Murder Most Frothy

were somewhat rough around the edges. Mike Quinn and his crow’s feet came to mind. Even Matt—before Breanne had gotten hold of him.

Outside the night had cooled even more. Landscape lighting had turned the mansion’s castle-esque exterior and flowering grounds around it into a glowing wonderland.

Matt opened the door to Breanne’s sleek silver Mercedes convertible now waiting at the bottom of the steps. I climbed in, sank into the fawn-colored custom leather, and faced The Sandcastle again.

Bom Felloes was standing there. He noticed my glance, smiled, and waved, looking as dashing and polished as a British lord.

I offered a tiny wave in return, not sure what I should be cursing more—his continued presence on my suspect list or my complete inability to reengineer my taste in men.

Fourteen

Without a backward glance in Bom Felloes’s direction, Matt climbed behind the wheel.

“Buckle up,” he barked.

I barely got the strap over my shoulder when the engine under the silver Mercedes’ hood sprang to life, a high performance purr. The radio came on with the engine. The “Music of Love,” a sentimental ballad poured from the speakers. I actually liked the song, but Matt snapped it off with a sharp turn of his wrist, then shifted into first gear and stepped on the gas so hard the tires spun against the driveway’s paving stones.

The Mercedes lurched forward, slamming me back into my seat. Matt steered the car around the horse circle too fast. It fishtailed for a second, and I thought we were going to end up in a flowerbed.

“You weren’t very polite back there,” I pointed out.

Matt shook his head as we left the front gate and turned onto the road. “Guys like that…they’re a dime a dozen, Clare. I’ve met them all over the world. Wannabe aristocracy. You can’t trust him.”

“Who do you mean?”

“You know who I mean. Who does he think he is with that ‘let me put your slippers on’ act, Cinderella Man?”

“Wasn’t Cinderella Man that World Heavyweight Champion boxer? The one they made a movie about?”

“I meant Prince Charming, okay! But let me tell you, the charm turns into a pumpkin at midnight. And that British accent’s about as real as the potted plants in a used car salesman’s showroom. And what kind of name is that, anyway? Bomb? How can you trust a man named after a weapon of mass destruction!”

“It’s Bom, Matt. B-O-M, the Portuguese word for good, and I know you know that. That’s why his restaurants are called Good Felloes. And I know you know that too. You’re just being difficult. And please slow down!”

Matt frowned, sighed, then slumped a bit in his seat as if giving up. His foot finally eased on the gas pedal, and it occurred to me he was now feeling the way I had when I first ran into him and Breanne at the party— jealousy, then confusion and embarrassment about feeling that way when you weren’t supposed to anymore. Did all divorced couples feel that way? Possessive about a spouse they’d long since given up?

“So what were you doing at the party?” Matt asked, his voice calmer now, more reasonable.

“I told you. I was—”

“Looking for David, I heard what you said to Mr. Good bar. I just don’t buy it. In fact, what I really think is that you were looking for Mr. Right.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a smart woman, Clare. Too smart. I think you cooked the whole wet tee-shirt arrival up to make an impression on the celebrity chef. Well, I guess you got what you wanted. The act worked. He’s interested.”

In a word, I was furious. “I was looking for David. Something came up. I had to find him. Do you really think I risked pneumonia just to meet that man?” I lightly shook my still-wet hair to make my point.

“Careful,” Matt irritably cautioned. “These leather seats were custom made for Bree.”

“Oh, were they?” I narrowed my eyes, then shook my wet head again, this time with the vigor of a just-washed poodle. Water droplets sprayed the interior of Breanne’s Mercedes. More than a few landed on Matteo’s Helmut Lang suit jacket.

Matt smirked. “How immature.”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

Luckily, the trip to David’s estate was too short for the two of us to continue our sorry little war.

“Turn here,” I said, pointing.

As we swung into the driveway, the uniformed guard, who I’d met earlier, blocked our path.

“Who’s this?” Matt asked.

“David has added some security,” I said.

Matteo’s eyebrow lifted with curiosity, but he didn’t ask why.

I waved a greeting to the guard. “It’s only me,” I said as the young man approached, his flashlight moving from Matt’s face to mine.

“I didn’t know you left the grounds, Ms. Cosi.”

“I went for a walk…and, uh, got a little wet.”

The guard stared at Matt.

“This is Matteo Allegro,” I quickly explained. “He’s an associate of David’s. He’d like to pop in and say hello, update David on some business they have together. David has come home, right?”

The guard nodded. “Mr. Papas brought him back about an hour ago, ma’am. Dropped Mr. Mintzer off and drove away.”

“Good,” I replied, relieved I did not have to deal with David’s condescending and possibly dishonest restaurant manager. “We’ll just pop up to the house. Mr. Allegro won’t be long.”

The guard paused, clearly wondering whether he should allow the Mercedes entry. “Come on,” I coaxed. “I’ll vouch for Matt.”

Finally the man stepped aside and waved us forward.

Matt drove up and parked behind my Honda, which I’d left behind David’s little sports car. The guard followed us up to the house and let us in with a passkey. Inside the lights were dim, the foyer deserted. No one was in the living room, either.

“Maybe David already went to bed,” said Matt.

A moment later we found Alberta Gurt in the kitchen—in fact, we must have really startled her by entering because she dropped a crystal tumbler. An hour ago Alberta was fine; now she seemed agitated.

“Oh, my goodness! You gave me a scare!” she cried, grabbing a tea towel. She bent down to pick up the broken glass. “You really shouldn’t sneak up on people like that!”

“I’m sorry,” I said, although we really hadn’t been sneaking and she should have heard our approach. I could only assume she’d been terribly distracted. But I didn’t want to argue and make things worse. “Alberta, this is Matt Allegro, one of David’s business associates. He’s here to say hello. Has David retired?”

“He’s in bed, and in no condition to talk,” the woman said, dumping both the glass and the tea towel into the garbage. “Too many martinis, I thought. So I whipped him up one of my Fizzy Friendlies—”

“One of your what?” I asked.

“It’s an anti-hangover drink David asks me to prepare for him when he’s partied too hearty, as he calls it. Usually the Friendly eases David’s nausea and gets rid of his headache, and he goes right to sleep. But tonight it didn’t help at all. He’s moaning, in pain—David said he thinks he was poisoned—”

“Poisoned!” I cried.

“He’s very sick,” Alberta continued. “I don’t know what to do. David’s in a very bad mood. He says he wants to be left alone. I wanted to call Dr. Ramah, his physician, but—”

“Wait. I know Dr. Ramah. Isn’t he in Manhattan?” I’d met the good doctor at a charity event connected to St. Vincent’s Hospital in the Village. It was Madame’s friend Dr. MacTavish who’d introduced us.

Alberta shrugged. “I didn’t know who else to call. I don’t know any doctors out here in the Hamptons.”