Hearse and Gardens (11 page)

When Thursday arrived, so did the sun. Hallelujah.

I'd gone down to the beach right after sunrise, meditated, then cleared away as much ocean debris as I could without killing my back and having to cancel my date for tomorrow's party. Not that I didn't think about canceling a million times. What if instead of inviting me to the Barkers' opening night party for the Hamptons International Film Festival, Byron had said, “Do you want to go to a brokers' party?” As in real estate brokers?

I didn't even know the address for the Barkers' mega estate. I recalled something in
Dave's Hamptons
, the bible for Hamptons goings-on, about the Barkers living somewhere in East Hampton, near Georgica Pond. Even if I found the place, would they let a no-name like me inside the gates?

First things first. I had to buy something to wear, and
the only place I could think of was Chateau Couture in East Hampton.

I hid my Jeep on a side street and walked into the store like I owned it. Well, not really, but I wore my city face with a full application of makeup. I even added bronzer. I planned to meet these elite East Hampton proprietors on their own ground. It wasn't every day I was willing to drop a couple hundred dollars on a top and pants.

Elle had insisted on loaning me a few items: a vintage cashmere cape in camel brown and an authentic Hèrmes Birkin bag in lipstick red. I might end up feeling like an imposter at the party—but an important imposter. When Elle went to the auction for her Birkin bag, she told me someone across the room bought the same color red, only in crocodile with diamond detailing for $200,000. Get real.

Chateau Couture was a small Madison Avenue boutique with an annex in East Hampton. Their CC logo was purposely, I'm sure, similar to Chanel's. The interior of the shop was one long narrow room with polished dark wood floors and a thick-pile ecru rug. Instead of racks of clothing, the walls had ornate silver hooks from which one outfit hung—complete with accessories. Below the ensemble was a raised wooden box with coordinating footwear. Similar to Montauk Melissa's Special Plate—you were meant to take the whole kit and caboodle or move on to another shop. I had to admit it made things easy, but not much fun. No mixing or matching. Had I made a mistake walking in? I trusted Melissa's Special Plate but had my own taste in clothing, even if it was a tad pedestrian. Every woman knew from an early age what
colors looked best on them and how comfort and quality could be more important than trends and a designer label. The rule for decorating, keep it simple, could also be applied to fashion.

In my cottage designs, I liked to stick to neutral colors, then add a sprinkling of whimsy: a turquoise door, throw pillows in contrasting prints, or a piece of modern nestled between vintage or antique.

A tall twentysomething guy walked over. His black horn-rimmed glasses took up half his face. He was so skinny I assumed he'd stayed inside during yesterday's nor'easter, because if he hadn't, he'd have turned up in Rhode Island. “Can I help you, ma'am?”

Since when was I a
ma'am
? “I'm just looking. Thank you.”

He gave me a dismissive look. As he walked away, I couldn't help but blurt out, “I need something for the Barkers' party tomorrow.”

He stopped dead in his tracks, then twirled around. “Of course, gorgeous lady. I have the perfect thing for your fair coloring.”

I almost asked if he knew where the Barkers lived, but that would tarnish my newfound celebrity status.

Surprisingly, he did have the perfect ensemble.

Five hundred dollars later, “What a steal!” I was told. I took off to pick up Jo and have my chat with Detective Shoner at the East Hampton Town Police Station.

*   *   *

I was seated in Detective Shoner's office with the cat crate next to me, waiting for the detective to return from his break. The occasional claw passed through the crate door,
no doubt looking for my other cheek. “Behave yourself, kitty, or I'll have Detective Shoner put you behind bars for assault.”

Oops. Detective Shoner stood in the doorway.

He said, “Any problems I should know about?” Then he reached down, stuck his fingers into the crate, and tickled Jo's nose.

“Nope. Everything's cool on my end. Not so sure about hers.”

“You'll be fine. Jo's 'tude is meaner than her scratches.”

