Клео Коул - Murder Most Frothy

“The wrong side of the highway,” David replied. “Somewhere in Hampton Bays, I think. Anyway, I’m simply relieved to hear that Treat’s killer has been caught.

I can pay off the security firm and be free of people in uniform staking out my house at all hours.”

I was alarmed. “Why drop the security?”

“It’s no longer necessary.”

“Please. There’s been a murder in this mansion. Your restaurant manager just tried to blow up your business. Can’t you keep the security in place for a few more weeks? For my sake?”

Madame raised an eyebrow. “You know, David, Clare’s right. Given what just happened with your misjudgment of Jacques Papas, don’t you think you should listen to my daughter-in-law?”

Ex-daughter-in-law , I thought. And considering Matteo’s relationship with Breanne Summour, things are getting exier every day.

David’s gaze moved from me to Madame and back again. Finally he threw up his hands. “I know when I’m outnumbered!” He set the empty cup on the table and rose.

“Now I have to dress,” he announced. “I’ve got a round of social calls to make, and I have to convince the gas and the glass company to send people immediately to repair the restaurant, or Cuppa J doesn’t open tonight.”

Fortunately for all concerned Cuppa J did open on Sunday, though not in time for its famous brunch. By four o’clock, however, on that sunny afternoon, the glass company had come and gone, the utility company had affected repairs, and the village fire marshal had declared the premises safe.

While Chef Vogel handled preparations in the kitchen and Suzi Tuttle set up the dining room for the evening rush, I was on the break room’s couch going over the vendor list, wondering which of the restaurant’s clients I would have to charm on Monday in order to get our supplies delivered without the added ten percent markup negotiated by Jacques Papas, who was now cooling his heels in the Suffolk County jail awaiting a bond hearing.

I was making little progress when Suzi interrupted me with another crisis. “I think the espresso machine is broken.”

I followed Suzi to the coffee bar and quickly discerned the problem. Though the machine was plugged in, the electric outlet it was plugged into had shorted out. Running a high-voltage extension cord along the wall from the kitchen to the coffee bar temporarily solved the problem until an electrician could check out the socket in the morning. Crisis resolved, I returned to retrieve my notes in the break room.

I paused just outside the door when I heard the voice of Graydon Faas. He was alone, talking to someone on his cell phone.

Now, as a rule, I don’t eavesdrop on private conversations (unless, of course, I’m investigating a crime). But Graydon Faas was dating my daughter, which I felt gave me certain latitude as a parent. Also, Madame’s revelation that Graydon was the member of a family with a pharmaceutical fortune had piqued my curiosity. Here was a young man who was worth—quite literally—millions of dollars, yet who was waiting tables at a Hamptons restaurant rather than summering in luxury with every other member of his smart set.

I guess it’s ironic that, after all my concern over David Mintzer’s safety and well being, it was concern over my daughter that prompted me to listen to the one-sided conversation.

“I kept up my part of the deal, Bom.” I heard him say.

Bom? As in Bom Felloes? I crept a little closer to the door, careful to stay out of sight.

“Sure I could use some more,” said Graydon. “You know it, dude. But I don’t know…the last time what happened afterwards really freaked me out.”

A glass crashed to the floor in the dining room, startling me. Graydon ignored the sound, kept right on going with his conversation.

“Okay, if you say so. What time?…Okay, dude, eleven-thirty it is. You’re the bomb, Bom. See you later.”

I whirled and literally ran to the other end of the kitchen. Graydon emerged from the break room a moment later and went to help Suzi Tuttle lay out the silverware.

I didn’t know what business Graydon Faas had with Bom Felloes, but I suspected it was something shady. Even worse, I suspected it had something to do with the failed attempts on David Mintzer’s life.

When everyone else was busy, I cornered Chef Vogel in the kitchen. “I need to leave early tonight, okay? Can you cover?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks, I owe you. Just don’t mention the fact that I’m leaving early to anyone else, okay?”

The chef offered me a conspiratorial wink. “Have a blast,” he whispered. “After all the hard work you’ve put in this summer, you deserve a little fun.”

I smiled and thanked him. Then I hurried back to the break room to retrieve my notes and make a cell phone call of my own—to the one person I knew wouldn’t question my “outlaw ways.”

The night was fairly still, even on the water. This evening’s rental, Rabbit Redux , had an open-air helm, an enclosed cabin below, polished chrome rails, and a wooden deck that looked better than the parquet floor in my Village duplex.

We were at anchor, rocking gently on the placid tide. The craft was moored about fifty yards offshore from The Sandcastle, Bom Felloes’s faux-medieval multimillion dollar estate. Bom’s split-level living room faced the ocean; its interior was visible through the mansion’s massive glass wall, a brilliant rectangle in the darkness.

I glanced at my watch, illuminated by the dull glow of the helm’s light. It was twenty minutes after eleven o’clock. “Almost time,” I whispered to Jim, who was watching the estate through a pair of expensive-looking binoculars. His jaw was set, his body tense under the tight black wet-suit.

“What are we looking for exactly?” Jim asked, his eyes never wavering from the target area.

“Anything suspicious,” I replied lamely.

Laughing, he lowered the binoculars. “The world’s suspicious, Clare. Everybody’s guilty of something.”

“You don’t understand. Bom Felloes has been feuding a long time with David. David got the restaurant Bom wanted here in the Hamptons, which is worth millions of dollars in lost revenue to Bom. But the real damage is to his ego. And that kind of damage is the worst kind to men like these.”

“That doesn’t necessarily make him a killer,” Jim said, still looking through the binoculars. “But it does make him…well, well, well—”

“What?”

“…a drug user.”

My spine stiffened. “Let me guess. Cocaine?”

“He’s either doing lines or trying to clean his coffee table with his nose and a straw. Oh, yeah. He’s got a nice size bag of white powder. Okay, now he’s poured some out on the table and he’s cutting it with something—”

“Cutting it? Do you mean—”

“He’s mixing the coke with some neutral substance. Could be something like baby powder, for instance, something that stretches the mix and diminishes the quality.”

“Why would he do that? He’s filthy rich.”

“Why indeed,” said Jim. “Doesn’t make sense after I saw him do a couple of lines of the pure stuff, unless he plans on cheating someone, or…”

“What?”

“He’s taking the stuff he cut and putting it into another bag, wrapping it up. He set that bag aside, now he’s putting everything else away except for a couple of straws.”

Jim shifted the binoculars. With my naked eye I saw headlights pulling up to the house’s entrance, below the stone tower at one end of the structure. I couldn’t make out the type of automobile, but Jim read my mind.

“It’s a Mini Cooper—”