Hearse and Gardens (9 page)

He took my elbow and we went out into the pre-nor'easter squall. His Range Rover was parked behind my Jeep. Beauty and the Beast. He opened the passenger door to the Range Rover, reached inside, and took out an umbrella. He chivalrously held it over me. Before I could swoon, he said, “How would you like to go to the Barkers' party Friday?”

Everyone who was anyone, plus me, who was no one, knew about the Barkers' Hamptons International Film Festival party. It was the invite of the season—right in line with Oscars after-parties.

I almost said,
Shit, yeah!
Instead, in a very demure voice, I said, “Friday? Let's see.” I took out my cell phone and touched the calendar screen. Good thing he was busy with the umbrella and couldn't view the barren month of October.

“It looks clear. I have an afternoon thing.”
Thing?
“Maybe I could meet you there?”

“Of course.” He gave me the regular French double-cheek air-kiss, a little hard to do while holding an umbrella in the horizontal rain. But, of course, he performed it perfectly.

*   *   *

Later, when I walked into my rental, I kicked off my boots and placed a small box of books I'd rescued from the bungalow on the kitchen table. I was going to add them to my barrister bookcase—most were dated from the 1920s to 1940s. Not as old as my large nineteenth-century
collection of gilt-illustrated cloth books, but there was an interesting array of titles, including one thin leather volume on Montauk.

After I left East Hampton, I'd gone to Ditch Plains Beach, where I'd picked up my dinner from Montauk Melissa's food truck. Melissa was famous for the gourmet food she offered daily to the surfers at Ditch Plains Beach. It didn't take long to decide what to order, because there was only one thing you could order, “Melissa's Special Plate.” I wasn't surprised that even with the nor'easter on its way the truck had been parked at the beach. Where surfers went, so did Melissa. While I was there, I saw three surfers taking advantage of the huge waves. They were crazy, but I still admired them.

It was too early for dinner, but I opened the box for a preview and saw grilled salmon with mango relish and couscous with asparagus tips. I took a little forkful of the relish. I wouldn't have to add a single herb.

After I paid a few bills I'd been putting off for weeks, I went to the small screened porch that fronted the cottage and looked at the last light of the day. I couldn't believe I was going to the Hamptons International Film Festival. I also couldn't believe I was going with Byron Hughes. I wasn't usually a girly girl who got all excited about what to wear and how to fix my hair, but this was a really big event. If I called Elle, she'd want me to wear one of her vintage dresses. There was a red carpet at the festival, but it wasn't like a Hollywood red carpet. The dress code was more casual. However, the money spent on the casual clothing probably came close to the cost of a red carpet gown.

I went inside and searched on my laptop for photos from last year's film festival—lots of denim, leather jackets, black and white—no full-length gowns and plenty of gorgeous Tinseltown faces. I closed my laptop and looked out the window at the beach. A tall, solitary figure walked the shoreline in the rain. He wore a hooded sweatshirt, the hood pulled over a baseball cap. Patrick Seaton. Getting his last walk in before the big storm. I shot up, grabbed a jacket from the peg in the kitchen, ran out through the French doors, and flew down the steps two at a time.

When I reached the bottom of the steps, he was nowhere in view.

Wednesday, Elle and I headed out early for Sandringham. We wanted to beat the nor'easter. Last night I fell asleep dreaming about the little attic in the bungalow.

On the outskirts of town, the Montauk Farm Stand had a line of cars waiting to buy fall's earthy smorgasbord—pumpkins, gourds, and a myriad of squashes, to name a few. Due to the foul weather, each customer stayed in their car and gave their order to one of the Murphy girls, who handed them their bag like a carhop in a
Happy Days
rerun
.
The most popular farm stand item in the health-conscious Hamptons was spaghetti squash, low carb and gluten-free. The only problem was when I was done preparing my spaghetti squash, it would be swimming in butter, hidden under a mountain of Parmesan cheese, with fresh oregano. I did the same with acorn squash, only instead of Parmesan cheese and oregano, I added a cup
of brown sugar and some pumpkin pie spice—the amount of butter stayed the same.

Elle said, “Remind me to pick up a loaf of Lighthouse Bread when I drop you back home.”

Lighthouse Bread was made by Lillian Stills, a local who owned a small gourmet shop in Montauk and also sold her wares at the farm stand. Years ago, when Lillian's friends trekked out east for a vacation, she provided them with a basket filled with homemade bread, cheese, chutney, and a bottle of local wine for picnicking at Montauk Point State Park. Demand was so high, especially for her secret recipe bread, crusty on the outside, soft as air on the inside, Lillian was inspired to open a retail shop and Elle and I couldn't have been happier.

I said, “In this wind, the farm ‘stand' might be sitting by the time we head back.”

“Funny.”

Elle drove the truck through the gates at Sandringham.

I turned toward her. “I have something to tell you, and I don't want you to get too excited.”

Elle's eyes opened wide as she gripped the steering wheel with both hands. The wind rocked the truck from side to side. “Okay, promise.”

