“Aren’t we a motley crew?” Mooney grabbed a mug, poured herself a glass of milk, and selected one of the cruffins Mama had laid out. “Wherever did you get these divine confections, Mrs. Blake?”
“It wasn’t my doing,” Mama said. “They were on the counter this morning with a note from Miles saying he had made extras yesterday and wanted to share. What a nice man!”
Whitt leaned over to her sister, smirked, and whispered, “Do you think he did it?”
“You better stop before Mama hears you!” Finley mouthed as she contemplated another round of the Murder Game. “But…could be.” Louder, she repeated, “What are we doing today?”
“Whitt had talked about going to look in some of the shops,” Mama said, putting her cup in the dishwasher. “It might be nice to see what they have.”
And with that, it was decided that they would all be going shopping. Mama left a thank you note for Miles as they loaded into the car for the twenty-minute drive to East Hampton. Fall hadn’t reached the Hamptons yet, but Finley could feel the rounded edges of the sunshine through the car window, bright but not quite as sharp as it had been just a week ago.
“The write-up in the Luxe guide said that most of the shopping in Montauk is geared toward keepsakes and t-shirts,” Whitt mentioned as they drove along the tree-lined streets leading into the town of East Hampton. “They said the better stores are in Southampton, East Hampton, and Amagansett. So, I figured we could start there.”
Whitt found a parking spot on the street just a block off the bustling main road lined with gift shops, bookstores and other quaint retail establishments catering to both local and tourist tastes alike. While Mama, Whitt, and Mooney perused the dress shops, Finley nosed through a stack of used books outside a vintage clothing shop. She had taken some shots of downtown East Hampton but preferred the dunes and water of Montauk as a subject to well-heeled Hampton ladies doing their weekly shopping.
They had said they would meet outside Bagels and Bananas, the local high-end provisioner, but Finley couldn’t resist going in. After scanning the coffees and spices, pates and cheeses, and breads and spreads, she settled on a small bag of hot apple cider doughnuts. No bigger than an Oreo, each one packed a wallop of flavor in every bite. Finley was well into her third doughnut when the others arrived.
“What are you scarfing?” Whitt asked, reaching into the bag that sent out cinnamon-dusted smoke signals when touched.
“You are going to ruin your lunch, dear,” Mama said. “Both of you.”
Mooney paused for a minute, considering what Mama said before choosing a doughnut from the dwindling bag. She had just popped the last bite into her mouth when she heard her name.
“Mona? Mona Allen?” She turned to see one of her clients, Mike Lanahan, approaching the group.
She swallowed and brushed imaginary crumbs from her mouth and hands before answering. “Mike, what a pleasure to see you. Are you just here for the weekend or staying up for the season?”
The man was of average height with an athletic build he was clearly proud of based off of his body language. He was attractive but not handsome, his straight, dark brown hair starting to gray. Mooney remembered that he was in commercial real estate and that he frequently stayed in the Hamptons until just after Thanksgiving when he liked to head to St. Barts for the holidays.
“I’m here until December and then heading south.” He turned to address the rest of the group. “You ladies here for the weekend?”
“Yes. this my friend, Finley; her sister, Whitt; and their mother.” Mooney hesitated. She wasn’t sure what to call Mama besides Mama.
Mama took care of it. “Kat Blake,” she said, extending her hand.
Lanahan shook Mama’s, then Whitt’s, and finally Finley’s hand.
When he addressed Finley, his gaze lingered just a moment, making sure he caught her eye before releasing her hand.
“A pleasure, ladies. A pleasure indeed.” He returned his gaze to Mooney. “Look, since you are in town, why don’t you come to the house for dinner? I am having a small group of people over tonight. Very informal. I would love to have you join us if you don’t have plans.” Then arched an eyebrow and added, “I know it is short notice, but a home-cooked meal is so much more appealing than one in a restaurant. And my guy is a master, I must say.”
Mooney looked to Mama and then the sisters. “Your call.”
