Death on Lily Pond Lane

by Carrie Doyle

  8

  The afternoon sun was slowly sinking down toward the horizon like an egg yolk dripping out of its shell. Patchy shadows were crisscrossing the patio on the north side of the inn where Antonia had decamped. In an effort to maintain a calm equilibrium she had decided to keep her routine as normal as possible. She busied herself cutting herbs from the overgrown clay pots that lined the slate wall. Antonia inhaled the fragrant basil and tarragon and tried to focus on the constant snipping of the scissors as she filled the wicker baskets.

  As she worked, a rush of memories came back to her. When she was looking for Warner in the Mastersons’ guest room, she had glanced at the cover sheet for his documentary. It had said the name of someone who was working with Warner. She put down her scissors to think. What was his name? It was one of those absurd names where the first name could be the last name. Rutherford something?

  Antonia’s cell buzzing jarred her. She glanced at the number and answered at once. Joan Masterson was on the other end.

  “Antonia, I am so glad I caught you. Robert and I are just sick about this. Just sick. Warner’s family is devastated. I tried to talk to his mother but she couldn’t even speak. It is a tragedy. I don’t know what to do. I feel responsible,” said Joan, speaking with great urgency and stress.

  “I know, Joan, it’s heartbreaking. I can’t believe it happened.”

  “Luke and his friends are shell-shocked. Simply shell-shocked. This is their first friend who died…well, it’s so sad. Unbelievable. And I just hate that it happened at our house,” said Joan.

  “I know,” said Antonia.

  “Antonia, off the record, and I know it’s terrible to say this, but …”

  Antonia waited. She knew what was coming.

  “But the bathtub wasn’t…you know, it was normal, right? What I mean is, it wasn’t exceptionally polished or anything, I mean, I hate to say it but in this day and age, with lawsuits…”

  “I know what you mean, Joan, but there was nothing out of the ordinary. In terms of it being extra slippery. The same ladies clean for me, and we’ve never had that problem.”

  “Oh good! I mean, terrible to say, but I just don’t want to be dragged into court…”

  “Of course not,” said Antonia.

  “The police said he could have been drinking.”

  “They did?” asked Antonia. She hadn’t heard that.

  “Well, they alluded to it. They’re waiting to receive the toxicology report.”

  Antonia slumped down on in a wrought iron patio chair, suddenly tired.

  “One thing I wanted to ask, Joan, is the thing that did seem unusual to me was that Warner was in Eleanor’s bathroom…”

  “What?” exclaimed Joan in a piercing voice.

  Antonia immediately felt the blood rush to her head. Did Joan not know?

  “He had showered in Eleanor’s bathroom…”

  “You mean he was found dead in Eleanor’s tub? Good lord! I can’t let her know that. Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But this is so odd. He loved his guest room. We even joked and called that part of the house ‘Warner’s Room’ and ‘Warner’s bathroom.’ He stored his shampoo there between visits…”

  “I don’t know, Joan. I agree with you, it’s strange.”

  “Eleanor will feel violated. She simply can’t know. Oh, I wish this documentary never took place! It caused so much trouble and all for naught. I should go on record saying I thoroughly disapproved of it. Had I known, I’m not sure I would have allowed him to stay. Young kids do these impulsive projects, just to become famous, and it comes back to bite them in the you-know-what. The tushie. There. I said it. We have a friend whose daughter put one of those videos up on YouTube where she’s dancing around, partying with friends…just awful…”

  Antonia temporarily zoned out while Joan continued her rant. When Joan arrived at the conclusion that the Internet was evil, Antonia finally couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Joan, I hate to interrupt, but was there a friend of Warner’s working with him? Rutherford something?”

  “Hayes Rutherford.”

  “Yes,” said Antonia with excitement. “Where is he now?”

  “Fortunately, Hayes had come to his senses. He was also supposed to stay with us but after the first interview, Hayes quit. He did not want to be in the business of ruining people’s lives and causing a scandal. I’ve always thought him to be level-headed…”

  “So, he wasn’t the cameraman?”

