Murder Most Frothy

“Yes, dear, I do. I think he was lobbying even then to win the restaurant war that ensued. And Bom was no better. Here’s what he told the reporter: ‘David’s very successful, it’s true. But what else can you expect from a twenty-four/seven self-promoter? Is he more style than substance? Some do call him the Prince of Hype, and if the shoe fits…’”

“Ugly stuff,” I murmured. “For ‘good neighbors.’”

“I’m sure both Bom and Marjorie would have read this article since they’re in it. So both would have known about David’s MSG allergy.”

“But neither were at David’s July Fourth party,” I pointed out. “Marjorie was loitering outside it. And Bom wasn’t invited.”

“Your point?”

“David had complained of a migraine at his own party, remember? That’s the reason he went up to his bedroom before the fireworks started.”

“That’s right,” said Madame. “And he was perplexed by it. He said he was certain that he hadn’t ingested any of the foods that give him that reaction.”

“But someone could have slipped MSG in his food or drink then, too. The plan could have been to get him to move away from the party, to go up to his bedroom so the shooter could target him there.”

“But who would have done that?”

“I don’t know.”

“It’s all so elaborate, Clare. Why would this person have created such a production? I hate to say it, but there are probably much easier ways to kill David Mintzer.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of…”

“Clare! Clare Cosi!” Jacques Papas’s perpetually irritated voice called outside the closed break room door. “Where is that woman?”

The lilting Irish voice of Colleen O’Brien answered. “I think she’s in the break room, Mr. Papas. Joy said she’s making a private call.”

Before I could even rise from the couch, the door flew open with such force it banged against the back wall. “Why is this door closed?!”

I calmly regarded the swarthy manager. “I’m making a phone call, Jacques.”

“To whom?” He barreled into the room, his fleshy face reddening.

“It’s private.”

He spied the photos on the coffee table. “And what is all this?”

“I’ll have to call you back,” I told Madame.

“One more thing, Clare. I’ve been asking around about Graydon Faas, just as you requested, and you really shouldn’t worry. The Faas family out here co-owns Taber-Faas pharmaceuticals. They’re multimillionaires, dear.”

“Okay, gotta go,” I said and closed the phone.

Frankly, I didn’t care if the Faases were multibillionaires. The fact that Graydon’s family was rich told me nothing about the character of the boy himself, nor did it explain why he was working in the lowly job of waiter for the summer in an East Hampton eatery. But I didn’t have time to discuss all that with Madame. Not with Cuppa J’s crazy manager breathing down my neck.

By now, Papas was pawing through Jim Rand’s photos. I calmly got to my feet. “Jacques, what I’m doing is none of your business.”

He didn’t seem to care. He continued rudely looking through the pictures. “These photos…they’re from David’s party.”

“They’re my business,” I said, finally grabbing them back.

Jacques’s beady black eyes narrowed on me. “What sort of business?”

“If you must know, I’m conducting a little, uh…investigation.”

“An investigation!” Papas cried. He appeared appalled at first and then upset. “An investigation into…into what exactly? What do you mean?”

“I’m looking into some suspicious things that are happening around David, that’s what I mean. I’m his friend and I don’t intend to see anyone injure him.”

“I don’t understand you,” Papas sputtered. “You’re just a glorified barista. Who do you think you are?”

“Dial it down, Jacques. There’s no need to become insulting. And, if you don’t mind, I’m on break—”

Papas tapped his watch. “Your break was over five minutes ago, Ms. Cosi. And do you know what I think?”

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“I think you have an attitude problem, just like that Lopez girl. And I intend to inform David Mintzer of that fact. Now get yourself in gear. The dinner shift is arriving, and there’s much to be done!”

Nineteen

Saturday night was always the busiest night of the week at Cuppa J. The under-forty crowd packed the place, pumping up with caffeine to party until the wee hours. Papas had yet to hire a replacement for Prin, and I was stuck waiting tables again as well as managing the coffee bar.

When my next break came around, about eight o’clock, I didn’t dare risk another scene like the one I’d had earlier with Papas. I walked through the kitchen and out the back door, got into my car in the parking lot and locked the doors. Only then did I place my cell phone call.

“O’Rourke here.”

“Hello Detective, it’s Clare Cosi again.”

The unhappy exhale was hard to miss. “Yes, Ms. Cosi? What can I do for you?”

“I’m sorry to bother you, detective, but I have some more information for you. Did you know that Marjorie Bright is a crack shot? She’s a champion skeet shooter.”

“No. I didn’t know. And now I do.”

“You see why I’m telling you, don’t you? She has the skill to fire a rifle and hit a target. I’ve also got photographic evidence that she was not just passing through David’s property. She was loitering there during the party, skulking around for some reason, staying out of sight. Don’t you think those two things make her a likely suspect?”

“Did she have a motive for murdering Treat Mazzelli?”

“No. For attempting to murder David Mintzer.”

“Ma’am, Mr. Mintzer was not the man murdered the night of July Fourth, as you well know since you discovered the body. Now, I thank you for your information, but we have some very strong leads on our investigation and they do not involve Ms. Bright at this time.”

“It’s Jim Rand, isn’t it? Do you have him in custody?”

There was a pause and another weary sigh. “Ms. Cosi, we did question Mr. Rand, but his alibi checks out. The man couldn’t have shot Treat Mazzelli on the night of July Fourth. So he’s not in custody, nor is he a suspect at this time.”

“What alibi did Rand give you?”

“That’s all I can tell you, ma’am.”

“Wait, but—”

“Ms. Cosi, I will take your information about Ms. Bright under advisement, but I have to ask you to stop investigating this crime on your own. And if you break any laws doing so, I’ll see that you’re prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Do you understand me?”

“I understand.” I gritted my teeth in frustration. “Goodnight, detective.”

“No hard feelings, now, Ms. Cosi. Goodnight.”

I hung up, suddenly feeling both angry and stupid. Here I was trying to stop a murderer. And I’d just been accused of being an outlaw!