by Клео Коул
“Hottie, Mom. Hunk is old school.”
With a groan, I finished pulling the two espresso shots, dumped the dark liquid into a waiting blender, added crushed ice, milk, chocolate syrup, and a dash of vanilla syrup, then took the whole thing for a spin on high. I poured the “Iced ChocoLattes” (as we called them at the Village Blend) into two glass mugs, mounded the frothy drinks with chocolate whipped cream and chocolate shavings, and waved Graydon Faas over to the outdoor espresso station.
Like my daughter, Graydon was a member of David’s Cuppa J waitstaff working tonight’s party. A surf-crazy twentysomething with a brown buzz-cut streaked blond, Graydon was the tall, silent type. With a quick, nervous-looking glance at Joy, he picked up the frothy drinks and walked them over to the two waiting guests who’d ordered them.
“Okay,” I told my daughter. “Hottie then. What I want to know is why you think I’d be happy to hear that a man at least as old as my ancient forty years, is winking at my twenty-one-year-old daughter?”
Joy rolled her eyes. “Because he’s a big star.”
“Honey, half the faces here have been on the cover of Trend magazine and the other half have been profiled in the Wall Street Journal. Didn’t you study Chaucer back in high school? The House of Fame has dubious structural integrity.”
“I don’t care. He’s cute.”
“Who’s cute?” said Treat Mazzelli, walking up to Joy and throwing a muscular arm around her shoulders. “Talking about moi again?”
Another Cuppa J waiter, Treat was in his mid-twenties. He had flashing brown eyes, raven hair, and the stocky, muscular build of a weightlifter. He was also an outspoken guy who loved to use his flirty sense of humor on the younger females of the species.
“What an ego,” teased Joy. “I wasn’t talking about you. I was talking about Keith Judd. He winked at me.”
I grunted in disgust and shook my head. Treat noticed my reaction. “Relax, Mother Clare,” he teased. “I saw the whole ‘Keith Judd’ incident.”
I raised an eyebrow. “It’s an incident, is it?”
Joy smirked at Treat. “What did you see?”
He shrugged. “Just Joy staring at Judd with naked abandon. Can you say ‘obvious’? The guy was clearly shining her on. Apparently, he’s used to groupies like her.”
“I am not a groupie.” Joy’s voice held mock outrage, but I could see the little flirty smile forming as she eyeballed Treat. “Yeah, okay, so I was probably staring. But at least I didn’t drop the tray, okay? Give me credit for that.”
“Okay, sweet thing.” Treat laughed. “Here’s your credit.”
The two were about the same height and he easily tightened his arm around her neck, trying to pull her into a half-nelson so he could buff her head. But Joy was too quick for him. With a squeal, she slipped out of his grip.
“Do not. Repeat. Do not touch the hair!”
Treat rolled his eyes. “What up, princess? It’s just a ponytail?”
“A neat ponytail,” Joy pointed out. “I don’t want you mussing it.”
“Check it, baby. You haven’t lived till you had Treat muss you…just a little, what do you say? After the party?” He reached out to tug her hair.
Joy flipped her chestnut ponytail out of his reach, but I could see she was enjoying the game—a little too much.
So I cleared my throat—a little too loudly.
“You two better get some more trays circulating or Madame may flog you with her Gucci shoe.”
“Aye, aye, Barista Bligh.” With a salute for me and an exaggerated wink for Joy, Treat headed off to the kitchen, where my French-born ex-mother-in-law was reigning supreme as the “Culinary Queen,” as Treat had put it earlier in the evening.
One thing about Madame, whether she was in a vintage Oscar de la Renta or a béarnaise-stained apron, she maintained a regal bearing like nobody’s business. And for a woman pushing eighty, she often displayed more upbeat energy than I could muster at the end of the day. I was glad she’d come out to visit me and her granddaughter—and even happier she’d volunteered to manage the mansion’s kitchen tonight, making sure our waiters and waitresses properly arranged their trays and kept the prepared food flowing.
Joy watched Treat head back inside the mansion. “C’mon, Mom, give me a chance to impress Keith Judd. Whip me up something extra-special to take to him.”
