Hearse and Gardens (19 page)

I picked up
Tales from a Dead Shore
to see which poet Georgia was up to. Coleridge.

“Don't ask,” Georgia said. “I know Patrick Seaton lived
through his own tragedy, but this book can be a little much. I bet he never guessed it would hit the bestseller list.”

“Maybe he'll write a sequel:
Tales from a Vibrant Shore
, about poets who led happy lives. If they existed? It seems most prolific artists, especially the Romantics, had their crosses to bear.”

After I left The Old Man and the Sea Books, I grabbed a pint of chili from Bobby's Drive-in, Montauk's only fast-food burger joint. When I got home, I would add fresh cilantro, sour cream, extra hot sauce, and shredded locally made cheddar cheese. I thought about visiting Little Grey but didn't think I could take any more drama. Tomorrow I'd be back in my Jeep, a bull's-eye for my stalker's arrow.

My neighbor was in Florida, so I parked in her driveway just in case my stalker came cruising by. When I walked into the rental, Jo was waiting on the banquette.

“Sorry, ma'am, it's too early for dinner.”

She acted like she understood and took the prone position and closed her eye. I felt guilty about eating in front of her, even though I was starving, so I left the chili on the counter and went to the answering machine and read the phone messages on the screen.

Byron had called and didn't sound happy. “Thought you were going to call. Did Kate and Liv show up? You owe me a rain check for lunch. And I know you were upset I ordered for you, but I knew you loved striped bass from the fishing yarn you told me on the way to Chez Noelle. Take care.”

Oh boy. He was sensitive and hot.

I got his number from caller ID and dialed.

A woman answered.

I hung up.

*   *   *

Later that night, I tried to sleep, but couldn't. I flipped to Samuel Taylor Coleridge in Patrick's book and read a stanza from “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.”

I woke, and we were sailing on

As in a gentle weather:

'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high;

The dead men stood together.

I snapped the book shut. Now I really wouldn't be able to sleep.

When I arrived in Sag Harbor to pick up Maurice, my hands and knees were shaking. This morning, after I came up from the beach, there was a message on my machine telling me today at three
P.M.
Sgt. Gordon Miles was scheduled to make an appearance at the East Hampton courthouse.

I let Maurice drive to Sandringham. The plan was for him to pick up Elle, drop me at my Jeep, and bring Elle back to Sag Harbor.

Maurice looked comical driving Elle's big ole pickup. He was slender and well groomed, reminding me of an elegant bird, not exactly truck-driving material. He lived in Sag Harbor, a block away from Elle, in a tiny Victorian he and his partner renovated and filled with items from Elle's shop. Elle said Maurice had a good eye for picking out the “cream of the crap.” But last year, when I attended
Maurice's New Year Eve's party, I didn't see one piece of crap, it was all cream.

We talked about the Barkers' party. I didn't have to paint it more glamorous than it was. It was something I'd remember forever, but I had a hard time recalling what all the celebs wore. I could tell Maurice was disappointed.

Maurice said, “The truck came yesterday with the furniture from the bungalow. Everything's in the carriage house. Looks like you two did well.”

“Elle's going to want to check it out. Don't let her overdo.”

“Like I could stop her.”

Maurice pulled through the gates at Sandringham. Thankfully, everything looked copacetic. He parked and we went to the kitchen door, where Elle had texted that she was waiting.

When we walked inside, Maurice oohed and aahed at the kitchen décor. Then nearly fell off his chair after eating one of Ingrid's pumpkin scones. When he'd finished his second one, he licked his fingertips in a very ungentlemanly, non–Professor Higgins way.

Elle was sad to leave, and I didn't blame her. She still looked pale and fragile, so I didn't tell her about my three o'clock court appointment.

I accompanied Elle and Maurice to the pickup, telling Elle to call if she needed anything. As they pulled away, Liv opened Sandringham's front door. She called out my name, and came down the steps to meet me on the circular drive.

Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she wore a Brown University sweatshirt and sweatpants. “I'm so sad to see Elle go. She's such a great person.”

“Yes, she is.”

“I have a favor to ask. I want to give you these and see if you can find out anything. I know my father is trying to tell me something, and I can't quite figure it out.” She handed me her father's journal and the four children's books he had printed for her when she was a child.

