Death on Windmill Way Read online

  Also by Carrie Doyle

  Writing as Carrie Karasyov

  The Infidelity Pact

  Writing as Carrie Karasyov with Jill Kargman

  The Right Address

  Wolves in Chic Clothing

  Bittersweet Sixteen

  Summer Intern

  Jet Set

  Thank you for downloading this Sourcebooks eBook!

  You are just one click away from…

  • Being the first to hear about author happenings

  • VIP deals and steals

  • Exclusive giveaways

  • Free bonus content

  • Early access to interactive activities

  • Sneak peeks at our newest titles

  Happy reading!

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2016, 2020 by Carrie Doyle

  Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design and illustration by Eric Blair

  Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Originally published as Death on Windmill Way in 2016 in the United States by Dunemere Books.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Doyle, Carrie, author.

  Title: Death on Windmill Way / Carrie Doyle.

  Description: Naperville, Illinois : Poisoned Pen Press, [2020] | Series: A Hamptons murder mystery | Originally published in 2016 in the United States by Dunemere Books. | Summary: “The scenic stretch of Long Island’s East End is renowned for beautiful beaches, quaint villages, spectacular houses...and murder! In Carrie Doyle’s fast-paced mystery, Death on Windmill Way, readers are introduced to gourmet chef and innkeeper Antonia Bingham as she digs into an active investigation to learn who’s behind the suspicious deaths of the Windmill Inn’s innkeepers. Mixing past and present, seriously sumptuous settings, and mouth-watering food descriptions keep things cozy and will feel like a stay at your favorite country inn!”-- Provided by publisher.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019049446 | (paperback)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3604.O95473 D43 2020 | DDC 813/.6--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019049446

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  Prologue

  December

  “Oh, it’s you,” said Gordon Haslett, his voice tinged with its usual irritation. “You’re always sneaking up on me. Drives me nuts. You just appear like a ghost. Trying to scare the hell out of me?”

  Gordon propped the rake against the tree and wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of dirt along his face. This small dose of physical labor had intensified his breathing, causing his chest to rise and fall dramatically under his vest. After taking a few gulps from a bottle of water, he examined his visitor critically. “So are you going to help me or what? Don’t just stand there watching me. We both know this isn’t my damn job.”

  He turned and resumed raking the stack of wet leaves that were blocking the door to the garden shed. They were soggy from the rain and stacked together in sad little clumps. The air smelled moldy, of musty earth. Gordon had apparently been out there for a while, as the brick path leading upward to the shed had already been cleared. He turned gruffly when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “What?” he barked.

  His visitor held out a handkerchief, and motioned toward the beading sweat on Gordon’s forehead. Gordon grabbed the cloth.

  “Thanks.”

  He pressed the handkerchief firmly to his head and aggressively wiped his entire face.

  “What the hell?” yelped Gordon, suddenly dropping the handkerchief and taking a step back. “Damn, something stung me!”

  Gordon began furiously slapping his face, then stopped and glanced around in confusion. He held one index finger to the side of his face. His skin was burning hot. Suddenly his entire face began to swell, and his eyes were enveloped in clouds of puffiness.

  “What the…” He couldn’t finish his sentence. Instead, Gordon clutched his throat and dropped to his knees.

  “Go get help,” he whispered.

  His visitor nodded. And then turned and walked as slowly as possible back to the inn, and waited.

  1

  October

  (Ten months later)

  It was a glorious fall night in East Hampton. The sky was inky black with thin clouds racing past a full moon, and the ancient trees along the village streets cast long shadows in the silver moonlight. In the distance, the ocean waves murmured, providing a romantic background soundtrack. The air outside was crisp, not too chilly, but with just enough kick to necessitate roaring fires in the Windmill Inn’s public rooms. It was a cozy Friday evening, just how innkeeper Antonia Bingham had imagined it would be when she dreamed of her move to the East Coast from California. Combined with the medley of delicious smells wafting from the kitchen, the weather and atmosphere gave Antonia a sense of great satisfaction.

  The dining room of the Windmill Inn was by no means filled to capacity, but for the first time in the six weeks since Antonia had opened the restaurant, half of the tables were occupied. She had heard, of course, that it takes a while for new restaurants to gain momentum, particularly when they are replacing old restaurants that had reputations for terrible service and inedible food. But still, those first few nights when the seats remained empty, she had felt completely disheartened. Not to mention embarrassed: the sound of every ice cube clinking in a glass seemed magnified and the busboys were too eager to replace half-eaten rolls, just to have something to do. But gradually—very gradually—reservations had picked up, with locals and weekenders popping by, eager to try a new place, and more guests booking rooms at the inn and venturing down to try Antonia’s home-cooked meals.

