by Carrie Doyle
“Yes, you made a mistake. But it was all in good conscience. The police understood that once you explained it to them…”
“Sergeant Flanagan thinks I am insane. I could tell by the look on his face. I requested him at the scene. They pulled him out of the movie theater. He was with his son. And all for nothing.” Antonia smoothed the throw blanket over her knees. “I could go to jail for a false call…”
“Did they say that?”
“No. But still.” Antonia buried her face in her hands. “You should have seen the lawyer’s face when the police showed up. And Paul Brady was scared out of his wits. He probably has a secret pot stash somewhere in the house and thought he was getting busted. The only thing I can hope for is that they bought my excuse. I told them that when I arrived on Paul’s doorstep I saw two sinister men standing over him, and Paul seemed agitated. After Warner’s death, I thought something was afoot.”
“That seems reasonable enough.”
“But Sergeant Flanagan pressed me. I swear he knew I was fishing around. He wanted to know why I thought that these men would kill Paul Brady.”
“What did you say?”
“This was my one mistake. I said that I had heard from someone that they were going to bring out a gun. I realize now how stupid I was. Sergeant Flanagan talked to the lawyer who said his employer referred to him as ‘the big guns.’ Of course, Francine lost that in translation. This was all about a payoff. I was totally wrong about a murder.”
“Antonia, I don’t think you have to worry that much. Yes, you made the call. But now the police are on to the fact that there are very interested parties trying to track down the missing footage. It’s pure motive for Warner’s death. And in regards to the lawyer, what you did was an inconvenience. What Paul Brady did was lie and mislead him. That’s worse.”
“I suppose.”
Antonia leaned back on the sofa. She was exhausted, physically and mentally. Worst of all, she was mortified. Gossip like this could spread all over town. She’d have to sleep with Larry Lipper for a year in order for him not to print it in the newspaper.
“I’m done. It’s over.”
“You’re quitting the investigation?”
“I am retiring. I’m in over my head. I think it all must be my imagination run amok.”
“What about the towels? What about the Lysol can? The watch?”
Antonia shrugged. “Who knows, maybe Warner moved them. Maybe he did want to shower in Eleanor’s bathroom. And maybe he was a clean freak who wanted it perfectly sanitary before he did so. I don’t know this guy from Adam, why am I conjecturing on what he would and would not do?”
Joseph didn’t respond. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and removed his glasses. He began wiping the lenses pensively. Antonia flopped around on the sofa. She felt restless, anxious and agitated.
“You agree with me, right? I should quit this all. It’s all rubbish.”
Joseph finished wiping his right lens before returning the glasses to his nose and the handkerchief to his pocket.
“I agree, maybe let the police solve the murders of Sheila Black and possibly Warner. But don’t you think you need to find the footage? It must be somewhere?”
“I don’t have any idea where it is or how to find it. I’ve just proven that I am totally pathetic when it comes to solving puzzles.”
“I don’t ascribe to that at all,” said Joseph, unusually emphatic. “You have achieved a great many things because of your passion and your convictions. I think you have an instinct about the circumstances surrounding Warner’s death that others don’t possess. You see people come and go all day. I know that you study them, notice things about them that others don’t notice. You have to trust yourself. I say, don’t throw it all away.”
“You mean, despite being totally humiliated, I should try and find out what really happened to Warner?” asked Antonia.
“What have you got to lose?”
“You’re appealing to my vanity by flattery and persuasion.”
“I’m making a cogent argument. If it strokes your ego, all the better.”
Antonia sighed. “What would I do without you?”
Joseph laughed softly before switching the topic. “By the way, I checked. Pauline Framingham was telling the truth. She was down in Palm Beach. And it doesn’t look like she’s made any attempt to retrieve missing footage. I’d remove her from the list. But I still think you need to have a conversation with Heidi Levicky.”
“You’re terrible,” teased Antonia. “You want me to kick back into private eye mode.”
Joseph smiled but didn’t respond.
“You do!” insisted Antonia.
“Maybe,” said Joseph. “It’s a welcome distraction to the usual routine around here. Listen, try something for me. It is what you would call ‘New Age’ but hear me out. I want you to lie down and close your eyes. Yes, like I’m a psychiatrist, or hypnotist, or whatever charlatan you think of.”
“You’re serious?”
“You know I am always serious.”
Antonia was surprised. She hadn’t seen this side of Joseph. Perhaps this murder had awakened something in both of them.
“Are you sure?”
“When I interviewed older or tricky subjects for my articles, I often used this device. It actually works. But you need to relax.”
“Okay,” said Antonia. She did as was told.
“Good. Now think back to each interaction you had with Warner. Try to remember every exchange you had. Even if it was mundane.”
Antonia closed her eyes firmly and let her mind wander back in time. Life could be so frustrating. It was all about living forward but thinking backward. Using the past in order to help decisions with the future. But mistakes were always repeated. People rarely learned from their errors.
“Focus, Antonia,” cooed Joseph.
“I am.”
Antonia conjured up images of Warner. They came more as flashes rather than a linear memory.
