Hearse and Gardens (20 page)

The bad weather continued. It was a wet, miserable Tuesday, and I was out the door by six
A.M
., having been unable to sleep and needing to keep busy.

I planned to investigate the wine cellar at Sandringham. I'd already texted Liv and she was at the kitchen door waiting for me. Ingrid wasn't awake and when I looked in the dark kitchen, it seemed cold and uninviting without her presence.

Liv looked like a teen. Her hair was in pigtails and she wore pj's and a robe. “Shush. This way.”

The door to the stairs leading to the wine cellar was in the mudroom. Liv unlocked it with a skeleton key from her robe pocket. We went down a twisting set of concrete steps. At the bottom was another door. The key to the wine cellar door was in the keyhole on the outside.

She opened the door and handed me the key. “Just in case, so I can't lose it.”

I flipped the light switch, and we both went to the wall with the barrels. I was disappointed. There wasn't a curved outline above the barrels to indicate a door, like in Pierce's sketch. “Let's move those barrels.”

Liv said, “Been there. Done that. But I'm game to have you see for yourself.”

She was right. Behind the barrels was only the stone cellar wall. The room was windowless and the walls and cellar door thick and impenetrable, making it impossible to be heard. Just like the recording studio where we'd found Pierce's skeleton.

There was a rough wood table and four chairs in the center of the room and rows of stacked wine bottles on eight wooden floor-to-ceiling racks. On the wall opposite the wood barrels, I saw a large electrical fuse box.

I walked over and opened the metal door. The fuses were labeled with a
G
followed by a number. At the top of the list it read,
Gallery
.

Liv stood behind me. “Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

I was. When the fuse box went in, someone must have moved the barrels to the other side of the cellar. Pierce's drawing must have represented the cellar before the move.

We went to the last wine rack to the right of the fuse box and managed to shimmy it forward.

Liv took a flashlight out of her robe pocket and shone it on the wall. She must have been a Girl Scout to have come so prepared. Then I remembered how long she'd
been exploring Sandringham—a flashlight was status quo.

Sure enough, there was an outline of a small door. Next to the door, attached to the wall, was a gas lantern.

It was too easy. I let Liv do the honors.

She bent the lantern forward, like she'd done with the head bust that opened the secret staircase. I stuck the fingertips from both my hands into the small crevice at the top of the door and it opened.

The doorway was only big enough for a hobbit to walk through. Liv got on her hands and knees and crawled forward. I followed. When the ceiling got higher, we both stood.

I felt like I was inside a trendy Manhattan underground bar. The space was more likely a Prohibition speakeasy.

“What a hoot,” Liv said. “This is the interior drawing we thought was Morrison Manor. Does that mean there's also a tunnel leading to the shore like the old-time Montauk rumrunners used?”

I used my phone as a flashlight and reached over the bar to see what was behind it. When Liv gasped, I turned around. Her flashlight illuminated something against the far wall.

On a bar stool, wearing a creepy grin, was a skull.

Liv made a whimpering sound.

I stifled the gag reflex and turned her around, coaxing her out of the room.

When she finally made it back out, I left her sitting on the cement floor in a fugue state—motionless and unblinking.

I went back inside the hidden room. Beneath the bar stool was a whisky crate and inside was a pile of bones.

Elle and I shared a glass of wine in her carriage house. I was taking Elle with me for the final walk-through of Rebecca Crandle's cottage. During the past week all had been quiet on the eastern front. We were waiting for confirmation that Liv and I had indeed discovered the bones of Helen, Nathan's wife, a.k.a. Pierce's lover, in the speakeasy. I and everyone else had no doubt it was Helen.

Things were also quiet on two other fronts: the status of Little Grey and Byron Hughes.

Morgana had left a message on my machine with the names of the owner of the boat
Wrestling with the Wind
, Bill Bates, and the owner's two part-time workers, Kurt Pinkus and Fred Slocum. I felt confident my stalker had nothing to do with Sandringham or Sgt. Miles, but I had to be sure. I'd called my father with the names Morgana left, along with the name Richard Challis.

Someone had killed Helen. The obvious suspect was Nathan Morrison, but I wasn't sure. Why would he leave Pierce in the bungalow and his wife, Helen, in Sandringham's wine cellar? As a neighbor with open access to Sandringham, Nathan could've found numerous other places to get rid of their bodies. Plus, Nathan had twenty years to do it. Once again, the big question remained: where was the Warhol?

*   *   *

Elle took a sip of wine. “I'm so happy I missed finding Helen Morrison's skeleton. One advantage to having a sprained ankle—no more dead bodies.”

“Have you talked to anyone at Sandringham?”