“Then I'm really in trouble.” I touched the side of my face where a scab had formed. A lovely look for tomorrow's party.

“Oh, there's one thing I forgot to tell you. The only way Jo eats dinner is sitting on a chair at the table. All other meals can be eaten on the floor, but come five o'clock, you better have her dinner waiting on a plate, and not a paper one either. Another adorable fact: she's afraid of mice.”

Adorable
. “Got it. Now, let's fulfill your side of the bargain.”

Detective Shoner took off his suit coat, draped it on the clothes valet standing in the corner, and sat at his desk. “Shoot.”

“Any leads on who killed Pierce Falks?”

“None. Next.”

“Who knew Pierce before he disappeared?” Per Elle, I knew Nathan and Pierce had been friends.

“Celia dated Pierce in high school, and Brandy worked at the estate before Pierce disappeared. Nathan Morrison and Ingrid Anderson lived in the area at the time of his disappearance. Richard Challis said he moved to the
Hamptons after Pierce Falks disappeared, but we haven't been able to confirm that yet.”

“How did Celia hook up with Pierce's father, Harrison?”

“Never really asked. Don't see how it's relevant.”

“When your guys processed the crime scene, did they find any of Pierce's clothing?”

“I'm really not at liberty to tell you, but seeing your father was on the job, I will share this. The only thing in the room was the desk, chair, and Pierce's picked-clean bones.”

“Could the forensic anthropologists determine cause of death?”

“No. They couldn't find any trauma.” He tidied a pile of papers on his desk. “If that's it, Ms. Barrett, I have a meeting to get to.”

“I think at this point in our relationship you can call me Meg. Especially seeing you have the hots for Elle.”

He coughed. “Here, let me take the crate to your car. You can grab the box of her stuff.”

By the size of the box, I'd have preferred carrying the cat. What had I gotten myself into? There wasn't room in my small rental for all this.

I said, “One last question. Did your guys tear apart the bungalow? When Elle and I got there, it was a mess.”

“Of course not. But we got everything we needed. Maybe a family member made the mess.”

“Have you put out a BOLO for Helen Morrison and the Warhol?”

“As a matter of fact, we did. We even had a forensic artist do a sketch of what Helen would look like today. So far, not a peep from the art community.”

On the way to my car, I told him about the seagull, fish guts, and face at the folly's window. As I'd thought, he didn't seem that concerned.

When we reached the Jeep, I dropped the box and opened the back, shoving aside a few garage sale finds from earlier to make room for Godzilla—Ms. Godzilla. Detective Shoner placed the crate inside. Jo peered out at me. With the look she sent me, it was hard to believe she was afraid of anything, including mice. Maybe I'd misjudged the cat and she'd been scared at the Adopt-a-Pet from all the gawkers. I reached toward the crate to touch her cute little pink nose, just like Detective Shoner had done.

Swish.

“Ouch!”

Detective Shoner laughed. “You'll get used to her. You have to read her moods. Just know they all depend on the timing between her meals.”

As he walked away, I had a feeling I'd been punked.

When we returned to the cottage, I dragged the crate into the great room and unlatched Jo's door. “Welcome home. You're free to come out.”

I didn't see hide nor whisker.

Well, two could play that game. I put the litter box on the screened porch and followed the handwritten directions for her afternoon meal. Screw it! I wasn't mixing dry food with warm water. There was even an annotation to test the food on my wrist before giving it to her in case it was too hot. Come on, by the look of her, she'd eat it dry. There was no time for coddling. I still had to stop off at Rebecca Crandle's cottage and do some measuring. I wanted to create an interior that would blow Tara's design out of the water.

I'd composed a “look book,” similar to a fashion model's, only this one had my sketches, pages from magazines and the Internet, organized by room. I had a drastic plan in mind. I wanted to blow out the main room so it felt more like a loft, but that would entail getting rid of two walls I hoped weren't load bearing. If Rebecca agreed to my plan, I'd have to raise the budget a bit, and if she wouldn't go for it, I'd probably pay for it myself just to beat Tara.

