Hearse and Gardens (4 page)

Sunday morning was dark and cloudy. The scent of fall leaves mixed with the salty brine of the ocean. Fort Hill Cemetery offered a gorgeous view of Montauk: the ocean to the south, Fort Pond to the west, and Montauk Harbor and the Long Island Sound to the north. Georgia, owner of The Old Man and the Sea Books, had lectured me about its history. In the mid-1600s, the land the cemetery stood on was the scene of a bloody battle between the Narragansett Indians and the Montauketts. “Montaukett” translates to “hilly land.” The Montauketts were able to live in peace with the white man but were nearly exterminated by warring tribes from New England.

The land at the base of the cemetery was aptly nicknamed “Massacre Valley.” The Narragansetts not only killed a slew of Montauketts, but as a final blow, went on to kidnap the Montaukett chief's daughter right in the
middle of her wedding ceremony. With all that said, it would be a beautiful spot for a wedding—and it wasn't bad for a funeral—as far as that goes.

I thought about my mother's gravesite in Detroit. Before she died, my mother made my father promise we wouldn't spend time weeping on her tombstone because she didn't plan on being anywhere near it.

Crows dotted the cemetery grass, and Halloween's spooky vibes settled over the black mourners like a proverbial shroud. The pallbearers removed the casket from the hearse.

I never understood why hearses had windows, windows with white satin curtains. No one was looking out, and with the curtains, no one could see in. For cozy appeal? To soften the fact a loved one was dead but afforded the best luxury money could buy? When I died, I wanted to be put in a pine box, no open casket, and to be planted under a tree with a view of the ocean.

The minister droned on with the traditional “dust to dust” sermon. He looked like Edgar Allan Poe: gaunt, high forehead, bushy eyebrows, and sunken eyes. Uncle Harry sat in a wheelchair with Brandy behind him. Her bosoms sat like a shelf over his drooping head.

Uncle Harry seemed to have aged ten years since the news of his son's demise, putting him in his early hundreds. The reverend aimed his booming voice at Uncle Harry, causing him to shake with each syllable hurled in his direction. Uncle Harry's hearing aids looked old-fashioned and clunky. I made a mental note to send my audiologist to Sandringham with a host of newer technological wonders. What people didn't realize was every
person's hearing loss was individual, like DNA, depending on what range they were missing.

I scanned the crowd and was able to figure out who was who from Elle's descriptions and their position around the casket. Liv, the deceased's daughter, stood next to her grandfather. She was a natural beauty and would never need a stitch of makeup. She had rich mahogany doe eyes and blue-black hair. Her eyes were clear and innocent and filled with pain. I resented her makeupless face. The bare minimum I needed to step out the door was blush for my fair skin and black mascara for my pale eyelashes. Liv wore black riding attire and had the perfect posture and frame for an equestrian. I'd bet dollars to Gleeson's doughnuts, she owned her own horse and spent most of her time at Montauk's Deep Hollow Ranch, just a hop, skip, and jump from Sandringham. Deep Hollow's claim to fame was that Teddy Roosevelt used to hang out there.

Kate, Celia's daughter and Uncle Harry's stepdaughter, had ginger freckles and hair, green eyes, and her mother's perfect nose. You could tell Kate's black dress wasn't her choice, probably borrowed from Celia. The dress must've been made of wool because Kate scratched at the long sleeves like a dog with fleas. Celia kept elbowing her to stop.

Elle saw me looking at the only other person I didn't know. I read her lips when she mouthed, “Mrs. Anderson. The cook.”

There weren't any strangers at the gravesite, only immediate family and staff. Even though Elle stood next to me, I felt like an outsider. Nathan Morrison was noticeably
missing. He probably wasn't a big fan of Pierce for having an affair with his wife, or he felt guilty because logic suggested Helen murdered Pierce and had taken off with the Warhol.

Elle nudged me. “Did you feel that?”

I did. A sudden gust of wind entered the soles of my shoes and whistled up the marrow of my bones.

“There's something unsettled about this place.”

“It's a cemetery. You can't be more settled than that.”

“I have the heebie-jeebies. Let's beat the family to the parking lot. I want to stop at Psychic Sue's for an amulet. Generic crystal, I think. I'll put it on my lighted chakra color wheel so I can take full advantage of its healing powers. I'll get you one too.”

“I'm good. I still have the amethyst you gave me last spring. Not that it did much good.”

“You're alive, aren't you?”

She had a point.

*   *   *

Elle turned the pickup onto South Essex and took a right on South Emerson Avenue, the road that housed Montauk's prime oceanfront hotels. She parked on the grass of Psychic Sue's Surf and Tarot.