“Yes. Ingrid. She wants us to come over tomorrow. It's Kate's birthday. She said it might be Kate's last at Sandringham because Justin Marguilles served Celia with divorce papers. I wonder if we should pass. Tomorrow's Devil's Night, October thirtieth. Not a good omen.”

I gave her “the look.”

“Hey. You're always telling me I should inform you of my premonitions beforehand. Well, I just did.”

“Okay, I'll bring my amethyst.”

I loaded the back of Elle's pickup with some of the furniture stored in her carriage house that we'd taken from the bungalow, and set off for Hither Hills.

Elle claimed she was good enough to drive, but her limp said otherwise. Also in the bed of the truck was the flattop locked trunk from the bungalow attic. I wanted to use it on my rental's screened porch. I also wanted to unlock it without ruining the fabulous brass lock, which Elle and Maurice had threatened to do.

*   *   *

Elle was the first one inside Rebecca Crandle's cottage. “Wowza! It's so bright and airy. Can't believe the difference.”

The first level of the cottage had the loft-like feel I wanted, yet there were cozy surprises around each corner. With the exception of a small office with pocket doors and a guest bathroom, the great room/open kitchen took up the entire first floor.

The kitchen and great room were painted white, including the bead-board walls and trim. There were pendulum lights over the unvarnished salvaged wood center island with cement countertop. The island had a cooktop on one side and seating on the other.

Inspired by Sandringham's kitchen, the far wall was faced in bricks by Duke and Duke Junior, then whitewashed. I'd added a large farm table and an assortment of mismatched vintage chairs painted white.

I couldn't bring in live herbs because there was no telling when Rebecca would be in Montauk. I did buy some seed packets and coordinating porcelain name stakes and stuck them in vintage flower pots on the windowsill over the farm sink. The stakes were made by a local potter known for her fantastic glazes.

Elle was prone on the cushioned window seat, looking out at Hither Hills beach. I handed her one of the Crandles' mysteries to keep her busy while I carted in the furniture from the back of the pickup with my trusty hand truck.

I started to unpack a collection of vintage spyglasses
I planned to put on the fireplace mantel, when there was a knock at the kitchen door. My first thought was,
stalker calling
. But would he knock? Plus, I had Elle's pickup, not my Jeep.

When I boldly walked to the door, I saw Sylvie Crandle's face pressed against the glass.

I let her inside and introduced her to Elle.

She walked from the kitchen to the open living area and saw the pieces I'd taken from Elle's White Room. “I don't understand. Thought these items were from Tara Gayle's clients' homes?”

Elle looked at me and I nodded my head.

She said, “Ms. Crandle, please have a seat. There's something you should know.”

“Please, call me Sylvie.”

I left them for “the talk” and ran upstairs to make sure I hadn't forgotten something.

I'd stuck to a soft palette in all of Rebecca's rooms and let my carefully chosen garage and estate sale smalls mesh with Montauk's raw beauty peeking through the cottage's windows. Furniture that needed to be painted, was. Items that needed to be left as is, were. Freshly updated and new fit together with worn and well used.

I loved imagining what rooms and humans my vintage and antique pieces belonged to before incorporating them into a client's cottage. At estate sales, the items I found in attics and basements were usually hand-me-downs from a past generation, not the current generations. My mother's antique shop in Michigan had been named Past Perfect. The shop sowed the seeds of my love for all things old. I think she would've been proud of me if she saw the life I'd carved
out for myself. Scratch that. I believed she
was
proud. She stood next to me on every purchase, every decision.

One of my favorite spaces upstairs was the writing nook in the hallway I'd converted from a walk-in linen closet. I'd painted the entire space a palest-of-pale robin's-egg blue and removed all the shelving with the exception of two upper shelves on the back wall. They would house Rebecca's writing reference books, including true crime and police procedurals. I made a desk surface by adding a salvaged white Formica countertop cut to size that was bolted to the wall under the bookshelves. A white leather bucket chair with Lucite arms and base, which I'd taken from the bungalow, fit perfectly. On the wall between the desk and the shelves, I'd added a thick corkboard with clear pushpins.

The antique inkwell I'd purchased from Grimes House Antiques went on the desk in the downstairs office. The linen closet turned writing nook had room for only a laptop, a lamp with a Lucite base, and a pad of paper.

When I came downstairs, Sylvie Crandle was gone. Elle knew my unspoken rule. Rebecca, my client, would get the first official tour. If she wanted to bring her mother, Sylvie, that was fine. I believed personal taste was just that. I never got upset when certain items didn't resonate with a client. So far I'd been pretty lucky on that score, but I still felt the elevator free-fall in my gut as I waited for a client's feedback at the end of a job.

