Murder Most Frothy

pigheaded, and apparently amoral as you are.”

“Get a grip, Clare.”

“You get a grip. Okay, maybe the amoral snipe was out of line—but only for them. Anyway, I’m the only one who believes David is in danger. And your mother. Madame sees the danger, too—”

“You dragged my mother into your little thrill ride?”

“It’s not a thrill ride, Matt.”

“Are you sure about that? You’re talking to a guy who was hooked on cocaine for years! Clare, a drug impairs your judgment. And this playing detective is obviously getting out of hand with you. It’s a thrill ride all right. It’s your drug and I’m starting to think it’s also your obsession!”

“It’s not a drug. It’s not a thrill ride. And it’s certainly not my obsession! It’s a matter of life and death is what it is! I didn’t ask for this to happen, but it did. Now we’re talking about David’s life. You saw for yourself what happened to him tonight.”

Matt shook his head. “And I can’t believe you’re involving my mother again.”

“Your mother’s staying at David’s. She was in the middle of everything as it unfolded.” I shrugged. “She couldn’t be held back. You know how she gets.”

Matteo had nothing to say about his mother because he knew her even better than me. However, he did zero in on a bulls eye of another sort—

“I’m guessing David doesn’t see things your way, does he?”

“Nobody sees things my way,” I replied. “Not the police, and certainly not David, who’s worse than anyone. David’s in denial, though he may not have that luxury much longer given tonight’s close call.”

Matt drove on in silence while he considered my dilemma, the road’s hum filling the void. We were almost in sight of David’s mansion when Matteo finally spoke again.

“So what are you going to do now?”

I was surprised. For once my ex-husband’s voice lacked its usual accusatory tone.

“I’m going to stick around and do what I can to prevent any harm from coming to David,” I replied frankly. “Not to mention our daughter and your mother, both of whom are too stubborn to leave the mansion. And I’m going to find out who’s trying to kill him and reveal the assassin’s identity to the police, if that’s possible.”

Matt swerved into David’s driveway and rolled the Mercedes up to the house. The guard waved us forward, nodding his head in greeting. Matt parked the Mercedes behind my Honda and faced me.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

I opened my mouth to speak, but the chirp of Matt’s cell phone filled the car. I realized after a moment that the cell was in the pocket of the jacket I still wore around my shoulders. I fumbled around in the pockets until I found the phone, handed it to Matt. The cell stopped ringing as he took it from my hand.

Matteo slipped the phone into his shirt pocket and waited for my answer. The cell phone beeped three times. Three missed messages, all from Ms. Summour, no doubt.

I slipped the jacket off my shoulders and popped the door.

“Thanks for vouching for me at Bom’s party, and for helping me get David to the hospital…I owe you, Matt —”

“Clare!”

“You better get back now. Hurry. Bree is waiting.”

Sixteen

Another day in paradise.

The next morning came all too soon. The sun broke through my windows with more brightness than I could handle, and my clean canvas of forgetfulness, that momentary innocence at early awakening, was quickly splattered with black recollections of the days before.

Skipping my usual morning swim, I rose and showered fast, deciding the one good thing I could say about the horrendousness of the last evening was that I’d found my daughter home safe and sound when I finally dragged myself upstairs. After looking into her room and finding her sleeping peacefully, I knew I’d be able to do the same.

My mother-in-law, however, was another matter. She’d gone missing. I’d found her room empty, her bedcovers unmolested, but I’d panicked for only a few minutes. Her message on the cell phone, which I’d left in my handbag, explained it all—

“Clare, dear, just letting you know, I’m spending the night at…” Her voice lowered, “…a friend’s. I did receive your earlier message, the one about Graydon Faas. I’ll ask around about that young man as well as Bom Felloes, and see what I can find out for you. I’ll see you tomorrow, dear. Good night!”

I was still shaking my head over Madame’s message as I blew my hair dry. She was spending the night at…“a friend’s”? Her attempt to be discreet was almost laughable, I thought as I pulled on jeans and a yellow vee-neck tee-shirt. I mean, really. That’s one mystery I won’t need help solving.

After slipping into a pair of leather sandals and grabbing my handbag, I headed for the quiet kitchen. By rote, I prepared a doppio espresso and drank it down, savoring the crema (the rich caramel-colored layer that defines a properly drawn espresso). Fortified for the day ahead, I climbed into my Honda in the mansion’s driveway. I tossed a wave at the security guard on duty, a new one since the night before, then drove off the mansion’s grounds, down the country lane and towards the main road. My destination was west of Southampton on Montauk Highway—

Hampton Bays, NY.

The words were practically burned into my brain. They were the exact words that had been painted on the bow of Rabbit Run, the boat I’d seen floating offshore near Bom Felloes’s mansion. The name and location of that boat were the only clues I had to finding my frogman, and, before I reported for work today, I hoped to locate the boat and its owner.

David’s Suffolk County phone book listed eight marinas in Hampton Bays. I tore out a page and took it with me on my drive, determined to check as many marinas as I could in the time I had.

Luck was with me, because I struck gold on the second try. Monroe’s Marina had maybe sixty vessels moored in its slips. I parked my car in the small lot and walked the dozen or so long docks, reading the boat names. After about ten minutes of searching, I spotted Rabbit Run, a thirty-five-foot inboard of white fiberglass.

Gotcha.

In the light of day, I could see the “boat” was really a power yacht. The helm was weather protected under a hard top, and there appeared to be a salon and galley below the deck, maybe even a sleeping berth.

From the dock, I looked for any sign of human activity aboard, someone I could speak with, but the yacht looked deserted. And so did the marina. I squinted against the glare of the morning sun, spotted a middle-aged couple on a sailboat at one end of the marina and a young man emerging from a mid-size yacht on the other. But that was it for human activity.

At seven in the morning in a resort area like this, most people were still sleeping off their partying from the night before. Any serious fishermen would have already taken their crafts out at dawn. And judging by the expensive-looking yachts in this marina, I’d say nobody was actually “serious” about much of anything here except maybe their pleasure.

I checked my watch again and sighed. If I were a professional P.I., I could have waited around here all day for someone to show up and board Rabbit Run. But at the moment I was being paid for my barista-management talents, not my sleuthing ones, so I had only a few free hours before I’d be expected at work for the Saturday lunch shift, one of the busiest times of the restaurant’s week.

I’d have to bite the bullet, I decided, and speak with the people running the marina. Certainly, they’d know who owned this vessel. The only question was—would they tell me? I’d have to concoct a good story for them to give away what they might very well consider to be private client information. But if I could persuade them, I’d have a name and a solid lead.

I walked over to the marina office, a squat gray building located between the parking lot and the water. I turned the handle on its front door, but it was locked up tight. There was no closed sign in the window, no hours