Murder in Montauk

by Carter Fielding

  “You are too kind,” she said.

  “Why did you say there are only a few suspects? Was Mike in some sort of trouble?” Finley asked.

  “No, not really. He just rubbed a few people the wrong way sometimes. But those weren’t the ones I was thinking of. I was talking about those women that were always on his coattail, asking for things,” Cathy said. “They probably have the right one in jail already.”

  “You’re talking about Rachel?” Whitt asked. “Why do you think she is a good suspect?”

  “She was after him. Always hanging around him.” Cathy took another gulp of wine and Finley refilled her glass. “She couldn’t snag him before I came into the picture, so she kept running after him after we were married. He must have told her to take a hike. So, she killed him.”

  Cathy started sobbing, looking up periodically to ensure she still had an audience She took another drink of the wine and stood. “I have left my friend. He’ll get worried about me.”

  Finley followed Cathy’s eyes over to a tall, well-built man in jeans and a linen blazer gazing their way. He nodded at Finley’s half-smile and went back to his drink. That man is no more concerned than the man in the moon. I wonder how long that has been going on.

  “Well, that was an interesting piece of drama,” Whitt commented when Cathy walked away and was out of earshot, gushing over the kindness of Mooney’s friends. Whitt and Finley smiled as she commended them. We wanted information, and for a half bottle of wine, the price was worth it. Mooney just rolled her eyes.

  “You girls weren’t in the least bit subtle!” Mama shook her head in mock disgust. “That poor child was clueless that she was being led to the slaughter by you two.”

  “Poor child? You don’t have the whole picture.” Mooney didn’t hold back this time. “That two-timing tart suckered Mike into marriage by claiming she was pregnant, and then conveniently ‘lost’ the baby a month after they were married. Mike was not pleased about getting taken in.”

  Mama’s mouth opened and took a while to close.

  “So sorry, Mrs. Blake,” Mooney blushed. “Sometimes, I forget myself. So very sorry.”

  “It wasn’t you, Mooney. Trust me,” Mama said as she reached out and patted Mooney’s hand. “I’ve had a few outbursts in my day. What shocked me so was that woman’s behavior.”

  Mama shook her head and added, “I knew she wasn’t genuine, but to be such a snake in the grass… Has she no decency at all to pretend to be in mourning for her husband, while her ‘bit on the side’ is standing right there for everyone to see? She really takes the cake.”

  Mama turned to Finley and Whitt. “You have to help Rachel out of this. They will have her under the jailhouse if you don’t.”

  Whitt distributed the last of the wine to the several glasses. This was developing into an interesting conversation. She ordered another bottle. They would have more than enough time to absorb this before they headed back to the hotel and then off to dinner.

  “So, who besides Rachel do you think she was talking about?” Mama asked.

  It was Mooney, Finley, and Whitt’s turn to hang their mouths open this time. Mama is joining the investigation? Who knew? Get on her bad side, and she will come after you. Clearly, Cathy’s behavior crossed the line.

  “Thus far, we have his wife, anyone married to any of the women that Mike was hitting on, and all of the people he did business with,” Whitt said, counting each on a finger. “Do you think he was involved with the mob?”

  “It was commercial real estate…in New York City. So, who knows?” Mooney responded.

  “And Rachel’s husband,” Finley said quietly.

  “I thought you said Mike wasn’t involved with Rachel,” Whitt asked.

  “True. He wasn’t—according to Rachel. But maybe her husband didn’t believe her,” Finley said. “I saw him here in town earlier in the CVS. He was buying nicotine patches.”

  “What?” Whitt was almost out of her chair. “You saw him buying patches and you are just now saying something? Shouldn’t you tell the police?”

  “Think about it, though. He may have a legitimate need for the patches. Harris would have a field day with me calling in to tell him to arrest the guy because he bought patches,” Finley argued. “I considered it, but unless we have something else to add to this, our case against the husband is weak.”

