Murder Most Frothy

by Cleo Coyle

  Jim Rand leaned back in his chair, eyeballed me. “And how are you going to get this book?”

  I folded my arms, tapped my chin in thought. “When you were a SEAL, did you have to break into things quietly?”

  “Yes, Clare.”

  “So you know how to pick a lock?”

  “Yes, Clare.”

  “Then the question, Mr. Rand, isn’t how am I going to get the book. It’s how are we going to do it.”

  “You’re determined to pull me into your outlaw ways, aren’t you, Cosi?”

  “That’s rich. Coming from you.”

  Jim laughed. “Just remember one thing.”

  “What?”

  “You promised if I helped you catch the killer, you’d be grateful.”

  “First things first, Rand. First things first.”

  TWENTY

  I drove back to Cuppa J in my Honda, watching the lights on Jim’s Harley in my rearview mirror. By the time we arrived at the restaurant it was nearly three o’clock in the morning. The building was dark and deserted, the parking lot empty. As I climbed out of my car, Jim rolled up next to me and cut the motorcycle’s engine.

  Together, we walked up the dark path to the restaurant. Through the glass of the front door, I saw the tiny red light on the alarm console, warning intruders that the system was activated.

  Jim, hands shoved into his denims, leaned against the door jam. “So, do you want me to pick this lock?”

  I shook my head. “I have the key. The lock I want you to pick is inside. Anyway, there’s an alarm system. Even if you got through the door, you’d have to deal with the keypad. You don’t know the code.”

  “Alarms have never been a problem for me.”

  “Okay, now you’re just bragging.”

  I slipped the key into the lock and twisted it. After opening the door, I had ten seconds to punch in the security code or the alarm would go off, both here and at the police station. I tapped the code into the key pad. A single beep, and the tiny light switched from red to green.

  “All clear,” I called over my shoulder.

  As I stepped into the restaurant’s dining room, I knew at once that something was wrong. At first the air seemed heavy and close, then I detected a familiar odor. Jim came up behind me, gripped my shoulder. He smelled it, too.

  “Gas,” we said together.

  “The pilot lights must have gone out!” I cried. “We have to fix it—”

  I hurried forward, but didn’t get more than two steps before Jim, his hand still digging into my shoulder, yanked me back.

  “Clare, no. We have to get out of here.”

  “No, wait.”

  I struggled against him. But in a few seconds, I felt dizzy then woozy. I blinked, saw stars, felt my knees giving way. Jim snatched me up and carried me out of the restaurant. Choking, he stretched me out on the hood of my Honda, which felt warm against my back. I coughed and gasped for air.

  “We can’t let the place blow up,” I cried between hacks. “We can’t.”

  Jim pushed himself away from the hood, faced the building. I followed his eyes and noticed he’d left the front door open. Then, before I knew what was happening, he’d stripped off his button-down.

  “Jim, what—?”

  He dug into his pocket, thrust a cell phone into my hand. “Call 911.” He wrapped his shirt around his nose and mouth and tied it behind his head. Head down, he ran back inside the restaurant.

  I punched the numbers and the call went through immediately. I reported the gas leak, the address, and the fact that someone was inside the building.

  I heard noise from inside the restaurant—the French doors opening, the sound of breaking glass. Still shaky, I hopped off the hood of my car and hurried to the entranceway. My head was throbbing and my feet seemed to take forever to obey my brain.

  Just as I got to the front door, I saw Jim emerge from the kitchen. His shirt was still wrapped around his face, and his gait looked steady. I stepped inside to help him, but he rushed me at the door.

  “Go back, Clare. I stopped the leak.” His voice was muffled by the cloth, but his words were clear.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Jesus, Clare, are you forgetting I was a SEAL? Any one of us worth his salt can hold his breath for three minutes.”

  “What did you find back there? The stove is supposed to have a safety device. If any of the pilot lights go out, the gas should be automatically cut off—”

  “The stove wasn’t the problem. The lines were sliced.”