Mama responded first. “If it wouldn’t be an imposition,” she replied languidly.
“Never! I would be honored to have you join us.” Lanahan lowered his voice and held Mama’s eye, while giving her his most charming smile.
Mama nodded at Mooney.
“Then it is settled. We will see you for dinner,” Mooney said, stifling a snicker. “What time? And you will have to send us the address and directions.”
“Why don’t you come a bit early so we can have a chance to chat before the others arrive? Shall we say 6:30? We can have cocktails and catch the sunset. The others will toddle in around 7:00.” He was punching at his phone as he spoke. “There, I just sent you a pin so you’ll have the address.”
“By the way, where are you staying?” Lanahan brow furrowed slightly.
“Off the coastal road, a couple of houses down from Gurney’s,” Mooney replied.
“In Jameson’s place?” Lanahan recognized the location with a smirk. “Then you can walk down the beach if you want. I can lend you torches when you head back. Save you from driving.”
“Good to know. We might,” Mooney said. “Again, great to see you and see you tonight. Thanks!”
They watched as he crossed the street and headed toward the hardware store. He was intercepted by a tall, sandy-haired young man in jeans and work boots. The taller man looked primed for a fight, gesturing wildly and backing Lanahan against the wall. The latter seemed to deescalate the argument before they parted ways and walked in different directions.
“Wonder who that was?” Finley asked. “He didn’t look too happy.”
“Neither of them did, for that matter,” Whitt added. “I thought they were going to come to blows for a minute there.
“That is neither here nor there,” Mama said. “We need to figure out what we are wearing. I am not sure I have anything appropriate.”
“Is that really the case, Mama, or is that an excuse to buy something new?” Finley inquired.
“I never need an excuse, darling. If I want it, I get it. But you, dear, probably do need to get something nice for this evening.” Mama paused. “I saw the way he looked at you.”
“Mama, if he looked at me in white jeans and a tunic, then I don’t really need to buy anything nicer, now, do I?” Finley asked with a smile.
“Finley Walker, don’t get smart with me!” Mama tapped Finley on her bottom with her satchel, smiling as she did. “Go get something nice, girl, and don’t back-talk your mama.”
Mooney took over. “Why don’t you two find a restaurant and order drinks, and I will take Finley back to Noni’s and let her try that dress we thought she might like?”
With that, Mama and Whitt headed to 25 Main, a dining choice all agreed on, and Mooney and Finley walked to Noni’s dress shop.
“You certainly caught Mike’s attention,” Mooney mentioned. “Too bad he’s married.”
“That’s not bad at all, since I am not interested.” Finley was scanning through the racks for something she liked.
“Not interested in a multi-millionaire with an apartment on Fifth and a house in the Hamptons? Assuming he wasn’t married.” Mooney looked up from her dress search, holding out a red halter-necked jumpsuit. “Try this on.”
“No way to both—the idea of unmarried Mike and the jumpsuit.” Finley was holding a pair of black palazzo pants and a cream silk wrap shirt.
“I don’t know what to say. If I brought you a millionaire, you would say no?”
“A millionaire, maybe. Just not this one,” Finley said, shaking her head as Mooney shook the red jumpsuit in front of her like a cape.
“Try it on! Now!” Mooney pushed her friend toward the dressing room. “I won’t protest about you buying yet another black piece of clothing if you at least try on the jumpsuit.”
Heading to dinner that night, Mooney thought about what Finley had said. There was something about Mike that had put Finley off, and her friend normally had good instincts about people. What was it that Finley was sensing? Whatever it was, Finley was going to have to put up with it. Mike was going to have a hard time keeping his eyes off her in that red jumpsuit.
Three
“Ladies! Welcome to my humble abode!” Mike knew the comment would elicit the compliments and admiration for the house that he had come to expect. He had changed from jeans into khaki pants and a navy linen button-down shirt. With his drink in hand, he looked every bit lord of the manor.
