Murder Most Frothy

by Cleo Coyle

  To encourage the growth of moss, mixtures of yogurt and buttermilk had been smeared onto the gray fieldstone foundation. Super-fine mud, dredged from a Maryland bay, had been rubbed onto the shingles to give them a worn look. And in the spring, fully-grown plants had been imported to establish grounds that looked as if they’d been thriving for decades. Deep green topiaries, blue hydrangeas, and beds of burnt-orange and crimson tulips had been planted around the building.

  Using a super-speedy type of horticulture called “ivy implantation,” the gardener had even affixed thick coats of English ivy up the mansion’s sides, giving it a decades-old look before the front tire of David’s Jag even touched the driveway.

  David’s absolute pride and joy, however, were his trees—hundred-year-old oaks and sycamores from upstate and weeping willows from south Jersey. These beauties had been pulled from their original roots and shipped on huge flatbeds (root balls wrapped for replanting) so instant shade would be available at the front and sides of his house.

  According to David, two of the largest trees, which I was now moving toward, had root balls so large a toll booth had to be temporarily removed on the George Washington Bridge in order for the flatbed trucks carrying them to pass. In the end, this was just one more contributor to the multi-million dollar price tag on David’s estate.

  The excess was truly hard to fathom for someone like me, who’d been financially struggling for years to raise a daughter and now put her through school. On the other hand, I knew David was simply being canny. In his neck of the business world, you weren’t keeping up with the Joneses, you were keeping up with the Hiltons, Trumps, and Bloombergs. David wanted an impressive presence here to continue the kind of networking with CEOs, celebrities, and media types that kept his projects and product lines thriving.

  As I moved along the south wing’s side, the wind quickly intensified, whipping my chestnut ponytail loose. I put the flashlight between my knees and retied my tangling hair. As I was finishing, however, the Maglite slipped and fell. The beam arced wildly and I heard the sound of twigs snapping a few yards away.

  I immediately bent down, grabbed the flashlight, and frantically shined it in the direction of the noise. The sallow beam illuminated rubber-soled boat shoes and a pair of black Capri pants.

  “Party over?”

  The words spiked angrily through the darkness. I swept the beam higher to shed light on a woman about my age in an exquisite black camisole and black cashmere half-sweater. She had straight blond hair, parted down the middle, and cut into fashionable layers. The woman was smoking a cigarette and sneering at me like a female wasp looking for a place to sink her stinger.

  “W-who are you?” My nerves were momentarily rattled, and I failed to control the waver in my voice. “What are you doing here?”

  “I might ask you the same question.”

  For at least thirty seconds, Wasp Woman and I faced off in silence. Finally, I caved.

  “I’m a guest of David’s. My name is Clare Cosi.”

  “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” she said, although her tone said she was not. “I’m David’s neighbor.”

  In terms of an ID, that statement actually didn’t help much. East Hampton residents valued their privacy more than anything. They kept to themselves, and since I’d arrived here six weeks ago, no “neighbor” had ever before walked down David’s driveway. Still, the woman did look familiar, and, for David’s sake, I didn’t want to unnecessarily offend an acquaintance.

  “Sorry, uh…which neighbor?” I meekly asked.

  “Across the lane,” she said with a you’re-so-tiresome sigh.

  That’s when I realized. This woman was Marjorie Bright, the granddaughter of Elmer Bright, founder of Bright Laundry Detergent. The heiress had been in Cuppa J a few times as a customer. David had pointed her out to me. He’d also told me he was surprised to see her in his restaurant because they weren’t exactly “on good terms.”

  At the time, I’d asked David what he’d meant by that.

  “Well,” he’d answered, “I’d say we haven’t yet reached the level of Hitler and Churchill. I’d put us more in the realm of Reagan and Gorbechev.”

  According to David, Marjorie had always enjoyed an unobstructed view of the ocean from her large, old estate. For almost two decades, her entire decor and entertainment plans had been built around the spectacular vista from her second floor. She’d even had a custom-made loggia constructed for this purpose. But David Mintzer had utterly ruined her view when he’d brought in his giant, hundred-year-old oaks and weeping willows.