Neon surfboards stood against a large sea green cottage. Surfing season was still on in Montauk. Smoke curled from the stone chimney—smoke or burned sage—you could never tell with Sue.

Elle tooted the horn and waved. “Look, it's Doc.”

At first, I thought she was mistaken, but it
was
Doc.
Doc minus his trim white beard. My father always laughed at him because he spent hours wiping it after one of Father's scrumptious gastronomic creations.

I lowered the pickup's window. “What did you do with your beard? Where's my Doc?” I stuck out my lower lip in a pout. I'd known Doc since I was three, and I'd known his beard for just as long.

Doc held a clear cup filled with green liquid in his long-fingered surgeon's hand. The cup was the size they used to dispense medication in movies like
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
.

One of Doc's white eyebrows formed a perfect peak. “Where have you two been?”

He'd never seen me in anything but jeans. Certainly not somber church attire. “We just came from Pierce Falks's funeral.”

He asked, “Will I see you at Paddy's tomorrow?”

“Yes.” Paddy's Pancake House was the site of our designated Monday morning breakfast date.

Elle leaned over. “Hey, Doc. Isn't that Mean Green Harmony juice the best?”

I was floored. Detroit's meat-and-potato man drinking health juice? New age meets old. I had a feeling Georgia from The Old Man and the Sea Books had something to do with his Zenformation.

Sure enough, Georgia emerged from Sue's. She held a piece of paper in her hand. “Marshall. You forgot your surfboard receipt.”

Wow. Doc and surfboard in the same sentence. I hadn't tried surfing, and I'd lived in Montauk for almost two years and was thirty years younger.

Elle went into the shop to purchase her crystal. I kissed Doc and Georgia hello and good-bye and walked a short distance to the beach. The rolling, turbulent waves mesmerized me by their consistency. Who needed crystals for peace of mind when the ocean could deliver such a moving tribute to life? Not always soothing and serene, but always there. I thought about Pierce Falks being locked in a room so close to the ocean without being able to see it. He couldn't even hear the waves in his soundproof tomb. What had he done to make everyone assume he'd taken off with Nathan's wife and stolen the Warhol? If he'd been murdered because of the Warhol, then why hadn't it shown up? Unless it was in someone's private collection, for their eyes only? But how long could you stare at it for enjoyment? A Pissarro I could see. But a can of Aqua Net?

I thought of my friend and Montauk Realtor, Barb, who was on a second honeymoon cruise with her husband of thirty years. I'd kept her in the loop about Pierce and Helen and the missing Warhol. She'd been very upset with my putting down Aqua Net, seeing it was a staple of her mother's and now hers. I always wondered how she kept her beehive hairdo intact between appointments at Curl by the Sea.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

“Thought I'd find you here. It's time to go to Sandringham for the wake,” Elle said. “I want to get a good seat to watch the show.”

Now that the Hamptons International Film Festival was on the horizon, Elle had informed me that Celia invited a bunch of Film Festival celebs to Sandringham
for Pierce Falks's wake. “Do you think I'm dressed appropriately?” Since my move to Montauk, I hadn't kept up on the latest fashion trends, just decorating trends—a far cry from my Manhattan schmoozing and entertaining days at
American Home and Garden
. Elle didn't have a problem keeping up with trends because she only wore vintage.

“You can't go wrong with a little black dress. Here, let me add something.” Elle took off one of her gigantic rhinestone pins and stabbed it onto my chest.

“Hmmm. Maybe a bit much.” I was happy the sun wasn't out because I could blind someone with the sparkle of the rhinestones.

After Elle removed the brooch, a good-sized hole remained. “Oopsy. Come to the car. I might have something in my train case.”

“Train case?”

“Picture a sixties Pan Am stewardess's carryon luggage.”

There was nothing in the “train case” to cover the damage made by the brooch, so I had Elle drop me at home so I could change. I told her to go on to Sandringham and I'd meet her. This way, if I felt out of place or the wake turned into a snooze fest, I'd have my own wheels and could skedaddle home in time for my favorite home and garden fixer-upper TV show.

As soon as I entered the cottage, I ran upstairs and changed into another simple black sheath dress. I was officially bottomed out of funeral attire. If something happened to this dress, I was doomed.

The cottage was freezing. I went onto the deck and
grabbed some kindling from under a tarp. When I stood, I noticed something hanging from the gate at the top of stairs, which led down to the beach. Then I heard a wolf howl.

There weren't wolves in Montauk.

