Hearse and Gardens (18 page)

There were a total of twelve cars in the garage, all in varying makes and models, along with the white panel truck Uncle Harry used to transport his art.

Closest to me was a vintage Aqua Shelby GT350 convertible with a white leather interior. My uncle Jim, a car nut, had one just like it, only in a different color, Highland
Green. The Shelby had to be worth about a hundred grand.

I walked next to the car and opened the driver's door and got in. I fantasized I was cruising down Old Montauk Highway on a stellar summer day, wearing a pair of Elle's vintage movie star sunglasses and a head scarf, its ends trailing in the wind. I couldn't help myself and opened the glove compartment. Inside was a vintage can of Aqua Net hairspray, a small hairbrush, and a gold tube of lipstick. The lipstick color was Max Factor's blue red—the perfect shade for a Scandinavian blonde. This must have been Tansy's car.

Stepping out of the Shelby, I looked down the line at the other vehicles. My uncle Jim would have a field day in this garage.

I wasn't wearing my hearing aids, so I didn't notice Richard until he was next to me. Maybe I could make a million bucks on one of those inventor television shows by creating a cell phone app for the hearing impaired: a vibrating alert system for when something warm-blooded was three feet behind you.

Richard said, “It was Tansy's, Harrison's second wife. A 1969 Shelby 302 V8 four-speed, with tilt-away steering, a power top with a glass backlight, front and rear bumper guards. The white leather interior was custom made for her.”

I'd never seen this side of Richard. He beamed.

“My uncle has a Shelby.”

“I didn't lock your Jeep, if that's what you came for. And the keys are in the ignition.”

“Guess you weren't worried about someone stealing it.”

He gave me a look like,
duh
 . . . He said, “Did you just come from the house? Have the girls returned? I've spent all morning looking for them. They probably just went to a party, drank too much, and spent the night. It wouldn't be the first time. At least for Kate. She might have talked Liv into joining her.”

“If I were you, I'd talk to Celia and tell her to call Kate's friends.”

I remembered how cozy Kate and he looked at the Barkers' party.

“Good idea.” He left out the front door of the garage. I, however, didn't leave. I was curious about Richard's living quarters. Part nosy snoop, part curious interior decorator.

The layout over the garage was fabulous, but Richard's midcentury decorating taste didn't fit the traditional mahogany paneled walls and wide plank floors. I had a feeling they were original to the stable and someone had put their foot down about changing them. All of Richard's tchotchkes were from the same era as the bungalow. He might have pilfered them from the other bungalows before their contents were tossed in the trash.

On the long wall, across from the windows that looked out at the main house, were two huge oil paintings. The first one had swirls of reds and purples and a pair of five-foot-tall creepy eyes peering out from the background. The other canvas showed crazy corkscrews of purple, red, and black. Instead of eyes, there was a gallows-type tree hiding behind the violent splashes of color. I looked closely
in the corners of the paintings to see if I recognized the artist. You never knew in this house. They were signed F. C., and I couldn't think of a famous modern artist with those initials. Maybe one of Celia's rejects? I took a photo of each with my cell phone and sent them to Georgia. Maybe the Warhol of Aqua Net was hidden underneath? They were big enough.

An open laptop was on top of a white '70s-style plastic desk. I tapped the screen. A photo flashed across the screensaver. It was an open page from Pierce's sketch journal. I wanted to explore further, rifle through a few nightstands, and check out his underwear drawer, but as I glanced out the window, Richard was walking toward the garage. He held a cell phone to his ear. Thankfully he moved at a turtle's pace, giving me just enough time to skedaddle out the side door.

I hurried to a set of steps leading down to the ocean on the eastern side of the property. On the western side of the estate, where the bungalows stood, steps weren't needed because of the gently sloping sand dunes that led to the shore.

I walked down the first section of steps and had to stop for a breather on the platform that led to the second set. And here I thought the twenty-seven steps to the beach at my rental were exhausting.

When I reached the bottom, the sand was littered with huge boulders and rocks. Now I could see why Kate's boots were wet if she'd been walking the shoreline. It would be impossible to continue east toward the lighthouse barefoot or in sneakers.

The waves were coming in at a furious rate. The sun had
given way to clouds, and the ocean was the color of wet cigarette ashes. I climbed over a few boulders, but mostly large stones, some pearly white, others inky black. After ten minutes of hiking, I realized I was an idiot. How was I supposed to see what the view of the cliffs at the bottom of the old Morrison property looked like from down here? I needed to be on a boat to get a good picture.