  Finally, in Antonia’s mind, the future was beginning to look a little brighter. She hoped she wasn’t de
lusional; she was by nature an optimist who chose to look at the bright side of things. However, Antonia’s optimism made her prone to bad judgment calls, resulting in infrequent but spectacular failures. “Older and wiser” was one of her mottos, and with her recent purchase of the inn, Antonia was hoping that she could put some of the knowledge and experience that she had acquired in her thirty-five years (twelve years of catering!) to good use. She just needed to avoid past mistakes.

  Now, as Antonia roamed the sleek navy and white dining room, she surveyed it critically. It was a large space that seated sixty-five diners and the decor was comfortable, while also streamlined and uncluttered. Whereas Antonia had chosen to make the rest of the inn feel cozy-formal with antiques, lots of prints, and colored fabrics, she had given the restaurant a bright and crisp interior. The walls were painted eggshell white and held large canvases of modern art, mostly bright abstracts, but a few small, individually lit oil paintings as well. The floors had been stained a dark walnut wood, brushed smoothly and evenly. In the front of the room, by the maître d’ station, was a dark-azure lacquered bar. Its eight barstools had button-tufted backs and sides studded with pewter nailhead trim. Beyond that were a dozen freestanding tables set formally with starched white linens, white china, and blue Murano goblets.

  When she was decorating the inn, Antonia had sat on dozens of chairs in an effort to find the most comfortable; one that would encourage diners to linger and order more courses. The winners were softly rounded and upholstered in blue, with gently sloping arms and maple-stained legs. In the back of the room, beyond the swinging door to the kitchen, was a nook housing four booths, their banquettes covered in cobalt vinyl with white piping. Antonia had debated whether or not the booths made the place feel too casual, but tonight they had allowed her to successfully accommodate a last-minute party of seven. Smiling benevolently at the happy group, Antonia knew she had made the right decision in adding the booths. They made the restaurant feel complete.

  Tonight, Antonia was clad in her best black satin dress, replete with a plunging neckline to both accentuate her ample breasts and move everyone’s eyes away from her widening girth. (Ah, the havoc that working with food wreaks on your waistline, Antonia often despaired.) She had on the lowest high heels that she could find, as anything even a half an inch higher caused major wobbling in the manner of a drunken streetwalker. It was the last thing Antonia would have liked to have been wearing—sweats, elastic-waisted ruffled skirts, soft cardigans, and Crocs were more her speed—but her manager had told her that she needed to “sex it up and work the room” in order to encourage first-time customers to become repeat customers. She hardly thought that her looking all dolled up would entice diners, especially in this small town, but with all of her money on the line with the restaurant and inn, she agreed to do whatever had to be done for the bottom line. As a result, Antonia had pulled out all the stops tonight, blowing dry her glossy black hair until it fell in cascading waves down to her shoulders and even applying makeup. Her Cupid’s bow lips were deep red, her porcelain cheeks blushed pink, and her already thick lashes fluttered darkly around her bright-blue eyes.

  “Another wonderful dinner, Antonia, thank you,” said Joseph Fowler as he signed his check and flipped the leather-bound cardholder closed. He placed it on the table next to the small pumpkin centerpiece. After finishing the last sip of his sherry, he dabbed his mouth with the cloth napkin.

  “Thank you, Joseph. You always make my day!” Antonia beamed at her favorite dinner guest.

  Joseph was a renowned writer of historical fiction. He had been recently widowed when his wife of thirty-plus years died after a long bout with cancer. Joseph was Antonia’s first customer at the restaurant, and for that she was eternally grateful, especially as he had turned out to be a tremendous cheerleader for her. An elegant man, with refined features (aquiline nose, arched eyebrows, chiseled cheekbones, impeccably combed silver hair) he always dressed in custom-fitted monogrammed dress shirts and a bow tie, cords or khakis (depending on the weather), and a beautiful tweed blazer. As he was still only in his early sixties, Antonia fervently hoped he would find romance again. It was too soon for her to play matchmaker but she had already targeted some of the ladies who came to tea at the inn as potential suitors. Should she mind her own business? Probably. But that wasn’t really her style.

  “Joseph, I’d love your feedback. What did you think of the truffled polenta with Gorgonzola? It’s a new recipe I’m trying out. You can tell me honestly.”

  He smiled. “It was exquisite.”

  “I’m not fishing for compliments. Are you sure?”

  He patted her hand. “My dear, I would have it every night if I could.”

  “You know how to make a lady happy,” she said, wagging her finger at him. “I’ll take your word for it, but I still think it needs some tweaking—maybe a different herb. It says rosemary but I have to be honest, I’m not the biggest rosemary fan. It sort of tastes like shampoo, don’t you think? I much prefer tarragon or sage. Even chervil. Thyme could work, but it’s kind of wimpy. Well, we’ll see…”

  “My advice to you is don’t overthink it. The best thing about your food is that you cook from the heart. And it shows.”

