Murder Most Frothy

by Cleo Coyle

  My spine stiffened, though not voluntarily. Over the years, I’d heard enough female voices in the background of calls to my ex-husband to have developed an autonomic response.

  “It’s nobody, Bree,” Matt called, away from the receiver. “Just business.”

  “Oh, so now I’m ‘nobody’?” I teased.

  “Hold on a second,” Matt told me pointedly.

  A muffled conversation ensued in the background, concluding with the words “…I’ll take it in the bathroom.” A door closed. Then Matt’s voice came back on the line. He was whispering.

  “What’s wrong, Clare? Something had better be wrong for you to call me so early when you, of all people, should know how late I went to bed.”

  “Matt, I can only assume you went to bed. Whether you got any sleep is another matter entirely.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “According to what you said last night, you and Bree were just casual friends.”

  “We are.”

  “So you’re just casually sleeping with your casual friend?”

  “Get to the point. Why are you calling?”

  “I need your help.”

  “Again?”

  “I’ll owe you again.”

  “You’re getting to owe me a lot.”

  “Matt, please. Considering what you pulled during our marriage, don’t you think it’s the other way around. I mean, remember the time when you—”

  “Okay! Point made. What do you want me to do? Drive you to Nova Scotia for some salmon? Or maybe David’s got a craving for an authentic egg cream. I should be able to drive to Brooklyn and back in about six hours. Or maybe—”

  “That won’t be necessary, but thank you for offering. What I need is for you to punch something into your PDA.”

  A frustrated exhale followed.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked. “Did you lose it?”

  “It’s in my suit jacket. In the bedroom.”

  “Where are you?”

  “In the bathroom. I didn’t want to disturb Bree.”

  “You mean you didn’t want Bree to know you were talking to your ex-wife.”

  “I meant what I said.”

  “Ooooh, I get it. Talking to me is something that disturbs Bree.”

  “Bingo.”

  “Well, I can’t help it, Matt. What I need involves your using your PDA.”

  “Which, like I said, is in the room where Bree is right now.”

  I really should have bit my tongue, but I couldn’t stand hearing Matteo Allegro, fearless Third World coffee trader and extreme sport junkie, twist himself into a pretzel for that designer-draped python.

  “What are you?” I asked, hoping at least to give him a reality check. “Afraid of her or something?”

  “Clare, please. Just wait a minute, okay?”

  I drummed my fingers on the dashboard and watched a gull wing its way inland. Finally, my ex-husband came back on the line.

  “Okay. I’ve got it.”

  “Are you back in the bathroom?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Why?”

  “I just think it’s amusing. She’s forcing you to do business in the place where you do your—”

  “Yeah, very funny. Now do you want my help or do you want me to hang up?”

  “Help.”

  “Fine,” he said. “Shoot.”

  “Not literally, I hope.”

  “Clare—”

  “I need you to go online and use the reverse phone directory,” I told him. “I’ll give you the area code and number. Punch it in and let me know what address you get.”

  “Jesus, Clare…”

  “What?”

  “Tell me you’re not playing detective again.”

  “I’m not playing detective again.”

  “Then why do you want me to do this?”

  “I’m following a lead.”

  “You’re playing detective again!”

  “Lower your voice, Matt. You’ll disturb Bree.”

  “I’m not helping you, Clare.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t want to enable you.”

  “Enable me?!”

  My mood had been relatively lighthearted up to that moment. I’d used my wits, took a chance that paid off, and found a solid lead. But that single phrase not only pushed my buttons, it sent me into outer space.

  “For god’s sake, I’m not a drug addict!” I practically shouted into my cell. “I told you last night, I’m trying to help David. Do I have to remind you what I put up with during those days when you were an addict?! Enable me! You’ve really got a lot of nerve laying drug psycho-jargon on me!”

  “Christ, Clare, take it easy! I’ll help you, all right. Just calm down.”

  I did. Then I gave Matt the phone number. He punched it into the internet site with the reverse directory. Easy as pie, the answer was there. He gave me the address attached to the number.

