“We’ll question him, Ms. Cosi. Thank you for the heads up.”
“You’re welcome.”
The phone call with Detective O’Rourke had gone well, now that it had finally taken place. I had left a message for him well before our lunch shift. We were about to prepare for dinner and he’d just gotten around to calling me back.
During the call, O’Rourke had been vague and distant. But he’d also seemed genuinely intrigued to hear that I’d “accidentally” come across that diver who happened to admit being in the vicinity of David Mintzer’s mansion the night of Treat’s shooting.
Unfortunately, O’Rourke wouldn’t reveal much about the progress of his investigation. He’d implied that because I wasn’t a member of Treat’s immediate family, he wasn’t obligated to tell me anything. I countered with the reminder that I had found the body and was a key witness to some basic events including the recovery of the bullet casings.
The Suffolk County detective wasn’t too happy to be pressured, but he did politely invite me to call back again—“anytime.” I intended to do just that, especially to find out where their questioning of Jim Rand would lead them.
“Hi, Mom…Mom? You okay?”
I’d been sitting on the couch in Cuppa J’s empty break room, staring off into space after my call to O’Rourke. On the coffee table in front of me were the photos Jim Rand had given me, the photos he’d taken the night of Treat’s murder. When I realized Joy was standing there, I checked my watch. She’d arrived thirty minutes early for her dinner shift.
“Hi, honey,” I murmured. “You’re early.”
“I wanted to make up for coming late yesterday.” She shuffled her feet, crossed and uncrossed her arms. “Look, I’m sorry about fighting with you, okay? I don’t want to argue anymore.”
“Oh, honey…I’m sorry, too.” I opened my arms. She sat down beside me on the couch and we hugged.
“I want you to understand how I feel…I really like Graydon,” she said quietly. “And I really like it out here. It’s so beautiful. I hate what happened to Treat, but it was my idea to come out here in the first place. Don’t ask me to go back to the city before the summer ends.”
I brushed my daughter’s lengthening brown bangs away from her green eyes. “I’m just worried about you.”
“Mom, you want to see my driver’s license? I’m over eighteen. If I want to spend the night with Graydon or Keith Judd or any other guy, I will. I only didn’t last night because I didn’t feel right about it. I didn’t want to do it to spite you. When I sleep with a guy, it’s going to be because I want to, not because I’m trying to prove something.”
I smiled. “When you sleep with a guy, I hope it’s because you love him. But if you don’t, Joy, remember what I always tell you: when you make your choices, you have to live with the consequences.”
“I know, I know. Just like you did, right?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know the other night, the night Treat was killed…Grandmother finally told me why you and daddy got married.”
I frowned. “She shouldn’t have.”
“Well, I was angry at you when you ripped up Keith Judd’s number in front of everybody. Really angry…but she talked to me…she told me about your getting pregnant accidentally, said that’s why you’re being the way you’re being. Because of what happened to you around my age—actually, you were younger, weren’t you?”
“She shouldn’t have told you what I did or didn’t do at your age.”
“Why not? Are you sorry you had me?”
“No, Joy. You’re the best thing that ever happened in my life.”
“So your ‘mistake’ wasn’t so bad, really?”
“My mistake was marrying your father, but at the time, I never could have seen it that way. This isn’t about me anyway. That’s ancient history, which is why I never told you. I don’t want you to take what I did as a license to do anything yourself. I don’t want you to have to make the hard choices I did, to end up in a bad marriage or even a bad relationship. I don’t want to see you hurt, Joy.”
“But you will, Mom. Everybody gets hurt.”
“There’s hurt and then there’s hurt.”
Joy shook her head. “Come on, Mom, lighten up. You are just soooo uptight. Haven’t you ever heard of a summer fling? Even Grandma is having one!”
“Don’t remind me. Unlike you, your grandmother never came in last night.”
“What?!” Joy cried in outrage, jumping to her feet. “Where was she? Who was she with? Was it that geezer who was all over her last night in the dining room, the one with the ponytail and beret?”
“Come on, Joy, lighten up,” I said, unable to suppress the smile. “You’re just soooo uptight.”
“Oh, stop it,” snapped Joy, putting her hands on her hips. “Look, I’m going to start restocking. You should give Grandma a call.” Then she wheeled and marched out of the break room like a little determined general.
My god, I thought, watching her go, when did my daughter become such a bossy, intrusive, know-it-all?
Just then, my cell phone went off in my hand. I checked the incoming number on the digital screen before answering. “You must be psychic,” I told Madame. “I was about to ring you.”
“Hello, dear. How was your day?”
I sighed. “It’s not over yet. Ask me then. How was your night?”
“Divine!”
“And are you still with the divine Mr. Wilson?”
There was a long pause. Madame’s voice went low. “How did you know I spent the night with Edward?”
“You’re kidding right?”
“Well, I’m trying to be discreet.”
“I should think so,” I said. “What would Dr. MacTavish say?”