I grabbed my jacket off the peg by the kitchen door and was ready to walk out when what to my wondering eyes appeared? A giant cat. And behind her an empty bowl. She was quite a beautiful feline. But still scary.

The cat went on a tour of the lower level. Not much to see except the great room and kitchen. There wasn't a door separating the two, just a small counter with two stools. She sauntered onto the screened porch, her belly swaying from left to right. She did her business, then came back inside.

I couldn't help but say, “Good girl, Jo.”

With winter approaching, where would I put the litter box? I couldn't leave the door open to the porch. With all the shenanigans going on, it wasn't safe to leave any door open. There was only one alternative: the small closet in the bathroom. I hoped chubs could make it up the stairs.

The light over the kitchen door blinked. My father had installed it during his last visit so I wouldn't miss any visitors if my hearing aids weren't in.

I went to the door and opened it. A woman in a FedEx uniform handed me a cardboard tube and a small packet. I invited her inside. While I looked in my handbag for a
tip, Jo ambled over, and rubbed against the woman's legs. The cat nuzzled her shins like there was no tomorrow.

I handed her a tip.

“Thanks. Your kitty is a sweetie. What happened to his eye?”

“Her eye. I don't really know. She's newly adopted.”

“Well, it looks like you both lucked out,” she said as she walked out the door. “Have a good one.”

I shut the door, bent down, and patted the thick collar of fur around Jo's neck. It was the first time I'd actually touched the cat. The same couldn't be said of her to me. Her fur was soft. Had one of the cops at the station doused her with fabric softener to make her more marketable for the Adopt-a-Pet?

Jo plunked down on my Sunday
New York
Times
reading chair. The chair was leather—not claw friendly.

“Shoo, shoo.” That didn't work. I went to the kitchen counter and dug through her box for a treat.

That was the ticket.

I covered the chair with a beach towel and sat on the sofa to open the FedEx packet. I knew what was in the tube: the plans for my garden at Little Grey from Byron Hughes. I'd open it later when I had time to savor every square inch. Inside the packet was an ivory envelope. I pulled out an embossed card inviting me to the Barkers' opening night party. Whoooee! I was in.

One thing to cross off my worry list.

After I made a few calls and ate lunch, it was time to go to Rebecca Crandle's cottage to check out the work that had been done. But first, I wanted to drool over the clothing I'd bought for the party.

With my Chateau Couture bag in hand, I galloped up the stairs. I laid out the low-cut top and form-fitting pants on my bed, adding Elle's cape then ran my hand over any wrinkles. I'd even splurged on a necklace that ended at my décolletage, as the shop boy called it with his Parisian/Brooklynese accent. Cleavage was what I called it. On the bench at the end of my bed were my new boots and Elle's Hèrmes bag. Everything came together perfectly. Elle's salesperson, and my friend and fashion consultant Maurice, would be very proud.

When I went back downstairs, I filled Jo's water bowl and hid a new catnip toy tiger under the sofa. I'd thought about buying her a catnip mouse—it was important to face your fears. However, I didn't want to jeopardize the inroads I was making in our tenuous relationship.

*   *   *

Hither Hills was a Montauk neighborhood with rolling hills and an ocean view seen from almost every vantage point. South of Old Montauk Highway was a gated beach only the residents of Hither Hills were privy to. There were no structures allowed south of the highway. Like many parcels of land in the area, the local government made preserving Montauk's natural beauty their number one priority.

I followed Old Montauk Highway, glancing to my left at the top of each hill for a peek at the Atlantic. The ocean didn't just sparkle under the afternoon sun, it glowed. The waves were still huge, but I wouldn't chance learning to surf them. However, the sun helped wash away the memory of yesterday's storm. I slowed the Jeep to read the street
signs on my right. In my side-view mirror, I noticed a white van advancing behind me. The van was going so fast, its front tires did bunny hops at the bottom of each hill.