  “What?!”

  “The hoses leading from the main to the stove were flapping loose and they looked sliced to me. I had to turn off the main. On the way, I opened those French doors—sorry, I had to break some of them. Are there any other outside windows in this place?”

  “There’s a big window in the employee break room.”

  “Which door?”

  “The gas is already dissipating, Jim. Let me take care of it.”

  “Okay. I’ll prop the fire doors.”

  I took a deep, fresh breath, ran to the break room, and opened the door. The gas smell wasn’t so bad in here, probably because the closed door kept most of the vapors out. I began to walk to the window—then I screamed.

  A body was sprawled on the couch, a woman clad in jeans and a flowered blouse. A pair of sandals lay on the floor. On the pillow, I saw loose auburn curls dangling from a disheveled ponytail. I grabbed the body’s shoulder, rolled it over. Colleen O’Brien’s skin had a faintly bluish cast, the freckles across her pug nose looked dark as blood against her deathly pale skin.

  Frantically, I began shaking the girl. “Wake up! Wake up!”

  Jim appeared at my side, pulled me away and bent over her, resting his ear on her chest. “She’s breathing—barely. We’ve got to get her outside.”

  Jim hauled her off the sofa, cradled her in a fireman’s carry. It took only a moment for him to cross the dining room and exit the restaurant. He laid Colleen across the hood of my Honda, which was getting more action than a hospital gurney.

  “You know her?”

  “Yes! She works for David.”

  “Think she was trying to kill herself?”

  I blinked. “No…. I don’t know…”

  I remembered how distressed she’d been the night Treat had been shot, and I realized it was possible.

  Jim checked her mouth and throat for foreign objects. Then he began administering CPR. He was at it less than a minute when Colleen’s eyes opened. As she started sitting up, she began to heave.

  Jim glanced at me. “She’ll be okay, once she empties her stomach.”

  I held Colleen’s hair while she threw up all over my car—cosmic justice, after what had happened to the back seat of Breanne’s Mercedes. But I didn’t care. I was so relieved that she was alive.

  “Jim, why did you ask me if it was a suicide attempt?” I whispered.

  “Someone cut those hoses to the stove, Clare. It was either suicide or vandalism.”

  Colleen held her head. “What happened?”

  “There was a gas leak,” I lied. “Why were you in the restaurant?”

  “Well, the truth is…I’ve been sleeping there for days,” Colleen said, “but don’t tell anyone.”

  Jim snorted. “I think that ship’s already sailed.”

  I silenced him with a jab of my elbow. “Colleen, why would you do that?”

  She tried to stand up. I put a firm hand on her shoulder. “Stay still,” I commanded, wondering where the hell the fire department was. I still couldn’t hear any sirens. “Tell me why you stayed at the restaurant, Colleen.”

  “The jerks running my share house raised the rates midsummer without warning,” she confessed. “I got angry. I didn’t want to give up every dime I made to those people, and I didn’t want to lose my job here, so I decided to sleep the rest of the season on the break room couch.”

  I stared at her blankly. “How did you pull it off?”

  �
�Oh, that was easy. I’d hide in the restroom until Jacques or the designated closer locked up every night, then I’d hide again in the morning when the chef arrived so no one would see me. And there were a few times Jacques had me close up—like the other night when he went to Bom Felloes’s party. Nights like that, I had the run of the place.”

  On the highway, I heard the single blast of a horn. Scarlet lights flashed in the trees. The fire department was on the way, sans sirens. I realized only then that they ran silently so as not to disturb the wealthy residents of this exclusive community. Jim faced the road, slipping back into his shirt as he waited for the authorities to arrive.

  “Colleen, listen to me,” I said. “This is important. Who closed up tonight?”

  “It was Jacques. I thought he would never leave. He stayed in his office very late. But then I heard him lock up. I saw him from the break room window, driving away about two-thirty. I went right to sleep after that.”