  She demanded he cut down the trees. He refused.

  She complained to the local zoning board, most of whom were regular (and very happy) customers of Cuppa J. They backed David.

  She offered him money. He rejected it.

  Clearly, this woman was at war with my friend. I folded my arms and narrowed my gaze, any pretense of politeness over as I asked in a cold, hard voice, “What are you doing here, Ms. Bright?”

  The woman’s smirk faltered. Now that her haughty demeanor had stopped cowing me, she seemed less sure of herself. Taking a dramatic drag on her cigarette, she appeared to be stalling for time to think. Finally, she released a long, white plume of smoke. The whipping wind instantly shredded it.

  “Just tell David I’m not through suing him,” she responded at last.

  Before I could ask another question, she wheeled on the heel of her rubber-soled boat shoe and marched off toward her home, her black-clad form quickly disappearing in the thickening dark.

  By now, my pulse was racing. Marjorie Bright’s presence was both creepy and suspicious. It reminded me of something Detective Quinn had said about particular kinds of murderers, how they got off on seeing the results of their acts, something akin to arsonists sticking around to watch the sirens, the activity, the fiery destruction.

  My mind began to turn this idea over and over. Was that what Marjorie had been doing? Was she the shooter? Or had she been checking on an accomplice? Clearly, she was no friend of David’s. But was an obstructed ocean view a reason to shoot your neighbor to death in cold blood?

  Before I’d left the mansion’s garage, I’d pretty much convinced myself the killer had either slipped away or disappeared back into the crowded party the moment Treat had hit the floor. Now I wasn’t so sure. And the uncertainty unnerved me.

  Still, I had come out here with a specific goal in mind. I hadn’t accomplished it yet, and really hated the idea of letting my fears get the better of me. So I gritted my teeth and moved on.

  At the rear of the house, I circumvented the cedar plank deck and walked down the lawn, toward the ocean. About halfway there I stopped, turned, and gazed up at the sprawling mansion. I easily located David’s master bedroom window, a huge palladium number that matched the design of windows on the first floor. Next to David’s bedroom was the square window to his private bath.

  I lined myself up with the bathroom where Treat’s corpse now lay. Then I walked away from the mansion again, sweeping the flashlight beam back and forth along the lawn. At the end of the grass, a narrow pathway of smooth white pebbles had been used to define the end of the manicured grounds and the start of the beach. I stepped across the pebbles and onto the sand.

  As I glanced back at the mansion to check my position, I realized I’d strayed from the intended line of sight. I adjusted my position about two yards, aligning my body up once again with the south wing’s second floor bathroom window. Then I turned my gaze back towards the water—and saw I was lined up with a series of beach dunes.

  I climbed the closest one, finding high scrub grass on top.

  What an effective spying place this would be…that is, for anyone wanting to spy on David’s beach house.

  Every room in his home with a light on was transparent. I could see the people assembled around the kitchen table on the first floor as well as David’s Tiffany bedroom lamps, shining on the second.

  This dune could have been th
e very place where the shooter had taken a shot at Treat, I realized. Without moving my feet, I shined the flashlight beam around every inch of the dune, the high scrub, the sand, the stray gray rocks.

  Behind me, the surf had become wild, the waves crashing with unnerving intensity. A sudden, earsplitting crack of thunder nearly stopped my heart. I jerked in surprise and the beam shot across a section of sand a foot away. That’s when I noticed a glimmer of something metallic.

  I swept the light back again and moved closer. The pasty spotlight illuminated three brass-colored cylinders on the sand. I didn’t want to touch them, so I crouched down over them as close as I could and sniffed. The smell of gunpowder was unmistakable.

  Bullet casings.

  I knew very little about guns, ammunition, or caliber, but I could see these shells were long, at least two inches. Obviously, they would not have come from a small gun; more like a hunting rifle, for distance shooting.