“My dear, the good doctor and I are not engaged. And the last time I checked my driver’s license, I was over eighteen. Haven’t you ever heard of a summer fling?”
“You have way too much in common with your granddaughter.”
Laughter was the response to that. “Open your eyes, Clare. Joy is bossy, whip smart, and loves to meddle. She’s a carbon copy of you. So what’s the news on the case?”
I was still alone in Cuppa J’s break room. Lunch service was over and the dinner shift wouldn’t be arriving for another twenty minutes, so I rose and shut the door for privacy. Then I updated Madame about meeting Rand.
“I just spoke with O’Rourke,” I quietly explained. “The Suffolk County police are going to question Rand.”
“Oh, my. And you think this Rand person is the killer?”
“Rand had no motive that I can see. But he is a mercenary where shooting pictures are concerned. And I’m betting he switched his camera for a rifle. The important question for David’s safety is who provided the payoff for Rand to make the switch? Hopefully the detectives will break Rand and he’ll admit who hired him. But if he doesn’t crack, we’re back to square one.”
“You mean we still won’t know who wants David dead?”
“Exactly. And until we do, I’m sure David’s in as much danger as ever.”
“Oh, yes, I see. So you do still need our information, don’t you?”
“Information?”
“Yes, Edward and I were very busy today, collecting information about your Mr. Felloes. And while we were doing that, we happened upon a very enlightening discovery about Marjorie Bright.”
According to Madame, Edward was a member of the exclusive East End Country Club, which is where they’d gone to ask around about Bom Felloes. “And while we were asking about Bom, we saw Marjorie Bright. She was skeet shooting, Clare.”
“Marjorie Bright? Skeet shooting? Are you sure?”
“Positive. She was blasting clay pigeons, one after the other. I tell you those little platters were bursting in the air like David’s Fourth of July fireworks.”
A thought occurred to me. As Madame continued to talk, I picked up Rand’s photos on the coffee table and began to look through them again. But this time I was looking for something very specific. I found several wide shots of the whole party that included the mansion’s side grounds. The photos had been taken well before sunset, and there was enough light to make out the identity of the woman smoking among the large, old trees.
“Marjorie Bright,” I whispered.
“Yes!” said Madame. “She’s a crack shot, Clare. Edward and I decided to take a look in the club’s trophy case. That laundry detergent heiress has won the club’s annual skeet shooting tournament for the last three out of five years.”
“Madame, listen. I’m looking at photographic evidence right now of Marjorie loitering on David’s property. This evidence shows that she wasn’t just ‘passing through’ after the party, the way O’Rourke and David had assumed. She was not using David’s property to get to the beach. She was hanging around out of sight of the partygoers on the back deck. But why? For what?”
“The chance to shoot David!” Madame blurted out. “In the photo, do you see a weapon in her hand?”
“No,” I said, “but she could have buried the rifle in the sand dune long before she needed it…if she was the shooter herself, that is.”
“Well, you know one thing now, she would not have needed to hire Mr. Rand,” said Madame. “And why would Mr. Rand have handed you those photos if they could be used against the woman who’d hired him?”
“Unless he was trying to double-cross her now. Or Jim Rand is what he says he is—which means there’s another shooter…”
“But if Marjorie hired another person to do the shooting, why would she risk loitering on David’s property? It only calls attention to herself.”
“Unless…” I said, “like any demanding, wealthy customer, Marjorie Bright was simply anxious to see if what she purchased lived up to her expectations.”
Madame and I paused at that notion. It did sound like the woman’s personality type.
“There’s only one problem,” I said. “How would she have known about David’s allergy?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m sure that David was poisoned at Bom Felloes’s party last night.”
“Poisoned! My god, Clare, is he all right?”
“He’s fine, he’s fine. Matt and I drove him to the hospital and he’s still recovering. Matt called me with an update an hour ago. If the doctor releases him today, he’ll probably be driving David back to East Hampton this evening.”
“Thank goodness!”
“But here’s the thing. Marjorie was at the same party as David last night. I remember her chain smoking, talking with some other guests.”
“So you think, since Treat caught the bullet meant for David, she might have tried to poison David the next night?”
“Yes. It’s possible.” I flopped back on the couch. “But she couldn’t have.”
“She couldn’t have? Why not?”
“David was poisoned with a super-high concentration of MSG. But how would she have known about David’s allergy to it? I didn’t even know about it.”
“Just a minute, dear,” said Madame. Her voice became muffled and she called, “Edward, bring that magazine over…” I heard some paper rustling then Madame was back on the line.
“Clare, I’m sure Marjorie Bright knew about David’s allergy. So did Bom Felloes.”
“But how—”
“Edward and I were reading through his back issues of East End magazine, and—”
“He keeps back issues? How many?”