The Montauk Monster? The disgusting thing washed ashore years ago on Ditch Plains Beach. Someone took a picture of it and then, before it could be autopsied, the carcass mysteriously disappeared. Once you saw the photos on the Internet, they haunted you for weeks. There was a debate on what the thing actually was, ranging from a raccoon, to a shell-less sea turtle, to an alien.

Why did I have to think of the monster now?

Where was Tripod, my three-legged canine friend and protector? Probably stealing sausages off the barbie, Down Under with Cole, his master.

I dropped the wood and crept toward the gate, or at least tried to in my three-inch heels. You'd never catch me in six-inch heels. As I got closer, an orange bucket hung from the latch on the gate. Harmless enough. Maybe my neighbor Patrick Seaton brought me a present? The reclusive author had left extra kindling near my kitchen door once before.

Then I thought of the dead seagull at Little Grey.

When I was a few feet away from the gate, the toes of my shoes squished something slimy. Before I could turn and run, my feet gave way and I went sliding into the gate. Bam! My head hit the bucket, and its contents spilled onto my head and shoulders.

I screamed.

I tried to stand but slipped again, my knees and hands
swimming in gook. The smell was so bad I refused to inhale. I crawled back to the deck, through the open French doors, and collapsed on the rug. I took a deep gulp of air but the odor remained.

Some miscreant had poured fish guts on the area in front of the gate. The bucket contents were the icing on the cake. And I was the cake. I was covered with fish heads, scales, and entrails!

I stripped down and threw my clothing and shoes onto the deck. I wiped my feet on the rug, then threw it outside. I ran to the cupboard, got out a large paper bag, and, naked as a jaybird, went back onto the deck, where I put the clothing and shoes into the bag. Then I tossed everything over the railing, including the rug, not caring where it landed.

Okay, be brave, Meg Barrett. Your father didn't raise you to be a wimp.

I locked the door with my elbow and very slowly went up the stairs to the bathroom. I removed my hearing aids and got into the shower. It took five washings to get my hair to rinse clean. Words couldn't describe what pooled on top of the drain. I was one step away from adding my stomach contents to the mix.

I hid the Jeep outside the gates to Sandringham, hoping when I returned it would have turned from a rotted pumpkin to a golden carriage. The sky was filled with sooty mauve-tinged clouds, ready to let loose the downpour it threatened all day. I had a good five-minute walk on six-inch red-soled shoes I'd only worn once in the past two years. They pinched my toes and found every pothole on the dirt lane. I hobbled toward the sweeping front portico, using my vintage ivory-handled umbrella as a cane.

Richard stood in the open doorway, a dumbfounded look on his face.

He took my umbrella. “We do offer valet service. Everyone's in the gallery.” He pointed to the hallway on the right side of the staircase. “We haven't been formally introduced. I'm Richard Challis, Mrs. Falks's chauffeur, concierge, and assistant.”

“Meg Barrett.” I stuck out my hand, but instead of taking it, he did a southern France double-double air-kiss: left-right-left-right. I knew the rules. The receiver offered the right cheek first. No lip to cheek, just cheek to cheek with soft smooching noises. Rules for the traditional double-cheek air-kiss were the same, only halved.

I'd learned about the southern France double-double salutation from my father's instructor at the Culinary Arts Institute in Detroit when I was invited to the class's final exam. My tough, retired homicide detective father had prepared a traditional rustic meal you'd find in a small out-of-the-way cobblestoned bistro in Provence, but raised it to Cordon Bleu level by adding a few decadent cream sauces typical of the cuisine of southern France—where his instructor hailed from. My father took a chance mixing north with south, but it paid off. He aced his exam, and the recipe could be seen framed inside the institute's showcase of honor.

Where did Richard learn his air-kisses? He didn't have a French accent like my father's gourmet guru. In fact, if I wasn't mistaken, he had the familiar midwestern twang I'd grown up with in Michigan.

The soiree/wake was held in the modern addition of the house or, as Richard called it, the gallery.

As I stepped into the gallery, the low buzz of cocktail conversation, like the sound of a fly when trapped under a window shade—only multiplied by a thousand—enveloped me. I fumbled for the keychain in my handbag, which held the remote for my hearing aids, and lowered the volume. I was better off reading lips.

The ocean, through the floor-to-ceiling glass, was the perfect backdrop for the ultramodern décor and art. Whoever designed the room stuck to the rule of floating furniture and defining it with a rug—only, in this case, the white rug was hard to define against the white marble floor. The ocean and the room were quite magnificent.

