Murder Most Frothy

by Cleo Coyle

Joy nodded excitedly. “He did. Look.”

  From the pocket of her khaki skirt, my daughter pulled out a cocktail napkin.

  “Let me see that,” I said.

  She handed it over, sliding it across the kitchen table as she explained, “He gave it to me after I brought him your café pousson.”

  I examined the napkin. On it, the slick, forty-year-old Hollywood actor had scrawled his name. Below it was a cell phone number. I stood up, tore the napkin in two, pushed the autograph back toward my twenty-one-year-old daughter and shoved the piece with the man’s phone number down the garbage disposal.

  “Mom!” she cried. “What are you doing?!”

  With the determination of a mother on a mission, I flipped on the disposal. “Sorry, honey.”

  Joy leaped to her feet and banged the table with her fist. “I can’t believe you did that!”

  “Believe it.”

  “You had no right!”

  I could see she was just getting started.

  It wasn’t the first time she and I had faced off. The entire reason Joy was out here was because of my playing protective mom.

  Less than a year before, I’d caught her doing cocaine with her friends in the bathroom stall of an infamous nightclub. (I know, I know—what was I, myself, doing in an infamous nightclub, right? Trust me, there was a good reason, and when I stumbled upon Joy, she had insisted what she was doing was none of my business. But I begged to differ.) I asked her father to have a long talk with her. God knows I’d had enough of them with her when she was in high school, but now she was a young woman, living with a roommate her age. I knew she needed to hear some straight talk from the horse’s mouth (so to speak—and I’m being kind). Matteo Allegro had become an addict during our marriage and it was one of the reasons our wedded bliss ended long before our ten-year union did. (It was also the reason I used to refer to Matt as a “horse’s other end”).

  Matt well knew what could happen to a person who thought he or she could handle casual drug use: impaired judgment, pouring money into the habit, becoming unreliable, lying to and hurting loved ones. In Matt’s case, this included the habit of cheating on me, which, as far as I was concerned, was as much an addiction as his chemical dependency and sprang from the same “self-medicating” issues.

  In any event, Matt’s “horse’s mouth” talk seemed to work, and Joy had buckled down with her culinary school studies for the rest of the year. Then, one day near the start of spring, she came running into the Village Blend waving a local magazine.

  At the time, David Mintzer had been sitting at my espresso bar, reading the Wall Street Journal and sipping a doppio espresso. He had already asked me to work for him. And I had already declined. “I work for Madame,” I’d told him with a shrug. “Managing the Blend is a job I love, and I’ll be taking over as co-owner in the future. I’m not looking for a change.”

  But when Joy burst into the coffeehouse with her “big plans for the summer,” which included an illegal Hamptons share, my outlook changed. Joy had circled five possible share houses listed in the local magazine. She just needed a “teensy-weensy loan” from me to get into one of them.

  Now I knew perfectly well that Hamptons’ officials had set up codes limiting the number of occupants in rental houses. I also knew that hundreds of entrepreneurs routinely violated those laws by running illegal shares all season long, cramming up to thirty or forty people into one house. This was the way twenty-and thirtysomethings without Hilton sisters-level loot could afford to “summer” in these exclusive seaside towns.

  A decade ago, this share thing seemed like a good idea. I’d been around thirty at that time, Joy around eleven. When she’d gone away for two weeks of Girl Scout camp, I gave in to a girlfriend who’d insisted that a “wild” week of meeting men, dancing, drinking, and sunbathing was exactly what I needed after my divorce from Matt.

  I decided to give it a try, shelling out 1,500 dollars for one week of a South Fork summer by the sea. Typically this was how it worked: a three-or-four-million-dollar house would rent out for 100,000 dollars or so for the season. In order to cover that cost, the people running the share would cram each bedroom with multiple mattresses. For your share price, you got the mattress, toilet paper, paper cups, and the use of the house’s kitchen, pool, hot tub, and bathrooms.

