Death on Lily Pond Lane

by Carrie Doyle

  “Hi! I didn’t expect to see you again,” said Antonia with surprise.

  Bridget Curtis was drenched from head to toe with rain. Small drops dripped down from her face to her toes. If she stood in the same spot any longer, a puddle would form underneath her. Her expression was as stormy as the night, and she glanced at Antonia with a mixture of reproach and disdain. There was a momentary pause as if Bridget experienced a split second of indecision, but when she finally spoke, her voice was firm.

  “I’m not who you think I am.”

  Antonia leaned back in her chair and threw her pen on the desk. “Oh?”

  Bridget’s face remained stern. “Yes. It’s not important who I am or why I’m here right now. But I feel compelled to tell you that you’re being followed.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Antonia.

  “There’s a man…I’ve seen him watching you.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know who he is. Only that he’s followed you to the beach and to that house where the guy died.”

  “Wait a minute.” Antonia put a hand up. “If you know all that, it means that you were watching me too.”

  Antonia saw Bridget’s resolve falter before she composed herself. “I can’t reveal that to you now. It would only distract you.”

  Antonia was annoyed. “Distract me? That’s really lame. You come here and tell me that you’ve been watching me and you can’t tell me who you are or why you’re here? This all sounds bizarre.”

  Bridget nodded. “I agree. I’m sorry, I don’t want to sound like a freak. To be honest, this conversation was never supposed to happen. I didn’t plan on coming back. But I was concerned about this man. And then I heard about that other murder.”

  “Well, now that everything is changed, I’d appreciate it if you told me who you were.”

  Bridget bit down on her lip, as if she was conflicted. She glanced up at Antonia. “Not yet. I’m not finished with what I need to do.”

  Antonia waved her hand in the air with impatience. This girl was really something else. Did she really think Antonia would beg it out of her? “This is ridiculous. I don’t have time for this.”

  Bridget sighed deeply. “I know you don’t, but when I can tell you, I will come back, and you will understand. I’ll leave now, but I wanted to warn you about this man. He could be dangerous.”

  “I know all about the man. His name is Terry Randolph and he’s a lawyer who is trying to blackmail me into giving him something that he thinks I have. But I don’t have it, don’t know where it is, and if I did have it, I’d turn it over to the police right away. And I really wish he’d stop hiding behind doorways and in backyards and trying to spook me.”

  Bridget was surprised. “I didn’t know you knew…”

  “Yes, I do know. There’s a lot of strange stuff going on, but fortunately, I think I’m on top of it. So if you want to tell me why you are really here, please do so, otherwise, I have no time for you.”

  27

  Antonia returned to her apartment feeling both irritated and exasperated. The events of the past few days were taking their toll and even though she had much to muse upon, she announced to her empty living room that she was on an official brain strike. She didn’t want to think about Bridget, the odd and strangely broken girl who seemed to have some dark secret. She supposed she should have sympathy but right now she had no patience for that. She didn’t want to think about Sidney Black, that mean little man, or Warner, whose death had catapulted her into a strange series of events. And most importantly, she didn’t want to think of her love life. Everything was giving her a headache. If she’d been a prescription pill popper, now would have been the time to take one, but that was not her thing, fortunately or unfortunately. So, as she was too agitated to sleep, she nestled onto her sofa with a giant bowl of cayenne popcorn on her lap, and flicked on the TV. She momentarily debated going downstairs to retrieve When Harry Met Sally from the lending library, but she was too tired. Instead she made do with a Lifetime TV movie about a teenager from a seemingly pleasant family in the suburbs who had a double life as a prostitute.

  After a while of mindless watching, Antonia felt relaxed, and comfortable, safely tucked in her quiet little cocoon. The inn moved when there were people upstairs; floorboards squeaked, doors banged; windows rattled. It was like being on a cruise ship. But with the wedding guests still out celebrating, right now the only sound that Antonia heard was the rain pounding on the roof and trickling down the gutters.