Elle sat in the corner on a clear Plexi stool. Uncle Harry was next to her in his wheelchair. Elle held a wineglass filled with clear liquid. In the other, she clasped Uncle Harry's hand. After the news of his son's death, I had a feeling he wasn't up for the walker.

Uncle Harry's skin tone matched the color of the churning Atlantic—gray, gray, and more gray. I glanced at the other guests. Like Elle, their glasses were filled with clear liquid. I'd been to a few highbrow society parties in my time and knew it wasn't the guest's choice to choose white wine, vodka, gin, or champagne. It was the host's. Spilling red wine, even fine bourbon on a white rug or chaise was a no-no and an even bigger no-no if someone bumped your elbow and your cabernet splashed onto a de Kooning or Pollock.

I grabbed a glass of wine from a roaming waiter and made my way over to Elle and Uncle Harry.

Elle stood and offered her seat. “I'm so happy to see you. Brandy left me with Uncle Harry forty-five minutes ago, and I need to use the ladies' room. Wow. You clean up nicely. So happy you wore red. There's too much black in the room. Love the stilettos.”

Like I had a choice. I was pretty proud of myself for keeping my cool. What I really wanted to do was shout
it from the rooftops that I'd been SLIMED. “Thanks. No problem. Anything I should know?” I looked at Uncle Harry's nodding head.

“Nothing to know. Just look for Brandy. He doesn't look so good.”

That was an understatement.

Elle darted in and out of the mourners. I wouldn't consider half of the people invited as mourners; they probably didn't even know Harrison Falks, or his deceased son. Celia took center stage, laughing, giggling, and flirting with any man over eighteen. I didn't see her glance once in her husband's direction. I set my wineglass on a—you guessed it—Plexiglas side table and looked out the window. Two figures stood under the floodlights, in view of anyone who wanted to see. They were in a heated conversation, arms flailing, spit flying. It was Brandy and Richard. I wished I had a better view so I could read their lips. The only words I could make out were from Richard because he faced me—they were “committed” and “testify.”

Uncle Harry opened his eyes. He looked around and demanded to be taken to his room. He must have thought I was Brandy. Though you could never confuse the two of us, especially in the chest area. “Let me get Celia to take you up.”

“I doubt you'd be able to tear her away. You take me.” He put his hands on the wheels of the wheelchair and pushed forward.

“Sure, Uncle Harry. No problem.” I looked out the window. Brandy and Richard had disappeared.

On my way through the gallery, I almost bumped into two people I never thought I'd see at Sandringham. Byron
Hughes, star landscape architect, and Justin Marguilles, star attorney, whom Gordon Miles hired to kick me off my property. And they were both chatting like old Harvard buddies. If they were friends and I cozied up to Byron, maybe he could sway Marguilles to drop the silly lawsuit.

I kept my head down as we left the gallery. I wasn't sure where Uncle Harry's bedroom was, but I remembered the last time I was here, he'd taken an elevator hidden in the foyer. I found it and wheeled Uncle Harry inside. The doors opened on the second floor and Uncle Harry pointed the way. When we stopped in front of a double door carved with ornate flourishes, I pushed the button to the right of the doors and they opened inward.

The original Sandringham in England had been built for Queen Victoria. The mammoth suite we walked into was built for a king.

Uncle Harry said, “Please help me onto the bed.”

“Of course.” I maneuvered the wheelchair next to a bed the size of a small yacht and was totally surprised at how little Uncle Harry weighed as I helped him up. He lay back among the white linen monogrammed
F
pillow shams, and I tucked a cashmere throw around his frail body.

“Do you want me to take out your hearing aids?”

His eyes were teary. “First, please hand me that glass of water. I want to tell you a little about my son, Pierce. He wasn't always a scoundrel.”

I handed him the glass. He drank like no one had given him liquids in weeks. His hand shook as he placed the glass back on the nightstand. Water splashed on the glossy veneered top and, without thinking, I took the corner of the pillow sham and sopped up the liquid.

Uncle Harry smiled. “You must love old things. What do you think of my collection?” I followed his gaze to the twelve-foot-high wall opposite the bed. Every square inch was crammed with oil paintings in ornate gold frames with brass plaques. All the paintings were clearly from the Hudson River School: grazing sheep and cows and hilly pastures with winding rivers.

“Lovely. What made you want to represent modern art?”

“I was a businessman. Back in the early seventies I knew the writing was on the wall. My second wife Tansy, Pierce's mother, was one of the ‘it' girls at the time and also a print model. She was the muse for many an artist who hung out in Springs. Tansy was the inspiration behind the Aqua Net painting by Warhol.”

