Without a backward glance in Bom Felloes’s direction, Matt climbed behind the wheel.
“Buckle up,” he barked.
I barely got the strap over my shoulder when the engine under the silver Mercedes’ hood sprang to life, a high performance purr. The radio came on with the engine. The “Music of Love,” a sentimental ballad poured from the speakers. I actually liked the song, but Matt snapped it off with a sharp turn of his wrist, then shifted into first gear and stepped on the gas so hard the tires spun against the driveway’s paving stones.
The Mercedes lurched forward, slamming me back into my seat. Matt steered the car around the horse circle too fast. It fishtailed for a second, and I thought we were going to end up in a flowerbed.
“You weren’t very polite back there,” I pointed out.
Matt shook his head as we left the front gate and turned onto the road. “Guys like that…they’re a dime a dozen, Clare. I’ve met them all over the world. Wannabe aristocracy. You can’t trust him.”
“Who do you mean?”
“You know who I mean. Who does he think he is with that ‘let me put your slippers on’ act, Cinderella Man?”
“Wasn’t Cinderella Man that World Heavyweight Champion boxer? The one they made a movie about?”
“I meant Prince Charming, okay! But let me tell you, the charm turns into a pumpkin at midnight. And that British accent’s about as real as the potted plants in a used car salesman’s showroom. And what kind of name is that, anyway? Bomb? How can you trust a man named after a weapon of mass destruction!”
“It’s Bom, Matt. B-O-M, the Portuguese word for good, and I know you know that. That’s why his restaurants are called Good Felloes. And I know you know that too. You’re just being difficult. And please slow down!”
Matt frowned, sighed, then slumped a bit in his seat as if giving up. His foot finally eased on the gas pedal, and it occurred to me he was now feeling the way I had when I first ran into him and Breanne at the party—jealousy, then confusion and embarrassment about feeling that way when you weren’t supposed to anymore. Did all divorced couples feel that way? Possessive about a spouse they’d long since given up?
“So what were you doing at the party?” Matt asked, his voice calmer now, more reasonable.
“I told you. I was—”
“Looking for David, I heard what you said to Mr. Good bar. I just don’t buy it. In fact, what I really think is that you were looking for Mr. Right.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re a smart woman, Clare. Too smart. I think you cooked the whole wet tee-shirt arrival up to make an impression on the celebrity chef. Well, I guess you got what you wanted. The act worked. He’s interested.”
In a word, I was furious. “I was looking for David. Something came up. I had to find him. Do you really think I risked pneumonia just to meet that man?” I lightly shook my still-wet hair to make my point.
“Careful,” Matt irritably cautioned. “These leather seats were custom made for Bree.”
“Oh, were they?” I narrowed my eyes, then shook my wet head again, this time with the vigor of a just-washed poodle. Water droplets sprayed the interior of Breanne’s Mercedes. More than a few landed on Matteo’s Helmut Lang suit jacket.
Matt smirked. “How immature.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
Luckily, the trip to David’s estate was too short for the two of us to continue our sorry little war.
“Turn here,” I said, pointing.
As we swung into the driveway, the uniformed guard, who I’d met earlier, blocked our path.
“Who’s this?” Matt asked.
“David has added some security,” I said.
Matteo’s eyebrow lifted with curiosity, but he didn’t ask why.
I waved a greeting to the guard. “It’s only me,” I said as the young man approached, his flashlight moving from Matt’s face to mine.
“I didn’t know you left the grounds, Ms. Cosi.”
“I went for a walk…and, uh, got a little wet.”
The guard stared at Matt.
“This is Matteo Allegro,” I quickly explained. “He’s an associate of David’s. He’d like to pop in and say hello, update David on some business they have together. David has come home, right?”
The guard nodded. “Mr. Papas brought him back about an hour ago, ma’am. Dropped Mr. Mintzer off and drove away.”
“Good,” I replied, relieved I did not have to deal with David’s condescending and possibly dishonest restaurant manager. “We’ll just pop up to the house. Mr. Allegro won’t be long.”
The guard paused, clearly wondering whether he should allow the Mercedes entry. “Come on,” I coaxed. “I’ll vouch for Matt.”
Finally the man stepped aside and waved us forward.
Matt drove up and parked behind my Honda, which I’d left behind David’s little sports car. The guard followed us up to the house and let us in with a passkey. Inside the lights were dim, the foyer deserted. No one was in the living room, either.
“Maybe David already went to bed,” said Matt.
A moment later we found Alberta Gurt in the kitchen—in fact, we must have really startled her by entering because she dropped a crystal tumbler. An hour ago Alberta was fine; now she seemed agitated.
“Oh, my goodness! You gave me a scare!” she cried, grabbing a tea towel. She bent down to pick up the broken glass. “You really shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!”
“I’m sorry,” I said, although we really hadn’t been sneaking and she should have heard our approach. I could only assume she’d been terribly distracted. But I didn’t want to argue and make things worse. “Alberta, this is Matt Allegro, one of David’s business associates. He’s here to say hello. Has David retired?”
“He’s in bed, and in no condition to talk,” the woman said, dumping both the glass and the tea towel into the garbage. “Too many martinis, I thought. So I whipped him up one of my Fizzy Friendlies—”
“One of your what?” I asked.
“It’s an anti-hangover drink David asks me to prepare for him when he’s partied too hearty, as he calls it. Usually the Friendly eases David’s nausea and gets rid of his headache, and he goes right to sleep. But tonight it didn’t help at all. He’s moaning, in pain—David said he thinks he was poisoned—”
“Poisoned!” I cried.
