Murder Most Frothy

front of the salon’s couch.

The girls stared at the twenties. Then they looked at each other.

“It’d be really easy to look it up, Janice, you know that,” the blond whispered to the brunette. “Monroe’s always schmoozing outside with the owners.”

“I don’t know, Pam…”

“Come on, Jan, you heard the lady. It’s, like, for true love!”

Inside of a minute, the girls had finished their debate and took me up on my offer. The brunette named Janice went topside and returned with news on her boss’s whereabouts. As they’d predicted, Monroe was already out of the office, hanging at the other end of the marina, chatting with the young yachtsman on the deck of his boat.

Under the pretense of needing more cleaning supplies, the blond named Pam returned to the office and let herself in. She came back in record time, but the look on her face was one of defeat.

“I snagged the only notation I could find for yesterday under Rabbit Run. No address and no name. Just a phone number. Weird.” She handed me a yellow Post-it note with the number scrawled on it.

“Sorry, ma’am,” said Janice. “Guess that’s the best we can do. Want your money back?”

“Not a dime,” I told them. “This is perfect. This is all I need.”

I climbed off Rabbit Run and didn’t…run that is. I was tempted to, but I walked instead, very casually toward my car. I could see the portly owner at the other end of the marina, still chatting with that yachtsman. The last thing I wanted to do now was call attention to myself.

I got behind the wheel and pulled out. When I reached the highway, I looked for a spot to park and make a cell phone call. The phone rang once, twice, three times—

“Yeah?”

The voice was low and gruff. I’d slept next to the man long enough to know that I’d just woken him up.

“Sorry, Matt.”

A yawn was his reply. “Uh…what time is it?”

“Who is it, darling?”

My spine stiffened, though not voluntarily. Over the years, I’d heard enough female voices in the background of calls to my ex-husband to have developed an autonomic response.

“It’s nobody, Bree,” Matt called, away from the receiver. “Just business.”

“Oh, so now I’m ‘nobody’?” I teased.

“Hold on a second,” Matt told me pointedly.

A muffled conversation ensued in the background, concluding with the words “…I’ll take it in the bathroom.” A door closed. Then Matt’s voice came back on the line. He was whispering.

“What’s wrong, Clare? Something had better be wrong for you to call me so early when you, of all people, should know how late I went to bed.”

“Matt, I can only assume you went to bed. Whether you got any sleep is another matter entirely.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“According to what you said last night, you and Bree were just casual friends.”

“We are.”

“So you’re just casually sleeping with your casual friend?”

“Get to the point. Why are you calling?”

“I need your help.”

“Again?”

“I’ll owe you again.”

“You’re getting to owe me a lot.”

“Matt, please. Considering what you pulled during our marriage, don’t you think it’s the other way around. I mean, remember the time when you—”

“Okay! Point made. What do you want me to do? Drive you to Nova Scotia for some salmon? Or maybe David’s got a craving for an authentic egg cream. I should be able to drive to Brooklyn and back in about six hours. Or maybe—”

“That won’t be necessary, but thank you for offering. What I need is for you to punch something into your PDA.”

A frustrated exhale followed.

“What’s the matter?” I asked. “Did you lose it?”

“It’s in my suit jacket. In the bedroom.”

“Where are you?”

“In the bathroom. I didn’t want to disturb Bree.”

“You mean you didn’t want Bree to know you were talking to your ex-wife.”

“I meant what I said.”

“Ooooh, I get it. Talking to me is something that disturbs Bree.”

“Bingo.”

“Well, I can’t help it, Matt. What I need involves your using your PDA.”

“Which, like I said, is in the room where Bree is right now.”

I really should have bit my tongue, but I couldn’t stand hearing Matteo Allegro, fearless Third World coffee trader and extreme sport junkie, twist himself into a pretzel for that designer-draped python.

“What are you?” I asked, hoping at least to give him a reality check. “Afraid of her or something?”

“Clare, please. Just wait a minute, okay?”

I drummed my fingers on the dashboard and watched a gull wing its way inland. Finally, my ex-husband came back on the line.

“Okay. I’ve got it.”

“Are you back in the bathroom?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Why?”

“I just think it’s amusing. She’s forcing you to do business in the place where you do your—”

“Yeah, very funny. Now do you want my help or do you want me to hang up?”

“Help.”

“Fine,” he said. “Shoot.”

“Not literally, I hope.”

“Clare—”

“I need you to go online and use the reverse phone directory,” I told him. “I’ll give you the area code and number. Punch it in and let me know what address you get.”

“Jesus, Clare…”

“What?”

“Tell me you’re not playing detective again.”

“I’m not playing detective again.”

“Then why do you want me to do this?”

“I’m following a lead.”

“You’re playing detective again!”

“Lower your voice, Matt. You’ll disturb Bree.”

“I’m not helping you, Clare.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to enable you.”

“Enable me?!”

My mood had been relatively lighthearted up to that moment. I’d used my wits, took a chance that paid off, and found a solid lead. But that single phrase not only pushed my buttons, it sent me into outer space.

“For god’s sake, I’m not a drug addict!” I practically shouted into my cell. “I told you last night, I’m trying to help David. Do I have to remind you what I put up with during those days when you were an addict?! Enable me! You’ve really got a lot of nerve laying drug psycho-jargon on me!”

“Christ, Clare, take it easy! I’ll help you, all right. Just calm down.”