  “Well, we can ponder other possible suspects while we sip more wine.” Whitt signaled the waiter to open the new bottle and ordered more tapas.

  By the time they had returned to the hotel, they had only an hour to dress for dinner. Finley helped her sister carry her treasures upstairs and spread them out on the bed. They had been given a two-room suite with a sitting room that looked out onto the water. Mama and Whitt were in one room, while Mooney and Finley were in the other.

  “This isn’t too shabby!” Mooney and Whitt sat in the opulently appointed common room, sharing a glass of a rosé from a local vineyard that they had picked up at the wine shop on the walk back to the hotel. “We can chill for a few minutes before we have to get dressed. What are you wearing, Whitt?”

  “I think I will wear one of my new acquisitions. The olive-green silk sheath. Do you think it’s too dressy?”

  “Not at all, dear,” Mama said. “The new strappy patent sandals will go nicely with that.”

  “What about you, Mooney?” Whitt asked. “I know Mama is going to go with the ivory palazzos and wrap shirt that make her look six feet tall.”

  “Well, I am almost six feet, and those pants are comfortable! I feel statuesque in that outfit.” When Mama talked like that, Finley got an image of an Amazon warrior. Mama would have stood out even among the Amazons.

  “I am going against trend and wearing black!” Mooney said. “I want to wear the new BCBG jumpsuit I got today.”

  “If everyone is wearing neutrals, why do I have to wear red?” Finley cried.

  “Because you always wear neutrals!” Mooney said.

  “And because Mama said so,” Whitt added.

  Finley looked at her mother apologetically. “And it is your birthday.”

  After they were dressed and ready for dinner, Finley called the bellman to load their bags and packages back into the SUV. While it would have been nice to have stayed over in the suite for the night, they needed to pack and prepare the Jameson house for their departure the next morning.

  Cinq Rouge, the trendy Southampton restaurant that Mooney had finagled them into, was rather understated in its exterior décor, but the food and interior ambiance were said to rival any of its Manhattan cousins. While they waited for their table, Finley and the rest of the group grabbed a table in the bar area and scanned the crowd for celebrities.

  Mooney had asked for a gin and tonic, and Mama and Whitt champagne. Strangely, Finley ordered a single malt. She wasn’t sure why she had wanted one. If she was drinking spirits, it was normally bourbon, neat, that called her name. But tonight, she felt like a single malt. Glenmorangie, specifically. When she inhaled the rich, peaty aroma, she remembered why. It was Max’s drink.

  She still missed him. I need to let this go. I can’t keep wearing his cologne and drinking his drink and daydreaming about what he is doing. If he isn’t writing, not even stilted postcards, he has moved on, and I need to as well. She took a deep gulp of the dark brown liquid and let it burn going down. Two more gulps and it was gone—and so was the longing. Almost.

  “Before we move into the dining room, I wanted to let you know that Maryanne said she will take the case. She will come out tomorrow for the arraignment. Hopefully, Rachel will be able to make bail.”

  “That is wonderful news,” Mama said.

  “That reminds me—Jameson sent me a long email. Said he just heard about Mike, and while he didn’t like the guy, he was sorry that he was killed,” Mooney divulged. “He said there were several other pe
ople that weren’t too keen on Mike after a deal he scammed them into went south.”

  “So, there are several people besides Rachel who had motive. Including Jameson himself,” Whitt said. “But did they have the means and the opportunity?”

  “If you have enough money, sweetheart, means and opportunity can be provided,” Mama commented.

  “Mama has a point. Most of the people on the revised list are rich enough that they wouldn’t have to get their hands dirty.” Finley was furiously scribbling on a cocktail napkin.

  “What are you writing?” Whitt tried to decipher her sister’s hieroglyphics and gave up.

  “Questions someone needs to ask—like who stood to gain the most from his death? Did he have a new housekeeper or pool boy? Someone that might have been sent to get into the house and tamper with his patches?”

  “Or a change in the delivery guy from the pharmacy?” Mooney suggested.

