Клео Коул - Murder Most Frothy

I remember Joy clapping happily in her stroller, Matt putting his big, strong arms around me and telling me to just lean into him. If only we could have stayed that way, never left the FDR, kept the fireworks going forever.

Tonight’s display had been privately arranged by David, who was a newcomer to East Hampton. This was only his third annual Fourth party. Two brothers from Manhattan’s Chinatown, who had long ago worked out the pile of permits needed from the local authorities to create private fireworks for Hamptons parties, set their rockets up down the beach and angled them to fall over the ocean.

Now colors bloomed in the evening sky, painting the starry canvas with flickering lights that trailed like wet diamonds down to the black surf. We all stopped to watch the spectacle, then the party cranked up again, one last burst of energy before the guests, like the flickering lights of the expended rockets, trailed off into the night.

The fairly speedy exit of the partygoers was not surprising. Clouds were moving in fast from over the ocean—a flash of distant lightning and a rumble of thunder had been the equivalent of a Broadway curtain call. With smiles and waves, and calls goodnight to each other, the friendly, happy throng filed into the mansion and out the front door like a human commuter train.

As the last of the guests trailed off, I quickly directed Joy and Graydon Faas in a cleanup detail on the large outdoor deck. There were cups, cocktail glasses, and napkins all over the joint. Lounge chairs, antique benches, and other furniture had been scattered across the deck and lawn as well. And with the storm moving in, all of us had to work fast to get the valuable pieces inside before the skies opened up.

“Clare, what do I do with these fabulous strawberries?” Madame asked me as I moved the espresso machine back onto the kitchen counter. “There’s not one egg of caviar left and the prawns are long gone, but I have about ten quarts of fresh strawberries left over here. I can package them up for the restaurant or place them in bowls for David’s personal use.”

Even after a long night, Madame was looking as put-together as ever. Her blunt-cut, shoulder-length gray hair, dyed sleekly silver, had been twisted into a neat chignon and her sleeveless fuchsia blouse and black summer-weight slacks were protected from spills by a still nearly-spotless white chef ’s apron.

“I think David better make the decision on the strawberries,” I said, snatching a plump one to nibble on. “Where is he, anyway? I haven’t seen him since before the fireworks.”

Joy overheard us. “Maybe he’s out front with the last of the guests.”

“No, no. He wasn’t feeling well earlier,” said Madame. “He mentioned to me that he had a migraine coming on with a vengeance, said it felt like a food allergy reaction, although he was certain he hadn’t eaten anything to induce it. In any event, he went upstairs for some medicine and to lie down. He asked me to make his apologies to any guests that might leave before he came down again. Do you think he’s fallen asleep?”

I checked my watch. “If he took migraine medication, I’m betting the man’s down for the count.”

“Perhaps you better check on him,” Madame suggested. “See if he needs anything.”

“Good idea.”

“Oh,” she called after me. “If you see that young man Treat, would you send him my way? That boy went off to find a free bathroom some time ago—the first floor bathrooms were constantly in use all night—and I believe he’s been shirking work every since!”

I raised an eyebrow at that. It wasn’t like Treat Mazzelli to shirk work. He was a good, dependable waiter at Cuppa J. Nevertheless, he did seem to have a penchant for flirting, and the party atmosphere may have given him license to indulge himself. I figured I’d find him in a secluded corner with a willing female on our wait staff—and only hoped it wasn’t more than a few kisses he was stealing. David would have an absolute cow if he found out Treat was using one of the mansion bedrooms to seduce a co-worker.

“Don’t worry,” I called back to Madame. “I’ll throw a rope around him and drag him back.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance as I left the large gourmet kitchen. Still nibbling the giant strawberry, I entered the great room—a spacious salon filled with goosedown sofas, overstuffed armchairs, and dozens of gorgeous antiques. A large fireplace dominated the room on one end, and the wall parallel to the deck and beach had been made transparent by a line of tall palladium windows, closed up tight now because of the coming storm.

David’s bedroom suite was on the south end of the sprawling mansion. He’d shown it to me once, during the “grand tour” of the entire estate on the day I arrived.

I climbed a set of stairs tucked between the great room and the library. At the end of the hallway on the second floor of this wing was a set of mahogany double doors that led to David’s master bedroom suite. The doors were shut, and I was about to tap them lightly when I heard water running.

The sound came from behind a single door along the hallway, which stood perpendicular to the double doors. This door, I remembered, led to David’s private bathroom—a huge, sleekly modern affair with a Jacuzzi, mood lighting, a towel warmer, and satellite television.

David would, of course, typically enter his bathroom from inside his bedroom. This hallway entrance was for Alberta Gurt, the housekeeper. It allowed her to enter the bathroom from outside the bedroom suite and clean it without disturbing him. Of course, with the water running, I assumed David was now in there, and I lightly knocked on the bathroom door.

“David?”

No answer.

I knocked louder and waited, finished the last bite of my huge strawberry and licked my fingers.

“David! It’s Clare. Do you need anything?”

Still no answer.

I pounded as loudly as I possibly could.

“David are you all right? David?”

I turned the knob and realized the door wasn’t locked.

“David, I’m coming in!”

I slowly cracked the door, giving him time to protest. Peeking inside, I saw the pool of red on the ivory marble. Then I swung the door wide—and screamed.

“Mom! Was that you screaming? Are you okay?”

Joy was the first one down the hallway, Madame right behind her, a little slower than her granddaughter, but hustling nonetheless.

“Clare, what’s wrong?!”

“It’s David...” I whispered, feeling numb.

His face was turned away from the bathroom doorway, but I could see he’d been shot in the head. His body was still as a stone, the skin of his arms a waxy blue-gray, his fingernails colorless.

“Joy, what’s going on?” Graydon Faas came down the hall next, his lanky form striding with urgency. Two more members of the wait staff followed—Suzi Tuttle, a Long Island native, and Colleen O’Brien a young Irish immigrant.

The entire group formed a huddle around me. I pointed, and they turned to see David Mintzer lying face down on his imported Italian marble floor, a pool of red staining the ivory stone.

“My god,” Madame murmured.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Colleen whispered.

“No,” Graydon rasped. “It can’t be.”

As we all stared in shocked silence, a male voice spoke up from behind us—“Was I dreaming? Or did I just hear Clare scream?”

We turned. David Mintzer was standing right behind us.

Then we all screamed.

David had just stepped out of his pitch dark bedroom, bleary eyed and squinting. He was only a few inches taller than my five-two, and I spontaneously threw my arms around his neck.

“Ohmygawd, David,” I cried. “You’re alive!”