“Byron Hughes invited me to the Hamptons International Film Festival's opening night party at the Barkers'.”

“Holy bazookas!” she squealed.

My hearing aids sent shockwaves up the side of my skull, reminding me to take them out and put them safely in their case in anticipation of the sixty-mile-per-hour winds coming off the ocean. “You promised.”

“Well, whaddya expect? The hottest off-season invite
in the Hamptons with the hottest guy in the Hamptons. I have the perfect dress.”

“Oh no. I'm not wearing a dress. These are serious Hollywood filmmakers who want to shine for their work, not their clothing.”

“Okay. Okay. I'll just loan you a few pieces of jewelry.”

“Do you own anything on the small, understated side?”

“Why the heck would I? That's no fun.”

Ingrid had sent word to Elle that as soon as we were finished in the bungalow, we were to stop at the house for a special breakfast. I could only imagine what gourmet delights awaited us. I could already smell the bacon, real maple syrup, and homemade waffles as we passed the mansion.

When we reached the bungalow, the ocean was so turbulent, I was afraid a tsunami-sized wave would come along and sweep it away, taking Elle and me with it. Hurricanes and nor'easters weren't uncommon in the Hamptons. The great hurricane of 1938, nicknamed the “Long Island Express,” almost completely destroyed the area. Fifty people on Long Island died, and the winds reached 130 miles per hour. Then, there were a couple of bad girls, Hurricanes Irene and Sandy. I wasn't a big fan of hurricanes, but I loved thunderstorms, especially the light show over the ocean at night. They were so Gothic—so Victoria Holt.

We walked into the bungalow. I was surprised the furniture hadn't been taken out yet. Probably the last thing on Uncle Harry's mind.

I beat Elle to the narrow staircase and ran up to the attic.

The attic room was two times larger than the bedroom at my rental. The first thing I noticed was the dormer
window that looked out at the virulent Atlantic. The view was different than the one from my bedroom because my rental was on a cliff. Here, it felt like the ocean was going to swallow the bungalow whole.

Elle went over to a bamboo easel supporting a large pastel portrait of a woman who resembled Ingrid. “It's not bad. Someone has really captured a restless look in her eyes.”

I stood next to her. “I bet I know who the artist is.”

“Really? Who?”

“Uncle Harry told me Tansy, his second wife and Pierce's mother, looked like Ingrid. Remember you told me Ingrid was a distant relative of Tansy.”

“I bet you're right, but what does that have to do with you knowing the artist?” Elle said.

“Liv and Uncle Harry told me Pierce was a great sketch artist. I bet this is his.”

Elle crouched next to an old flattop trunk. She looked at me over her shoulder. “Darn. It's locked.”

“I have a ton of skeleton keys back at my place. I'd love to take it. I have the perfect location on my screened porch.”

Elle tried to drag the trunk to the doorway. “It's yours, but it's too big and heavy. We'll have to have Uncle Harry pick it up when he sends the truck with the rest of the furniture to Sag Harbor.”

We filled three boxes with smalls, some items dating back a hundred years, the usual case in attics. Buy new—put the old in the attic or cellar, or in this case, one of six bungalows on your property.

Elle and I each had our own wagon to pull. Thankfully the wind was at our backs, lending us a helping hand. The heavy rains had started while we worked inside. Elle had
thought ahead and brought heavyweight blue construction tarps and bungee cords. My wagon was lighter than Elle's because it contained only the bamboo easel, the portrait, and a wood box filled with drawing pencils, charcoals, and pastels.

Elle took her wagon to the pickup, while I went directly to the kitchen door at Sandringham. Elle had been smart about the tarps, but like a fool, I'd grabbed my Detroit Red Wings hoodie instead of my raincoat.

Ingrid laughed when she opened the door. “You look like a refugee who just landed on Ellis Island.” She had me pull the wagon into the mudroom, not concerned with the wet sand falling in clumps from the tires. I guessed that was why they called it a “mud” room.

She said, “Living on the ocean, you have to make a pact with the sand and the caustic sea spray. If you don't, you'll drive yourself crazy trying to keep them out. Like Celia in the gallery end of the house—one grain of sand puts her into a frenzy. She's not an avid beachgoer either. I've never seen her in the water, not even in the pool.”

I took off the tarp.

“Well, I'll be. Cousin Tansy. Pierce did a slew of portraits of his mother after she died—probably wanted to remember what she looked like. From what Harrison has told me, Tansy had little to do with her only son except to buy him extravagant gifts and send postcards from exotic locales.”

“When did Tansy die?”

“I think when Pierce was ten or eleven, but Tansy didn't die here. She left Montauk, Harrison, and Pierce when Pierce was a toddler. By all accounts, she was a colorful
character. The reason the bungalow was the last to be moved was because Harrison knew Pierce used to hang out there to feel closer to his mother. It's where she hung out with her artist friends, back in the day. If walls could talk.”