  “Do you know whether Rachel always got his patches, or was this something new?” Whitt asked.

  “She said she would get some for him when he was running low. So, that wasn’t new,” Finley said. “But that could be argued both ways. If it was nothing new, why now? Or perhaps she used the pattern of getting them for him to cover up the murder because he had dumped her.”

  “But you said they weren’t having an affair,” Mooney said.

  “Rachel said. Her story sounded convincing, but that is something that definitely needs to be investigated. Were they, or weren’t they?” Finley was adding that to the list when the maître d’ came to take them to their table.

  “That is the end of this conversation, I promise, Mama,” Finley said, putting away her scribbled list. “The rest of the night’s focus is only on you. Happy birthday!”

  Eight

  Mama and Whitt headed straight upstairs when they got back to the house after dinner. Both had drunk the lion’s share of the champagne they had ordered.

  “Those two had a great time,” Mooney said, pointing to the two figures creeping up the stairs giggling, shoes slung over their shoulders. “They may pay for it in the morning.”

  “Naw, Mama will remind Whitt to drink her water and take her Advil. And I see both grabbed a banana on the way up.” Finley smiled. “They’ll survive.”

  “The night’s still young. Want to head out to the deck?” Mooney had opened the French doors to the outdoors.

  “Sure, let me grab a shawl.” Finley called over her shoulder, “And the wine!”

  By the time Finley returned with her shawl, the wine bottle, and some glasses, Mooney had turned on the gas firepit and was warming her hands over the flames. The night was black except for the light given by the fire and a few strategically placed lanterns, making the stars all the brighter. The light evening breeze smelled briny and clean like a fresh wash hung in crisp, salt air.

  “I really could get used to this,” Mooney said. “Maybe I need to run through my contact list and find myself a new guy with a house out here on the island.”

  “Well, while you are looking, find one for me,” Finley said, pouring some of the local rosé into the glasses.

  “You?” Mooney eyed her friend warily. “You are getting back into the dating rat race? You, who only yesterday had sworn off men?”

  “All right, I get the point—but I am not getting any younger, so I need to get back in the saddle,” Finley said. If he has moved on, so can I. It may take some time, but if anyone can get me back in the game, Mooney can.

  “Oh, this is going to be fun!” Mooney sat across from her friend, pulled her feet up under her, and tucked the wide legs of her jumpsuit over her toes. She took her time, drawing a long sip of wine from her glass, her eyes fixed on Finley’s face.

  “What are you staring at?” Finley shifted herself closer to the firepit. “I haven’t grown horns.”

  “I know. Just trying to figure out your type.”

  “I don’t know that I have a type, per se. Just a nice guy with a great sense of humor.”

  “How clichéd!” Mooney took another swig of wine. “You could find a million guys that say they have a great sense of humor, and some actually have—but you, my dear, wouldn’t find them in the least bit attractive.”

  “Well, since I don’t know my type, why don’t you tell me what it is?”

  “British, most likely, for the quirkiness and wit. Tall and physically attractive, but not necessarily handsome. Well-read and well-traveled so that you don’t get bored but not bookish. Somewhat adventurous. Kind of like Indiana Jones so that you are always intrigued. And wealthy enough to allow him to live out his fantasies with you by his side.”

  Finley shook her head and laughed. “You find him, I’ll marry him. This guy is too good to be true. And even more to the point, what would he want with me?”

  Mooney paused mid-sip. “Finley Walker—now that I know your middle name, I have got to use it for effect—you are one of the prettiest, smartest, funniest, most charming women I know. Any guy would be lucky to have you pay him the slightest bit of attention. Stop this pity party.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Finley responded jokingly. “So, do you have someone in mind?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” Mooney slyly swirled the last sip of wine around in her glass. “Indeed, I do.”

  “Well, do I get to hear about him?”

  “Nope. Not until I set it up.”

  “Why? What’s wrong with him?”