“No.”
“Pleeeeeze.” Joy tapped her cheek. “How about your eight-layered chocolate-almond espresso!”
The eight-layered espresso was a complicated balance of physics—it required the careful pouring of heavier syrups and lighter liquids to create a beautiful-looking drink. It was my own version of a café pousson, that multi-layered cocktail of liquors of different colors and densities, which originated in New Orleans. Since the French translation of the drink is “push coffee,” and since they say a true café pousson separates the men from the boys where bartenders are concerned, I decided to create one using actual coffee. But the last thing I wanted to do was use my talents to help my daughter impress a womanizing thespian.
“That’s a hot drink,” I told her. “I’m making iced tonight.”
“Come on,” Joy pleaded. “He’ll love a hot drink. The weather’s cooling off now anyway.”
My daughter’s eyes were as wide as emerald moons. Like a little girl she wanted what she wanted when she wanted it. So what did I do? What any self-respecting American mom would do. I sighed, shook my head, and gave in.
“Okay,” I said. “But how about a Tropical Coffee Frappe instead?” Rum and coconut had made that one a favorite of tonight’s guests.
“No. Not special enough.”
“An Amaretto Iced Coffee Smoothie?” Kahlua and amaretto gave that one a kick.
“No.”
“Please do the eight-layer thing. He’ll love it! Please, Mom!”
“Okay, but it’ll take a few minutes of concentration. You take over mixing the cold drinks for guests until I finish.”
“Deal!”
About fifteen minutes after Joy delivered my “hot” version of a café pousson cocktail to the “hottie” actor, the fireworks began.
I always was a sucker for July Fourth displays. When my ex and I had been happily married—for a few years there, when Joy was still very young and things hadn’t gone totally to hell yet—we would put Joy in a stroller and go over to the FDR drive in Manhattan. The city closed the highway off so residents could line the East River from Harlem to the South Street Seaport and watch the most spectacular fireworks display in the country. The rockets would shoot off from barges floating in the river. Ice cream, hot dog, and shish-kabob vendors would supply the crowd with delicious street fare, and portable radios would provide broadcasts of synchronized music.
I remember Joy clapping happily in her stroller, Matt putting his big, strong arms around me and telling me to just lean into him. If only we could have stayed that way, never left the FDR, kept the fireworks going forever.
Tonight’s display had been privately arranged by David, who was a newcomer to East Hampton. This was only his third annual Fourth party. Two brothers from Manhattan’s Chinatown, who had long ago worked out the pile of permits needed from the local authorities to create private fireworks for Hamptons parties, set their rockets up down the beach and angled them to fall over the ocean.
Now colors bloomed in the evening sky, painting the starry canvas with flickering lights that trailed like wet diamonds down to the black surf. We all stopped to watch the spectacle, then the party cranked up again, one last burst of energy before the guests, like the flickering lights of the expended rockets, trailed off into the night.
The fairly speedy exit of the partygoers was not surprising. Clouds were moving in fast from over the ocean—a flash of distant lightning and a rumble of thunder had been the equivalent of a Broadway curtain call. With smiles and waves, and calls goodnight to each other, the friendly, happy throng filed into the mansion and out the front door like a
human commuter train.
As the last of the guests trailed off, I quickly directed Joy and Graydon Faas in a cleanup detail on the large outdoor deck. There were cups, cocktail glasses, and napkins all over the joint. Lounge chairs, antique benches, and other furniture had been scattered across the deck and lawn as well. And with the storm moving in, all of us had to work fast to get the valuable pieces inside before the skies opened up.
“Clare, what do I do with these fabulous strawberries?” Madame asked me as I moved the espresso machine back onto the kitchen counter. “There’s not one egg of caviar left and the prawns are long gone, but I have about ten quarts of fresh strawberries left over here. I can package them up for the restaurant or place them in bowls for David’s personal use.”
Even after a long night, Madame was looking as put-together as ever. Her blunt-cut, shoulder-length gray hair, dyed sleekly silver, had been twisted into a neat chignon and her sleeveless fuchsia blouse and black summer-weight slacks were protected from spills by a still nearly-spotless white chef ’s apron.