“I assume she used lots of Aqua Net?”

“There was an advertisement for Aqua Net showing Tansy driving in a convertible without a hair out of place. It got Andy Warhol's attention. Warhol started in advertising, you know.”

I pulled over a chair that belonged in a museum, hoping my hundred and thirty pounds wouldn't collapse the delicate Regency legs. I reached into my bag and turned up the volume to my hearing aids. Reading Uncle Harry's lips wasn't easy. The muscles on his right side seemed slack. It was possible he'd had a stroke sometime in the past. “Tansy must have been beautiful.”

“Oh. She was.” He closed his eyes but kept talking. “Blonde, blue eyes, fair skinned, perfectly proportioned facial features and a wide mouth. The perfect artist's muse. Scandinavian. Mrs. Anderson, our chef, is Tansy's distant
cousin.” He opened his eyes. “Mrs. Anderson could be your mother. You have the same coloring. Tansy was the biggest flirt I've ever met, but we all forgave her. She was ethereal, from another time-space continuum. That's why I left that particular bungalow for last. It was where Pierce always hung out to be closer to his mother. It was his refuge of sorts . . . I never thought it would be his final resting place.” He reached again for the glass of water and brought it to his lips.

After he returned the glass to the table, he looked at me. A fog had descended.

“I'm Scandinavian. Swedish on my mother's side.”

He gave a series of rapid blinks. “Who are you? Where's Brandy? We have to find Helen. She has to pay. She has to pay! And what about the baby? The wee baby?”

Still fully clothed, Uncle Harry laid back and pulled the throw up to his chin. He licked his lips. “Did you hear the one about . . .”

A soft voice called out, “Granddad. I've been looking everywhere for you.” I turned my head toward the doorway, where Liv Falks, Pierce's daughter, stood. Liv seemed to be the only one looking for her grandfather. Certainly, his wife Celia didn't seem to care.

I walked toward Liv. “He wanted to leave the party—I mean wake. I'm Meg Barrett, a friend of Elle's.”

If she noticed my uneasiness over the “party” faux pas, she didn't show it. She held out her hand. “Liv Falks. I saw you at my father's funeral. Thank you for coming.”

Uncle Harry twisted toward her. “Livvy, my Livvy. Come sit next to me and tell me the story.”

“In a minute, Granddad. Let me walk Ms. Barrett to the stairs.”

*   *   *

Liv led me down the hallway, then turned left. She touched something on the wall in front of us and the wood panels opened, exposing the second floor of the glass gallery with the Steinway piano and the clear section of flooring. There wasn't a third floor to match the roof line of the old part of the house; instead there was a forty-foot-high tinted glass ceiling with copper rafters, giving the gallery a greenhouse effect.

On the first floor of the gallery, the wake was in full swing. The mellow stringed ensemble from earlier had added percussion. Was this the raucous way everyone in the Hamptons celebrated death?

Liv stopped at the dividing line between the original part of the mansion and the modern addition. “Thanks again for bringing Granddad to his room.” She waved her arm toward the scene below. “This is a little much for him. For all of us.”

“How are you taking it? I'm so sorry about the loss of your father.”

“I'm just happy he was found and all the rumors weren't true. I knew he'd never steal a painting and leave me alone without a word. I may have been only three when he disappeared, but I knew he loved me. He was an artist. He published picture books he made just for me. One for each birthday. My mother gave me the last book on my fourth birthday, right before her accident.” She took her right hand and ran it through her silky hair. “I can't wrap my
head around the fact that my father was murdered, with no water or food. How could anyone be so heartless? And to think he was so close to Sandringham the whole time. My mother thought he left with
her
. Everyone did.”

I assumed she meant Helen Morrison.

“My father did some sketchy things. Things I read about in the paper after he died. But did he deserve this?” She looked at me, as if I had an answer.

I wanted to help her. I knew what it was like to lose a parent at a young age. But to lose both your parents, around the same time, seemed inconceivable. “If you want, I can look into things for you. My father is a retired homicide detective. And I know Detective Shoner from the East Hampton Town Police. Call if you need anything. Even a cup of coffee. I live right down the road.” I handed her my business card. My father had taught me motive was a pie-in-the-sky thing. No rhyme or reason on what might set someone off. The person who murdered wasn't always a stereotypical adolescent who tortured small animals or set fires, sometimes it was the kind little old man who held the door for you at the post office.

“Have you always lived at Sandringham?”

She had dark circles under her eyes. “Yes, between boarding school and Brown. I just graduated last May.”