Finley smiled politely in response. This guy is sleaze in charm’s clothes. Better stay clear.
The house was similar in style to the one in which they were staying, but it was at least twice as large as the Jameson place, with windows that were even more expansive. It was as if Mike had taken the Jameson house plans and stretched them. Even the mix of modern art, a few Pollacks and a Frankenthaler from what Finley could see, mimicked Jameson’s taste.
Mike’s butler, Barnes, a man in his late sixties whose coloring suggested that he could have been Mike’s father, had provided them with champagne when they walked through the door and promptly led them to the living room, where Mike had been waiting. He greeted them and smiled at Whitt as she passed him a small, wrapped host gift but then pointedly approached Finley. He put his hand on Finley’s waist and led her into the room.
“You are looking exceptionally lovely tonight,” he said under his breath as they moved toward a large picture window that offered a spectacular view of the water. Finley demurred, nodding in reply.
“Do you mind if we head out to the landing? The night is so pretty, and I think we are going to have a colorful sunset.”
Mike’s prediction about the sunset proved true. Finley wished that she had her camera as the sun painted the sky a range of purples, pinks, and oranges before dipping into the sea.
“Simply stunning!” Mama said. She watched, amused, as Mike inched closer to Finley on the banquette. Finley bided her time before getting up to admire a large sculpture at the end of the deck.
“A Gestri?” Finley asked before moving away and taking a seat next to Mooney on the sofa. Leonard Gestri had been an up-and-coming sculptor artist who was cut down in his prime by cancer. His distinctive minimalist style was in high demand. Finley guessed that Mike had paid a pretty penny to acquire his work.
Mike seemingly got Finley’s message from her seating move. He was none too pleased but masked his disappointment well. He wasn’t used to women not being in awe of his wealth and apparent good taste. This one would just take longer to reel in.
“Yes. I got it a couple years ago at an auction downtown. Supposedly, when he died, he had quite a large debt to settle and so much of his work had to be sold off. I was lucky to have gotten that piece—and another small statue in the bedroom. I’ll show it to you later.”
The inference of the comment wasn’t lost on Finley or the others, but they ignored it.
“Oh! I’m sorry, Mike. I didn’t know you had company.”
A petite blond in her late twenties, with masses of curly hair, stood frozen on the pathway from the beach.
“Come on in, Rachel,” Mike said, “Let me introduce you around.”
Mike got up to greet the young woman, unsticking her from her spot on the path and leading her by the hand over to the seating area.
“This is Rachel Daly, the best masseuse there ever was! Don’t let her size fool you.” His arm was draped around her shoulders in a manner that suggested considerable familiarity. In response, she was relaxed in his grasp, her arm around his waist.
“I won’t bother you. I just came to pick up my tote,” Rachel said, looking up at him. “I left it in the den when I was here yesterday.”
Mike stepped back to let her in. As Rachel wandered toward the back of the house, Mike followed her.
“I will be back in a bit, ladies. Barnes, can you pour the ladies more champagne?” He gestured to his butler as they passed him on the way to the den. He and Rachel were deeply engaged in conversation.
Whitt waited until the champagne had been poured and the hors d’oeuvres passed before she raised an eyebrow to the others sitting along the deck’s edge. “What’s that about?”
“Whittaker, that is not your business,” Mama shifted on the banquette, taking another sip of her champagne. Before anyone else could respond, the other guests began to arrive.
When Mike returned to the deck, two couples and another exceedingly tall gentleman had joined Whitt and the crew around the firepit, that anchored the deck off the back of the house. Drinks in hand, they made their introductions as Barnes passed around more hors d’oeuvres.
Jack, the tall man with a shock of curly blond hair that hung over his right eye like a patch, was in private equity in Jersey City. Karen, a rotund little woman with a sparkling gray eyes and mouse-brown hair, and her partner, Joy, a string-bean of a woman with long auburn hair that pulled down on her already sullen features, were a Jack Sprat couple who owned an artisan bakery in Amagansett. The other couple included Sue, a petite blond with a machine-gun potty-mouth who was a Forex trader in the city, and her husband, Philip, a brown-haired man of average height and average wit who was a writer—of what, exactly, it was unclear.