“I think David better make the decision on the strawberries,” I said, snatching a plump one to nibble on. “Where is he, anyway? I haven’t seen him since before the fireworks.”
Joy overheard us. “Maybe he’s out front with the last of the guests.”
“No, no. He wasn’t feeling well earlier,” said Madame. “He mentioned to me that he had a migraine coming on with a vengeance, said it felt like a food allergy reaction, although he was certain he hadn’t eaten anything to induce it. In any event, he went upstairs for some medicine and to lie down. He asked me to make his apologies to any guests that might leave before he came down again. Do you think he’s fallen asleep?”
I checked my watch. “If he took migraine medication, I’m betting the man’s down for the count.”
“Perhaps you better check on him,” Madame suggested. “See if he needs anything.”
“Good idea.”
“Oh,” she called after me. “If you see that young man Treat, would you send him my way? That boy went off to find a free bathroom some time ago—the first floor bathrooms were constantly in use all night—and I believe he’s been shirking work every since!”
I raised an eyebrow at that. It wasn’t like Treat Mazzelli to shirk work. He was a good, dependable waiter at Cuppa J. Nevertheless, he did seem to have a penchant for flirting, and the party atmosphere may have given him license to indulge himself. I figured I’d find him in a secluded corner with a willing female on our wait staff—and only hoped it wasn’t more than a few kisses he was stealing. David would have an absolute cow if he found out Treat was using one of the mansion bedrooms to seduce a co-worker.
“Don’t worry,” I called back to Madame. “I’ll throw a rope around him and drag him back.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance as I left the large gourmet kitchen. Still nibbling the giant strawberry, I entered the great room—a spacious salon filled with goosedown sofas, overstuffed armchairs, and dozens of gorgeous antiques. A large fireplace dominated the room on one end, and the wall parallel to the deck and beach had been made transparent by a line of tall palladium windows, closed up tight now because of the coming storm.
David’s bedroom suite was on the south end of the sprawling mansion. He’d shown it to me once, during the “grand tour” of the entire estate on the day I arrived.
I climbed a set of stairs tucked between the great room and the library. At the end of the hallway on the second floor of this wing was a set of mahogany double doors that led to David’s master bedroom suite. The doors were shut, and I was about to tap them lightly when I heard water running.
The sound came from behind a single door along the hallway, which stood perpendicular to the double doors. This door, I remembered, led to David’s private bathroom—a huge, sleekly modern affair with a Jacuzzi, mood lighting, a towel warmer, and satellite television.
David would, of course, typically enter his bathroom from inside his bedroom. This hallway entrance was for Alberta Gurt, the housekeeper. It allowed her to enter the bathroom from outside the bedroom suite and clean it without disturbing him. Of course, with the water running, I assumed David was now in there, and I lightly knocked on the bathroom door.
“David?”
No answer.
I knocked louder and waited, finished the last bite of my huge strawberry and licked my fingers.
“David! It’s Clare. Do you need anything?”
Still no answer.
I pounded as loudly as I possibly could.
“David are you all right? David?”
I turned the knob and realized the door wasn’t locked.
“David, I’m coming in!”
I slowly cracked the door, giving him time to protest. Peeking inside, I saw the pool of red on the ivory marble. Then I swung the door wide—and screamed.
Two
“Mom! Was that you screaming? Are you okay?”
Joy was the first one down the hallway, Madame right behind her, a little slower than her granddaughter, but hustling nonetheless.
“Clare, what’s wrong?!”
“It’s David...” I whispered, feeling numb.
His face was turned away from the bathroom doorway, but I could see he’d been shot in the head. His body was still as a stone, the skin of his arms a waxy blue-gray, his fingernails colorless.
“Joy, what’s going on?” Graydon Faas came down the hall next, his lanky form striding with urgency. Two more members of the wait staff followed—Suzi Tuttle, a Long Island native, and Colleen O’Brien a young Irish immigrant.
