Murder Most Frothy

“I’m going to look in on David right now.” I headed out of the kitchen, Matt on my heels.

Alberta hurried to catch up. “He’s in a very bad mood,” she warned, her voice strained.

I kept walking. “You said that already, Alberta. But don’t worry. I don’t care if he fires me in a fit of pique. I already have another job.”

When I reached the bedroom door, I could hear David moaning on the other side. I gently tapped on the wood, then opened the door a crack. Super air-conditioned air rolled over me.

“Why is it so cold in here?” I asked alarmed.

Alberta said she’d pumped up the temperature herself because David had always claimed that lying in a cold, dark room alleviated his migraine symptoms in the past. Still soaked under the robe, I shivered.

“David,” I called, barely above a whisper. “It’s me. Clare.”

“Go away,” David replied in a quivery voice. “I’m sick.”

With the limited light streaming through the partially open door, I could see David lying under a tangle of blankets. He lay on his side, his back facing me, pillow over his head.

“I know you’re sick, David…Alberta told us.”

“Us?”

“Matteo is here too. He came to say hello. But if you’re sick—”

David moaned. “God, Clare, I’m not up to socializing. I’m dying here…I think I’ve been poisoned.”

“Poisoned! By whom?”

He moaned again. “That bastard Felloes. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten anything at his party.”

“You think Bom Felloes tried to poison you?” Ohmygod, ohmygod, I thought. I was right. Felloes had the motive and the opportunity. He must have hired the contract killer that mistakenly shot Treat. “We have to call the police. O’Rourke needs to hear that your neighbor is the one trying to kill you—”

“Kill me! God, no. No, no, no! Please, Clare, don’t go off the deep end again! I’m not saying he poisoned me literally—or even intentionally. The man uses what I call ‘poison’ at that slop house he calls a gourmet restaurant, but I never would have believed Felloes had the nerve to feed his guests that vile stuff.”

“Stuff? What stuff?” I demanded.

“MSG. Monosodium glutamate…I think I must have CSR—”

“CSR? My god, what’s that?” Matteo asked. “It sounds lethal.”

“It’s Chinese restaurant syndrome,” David informed him, moaning again.

“Are you kidding?” asked Matt, shooting me a skeptical look. “That can’t be a real syndrome—”

“I assure you that’s the shorthand term doctors use, even though they acknowledge you can get it at any restaurant that uses the food additive, and in a lot of processed food, too. Cramps, headache—”

David gagged, flopped on the bed like a fish out of water. He settled in a moment, let out a painful sigh. “Just go away,” he wailed.

I pulled Matt and Alberta back into the hallway and closed the door. “Where’s the nearest hospital? I think David needs medical care.”

“The only emergency room I know of out here is Southampton Hospital, and that’s fifteen miles away,” said Alberta.

Though he wasn’t much bigger than me, it would be no easy feat getting David Mintzer out of bed and down to the car, and brother was I glad Matt was there to help. An ambulance would have made more sense, but David absolutely, positively refused to go along with that.

“We do this quietly, or not at all,” he said, face pale from the pain, dark circles beneath his eyes. “Either I go to the hospital on my own power or I’ll die in this bed.”

I closed my eyes. Again that ugly word…die.

“We’d better take the Mercedes,” I told Matt. “It’s faster and more reliable than my clunky old Honda, and the three of us will barely fit into David’s sports car.”

“Hold on, the Mercedes isn’t my car—”

“Don’t be petty, Matt. A man’s life may be at stake here. Now help me.”

But instead of moving to David’s bed, Matt took out his cell phone. “What are you doing?” I demanded.

“I’m calling Breanne. I’ll tell her what’s happened so she won’t get stuck at Bom’s bash.”

I reached out and closed the phone. “You can’t tell Breanne anything. Breanne will blab everything to her friends, to people at the party. David won’t like it.”

“Clare, don’t be absurd. Bree wouldn’t do that.”

“Matt, she’s a magazine editor. Her stock and trade is gossip. Gossip about the latest trends. Gossip about the rich and famous. She’d sell her best friend down the river for a ten-percent increase in circulation. Now put that phone away and help me!”

Matt rolled his eyes, slipped the phone into his jacket and helped me sit David up. Mintzer groaned and clutched his head, suddenly dizzy. He wore oversized red silk pajamas, which made him appear small, frail, and very pale. His skin felt clammy.

“We have to hurry,” I said.

Alberta led the way, opening doors and clearing obstacles as Matteo and I half-carried, half-dragged the limp man down the stairs and across the living room to the front door.

The guard came over to help, and I took the opportunity to race to my room. Inside of two minutes, I tore off Bom’s robe, stripped off my wet clothes, and threw on a fleecy jogging suit. My sneakers were on the beach, and I didn’t take any time to look for another pair, so I ran back to the front door still wearing Bom’s royal-blue slippers.

Outside, the guard had opened the car door for Matt, who was helping David into the back seat. Alberta brought a quilt and wrapped it around her shivering boss.

“I’ll call if anything happens,” I told the housekeeper.

Chewing her lip, Alberta nodded.

Matt started the engine and pulled away.

“Oh god, oh damn,” David moaned. “I think I’m gonna throw up!”

“Not on Bree’s leather upholstery!” Matt cried, hitting the brakes.

Unfortunately, his warning came too late.

Fifteen

Dr. Richard De Prima, intense and thirtyish in a white lab coat, with prematurely graying hair and a golden golfer’s tan, leafed through papers on a clipboard. His eyes scanned the pages then stalled on a long block of text. Finally the doctor looked up.

“Good thing you brought him in.”

“How bad is it?” I asked. Matt and I were standing with the doctor just outside an ER examining room. David was still inside.

“Mr. Mintzer complained of a burning sensation in the chest, shoulders, abdomen, forearms, and back of the neck. He felt bouts of numbness in his face, along with fairly constant abdominal pains, which are still persisting. He’s experiencing heart palpitations, and when he first entered the hospital he was wheezing, which indicates difficulty in breathing—and that indicates to me that Mr. Mintzer was very close to anaphylactic shock.”

“Oh, god.” I looked at Matt.

He squeezed my shoulder. “Then we did the right thing, bringing him in? Right, doctor?”

“Yes, of course,” De Prima replied. “And the patient said he’d vomited on the way to the hospital?”

Matt sighed. “Repeatedly.”

“That’s actually good,” De Prima noted. “We would have had to pump his stomach if he hadn’t.”

“What’s wrong with him?” I asked.

“I administered an antihistamine, a standard precaution with such a powerful and dangerous allergic reaction—”

Matt blinked. “He nearly died because of an allergy?”