  “No. He’s with Lukey and their friends in Greenwich right now, trying to stay close to Warner’s family. The funeral’s Saturday. The East Hampton police drove out this morning to interview them, but there was nothing much they could say. They all vouched for Warner’s character. No one saw this coming.”

  “Joan, do you know who the cameraman was?”

  “Hmmm…I don’t think so.”

  “Could it have been another friend of Luke’s?”

  “I doubt it very much.”

  “Would it be possible to find out?” asked Antonia before quickly adding, “No one knows how to find him and as a courtesy he should be told about Warner, and funeral arrangements.”

  “Yes, absolutely. I’ll ask Luke and he can ask Hayes. We’re boarding our plane soon—we’re still in Nice—but I’ll let you know sometime tomorrow.”

  Not soon enough, thought Antonia. “Or you could just give me Luke’s cell phone number. It will save you the hassle.”

  “Wonderful idea. Although I think he said he was turning off the sound. It would be a little tacky to receive calls now…”

  “I’ll text him.”

  “Good idea. He loves that. All that LOL and BTW, I don’t know what he is writing half the time…”

  “Let me grab a pen.”

  With the phone still pressed to her ear and Joan prattling on about all of the acronyms young people use in their communication, Antonia ran into the sitting room and sat down at the English Regency desk. Atop of the leather blotter was a Windmill Inn pad where she scrawled down the number. As she was doing so, a movement along the patio caught her eye. She turned but saw nothing. After saying her goodbyes to Joan, Antonia texted Luke. She stared expectantly at her phone with the hope that Luke would instantly respond. Her eyes grew watery and she glanced up. When she did so, she saw with dread that the lawyer was now seated on the patio wall exactly where she had sat moments before.

  He stood up as Antonia walked through the French doors towards him. He glanced at her expectantly.

  “Don’t get excited. I have nothing for you,” she said defiantly.

  He gave her a small smirk. “I’m disappointed.”

  Antonia put her hands on her hips in an effort to look more authoritative. “You can’t threaten me.”

  The man looked amused. “I’m not threatening you Antonia.”

  “What about the manila envelope you left for me at the Felds’ house?”

  The man smiled, front rowing those Chiclet teeth again. “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

  Antonia squinted. “I don’t believe you. You said you could find out anything, that your employer was powerful.”

  “He is.”

  “And that dossier was an effort to intimidate me. Well, I can’t be intimidated. My past is my past and I will be held accountable for it. I want you to know I’m working with the police now. So this is over.”

  “I know for a fact you are not working with the police right now. But I want to make it clear, I am not threatening you. I just wish you had come to a different conclusion…”

  “And I don’t get it. Why are you coming to me? Shouldn’t you ask the cameraman? He probably has it.”

  “You have it.”

  “I don’t.”

  The lawyer clutched his briefcase
and turned to move. “Well, then, we have nothing more to discuss now.”

  Antonia could have sworn he emphasized the word discuss. As if there was an alternative to discussing. Like maybe killing?

  “That’s a pity.”

  “And I would like you to cease and desist from bothering me or my friends and employers.”

  “You have my card. Contact me when you are ready to do business.”

  “I won’t be.”

  Antonia dug her heels into the ground and folded her arms. He departed quietly, with only a final glance over his shoulder before he turned the corner by the wisteria bush. She could only hope that he had realized she had nothing to offer and would now leave her alone. It was all a silly misunderstanding, he would learn, and then move on. Good riddance, she thought.

  * * * * *

  “I’m here, and I am in full investigation mode, so let’s do it,” said Genevieve.

  Antonia glanced at Genevieve’s “full investigation mode” outfit: she was clad in skinny dark jeans and a shiny pearl gray top opened to reveal what little cleavage she had. She was wearing her high, chocolate, leather riding boots (she didn’t ride, it was a ‘look,’ she said) and had layers of gold chains everywhere to be found and held a cape over her arm. Ralph Lauren had picked the right person to represent his store.