I didn't feel worthy. I knew how much they meant to her, and I also knew how Celia's snub about Pierce's artwork yesterday had wounded her. I was happy to take them. Now I knew how I'd pass the time before my court date. But first I was going to Little Grey. Possibly for the last time.

When I reached the side of the garage where my Jeep was parked, I didn't see any sign of Richard. I still had the keys, so I wrote him a note and taped it to the now-locked side door, got in the Jeep, and left the estate.

A few minutes later, I pulled the Jeep into the old Eberhardt property. I might as well get used to its new/old name. But I refused to call it the Miles property. Doc had canceled our standing Monday morning date at Paddy's Pancake House because he and Georgia had a surfing lesson. He'd offered to buy me my own board and invited me to join them. But with this afternoon's court date, I didn't feel up to it.

The cottage looked as forlorn as I felt. Sun reflected off the corners of the upstairs windows, reminding me of eyes with tears ready to spill. I knew mine were. The attic! All the items were still in the attic from the day I signed the papers. I'd left them untouched, planning on renovating the first and second floors, then bringing out each item one at a time from the packed attic and incorporating them into the cottage.

Back where they belonged.

Would Sgt. Miles keep the cottage or tear it down and build something new?

I got out of the Jeep and grabbed the tube that held the landscape plans.

Once inside the folly, I spread out Byron's landscape plans, using clay flower pots to hold down the corners. The plans were wonderful. There was a gray walled-in space just like at Grey Gardens in East Hampton, but smaller, with circular openings cut out of the southern wall for glimpses of the Atlantic. Byron included a plethora of hedges and trees and a revamp of the outdoor stone fireplace, now in ruin. He'd even drawn two lanterns on the mantel.

In front of the fireplace was a slate patio with thick-cushioned teak outdoor furniture. There were loads of perennials, flowering bushes, and trees. I'd told Byron no annuals, except for the herb beds and, of course, Anna Gilman Hill's delphiniums, considered biannuals because they usually only lasted a couple of years. There was a cutting garden and arches and trellises. Each proposed species of flower was numbered with a key in the bottom right-hand corner: phlox, wisteria, lavender, wild lupines, and heirloom roses. And, of course, he'd included steps leading down to the ocean.

I'd also told Byron no vegetables. I'd leave their growing to the local farmers. Tending a vegetable garden and planting annuals were a little beyond my patience level. Plus, if I grew my own vegetables, there'd be no reason to visit farm stands in the area. One of my guilty pleasures—no gourmet cooking degree required—just steam and herbed butter.

Clouds moved in and lowered the temperature in the folly about ten degrees. No sense in buying a generator. Soon I'd be thrown to the curb.

I rolled up the plans and headed back to my rental—a rental whose lease ran out in two months. I planned for an hour of looking over Pierce's journal and books, then on to the slaughter/courthouse.

Before I turned onto the street of my rental, a white van caught my attention in the rearview mirror. I swore it was there. But when I looked again, it was gone.

I walked into the cottage and for the first time, Jo greeted me. Even allowing me a rare scratch behind the ear. After filling her bottomless dry cat food container, which always seemed to have a bottom, I made a peanut butter and banana sandwich. I bundled up, took Pierce's journal and my sandwich to the wooden swing that hung under the eaves. I sat on the cushioned seat. It was funny how you only appreciated things once they were threatened to be ripped away—like the view of the ocean I now enjoyed.

There was definitely a common thread in each page of Pierce's journal—secret hiding places. Like Liv, I also suspected there must have been a hidden door in the wine cellar. I looked again at the sketch of the beach below Morrison Manor with its rock wall and, more importantly, the fire pit. What if Sandringham had underground tunnels built from the old Montauk bootlegging era? Or even further back to the days of pirates, like Captain Kidd—possibly a tunnel that connected Sandringham to Morrison Manor with access to the ocean?

I was in a bit of a time crunch so I got out my cell phone and took photos of the pages in Pierce's journal
for future reference. Then I went inside and opened my laptop. I looked at the photos I'd sent from my cell phone of Sandringham and Morrison Manor's landscape plans. They were charming and well thought out, but I didn't see anything that would suggest secret tunnels leading to the ocean.