  On the face of it, the idea seemed good. It was the “democratization of luxury,” I’d told myself. But the reality wasn’t so good. Frankly, I’d hated it. The house was a 24/7 party. Jello shots, cocaine lines, naked orgies in the hot tub.

  Hey, I like a good time as much as the next person. But I’d never been a hard partying girl. My ex-husband would have loved it. Not me. I did my best to get into the spirit of the house. Then, near the end of the week, one of the men I’d gotten to know pretty well began kissing me in a hot tub of a dozen people and, before I could stop him, removed the top of my two-piece swimsuit. When a second guy I’d never even seen before that night tried to join in the “fun,” I suggested to the first, as I frantically tied my top back on, that if he wanted to go further we should find some privacy.

  He took me to the only private place in the huge house—a mattress placed in a walk-in closet. He said this was the spot for anyone who needed to “spend time alone.” I looked at that bare mattress on the floor of that closet, a naked light bulb above it, and spontaneously threw up. Suffice it to say, the “ambiance” of the place didn’t do it for me, and the next morning, I packed up and left a day early.

  I didn’t want Joy to go through that—or worse. And I certainly didn’t want her to be exposed to drug use again or excessive drinking and partying in a wannabe Animal House.

  Joy was livid. She did not share my attitude toward illegal share houses and found my point of view hopelessly clueless and unhip. We faced off.

  Wanting to make her happy (without making me crazy worried), I came up with a compromise. I proposed a deal to David. I’d work for him part-time over the summer in his East Hampton restaurant, set up all his coffee selections and a dessert pairings menu, and train his staff in barista skills, as long as he’d agree to employ Joy and allow her to stay with me in his mansion, and allow me to continue overseeing the running of the Village Blend.

  David happily agreed to my terms and everything had worked out superbly…until tonight, of course.

  Joy was once again furious with me for being clueless, unhip, and interfering in her private life. Treat’s body was temporarily forgotten in the heat of the moment—or maybe it was the stress of that discovery that made our stand-off all the more emotional.

  “That phone number was mine,” she shouted. “You had no right to destroy it!”

  The people around the table had gone dead silent watching us, but I wasn’t backing down.

  “Joy, don’t you understand? You’re my daughter. If I see you throwing yourself in front of a truck, I’m going to do everything in my power to push you out of the way—even if it means I get run over in the process.”

  Joy frowned and folded her arms, glaring in silence. I glared back. Surprisingly enough, it was Graydon Faas who broke the tension.

  “You know, Joy,” he said after clearing his throat, “I think your mom’s sort of right about that actor dude.”

  Joy shifted her gaze to Graydon. He shrugged. “Keith Judd, like, gave his number to every cute girl at the party.” Graydon scratched his head. “You’ve got a lot going for you, you know? A guy like that…he wouldn’t appreciate you.”

  “Oh,” Joy said in a small voice. Clearly dying of embarrassment, she sank back down in her chair, refusing to look at me.

  I sat back in my own chair, too. Nothing like having co-workers witness an intimate family squabble. I sighed, hearing a distant rumbling rolling in off the ocean. The coming storm. As if there wasn’t already a tempest in here.

  The police had yet to show. I checked my watch. It had been almost twenty minutes since I’d called 911, and I was used to New York City’s lightning-fast re
sponse times—usually somewhere between three and eight minutes.

  I began to worry. Surely there would be evidence outside, but if the rain came before the police showed, would some of that evidence be washed away?

  “I wonder where the police are?” I fretted aloud.

  David shook his head. “July Fourth in the Hamptons is the craziest time of year and the village police force isn’t very big.”

  Suzi agreed. “There are probably major problems all over town tonight.”

  “Traffic will be horrendous,” David added. “There’ll be accidents, DUIs, and drunk and disorderlies on top of what will surely be a few requests for ambulances.”

  “I guess we were triaged,” I speculated aloud. “I mean, they did ask what Treat’s condition was, and I did tell them that he was…you know, already gone.”

  Colleen began crying again.

  I stood up. “Everyone stay here.”