I passed another set of steps and calculated that I was at Morrison Manor—or the cliff on which Morrison Manor had once stood. I squeezed through two huge boulders, the space barely large enough for me to fit through. What I found on the other side was astounding.

A sandy, rock-free beach. Someone had taken the time to haul rocks and boulders to the east side of the beach, creating a ten-foot wall. I stood on the sand and looked up.

Sure enough, I remembered from the drawing that at the bottom of the cliff, under the mansion, was a small beach and a wall made of rocks. Leaning against the cliff wall was a pile of logs reaching up about five feet and in the middle of the beach, a fire pit. It didn't look like there'd been any recent bonfires. The pit was filled with crab carcasses and seaweed, even a soda can, or “pop” can as we said in Michigan, which I retrieved and put in my pocket to add to my recycling pile. People could be such asses when it came to leaving nature, as the word implies, natural. Was that why Warhol used everyday man-made items in his art—to him they were part of nature—human nature?

The tide was coming in. I saw no sign that Liv and Kate had been here. I decided to revisit after I checked a tide chart.

I emerged back through the two boulders and saw Nathan and Ingrid headed in my direction.

They stopped and waited until I reached them.

Ingrid said, “I see you had the same idea as us. Find anything?”

“No. Sorry.”

“Well, it was a long shot,” Nathan said.

We all headed back together, taking the long way to the dune side of the mansion, instead of the steps. The bungalow where we'd found Pierce's skeleton was still in its same position on the beach. I was surprised it survived the nor'easter.

Ingrid said, “I'm praying we'll walk into the kitchen and the two of them will be sitting at the table, safe and sound.”

Kate, Liv, Celia, and Detective Shoner sat at the farm table. Liv had her inhaler in her hand and her father's sketch journal in front of her. Liv and Kate looked like they'd been through hell.

Talk about wishes coming true.

Ingrid ran to the girls and took them both in an embrace. “What happened? We've been looking all over for you.”

For once Kate seemed at a loss for words.

Before anyone could answer, Detective Shoner's cell phone rang. He said into his phone, “Be right there.” He put his phone back into his pocket then stood. “I have to leave but I'm very happy things turned out all right.”

Celia didn't say, “Thanks, Detective,” so Ingrid said it for her.

I went to Detective Shoner. “Do Elle and Uncle Harry know the girls are okay?”

“Yes. Please tell Elle I had to go.”

I winked. “Will do.”

I stood at the counter and took in the happy scene.

Nathan pulled up a chair next to Liv and took her hand.

Liv said, “It's all my fault we got locked in the wine cellar. There was a drawing of a cellar in my father's journal, and I thought I'd discover something special he wanted me to see. Then we opened a bottle of wine and fell asleep. When Kate woke up, she realized we'd left the key on the outside of the door and we were locked in. Neither one of us had our cell phones. She finally used the corkscrew to push out the key from the other side and trip the lock.”

By the look on Liv's face, I knew Kate had a fan for life.

Kate stood. “Liv is painting a brighter picture of me than she should. It was my idea to drink the wine.”

Celia said to Kate, “You scared me half to death. Come. Let's get you to bed. Dr. Jonas is coming.”

“Celia, I don't need a doctor. Just a nap.”

Richard entered the kitchen and stopped next to Celia. “I'm glad you girls are okay.”

Before leaving, Celia said to Liv, “You were being totally irresponsible for leading Kate into danger. All because of a few of Pierce's sophomoric scribbles.”

Liv looked like she'd been slapped in the face.

Kate gave her mother a scorching look.

Celia took Kate's wrist and they left the kitchen. Richard followed close behind.

I felt bad for Liv. She didn't have a mother or father to take care of her. Only her grandfather. But when I looked at Nathan and Ingrid, I realized she'd be okay.

After I went up to check on Elle, I retrieved my boots and hearing aids from the Jeep. Elle's pickup was still loaded with things to go in Rebecca Crandle's cottage. I got inside and headed for Hither Hills—only a five-minute drive from Sandringham.

When I pulled into the Hither Hills neighborhood, I checked the rearview mirror to make sure I wasn't being followed, then realized my stalker hopefully thought I only drove a Jeep, not a turquoise pickup truck.