  Antonia shook peanut M&Ms into her popcorn bowl and pressed play on the remote. The TV movie was formulaic, but harmless, as if the writers just slapped a train of thought together and ran with it. They should have spent the last year with Antonia and witnessed all of the murders she was subjected to—then they would really have something to write about!

  After the conclusion of the movie, a glance at the cable box revealed that it was eleven-seventeen. The wedding guests had still not returned. The pouring rain was obviously not enough of a deterrent to make them pack it in for the night. After stifling a yawn, Antonia went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was puffy, and she had slight dark circles under her eyes. Lack of sleep, stress—anything could be a contributor to this unattractive mien. Warner dying, Sheila Black dying, Nancy Woods dying, sleeping with a possible murderer.

  She turned on the tap and began spreading soapy cleanser on all over her cheeks. She thought of Bridget. There was something about her that unsettled Antonia. Of course because Bridget had revealed that she had been following her, but it wasn’t only that. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. There was something familiar about the girl. Antonia tried to think back to a time she may have met her before, but nothing came to mind. It would come to her, though. She didn’t have immediate recall, but she knew one day when she wasn’t concentrating, she’d remember who Bridget was.

  After patting her face dry with a washcloth, she scooped a generous dollop of face cream and began massaging it into the deep wrinkles on her forehead. Antonia leaned down and retrieved a new bottle of peppermint foot cream from the cabinet under the sink. Her eyes swept the contents of the cabinet, confirming that her addiction to products was becoming overwhelming. She was a few purchases shy of ending up on that show ‘Hoarders.’ After applying the cream, she opened the cabinet again and pushed aside her bucket of cleaning supplies to place it next to other specialty creams for various body parts (hands; elbows; eyes; thighs; stretch marks.) She flicked off the light and returned to her bedroom.

  Antonia yanked back her comforter cover and froze. It was as if something that had been hovering at the back of her mind came forward and announced itself, solving the puzzle that she had been pondering over for days. It couldn’t be, she told herself. But it had to be. In her mind, images clicked, one after another, as if she were flipping through one of those picture books that looked like a movie if you turned the pages fast enough. She wasn’t sure, but she thought she had found the missing page.

  “Oh my God,” said Antonia out loud. She surprised even herself that she had spoken with such conviction. But for the first time in days, she experienced utter and complete conviction that she knew who was behind everything.

  Antonia walked over to her chest of drawers and pulled out a pair of jeans that she rarely wore. After changing out of her nightgown into a long sleeved shirt and a UCLA sweatshirt, she put on her raincoat and Wellies and grabbed a flashlight out of the bottom drawer in the kitchen. It was a miserable night to leave the house, but she had no choice. Once Antonia felt like she had clarity there was no stopping her from proving it. It was as if fear, hesitation and reason left her body and she became hell-bent on finding the truth. And it wasn’t something she could assign to someone else—she had to see for herself.

  * * * * *

  The rain was teeming down with renewed vig
or. The pellets were hard and fierce, bouncing off of surfaces with determination. The gusty wind was frantically dragging towards the east, hauling along leaves on its journey and anything else not tethered to the ground. Antonia pulled out of the driveway carefully, avoiding the small ditches that were now mud baths. The town green had become a giant pool, the wet grass no longer visible under the murky pond of rainwater. Antonia’s car splashed through the puddles that made up half of the road, her wipers working overtime to keep the ripples of water cascading down her windshield at bay.

  The road was slick and Antonia had to drive slower than usual. Visibility was low. The raindrops that had accumulated on Antonia’s coat during her short walk to the car were now dripping onto her cloth seat and melting into the butt of her jeans. Antonia felt damp and chilled. She reached over and turned up the heat. The chilly air blasted through the tiny filters, emitting a low whistle. She knew she was certifiably insane to go out at this hour in this weather, snooping around no less, but for some reason she didn’t feel worried, but rather had a sense of steely resolve.