  “Where are you going?” David asked.

  “I’m going to check on Alberta.”

  This was the truth, just not the whole of it.

  I moved through an archway and entered a long hallway. A large garage sat at the far end. In between were doors to the laundry room and the servants’ quarters.

  I passed by the first door, which was the bedroom shared by the cook and butler. I knew it would be empty. Kenneth and Daphne Plummer had been married for twenty years. They’d worked for David more than six. Daphne was the cook, Kenneth the butler. For the long Fourth of July weekend, Daphne had traveled to Indiana for her niece’s wedding. And Kenneth was in the city, taking care of some utility issues at David’s Greenwich Village townhouse.

  When I came to the second door, however, I lightly knocked.

  “Alberta?” I called.

  David’s fifty-seven-year-old housekeeper was the only staff member he’d asked to work over the weekend. She’d declined an invitation to the party, so David gave her the night off, knowing we, the restaurant staff and Madame, would handle any post-party cleanup duties.

  I knocked again. This time I was sure I heard voices on the other side of the door. I just couldn’t tell if it was two people talking or Alberta’s television set. Then there was some scrambling movement and the door opened.

  Alberta Gurt’s quarters consisted of a bedroom, sitting room, and private bath. David had mentioned this to me the day I’d first arrived in the mansion. Her front door wasn’t open very far at the moment, but I could see the bedroom door was closed and a single dim lamp was all that illuminated the sitting room. The TV set was off.

  “Alberta,” I said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but something happened during the party tonight.”

  “Oh?” she asked, blinking. “What’s that?”

  Alberta had pale blue eyes and light brown hair sprinkled with gray, which she wore in a short, neat cut around an attractive face. She had the full shape of a woman in her middle years, not slender, but not heavy either, and at the moment she was wearing a deep violet nightgown with pink lip gloss and pearl earrings. It was strange seeing her like that. I was so used to her crisp housekeeper’s uniform of sky blue slacks and matching tunic. But it was her evening off, so more power to her.

  “Did you happen to hear or see anything that may have seemed out of place?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, did you hear something that may have sounded like a gunshot?”

  “What? Like the fireworks? I heard them, all right. How could you not?”

  “But you didn’t come out to see them?”

  “Oh, no. I was watching my favorite TV show, enjoying the night off. You’ve seen one fireworks display, you’ve seen them all,” she said with a wave of her hand. I noticed some pretty rings on her fingers.

  There was a silent pause. It seemed odd to me that she didn’t ask why I was asking about a gunshot. “All right, Alberta. Thanks. Sorry I bothered you.”

  “That’s all right, Clare.”

  She seemed in a hurry to shut the door. Nevertheless, I quickly asked, “What is your favorite TV show, by the way?”

  “Oh!…you know, that new reality show everyone’s watching, American Star.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Really?” Alberta wasn’t exactly in the demographic for a show like that, which took a pool of unknown young singers and had them perform every week until the audience voted them down to one winner, presumably America’s next pop diva.

  “Oh, yes,” Alberta said quickly. “Talent scout shows aren’t new you know, I grew up on Ed Sullivan. Is there anything else, Clare?”

  “No,” I said. “Good—”

  I never got “night” out of my mouth. Alberta was already shutting the door with a hastily called “G’night!”

  As the thunder rolled again, louder than before, I proceeded down the hallway until I reached the door at the very end. I turned the knob, entered the dark space, and flipped on the light.

  There were a few flashlights on a shelf in David’s tencar garage. I grabbed one and resolutely headed out the side door. It was late, it was dark, and it was probably dangerous, but I intended to have a look around the grounds for myself.

  FOUR

  I clicked on the Maglite and began to walk the perimeter of the building, sweeping the milky white beam back and forth. At this time of night, the lane at the end of the long drive was country dark. There were no streetlights, not even any passing headlights.

