Hearse and Gardens (6 page)

I left the cottage an hour before my scheduled court appearance, wanting to stop off at Little Grey to make sure someone hadn't left me another present, like the pitiful seagull. I took the path to the back of the folly, wanting to do a little foraging of my own. I had some annual herbs on their last legs. Elle called me the Herb Whisperer because I talked to my plants. Didn't every gardener?

I carried an antique flower basket on my arm, amazed something so old could still be useful. My rosemary bush was out of control. I couldn't even find the marjoram I'd seen on the day of the strangled gull. And, of course, the mint had taken over, per usual. Sometimes I thought early botanists made a mistake classifying mint as an herb—it was more like a weed. However, nothing was better than a few leaves of chocolate mint in your peppermint tea.

When my basket was overflowing, I lifted the wrought
iron Chinese cricket by the door, retrieved the key, and went inside. When I'd first found the folly, I had to use a machete to clear the way. The key had winked at me as soon as the first ray of sun hit metal. Divine providence. At least to my way of thinking.

Officially, a folly is a structure with no purpose, decorative and frivolous in appearance. Mine was built in the Queen Anne style. It was once painted white, and had large-paned glass windows with all the early bubbles and streaks of late-nineteenth-century glass. Over the doorway was a fan window in a starburst pattern. Once I held the deed to the land, I'd turn the folly into either a potting shed or a design studio—sometimes I lay awake at night fighting with myself over which to choose.

I turned the key in the door and entered. It was just as I left it. A cot folded in the corner, a kerosene lantern, which gave off an amazing amount of light, enough to finish the entire collection of Victoria Holt books I reread this past summer in homage to mine and my mother's love of Gothic suspense novels. Where my land stood was sometimes called the Montauk Moors because of the thirty-foot-high cliffs—just like in my Gothics. It was still a dream of mine to visit Cornwall, England—until then, Montauk would do nicely.

The folly décor was kept simple. I used mostly found items. I'd brought in an aqua carriage house door, worn and faded by years of salt air and sun, that doubled as a tabletop. I'd placed it over two large electrical spools I'd liberated from the side of the road. The iron garden love seat, which was piled with cushions and pillows made from vintage fabric, had been sitting next to the fire pit at the
edge of the property. Outside the folly was Elle's small gas grill I'd borrowed, not a big deal, seeing she hadn't taken it out of the box. I even had an outdoor potty, The Watercloset, which I'd purchased from a swanky local party supplier. I was the first person to buy one outright—not rent it for an outdoor Hamptons gala.

When I left the folly, I swept pine branches across the path to hide my trail, like the Montauketts of yore, not wanting anyone to suspect it was my hideout.

On my way to the Jeep, I went up the front steps of Little Grey, tiptoed across the wide plank porch floor, and peered inside. Everything looked copacetic, except for the salty-wound notice barring entry to the cottage by order of the East Hampton Town Police Department.

*   *   *

When I arrived at the courthouse and walked up the steps, I couldn't get the
duunnn dunnn . . . duuuunnn duun . . . duunnn duun . . . duuunnnnn dun dun dun dun
 . . .
Jaws
theme out of my head. I felt like walking bait, and I wasn't too much off the mark because Justin Marguilles, Gordon's lawyer, stood at the top of the steps. The word “dapper” came to mind. Marguilles would be a perfect mouthpiece for Bugsy Siegel or a modern-day wiseguy.

He held the door open for me. “You're Meg Barrett, right?”

“No comment.” It took everything I had to not thank him for holding the door. I needed to remain strong.

“Byron Hughes pointed you out to me at Pierce Falks's wake. I think it would be in all our best interests to settle this out of court. My client has recently been through a
harrowing experience and doesn't want to cheat anyone of anything.”

Right. Then why the lawsuit? “No comment.”

I went ahead of him through the metal detectors and snatched my handbag from the surprised guard and scurried down the hallway.

The guard called out, “Excuse me, ma'am. Please come back.”

Of course, when I turned around, Justin Marguilles was standing next to the metal detector. He took something from the guard and walked toward me.

“In a rush, are we?” He handed me an item that must have fallen out of my handbag.

A personal feminine item.

I grabbed it and stormed away. Could things get any more embarrassing? I might as well go into the ladies' room, stick some toilet paper to the bottom of my shoe, and let it trail behind me like a flag of surrender.