“Okay, he arrived at the inn about mid-morning. Connie, from reception, told me I had a visitor. He was leaning against the table reading a brochure that we have on fishing in Montauk. I introduced myself, and he told me he was Luke’s houseguest and he had come to get the key.”
“That’s great. Go on…”
“We talked about fishing briefly. Then he said he was here to make a movie. I said that I loved movies, I have hundreds of DVDs downstairs in our lending library. But he said his was a documentary. I said I was more of the romantic comedy type. This is all boring…”
“No, go on.”
Antonia sighed. “Okay, I told him I watched “When Harry Met Sally” every few weeks. He said maybe his movie would change my tastes. I asked what it was about and he said ‘the Hamptons.’ But then he quickly added that he hated when people called it ‘the Hamptons.’ And I agreed. Lumping a bunch of very different villages and towns into one generalization drives me nuts. Then we talked about Luke, how he’s working at an investment bank now. I think Warner thought he had ‘sold out.’ Then I gave him the key and told him when Rosita comes and when I come by and he said he would be very respectful, he loved the Mastersons like family, and that was it.”
Joseph nodded. “Good. What about the next time?”
“The next time was when he came in hastily. He was in a big rush, and he asked for the key, said he had lost his, he was very sorry. I went to get another spare key in my office, and when I came back, he was gone. Jonathan asked me to come into his office to check on something, so I did, and when I returned to the front desk Warner was there again. I gave him the key. And he left. And on the way out, he stopped and talked to Bridget Curtis…”
Antonia sat bolt upright.
“What is it?” asked Joseph.
“Where did Warner go between the time when I went to get
the key for him and came out of Jonathan’s office? Was he handing off something to Bridget? I can’t understand it. I still think she must be somehow involved.”
“He could have gone anywhere. He could have used the time to hide the footage at the inn.”
Antonia stared into Joseph’s eyes. “Where?”
“I don’t know. But it’s got to be here.”
Saturday
23
The rain was torrential on Saturday morning. A walk on the beach would be an exercise in futility. The relentlessly pounding raindrops promised a beating to everyone who dared challenge them. Antonia was relieved that she would not have to face Nick this morning. She was still feeling awkward about their last conversation. How should she react? Should she act casual as if he had said nothing? She was not good at that. Not at all. This was why she had opted out of the love game long ago. It was better to remain virginal. She’d live like a saint from now on. She’d always enjoyed reading about them in religion class. They didn’t have to do very much and yet still ended up worshiped.
After making breakfast and addressing members of the wedding party’s inquiries about where to get manicures and a blow-out (the Salon in Amagansett), Antonia was able to retreat and address the real issue at hand. Her first mission of the day was to find the footage. She started at her office, yet a thorough search only resulted in finding the Naturopathica Spa gift card that she had been looking for since the day after Christmas (it was a present from Genevieve.) She then moved to the front desk, where another brisk exploration revealed nothing of interest. From there she rummaged through the parlor and the living room with no success, before being seized by the idea that Warner hid the footage in her kitchen. It would make sense; he would know that it was her domain. But after opening every single cabinet and drawer, sifting through all the bags of flour, sugar, corn, and even opening boxes in the freezer, Antonia realized she was wrong. Warner would never have hid the footage in a place that was available to so many. She was way off. And at this point Antonia was tired, so she decided to call it a day on her investigation. Instead, she sequestered herself in the kitchen with the several new recipes that she was eager to try.
On the savory side, she was exploring a new grilled lamb dish, one that would require a labor-intensive marinade that she had not yet perfected. For several hours she crushed peppercorns, coriander and mustard seeds. She chopped garlic, thyme, rosemary, mint, cucumber, basil and sage. She fiddled with dollops of yogurt, hoisin sauce, hot sauce, soy sauce, raspberry vinegar, a medley of wine varietals and grenadine. She prepared about twenty marinades, but none was quite what she had in mind until the concoction she finally created at ten-thirty in the morning. Developing recipes felt like lab work to Antonia, bringing her tremendous satisfaction when she nailed something. After wiping down her mise-en-place, she commenced work on her caramelized banana bread pudding. She wanted to incorporate all of her favorite flavors: peanut butter, pretzels, chocolate, banana, caramel and marshmallow to create a decadent dessert. It was difficult work, but anything to avoid thinking about the embarrassing events of the prior evening.
At twelve-thirty, Antonia retired to her office with a steaming bowl of pureed white bean soup garnished with bacon, alongside a hunk of crusty baguette, oozing with melted fromage d’Affinois. She then nestled into her chair to dine in silence. The gray light floating through the windows was static and harsh, as if the world was paralyzed between daytime and nighttime. The rain continued pounding. Antonia flipped through the stack of notes that she had retrieved at reception, and checked her emails and voice mails. Genevieve had left a rambling message expressing anger that Antonia had gone to Paul Brady’s without her. Gen had a heart for drama, regardless of whether or not she was the catalyst. Antonia believed it was actually an aphrodisiac for her.
In addition, there was a message from Larry Lipper. He had most likely heard about what happened last night on his scanner or from one of his contacts and was calling to gloat. Antonia picked up the phone.
“Hang on a sec,” said Larry when he answered.