  When I first arrived here as a houseguest, I asked David about privacy and security issues. Unlike most of the residents of this area, he had elected not to place walls of privets around his property or a gate on his drive. He said it was because he didn’t want to feel hemmed in. But I suspected it was because he was a showman at heart, and he enjoyed the idea of people gawking at his property, although he claimed the location was remote enough that trespassing tourists hadn’t posed much of a problem. (Obviously, a trespassing shooter was another matter.)

  An alarm system had been installed on the mansion’s doors, but not its windows. And there was no outdoor lighting, a decision I certainly regretted at this moment. The darkness felt eerie as I moved along. The coming storm had brought thick cloud cover and a hovering mist, making the night feel close. The temperature was also at least ten degrees lower than the day’s high of seventy-six, and I shivered a bit in my khaki skirt and short-sleeved Polo. To be completely honest, however, part of that shiver was from apprehension.

  Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t afraid. If I had been, I would have stayed inside, because believe me, I’m no daredevil—not like my adrenaline-junkie ex-husband, who routinely got his kicks from rock-climbing, cliff-diving, and scouting out the most dubious dive bars in the Third World.

  (In addition to being my ex, Matteo was an astute coffee broker, who traveled the world’s coffee plantations in search of the finest cherries. He was also the Village Blend’s coffee buyer, and therefore my business partner. As I already mentioned, during our marriage, in addition to becoming a drug addict, he’d also been a serial cheater who’d had less trouble giving up the cocaine than a variety of “inconsequential female conquests,” as he put it. The inconsequential was supposed to have been enough of an excuse for me to forgive him. It wasn’t.)

  In any event, Matt recently accused me of having a Nancy Drew compulsion. He claimed it was a wish fulfillment impulse carried over from all the mystery novels I’d read in my formative years. He asserted this was my own personal version of an adrenaline rush.

  Maybe Matt was right. Maybe he wasn’t. One thing I knew, however, coming out here to have a look around was my choice, whether smart or stupid. That’s why I kept my destination from David, Madame, Joy, and the rest of the crew. At this point in my life, I was through letting other people’s doubts, fears, and worries make my choices for me. And, anyway, there was a very logical reason why I was out here—

  Because the police weren’t.

  Thunder rumbled again and I felt moisture suffuse the air. The scent of
sea salt was strong now as I moved along. My ultimate destination was the back of the mansion, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to sweep the grounds as I went.

  I wasn’t sure what I was trying to spot in my Maglite beam—pretty much anything suspicious before the rain or wind had a chance to drench it or blow it away. Maybe something out of place…like a piece of clothing or a dropped personal item. (A stray hunting rifle was probably too much to ask.)

  As I came to the end of the mansion’s front facade and started moving around the corner of the south wing, I found myself observing how much work had gone into the stunning grounds, from the fully-grown topiaries and blazing blossoms to the gigantic shade trees. According to David, none of it had been here a few short years ago, just scrub grass, weeds, and rocks.

  This acreage had originally been part of a larger estate. When the owner died, the estate was broken in two. David bought the land with one goal in mind: to make his brand new Otium cum Dignitate look like something Stanford White might have left to a great-grandson.

  Apparently, this was one of the latest Hamptons trends: using a variety of tricks to make a brand new mansion look like a weathered heirloom that you’d just inherited. David settled on the Shingle Style, which was a popular Hamptons design in recent years precisely because it was all the rage in late-nineteenth-century New England.

  Frankly, after my own modest study of historical styles, from Beaux Arts to Bauhaus, it was hard to believe that today’s structural designers weren’t banging their heads against the wall in frustration. Instead of giving them the chance to create something wholly new, the Hamptons’ new money was forcing them to recast the all-over-shingle idea for the third time in three centuries, and in supremely larger versions—sort of like architectural deja vu supersized.

  David’s approach was extreme but not atypical. Once he’d bought the property, a pneumatically inflated dome had been set up so that his construction crew could work through the winter months. The vast bi-level sundeck alone had cost a half-million because the architectural firm had hired a restoration contractor to scour the country for cedar planks that had been uniformly weathered like those of an “old money” beach house.