“He’s very sick,” Alberta continued. “I don’t know what to do. David’s in a very bad mood. He says he wants to be left alone. I wanted to call Dr. Ramah, his physician, but—”
“Wait. I know Dr. Ramah. Isn’t he in Manhattan?” I’d met the good doctor at a charity event connected to St. Vincent’s Hospital in the Village. It was Madame’s friend Dr. MacTavish who’d introduced us.
Alberta shrugged. “I didn’t know who else to call. I don’t know any doctors out here in the Hamptons.”
“I’m going to look in on David right now.” I headed out of the kitchen, Matt on my heels.
Alberta hurried to catch up. “He’s in a very bad mood,” she warned, her voice strained.
I kept walking. “You said that already, Alberta. But don’t worry. I don’t care if he fires me in a fit of pique. I already have another job.”
When I reached the bedroom door, I could hear David moaning on the other side. I gently tapped on the wood, then opened the door a crack. Super air-conditioned air rolled over me.
“Why is it so cold in here?” I asked alarmed.
Alberta said she’d pumped up the temperature herself because David had always claimed that lying in a cold, dark room alleviated his migraine symptoms in the past. Still soaked under the robe, I shivered.
“David,” I called, barely above a whisper. “It’s me. Clare.”
“Go away,” David replied in a quivery voice. “I’m sick.”
With the limited light streaming through the partially open door, I could see David lying under a tangle of blankets. He lay on his side, his back facing me, pillow over his head.
“I know you’re sick, David…Alberta told us.”
“Us?”
“Matteo is here too. He came to say hello. But if you’re sick—”
David moaned. “God, Clare, I’m not up to socializing. I’m dying here…I think I’ve been poisoned.”
“Poisoned! By whom?”
He moaned again. “That bastard Felloes. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten anything at his party.”
“You think Bom Felloes tried to poison you?” Ohmygod, ohmygod, I thought. I was right. Felloes had the motive and the opportunity. He must have hired the contract killer that mistakenly shot Treat. “We have to call the police. O’Rourke needs to hear that your neighbor is the one trying to kill you—”
“Kill me! God, no. No, no, no! Please, Clare, don’t go off the deep end again! I’m not saying he poisoned me literally—or even intentionally. The man uses what I call ‘poison’ at that slop house he calls a gourmet restaurant, but I never would have believed Felloes had the nerve to feed his guests that vile stuff.”
“Stuff? What stuff?” I demanded.
“MSG. Monosodium glutamate…I think I must have CSR—”
“CSR? My god, what’s that?” Matteo asked. “It sounds lethal.”
“It’s Chinese restaurant syndrome,” David informed him, moaning again.
“Are you kidding?” asked Matt, shooting me a skeptical look. “That can’t be a real syndrome—”
“I assure you that’s the shorthand term doctors use, even though they acknowledge you can get it at any restaurant that uses the food additive, and in a lot of processed food, too. Cramps, headache—”
David gagged, flopped on the bed like a fish out of water. He settled in a moment, let out a painful sigh. “Just go away,” he wailed.
I pulled Matt and Alberta back into the hallway and closed the door. “Where’s the nearest hospital? I think David needs medical care.”
“The only emergency room I know of out here is Southampton Hospital, and that’s fifteen miles away,” said Alberta.
Though he wasn’t much bigger than me, it would be no easy feat getting David Mintzer out of bed and down to the car, and brother was I glad Matt was there to help. An ambulance would have made more sense, but David absolutely, positively refused to go along with that.
“We do this quietly, or not at all,” he said, face pale from the pain, dark circles beneath his eyes. “Either I go to the hospital on my own power or I’ll die in this bed.”
I closed my eyes. Again that ugly word…die.
“We’d better take the Mercedes,” I told Matt. “It’s faster and more reliable than my clunky old Honda, and the three of us will barely fit into David’s sports car.”
“Hold on, the Mercedes isn’t my car—”
“Don’t be petty, Matt. A man’s life may be at stake here. Now help me.”
But instead of moving to David’s bed, Matt took out his cell phone. “What are you doing?” I demanded.
“I’m calling Breanne. I’ll tell her what’s happened so she won’t get stuck at Bom’s bash.”
I reached out and closed the phone. “You can’t tell Breanne anything. Breanne will blab everything to her friends, to people at the party. David won’t like it.”
“Clare, don’t be absurd. Bree wouldn’t do that.”
“Matt, she’s a magazine editor. Her stock and trade is gossip. Gossip about the latest trends. Gossip about the rich and famous. She’d sell her best friend down the river for a ten-percent increase in circulation. Now put that phone away and help me!”
Matt rolled his eyes, slipped the phone into his jacket and helped me sit David up. Mintzer groaned and clutched his head, suddenly dizzy. He wore oversized red silk pajamas, which made him appear small, frail, and very pale. His skin felt clammy.
“We have to hurry,” I said.
Alberta led the way, opening doors and clearing obstacles as Matteo and I half-carried, half-dragged the limp man down the stairs and across the living room to the front door.
The guard came over to help, and I took the opportunity to race to my room. Inside of two minutes, I tore off Bom’s robe, stripped off my wet clothes, and threw on a fleecy jogging suit. My sneakers were on the beach, and I didn’t take any time to look for another pair, so I ran back to the front door still wearing Bom’s royal-blue slippers.
Outside, the guard had opened the car door for Matt, who was helping David into the back seat. Alberta brought a quilt and wrapped it around her shivering boss.
“I’ll call if anything happens,” I told the housekeeper.
Chewing her lip, Alberta nodded.
Matt started the engine and pulled away.
“Oh god, oh damn,” David moaned. “I think I’m gonna throw up!”
“Not on Bree’s leather upholstery!” Matt cried, hitting the brakes.
Unfortunately, his warning came too late.