I stepped into the courtroom, and the doors slammed behind me, announcing my arrival. A bailiff stood at the front of the room near a raised wooden platform. The courtroom was tastefully decorated, living up to East Hampton standards.

My attorney, Neil Ruskin, sat on the left side of the courtroom, next to the monsignor. I went and joined them.

Where was Gordon Miles? Waiting in the wings to make his entrance?

Justin Marguilles walked into the room and sat at the table to our right. He looked in our direction. “Good afternoon, Monsignor. Don't forget about our handball game tomorrow. I reserved your favorite court.”

The monsignor leaned across me. “As if I could. I plan to whip your butt in retaliation for last week's match.”

The
Jaws
theme reprised itself.

We all stood when the judge walked in. Still no Gordon Miles.

Judge Ferry was attractive and her smiley eyes connected with Marguilles every time she glanced his way. She opened the folder in front of her and flipped through the pages. “I've reviewed the case and I have to say I'm leaning in favor of Sergeant Gordon Miles because of the following reasons: in Ms. Eberhardt's last will she states, ‘In lieu of any living descendants, I leave my entire estate to St. Paul's Church.' Sergeant Miles was missing in action and thought to be deceased when the will was drawn up. I am, however, willing to hear the attorney for St. Paul's Church and Ms. Megan Barrett so they can provide their side before I make a formal decision.”

Two things blew me away. One, my attorney was representing me
and
St. Paul's. If we each had our own lawyer, it might make us look more stalwart. And the other thing—where was Gordon Miles?

I poked Neil and whispered into his ear.

Neil stood and addressed the court. “We'd like to ask the court's permission for a postponement until all the interested parties are present.”

Marguilles stood. “As you know, Judge Ferry, Sergeant Gordon Miles is stationed out of the country at an undisclosed location. I have no problem postponing, but there's no guarantee my client will be able to be present when you set a final court date.”

Judge Ferry said, “Understood. That is very solicitous
of you, Mr. Marguilles. Mr. Ruskin, can I ask why you feel it's important for Sergeant Miles to be present?”

“Well, Your Honor, we need to establish a connection between Sergeant Miles and Mrs. Eberhardt. We don't understand why Sergeant Miles and Mrs. Eberhardt weren't in communication before her death. Or if they were in communication, then we may be able to prove Mrs. Eberhardt left the estate to St. Paul's with the full knowledge Gordon Miles, her great-nephew, was alive.”

Judge Ferry said, “Then we will reconvene at Sergeant Miles's convenience.”

After the depressing court scene, I stopped in Amagansett for some retail therapy. When I finally arrived back at my rental, it was cold and dark. I had half a mind to buy a pet for company. I missed the canine companionship Tripod had provided, even if only for a short time.

I went onto the deck for some kindling. There were no buckets of guts in sight.

When I went inside, I started a fire, then microwaved a can of creamy mushroom soup. I poured the soup into a large coffee mug and topped it with sprigs of fresh rosemary and thyme. Then I toasted two slices of Wonder Bread sprinkled with garlic salt. Not too fancy, but the butter I spread on top was fresh from a farm in Southampton. I brought my dinner to my desk, which tonight faced the east end of the beach, and sat. I flipped up the screen to my laptop and searched “Harrison Falks.” I found him mentioned in a short piece, talking about Pop Art and Andy Warhol.

If Andy Warhol had been a poet, he could have been an entry in Patrick Seaton's book,
Tales from a Dead Shore—A Biography of Tortured Poets
. When Warhol was an
adolescent, he contracted a nervous system disease that caused involuntary movements of his arms and legs and a loss of skin pigmentation. Defying the odds, he went on to revolutionize the art of the everyday. Warhol started his career as an advertising illustrator. Later, he and his crew from The Factory turned out large-sized photo silk-screened works like his 1963 silk-screen painting,
Eight Elvises,
which sold for a hundred million dollars in 2008.

Warhol also made movies, one called
Eat,
showing a man eating a mushroom for forty-five minutes. Another,
Sleep
, showed a man sleeping for six hours. Hmm . . . did he make these movies before or after a long night at Studio 54 in Manhattan, his favorite celeb hangout?