This time, I parked next to Rebecca Crandle's kitchen door. I got out and grabbed a box from the back of the pickup. I remembered which stone held the cottage's key. Duke and Duke Junior were the only other people who knew about the key besides Rebecca, and she was on a book tour promoting her mother's and her latest mystery. The mother/daughter writing team took turns traveling so the other could write.

There was a note taped to the door. I grabbed it and went inside.

Duke and Duke Junior had done their magic. The walls were down, molding added and painted. The area under the stairs had an open storage area on one side and a wine rack on the other and looked better than I had imagined.

I went to work unloading the pickup. Each item had a Post-it taped to it, telling me where it belonged. Later, when everything was in place, I'd arrange items based on the plans I'd drawn to scale on a new user-friendly computer program I'd purchased.

As soon as I finished unloading, I went to the kitchen and grabbed my handbag. The note that had been taped
to the door was on the counter. It was from Sylvie Crandle. She wanted me to stop by her cottage.

*   *   *

This time when I climbed the steps to Sylvie's porch, there was no dog to greet me.

Sylvie ushered me in. I smelled baked goods, but was disappointed when I saw a lit maple syrup candle on the living room coffee table. I'd skipped lunch: fish and beet salad to be exact.

Sylvie looked less put together than the last time I saw her. She sat on the sofa and I sat next to her.

She said, “I know it's Sunday and you designers only work Monday through Thursday.”

Say what?
“I've been known to work seven days a week and all hours.”

Her face remained calm, but she clenched her fist. “Ms. Gayle told me that's the way it works in the Hamptons.”

It dawned on me that perhaps Tara had another gig at Mickey's Chowder Shack on the weekends. “I don't think that's a Hamptons rule. Maybe Tara's personal rule?”

“I thought you two were friends. She said you coordinate your designs and help each other out.”

“No. I've never worked with Tara Gayle.”

Sylvie looked flustered. “Well, that's what I wanted to talk to you about. I've been to Becca's cottage and I see things are coming around. So far there hasn't been one visit from Ms. Gayle, and I was hoping you could fill me in on where she was. I need to know when this cottage is going to be worked on so I can set up my writing schedule between
here and the city. I prefer to write here. Plus, I need to know if I can bring Trixie when I come to Montauk, or if she'll be in the way of the design team.”

Team? That explained why the dog hadn't greeted me.

I looked out the front bay window, where I hoped Tara planned to put a window seat, and saw the ocean view. A great muse if there ever was one. “I'm sorry, but I'm not in contact with Tara.”

“If I show you the pictures of what Ms. Gayle plans to do, do you think you could give me an estimate on how long it will take?”

She passed me a cheap-looking scrapbook. One you'd buy on sale at a craft store. I opened to the first page and recognized the photo right away. It was of Elle's White Room at her shop in Sag Harbor. And so was the next page, and so was the next. There were also photos of rooms from last year's Hamptons Showcase house that Tara claimed to be her own. Tara had nothing to do with the showcase because I'd perused every room for inspiration and talked to every designer. Tara would've gotten along well with Pierce—not an original thought between the two of them.

“Wow. I don't know what to say. Did Tara tell you she was going to do any construction or painting? Or just place similar items like in the pictures?”

“She only came by once after I hired her when she dropped this off.” Sylvie pointed to the scrapbook. “She said she couldn't duplicate everything exactly because her former clients would be upset, but promised not to stray from the gist of what I'd told her I wanted.”

Gist?

She unclenched her fist and bit at her lower lip. “I had to
give her fifty percent of her proposed fee so she could purchase items similar to those in the photos. Ms. Gayle finally returned one of my calls last Thursday. She said she'd have to up her fee. A container of antiques she'd ordered from England had taken on water damage when it arrived at a New York City pier during the nor'easter.”

Oh, it just kept getting better. “Well, I can't advise you on that, but I'm sure if she had antiques sent from Europe, they should be insured.” Cargo ship. Right. Just like me, Tara only went to garage and estate sales. “And I wouldn't give her any more money until you see some work being done.” I handed her my Cottages by the Sea business card. “I wish I could help, but if you decide not to go forward with Ms. Gayle, give me a call.”

“Becca says you talk to her and text often.”

“Yes. It's important for a good relationship.”