  “That’s very close to where I am now,” I said. “Is there a name?”

  “Only a first initial and last name…someone named S. Barnes.”

  “Thanks, Matt. Just one more favor…”

  He groaned. “What?”

  “Since you’re still in the Hamptons, I’d like you to go by the hospital and check on David. You said you wanted to talk to him anyway, right? Give him the update on how the Village Blend kiosk installations are going on the West Coast?”

  “Right.”

  “So go visit and hang around for a while. Keep an eye out for anything suspicious.”

  “Suspicious? Clare—”

  “Please, Matt.”

  There was a long silent pause.

  “Okay?” I pressed.

  “Okay, Clare. You win. Okay.”

  SEVENTEEN

  S. Barnes lived on Gate Street, a tiny lane in the hamlet of Bridgehampton—population approximately fourteen hundred.

  Back in its heyday, most of Bridgehampton’s founding families were connected to the whaling industry. But today it’s known for its stately traditional homes located on an elevated acre of the town’s highly desirable Bridge Hill Lane area.

  It was also known for its picturesque Main Street business district, but on the July Fourth weekend, traffic on that route was sure to be a horrorshow. So I did my best to avoid it, taking side roads through neighborhoods dominated by brick doll houses with modest yards.

  Gate Street was located on the un-chic side of the highway, a secluded little lane lined with topiaries and post fences. A bubbling creek meandered out of a kettle hole and along the road until it vanished in a thick tangle of century-old trees, their roots partially exposed.

  The address Matt gave me belonged to a small ranch, a typical 1960s tract house (what canny realtors were lately referring to as “mid-century dwellings”). Surrounded by trees, it sat on a nice stretch of yard that sloped gently down to the edge of that pretty little bubbling creek.

  I passed the house once, then circled the block for a second look. Lucky thing, too, because I came back in time to see the front door open and a man step outside. Before he noticed me, I swung into a parking spot between two SUVs, cut my Honda’s engine and slid across the front seat to watch him.

  He locked the front door, then checked the mailbox, running his fingers through a shaggy mane of copper hair. Tall, with long legs encased in scuffed denims, he had a rugged build with broad shoulders evident under an electric-blue diver’s shirt. I spied a smudge of color on his muscled forearm—a tattoo? From this distance I could only guess.

  The man crossed the lawn and little bridge over the creek, and mounted a motorcycle parked at the curb. A moment later, he sped off. I watched him head toward Main Street. Just around the corner I’d seen a newsstand, a bakery, and a diner. Was he going for a quick newspaper? A fast pastry? Or a long breakfast?

  I waited ten minutes, until I was sure he wasn’t coming back right away. Then I climbed out of my car, walked across the street and little
bridge, and approached the house. The front door was locked, of course, but the man had left a large bay window open, its lacy curtains billowing in the ocean-tinged breeze. I scanned the neighborhood, saw absolutely no one on the street or lurking on a porch or yard, so I walked over to the window and peeked inside.

  I couldn’t see much because the interior of the house was dark. I strained my ears, but heard no sounds—no radio, no television, no footsteps or voices. All I heard were the bees humming around the pink and red rose bushes in the yard. I was fairly certain the man had left the house completely empty.

  Cautiously, I followed a concrete path to the rear of the dwelling, past a coiled garden hose and a brick barbecue pit. There was no porch, only two concrete steps that led up to the back door. The screen door was closed, the wooden door wide open. I knocked, not quite sure what I would say if someone actually answered. Fortunately no one did, so I tested the screen door. It was unlocked, and I entered.

  I knew I was taking a big risk. Huge. This wasn’t a rental boat in an open marina, this was a private home. And the muscular man who’d left it didn’t strike me as a softee who’d fall for a pathetic story about Cristal champagne and true love. If I were caught, the guy could have me arrested for breaking and entering—if he didn’t decide to break my head first. Nevertheless, with the windows open, I reasoned I could hear the sound of the motorcycle engine approaching and slip away before I was discovered.