  The village fire truck rolled into the parking lot, lights flashing. A police car and an ambulance pulled in behind it. The doors opened and two paramedics leaped out and ran to us.

  The fire chief and several firemen with oxygen secured the area and entered the restaurant. As Colleen was helped into the ambulance, I approached the police sergeant and introduced myself.

  “This was no accident,” I said. “The gas lines appear to have been deliberately sliced, and the last person to have access to them—according to this young woman right here—was the manager of the restaurant, Jacques Papas. I believe he was trying to sabotage this place to cover up the fact that he’s been embezzling from the owner, David Mintzer, and some of the vendors.”

  The officer shifted uneasily. “That’s a heavy charge, ma’am.”

  “I know,” I replied. “But Colleen here was sleeping inside the restaurant. She can testify that Jacques was the last one to leave. And I came by tonight to take a look at the contents of his accounting book. I believe the deals he made with vendors were never approved by the owner and the result of those deals would have been the extortion of money by Papas.”

  “We’ll need a statement,” the sergeant said.

  “I’m happy to provide one,” I said, then I dropped the bomb. “I also believe Jacques Papas has been trying to kill David. I think Papas may have had something to do with the murder at David’s house on July Fourth.”

  The sergeant swallowed hard. Clearing the crimes I’d just outlined was probably above his pay grade.

  “Wait here, Ms. Cosi,” the sergeant said. “I’m going to put in a call to the Suffolk County police. Detective Roy O’Rourke is handling that case.”

  Jim appeared at my shoulder.

  “Think you solved your mystery?” he asked.

  “I hope so.”

  “You believe Jacques tried to burn down the place to hide his crime?”

  I nodded. “Think it through. At the end of the summer, a bunch of vendors are going to be expecting the rest of their bills to be paid along with the ten percent Jacques had promised them. Blowing the place up would have created enough chaos to let him get away clean, jump a plane back to Europe—with the other half of those vendor payments. He was probably betting on David throwing in the towel and declaring bankruptcy.”

  Jim rubbed his jaw, considering my words. “So why blow the place now? He could have continued running the scam through the rest of July and August.”

  “I think that’s partly my fault.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “After Prin found out about his crooked deal, Papas was able to fire her without David getting wise. But then I got suspicious. Papas knew I was under contract, so he couldn’t fire me as easily as Prin. And he knew I was aggressively snooping around his office the other day…and just this evening, he stumbled upon me making a private call while looking over your photos from David’s party. I had to admit I was conducting an investigation. The man looked positively green when I told him. And speaking of green…I’m suddenly not feeling too steady…”

  The world began to look a little fuzzy and I wobbled in place.

  “Whoa, steady, Clare.” Jim put his hands on my shoulders. “Sit down.”

  I sank onto my car’s front bumper, put a hand to my forehead. “I guess Jacques panicked. I made him worried and frightened that he was going to be found out. And because of that an innocent young woman almost died.”

  “Come here.” Jim pulled me up against him, and I held on, my head alongside his chest, my hands gripping the corded muscles of his arms.

  “I feel sick,” I muttered. “The gas—”

  “It’s not the gas, Clare,” Jim said. “It’s the adrenaline seeping away, making you feel unsteady, disoriented. My old team leader back in the SEALs had a saying. It was true in combat, and I guess it’s true in life too.”

  “What’s that?” I asked weakly.

  Jim shrugged. “After the thrill, comes the crash.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  I literally crawled out of bed the next morning, a hint of gas still tainting my palate. I threw a robe over my pajamas and shuffled downstairs to the kitchen. On the way I passed David in the great room of Otium cum Dignitate, also wrapped in a robe. He was so intent on his telephone conversation he hardly noticed my passing.

  Like me, David had been up most of the night. He’d been called to the restaurant to secure his property after the gas leak, and the fire department declared the premises off limits until the utility company could make repairs. I assumed David was on the phone doing just that.

  Our collective lack of sleep called for desperate measures, I decided, and I reached for the canister holding the caffeine-loaded Breakfast Blend.