“Oh, well over ten years’ worth. He writes for them—reviews on Hamptons’ gallery shows, articles on the art world, you know. Now listen, Clare, this article we found is quite interesting. Edward remembered it because it carried a big splashy photo of David, Bom, and Marjorie Bright posing by the ocean. Here’s the caption: ‘Good Neighbors! David Mintzer and Bom Felloes pose together on the Bright land they recently purchased. Marjorie Bright, one of Elmer Bright’s heirs, poses with her new neighbors.’”
“So Marjorie Bright sold them the land?” I assumed.
“No,” said Madame. “According to Edward, it was her older brother, Gilbert Bright, who made the sale. She was supposedly furious about it, but there was nothing she could do since the land was left to him. She posed for the photo because East End asked her to, and that magazine is read by everyone in East Hampton, Clare. Everyone.”
“It also sounds like David and Bom were pretty thick back then,” I noted, “like they’d coordinated the land purchase together.”
“This article may have been the beginning of the end of their friendship. Just listen to this section: ‘Both men claimed separately to this reporter that they always dreamed of living in East Hampton and opening a restaurant here. But apparently not together…’”
“Go on.”
“They quote David as saying, ‘I could never dine in Bom’s eateries. The MSG flows like water and I’m severely allergic. It’s a shame really. In my opinion, no self-respecting restauranteur would allow MSG to be placed anywhere near his cuisine…’”
“Ouch,” I said. “I know David can be catty. But that’s a terrible swipe to take in print. Maybe he was running off at the mouth with the reporter. Do you think he realized he would be quoted?”
“Yes, dear, I do. I think he was lobbying even then to win the restaurant war that ensued. And Bom was no better. Here’s what he told the reporter: ‘David’s very successful, it’s true. But what else can you expect from a twenty-four/seven self-promoter? Is he more style than substance? Some do call him the Prince of Hype, and if the shoe fits…’”
“Ugly stuff,” I murmured. “For ‘good neighbors.’”
“I’m sure both Bom and Marjorie would have read this article since they’re in it. So both would have known about David’s MSG allergy.”
“But neither were at David’s July Fourth party,” I pointed out. “Marjorie was loitering outside it. And Bom wasn’t invited.”
“Your point?”
“David had complained of a migraine at his own party, remember? That’s the reason he went up to his bedroom before the fireworks started.”
“That’s right,” said Madame. “And he was perplexed by it. He said he was certain that he hadn’t ingested any of the foods that give him that reaction.”
“But someone could have slipped MSG in his food or drink then, too. The plan could have been to get him to move away from the party, to go up to his bedroom so the shooter could target him there.”
“But who would have done that?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s all so elaborate, Clare. Why would this person have created such a production? I hate to say it, but there are probably much easier ways to kill David Mintzer.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of…”
“Clare! Clare Cosi!” Jacques Papas’s perpetually irritated voice called outside the closed break room door. “Where is that woman?”
The lilting Irish voice of Colleen O’Brien answered. “I think she’s in the break room, Mr. Papas. Joy said she’s making a private call.”
Before I could even rise from the couch, the door flew open with such force it banged against the back wall. “Why is this door closed?!”
I calmly regarded the swarthy manager. “I’m making a phone call, Jacques.”
“To whom?” He barreled into the room, his fleshy face reddening.
“It’s private.”
He spied the photos on the coffee table. “And what is all this?”
“I’ll have to call you back,” I told Madame.
“One more thing, Clare. I’ve been asking around about Graydon Faas, just as you requested, and you really shouldn’t worry. The Faas family out here co-owns Taber-Faas pharmaceuticals. They’re multimillionaires, dear.”
“Okay, gotta go,” I said and closed the phone.
Frankly, I didn’t care if the Faases were multibillionaires. The fact that Graydon’s family was rich told me nothing about the character of the boy himself, nor did it explain why he was working in the lowly job of waiter for the summer in an East Hampton eatery. But I didn’t have time to discuss all that with Madame. Not with Cuppa J’s crazy manager breathing down my neck.
By now, Papas was pawing through Jim Rand’s photos. I calmly got to my feet. “Jacques, what I’m doing is none of your business.”
He didn’t seem to care. He continued rudely looking through the pictures. “These photos…they’re from David’s party.”
“They’re my business,” I said, finally grabbing them back.
Jacques’s beady black eyes narrowed on me. “What sort of business?”
“If you must know, I’m conducting a little, uh…investigation.”
“An investigation!” Papas cried. He appeared appalled at first and then upset. “An investigation into…into what exactly? What do you mean?”
“I’m looking into some suspicious things that are happening around David, that’s what I mean. I’m his friend and I don’t intend to see anyone injure him.”
“I don’t understand you,” Papas sputtered. “You’re just a glorified barista. Who do you think you are?”
“Dial it down, Jacques. There’s no need to become insulting. And, if you don’t mind, I’m on break—”
Papas tapped his watch. “Your break was over five minutes ago, Ms. Cosi. And do you know what I think?”
“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“I think you have an attitude problem, just like that Lopez girl. And I intend to inform David Mintzer of that fact. Now get yourself in gear. The dinner shift is arriving, and there’s much to be done!”