  The back door led to a tidy little kitchen with French Provincial-style cherrywood cabinets, spotless white walls, stove, and refrigerator. My eyes were drawn to the familiar silver and octagonal shape of a stovetop espresso pot on the back burner.

  “Okay,” I reassured myself. “He makes his own espresso. He can’t be all bad.”

  The sun streamed through a large window above the sink. A healthy spider plant hung above it. In a dish rack, three glasses and two dishes were lined up to dry. The only sign of disorder in this room was the overflowing trashcan. I noticed it was filled with fast food containers, crinkled up Dorito bags, and Twinkie wrappers. Lined up next to it were empty Sam Adams beer bottles, no doubt waiting to be recycled.

  Well, now I’ve got a clue what this guy lives on.

  I also knew this was the right address.

  Still…something didn’t add up. The scruffy rogue on the motorcycle who left Twinkie wrappers, Dorito bags, and beer bottles in his wake didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who kept an immaculate kitchen and made his own espresso.

  “Hello?” I called, still wary of being discovered. My voice sounded hollow in the empty house so I quickly moved to the next room.

  If the kitchen seemed like it belonged to another tenant, the living room seemed to belong in another house. The space was adorable and very feminine, with shades of pink the dominant color scheme and ruffled everything. The chair, the sofa, the flowery wall paper, the wall-to-wall carpeting, the tablecloths and curtains, were all cast in tastefully combined hues of rose, salmon, pink carnation, and subtle reds. Scattered about the too adorable room were scented candles, sachets, colorful quilts, and empty vases ready to be filled with fresh cut flowers.

  Now I started to wonder if I should introduce Motorcycle Man to my head barista, Tucker Burton. Either the guy was bucking for a spot on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, or he was married to Homemaker Barbie.

  I found the bedroom next, its door ajar. Once again, things didn’t compute. The tidy order of the rest of the house was no longer evident. Was it possible, I wondered, for a hurricane to blow through just one room?

  The queen-size bed was rumpled and unmade, clothing hung from chairs, and two posts of the four-poster bed frame. Two pairs of socks and sneakers were scattered on the floor, along with a pair of dirty boat shoes and another enigma. Magazines were stacked high against the wall with dumbbells as paper weights: Teen People, Celebrity, Diva, Star Watch, Guns and Ammo, and Soldier of Fortune. What kind of a person would subscribe to that schizo mix?

  In the corner, I saw folding chairs and a card table had been set up. On the table were several digital cameras, a laptop computer, and a photo printer. Next to the printer I found two neat stacks of photographs. I picked up the first stack, which consisted entirely of shots taken at David Mintzer’s Fourth of July party—celebrity photos mostly, though there were several pictures of David himself. The second stack were photos taken at Bom Felloes bash the next day, including several shots of Keith Judd. I put the photos down and continued looking around the room.

  A second bedroom door led to a bathroom with a large glass-enclosed shower stall. Inside the stall I saw a tangle of rubber hoses, three large air tanks, two pairs of swim fins, and several pairs of underwater goggles. They’d been carefully cleaned. Sea salt and seaweed still encrusted the shower’s drain.

  For the second time in as many hours I thought—Gotcha.

  I couldn’t help feeling the rush. I smiled as I backed out of the bathroom, deciding I’d found the lair of the Creature from the Black Lagoon. For now, I’d seen enough. Unfortunately, I was about to see more than I’d bargained for.

  At the distinct click-clock of a weapon cocking, I spun and found myself facing the business end of a very large handgun. Motorcycle Man had leveled it directly at my heart.

  “Now ordinarily, finding a tight little package in my bedroom is not something a man like me would object to.” His voice was low, even, and unexpectedly casual. “But since you’re here without an invitation, you can understand why I’m a little bit peeved.”

  I didn’t know how it happened. I’d never heard the rumble of his motorcycle engine. I’d never heard him opening the front door. Yet here the man stood with the drop on me that I’d been sure he’d never get.

  “Please put the gun down. I’m unarmed.”