  “Well, I try.”

  Antonia motioned for Glen, the maître d’, to assist Joseph into his scooter. Joseph had suffered a bout of polio as a child and although he could walk with the assistance of crutches, in recent years he had primarily used a scooter to get around.

  “There ya go, Mr. Fowler,” said Glen in his strong Long Island accent. “I tell you, I could use one of these things to escape from the ladies.”

  Glen was attractive but in an unctuous, hair-gelled way, like Guido the Killer Pimp. A failed actor with an inflated ego, he was a high-maintenance employee but very good at charming women and making customers feel at home.

  Joseph chuckled. “Well, I don’t exactly have that problem.”

  “All in good time.”

  “Have a great night,” said Antonia cheerily.

  Joseph winked. “You too, my lady.”

  Antonia moved around the room to greet other guests and to solicit any suggestions they might have about the food. She enjoyed meeting people as much as she enjoyed cooking, and it was always an internal debate as to where she should spend more time. It was fun for her to find out where guests were from, and what their story was, but at the same time, she also adored her time in the kitchen, concocting her latest culinary adventure, darting about, plating dishes. If she could slice herself in half and do both she certainly wouldn’t hesitate.

  After sending off a cute couple that was visiting from New York City (house-hunting), she stopped off at Len and Sylvia Powers’s table. Len headed up security at the Dune Club, a very fancy country club on the ocean, and his wife was a teacher. Tonight, they had brought their son in to celebrate his twenty-fifth birthday.

  “You’ve done an amazing job, Antonia. I tell you, just amazing. The inn looks gorgeous and the food is fabulous,” said Sylvia Powers, her big cerulean eyes twinkling. She dabbed her mouth with her napkin, leaving a stain of the hot-pink lipstick that was her trademark, then patted her stomach appreciatively. “I tell you, it is so wonderful that you brought this place back to life. And so quickly. What was it, only six months?” She didn’t wait for an answer but continued, “I can’t tell you how sad it was to see it fall into disrepair all the years Gordon Haslett owned it. What a mean guy! And that made the place mean. We stopped coming here long ago, didn’t we, Len?”

  “Well, you didn’t really have a choice, Mom,” said Matt, giving her a sly smile.

  She frowned. “Nonsense. We had a choice. That business was all settled. Right, Len?”

  Len Powers glanced up from his apple cheddar crisp, and looked around, dazed by the interruption. He was a large man, with a belly that arrived in a room ten seconds before he did. Everything about him was
big and fleshy, from his bulbous nose to his ruddy cheeks and giant ears. “I can’t talk! I don’t want to tear myself away from this incredible dessert.”

  Sylvia laughed. “I already inhaled my dessert. I tell you, that chocolate caramel cake with the little dots of sea salt was majestic. This is our third time here and every time I sample some new yummies.”

  “Thank you.” Antonia beamed.

  “This may seem like a backhanded compliment, but you cook in a very homey style. The way I like to think I can cook, but actually can’t. I like that it’s not all that fancy new-wave stuff—foams and edible flowers. That just sounds disgusting to me. Some of those cooking shows, I think, yuck! Foie gras ice cream? Come on. When I have ice cream, I don’t want meat in it. But I’m not a food snob. I just prefer food that tastes how it’s supposed to. Don’t mess with what ain’t broke.”

  “Well, I’m so glad you liked it,” replied Antonia. “And thank you for your kind words. I say to everyone I know that the biggest compliment they can give me is to spread the news around. I want everyone to know that there’s a new sheriff in town, and the Windmill Inn is back in business.”

  “Oh, everyone knows that already, Antonia,” said Sylvia, chattering on. “East Hampton is a small town. Especially when the summer people are gone. Ah, the summer people! Did you know we call the season ‘one hundred days of hell’? Oh, they’re not all bad, I’m joking. But it’s nice to have the town back to ourselves, where we can get up in everybody’s business! Ha, I’m joking again. But of course, everyone knows that the inn changed hands when Gordon Haslett died. In fact, Matt was there—he’s a paramedic.” Sylvia gestured proudly at her son.

  Antonia was having a hard time following Sylvia’s dramatic stream-of-consciousness rambling. She looked to Matt for clarification.

  Matt put down his fork and nodded. He had a pretty boy face composed of dainty features: a small straight nose, plump red lips, and thickly lashed eyes. There was also something morose and gloomy about his temperament that Antonia was certain thrilled girls who were attracted to the dark, broody types. Looking at his jolly, big-boned parents, it was hard to tell where Matt had come from.