*   *   *

After Hither Hills, Elle and I had an early dinner at Pondfare, the hot in-season restaurant on Fort Pond Bay and yummy off-season stop for us year-rounders.

Pondfare specialized in small plates—tapas-style. My favorite way to dine. I'd rather share six appetizers with Elle than a main dish any night. Another perk to visiting Hamptons restaurants off-peak were their prices: discounted menus for early birds and special prix fixe dinners that cost one-third the summer price.

I halved the Spanish sausage in squid ink risotto, put it on a plate, then passed it to Elle. She took a bite and her eyes glazed over. She handed me Sylvie Crandle's card. “You're hired,” she mumbled between bites. “Sylvie stopped payment on Tara's check.”

We talked about what Liv told Elle before Ingrid, Nathan, and I walked into the kitchen after the girls had been locked in the cellar. One thing seemed slightly strange; Liv told Elle that she hadn't had her inhaler with her but that Kate had brought an extra. If the girls got locked in accidentally, why would Kate have Liv's inhaler? Also, how had Richard gotten a photo on his laptop from Pierce's sketch journal? From Kate?

Maybe Kate didn't fall asleep from drinking too much wine but made sure Liv did. Richard and Kate had a connection. Was it Richard who killed Pierce and Helen?

*   *   *

Back at my rental, I left Elle playing with Jo while I moved the trunk to the screened porch. I fed Jo at the table, and Elle couldn't stop laughing. Over the past four days, I'd been gradually making Jo's suppertime fifteen minutes later. She hadn't seemed to notice. But just to make sure, I set the clock backward one hour. Any cat that could drag my top to her litter box could probably tell time.

Elle insisted we take Jo in the car with us when I dropped her home. It took only seconds and a single treat to get Jo in the carrier. When we turned onto Route 114, Elle's cell phone rang. It was Detective Shoner. The skull and bones had been positively identified as Helen Morrison's. Nathan Morrison was already at the station for questioning.

Jo howled and I felt like joining her.

*   *   *

When Jo and I returned home, I was exhausted, but I couldn't let the trunk from the bungalow's attic remain locked. I got out the huge key ring I'd found at Little Grey, the one with the magic key that had opened the door to Little Grey's attic, and went out to the screened porch. Jo followed.

She jumped on the trunk, gave it a few sniffs, then settled down on a wicker chaise.

The trunk would be perfect for storing cushions from my porch furniture. And it also performed double duty as a coffee table.

A dozen vintage oil lanterns hung from the porch ceiling, all in different sizes and colors. I'd purchased the lot at a house sale in Montauk. Their former owner was an elderly gentleman who'd spent his entire life working for the Long Island Railroad.

Jo's gaze followed me as I lit each lantern with a butane torch.

It took me thirteen tries with the key ring before I opened the trunk. Lucky thirteen. Good thing I didn't have triskaidekaphobia.

There weren't any historical documents or signed constitutions worthy of bringing to an antique appraisal television show. There were items I was sure Liv would cherish till the end of days.

Under a stack of
Rolling Stone
magazines were three journals, and a scrapbook filled with magazine ads featuring Tansy holding cans of Aqua Net hairspray. At the bottom of the trunk was a box from Tiffany's. I opened it. Inside was a sterling silver rattle. Also in the box was a dated receipt. The space on the rattle where there should've been an engraving was left blank. Someone meant to have it engraved, hence the receipt.

I emptied the trunk and brought its contents to the table at the banquette, then went down to the beach to look for sandscript.

Nothing.

Feeling bereft about Pierce and Helen Morrison's demise and the thought of a rattle-less baby, I left a quote in front of Patrick Seaton's cottage from Emily Dickinson, someone who knew about a solitary life:

It might be lonelier

Without the Loneliness

I'm so accustomed to my Fate.

After I came back up to the cottage and fed Jo, I made her scoot over, then sat on the banquette to look over Pierce's journals. It appeared Pierce had been much younger when he'd drawn them. Younger and less schooled. The amazing thing was, he had actual living things in his sketches: horses, dogs, and humans. What had turned him
away from living, breathing things and caused him to draw mostly interiors? Interiors hiding secrets?

I closed the books, even though I was curious. My brain was too fried to look for secret codes hidden in Pierce's drawings. I'd go over them with Liv after Kate's birthday party. When I thought about it, what were we looking for? We had Pierce and Helen's bodies. The murderer most likely had the Warhol, and I didn't think Pierce would have sketched “killer” into the folds of someone's jacket before his demise.

Pierce and Helen's murderer would probably be caught by high-tech DNA testing and cutting-edge CSI work.