  He studied me, his brown eyes weren’t so much angry as curious. His fortyish face was weathered, his jawline strong but brushed with stubble, the day’s growth of beard a shade darker than his shaggy copper hair. I noticed a small earring in his left ear, a dagger with a jewel in the hilt.

  “Breaking and entering is a crime, you know?”

  “You’ve got the gun.” I spoke as calmly as I could, given the circumstances. I was plenty scared, but I knew if I wanted control of this situation, I’d have to start by controlling my own emotions. “You can just call the police. And they can cuff me and haul me off to jail. Or you can put that weapon away and we can talk like civilized people.”

  He didn’t put the weapon away, or even lower it. “Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the bed behind me.

  I sat on the edge of it.

  “Good. Follow my instructions and we’ll get along just fine. Now you talk. And I’ll listen. Got it?”

  I nodded.

  “Who are you?”

  I saw no point in lying. “Clare Cosi. Who are you?”

  His gaze went cold. “How quickly we forget. This is how it works, Clare. You talk, I listen. Remember? Now who do you work for?”

  “I’m a barista manager and, technically speaking, also a coffee steward, at Cuppa J…that’s a restaurant…in East Hampton.”

  He blinked. Obviously that was not the answer he expected to hear. “Wait a minute. That’s Mintzer’s new place, right? The one that’s getting all the write-ups this season?”

  I nodded, he frowned. “So you work for David Mintzer?”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Listen sweetheart, take my advice, when a guy’s got a gun on you, answer his questions.”

  I folded my arms, trying my damnedest to mask my fears with bravado. “When a guy’s got a gun on me who hasn’t shot me yet, I don’t think he’s going to.”

  Almost imperceptibly, the man’s dark eyes widened. “You’re willing to take a chance like that?”

  “Mr. Barnes,” I continued reasonably, “I’m trusting my own judgment. If you were going to shoot me, you would have done it already.”

  “Mr. Barnes, huh?” He smirked. “How the hell did you track
me down?”

  “I saw you on the beach last night, outside The Sandcastle. I couldn’t see the name of your boat from the shore, so I took a little late night swim.”

  “You swam out to my boat?”

  “Yes.”

  “Last night?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Barnes.”

  “Christ, I must have been sixty or seventy yards offshore. I’m surprised you didn’t get hypothermia.”

  “I didn’t say it was easy. Or smart for that matter. But I got the name of the yacht you rented. I found your marina, and bribed a couple of very sweet Bonackers.”

  “Where the hell do you get your nerve, Clare Cosi?”

  “Eight to ten cups of coffee a day. At least.”

  The man actually laughed. Then, to my great relief, he lowered his weapon, put on the safety, and tucked it behind him, presumably into a holster fastened to his belt at the base of his spine—the same place my ex-husband carried when he went coffee hunting in Africa.

  “That’s better,” I said, rising from the bed. “Guns make me nervous…especially when they’re pointed in my general direction.”

  The man folded his muscled arms and regarded me, about a foot below him. “If I were you, Clare, I wouldn’t let my guard down in a situation like this one.” His dark eyebrow arched. “What makes you think I won’t beat the truth out of you?”

  “Oh, puh-leeze!” I threw up my hands. “This is the Hamptons. What are you going to do? Flog me with a Louis Vuitton briefcase? Anyway, Mr. Barnes, my partner knows where I am and if anything should happen to me—”

  “Spare me. You don’t have a partner. That gambit is so tired, I doubt even you would buy it. Besides which, I saw you watching me from your Honda across the street. You were alone.”

  “You saw me?”

  “And if we’re going to talk like ‘civilized people,’ you can stop calling me Mr. Barnes because there is no Mr. Barnes—”

  “What?”

  “Sally Barnes is the woman who owns this place. She rents it out every summer…and for too damn much money if you ask me.”

  “Well, that explains it,” I muttered.

  “Explains what?”

  “The Barbie-pink living room and rogue-male bedroom. The beer bottles and Twinkie wrappers and the neat kitchen and espresso pot. I take it you don’t make your own?”