I bent down to pick up the portrait. “We thought Liv might want a portrait of her grandmother.”

“I'm sure she would love it. She has a gallery set up on the third floor where she displays her father's drawings.” Ingrid reached for the doorknob and held open the door that led into the kitchen. I walked through with the easel, portrait, and paint box.

Even her hands were like my mother's: long and narrow, with short, unpolished but buffed nails.

*   *   *

Elle and I were seated at the long rustic farm table. Ingrid sat across from us with a cup of tea—naturally she grew her own leaves.

I wasn't too far off with my prognosticated breakfast fare: breaded and fried center-cut slab bacon, French toast stuffed with a sweet orange cream cheese topped with warm orange/brown-sugar syrup, and the pièce de résistance—scrambled eggs with truffles and small chunks of Brie cheese. The combination of herbs used in the scrambled eggs was beyond anything I could ever come up with. Ingrid needed to get that cookbook on the printing press. Pronto!

I asked, “What does your husband do for a living, Ingrid?”

“I've never been married. I added the ‘Mrs.' when I decided to become a personal chef. I was young and wanted to be taken seriously.”

After we cleared the table, Elle and I went to see Uncle Harry and to show Liv the portrait from the bungalow.

Liv was by Uncle Harry's bedside, reading out loud from a book. She looked up when we walked in, and put her fingers to her lips, then nodded her head toward Uncle Harry, who was fast asleep. Bringing the book with her, she closed the door to the bedchamber.

Elle and I met her in the small sitting room.

Liv said, “He had a rough night. Brandy went to Green's Department Store to fill a few prescriptions.”

Elle said, “We brought you something we found in the attic of the bungalow.”

I opened the easel and placed the portrait on it.

“Grandma Tansy. I doubt she would have been a normal grandmother, just like she wasn't a normal mother, from what Granddad tells me. Colorful, yes. Nurturing, no. Why don't you both come with me and I'll show you my father's gallery.” She handed me the book she was holding. “This is the picture book my father made for me on my third birthday, right before he disappeared,
The Room Beneath the Stairs.
I read it to Granddad almost every night. It seems to soothe him.”

The dust jacket on the cover of the book was white, but the drawing of the room beneath the stairs was in black. The drawing reminded me of the cupboard Harry Potter stayed in when he lived with his aunt and uncle. Then I remembered Pierce was accused of the Pollock art sale forgery. Did that make him a Harry Potter plagiarist too? I hoped not, because Liv seemed to hold her father in high esteem, despite his past transgressions.

Liv reached into her pants pocket and took out an
inhaler. After a few deep inhales, she returned it to her pocket. “Right this way, ladies.”

She went ahead of us, carrying the easel and portrait. I held the book, and Elle carried the box with Pierce's art supplies.

When we caught up, Elle said, “Please tell me you're going to take us via the secret staircase Meg told me about.”

“Of course. Is there any other way?”

When we were halfway down the hallway, Kate stepped out of a doorway. She looked surprised to see us. “Oh, Liv, there you are. I was looking for you. I borrowed a book from your room. Hope you don't mind.”

I couldn't read the title because Kate had it clasped close to her chest, but it was old.

“Sure, no problem.”

Kate turned and went into a room next to Liv's, and we continued down the hallway.

Liv stopped at the alcove. She put both hands around the back of a marble head bust, and pulled it toward her. The passageway to the stairs opened. After the revolving alcove shut behind us, we walked up the staircase single file, Elle oohing and aahing from the caboose.

The room Liv took us to on the third floor was huge. My entire rental cottage would fit inside. There was a massive fireplace between two windows. The windows faced east, with a view of the Montauk Point Lighthouse. The room had thick hand-loomed Tabriz carpeting over intricate wood-inlay floors. My favorite part of the room was a wall full of bookcases filled with eighteenth- and nineteenth-century volumes. On a long wall on the west side of the room hung gilt-framed pictures, three or four
stacked on top of each other. The space reminded me of the Frick Collection in Manhattan. The only difference between the Frick and this room was almost every picture was a black-ink line drawing of an interior room.

Liv said, “Most of the pictures are an embellishment of a room at Sandringham. He inscribed in one of the books he created for me that he wanted me to use my imagination regarding what might lie underneath the surface of Sandringham—another world.”

There were four upholstered leather benches equally spaced in front of Pierce's drawings. Elle and Liv sat down on a bench and started chatting, while I walked around the room to take in Pierce's work. He had talent, but there was something cold and stark about each picture.

I took a seat on a worn leather club chair and thumbed through the picture book Liv had handed me. It was the same as the drawings on the wall. Each page was in black and white. If Pierce had tinted them with watercolor, it would be more relatable as a children's book. There wasn't a living soul, not even an animal, in any picture. There were a few lines of text on each page. The main idea of the story was it took place somewhere in a spooky mansion where a treasure could only be found by a clever little girl—a girl never pictured on the page. Before I turned to the last page, I saw Elle put her arms around Liv.