Murder Most Frothy

“I wonder where the police are?” I fretted aloud.

David shook his head. “July Fourth in the Hamptons is the craziest time of year and the village police force isn’t very big.”

Suzi agreed. “There are probably major problems all over town tonight.”

“Traffic will be horrendous,” David added. “There’ll be accidents, DUIs, and drunk and disorderlies on top of what will surely be a few requests for ambulances.”

“I guess we were triaged,” I speculated aloud. “I mean, they did ask what Treat’s condition was, and I did tell them that he was…you know, already gone.”

Colleen began crying again.

I stood up. “Everyone stay here.”

“Where are you going?” David asked.

“I’m going to check on Alberta.”

This was the truth, just not the whole of it.

I moved through an archway and entered a long hallway. A large garage sat at the far end. In between were doors to the laundry room and the servants’ quarters.

I passed by the first door, which was the bedroom shared by the cook and butler. I knew it would be empty. Kenneth and Daphne Plummer had been married for twenty years. They’d worked for David more than six. Daphne was the cook, Kenneth the butler. For the long Fourth of July weekend, Daphne had traveled to Indiana for her niece’s wedding. And Kenneth was in the city, taking care of some utility issues at David’s Greenwich Village townhouse.

When I came to the second door, however, I lightly knocked.

“Alberta?” I called.

David’s fifty-seven-year-old housekeeper was the only staff member he’d asked to work over the weekend. She’d declined an invitation to the party, so David gave her the night off, knowing we, the restaurant staff and Madame, would handle any post-party cleanup duties.

I knocked again. This time I was sure I heard voices on the other side of the door. I just couldn’t tell if it was two people talking or Alberta’s television set. Then there was some scrambling movement and the door opened.

Alberta Gurt’s quarters consisted of a bedroom, sitting room, and private bath. David had mentioned this to me the day I’d first arrived in the mansion. Her front door wasn’t open very far at the moment, but I could see the bedroom door was closed and a single dim lamp was all that illuminated the sitting room. The TV set was off.

“Alberta,” I said, “I’m sorry to bother you, but something happened during the party tonight.”

“Oh?” she asked, blinking. “What’s that?”

Alberta had pale blue eyes and light brown hair sprinkled with gray, which she wore in a short, neat cut around an attractive face. She had the full shape of a woman in her middle years, not slender, but not heavy either, and at the moment she was wearing a deep violet nightgown with pink lip gloss and pearl earrings. It was strange seeing her like that. I was so used to her crisp housekeeper’s uniform of sky blue slacks and matching tunic. But it was her evening off, so more power to her.

“Did you happen to hear or see anything that may have seemed out of place?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, did you hear something that may have sounded like a gunshot?”

“What? Like the fireworks? I heard them, all right. How could you not?”

“But you didn’t come out to see them?”

“Oh, no. I was watching my favorite TV show, enjoying the night off. You’ve seen one fireworks display, you’ve seen them all,” she said with a wave of her hand. I noticed some pretty rings on her fingers.

There was a silent pause. It seemed odd to me that she didn’t ask why I was asking about a gunshot. “All right, Alberta. Thanks. Sorry I bothered you.”

“That’s all right, Clare.”

She seemed in a hurry to shut the door. Nevertheless, I quickly asked, “What is your favorite TV show, by the way?”

“Oh!…you know, that new reality show everyone’s watching, American Star.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really?” Alberta wasn’t exactly in the demographic for a show like that, which took a pool of unknown young singers and had them perform every week until the audience voted them down to one winner, presumably America’s next pop diva.

“Oh, yes,” Alberta said quickly. “Talent scout shows aren’t new you know, I grew up on Ed Sullivan. Is there anything else, Clare?”

“No,” I said. “Good—”

I never got “night” out of my mouth. Alberta was already shutting the door with a hastily called “G’night!”

As the thunder rolled again, louder than before, I proceeded down the hallway until I reached the door at the very end. I turned the knob, entered the dark space, and flipped on the light.

There were a few flashlights on a shelf in David’s tencar garage. I grabbed one and resolutely headed out the side door. It was late, it was dark, and it was probably dangerous, but I intended to have a look around the grounds for myself.

Four

I clicked on the Maglite and began to walk the perimeter of the building, sweeping the milky white beam back and forth. At this time of night, the lane at the end of the long drive was country dark. There were no streetlights, not even any passing headlights.

When I first arrived here as a houseguest, I asked David about privacy and security issues. Unlike most of the residents of this area, he had elected not to place walls of privets around his property or a gate on his drive. He said it was because he didn’t want to feel hemmed in. But I suspected it was because he was a showman at heart, and he enjoyed the idea of people gawking at his property, although he claimed the location was remote enough that trespassing tourists hadn’t posed much of a problem. (Obviously, a trespassing shooter was another matter.)

An alarm system had been installed on the mansion’s doors, but not its windows. And there was no outdoor lighting, a decision I certainly regretted at this moment. The darkness felt eerie as I moved along. The coming storm had brought thick cloud cover and a hovering mist, making the night feel close. The temperature was also at least ten degrees lower than the day’s high of seventy-six, and I shivered a bit in my khaki skirt and short-sleeved Polo. To be completely honest, however, part of that shiver was from apprehension.

Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t afraid. If I had been, I would have stayed inside, because believe me, I’m no daredevil—not like my adrenaline-junkie ex-husband, who routinely got his kicks from rock-climbing, cliff-diving, and scouting out the most dubious dive bars in the Third World.

(In addition to being my ex, Matteo was an astute coffee broker, who traveled the world’s coffee plantations in search of the finest cherries. He was also the Village Blend’s coffee buyer, and therefore my business partner. As I already mentioned, during our marriage, in addition to becoming a drug addict, he’d also been a serial cheater who’d had less trouble giving up the cocaine than a variety of “inconsequential female conquests,” as he put it. The inconsequential was supposed to have been enough of an excuse for me to forgive him. It wasn’t.)

In any event, Matt recently accused me of having a Nancy Drew compulsion. He claimed it was a wish fulfillment impulse carried over from all the mystery novels I’d read in my formative years. He asserted this was my own personal version of an adrenaline rush.

Maybe Matt was right. Maybe he wasn’t. One thing I knew, however, coming out here to have a look around was my choice, whether smart or stupid. That’s why I kept my destination from David, Madame, Joy, and the rest of the crew. At this point in my life, I was through letting other people’s doubts, fears, and worries make my choices for me. And, anyway, there was a very logical reason why I was out here—

Because the police weren’t.