  Antonia lurched through the giant puddles. Her car was old, and at times like this she felt that there was very little that separated her from the outer elements. She may as well be driving a tin can. She glanced up at the corners of her window to make sure no raindrops were escaping inside. As she splashed down the road, she noted that there were several houses with outside lights on, confirming that weekenders had arrived and this part of town was not so desolate. That said, the houses here were spread so far apart that it was very possible that a neighbor wouldn’t hear anyone else, especially with the rain pounding so hard.

  “Here it is,” announced Antonia aloud, to no one.

  She was outside the Harkin house. She slowed her car and craned her neck to glance inside. Of course, Nancy Woods was dead, and as far as she knew, no one else was living there, but she wasn’t sure. But from this angle, all she could see was the house was enveloped in a shroud of darkness.

  She paused at the stop sign and debated her next move. She could make a left on Hedges Lane and another left on Lily Pond and park in the Mastersons’ driveway. Or she could pull over to the side of the road and walk back to the Harkin House. She decided that the former would draw the least attention. Cars weren’t just parked on the side of the road here. If a police cruiser passed by, it would most certainly stop. Better to risk ‘trespassing’ at the Mastersons’ house.

  Antonia killed her lights and pulled into the Mastersons’ driveway as slowly as possible. The gravel crunched softly under the weight of her Saab. She wished for a moment that the Mastersons had paved their driveway with silent blacktop, but she knew that was in vain. Paved driveways were a no-no south of the highway. They were regarded with the same contempt as tacky lawn ornaments or above-ground pools.

  Antonia drove as close to the garage as possible and parked at an angle to prevent detection from a passing car. The rain was bad enough, but it was the wind that was as potent as ever. Before she exited, she quickly dialed Genevieve’s number from her cell phone. It rang and rang but then went to voice mail. Dammit. Where was Genevieve? Even if she was at the movies, she was one of those irritating people who would answer and have an entire conversation during the climax of a film. Her phone was her life. If Antonia could just talk to her, she might not need to go on this little fishing expedition.

  The weather was mean. Branches were beating against each other violently, creating foreboding sound effects. She turned on the flashlight and scanned the back yard to find her bearings in the inky blackness. Fortunately, she knew the place like the back of her hand; otherwise she would have been disoriented.

  She walked towards the edge of the property with determination. Her boots sunk into the wet grass, the muddy ground suctioning her down. Pools of water had gathered by the rose garden along the hedge, flooding the flowerbeds. Streams of raindrops were running down her face and Antonia felt her nose starting to run. Antonia could only imagine how lovely she looked right now. Like a real femme fatale.

  The small streak of light emanating from her flashlight found the hole in the privet hedge. Antonia paused, scanning the edges. It appeared smaller than it had earlier; less of a gap and more of a keyhole. After squeezing the flashlight in her pocket, she hurled one leg over the side and squirreled her body through the narrow patch. The jagged branches scratched at her jacket like a cat’s tiny paws clawing an armchair. As she pulled herself through to the other side, she felt as if she was whipped cream being squeezed out of a pastry bag. She landed with a plop and let out a deep breath, unaware that she had been holding it. After walking through the thick cluster of rhododendron bushes that bordered the hedge, Antonia paused on the threshold of the Harkin property. She stared up at the back of the house where a pale light flickered through a slit in the curtains of an upstairs bedroom. Someone was there. Carl? Or maybe one of the grandmother’s caretakers? Carl had said they were using and abusing his grandmother. Maybe they had set up house? Could it be the British man?

  It was a minor glitch, Antonia told herself. She should have expected that, and indeed she did initially, but she had been fooled by the lack of lights on in the front of the house. She would be quick. A glimmer in the distance provided minor guidance, allowing Antonia to turn off her flashlight. In case someone took that moment to glance out of his window, she didn’t want him to spot her.

  Antonia glanced around furtively for the wheelbarrow she had tripped over earlier in the day. It was no longer in its spot by the edge. A setback. She continued on, fumbling through the yard in the smoky wash of darkness. The rain was being blown sideways by strong winds and dripping down Antonia’s cheeks. The musty scent of damp wood and wetness hung in the air.