“Sorry not to have met you at the door,” Mike greeted his new guests as he came back into the room. There was no sight of Rachel. “I hope you introduced yourselves around. Had a little business I needed to take care of.”
The rest of the evening was pleasant—the word Mama used to describe it when she got back to the Jameson house. The food was exceptional, as Mike had said it would be. The conversation flowed freely as did the wines and champagnes. There was nothing to fault it, except an undercurrent of tension that Finley couldn’t place.
“Oh, by the way, I booked you ladies sessions with Rachel for tomorrow morning,” Mike said. “I hope that time works for you. If not, just call and cancel.”
Karen piped in, “Rachel’s sessions are divine. She can do Reiki, deep tissue, hot stone, you name it.”
“Yes, she may be tiny, but she is strong,” Joy added. “I was in pain for three days after my last deep tissue session.”
“She could come to the house, but I suggested you try the spa at Gurney’s. It’s a real treat,” Mike smiled at Finley. “I hope you enjoy it.”
“Thank you. I’m sure we will,” Finley replied.
They had walked up the beach to Mike’s house, but Barnes was volunteered to drive them back to the Jameson house after dessert and brandy.
“Barney won’t mind. And I’ll know you are safe,” Mike said, escorting his guests to the door. “Hope the massages work out.”
“I am sure they will.” Mama had a primness to her voice and demeanor that the sisters knew meant displeasure, but she was too well-bred to show it. “Thank you again for arranging it. And for a delightful dinner.”
Barnes had barely dropped them off at the door before the veneer wore off Mama’s manners.
“The nerve of that man!” Mama dropped her bag on the counter with a thud, kicked off her shoes, and plopped down on the sofa. “The presumptiveness!”
“Mama, he was just trying to be nice.” Whitt cast a glance at Finley, waiting for her reaction. “He’s sweet on Finley and wanted to impress her mama and friends.”
Finley shot Whitt a look that could kill. She poured herself, Mooney, and Mama another glass of wine befor
e sitting down.
Whitt looked at her sister. “Where’s mine?”
“You don’t get any after that comment,” snapped Finley.
“Then I’ll just drink yours. You should be cut off anyway. You drank almost as much as I did!” Whitt reached for her sister’s glass, ignoring the protest tap that Finley gave her hand. Whitt settled back and took a long sip before passing the glass back to her sister.
“I don’t think I have ever seen Mike in such rare form,” Mooney said. “It must have been that jumpsuit.”
“You do look stunning in that outfit, dear. Red becomes you.” Mama had been trying to get Finley to wear brighter, warmer colors for a long time. Both girls, in fact. Whitt also tended toward neutral colors but wasn’t quite as funereal as Finley.
“Thank you, Mama,” Finley said. “This was all Mooney’s doing.”
“Well, thank you, Mooney, for putting her together tonight.” Mama sipped on her wine, her long fingers stroking the stem.
“I think we all looked pretty good this evening,” Whitt said. “And thanks, Mooney, for putting up with our cattiness. I am apologizing now because I am going to ask what everyone is thinking—what do you think is up with Mike and Miss Thing, Rachel?”
Mooney almost spilled her wine, laughing so hard. “I don’t know. Between Finley and Rachel, Mike was running wild.”
***
Whitt and Finley drew the short straws for the morning massages. The first slot, at 8 a.m., had been drawn by Whitt, with Finley up immediately after that. While Whitt was considering a Reiki, Finley favored hot stone massages and figured that the balance of the two techniques wouldn’t tire Rachel out too much.
“Where’s the butter?” Whitt asked, her head in the fridge as she moved things around looking for butter for her English muffin.
Murder in Montauk Page 3