  As the nutty, earthy aroma began filling the sunlit kitchen, David entered and slumped down into a chair at the big table with a long, dramatic sigh. “It’s going to be hell finding a new manager in the middle of the season.”

  “Better no manager than someone like Jacques Papas,” I replied.

  David shook his head. “And he came so highly recommended.”

  “I can see why. He was efficient, demanding, and punctual. He was a good manager…except for the embezzlement thing. Why do you think he did it?”

  David sighed. “I turned him down. I shouldn’t have, I guess. He wanted to go back to Greece and open his own place. He wanted me to put up the money for him at the end of the summer. But I wasn’t interested in backing a restaurant overseas.”

  “So he decided if he couldn’t get the money from you one way, he’d get it another?”

  “I suppose so. Oh, Clare, I hate to put you out, especially after all you’ve done for me, but until I do get a new manager, I’m afraid I’m going to need your help.”

  I nodded. “You know you can count on me.”

  “I’d like you to take over, manage Cuppa J full time for the next two weeks—perhaps longer if my search doesn’t go well. That means long hours, and it means renegotiating the lousy deals with the vendors Papas made in my name. But I’ll pay you well, Clare. You can count on that.”

  “I’m happy to do it, David. I’m sure I can ask Matt to postpone his next trip and take over managing the Village Blend for that long. But what about Chef Vogel? Wouldn’t you want to consider asking him to take over the management duties before me?”

  David sighed. “Chef Vogel enjoys creating menus. He does so admirably. What he does not enjoy, however, and he’s made it abundantly clear, is payroll, employee schedules, personnel problems, and customer service. He’d be a lousy manager and he’d hate it, as well.”

  “All right then, I guess I accept.”

  David put his hands together in silent applause. “Thank goodness. Now let’s have some of that delightful brew!”

  I poured, and we sat together at the table, enjoying the warmth and much needed caffeine.

  “My god, I can’t stop thinking about that poor girl,” said David, shaking his head. “Colleen almost died in my restaurant. I just…I just can’t thank yo
u enough for saving her life. And for saving the restaurant, of course. But, really, if that poor girl had died I never would have forgiven myself!”

  “What about Treat?” I said evenly. “He’s dead too.”

  “Yes,” said Madame, strolling in. “Mr. Mazzelli was somebody’s son, you know.”

  David nodded. “Yes, he was, somebody’s drug informant son.”

  Nothing like dropping a bomb in the breakfast room. “What?” I said. “What do you know?”

  “I just got off the phone with Detective O’Rourke,” David said. “He tells me the police have found the murder weapon.”

  I felt my guts twisting. “Where?”

  “In the trunk of a car belonging to a young man from Manhattan. He was arrested for drug dealing in the wee hours of July sixth. The authorities ran ballistics tests and checked Treat’s background. When Detective O’Rourke was sure, he called me.”

  “Sure of what?” I asked.

  “O’Rourke discovered that Treat was a former cocaine dealer—arrested and charged, but never convicted. He was cooperating with the D.E.A, acting as an informant in exchange for immunity.”

  The news to me was stunning. It certainly didn’t fit with any of my own theories.

  “Officer O’Rourke says forensics can now tie the bullet casings from the beach, as well as the bullet recovered from Treat’s head, to the rifle. And since the weapon was found in a known drug dealer’s car, O’Rourke concluded that Treat was the sole target of the hit man.”

  “Because Treat was informing on drug dealers for the D.E.A?”

  “Yes. Now that O’Rourke has the murder weapon, the case is closed. That piece of evidence is incontrovertible.”

  “It’s also circumstantial.”

  David blinked. “I don’t see how.”

  “For starters, why target Treat in the middle of a party and use a hidden sniper? Wouldn’t it have been easier to wait for Treat to leave the mansion, gun him down on the road, in front of his house—anywhere but in the middle of one of the biggest social gatherings of the season?”