She heard him bark orders at someone in his newsroom. She had a big spoonful of soup while she waited.
“I heard about your big screw up yesterday.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“Why didn’t you call me? I could have been your wingman.”
“I don’t know. Obviously, the plan was ill-conceived.”
Then Larry surprised her. He moved on and didn’t rub it in.
“Listen, I heard something about Sheila Black. The police want to talk to her lover. Someone overheard them together said he was British. Know anyone who fits that description?”
“Hmmm…the only British guy I know here is Jonathan, my manager.”
“Was he porking her?”
“I would doubt it.”
“Alright, well, if anyone comes up let me know.”
“Will do.”
* * * * *
Antonia sat back down at her desk when he left. That’s right; Sheila had mentioned that her lover was British. Maybe Jonathan knew another Brit. She should ask him. Suddenly, she thought of the weird interaction between Jonathan and Carl. She was curious as to what had transpired between them but she thought she shouldn’t pursue it; too awkward. Better to let it go. Instead, she sent an email to Genevieve asking her if she knew any British guys around town. If there was anyone who had a beat on the men in the Hamptons, it was Genevieve. Antonia began sorting through the papers on her desk, but her mind was filled with all things Warner. She knew it wasn’t good for her. Suddenly, she remembered that Sam had called her last night. As far as he was concerned, she had blown him off. Without even hesitating, she picked up the phone and dialed his number.
“Hey, Sam, it’s Antonia,” she said after he answered.
“Hey,” he said cheerfully. “I didn’t think I’d hear from you.”
“Why’s that?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
This emboldened Antonia. “I was wondering what you’re up to now? I have a few hours before I need to start cooking and I’m bouncing off the walls a bit over here. Are you working? Is it a bad time? We can talk later…”
“No, no, it’s a great time. I’m actually at home, well, I mean, my cousin’s house, where I’m staying. Do you want to come by? I can make us lunch…”
“I already ate. But I’ll come by. Just give me the address.”
After hanging up with Sam, Antonia marched into her apartment with determination she had not experienced in years. If her entire life was falling apart with craziness, she may as well take advantage of it and act out of character. She stripped, showered, blew her hair dry and put on makeup, taking extra care to put on mascara and dramatic eyeliner. After spraying herself with perfume, she went to her top drawer to pull out some ‘sexy’ lingerie. She forgot that she didn’t really have any sexy lingerie. The closest thing was a lacy thong that Genevieve had given her as a stocking stuffer at Christmas—which was still coiled in a cylinder and wrapped in its packaging—and a white silk camisole. Antonia donned them, and topped them with a long sleeved v-neck shirt that accentuated her breasts and a black skirt. She pulled on her high leather boots and pushed gold hoop earrings through her lobes. She turned to survey herself in the mirror. She was ready.
* * * * *
The house Sam was staying at was in the Amagansett Dunes, an area south of the highway, close to the beach. Unlike beachfront property in other villages, the mostly one-story houses in the Dunes are clustered together on tiny slivers of uneven land, cramped so close as to almost touch. The landscaping is untamed, consisting of thick clumps of patchy Bermuda grass running wild on every surface that isn’t paved or built upon. Despite the proximity of one’s neighbors, there was something very carefree and relaxed about the area; like Venice Beach in the 1970s. Antonia loved the beachy feel, that sense that no one wo
uld become apoplectic if you dragged sand into his or her house. There was an appreciation for the elements; importance was not placed on status or formality.
Antonia found Sam’s car parked outside of a brown one-story ranch style house. Two surfboards were leaning against the garage door, the tips still sandy. After parking on the road, she checked herself out in the rearview mirror. She reapplied lip-gloss, and ran her tongue across her teeth. It was now or never. She opened the car door. The ocean was loud, pounding violently. The wind was gusty, which caused the rain to blow laterally. Antonia had brought an umbrella but it was of little use. She made a mad dash for the front door and shook the drops off her raincoat and hair.
“Hey,” said Sam, opening the door. His hair was wet and he was barefoot, clad in blue jeans and a Harley Davidson T-shirt. It was the first time Antonia had seen his arms and she noticed he had a large tattoo of a dragon on his right bicep.
“Hey,” said Antonia. She smiled at him. His eyes scanned her appraisingly, and she knew at once that her primping attempts had been effective.
“Come on in.”
Antonia followed Sam inside. The house appeared to have been decorated in the seventies. There was a blue shag carpet covering most of the linoleum floor. To the right, there were two sofas: one encased in brown velvet and the other in a tan houndstooth pattern. Both had various psychedelic throw pillows adorning them. A glass coffee table encrusted with sea glass separated them. On the wall, was an enormous rock fireplace, with a driftwood mantle, atop which were lava lamps and a large hexagonal mirror. Sliding glass doors led out to a long deck with a dining table and four chairs, as well as a chaise. Scraggly grass and a brown fence blocked the view of everything but the neighbor’s rooftop.
“I’m having a total Brady Bunch flashback,” said Antonia, after surveying the room. She put her handbag down on the hall table. “This place is groooovy.”
“Isn’t it? They were going to redo it when they bought it, but then it all sort of started to come back in fashion and now they think it’s really kitsch.”