It was two thirty. I needed to get going. Before I left the cottage, I took out the slim leather volume on Montauk I'd taken from the bungalow and put it on the coffee table as a reminder to look through it when I returned.

*   *   *

Thunder sounded when I got out of the Jeep, announcing my arrival at the East Hampton courthouse. I'd given myself a good talking-to on the way over. I needed to stand up for what was mine. I just hoped I'd be given a chance.

There was a black unmarked car at the curb with a driver waiting inside. I knew it belonged to Sgt. Gordon Miles.

After my handbag and I passed through security without incident, I was told to go to Conference Room 2, not the courtroom. The pulse in my neck thumped and the Barrett Curse reared its ugly head: I felt red welts bloom over my face and neck, my constant companions in times of bereavement, anger, excitement, and public speaking. What was waiting for me at the end of the hallway seemed to encompass all four.

I walked into the room. At the head of the conference table was a man dressed in a military uniform. Sgt. Gordon Miles. He smiled when I walked in, all white teeth and white hair. He had crinkly wrinkles around his hazel eyes,
like laughing was his favorite pastime. Then I noticed he wasn't sitting in a chair. He was in a wheelchair. He'd served his country, and now it was time for his country to serve him.

It felt like a boulder had been lifted from my back. He wasn't my stalker, and whatever happened with Little Grey, I'd be okay. It was just a building and some land. I knew I could make a home anywhere as long as I lived in Montauk and had the ocean nearby.

I could tell Sgt. Miles was a glass-half-full kind of guy when he held out his hand. “Meg Barrett, I've been looking forward to meeting you. I'm so sorry I couldn't get here sooner, and I'm sorry for the heartache all this must have caused you.” He patted the top of the table next to him. “I've saved you a seat.” The heartache he'd caused me? How about what he endured after being held captive?

All parties were present, except for Judge Ferry. Unbeknownst to me, my attorney and Justin Marguilles had agreed to mediation. The mediation attorney started the proceedings.

When we finished, I had no idea where I stood. Sgt. Miles had a letter from his great-aunt Amelia, which proved they'd been in touch before her death. The letter was of a friendly nature. Also, the church hadn't spent any of the money from the sale, so that wouldn't be an issue. The only light I could see at the end of my booby-trapped tunnel was that Sgt. Miles lived in California with his wife and daughter. Little Grey would be a vacation home, not a primary. Sgt. Gordon Miles wasn't poor, and he wasn't homeless. It was something.

Wasn't it?

When I got back to the cottage, I spent the late afternoon ordering window treatments for Rebecca Crandle's cottage, along with a chair cover for my
New York
Times
reading chair. Dinner for two at the banquette consisted of sardine-delight for Jo, tuna mac 'n' cheese for me—dump a can of tuna into microwaved macaroni and cheese, top with crushed garlic salad croutons, and add fresh-snipped chives.

After we finished eating, I sat on the sofa and looked through the book on Montauk I'd found in the bungalow. Jo kept busy rolling her head back and forth over the catnip tiger until her eye glazed over in ecstasy.

The book, titled
On Montauk
, was published in 1930 and reiterated the story Nathan told Elle about Morrison Manor. Bootlegging and rum-running were standard operation during the Volstead Act, which lasted from 1919 to 1933. Many locals participated in transporting booze via fishing boats to the shores off Montauk Point then sent them due west to New York City. However, I wasn't able to find any connection between bootlegging and Sandringham, so I returned to Pierce's journal and got out a magnifying glass to analyze the drawing that caused Liv and Kate to spend the night in the wine cellar. There was a row of old wood barrels, and above them Pierce had drawn where an arched door might be—possibly what had led Liv to the cellar in the first place. Then I turned the picture in the cellar sideways and I saw it. The scribbling of lines representing knotholes in the barrels weren't scribbles at all. I brought the journal to the mirror and the word “enter” appeared.

Later that night when I went down to Patrick Seaton's
beach, the sand was bereft of sandscript. Everything that helped me feel safe and secure about my new life was deserting me. If I called Byron, I was afraid a woman might answer.

Lightning zipped across the ocean sky, followed by thunder. For the first time in my life, I didn't revel in it. My nerves were stripped bare.

When I walked into the cottage, I said, “It looks like it's just you and me, Jo.”

She got down from her chair and walked upstairs.

Wrong again.