  With her hands in front of her for protection, she walked with all the grace and ease of a zombie. Squinting through the blackness and stumbling blindly, Antonia slowly moved forward. Fuzzy images became buckets and bushes as she moved closer. She could have sworn she saw a gun leaning against the house but when she came closer she deciphered it was a rake. Antonia took a step and her leg caught on something. She pressed forward. Whatever it was resisted her. She kicked her leg forward. There was a slight bang. Before she knew it, she had fallen over flat on her face, landing in a wet puddle. Her leg hurt like hell and she fought all of her temptation to scream. She turned on her flashlight for a quick second, allowing its sparse light to reveal what had tripped her. It was the wheelbarrow. Antonia shone the light on her leg. Part of her jeans had torn above her calf. She slowly rolled up the bottom of her jean and saw a bloody gash in her leg. It stung.

  After taking a moment to pull herself together, Antonia mustered up her energy and rose. Her leg throbbed. She could feel the gash reopening as she moved, and new blood spurting out. The wet jeans flapping against it didn’t help either. Hobbling forward, she bent down and peered into the wheelbarrow. The sparse light from the flashlight scanned the inside. Antonia’s heart thudded with her discovery. Inside was the stack of spray cans that Antonia had seen earlier. She felt a wave of nervous agitation. She turned one of the cans over. Lysol. The same exact one that had been found near Warner’s body.

  Deep in the back of Antonia’s mind, a hypothesis burgeoned. The killer had been at the Harkin house. The wheelbarrow had been near the hole in the hedge. For some reason, he grabbed a Lysol can and ran over to the Mastersons’ house. There he killed Warner. Was it Carl? And if so, why?

  Antonia had to get in touch with Genevieve. She replaced the Lysol can and turned to retrace her steps and make her way back to the car. She limped slowly, her hands in front of her so as not to trip over anything again. The rain had reinvigorated itself and was pounding steadily. A flash of lightning glistened across the sky followed by a rumble of thunder. The ground was sloshy and slippery. Antonia took a misstep and her gait faltered. She tried to reach out and steady herself but there was nothing to grab onto. Instead, she slid i
nto a puddle.

  “Damn!” Antonia exclaimed, before cupping her hands over her mouth in horror. How could she have yelled out? She glanced up at the window, but there was no movement.

  She had to get the hell out of there. Antonia planted her hand in the mushy earth and hoisted herself up. Her leg was throbbing and she was a mess. She moved as quickly as possible towards the hedge. She passed through the bushes but then got turned around. Antonia felt around for the hole in the hedge, but in the darkness, she was becoming disoriented. She took a few steps back so that the streetlight in the distance could alert her to where she was. She glanced at the bushes, but was unsure. After a glance around, Antonia quickly turned on her flashlight. She scanned the back and found the gap in the hedge. She flicked off the flashlight and glanced up at the house behind her. And froze.

  There was someone staring down at Antonia from the upstairs window. The curtain shrouded his face, but Antonia could see the outline. Oh My God. Could he see her? She wasn’t sure. Her heart beat so hard she could hear it. If it was Carl, she shouldn’t be afraid. Or should she? Antonia was paralyzed. She waited, holding her breath, her entire body motionless but wracked with panic. Finally, he disappeared from the window. Antonia expected a front door to open any minute, so without further ado, she leapt through the bushes, through the hole in the hedge. When she reached the Mastersons’ backyard, a flash of lightning streaked across the sky. She glanced up at the back of the Mastersons’ house, at the guest bathroom window that Warner had been using. Something dawned on her. If the killer was in the Harkin house, on the second floor, he could easily have seen Warner in the guest bathroom. Did he see Warner do something that caused him to run over and kill him? Was there some sort of communication between the killer and Warner?

  A loud clap of thunder sounded and Antonia didn’t wait anymore. She hobbled as fast as possible to her car. Her cold hands fumbled in her pockets for the keys. Antonia’s eyes kept darting to the backyard. Any minute now the person from the window could come out, shine a flashlight on her and kill her. Was it Carl? She didn’t want to wait around to find out.