The entire group formed a huddle around me. I pointed, and they turned to see David Mintzer lying face down on his imported Italian marble floor, a pool of red staining the ivory stone.
“My god,” Madame murmured.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Colleen whispered.
“No,” Graydon rasped. “It can’t be.”
As we all stared in shocked silence, a male voice spoke up from behind us—“Was I dreaming? Or did I just hear Clare scream?”
We turned. David Mintzer was standing right behind us.
Then we all screamed.
David had just stepped out of his pitch dark bedroom, bleary eyed and squinting. He was only a few inches taller than my five-two, and I spontaneously threw my arms around his neck.
“Ohmygawd, David,” I cried. “You’re alive!”
“Clare?” David’s bulbous brown eyes blinked at me in puzzlement. “What in the world is—”
He stopped talking, having finally noticed the wide open door and the tragic, bloody mess in his custom-designed bathroom. “Oh my lord…who is that?”
Everyone was still staring in shock through the doorway. I gently pushed past them. Careful to avoid the blood, I walked into the bathroom and crouched down next to the body, felt the waxy blue-gray skin. I gently turned the head so that we could all see the corpse’s face.
Joy gasped, Graydon cried out, and Colleen screamed.
By this time, I’d already guessed who it was by a process of elimination. When I saw the features of the young man, my fears were confirmed. The corpse on the floor was Treat Mazzelli.
By now, I also knew why I had made the mistake of misidentifying the body. Both David and Treat had short, black hair, stood under five seven, and were wearing short-sleeved shirts. Sure, David’s Ralph Lauren linen number was 300 dollars more than the “Cuppa J” Polo that Treat was wearing, but the pinkish/salmon colors were nearly identical and so were their khaki slacks. Because the shirts were worn loose and untucked, it wasn’t immediately apparent that Treat’s form was that of a muscle-bound weightlifter in his twenties and David’s that of a middle-aged foodie. From a distance, both men appeared to have the same hairy arms and stocky builds.
As the crowd at the door reacted with distressed exclamations, my mind began to race. Awhile back, I’d solved the murder of a Blend employee—a case on which a certain tall, attractively rumpl
ed NYPD detective had been assigned. After that, Mike Quinn had become a regular Blend customer. As I routinely foamed up his grande lattes, he’d share details about his homicide cases (not to mention his rocky marriage, which was still bordering on divorce).
I was far from a pro at detective work, and I’d made plenty of mistakes in my subsequent attempts. But there were a few things I’d learned from listening to Michael Ryan Francis Quinn. In fact, I could almost hear his advice now—
Think objectively, Clare, not emotionally. Start by simply looking around. What do you see?
I glanced around the bathroom floor, near Treat’s blue-gray hands and saw no gun. Then I took a closer look at his skull. There were no sooty smudges or burns around the wound. No gunpowder particles were visible. That meant Treat hadn’t been shot at close range. And, of course, he hadn’t shot himself.
I turned and scanned the large bathroom window.
“There it is,” I whispered.
At about the height of Treat’s head in a standing position was a single bullet hole in the glass. I knew next to nothing about ballistics, but it seemed obvious the glass would have slowed the velocity of the bullet. I looked for an exit wound in his skull, but saw none, and I knew the medical examiner would have to retrieve the bullet from inside his brain during the autopsy.
I gently lifted one of Treat’s arms. It wasn’t stiff, but I wasn’t surprised. I had seen Treat alive less than two hours before and it took longer for rigor mortis to set in. The skin still felt warm. The parts closest to the floor appeared purplish, but when I touched the purple areas, they blanched.
“Clare, what are you doing?” asked David. He was about to step inside.
“No, don’t!” I warned. “Don’t come in. This is a crime scene.”
I rose and carefully left the bathroom, closing the door behind me.
Treat had been a considerate young man, personable, with a buoyant sense of humor. He’d been a good worker, always on time, amazingly even tempered, even in the hot house of Cuppa J’s East Hampton kitchen. In fact, he was one of the few people who could make Victor Vogel, the relentlessly intense chef, laugh. For that we were all grateful.