  “I’m ready,” said Antonia.

  They walked out the back door to the driveway.

  “Where’s your car?” asked Antonia.

  “Carl dropped me off,” said Genevieve with a sly smile.

  “Look at you,” said Antonia.

  “I know,” said Genevieve, suddenly serious. “It’s strange, and I know it’s early, but I really think he may be the one, Antonia. It’s like, he totally gets me. I think he finds me funny and amusing, which is exactly how I prefer to think of myself.”

  “I think of you that way also.”

  “I know and that’s why I love you. And with him, it’s just so easy. He’s basically moved right in and it just feels right. There’s a comfort level.”

  “I’m really happy for you. And I agree, he’s a man. Most of the men that you’ve dated were boys. None of them were very serious, whereas Carl seems thoughtful and mature. And I like that he has a plan: he’s traveled the world, now he wants to settle down.”

  “Oh my God, can you imagine?” asked Genevieve shaking her head in amazement. “How awesome would it be?”

  “Awesome,” said Antonia.

  “It could be you, my friend. That hot chef last night seemed like he wanted to jump your bones.”

  Antonia reddened. “No, that was purely professional. Besides, he was probably married.”

  “Don’t always sell yourself short, Antonia. Why wouldn’t he be attracted to you?”

  “Because he’s a child.”

  “He’s not.”

  “He looked like he was in his late twenties.”

  “Being a cougar is hot.”

  “I can’t even think of that right now. We have more pressing business.”

  They were on their way to find the cameraman. Luke had returned Antonia’s text with lightning speed. (That’s what she amazed her about young people and their gadgets: even when they were in mourning, they still had time to text.) His response had been:

  Hayes said Warner met some slacker dude at happy hour. Guy’s name was Paul. He had camera experience so he took over the shoot.

  Antonia had responded to query how she could find him, to which she received the following response:

  Dude is a lush, day drinker accord to Hayes. Check local bars.

  It wasn’t much, but a few more texts back and forth with Luke gave Antonia a fuzzy description of this Paul and a hint that his watering holes of choice were usually in Amagansett, the next town over. Antonia had gone into her office and opened the Yellow Pages and proceeded to call every restaurant and bar (there weren’t that many, fortunately) and ask them to check if there was a “Paul” at the bar. She hit pay dirt at Meeting House. The bartender confirmed there was a Paul drinking at the bar with his girlfriend. She annoyed him further by asking him to ask Paul if he was a cameraman. When he returned after several seconds with a positive answer Antonia was so startled that she quickly hung up. She reprimanded herself for proceeding without a plan. It was at that moment that Genevieve had called her, and on impulse, Antonia asked her if she was game for heading to drinks at Meeting House. Antonia had given Genevieve only a partial on the true reason they were heading to Meeting House. She explained that she was interested in finding the footage for Warner’s documentary so that it didn’t end up in the wrong hands, and to do that they needed to track down the cameraman, who may be reluctant to part with it. She didn’t fill Genevieve in on the lawyer. Genevieve could have a big mouth and the less information she had to play with, the better.

  “So, what’s the plan?” asked Genevieve. “Surveillance or ambush?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Antonia, maneuvering the car out of the driveway and onto the road. She pressed down firmly on the accelerator. She wanted to be sure she made it to the bar before Paul left.

  “I was going to bring my binoculars, but they didn’t fit in this handbag and I really wanted to wear it because we just got it in. Isn’t it cute? The beading is incredible; they found these women in India who do all this amazing stuff.”

  Antonia glanced down at the bag. “It’s nice, but how many handbags do you need? Every time I see you, you have a new one.”

  “And every time I see you, you have the same old boring one. You don’t even use the one I bought you for your birthday.”

  “It’s too fancy.”

  “It’s chic.”