  This was it, I realized, the evidence the police could use to catch the killer. The rush of excitement was hard to suppress. Consequently, Matt’s accusations about me becoming a risk junkie came back with a vengeance.

  Okay, I told myself, so it felt good to find something like this, to play detective and succeed. That didn’t mean I was happy about a young man’s life cut short. Pushing aside the memory of Matt’s words along with my fleeting high, I tried to calm down and decide what to do next.

  If I left these casings here much longer, the coming storm and resulting high tide could easily wash them away. But if I disturbed them, I’d be messing with crucial evidence.

  With another glance toward the mansion, I could see there was still no sign of the police. So I decided to compromise. Digging into the pocket of my khaki skirt, I came up with a lip balm and a few unused cocktail napkins. I shoved the balm back and used the napkins to carefully pick up one of the bullet casings, leaving the other two where I’d found them. Holding the single casing carefully in one hand, I used the other to sweep the flashlight beam around the area in wider and wider arcs.

  If the shooter had used this dune, I figured there might be other clues around. I searched the sand for footprints, but if there had been some, the killer must have covered or obscured them. I walked closer to the water, then paralleled the breakers. About twenty yards away, I noticed something in the damp sand, not footprints but flipper prints. Diver’s flippers were leading straight into the surf.

  I shined my light out over the water, but saw nothing. Just black waves. They were high now, roiling ashore with the froth of maddened animals. Lightning flashed, and I felt a few drops of rainwater on my head. On the next disturbing crack of thunder, I shuddered and gave up.

  I jogged back across the dry sand, the lawn, the cedar plank deck. As I stepped through the mansion’s glass patio door, the rain began to fall, and I heard voices coming from the front foyer. At last, the police had arrived.

  THERE were two units, four uniformed officers from the local force. To a man, they were nice and polite, but it was obviously the end of a very long day for them, and they were all looking pretty drained.

  The oldest officer, a sergeant, explained what had taken them so long—a major auto accident with critical injuries had occurred on the other side of town. There’d been crowd control issues all night, as well as drunken brawls and disturbances ending in arrests. As a result, every unit had been occupied when my call came. Just as David and Suzi had predicted, the craziness of July Fourth had stressed the small local force to its limits.

  “The Suffolk County detectives and their forensic team will take over the investigation in the morning,” explained Sergeant Walters, a fortyish balding officer with a friendly, round face. “We’ll take care of the basics tonight.”

  He took the bullet casing I’d found and bagged it up. While his partner took statements from David, Madame, me, and the rest of the Cuppa J staff, he supervised the two younger officers in the bathroom.

  They took photos of Treat, placed tape around his body, and when the ambulance arrived, helped the paramedics remove the deceased young man. Finally, they closed the bathroom door, crisscrossed it with crime scene tape and asked us not to enter.

  By the time I took the sergeant and his two younger officers out back to show them the dune where I’d found the bullet casing, the storm was really raging. The officers were dressed in raingear. I was attempting to hold tight to a flimsy umbrella—a laughable sight in the face of the pelting water and blowing wind.

  I pointed out the other two casings, and the officers picked them up and bagged them. Then they began to sweep their flashlights over the dune, just as I had done.

  “I didn’t find anything else over there,” I called to them over the roar of the surf. “But I saw flipper prints over here.”

  I waved them over to the shoreline, and swept my flashlight along the sand to show them the set of diver’s flippers leading into the water, but in the dark and the rain and the rising surf, I couldn’t find even one.

  The sergeant patiently watched me flail around with my flashlight for a few minutes before he pulled the plug. “Ma’am, we’d appreciate it if you’d go on back to the house now!” he called. “Whatever you saw has probably washed away!”

  As his officers attempted to rope off the high dune in the pouring rain, I walked back into the mansion looking like a drowned rat. Madame toweled me off in the kitchen.

  “Where is everybody?” I asked.

  “The staff gave their statements and left. Joy went to her room. And David’s up in his master bedroom throwing some things into a gym bag. He’s moving into the guest wing with us.”