I chuckled to myself on the way out when I thought of the items I'd taken from Elle's White Room that were going into Sylvie's daughter Rebecca's cottage; some of the same pieces were in Tara's faux portfolio. How would Tara explain that one?

After I left Sylvie's, I decided I needed comfort. The only place I could think of was The Old Man and the Sea Books.

When I walked in, Georgia was in one of the wing chairs, her feet up on an ottoman. Mr. Whiskers was curled up in the other chair, snoring. He was about one-third the size of Jo. It was chilly enough for a fire, and one was crackling in the hearth.

Georgia took off her reading glasses and placed them on the table. She'd been reading Patrick Seaton's book,
Tales from a Dead Shore
—
A Biography of Tortured Poets,
only she was much further along than I was.

“Have a seat. You look awful.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Sit.” She picked up Mr. Whiskers and placed him inside the cat bed behind the counter. Then she poured me a cup of tea.

The tea reminded me of Ingrid's homegrown tea leaves, which reminded me of Sandringham. There were so many things going on around me. A murder that happened twenty years ago and the stalker who caused me to look over my shoulder at every turn, not to mention the forgone conclusion that Little Grey would never be my Little Grey. It would belong to Sgt. Gordon Miles.

Georgia's strong hand rested on my shoulder. “Drink. You don't have to tell me a thing.”

After I drank half the cup, she said, “Okay. Close your eyes and picture the following. The Kittinger cottage after you completed it last spring and how good it made you feel. Next. One of your father's meals. And finally, a walk on an empty beach during an Indian summer. The sand between your toes as you breathe in the scent of the ocean.”

I opened my eyes. “How'd you do that?”

“You attract what you think about. So, when you find yourself going down a dark path, distract yourself with something that feels good. It doesn't make your problems disappear, it just clears your head of what-ifs and worry. And replaces stress with light and calmness. Distract from your demons. Distract. Distract.”

She sat in the other armchair, and we talked about the latest things going on at Sandringham and the
extraordinary time I had at the Barkers' film festival party. Georgia confirmed she knew Patrick Seaton's book publicist, Ashley Drake, had been invited to the Barkers', so it could've been her and Patrick at the party.

She said, “Hey. What's up with the photo you sent me of those awful paintings?”

“I wanted to know if you recognized the artist.”

“Not from my phone, but I'll transfer it to the computer screen and see what I can figure out.”

“I also wanted to ask if you knew anything about Brandy, Harrison's assistant and nurse?”

“Brandy Port? Easy name to remember, both after-dinner drinks. Don't know much about her except she has worked for Harrison Falks and lived at Sandringham for years.”

“I think she truly cares for Harrison.”

“She had a wackadoodle mother. I know that.”

“Ingrid told me.”

“How is Ingrid? Tell her I said hi. We used to volunteer together on the seal walks at the lighthouse. Before she took the job at Sandringham.”

Talking about Ingrid reminded me of the photo of her as a toga-draped artist's model. “I have something to show you.” I took out my cell phone, found the photo, and passed it over.

Georgia reached for her reading glasses and put them on. “Oh my. I'd forgotten about this. Actually, this is how I first met Ingrid. She worked in a gallery in Bridgehampton, then modeled to make some extra cash to pay for culinary school.”

“That's nice, but look who else is there.”

“Celia. That's not a surprise.”

“For me, the surprise was Richard and Ingrid. I didn't know they knew each other. And I didn't know Richard had been in the picture back then.” I recalled his midwestern accent.

“Who's Richard?”

“He's Celia's chauffeur and houseboy at Sandringham.”

“Hmmm, the plot coagulates.”

“It sure does. What about Pierce's wife and Liv's mother? Wasn't she a local Montaukian?”

“Sonya Falks. I was friends with Sonya's mother in high school. Sonya was a sweet girl. Too sweet for the likes of Pierce Falks. She was beautiful, like her mother, but she was small-town and Pierce was a spoiled rich boy. Harrison forced Pierce to marry Sonya when he found out she was pregnant.”

“Did you know Uncle Harry's second wife, Tansy?”

Mr. Whiskers came over to Georgia and jumped on her lap. “Did anyone know Tansy is a better question. Not much intellect, but she sure knew how to have fun. She was from Springs. Didn't care about money. Just wanted to be where the action was. I never had two words with her, and she was always surrounded by men. Gay and straight alike. Harrison didn't know what to do with her, so he gave her anything she wanted, including her freedom from monogamy.”