan arrived…”

  Joseph didn’t have to finish. Antonia’s face told it all. He was right. Joan Masterson was a maniac about that stuff. She never would have had a can of Lysol in her house. In fact, she was extremely specific about what she used: Shaklee products. Joan ate processed cheese, drank diet soda and flew privately but she was firm about one thing: only organic cleaners.

  “Let me check something,” said Antonia, rising. Before he responded, she dashed out of the office. She ran to her apartment to retrieve the illicit can and after a quick sweep of the downstairs, finally found Rosita polishing the banisters on the second floor ba
ck staircase. Rosita glanced up at Antonia who was now a sweaty, panting mess with her hair flattened against her head like a wet noodle. Antonia promised herself she would do more cardio.

  “Rosita, I have to ask you something.”

  Rosita, a small, timid woman glanced up at her with worried chocolate-brown eyes. “Yes, Mrs. Antonia?”

  “Don’t worry, nothing bad. I just have a question. Did you ever use this Lysol can in the Mastersons’ house? Don’t be afraid, you’re not in trouble if you did, I will never tell, I just need to know.”

  Rosita glanced at the steel can that Antonia clutched and shook her head. “No, Mrs. Antonia. Mrs. Joan only like organic.”

  Antonia swept a clump of hair out of her eyes. “But perhaps, just once, you did? In Eleanor’s bathroom?”

  Rosita shook her head. “No,” she answered apologetically, sensing that was not the answer Antonia was hoping for.

  “Have you ever seen this can in the Mastersons’ house?”

  Rosita looked at it again. “No.”

  Antonia sighed deeply. “Okay then.”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yes, of course. Thanks, Rosita.”

  “Soyla told me about the boy dying. I can’t believe it! Very sad.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I talk to him once. He very nice.”

  “You did?” asked Antonia with curiosity. “What did he say?”

  “He sat in the kitchen one day. He asked me if the Mastersons were nice and I say yes, very. He talked about rich people, how they bad. I don’t say anything. But he said he wouldn’t make a mess for me, he’d stay in his room and clean up. That’s why I don’t understand. Soyla said he was in Eleanor’s bathroom? Why?”

  “Had he been showering there all week?”

  Rosita shook her head vehemently. “No. I came Monday and cleaned his bathroom. I put new towels and cleaned shower, because he used only his bathroom. There was nothing in Miss Eleanor’s bathroom. I don’t understand why he is there.”

  “I don’t understand either. But don’t worry. It was an accident.”

  Rosita took a deep breath. “You don’t think I get into trouble, because he slipped…”

  Antonia rested her hands firmly on Rosita’s shoulders and looked intently into her scared eyes. “No way. Under no circumstances will you get into trouble. I promise.”

  * * * * *

  “Well you’re right,” said Antonia, closing the door behind her. “Rosita didn’t use Lysol.”

  “I was afraid so.”

  Antonia plopped down at her chair and slid the muffin plate closer to her. She shoved a large piece into her mouth. She took a swig of her now lukewarm tea before washing it down with yet another chunk of muffin. Joseph waited. Finally, Antonia leaned back in a food stupor.

  “Carbs make everything better.”

  “How are you going to proceed?” asked Joseph, his gaze businesslike.

  “Can I pretend I’m on an episode of a TV show and it was all a bad dream? I wake up tomorrow and it’s all fine.”

  “I don’t think that will help you much, however ideal that would be.”

  “Well, I’m not going to the police,” said Antonia defiantly.

  “Yet.”

  “No.”

  Antonia gave Joseph her most stubborn look to know she meant business. He smiled and with a fatherly sigh continued. “Okay, then. Here’s what I think: in your absence I jotted down a few pertinent questions. Perhaps if we can figure them out we will have some answers.”

  “Alright, hit me.”

  “I know you said over and over again there was nothing that seemed amiss to you at the Mastersons’ house. Are you sure?”

  Antonia considered his question. “I felt something in Eleanor’s room but then I realized it was the footprints. I mean, I think that’s what it was, but could I say one hundred percent? No. Maybe it was something else.”

  “Alright then. Now, who has something to gain from Warner being murdered?”

  “Aha! And I thought I was the suspicious one!”

  “There are a lot of loose ends to this, and if we can eliminate some, we may have some answers. So, cui bono? Who benefits?”

  Antonia flicked some crumbs off of her skirt while she pondered the question. “Well, let’s see, it’s almost like who doesn’t have something to gain?”

  “We’ll get to that.”

  “Okay. Edward Hamilton and whoever else was in the documentary. Sidney Black…by the way, I can’t believe I forgot to tell you! I gave a ride to his housekeeper last night. He had sent her away because he had a mysterious meeting. I think he might be a suspect…”

  Antonia filled Joseph in on everything chatty Francine had told her about her boss.

