Murder Most Frothy

O’Rourke’s brow wrinkled unhappily. “The webbed feet, from the ‘Creature’?”

“Oh my god,” David said again.

“From a swimmer wearing fins,” I quickly corrected. “I believe those tracks were made by the shooter.”

Melchior scratched his chin. “Wait a second, Ms. Cosi. We thought you knew something specific. A threat perhaps?”

“Well…I did encounter Marjorie Bright on the property after the party was over. She threatened David.”

“Threatened him how?” Melchior asked. “What were her exact words?”

“She said, ‘Just tell David I’m not through suing him.’”

David snorted.

O’Rourke turned to him. “You don’t consider that out of the ordinary, Mr. Mintzer?”

“A lawsuit? In this town? Puh-leeeze. If there’s a Hamptons pastime more common than suing your neighbor, I don’t know what it is. People file in civil court as often as they file onto tennis courts. Look, Ms. Bright’s already taken local action against me once over my trees being too tall, and I’ve already assumed her lawyers and mine will be playing footsie for some time before our issues are resolved.”

“But, David, what was she doing on your property?” I demanded. “Don’t you find that suspicious?”

“She has no direct access to the beach now that I’ve built on this land,” David replied with a shrug. “Maybe she simply took a walk along the beach and was returning through my property when you caught her. No big deal.”

“If she was on the beach last night, we should interview her,” said O’Rourke, glancing at his partner.

Melchior nodded. “I’ll make a note.”

But that wasn’t enough to satisfy me. Marjorie Bright had been loitering on David’s property, smoking, and stewing, not just passing through. I was sure something was up with her, something bad— and although I couldn’t very well testify to seeing her there for any length of time, I felt in my gut that she meant harm to David.

“What about the diver’s fins,” I argued. “How can you explain their appearance just twenty yards away from the bullet casings on the same night as the shooting?”

“Ma’am, this is a resort area,” said O’Rourke. “Diver’s flippers in the sand aren’t exactly bloody fingerprints on a rifle stock.”

“But I swim or walk every day on that beach. I’ve never seen tracks like that before.”

O’Rourke folded his arms. “And what’s your explanation?”

“It’s possible Marjorie, or another enemy of David’s, paid for someone to do the shooting. The shooter had an employer.”

“So we’re looking for two killers now,” said O’Rourke. “A trigger man and the person who paid for it?” He faced David. “What do you think of Ms. Cosi’s theory, Mr. Mintzer?”

David shifted his surprised gaze from me to the Sergeant. “Why, I think it’s absurd. Ridiculous,” he replied.

It was my turn to be shocked. “David! I—”

“No, Clare,” he interrupted, directing his words to me. “I’m sorry but I have to say this now, because I don’t want any misunderstandings.”

He paused. When he spoke again his tone was measured, his words carefully chosen. “No one is trying to kill me. I completely dismiss the notion that I am a target. No one has threatened me, I have no mortal enemies, nor am I involved in any illegal activities that might provoke the interest of some kind of professional hit man.” David faced the policemen. “I shall cooperate fully in your investigation. I and my staff are available for interviews if you care to speak with us.”

“I’ll need a statement from everyone,” Melchior said.

“And I shall also provide you with a guest list from yesterday’s event.”

“Good,” O’Rourke said. “That would be helpful.”

“I only ask that you not bother my party guests unless you absolutely feel it is necessary to approach them. That said, I want you to do all you can to apprehend the person or persons responsible for this terrible crime.”

“I understand, Mr. Mintzer.” O’Rourke nodded. I promise you we’ll proceed with great discretion.”

“Thank you,” said David. “Now let me take you upstairs and give you my version of what happened last evening.”

As they spoke, David steered O’Rourke and Melchior out of the kitchen and presumably toward the bathroom where Treat had been shot. I peered out the tall kitchen windows at the uniformed officers still pacing the dunes. When I turned around again, Madame was in front of me.

“David was certainly adamant in his denial,” she remarked quietly.

“He protested too much,” I replied, rubbing my forehead.

“You still think he was the assassin’s target?”

“Now more than ever.”

David appeared thirty minutes later. I braced myself, ready for him to unleash another wave of righteous outrage. Instead, he took my arm and steered me back toward the kitchen table.

“Listen, Clare. I’m sorry about doing that to you in front of the authorities, but you have to understand my position.”

I might have been humiliated but I wasn’t stupid. “You’re more concerned with bad publicity than the fact that someone may be trying to murder you, is that it?”

David sighed. “Please, Clare. No one is trying to murder me. But even if someone wanted me dead, I could never admit it publicly. I have multiple businesses. Partnerships all over the world. I frankly loathe the comparison, but, like Ms. Stewart, I am my companies. They do not function without me. I can’t afford for anyone—not my associates, not my partners, investors, customers, or clients—to entertain the notion that I’m involved in something shady enough to invite a murder attempt. Millions of dollars and thousands of employees livelihoods are at stake. I have responsibilities.”

I wanted to speak, but bit my lip and nodded instead. “I understand.”

David slumped down in a seat in front of the table. “In any case, there are obviously gaps in my home security system—”

“Didn’t I tell you that the first day I came?”

“Indeed you did. That you were right about, Clare.”

“It’s time you got a serious alarm system,” I told him, “installed outdoor lighting—”

“I shall make the call just as soon as the police leave my house.”

“Not just alarms and motion detectors, okay?” I said. “Real security guards, around the clock. You don’t have to hire Spielberg’s ex-Masaad agents, but for god’s sake get some Pinkertons, at least until Treat’s murder is solved and the murderer caught.”

David smiled. “Very well, but on one condition.”

“Yes?”

“I want you to drop the notion that I’m the real target for murder—pronto.”

After a beat I nodded. “Okay. Agreed.”

“Good.” David rose. “Now I’ll rejoin those detectives, before there’s any more damage done to my imported Italian marble bathroom.”

Six

Cuppa J was a short ride from David Mintzer’s beach house, but, typical of a sunny summer day in the Hamptons, traffic was horrendous.

Democratic, too.

Late model BMWs, Ferraris, Mercedes, and Jaguars inched along with the same egalitarian sluggishness as my lowly Honda. A ten-minute drive became forty minutes of start-and-stop frustration.

When I finally left “Leisure with Dignity” around eleven-fifteen, the Suffolk County police were still going over details of the shot in the dark. I could tell David was losing patience in discussing details of the party, what he knew