In 1967, before Warhol bought his property in Montauk, he was shot by an acquaintance and barely survived. He was in chronic pain for the rest of his life. In 1971, Warhol and his manager bought the former Arm & Hammer twenty-acre compound in Montauk for $225,000. The compound sat on top of a thirty-foot cliff and included a house and five cottages built in the '30s. Five and a half acres of the compound, including the house and cottages, were sold in 2007 for just under thirty million dollars, then again in 2015 for fifty million dollars to an art collector. The remaining acreage had been set aside in Andy Warhol's will and was now called the Andy Warhol Preserve.

I found a quote of Warhol's in my research that struck a chord with me, “I think having land and not ruining it is the most beautiful art that anyone could ever want to own.”

When Elle and I arrived at Sandringham on Tuesday morning, we found the beach bungalow in shambles.

I said, “If a pride of African lions ransacked it, I wouldn't be surprised.” A few years ago, a wealthy mogul brought in a planeload of lions from Africa and let them loose on the Hamptons to naturally lower the rampant deer population. The deer had been wreaking havoc on the East End, ticks withstanding. They ate farm crops and caused serious car accidents. The original plan was to bring in a troop of sharpshooters with a daily dead-deer quota. Since African lions weren't outlawed in town bylaws, only mountain lions, natural selection was voted to be the more humane route versus the deer being gunned down. I guess you would have to ask the deer which one they preferred. The lions were released one at a time in
certain areas, then after picnicking were shipped off to their home country and released back into the wild.

“You're right.” Elle got on her hands and knees to pick up shards of broken pottery. “On TV, crime investigators tiptoe around taking pictures and bagging evidence. I bet this wasn't the way the cops left it. Look what they did to that box you bubble-wrapped.”

“I think you better call your homicide detective boyfriend and tell him about this mess.” Something wasn't on the up-and-up.

“He's not my boyfriend. But I am seeing him Wednesday at the East Hampton High Adopt-a-Pet. I'll ask him then.”

I picked up a Rolling Stones album from underneath a hi-fi console record player. “Hi-fi” was another one of Elle's vintage words. I could picture a young Uncle Harry and his contemporaries lying back on the midcentury sofa with teak legs, chillin' and smoking some wacky tobaccy. Well, maybe not Uncle Harry.

“The more I think about it, the more I think someone else has been in this bungalow. Maybe looking for the Warhol?”

“Could be,” Elle said. “Oh, go ahead.”

“Go ahead with what?”

“You know you're dying to—bad choice of words.”

Elle was right. Time to check out the recording studio. Curiosity was killin' this cat.

The bookcase was back in front of the door, minus the art books. I easily pushed it aside. At the top of the door, I saw nail holes where at one time there must have been a slide lock. Whoever locked Pierce inside made double-
sure he couldn't get out. What other reason would there be for a lock on the outside? I walked in first. The walls and ceiling were padded with what looked like mattress stuffing now turned rust brown. The room wasn't airtight, as I was sure it started out to be. There was a hole near an electrical plate at the base of the wall where sand trickled in, sugarcoating the purple shag carpet. As for furniture, there were just the desk and chair where Pierce's skull and bones sat. Nothing else. The desk had a drawer, but it was empty, and there was black fingerprint powder on the desk, chair, and doorplate—the only smooth surfaces in the room.

I closed the door to the outer room and tried to imagine what Pierce's last thoughts were before he succumbed to his fate.

“When you first saw Pierce's skeleton, do you remember anything else in the room besides the desk and chair? Clothing? Tattered or otherwise?”

“Ugh. You're just like Doc. I don't remember. One look at the skull and I ran back out. I'm leaving. It's smelly, morbid, and claustrophobic in here. I feel a fainting spell coming on. Stop, already.”

I knew from my father that when you found a skeleton, it looked nothing like the ones in old Vincent Price movies. The cartilage that kept the bones attached disintegrated by the time the body turned into bone.

I said, “I'll grab my smelling salts.”

Elle walked past me. “Hardy-har-har.”

I followed her out. Wordlessly, we slid the bookcase in front of the door. I might have sounded tough, but that room would haunt me for a long while.