  Joseph nodded. “I did a little computer search on Sidney Black and Edward Hamilton last night and this is what I found.”

  “I thought you were researching hemophilia?” she teased.

  “I had a lull.”

  Joseph handed Antonia print outs, which she perused. The first few pages were devoted to Sidney Black. There were several gossip items regarding Black’s battle with the board of his co-op. Apparently he had illegally built a rooftop yoga studio on his penthouse and refused to take it down. The confrontation between him and certain board members became so vitriolic that a shoving match occurred in the elevator. One female resident even accused him of tripping her, causing her to gash her head on the marble floor of the lobby, an injury that required twenty stitches and the work of a plastic surgeon. The building was currently attempting to evict him.

  There was more as well. An ex-girlfriend had come forward and sued him, citing mental distress because he had forced her to have an abortion. Antonia squinted at the woman’s picture. Despite the demure suit and an attempt to appear abused, she still looked like one of Charlie Sheen’s girlfriends— all long hair, big boobs and collagen lips. Antonia wondered if she had connected with Gloria Allred yet, patron legal saint of victimized women. On the following page there was a reference to a squash game where Black had thrown his racket into the face of his opponent when he lost the game. Joseph also included a Fortune Magazine article entitled “The Meanest Guy on Wall Street.” No doubt about it, this man was trouble.

  “Sidney Black is a bad, bad man,” murmured Antonia. “I could tell Francine was scared of him.”

  There was less information about Edward Hamilton, but that was just as telling. The Google search had resulted in only a dozen mentions. For a man possessing so much wealth, it proved that he was still of the old guard mindset where money is better not seen and not heard. He was included on a roster of board members of a prestigious New York hospital and museum; there was a reference to his attendance at his Yale class of 1962 reunion. And at the bottom there was a blurb noting that he was a member of the Long Island Gun Club.

  Antonia put down the papers. “Either one of these men has the means to hire the lawyer.”

  “Agreed.”

  “My money would be on Sidney Black. He tried everything to stop Warner from making the documentary, including restraining orders and harassment. And Warner was no angel, so I can see him going extra hard on Sidney Black. They’re both kind of punks.”

  “Once again, I concur.”

  “But that said, at the end of the day, would it be worth it to kill Warner? And would they go that far? That’s pretty extreme.”

  Joseph shifted in his seat. He pulled a cigar out of the breast pocket of his blazer and held it between his fingers. He would never smoke indoors but often found just the touch of a good cigar to be “a source of comfort and joy,” as he put it.

  “Once again, I agree. Sidney Black has dealt with bigger problems than Warner Caruthers. He has battled some of the most vicious men on Wall Street. I can’t imagine that he would bother risking anything by k
illing Warner.”

  “Then maybe it was Edward Hamilton.”

  “Could be,” conceded Joseph. “He is a private person. There could be very embarrassing revelations in the documentary. Enough to make him want to desperately protect his family image.”

  “But again, he’s probably dealt with threat of exposure before. And why kill? He could sue. Or ignore and deny, which seem more probable.”

  Joseph nodded. “Yes, the man has probably never been involved in a lawsuit in his life.”

  “If we’re ruling out homicide, there are still so many open-ended questions. Why would Warner be showering in Eleanor’s bathroom? Rosita said he never did that before. And where does this Lysol can fit in? Is there some weird sex act I don’t know about that includes this?”

  “You’re asking the wrong person.”

  Antonia laughed. “Supposing the can was Warner’s, what would he want with it? He probably never cleaned a bathroom in his life.”

  “Maybe it was a weapon.”

  Antonia paused to consider this. Her mind returned to the death scene. Images of the torn shower curtain, the bunched up bathmat and Warner’s eyes came to her. She knew he was dead, but there was something about his final expression that had made her uncomfortable. She had detected….fear.

  Antonia grew serious. “Maybe someone did kill him and used the Lysol can to clean up the crime scene. And the motive is the footage.”

  “I don’t know,” said Joseph lost in thought. “But if that is the case, perhaps it is best to go to the police about the can.”

  Antonia leaned back. Something didn’t seem right. She wasn’t ready to quit.

  “No. Not yet. What I need to do is find the footage. That’s my ‘get out of jail card’ so to speak.”

  “You mean you’d actually sell it to them?”

  Antonia shook he head. “No. But it might lead me to the killer. Then I can turn him in at the same time as I turn in the can.”

  “Sounds like a dangerous plan.”

  “I got myself in soup, I need to ladle myself out.”