  “I will use it one day…”

  “Whatever. The good news is I was able to fit pepper spray in my bag in case.”

  “Pepper spray?” said Antonia, nearly choking on her words. “I can’t even believe you own pepper spray. What do you need it for?”

  “You never know,” said Genevieve flicking on the radio. She played with the dial until she got to 101.3. “This is the new Lady Gaga song. I love it.”

  “Well, I don’t think we’ll need the pepper spray, so just keep it in the car.”

  “Nuh-uh, you never know. Someone could be onto you. They could know that you’re snooping around. They get you in a dark alley and one blow to the head and you’re dead.”

  “Right.”

  Meeting House Restaurant was in Amagansett, the next village on Route 27. Amagansett was still part of the town of East Hampton but had a much different energy. It was more relaxed, less fancy, but in possession of its own authentic low-key charm. There weren’t a lot of daytrippers clamoring along the streets with piles of shopping bags trying to muscle their way into the latest designer boutique. That said, it beat East Hampton in the nightlife department, hosting some late night scenes and one of the only spots to hear live music in the area.

  Antonia didn’t allow Genevieve to take the requisite five minutes to reapply her makeup and instead rushed her out of the car. When they entered the restaurant, Antonia scanned the room for a “Paul”. She observed several families with small children seated in the booths, as well as a couple in their fifties. She ruled them out immediately. That left a scruffy young man and woman in their early twenties that were seated at the far end of the bar. Bingo.

  The man had stringy, longish hair, a puffy face that had probably ingested too much fried food for one lifetime, and a soft body. His mouth was adorned with an attempted goatee that instantly conjured up the image of scraggly cat whiskers. He wore a plaid shirt with the sleeves slightly rolled up. His girlfriend had long dyed black hair that made a shocking contrast to her pale skin. Her eyes were small but long lashed, and she wore heavy eyeliner and flaming red lipstick that was bright enough to be used as a signal to aliens in outer space.
Several long beaded necklaces dangled atop her ratty black asymmetrical sweater. The couple was disheveled and insouciant, but Antonia thought their slovenly look appeared carefully cultivated rather than natural.

  “That’s got to be him,” said Genevieve, pointing.

  Antonia reached and grabbed her hand. “Don’t point! We don’t want to make it look like we’re targeting them.”

  “But we are.”

  “But then it seems so shady.”

  Genevieve folded her arms. “So, how do you want to proceed, Miss Marple?”

  Antonia pondered the question. Should she come right out and introduce herself? Probably that was the best course. “Okay, we’ll go say hi. Then you’ll engage the girlfriend in conversation and I’ll try and elicit information out of Paul.”

  “In other words, you get the fun part.”

  “It’s not the fun part! Remember, I’m trying to find this footage. For Warner’s sake.”

  “You don’t have to feed me that baloney. But fine. I will do it for the cause.”

  A young blonde hostess clutching menus approached Antonia and Genevieve. She was still in her teens and Antonia instantly felt old. “Two for dinner?” she inquired.

  “Actually, we’re just going to sit at the bar and have some drinks,” said Genevieve.

  “Of course,” said the hostess, motioning them towards the bar.

  When they approached, Antonia noticed that the couple had their legs linked in a bizarre Houdini-esque contortion. The girlfriend had her hand on Paul’s inner thigh and Antonia had to avert her eyes for fear she’d see just a little more of Paul than she wanted to. Paul’s beer glass was half full, but his girlfriend had almost drained a murky looking drink that had a shot glass floating inside it.

  “Excuse me, Paul?” asked Antonia.

  He twisted around abruptly, as if he had been caught doing something wrong. “Yes?” he asked gruffly.

  “Hi, my name is Antonia Bingham. I, um…” Antonia hesitated. “I work for the Mastersons…”

  Paul stared at her blankly.

  “Warner Caruthers was their houseguest.”

  A flicker of recognition came across Paul’s face. “Hey,” he said softly.