  “There’s no way I’m sleeping next to that bathroom!” David told us when he came back downstairs. “At least, not until all that blood is cleaned up!”

  Frankly, I was happy to have a man nearby, even one who wasn’t exactly Braveheart.

  FIVE

  I must have fallen asleep at some point during the night, because when I opened my eyes again, the morning sun was lasering through the curtains. I rolled out of bed with the dull throb of a headache, no doubt induced by the tight, airless space, and opened two large windows. A stiff breeze streamed into the second-floor guestroom, fluttering the diaphanous saffron and refreshing the stale air with the vigor of ocean salt.

  Outside the storm had passed, the sun shone brightly, and the nearly cloudless sky looked like an artist’s rendering in cerulean blue. The rain had cleansed the air, and the surf had transformed from a roiling black cauldron into a gently lapping sea of tranquility. The morning, in fact, was so dreamy I almost forgot that a man had been shot and killed on the other side of the mansion. Almost.

  Before another night came and went, I was determined to convince Joy and Madame to leave this house. I knew this would not be easy. For twenty years, I’d butted heads with one pigheaded male member of the Allegro family. Two generations of its women working together might utterly defeat me.

  I decided it would be best to approach Joy and Madame separately. After that silly disagreement with my daughter the night before over that actor’s phone number, I figured it might be wise to give her a little more time to cool off.

  First up would be my ex-mother-in-law—after my morning swim, which I prayed would relieve my throbbing headache and fortify me for the inevitable argument.

  I ran a brush through my hair and donned my red suit, a no-nonsense one-piece that probably looked like I’d stepped out of Baywatch lifeguard training. Of course, my breasts weren’t even close to Pamela Anderson’s monumental assets, although they were enough to make me self-conscious in anything without an underwire, and ever since that hot tub incident ten years ago in that awful share house, I’d dumped bikinis from my wardrobe for good.

  I wrapped myself in one of the thick, white terrycloth robes David provided for all of his guests (part of his spa product line), and with a pair of decidedly retro rubber flip-flops on my feet, I was good to go.

  Halfway down the back s
tairs, I caught the scent of something wonderfully enticing. With one whiff, I knew someone was brewing a fresh pot of Summer Porch, a seasonal blend I’d just invented about a month ago to showcase the Bagisu Sipi Falls beans—Matteo’s latest amazing find on Uganda’s Mount Elgon. The pull of the heady roast was too powerful to pass up, and I lurched instinctively toward the kitchen like a George Romero zombie.

  Mount Elgon is one of the tallest mountains in Africa, and the terrain is steep and treacherous with thick forest cover. According to Matteo, roads were less common than dirt tracks, which were often washed away during rainy season when gullies overflowed. Nevertheless, the Bagisu tribesman who lived near the Sipi Falls had become experts at coffee farming, and they had a foolproof method of transporting their cherries, even amid the challenging terrain. No, they did not use Hummers. They used donkeys.

  “Good morning, dear,” said Madame, her eyes full of energy, despite the hour. Her silver hair was down this morning, sleekly combed into a pageboy. Her erect, elegant frame was wrapped in a white terrycloth robe identical to mine. She handed me a freshly-brewed cup of the Summer Porch blend. I accepted it with a nod and a grunt.

  “Drink up,” Madame advised. “This is my second pot. A few cups of this and I guarantee your disposition will improve.”

  My mood-altering drug of choice, I thought as I shuffled over to the kitchen table and plopped down with a weary sigh. But at least it’s legal.

  Still bleary-eyed, I wondered for a moment what made Madame choose the Summer Porch this morning. I’d placed twenty different types of coffee in David’s kitchen cupboards. It was the same selection I’d put on his tasting and dessert pairings menu at Cuppa J. When I saw what Madame had placed in middle of the table, however, I didn’t have to ask why. A selection of last night’s strawberries sat mounded inside a Waterford crystal bowl like a lush ruby mountain.