  “Nothing, but if I tell you about him, something is bound to be. You will find it. So, let me just arrange it, and we’ll see what happens.”

  “Fine, but you need to be sure you find someone for you too.”

  “I will. I am not the problem, missy. I’m rarely without someone for long.” Mooney slipped her feet into her shoes and stood. “Let’s head to bed. We have stuff to do tomorrow before we head to the lighthouse.”

  “I’m with you,” Finley said as she shut off the gas to the firepit and picked up the glasses.

  ***

  Finley was awakened by the flapping of the shutters against the side of the house. She had left her window open as she suspected her mother and sister had. It was their habit to crack the window just a bit, even in the dead of winter, to let some fresh air in. On a night like that one, with a soft breeze blowing in from the ocean, it was the perfect time to throw the windows wide open.

  She checked her phone. It was only 1:30 a.m.—less than an hour after she’d fallen asleep. Restless again, she pulled a sweater over her t-shirt and sweatpants and headed downstairs. Perhaps a bit more water would help.

  She poured water into one of the wine glasses left on the counter and headed onto the deck. The sliver of a moon was up enough to give some light but not enough to drown out the stars. She was glad for the sweater, especially if she planned to sit there for any length of time. Given that getting back to sleep was unlikely tonight, she might as well enjoy the starlit evening.

  She wondered who Mooney was thinking of for her. He sounded nice enough. Mooney was right—if she was given too much time to think about it, she would back out or find fault with the poor guy. Mooney may not have known her long, but she knew her well.

  It had seemed like only a few minutes, but over an hour later, Finley made her way back toward the house. She paused to take one last look at the stars. The night was silent, except for the low hum of the air-conditioning as it turned on and off. A periodic hiss caught her attention. That sounds like a leak. If the AC is leaking freon, we need to cut it off and tell Jameson.

  Finley switched on the flashlight of her phone and followed the pebbled path around to the side of the house where the sound emanated. She put her glass on the grass and moved closer, shining the beam at the AC unit that seemed to be making the sound. During one of the sweeps of light that she passed over the area, a metal canister and the letter “C” caught her eye
.

  Finley took off toward the back of the house, throwing open the large French doors and the multi-paned sliding panels before bounding up the stairs. She got to Mama’s room first.

  “Get up! Get out! Now!” she screamed as she pushed open the window wider and grabbed her mother by the arm.

  “What in goodness name is wrong with you?” Mama cried.

  “Carbon monoxide! Can you stand? Then get out!” Finley yelled as she ran for Whitt’s room.

  Whitt had heard the noise and was already out of bed when Finley entered the room. “What’s wrong? Is Mama sick?”

  “No, but we all will be if we don’t get out of here!” Finley said. “Get Mama and go outside. Carbon monoxide. Go!”

  Whitt ran for the door and led her mother down the stairs. She looked back as Finley reached for Mooney’s door handle.”

  “Don’t stop. Get out. I am going for Mooney. I’m okay,” Finley said. “Go!”

  Mooney was sleeping soundly in her bed, the light summer comforter tucked around her. The AC hummed quietly, bathing her in cool, and now potentially deadly, air.

  “Mooney. Up! Now!” Finley barked as she flung open the windows and shut off the air-conditioning unit. Mooney stirred slightly but continued to doze. Thank goodness she is small. I am going to have to carry her out. “Come on, girl, we are getting out of here.”

  Finley slung her friend’s arms over her shoulders and pulled her to her feet. Mooney swayed and leaned heavily on Finley. Together, they two-stepped through the hall and toward the stairs.

  “Finley, get out of there!” Finley could hear the panic in Mama’s voice.

  “Coming, Mama!” Finley used her height to hoist Mooney onto her hip, grabbing the banister for balance while negotiating the stairs. At the bottom, she switched positions, taking Mooney under her arms and dragging her the rest of the way onto the deck. When they were well onto the grass, Finley laid Mooney out on her side.

  “What’s going on?” Miles had heard the commotion from his bungalow and approached the group.