On our first trip to the bungalow, we never made it into the tiny kitchen, bathroom, two small bedrooms, and attic room. All the main-floor rooms held the same carnage we'd seen in the living room. Elle wasn't swayed. She pushed all the furniture in the living room against the north wall, then swept the floor with a broom she found in a small closet that was filled with empty rare wine bottles. Thanks to my father, my wine knowledge wasn't too shabby.

After Elle cleared the center of the living room, she took masking tape and divided the floor into four sections. We went from room to room and put all salvageable items inside their corresponding squares: living room, kitchen, bedroom one, and bedroom two. There was nothing of interest in the bathroom except a rusty double-edge razor and an empty bottle of Chanel No. 5. I grabbed the Chanel because if it was vintage, it was worth something. If nothing else, it would make a good bud vase.

“I can't believe I missed this Eames rippled-ash folding screen the first time we were here.” Elle looked at the screen like it was a lover. “This baby is worth about four grand.”

“And I can't believe I missed all these books on the Hamptons and local gardening. This book from 1975,
Bridge Hampton Works and Days
, is a monthly country almanac and includes tips on local history, agriculture, gardening, birds, and even has community recipes.”

Elle grabbed the book from my hands. “I've been looking all over for my copy of this book. My mother's family, the potato farmers, are mentioned.”

She handed it back to me.

“Don't you want it?”

“Na. I'll find mine. It'll be perfect research for planning your Little Grey garden.”

We boxed everything. Then we piled three boxes at a time into the large red wagon Elle had brought to cart our treasures across the sand, then up the steep incline to her truck. I would have preferred she just pull the pickup directly onto the beach. Even my Wrangler was up for that chore. Of course, the large pieces of furniture stayed where they were. Uncle Harry promised to have the furniture loaded into a panel truck he kept in a garage that had once been a horse stable and send it to Sag Harbor. Uncle Harry used the truck for carting paintings he loaned to major art exhibitions and museums in Manhattan.

Elle told me the small upstairs attic room would have to wait for another day. I tried to protest, but I could see she was exhausted.

While we loaded the boxes, I filled Elle in on what I'd learned about Pierce on the Internet and the major art scandal he was involved in. Pierce used his father's name to broker a Jackson Pollock painting between a mystery client and a museum in Czechoslovakia—the Pollock turned out to be a fake. The mystery client was never discovered. Pierce was charged with fraud. However, because he was only seventeen at the time, his father, Harrison, returned all the money to the museum, and Pierce remained a free man, or boy, but was persona non grata in the art world from that day on.

“Wow. How come I never heard about this?”

“Because you were too young.”

I'd called Georgia at the bookstore after my research
on Pierce, and she'd given me a brief history on Jackson Pollock and the area in the Hamptons where he had lived.

Pollock and his artist wife, Lee Krasner, bought a farmhouse in 1945 on Fireplace Road in the hamlet of Springs. Springs was an area of land north of East Hampton and south of Three Mile Harbor. The area had always been famous for its light and unspoiled beauty. Pollock used the shed on the property to create his splatter and drip masterpieces. He would have made another good specimen for Patrick Seaton's book, having died in an alcohol-related automobile accident in 1959, less than a mile from his home.

Artists started coming to Springs as early as 1890, when William Merritt Chase opened an art school. The school closed in the early 1930s. In the '40s, a hotbed of Abstract Impressionists moved to Springs. The locals in Springs were called “Bonackers,” derived from the nearby Accabonac Harbor. The artist infiltration continued into the early '80s. It became a place where many bohemian artists hung out when they weren't in Manhattan, at Sandringham, or at the Warhol estate.

Initially, Springs was considered the Hamptons' main blue-collar area: an affordable place to live for local artists and restaurant and shop workers. Not so much anymore. Just like the potato farmers of yore, Bonackers had been selling off their land because of offers they couldn't refuse, forced to move farther inland.

Georgia had also told me that after the Pollock scandal, Pierce was only given a slap on the hand.

When Elle and I loaded the last box on the wagon, I said, “There's another interesting tidbit I picked up from
the Internet. In 2003, in Wainscott, there were twenty-four Pollock-like pieces of art found in a locker. To this day, there's no proof the pieces were Pollocks, mainly because researchers found a synthetic pigment in a few of the works that wasn't available in Pollock's lifetime.”

Elle asked if Pierce could have been involved.

I told her anything was possible.